On the Tree Top

Excerpt

THE GOLD-SPINNER.

A miller had a daughter,

And lovely, too, she was;

Her step was light, her smile was bright,

Her eyes were gray as glass.

(So Chaucer loved to write of eyes

In which that nameless azure lies

So like shoal-water in its hue,

Though all too crystal clear for blue.)

As you would suppose, the miller

Was very proud of her,

And would never fail to tell some tale

As to what her graces were.

On the powdery air of his own mill

Floated the whispers of her skill;

At the village inn the loungers knew

All that the pretty girl could do.

Oft in his braggart way

This foolish tale he told,

That his daughter could spin from bits of straw

Continuous threads of gold!

So boastful had he grown, forsooth,

That he cared but little for the truth:

But since this was a curious thing

It came to the knowledge of the king.

He thought it an old wife’s fable,

But senseless stuff at best;

Yet, as he had greed, he cried, “Indeed!

I will put her powers to test.”

With a wave of his hand, he further said

That to-morrow morning the clever maid

Should come to the castle, and he would see

What truth in the story there might be.

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Next day, with a trembling step,

She reached the palace door,

And was shown into a chamber, where

Was straw upon the floor.

They brought her a chair and a spinning-wheel,

A little can of oil, and a reel;

And said that unless the work was done—

All of the straw into the gold-thread spun—

By the time that the sun was an hour high

Next morning, she would have to die.

Down sat she in despair,

Her tears falling like rain:

She had never spun a thread in her life,

Nor ever reeled a skein!

Hark! the door creaked, and through a chink,

With droll wise smile and funny wink,

In stepped a little quaint old man,

All humped, and crooked, and browned with tan.

She looked in fear and amaze

To see what he would do;

He said, “Little maid, what will you give

If I’ll spin the straw for you?”

Ah, me, few gifts she had in store—

A trinket or two, and nothing more!

A necklace from her throat so slim

She took, and timidly offered him.

’Twas enough, it seemed; for he sat

At the wheel in front of her,

And turned it three times round and round,

Whirr, and whirr-rr, and whirr-rr-rr—

One of the bobbins was full; and then,

Whirr, and whirr-rr, and whirr-rr-rr again,

Until all the straw that had been spread

Had been deftly spun into golden thread.

At sunrise came the king

To the chamber, and, behold,

Instead of the ugly heaps of straw

Were bobbins full of gold!

This made him greedier than before;

And he led the maiden out at the door

Into a new room, where she saw

Still larger and larger heaps of straw,

A chair to sit in, a spinning-wheel,

A little can of oil, and a reel;

And he said that straw, too, must be spun

To gold before the next day’s sun

Was an hour high in the morning sky,

And if ’twas not done, she must die.

Down sank she in despair,

Her tears falling like rain;

She could not spin a single thread,

She could not reel a skein....