The Red Fairy Book, Andrew Lang [book club recommendations txt] 📗

>gizzard and I will carry you.’

 

`Happy thought!’ says my friend Ladder, and nimble, bag and

baggage, goes to keep company with friend Fox.

 

And `Quack, quack, quack.’ Drakestail is off again, singing and

spruce as before. A little farther he meets his sweetheart, my friend

River, wandering quietly in the sunshine.

 

`Thou, my cherub,’ says she, `whither so lonesome, with arching

tail, on this muddy road?’

 

`I am going to the King, you know, for what he owes me.’

 

`Oh! take me with thee!’

 

Drakestail said to himself: `We can’t be too many friends.’ … `I

will,’ says he, `but you who sleep while you walk will soon be tired.

Make yourself quite small, get into my throat—go into my gizzard

and I will carry you.’

 

`Ah! happy thought!’ says my friend River.

 

She takes bag and baggage, and glou, glou, glou, she takes her

place between friend Fox and my friend Ladder.

 

And `Quack, quack, quack.’ Drakestail is off again singing.

 

A little farther on he meets comrade Wasp’s-nest, manoeuvring

his wasps.

 

`Well, good-morning, friend Drakestail,’ said comrade Wasp’s-nest, `where are we bound for so spruce and fresh?’

 

`I am going to the King for what he owes me.’

 

`Oh! take me with thee!’

 

Drakestail said to himself, `One can’t have too many friends.’ …

`I will,’ says he, `but with your battalion to drag along, you will soon

be tired. Make yourself quite small, go into my throat—get into my

gizzard and I will carry you.’

 

`By Jove I that’s a good idea!’ says comrade Wasp’s-nest.

 

And left file! he takes the same road to join the others with all

his party. There was not much more room, but by closing up a bit

they managed… . And Drakestail is off again singing.

 

He arrived thus at the capital, and threaded his way straight up

the High Street, still running and singing `Quack, quack, quack,

when shall I get my money back?’ to the great astonishment of the

good folks, till he came to the King’s palace.

 

He strikes with the knocker: `Toc! toc!’

 

`Who is there?’ asks the porter, putting his head out of the

wicket.

 

` ‘Tis I, Drakestail. I wish to speak to the King.’

 

`Speak to the King! … That’s easily said. The King is

dining, and will not be disturbed.’

 

`Tell him that it is I, and I have come he well knows why.’

 

The porter shuts his wicket and goes up to say it to the King,

who was just sitting down to dinner with a napkin round his neck,

and all his ministers.

 

`Good, good!’ said the King laughing. `I know what it is!

Make him come in, and put him with the turkeys and chickens.’

 

The porter descends.

 

`Have the goodness to enter.’

 

`Good!’ says Drakestail to himself, `I shall now see how they

eat at court.’

 

`This way, this way,’ says the porter. `One step further… .

There, there you are.’

 

`How? what? in the poultry yard?’

 

Fancy how vexed Drakestail was!

 

`Ah! so that’s it,’ says he. `Wait! I will compel you to receive

me. Quack, quack, quack, when shall I get my money back?’

But turkeys and chickens are creatures who don’t like people that

are not as themselves. When they saw the new-comer and how he

was made, and when they heard him crying too, they began to look

black at him.

 

`What is it? what does he want?’

 

Finally they rushed at him all together, to overwhelm him with

pecks.

 

`I am lost!’ said Drakestail to himself, when by good luck he

remembers his comrade friend Fox, and he cries:

 

`Reynard, Reynard, come out of your earth,

Or Drakestail’s life is of little worth.’

 

Then friend Fox, who was only waiting for these words, hastens

out, throws himself on the wicked fowls, and quick! quack! he tears

them to pieces; so much so that at the end of five minutes there

was not one left alive. And Drakestail, quite content, began to sing

again, `Quack, quack, quack, when shall I get my money back?’

 

When the King who was still at table heard this refrain, and the

poultry woman came to tell him what had been going on in the yard,

he was terribly annoyed.

 

He ordered them to throw this tail of a drake into the well, to

make an end of him.

 

And it was done as he commanded. Drakestail was in despair

of getting himself out of such a deep hole, when he remembered his

lady friend, the Ladder.

 

`Ladder, Ladder, come out of thy hold,

Or Drakestail’s days will soon be told.’

 

My friend Ladder, who was only waiting for these words, hastens

out, leans her two arms on the edge of the well, then Drakestail

climbs nimbly on her back, and hop! he is in the yard, where he

begins to sing louder than ever.

 

When the King, who was still at table and laughing at the good

trick he had played his creditor, heard him again reclaiming his

money, he became livid with rage.

 

He commanded that the furnace should be heated, and this

tail of a drake thrown into it, because he must be a sorcerer.

 

The furnace was soon hot, but this time Drakestail was not so

afraid; he counted on his sweetheart, my friend River.

 

`River, River, outward flow,

Or to death Drakestail must go.’

 

My friend River hastens out, and errouf! throws herself into the

furnace, which she floods, with all the people who had lighted it;

after which she flowed growling into the hall of the palace to the

height of more than four feet.

 

And Drakestail, quite content, begins to swim, singing deafeningly,

`Quack, quack, quack, when shall I get my money back?’

 

The King was still at table, and thought himself quite sure of his

game; but when he heard Drakestail singing again, and when they

told him all that had passed, he became furious and got up from

table brandishing his fists.

 

`Bring him here, and I’ll cut his throat! bring him here quick!’

cried he.

 

And quickly two footmen ran to fetch Drakestail.

 

`At last,’ said the poor chap, going up the great stairs, `they

have decided to receive me.’

 

Imagine his terror when on entering he sees the King as red as

a turkey cock, and all his ministers attending him standing sword

in hand. He thought this time it was all up with him. Happily,

he remembered that there was still one remaining friend, and he

cried with dying accents:

 

`Wasp’s-nest, Wasp’s-nest, make a sally,

Or Drakestail nevermore may rally.’

 

Hereupon the scene changes.

 

`Bs, bs, bayonet them! `The brave Wasp’s-nest rushes out

with all his wasps. They threw themselves on the infuriated King

and his ministers, and stung them so fiercely in the face that they

lost their heads, and not knowing where to hide themselves they all

jumped pell-mell from the window and broke their necks on the

pavement.

 

Behold Drakestail much astonished, all alone in the big saloon

and master of the field. He could not get over it.

 

Nevertheless, he remembered shortly what he had come for to

the palace, and improving the occasion, he set to work to hunt for

his dear money. But in vain he rummaged in all the drawers; he

found nothing; all had been spent.

 

And ferreting thus from room to room he came at last to the one

with the throne in it, and feeling fatigued, he sat himself down on it

to think over his adventure. In the meanwhile the people had found

their King and his ministers with their feet in the air on the pavement,

and they had gone into the palace to know how it had occurred.

On entering the throne-room, when the crowd saw that there was

already someone on the royal seat, they broke out in cries of surprise

and joy:

 

`The King is dead, long live the King!

Heaven has sent us down this thing.’

 

Drakestail, who was no longer surprised at anything, received the

acclamations of the people as if he had never done anything else all

his life.

 

A few of them certainly murmured that a Drakestail would make

a fine King; those who knew him replied that a knowing Drakestail

was a more worthy King than a spendthrift like him who was lying

on the pavement. In short, they ran and took the crown off the

head of the deceased, and placed it on that of Drakestail, whom it

fitted like wax.

 

Thus he became King.

 

`And now,’ said he after the ceremony,; ladies and gentlemen,

let’s go to supper. I am so hungry!’[15]

 

[15] Contes of Ch. Marelles.

THE RATCATCHER

A VERY long time ago the town of Hamel in Germany was

invaded by bands of rats, the like of which had never been seen

before nor will ever be again.

 

They were great black creatures that ran boldly in broad

daylight through the streets, and swarmed so, all over the houses, that

people at last could not put their hand or foot down anywhere without

touching one. When dressing in the morning they found them

in their breeches and petticoats, in their pockets and in their boots;

and when they wanted a morsel to eat, the voracious horde had

swept away everything from cellar to garret. The night was even

worse. As soon as the lights were out, these untiring nibblers set

to work. And everywhere, in the ceilings, in the floors, in the

cupboards, at the doors, there was a chase and a rummage, and so furious

a noise of gimlets, pincers, and saws, that a deaf man could not have

rested for one hour together.

 

Neither cats nor dogs, nor poison nor traps, nor prayers nor

candles burnt to all the saints—nothing would do anything. The

more they killed the more came. And the inhabitants of Hamel

began to go to the dogs (not that THEY were of much use), when one

Friday there arrived in the town a man with a queer face, who

played the bagpipes and sang this refrain:

 

`Qui vivra verra:

Le voila,

Le preneur des rats.’

 

He was a great gawky fellow, dry and bronzed, with a crooked

nose, a long rat-tail moustache, two great yellow piercing and

mocking eyes, under a large felt hat set off by a scarlet cock’s feather.

He was dressed in a green jacket with a leather belt and red breeches,

and on his feet were sandals fastened by thongs passed round his

legs in the gipsy fashion.

 

That is how he may be seen to this day, painted on a window of

the cathedral of Hamel.

 

He stopped on the great market-place before the town hall,

turned his back on the church and went on with his music, singing:

 

`Who lives shall see:

This is he,

The ratcatcher.’

 

The town council had just assembled to consider once more this

plague of Egypt, from which no one could save the town.

 

The stranger sent word to the counsellors that, if they would

make it worth his while, he would rid them of all their rats before

night, down to the very last.

 

`Then he is a sorcerer!’ cried the citizens with one voice; `we

must beware of him.’

 

The Town Counsellor, who was considered clever, reassured

them.

 

He said: `Sorcerer or no, if this bagpiper speaks the truth, it

was he who sent us this horrible vermin that he wants to rid us of

to-day for