Caroline Guild - Daisy - or, The Fairy Spectacles

There was a great forest, once, where you might walk for miles, and never hear a sound except the tapping of woodpeckers, the hooting of owls, or the low bark of wolves, or the strokes of a woodman's axe.

For on the borders of this wild, solitary place one man had built his little house, and lived there. It was very near the trees which he spent his time in cutting down; and Peter thought this all he cared about.

But when the summer wore away, and the cold, lonely winter months came on, and there was no one to keep his fire burning and the wind from sweeping through his home, and no one to smile upon him and comfort him when he came back tired from his hard day's work, Peter grew lonely, and thought he must find a wife.

So he went to a market town, a whole day's journey off; for he knew it was a fair-day, and that all the young women of his acquaintance would be there, and many more beside.

At first he looked about for the most beautiful, and asked her if she would be his wife; but the beauty tossed her head, and answered, not unless he lived in a two-story house, and had carpets on his floors, and a wagon in which she could drive to town when she chose.

All this, was very unlike the home of poor Peter, who had nothing in the world but his rough little cabin and a barrow in which he wheeled his wood.

The next maiden told him he had an ugly scar on his face, and was not good looking enough for her; and, besides, his clothes were coarse. The next declared that she was afraid of wolves, and would rather marry one of the village youths, and live where she could hear the news, and on fair-days watch the people come and go.

So Peter started for his lonely home again, with a sadder heart than he left it; for there was no chance that he could ever grow handsome or rich, and therefore he thought he must always dwell alone; instead of the music of kind voices, with which he had hoped to make his evenings pleasant, he was still to hear only the cracking of boughs, and hissing of snakes, and the barking of wolves.

But suddenly he met in the road some people who seemed more wretched than himself – an old, bent woman, clad in rags, and with such an ugly face that, strong man as he was, Peter could not look at her without trembling, and a girl whom she led, or rather dragged along, through the dusty road.

The girl looked as if she had been weeping and was very tired; she did not raise her swollen eyes from the ground while Peter talked with her companion. The old dame said she was a silly thing, crying her eyes out because her mother was dead, when she ought to be thankful to be rid of one so old, and sick, and troublesome.

The girl began to cry again, and the woman to scold her loudly. "Just so ungrateful people are," she said; "when I have promised to find a place where you can live at service, and earn money to buy a new gown, you must needs whimper about the old body that's well enough in her grave."

"Perhaps the poor child is lonely," said Peter, who had a kind heart under his rough coat, and knew, besides, from his own experience, what a hard thing it is to live with no one to love us and be grateful for our care.

The girl looked up at Peter with her pale, sad face; but her lips trembled so that she could not thank him. And he began to think how this poor beggar must have a gentle and loving heart, because she had taken such good care of her old mother, and, notwithstanding she was so troublesome, had been grieved at losing her.

So he made bold to ask once more what he had been refused so many times that day, and had never thought to ask again, whether she would marry him, and live in his little cabin, and cook his meals, and keep his fires burning, and smile and comfort him when he should come home tired from his work.

And at these words a bright smile came into the face of the old woman, and seemed for an instant to take its ugliness away. She put the girl's hand into his, and said to her, "One who can forget his own trouble in comforting another will make you a good husband, Susan."

All at once the old woman had disappeared; and Peter and Susan, hand in hand, were travelling towards the cabin in the wood. They looked about in every direction; but she was gone. Then they looked in each other's faces, and seemed to remember that they had seen each other before; at least, Peter knew he had always meant to have exactly such a wife as Susan, and Susan was sure that, if she had looked through the world, she could have found no one so manly, and kind, and generous as Peter.

I may as well tell you a secret, to begin with – that it was no accident which led the young woman into Peter's path, but a plan of the old dame. And she was not the withered hag she seemed, but the youngest and most beautiful fairy that ever entered this earth – the strongest, too, and richest, for the earth itself is only a part of her treasure; and should she forsake it for a moment, our world would wither like a flower cut from its stem, and be blown away with the first wind that came.

But you must find out for yourselves the fairy's name.

To Susan Peter's cabin seemed like a palace; for he had taken care that it should look clean and pleasant when his new wife came.

It was shaded with the beautiful boughs of the wood; and the door stood open, for he had no lock and key. There were inside some comfortable seats, and a fireplace, and table, and some wild flowers in a cup; and on the floor were patches of sunshine that had crept through the leaves, and made the room look only cooler and shadier.

Peter opened a closet, and showed his stores of meal and sugar, and all his pans and dishes; and he took from his pocket the stuff for a new gown, which he had bought at the fair on purpose for his wife, and wheeled from its dark corner an easy chair he had made for her, and hung upon the wall a little looking glass, so that she might not forget, he said, to keep her hair smooth, and look handsome when he should come home at evening.

Poor Susan could hardly believe her own senses: but a few hours ago she had been a beggar in the streets, without one friend except the old woman that dragged her through the dust and scolded her. Many a night they had slept out of doors, with only a thorny hedge for shelter and the damp grass for a bed; and if it rained, and they were out, had had no fire to dry their shivering limbs; and when they woke up hungry in the morning, had no breakfast to cook or eat.

And now the lonely beggar girl was mistress of a house, and the wife of a man whom she would not exchange for the whole wide world, and who seemed pleased with her, and even proud of her.

So you see, dear children, that it is never worth while to be unhappy about our trials, because we do not know what may happen the next minute. We never can guess what good fortune is travelling towards us, and may, when times seem darkest, be standing outside of our door.

The poor debtor in jail may suddenly hear that he has been made a prince; the dear friend that is sick, and seems almost sure to die, may arise all the stronger, and the dearer, too, for the illness which frightened us; the sad accident that causes such pain, and perhaps mutilates us for life, may have kept off from us some more dreadful pain – we cannot tell.

But of this we may always be sure, that the good God, who never sleeps nor grows tired, loves and watches over us, and sends alike joy and sorrow, to make our souls purer, and fitter to live in his beautiful home on high.

Susan never was sorry that the strange old dame had put her hand in Peter's; for he led her through the pleasantest paths he could find, and when the way grew rough, he was so careful of her comfort, and so grieved for her, that she almost wished it might never be smooth again.