The Fairies Of Pesth
by
An old poet walked alone in a quiet valley. His heart was heavy, and the voices of Nature consoled him. His life had been a lonely and sad one. Many years ago a great grief fell upon him, and it took away all his joy and all his ambition. It was because he brooded over his sorrow, and because he was always faithful to a memory, that the townspeople deemed him a strange old poet; but they loved him and they loved his songs,–in his life and in his songs there was a gentleness, a sweetness, a pathos that touched every heart. “The strange, the dear old poet,” they called him.
Evening was coming on. The birds made no noise; only the whip-poor-will repeated over and over again its melancholy refrain in the marsh beyond the meadow. The brook ran slowly, and its voice was so hushed and tiny that you might have thought that it was saying its prayers before going to bed.
The old poet came to the three lindens. This was a spot he loved, it was so far from the noise of the town. The grass under the lindens was fresh and velvety. The air was full of fragrance, for here amid the grass grew violets and daisies and buttercups and other modest wild-flowers. Under the lindens stood old Leeza, the witchwife.
“Take this,” said the poet to old Leeza, the witchwife; and he gave her a silver piece.
“You are good to me, master poet,” said the witchwife. “You have always been good to me. I do not forget, master poet, I do not forget.”
“Why do you speak so strangely?” asked the old poet. “You mean more than you say. Do not jest with me; my heart is heavy with sorrow.”
“I do not jest,” answered the witchwife. “I will show you a strange thing. Do as I bid you; tarry here under the lindens, and when the moon rises, the Seven Crickets will chirp thrice; then the Raven will fly into the west, and you will see wonderful things, and beautiful things you will hear.”
Saying this much, old Leeza, the witch-wife, stole away, and the poet marvelled at her words. He had heard the townspeople say that old Leeza was full of dark thoughts and of evil deeds, but he did not heed these stories.
“They say the same of me, perhaps,” he thought. “I will tarry here beneath the three lindens and see what may come of this whereof the witch wife spake.”
The old poet sat amid the grass at the foot of the three lindens, and darkness fell around him. He could see the lights in the town away off; they twinkled like the stars that studded the sky. The whip-poor-will told his story over and over again in the marsh beyond the meadow, and the brook tossed and talked in its sleep, for it had played too hard that day.
“The moon is rising,” said the old poet. “Now we shall see.”
The moon peeped over the tops of the far-off hills. She wondered whether the world was fast asleep. She peeped again. There could be no doubt; the world was fast asleep,–at least so thought the dear old moon. So she stepped boldly up from behind the distant hills. The stars were glad that she came, for she was indeed a merry old moon.
The Seven Crickets lived in the hedge. They were brothers, and they made famous music. When they saw the moon in the sky they sang “chirp-chirp, chirp-chirp, chirp-chirp,” three times, just as old Leeza, the witchwife, said they would.
“Whir-r-r!” It was the Raven flying out of the oak-tree into the west. This, too, was what the old witchwife had foretold. “Whir-r-r” went the two black wings, and then it seemed as if the Raven melted into the night. Now, this was strange enough, but what followed was stranger still.