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[141] <h2 class="nobreak">MERRIMEG AND THE MAY-DEW</h2> “DON’T be long,” said Merrimeg’s mother. “No, mother,” said Merrimeg, and she ran off down the village street, into the woods. It was May-day, and she was going May-dewing. You know if you wash your face with dew, early on May-morning, it will keep you fair and sweet to look on, almost forever. That is what she was going to do. She didn’t do it at once, however, because she had to run after a good many rabbits and squirrels. She stopped out of breath beside a pretty little brook, and then she bethought herself that she hadn’t yet washed her face with May-dew. The woods were all about her, and the brook was dropping down over its stones between moss and ferns. It was singing a little song to itself. Merrimeg stopped to listen. She dipped her bare foot in the water, and as she did so she noticed[142] that there was a waterfall, quite a tall one, a little way up the stream, pouring down smoothly into a pool. She thought she might as well wash her face now with dew, and she stooped down. At that moment the song of the brook became quite loud, and she looked up in surprise. From the pool at the bottom of the waterfall a head was looking out at her, the head of a little girl. The head nodded at her. Merrimeg stared with both eyes. The head rose up, and the next moment the little girl that it belonged to was standing in shallow water to her knees. She was singing. She was making precisely the same sound as the brook itself, only louder. She was smaller than Merrimeg. If she hadn’t been so pale, she would have been very pretty indeed. What looked like the stubs of two wings stuck out a trifle from her shoulder-blades. Her little slim body was glistening wet. She stopped singing, and the instant she did so the brook stopped singing too. It positively fell silent as a pond. [143]“I know who you are,” said the little girl. “You’re Merrimeg.” “Are you—?” said Merrimeg. “Are you a—?” “Yes, of course. I live under the waterfall. I’m Myrma. I’m the fairy of this brook. I’m the one that makes it sound as if the brook was singing. You know the brook can’t sing, really; it’s me. Do you want to hear me do it?” Merrimeg said “Yes,” and came closer to her. Myrma the fairy opened her mouth, and the sound she made was exactly the little song of a brook, and it seemed to come from the brook itself. She stopped, and the brook was silent again. “It’s terribly tiresome,” said Myrma, “but I only have to do it when there’s somebody around to hear it. You don’t think the brook sings all the time, do you?” “I didn’t know,” said Merrimeg. “When there’s nobody to hear it, what’s the use? But I’m supposed to keep it up as long as there’s anybody around. Oh, dear, I get so[144] tired hiding away behind the waterfall when people come. I just couldn’t help coming out to see you. Do you like me?” “Yes,” said Merrimeg. “I like you too. Would you—do you think you could—kiss me?” Merrimeg waded in to her and kissed her on the cheek. She gave a great sigh. “Now you’ve made me warm all over. I wish you’d stay with me. I can show you things, lots of things. Wouldn’t you like to see them?” “What kind of things?” “Oh, all kinds. But you haven’t washed your face with May-dew yet, have you?” “No.” “Because that would spoil it. Give me your hand, and I’ll take you back there behind the waterfall.” “Oh,” said Merrimeg. “I couldn’t—I—” “Come along. Back of the waterfall I’ll show you lots of things. Hold my hand tight. That’s right. Here we go.” She pulled Merrimeg along to the waterfall.[145] “Stoop down,” she said, and pulled Merrimeg head-foremost into it. The water pounded on Merrimeg’s back, and she gasped for breath. The next moment she was through on the other side. “Oh!” she cried. “I mustn’t! I must go back!” “Please do come along with me,” said Myrma, and held her hand tight. It was pitch dark. Merrimeg was rather frightened, but she was very curious too. She let herself be led onward, and in a few moments they began to go down hill. For a long, long time they walked down hill, in the pitch dark. The way became steeper and steeper. “I’m afraid,” whispered Merrimeg. “Why, it’s perfectly safe,” said Myrma. “I only hope nobody’ll come to the brook while I’m away.” They were deep, deep down in the earth when they stopped. Myrma seemed to push against something, and in a moment a door opened, and she drew Merrimeg through. On the other side—really, it didn’t seem possible[146] there could be such a place, so deep underground. It was a long and beautiful valley, with a blue roof high overhead, exactly like the sky. A road ran down the valley between meadows all spangled with daisies and buttercups. The light that spread everywhere was the soft light of early morning. Here and there in the meadows were blossoming trees, a lovely mass of pink and white. The scent of honeysuckle came on the cool breeze. “Isn’t it lovely!” said Merrimeg. “Of course,” said Myrma. “It’s always lovely in springtime. I think he’ll be here in a minute.” “Who?” said Merrimeg. “Old Porringer. He runs the stage-coach. He ought to be here by this time—Here he comes!” Down the road came a little glass coach, drawn by a pair of tiny white ponies. On the coachman’s seat was a little old man with a white beard. “Whoa!” he piped up, and drew in the ponies. Merrimeg laughed at the sight of this[147] little coach, made all of glass, and the cunning little ponies, and the funny little old coachman. “Anything to laugh at?” said the old coachman, sitting up straight. “Never mind, Porringer,” said Myrma. “We want to take a trip with you.” “Where do you want to stop?” said Old Porringer. “At number fifteen, number thirty-five, and number eighty,” said Myrma. “Jump in then,” said Old Porringer, and flourished his little whip. Myrma opened the door of the glass coach, and the two little girls got in and sat down. The ponies pranced, the coachman touched them up with his whip, and away they went at a smart trot down the road. Merrimeg laughed with glee. “Now aren’t you glad you came with me?” said Myrma. “Do you suppose he’d let us drive the ponies?” said Merrimeg. “Oh no,” said Myrma. “He has to be very[148] careful. There are bad creatures along the road, and they try to break the glass, and he has to watch out for them. If they break it to pieces before he gets to the end of the road, it’ll be a bad thing for you. They do, sometimes. You never can tell.” “Oh!” said Merrimeg, a little alarmed. “All you have to do is to have a good time, and leave it to him. He always has to start out each time with a new coach, because the old one is broken to pieces by the time he gets to the end of the road. But the less you think about it the better. Just look at those buttercups in the meadow! I know how to tell whether you like butter.” The coach sped merrily along, and the little girls chattered gaily. Once there sprang up beside the road an ugly little imp with big ears, who threw a stone after them; but Old Porringer whipped up the ponies, and the stone missed the coach. The little girls laughed. Merrimeg grew drowsy after a while, with the easy motion of the coach and the soft spring air,[149] and at last she put her head back and went to sleep. She was awakened once by the sound of breaking glass, and she found that a stone had come through a corner of the coach; but it didn’t seem to matter, and she went to sleep again. The next thing she knew, Myrma was shaking her arm. “We’re going to stop now,” said Myrma, and Merrimeg sat up and rubbed her eyes. She found she was looking into a mirror, which she hadn’t noticed before, hanging opposite her in the coach. She saw herself in it. She was a grown girl, seemingly about fifteen years old, and her hair was done in a pigtail, and her dress was down to her ankles. She was carrying school-books in her arm. She wasn’t the least bit surprised, strange to say. It seemed as if she had always been as old as that. She didn’t realize that it must have been years and years since she started on this journey. Could she have been asleep all that time? However, all she was thinking about was, that if you multiplied a + b by a - b, what was[150] the answer? She was about to open one of her school books, when the coach stopped, and they got out before a large building which had a sign on it with the number “15.” Boys and girls of her own age were going into this building. Myrma followed her in, but Merrimeg quite forgot about her companion. She seemed to know exactly what to do. She walked down a hall and into a schoolroom, and sat down at a desk. Other boys and girls were at their desks, and the teacher, a tall lady with spectacles, was writing with chalk on a blackboard. Merrimeg felt a tug at her pigtail, and she turned round quickly. The boy at the desk behind her was gazing hard at a book in his hand. He was a jolly-looking boy. “Did you pull my hair, Peter Prawn?” she said to him, in great indignation. The boy looked up innocently. “Who, me?” he said. “Yes, you,” she said. “If you do that once more, I’ll—I’ll— You’re just horrid, and I[151] wish you wouldn’t ever speak to me again. So there.” Master Peter laughed, and this made her angrier still. But she couldn’t help thinking what a jolly laugh it was. “Order!” said the teacher. “The class in algebra will come to order. Answer to your names as I call the roll.” Chalk, blackboard, a + b, x - y, teacher handing out papers, boys playing tricks, girls passing notes,—all this dragged on forever and forever, and there didn’t seem to be any hope of ever getting out; but a bell rang at last, and school was over. The glass coach was waiting outside. Merrimeg noticed that it was broken in several places. Myrma took her hand, and they sat down inside the coach. Old Porringer touched up his ponies, and away they ran, faster than before. “What’s the matter with your hair?” said Myrma. Merrimeg looked at the end of her pigtail, and it was all green. [152]“Oh, it’s that horrid boy,” she said. “He’s dipped it in his ink-well. I’ll never never speak to him again.” The ponies trotted much faster down the valley now. The blossoms had dropped from the trees, and the air was warmer and the light brighter. Merrimeg yawned and closed her eyes. “I think I’ll take a little nap,” she said. When she woke up, the mirror was before her again, and she looked at herself in it. She was a grown woman. Her hair was coiled at the back of her head. She was tall and slender, and her head nearly touched the roof of the coach. She looked as if she might have been about thirty-five years old. Myrma looked very tiny beside her. The coach was badly broken, in many places. “Now we’re going to get out,” said Myrma, and the coach stopped before a pretty little cottage covered with vines. Over the door was the number, “35.” “I’ll wait for you here,” said Myrma, and[153] Merrimeg gathered up her skirts and ran to the cottage door. “Peter!” she cried; and the door opened, and a jolly-looking young man, of about her own age, opened the door and took her into his arms. He had very nice laughing eyes. “Dearest!” he said. “Oh, Peter!” she said. “Is he better now?” “Yes, darling, it’s only measles. Nothing to worry about.” “Mother! Mother!” came two voices from inside, and a boy of ten and a girl of seven ran out and threw their arms about her. She kissed them both, and they all went in together. A little boy of three or four was lying in his crib, in a darkened room, and she leaned over him and squeezed his hot little hand. “Mother,” he said, “I want a drink of water.” “You shall have it, darling,” she said; but Peter, her husband, had already gone for it, and when he brought it, she said to him: “Now, Peter, you and the children must stay[154] out of this room. Has Maggie brought the clean sheets yet?” “She never does,” said Peter, “not unless you go after them first.” “Then I’ll just go and get them; and remember to keep the children out of here while I’m gone.” “Hadn’t I better go for you?” “No, I want to see her about the napkins too. I won’t be long.” She kissed him, and patted the little boy in the crib, and waved good-bye to the other two children, and ran out to the coach. “Good-bye, dear little family!” she cried, and got into the coach. “I’ll be back directly!” Old Porringer touched up his ponies, and they bounded away. “I’ll tell him where to stop,” said Merrimeg to Myrma. “I wonder why it is that washerwomen are always so unreliable.” It was very hot in the valley now. The weeds by the roadside were tall, and bees were buzzing over the clover in the fields. It was midsummer.[155] The valley was narrower than before; hills were rising more abruptly on either side. The ponies ran faster and faster. “It does get so hot here in the summer,” said Merrimeg. “It’s very trying for the children, especially when they’re sick.” She yawned. “I’ve been up so much lately with the baby. But I mustn’t go to sleep.” She closed her eyes, just to keep the light out; the motion of the coach was very soothing; her head fell forward on her breast; she was sound asleep. She must have slept a long, long while. She awoke with a shiver. It was snowing. The glass coach was broken, almost to pieces. The cold wind blew the snow in upon her. It was growing dark, but she could make out that high and gloomy mountains hemmed in the road closer and closer on each side. The ponies sped so swiftly that they seemed to be flying. She looked at herself in the mirror opposite. She was old, very old. Her face was wrinkled, but there was something sweet about it, too. Her hair was snow-white, brushed smoothly[156] from a part in the middle. Her hands were knotted and trembling, and they rested together on the head of a cane. She wore a dress of plain black silk, with lace about the neck. She was quite small and bent. How many years she must have been asleep in the coach! But she didn’t think of that. “We’re nearly at the end of the road,” said Myrma. “Yes, yes, my child,” said Merrimeg. “It’s good to be there at last.” “We have to pass the giant, and then we’ll be safe,” said Myrma. As she said this, a great dark figure rose up beside the road, and hurled with both hands a mighty rock straight at the coach. The mirror and all the front of the coach were struck into a thousand splinters. Merrimeg laughed gently. “Nothing can harm me,” she said. “That’s the last,” said Myrma. “Now we’ve escaped them all. We’ll get to the end of the road in safety.” “I can’t help thinking,” said the old lady,[157] “that it’s rather a frail coach for such a hard journey. It really ought to be made of iron.” She smiled, as though she were alluding to the mistake of a careless child. It was plain that she was not at all unhappy about it. The coach stopped. A great wall of rock rose up darkly, just ahead. It was the end of the road. They stepped out onto the snowy ground, and Merrimeg turned round to say good-bye. The old coachman touched his cap with his whip. The ponies arched their necks and bowed and pawed the ground. There was nothing left of the coach’s body except the seats. Myrma took the old lady’s hand, and pointed towards a lighted window which glowed in the darkness. “Yes, I know,” said Merrimeg. They stood before an old, old house, with a knocker on the door. Over the knocker was the number “80.” “Come in,” said Myrma, and she opened the door. [158]Inside was a warm and cosy room. Candles were glimmering on a polished table, and a fire was sparkling on the open hearth. A grandfather’s clock was going tick-tock in the corner. Merrimeg gave a sigh of contentment. She sat down in an easy chair before the fire, and sat there nodding her head at it and smiling to herself. Her cane was resting against her knee. Her old hands were folded in her lap. “Bring them in,” she said, and Myrma went out through a rear door. In a moment there were children’s voices in the room, crying “Grandmother!” and half a dozen boys and girls, big and little, were sitting round her on the floor, looking up at her fondly. She laid her hand on the head of the littlest, and smoothed his curls. But she kept nodding at the fire all the while, as if her thoughts were far off. “Mother,” said some grown-up voices, and two young men and a young woman stood beside her, leaning down to her fondly. Still she kept smiling[159] at the fire, as if she were thinking of something else. “It’s time for Peter to come,” she said in a low voice, as if to herself. “He ought to be with me now.” The grownups looked at each other and shook their heads. “I remember,” she said, “how he used to tease me in school. Once he dipped my hair in the green ink. Well, well. I used to get very angry with him. But I think I was only pretending.” Her head sank down a little on her breast. “He had such nice laughing eyes when he was a boy. I suppose that’s what made me love him first.” She folded her hands again in her lap, and her head sank lower on her breast. “There’s no need to worry about the baby, Peter. I’ll sit up with him to-night. You must go to bed now. You won’t be fit for anything to-morrow if you don’t.” Her voice was not more than a whisper now. “No, I’m not sorry about anything. Everything’s[160] been all right. I’ve had you, and that’s enough. No, you mustn’t say that. Trouble? Yes, but love makes even that beautiful too.” She raised her head and gazed into the fire, and then closed her eyes. “He’ll be here in time. He won’t leave me at the end of the road alone. I’m there now, Peter. Yes. I do see you. It’s all right now.” Her head began to droop down, little by little, onto her breast; and as it was sinking, sinking, a new voice sounded in the room, and it said: “I believe it is, brother, I believe it is.” “You’re always right, brother,” said another voice. “Have you got the May-dew?” said the first voice. “Right here, in the little bottle.” “Then pour it out in my hand.” It was Malkin and Nibby, the gnomes, and brother Nibby was holding out a little bottle filled with what looked like water. He poured out a little into the hollow of brother Malkin’s[161] hand. Brother Malkin rubbed it gently on the old lady’s cheek. [162] <div class="figcenter"><ANTIMG src="images/i_161.jpg" alt="" /></div> “HAVE YOU GOT THE MAY-DEW?” [163]As he did so, all the others faded away out of sight, and left the gnomes and Merrimeg alone in the room. Brother Nibby poured out more of the May-dew into brother Malkin’s hand, and Malkin rubbed it gently over the poor wrinkled old face. The face began to take on color, and the wrinkles began to disappear. “More, brother,” said Malkin. In another moment the May-dew was all used up. The instant it was gone—well, Merrimeg herself, a little girl, her own little self, rosy-cheeked, barefoot, lively as a lark, was sitting in the chair before the fire. She jumped down and cried out: “What have you been doing to me, you naughty gnomes?” “Rather cross to-day,” said Malkin. “No, please, tell me! I’m sorry,” said Merrimeg. “You tell her,” said Malkin. [164]“I think you’re the one to tell her, brother,” said Nibby. “You’re so—” “What did you have in that bottle?” said Merrimeg, rather impatiently. “I thought she knew we had May-dew in it,” said Malkin. “Yes, I certainly thought she knew that,” said Nibby. “Have you been washing my face with May-dew?” said Merrimeg. “I should think she’d know that without being told; wouldn’t you, brother Nibby?” said Malkin. “I should certainly think so, if you ask me,” said Nibby. “Then let’s start home at once!” cried Merrimeg. “Mother will be worried if I’m later than usual. Come along!” Through the rear door they found their way to a cave in the mountain, and at the end of this cave they found an underground stream, and beside this stream they found the gnomes’ canoe. They were in it in a jiffy, and in another jiffy[165] the gnomes were paddling up stream for dear life. “Here we are,” said Malkin at last, and they got out at the bottom of a ladder that climbed the wall of their tunnel. At the top of the ladder Malkin pushed open a trapdoor, and they all went up through the opening into the gnomes’ kitchen. “I suppose we ought to invite her to stay and rest,” said Malkin. “Just what I was going to say, if you hadn’t taken the words out of my mouth,” said Nibby. “Suppose you—” “Oh no, thank you, I can’t,” said Merrimeg. “But I’m ever so much obliged to you, just the same, and now I’ve got to run home in a hurry.” “Quite polite, after all, brother,” said Malkin. “Just what I was thinking,” said Nibby. “Good-bye!” cried Merrimeg, and went up the ladder to the trapdoor in the ceiling and out into the world. The sun was shining and the squirrels were scampering up the trees and the birds were singing and— Away she flew as fast as[166] her feet would carry her, through the woods and down the village street and in at the back door of her own house. “Well!” said her mother, taking her hands out of the dough. “You must have gone to the end of the world and back!” “Yes’m,” said Merrimeg. “Did you get your face washed with May-dew?” “Yes, mother,” said Merrimeg. <div class="figcenter"><ANTIMG src="images/i_166.jpg" alt="" /></div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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