THE TWO WISHES. (A Fairy Story.) BY SUSAN COOLIDGE. PIEROT and Pierotte were a small brother and sister who were always wishing to be something that they were not, or to have something which they had not. They were not unhappy or discontented children, far from it. Their home, though poor, was comfortable; their parents, though strict, were kind; they were used to both, and desired nothing better. Wishing with them was a habit, an idle game which they were forever playing. It meant little, but it sounded ill; and a stranger listening, would have judged them less well-off and cheerful than they really were. "I wish I need n't wake up, but might lie still all day," was Pierotte's first thought every morning; while Pierot's was, "I wish Pierotte was n't such a sleepy-head, for then we could get out before sunrise, and gather every mushroom in the meadow while the Blaize children are still snoring in their beds." Then later, at breakfast, Pierotte would say, "I wish I were the Princess, to have coffee and white bread to my déjeuner, instead of tiresome porridge. I am tired of porridge. White bread and coffee must be better,-much better!" But all the time she spoke, Pierotte's spoon, traveling between her bowl and mouth, conveyed the "tiresome" porridge down her throat as rapidly as though it were the finest Mocha; and Periotte enjoyed it as much, though she'fancied that she did not. "I wish I were the young Comte Jules," Pierot would next begin in his turn. "No fagots to bind, no cow to fodder, no sheep to tend. Ah! a fine life he leads! Beautiful clothes, nothing to do. Six meals a day, two of them dinners, a horse to ride,-everything! I wish "And a nice yellow skin and eyes like boiled gooseberries," chimed in his mother. "Better wish for these, while you are about it. Much you know of noblemen and their ways! Didst ever have an indigestion? Tell me that. When thou hast tried one, wish for it again, if thou canst." Then Pierot would laugh sheepishly, shoulder his hatchet, and go off after wood, the inseparable Pierotte trotting by his side. As they went, it would be: rotte first, and then Pierot having been named after their father's cousin, a well-to-do peasant, whom it was expected would remember his little relatives in his will. This hope had been disappointed, and the children's regrets were natural and excusable, since even the wise dame, their mother, did not conceal her opinion of Cousin Pierre's conduct, which she considered irregular and dishonest. Children soon learn to join in chorus with older voices, and Pierot and Pierotte, in this case, found it particularly easy, as it chimed with the habit of their lives. One warm July morning, their mother roused them for an early breakfast, and sent them into the forest after wood. "My last fagot is in," she said. "You must bind and tie smartly to-day. And, Pierotte, help thy brother all that thou canst, for the father cannot spare him to go again this week, and on Saturday is the sennight's baking." So they set forth. The sun was not fairly risen, but his light went before his coming, and even in the dim forest-paths it was easy to distinguish leaf from flower. Shadows fell across the way from the trees, which stood so motionless that they seemed still asleep. Heavy dew hung on the branches; the air was full of a rare perfume, made up of many different fragrances, mixed and blended by the cunning fingers of the night. A little later, and the light broadened. Rays of sun filtered through the boughs, a wind stirred, and the trees roused themselves, each with a little shake and quiver. Somehow, the forest looked unfamiliar, and like a new place to the children that morning. They were not often there at so early an hour, it is true, but this did not quite account for the strange aspect of the woods. Neither of them knew, or, if they knew, they had forgotten, that it was Midsummer's Day, the fairies' special festival. Nothing met their eyes, no whir of wings or sparkle of bright faces from under the fern-branches, but a sense of something unusual was in the air, and the little brother and sister walked along in silence, peering curiously this way and that, with an instinctive expectation of unseen wonders. "Isn't it lovely?" whispered Pierotte, at last. "It never looked so pretty here as it does to-day. See that wild-rose,-how many flowers it has! Oh! what was that? It waved at me!" "What waved?" "The rose. It waved a white arm at me! "Nonsense! It was the wind," replied Pierot, sturdily, leading the way into a side-path which led off from the rose-bush. "Is it much farther where we get the wood?" asked Pierotte, for the children had been walking a considerable time. "Father said we were to go to the Hazel Copse," answered Pierot. "We must be almost there." So for half an hour longer they went on and on, but still no sign of fallen trees or wood-choppers appeared, and Pierot was forced to confess that he must have mistaken the road. "It is queer, too," he said. "There was that big red toad-stool where the paths joined. I marked it the other day when I came with the father. What's the matter?" for Pierotte had given a sudden jump. "Some one laughed," said Pierotte, in an awestruck tone. "It was a cricket or tree-toad. Who is here to laugh?" Pierotte tried hard to believe him, but she did not feel comfortable, and held Pierot's sleeve tight as they went. He felt the trembling of the little hand. "Pierotte, thou art a goose!" he said; but all the same he put his arm round her shoulders, which comforted her so that she walked less timorously. One path after another they tried, but none of them led to the cleared spot where the fallen trees lay. The sun rose high, and the day grew warmer, but in the forest a soft breeze blew, and kept them cool. Hour after hour passed; the children had walked till they were tired. They rested awhile, ate half their dinner of curds and black bread, then they went on again, turned, twisted, tried paths to right and paths to left, but still the dense woods closed them in, and they had no idea where they were, or how they should go. Suddenly the track they were following led to a little clearing, in which stood a tiny hut, with a fenced garden full of cherry-trees and roses. It was such a surprise to find this fertile and blooming spot in the heart of the wild wood, that the children stood still with their mouths open, to stare at it. "How strange!" gasped Pierot, when at last he found his voice. "The father always said that ours was the only hut till you got to the other side the forest." "Perhaps this is the other side," suggested Pierotte. An odd chuckling laugh followed this remark, and they became aware of an old woman sitting at the window of the cottage, -a comical old woman, with a stiff square cap on her head, sharp twinkling eyes, and a long hooked nose. As the children looked, she laughed again, and, extending her finger, beckoned them to come nearer. Timidly they obeyed, setting down their big wood-basket at the gate. The old woman leaned over the window to await them, her hand on a square glass jar full of yellow liquid, in which floated what seemed to be a pickled serpent with his tail in three coils, and the tip in his mouth. Pierotte shuddered at the serpent, but Pierot was bolder. "Did you want us, good madam?" he asked. "Want you? No," replied the "good madam." "How should I want you? I saw you staring at my house as if your eyes would pop out of your heads, and I thought, perhaps, you wanted me." "DID YOU WANT US, GOOD MADAM?" "It was only-we were only-surprised," stammered Pierot. "Because we did n't know that there was a house here." "There was none last night, and there wont be any to-morrow morning-at least-none for children to stare at," replied the old woman, coolly. "What do you mean?" cried Pierot, astonished beyond measure. "How can a house be built in one night? And why wont it be here tomorrow!" "Because to-morrow wont be Midsummer's Day -and to-day is," replied the old woman; "and a fairy-house is visible to mortal eyes at that time, and no other." "Fairy-house!" faltered Pierot; while Pierotte, jumping more rapidly to a conclusion, fairly Something in the smile made Pierotte draw reach it now, and as his eyes turned with dismay toback; but Pierot said, politely: "One rose, perhaps-since Madam is so good." The fairy leaned out and plucked a rose from the vine which grew on the wall close by. "Now, listen," she said. "Each of my roses incloses a wish. You are great wishers, I know; ' and her eyes twinkled queerly. "This time the wish will come true, so take care what you are about. There will be no coming to get me to undo the wish, for I sha' n't be visible again till this time next year on Midsummer's Day,—you know." "Oh, Pierot! what shall we wish for?" cried Pierotte, much excited; but the old woman only repeated, "Take care!" drew her head in at the window, and all in a minute,—how they could not explain, the cottage had vanished, the garden, the gate, they were in the wood again, with nothing but trees and bushes about them; and all would have seemed like a dream, except for the rose which Pierot held in his hand-red and fragrant. "What shall we wish for?" repeated Pierotte, as they seated themselves under a tree to talk over this marvelous adventure. "We must be very careful, and ask for something nice," replied Pierot. ward Pierotte, there she stood, also holding a twig "Ugly, eh! Perhaps you would like to see your own face," said Pierot, enraged at this flattering criticism. "Just wait till we get home, and I show you the old looking-glass. But stay, we need n't wait; " and he dragged Pierotte to the side of a little pool of still water, which had caught his eye among the bushes. "Here's a lookingglass ready made," he went on. "Look, Pierotte, and see what a beauty you have become." Poor Pierotte ! She took one look, gave a scream, and covered her face with her hands. "That me?" she cried. "Oh! I never, never will think it! What is the matter with us, Pierot? "Thou art right. We will. Art thou not hun- Was it that horrid fairy, do you think? Did she "It would be better to wait and think for a long time first," suggested Pierotte. gry?" "Oh, so hungry! bread now. Let us eat the rest of our bewitch us?" "The wish!" faltered Pierot, who at that moment caught sight of the faded rose in his cap. "I So Pierot produced the big lump of bread, and wished that we were both grown up, don't you divided it into two equal portions. "Look, look!” cried Pierotte, as her teeth met in the first mouthful. "A cherry-tree, brother,a real cherry-tree here in the woods! And with ripe cherries on it! How good some would be with our bread!" "First rate!" cried Pierot; and, putting their bread carefully on the grass, both ran to the tree. Alas! the boughs grew high, and the cherries hung far beyond their reach. Pierot tried to climb the tree, but the stem was both slight and slippery. Then they found a forked stick, but vainly attempted to hook and draw down a branch. remember? Oh, what a fool I was!" "You horrid boy! You have gone and wished me into an ugly old woman! I'll never forgive you!" sobbed Pierotte. "It was your wish too. You said you would like to be as old as father and mother. So you need n't call me horrid!" answered Pierot, angrily. Silence followed, broken only by Pierotte's sobs. The two old children sat with their backs to each other, under different trees. By and by Pierot's heart began to smite him. "It was more my fault than hers," he thought; "Oh, dear! I wish we were both grown up," and, turning round a little way, he said, coaxcried Pierot, panting with exertion. "So do I. If we were as big as father and mother, we could reach the boughs without even getting on tiptoe," chimed in Pierotte. ingly, "Pierotte." No answer. Pierotte only stuck out her shoulder a little and remained silent. "Don't look so cross," went on Pierot. "You can't think how horrid it makes you-a woman of your age!" "I'm not a woman of my age. Oh, how can you say such things?" sobbed Pierotte. "I don't want to be grown-up. I want to be a little girl again." "Times are changed," muttered Pierot, but he dared not speak aloud. "Where shall we sleep?" asked Pierotte. "You used to be always wishing you were big," you!" remarked her now big brother. "Y-es, so I was; but I never meant all at once. I wanted to be big enough to spin-and the-mother-was-going-to teach me," went on poor Pierotte, crying bitterly," and I wanted to be as big as Laura Blaize-and-pretty-and some day have a sweetheart, as she had—and—but what's the use-I've lost it all, and I'm grown-up, and old and ugly already, and the mother wont know me, and the father will say, "My little Pierotte 'Cœur de St. Martin-impossible! get out you witch!'" Overcome by this dreadful picture, Pierotte hid her face and cried louder than ever. "I'll tell you what," said Pierot, after a pause, "don't let us go home at all. We will just hide here in the woods for a year, and when Midsummer's Day comes round, we 'll hunt till we find the fairy house again, and beg her, on our knees, for another wish, and if she says 'yes,' we 'll wish at once to be little just as we were this morning, and then we'll go home directly." "Poor mother; she will think we are dead!" sighed Pierotte. "That's no worse than if she saw us like this. I'd be conscripted most likely and sent off to fight, and me only twelve years old. And you'd have a horrid time of it with the Blaize boys. Robert Blaize said you were the prettiest girl in Balne aux Bois. I wonder what he'd say now?" But "Oh yes, let us stay here," shuddered Pierotte. "I could n't bear to see the Blaize boys now. then it will be dark soon--sha' n't you be frightened to stay in the woods all night?” "Oh! a man like me is n't easily frightened," said Pierot, stoutly, but his teeth chattered a little. "It's so queer to hear you call yourself 'a man,'" remarked Pierotte. "And it's just as queer to hear you call yourself a little girl," answered Pierot, with a glance at the antiquated face beside him. "Dear, how my legs shake, and how stiff my knees are!" sighed Pierotte. "Do grown-up people feel like that always?" "I don't know," said Pierot, whose own legs lacked their old springiness. "Would you like some cherries now, Pierotte? I can reach them easily." "I wish I were a child," said Pierotte, with a groan. "Here's a tree with grass below it, and I'm getting tired and sleepy." When the brother and sister woke it was broad sunlight again. "One day gone of our year," said Pierot, trying to be cheerful. It was hard work as time went on, and with all their constant walking and wandering they never seemed to find their way out of the forest, or of that particular part of it where their luckless adventure had befallen them. Turn which way they would, the paths always appeared to lead them round to the same spot; it was like bewitchment; they could make nothing out of it. The dullness of their lives was varied only by an occasional quarrel. Pierot would essay to climb a tree, and Pierotte, grown sage and proper, would upbraid him for behaving so foolishly-"just like a boy,"—or he would catch her using the pool as a mirror, and would tease her for caring so much for a plain old face when there was nobody but himself to look. How the time went they had no idea. It seemed always daylight, and yet weeks, if not months, must have passed, they thought, and Pierot at last began to suspect the fairy of having changed the regular course of the sun so as to cheat them out of the proper time for finding her at home. "It's just like her," he said. "She is making the days seem all alike, so that we may not know when Midsummer comes. Pierotte, I'll tell you what, we must be on the lookout, and search for the little house every day, for if we forget just once that will be the very time, depend upon it." cot. So every day, and all day long, the two old children wandered to and fro in search of the fairy For a long time their quest was in vain, but at last, one bright afternoon just before sunset, as they were about giving up the hunt for that day, the woods opened in the same sudden way and revealed the garden, the hut, and-yes-at the window the pointed cap, the sharp black eyes; it was the fairy herself, they had found her at last. For a moment they were too much bewildered to move, then side by side they hurried into the garden without waiting for invitation. "Well, my old gaffer, what can I do for you, or for you, dame?" asked the fairy, benevolently. "Oh, please, I am not a dame, he is not a gaffer," cried Pierotte, imploringly. "I am little Pierotte"-and she bobbed a courtesy. "And this is Pierot, my brother." There was no deliberation this time as to what the wish should be. "I wish I was a little boy," shouted Pierot, holding the rose over his head with a sort of ecstasy. "Pierot and Pierotte! Wonderful!" said the fairy. "But, my dear children, what has caused this change in your appearance? You have aged remarkably since I saw you last." "Indeed, we have," replied Pierot, with a girl exactly that I used to be," chorused Pierotte. grimace. "And I wish I was a little girl, the same little The rose seemed to melt in air, so quickly did it "Well, age is a very respectable thing. Some wither and collapse. And the brother and sister persons are always wishing to be old," remarked embraced and danced with joy, for each in the the fairy, maliciously. "You find it much pleas- other's face saw the fulfillment of their double wish. anter than being young, I dare say." "Oh, how young you look! Oh, how pretty "Indeed, we don't," said Pierotte, wiping her you are! Oh, what happiness it is not to be old eyes on her apron. any longer! The dear fairy! The kind fairy!" "No? Well, that is sad, but I have heard peo- These were the exclamations which the squirrels ple say the same before you." "Oh, please, please," cried Pierot and Pierotte, falling on their knees before the window, "please, THEY FIND THE COTTAGE AGAIN. dear, kind fairy, forgive us. We don't like to be grown-up at all. We want to be little and young again. Please, dear fairy, turn us into children as we were before?" "What would be the use?" said the old woman. "You'd begin wanting to be somebody else at once if you were turned back to what you were before." "We wont, indeed we wont," pleaded the children, very humbly. The fairy leaned out and gathered a rose. "Very well," she said. "Here's another wish for you. See that it is a wise one this time, for if you fail, it will be of no use to come to me." With these words, she shut the blinds suddenly, and lo! in one second, house, garden, and all had vanished, and Pierot and Pierotte were in the forest again. and the birds heard for the next ten minutes, and the birds and the squirrels seemed to be amused, for certain queer and unexplained little noises like laughs sounded from under the There was no difficulty about the paths now. After walking awhile, Pierot began to recognize this turn and that. There was the huntsman's oak and the Dropping Well; and there--yes, he was sure-lay the hazel copse where the father had bidden them go for wood. "I say," cried Pierotte, with a sudden bright thought, "we will wait and bind one fagot for the mother's oven-the poor mother! Who has fetched her wood all this time, do you suppose?" Plenty of sticks lay on the ground ready for binding. The wood-choppers had just left off their work, it would seem. Pierotte's basket was filled, a fagot tied and lifted on to Pierot's shoulders, and through the, gathering twilight they hurried homeward. They were out of the wood soon. There was the hut, with a curl of smoke rising from the chimney; there was the mother standing at the door and looking toward the forest. What would she say when she saw them? What she said astonished them very much. "How long you have been!" were the words, but the tone was not one of surprise. "O mother, mother!" cried Pierotte, clinging to her arm, while Pierot said, "We were afraid to come home because we looked so old, and we feared you would not know us, but now we are young again." "Old! young!" said the mother. "What does the lad mean? One does not age so fast |