FAIRY TALES FROM GOLD LANDS - 9 Illustrated Children's Stories E-Book

Various Authors

• Herausgeber: Abela Publishing
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

Herein you will find 9 Illustrated stories from “Golden Lands” compiled by May Wentworth. But why “Golden Lands”? Well, an introductory poem tells us why –

There are orange groves and lime trees green
That glint in the sunlight’s glowing sheen,
There are deserts yellow with priceless sand,
All these you will find in the Golden Land.

Well, how else would you describe the lands of Fairydom?

In the Preface of this exquisite book, Wentworth addresses all children everywhere –
“In the pleasant Christmas-time I greet the children everywhere.To some I shall not be a stranger, for we have met before, not face to face, but in the pages of the last years little book. In the sunny days of childhood, a year is so long a time, that when the summer and winter have passed it seems like an age gone by; yet as again I bring my Christmas offering, I hope to be remembered and welcomed as the friend who loves the children well. They are the true critics, generous and fearless. For their warm hearts and keen appreciation, I write these stories of the Golden Clime. May the joy and blessedness of the holy Christmas rest upon them, and follow them through all the sunshine and rain of the coming year.”

The stories in this volume are:
The Little Lace-Maker
Golden Snow
Gracia And Catrina
The Dancing Sunbeam
The Young Gold-Seeker
The Wishing Cap
Crimson Tuft
Snowdrop And Rosebud
Lazarus And Bummer


10% of the profit from the sale of this book will be donated to charity.
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TAGS: Folklore, fairy, tales, myths, legends, children’s stories, bedtime stories, Little Lace-Maker, Golden Snow, Gracia And Catrina, Dancing Sunbeam, Young Gold-Seeker, Wishing Cap, Crimson Tuft, Snowdrop And Rosebud, Lazarus And Bummer, orange groves, lime trees, green, glint of sunlight, glowing sheen, deserts, yellow sand, Golden Lands

Leseprobe

FAIRY TALESFROMGOLD LANDS

SECOND SERIES

By

May Wentworth

new illustrated edition

originally published bya. roman & co., publishers, san francisco:[1870]

resurrected byabela publishing, london[2018]

Fairy Tales from Gold Lands

Typographical arrangement of this edition

© Abela Publishing 2018

This book may not be reproduced in its current format in any manner in any media, or transmitted by any means whatsoever, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, or mechanical ( including photocopy, file or video recording, internet web sites, blogs, wikis, or any other information storage and retrieval system) except as permitted by law without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Abela Publishing,

London

United Kingdom

2018

ISBN: 978-8-827556-56-6

email

[email protected]

Dedication

To The

Children Of California,

With Golden Wishes For The Christmas-Time,

I Dedicate This Little Book.

May Wentworth.

PREFACE

IN the pleasant Christmas-time I greet the children everywhere.

To some I shall not be a stranger, for we have met before, not face to face, but in the pages of the last year’s little book. In the sunny days of childhood, a year is so long a time, that when the summer and winter have passed it seems like an age gone by; yet as again I bring my Christmas offering, I hope to be remembered and welcomed as the friend who loves the children well.

They are the true critics, generous and fearless. For their warm hearts and keen appreciation, I write these stories of the Golden Clime.

May the joy and blessedness of the holy Christmas rest upon them, and follow them through all the sunshine and rain of the coming year.

May Wentworth.San Francisco, 1868.

High as the clouds are the mountains bold

That tower in the glorious Land of Gold,

And cañons dusky with twilight deep

Where a thousand mystic shadows peep.

There are vineyards graceful with trailing vine

Rich in the wealth of the rosy wine,

There are orange groves and lime trees green

That glint in the sunlight’s glowing sheen,

There are deserts yellow with priceless sand,

All these you will find in the Golden Land.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

The Little Lace-Maker

Golden Snow

Gracia and Catrina

The Dancing Sunbeam

The Young Gold-Seeker

The Wishing Cap

Crimson Tuft

Snowdrop and Rosebud

Lazarus and Bummer

FAIRY TALES

THE LITTLE LACE-MAKER

It was the happy Christmas Eve, yet it was very cold and dark. Over the quaint old town of Bruges hung the heavy snow-clouds, and the air was filled with snow-flakes, which fell so thick and fast that very soon the ground was covered with a white mantle, quickly hiding the foot-prints of the few who were still out buying the last gifts for beautiful Christmas trees. Through the narrow streets rushed the wind, shrieking round the comers in its shrill whistle, and seeming to say:—

“As I go,

I bring the snow,

On this holy Christmas Eve.

Who can show

Hearts like snow,

On this holy Christmas Eve?

Blow, blow, blow!

Pure and fleecy snow,

On this holy Christmas Eve.”

The Little Lace-Maker.

It was really strange what curious things the wind whistled that night, yet through all ran the refrain of the holy Christmas Eve.

Near the great belfry of Bruges was a stately mansion, where the fires burned brightly in the polished grates with a warm, rosy glow, making upon the wall grotesque shadows of a little boy and girl who were joyous with expectant happiness.

It was early, and the lamps were not yet lighted. The children danced up and down the warm, pleasant room, where they were to remain until the mother called them.

The dear, loving mother had been so busy in the great parlor, doing something full of mystery, yet the children were quite sure it was a delightful mystery, that would bring them a great store of happiness, and they were luxuriating in their own pleasant imaginings. The door was still locked, but the time was fast approaching for the grand opening.

“I can’t wait! I can’t wait much longer,” said the boy, impatiently. “What a lazy old thing Santa Claus is!”

“For shame, brother, to speak so of the good Santa Claus, who brings us such beautiful gifts. I will watch for him, the kind old Santa Claus, to come from the gift land for us in all the wind and snow,” and the little girl ran to the window and drew aside the rich, heavy curtain.

“But Santa Claus always comes down the chimney, little Miss Wisdom,” said the boy, joining her. “How it snows! I’m so glad. ’Twill be such fun for us boys to-morrow.”

“’Tis the old woman up in the clouds, picking her goose for Christmas dinner,” said the little girl, laughing and singing,—

“Old woman, up in the clouds so high,

Making the feathers about us fly,

Picking your geese for Christmas pie,

Give me a piece of it by and by!”

Just then the mother was heard calling, and the children ran into the great parlor, all ablaze with light and beauty. In the center of all rose the beautiful Christmas tree, luminous with shining toys and many-hued candles.

Oh, it was delightful! To the little ones nothing could compare with the long-dreamed-of Christmas tree full of beautiful presents, just what they had been wanting, and hoped that wonderful old diviner, Santa Claus, would think of; and, of the whole year to them, no time was like the glorious Christmas season.

In quite another part of the town, very poor and squalid, lived the lace weavers.

In quaint old buildings, falling to ruins, they were huddled together, many wretched homes under one roof, yet even there they were trying to celebrate the birth of the blessed Christ child.

In the dingy rooms burned cheap tallow candles, and the little ones, with their poor wee gifts, were as happy as the brother and sister with the beautiful Christmas tree in the stately mansion.

One room only, a very small one, up in an attic in the lace-weavers’ quarters, was in darkness. By the window stood a little, sorrowful girl, very pale-faced, all alone, watching the snow-flakes.

It was very cold, and her clothes were thin and ragged. She shivered, for she was quite chilled through. She was an orphan. The father had died, oh! long ago, one whole year, an age in the life of a child. Only the week before, the mother was driven away to her last home in the paupers’ grave-yard, to rest in the plain deal coffin, till beautiful white wings should waft her up to Heaven the Golden.

It was very sad to see the little pale-faced child looking after the paupers’ cart, driven so roughly over the frozen ground, and the kind-hearted neighbors had pitied her, and, though they were poor lace-makers like the mother, they had given her food with their sympathy, and promised to help her on with the trade.

They were true-hearted, honest folk, but somehow in this joyous Christmas season they had all forgotten her, and, far up in the dreary attic-chamber of the old tenement-house, she looked out into the night and storm alone.

It was so dark in the room that she could not bear to leave the window, though the wind whistled in at the loose casement, making quite a clatter, and causing her little teeth to chatter with cold.

She was very hungry. She had eaten the last crust the night before, and everybody had been so busy. It was not strange, she thought, that they had forgotten her.

She could remember the last Christmas they were all together. How busy the mother was making the Christmas pie, and how the father brought home a wooden doll, saying, “’Tis for my good little daughter,” and kissed her. Then, taking her on his shoulder, he danced all about the room, and how the dear mother laughed.

She was so happy then, and now so desolate and wretched. Everybody else was happy; she heard the children shouting, and she was so faint and hungry.

Just then a man, in an oil-cloth coat and cap, came along, and lighted the street lamp opposite the window. That made it more cheerful; still, the child was so cold and hungry, she could bear it no longer.

“I will go out,” she thought, “into the light. Perhaps I shall dare to go in somewhere. The neighbors have been so kind to me, but I’m not used to them as I was to the dear mother. I will wish them a ‘Merry Christmas,’ and they will give me something to eat. Then, perhaps, I can sleep, and go away in my dreams to the beautiful land where it is warm with God’s pleasant sunshine.”

Taking from the shelf a faded shawl and torn bonnet, which had been the mother’s, she fastened them on as well as she could. But they were too large; it was all of no use, they would slip off again.

As she opened the door of her chamber, a great draught of wind rushed in from the street. Someone was coming in at the common staircase. She heard merry voices and footsteps on the stairs. She drew back into the darkness of her own room with shrinking timidity.

Very strange it was to her the cheery laughing, yet she had been as light-hearted once, but it seemed a great while ago.

When the sound of voices died away, she stole softly down the stairs to the door of the great front room, which had always been the grand place to her. Of all the neighbors, the woman in this best room had been most kind to her and the poor mother in her sickness.

The little cold fingers gave a timid knock, but, within, the father and mother were talking, and the little ones laughing so loud, that no one said the welcome “Come in,” or came to open the door.

The cold winds whistled through the uncovered halls of the tenement house, and the child stood waiting with chattering teeth, and feet and hands so benumbed that she thought it would be better out in the street. There she could run and warm herself.

It was snowing fast, and the feathery flakes fell all over the worn shawl, covering its faded colors with soft white down; over the great bonnet that would fall back upon her neck; and over the rich, golden-brown curls, that were left bare to the storm.

As she ran on, the streets grew lighter, and on each side of the way were gay shops, with great windows filled with a thousand beautiful things. How much better it was than staying in the dark attic-room alone; and she thought, if she were not so cold and hungry, she could have quite enjoyed it.

There was a great jolly man walking on before her, humming a song. Presently he stopped to look in at a shop window, and she read in his broad, pleasant face that his heart was kind and loving. So, without stopping to dread it, she ran up to him, saying, “Please, sir, I wish you a merry Christmas.”

“Ah, ha! little one,” he said kindly, “you’ve caught a Christmas gift, but it is too stormy a night for little things like you to be out.” Drawing from his pocket one of many small packages, he said, “My babies will never miss this. Now run home, like a good child; no doubt the mother is calling you now.”

Then he hurried on, and the child, with trembling fingers, untied the parcel. How she hoped it was a piece of bread; but no! It was a pretty toy lamb, with a fleece as white as the snow that was covering her.

She was so much disappointed that the tears ran down her face very fast, and in the storm and cold this was uncomfortable.

Just then the beautiful chimes sounded from the great belfry of Bruges. This Christmas Eve they were played by a famous musician, who sat in the chamber below the belfry, and struck upon an immense key-board like that of a piano. These keys connect with hammers that strike the bells, so that in all the world there are no chimes like those of the belfry of Bruges.

There the grand musician sat and played, throwing the whole harmony of his soul into the music, and all the town of Bruges stopped to listen, and, clasping each other’s hands, whispered softly, “How beautiful!” for the divine music thrilled them.

Above all, it went to the heart of the little hungry child, out alone in the pitiless night and storm. The voices of the matchless chimes led her, and she hurried on to the great belfry, clasping the pretty white lamb closely in her little chilled hand.

Somehow she did not feel so hungry now, and that was a blessing. There was the stately mansion all ablaze with light. She could look in through the rich crimson curtains of the grand parlor window, and see the beautiful Christmas tree, and the happy children dancing around it.

It was very near the belfry, and she sat down on the broad steps, and, wrapping her shawl about her, listened to the wonderful chimes.

Still the snow fell heavily, covering her over with its cold white mantle, but she did not move. The voice of the chimes was whispering in her ear such beautiful things. It was delightful, and all the dread shadows that filled the night and storm faded away, for they were only born of earth.

Yes! it told her of a great Christmas tree up in Heaven the Golden. There was a pure white robe and shining wings, the priceless gift of the Father’s love. These were all marked with her name, and she was very happy.

She was no longer hungry nor cold, for the snow mantle was thick now over her little shrunken form. Only the tiny pale face looked out from the white covering, and that was leaning against the pillar of the great doorway. The old bonnet had fallen off; and she tried no longer to confine it. When the storm was over and the moon came out, it shone upon her golden brown hair, making it luminous with beauty.

How smoothly it sailed along, that crescent boat of the sky; and the deep blue eyes watching it saw such marvelous sights so pleasant, that a sweet peace gathered around the child. The poor little heart, that in the early hours of the blessed Christmas Eve beat with the quick flutter of fearful timidity and loneliness, was at rest in the holy calm.

Yes! there was the dear mother in the Golden Boat, so peaceful and free from care. How tenderly her dear eyes shone, and how beautiful she was in the radiant light of heaven! She beckoned with her hand, and the little child reached eagerly out to her, crying, “It is the mother! Oh, mother, dear, I am coming! Wait, mother! I am com—”

Up to the Crescent Boat on to Heaven the Golden, and to the throne of the loving God, had passed the spirit of the little child. Just then a bright star fell down from the fleecy clouds and rested upon the pure, ice-cold forehead, leaning so heavily against the great pillar of the stately doorway.

The cadence of the last chime was dying away upon the still night air. It was twelve o’clock, and the musician went home. The great belfry was left silent, and in the coming of the holy Christmas dawning all the peaceful town of Bruges slept.

In the morning the servant found a little child dead upon the door steps of the grand mansion, with the frost glittering like a crown of glory in her golden hair. It was said she was a poor lace-maker’s child, who had died in great poverty and want. The crowd gathered about the door, saying, “It is sad, oh! very sad!” but they knew nothing of what the music of the bells had been to her—nothing of the Golden Boat.

At last, when men came to take the poor little thing away to the paupers’ burying-ground, the good mother of the house said, “No, do not take her away, I entreat you.”

Then she folded the child in her arms, kissing her pale cheeks and golden hair, saying, “I will see to it. The good Lord led her to my door, and, though it is late, I will do all there is left me. She shall rest in the pleasant garden under the linden-trees.”

Dear little one! We can do nothing more now, but in Heaven the Golden the loving God will receive her, a most precious Christmas offering!

GOLDEN SNOW

The snow-flakes were falling all over the northern Gold Land, for it was mid-winter. Against the ice-bound shore the angry breakers of the great Pacific dashed, and the wind whistled like a trumpeter.

A warm fire burned on the hearth of the fisherman’s hut, and with a red face the good-wife bent over it, preparing the supper. The old man stood by the window looking out, and thinking his poor thoughts of the wind and the tide, which ended always with the same refrain, “God help us fisher folk!” Suddenly he gave a quick start, exclaiming—“Hark! wife; what is that?”

The old woman dropped the wooden spoon, and listened to the clear voices that rose above the storm:—

“Golden Snow! Golden Snow!

To and fro;

Over her little heart

We blow,

Our dear little sister,

Golden Snow.

“Open your door,

That the fire-light’s glow

May tinge the cheek

Of Golden Snow—

Oh! dear little sister,

Golden Snow.”

Then came the savage old trumpeter, and blew a great blast close by the door and window of the little hut. It was really quite startling, and the old woman clung to her husband’s arm; but above all they could hear the shrill clear voices calling—

“Open the door,

For the wild winds blow

Over the heart

Of Golden Snow.”

“I cannot do it,” said the good-wife, trembling; but the old man walked straight to the door. Though his wife entreated him, saying, “It is the Evil One who calls without, dear husband, do not open it,” he lifted the latch fearlessly. With a great bang in rushed the wind and blew out the candle.

“God save us!” cried the good-wife, crossing [...]