Troubadour Tales 7

Troubadour Tales 7

The next morning, after they had breakfasted together, the dame told

Elsa that she might see peasant Ulricborg, who seemed somewhat brighter

with the new day. So taking Elsa by the hand she led her into the room

where lay the sick peasant.

 

He looked very old and feeble; his hair was white as snow, and his thin

cheeks drawn into innumerable wrinkles. Elsa went timidly over and

stood by his bedside, and in a low quivering voice she made known her

request. She told him of Herr Lönnrot’s labors to save the beautiful

song-story of Wainamoinen, and of his great desire to learn the lost

rune that peasant Ulricborg alone knew; how he wished to write it down,

so that it might never again be forgotten and that all the world might

enjoy its beauty.

 

As she spoke, the old man looked at her with dim blue eyes, and seemed

to listen as one in a dream. When she ceased, he appeared for a moment

lost in thought; then he said slowly and dreamily:

 

“Yes, thou shalt learn it, Aino; thou shalt hear of the birth of the

harp, of the magic fish and of the mighty hero Wainamoinen, little

Aino.”

 

“’Tis our own little maid, Aino, that we lost so long ago!” whispered

the old dame to Elsa, as the tears streamed down her face; “thou art so

like her!”

 

But she hushed her whisper, as suddenly the old peasant began to sing

in a weak, quavering voice that seemed to grow stronger as he sang,

the beautiful lines telling how the ancient Wainamoinen fashioned the

first harp, and how he sang till all the birds forsook their nests, the

fishes their deep sea homes, and all the creatures of the woods, nay,

the very trees themselves, trooped forth from the forests that they

might listen to his enchanting music.

 

As Elsa heard, the tears came into her own eyes, for she was a poetic

little soul and quickly touched by anything beautiful. When the peasant

Ulricborg had almost finished the rune, he suddenly broke off and lay

back on his pillow exhausted. He lay for so long a while with closed

eyes, that both the dame and Elsa grew frightened; but presently

he again looked at them, his vision becoming brighter; in a little

while all seemed to grow clear to him. He gazed kindly at Elsa, for

something about the little girl seemed strangely to soften the old man.

He noticed her little kantele, and it seemed to interest him, as he

motioned her to lay it beside him. He looked at it a while, and tried

once or twice to touch its strings to music, but his strength failed

him.

 

Presently, he said feebly:

 

“Ah, I thought thou wert Aino come back for me!—but never mind—the

rune thou wishest, I can not show thee its music now,”—here he looked

sadly at his stiffened fingers, “but the rune itself, yes, thou shalt

have it, little one!” Then he added slowly, as he gazed dreamily into

Elsa’s shining eyes:

 

“For thou, too, wilt love it truly!”

 

Here, as he paused a while, Dame Ulricborg could scarcely hide her

amazement, knowing how often before he had wilfully refused the same

request from others. Indeed, the peasant Ulricborg had all his life

loved poetry with a singular passion; and this particular rune, which

had come down in his family, he seemed to set apart as something almost

sacred; he treasured its verses as misers hoard gold pieces. Whether he

thought it too beautiful to be made overcommon, or for what reason, no

one knew; that was his oddity. So, while he sang it sometimes to those

he considered worthy, he would teach it to none.

 

And now at last, as he promised it to Elsa, Dame Ulricborg thought

sadly that the promise came too late; for how could he teach it to the

little girl, when every breath was such weary effort? And she knew he

was unable to write readily even if he had the strength.

 

But having rested a little, he motioned her to bend down, and then he

whispered something to her. She listened with a look of surprise, and

then hastened into the living room, and opening a little cupboard,

searched, till in the farthest corner she found a small box, and this

she brought to the bedside. As she opened it, out fluttered some thin

old sheets of paper, closely written over and yellow with age.

 

The old man’s eyes kindled as he saw these, and as he marked the utter

surprise of his wife.

 

“Ah, dear heart,” he said, “thou didst not know—the priest wrote down

the words for me—long ago—I loved it—and wished to keep it—and I

hid it away”—but here the dying peasant, too exhausted for further

speech, paused, and then, turning to Elsa the blue eyes from which the

light was swiftly fading, murmured to her:

 

“Take it, little one; ’tis the rune—do with it as thou wilt.”

 

Elsa was so overcome that she fell to crying bitterly, and neither she

nor Dame Ulricborg noticed the sound of sleighbells, for the ground

was covered with a light snow. In a few minutes, however, the cottage

door opened, and in came Elsa’s father, all anxiety for the safety of

his little girl. When Elsa, hearing him, came into the living room, he

caught her in his arms and kissed her passionately, for he had been

greatly alarmed on learning of her journey, and had set off in hot

haste to find her.

 

Herr Lönnrot, too, who had grown much better, had insisted on coming

with him, and was even then slowly walking toward the cottage door,

for he was still feeble from his illness. He, too, was delighted to

find Elsa safely cared for; but both he and Elsa’s father hushed their

voices when she told them of the peasant Ulricborg. They stepped

softly into the other room, and Herr Lönnrot’s practised eye, for

you remember he was a physician, at once saw that his skill could do

nothing to help the old man. As the Herr gently smoothed the coverlid

the sick peasant gave a faint smile to the faithful old wife who still

bent over him, and then, as Elsa stood reverently holding the yellow

papers between her little palms, he turned to her a long lingering look

that seemed to say:

 

“Farewell, little one! and farewell to the beloved song, that I have

cherished so jealously all these years. I must leave thee now, but I

leave thee in loving hands—farewell.” And then peacefully, as the wife

laid her withered cheek close to his, his spirit passed away to find

their little Aino.

 

Afterward, when Elsa gave to Herr Lönnrot the precious papers on which

the rune was written, at first he looked at them in amazement; but his

heart filled with delight when he learned what the papers contained. He

drew Elsa to him, and kissing her forehead declared that she had not

only pleased him beyond measure, but had done honor to old Finland in

helping complete the immortal poem he was striving to save.

 

When, some weeks later, Herr Lönnrot went away, after providing for

the comfort of Dame Ulricborg, he journeyed back to Helsingfors, the

capital city of Finland; and told the scholars who were studying the

poetry of the land how the little girl had been the means of bringing

to light one of the most beautiful of the runes. Then the scholars

had a little silver medal made which they sent to Elsa, and which she

took great pride in keeping through all her life; and no doubt her

great-grandchildren still keep it to this day.

 

As for Herr Lönnrot, he lived to put together the runes he had

collected, and when he had finished he called the poem “Kalevala,”

which in our language means “Land of Heroes,” because it tells the

wonderful story of the heroes of that ancient land.

 

And some day, perhaps, you will read this “Kalevala,” for it is one of

the noblest and most beautiful poems in all the world. And then when

you come to the rune which tells of the birth of the harp, you too will

be glad that the little Finnish girl was the means of saving it from

being lost forever.

 

 

 

 

COUNT HUGO’S SWORD

 

HOW THE PEASANT BOY GEOFFREY BY HIS

BRAVERY AND DEVOTION PREVENTED

A DUEL OF GREAT NOBLES AND

BECAME PAGE TO THE

GOOD KING LOUIS

 

 

“Tee dee, deedle de de!” shrieked the cockatoo, from his perch high up

in the gabled window of the old inn. “Tee de!” He was a pink and white

cockatoo, with a beautiful tuft on top of his head; one of his legs was

chained to a carved wooden perch that projected from the window-sill,

while with his free claw he carefully balanced a large silver spoon, of

antique pattern, from the contents of which he was very deliberately

dining. For he was no common bird. Monsieur Jean the landlord of

this “Guillaume-le-Conquérant” inn, of the ancient town of Dives,

being something of a bird fancier, had but lately bought him, and for

fear he might fly away, was thus keeping him chained to the window of

monsieur’s own apartment until he should grow used to his new home. As

he now slowly picked from his spoon the last morsel, and swallowed it

with a great ruffling of feathers all the way down his throat, again he

shrilled out in a high-pitched mimicking tone, “Tee deedle!” and this

time a little boy looked up quickly from the courtyard below.

 

The boy was seated on a bench under a plane-tree, and held in his hands

a sheet of yellow parchment on which was written a musical score, whose

large black notes he was trying to hum over.

 

“Fie, Cockie!” he cried, as he looked up, “dost thou not know ’tis a

wicked sin to mock me when I am learning the holy mass music?”

 

But Cockie only screwed his head to one side, shook his empty spoon,

and peered down with an impudent stare, as with a sigh the little boy

once more applied himself to his task. In a few moments, however, he