The Primrose Ring by Ruth Sawyer
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Ruth Sawyer >> The Primrose Ring
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"Sure ye're walkin' grand, Sandy. I never saw any one puttin' one leg
past another smarther than what ye are. Ye'd fetch up to Aberdeen i'
no time if ye kept on at the pace ye are goin'."
Pride lies above pain; and Sandy held his head very high as he steadied
himself by the table and looked toward Bridget for further orders.
[Illustration: Sandy held his head very high as he steadied himself by
the table and looked toward Bridget for further orders.]
"Phat wull a do the noo?" he asked.
In the excitement Bridget had pulled herself to the foot of the cot;
and there, eyes shining and cheeks growing pinker and pinker, she held
her breath while the pleasantest thought of all shaped itself somewhere
under the shock of red curls.
"Ye could never guess in a hundthred years what I was thinkin' this
minute," she burst forth, ecstatically.
Eight mouths opened wide in anticipated wonder; but no one thought of
guessing.
"I'm thinkin'--I'm thinkin' we could make a primrose ring the night.
Is there any knowledgeable one among ye that knows aught of a primrose
ring?"
Eight heads shook an emphatic negative.
"Aye, wasn't I sayin' so! Well, sure, a primrose ring is a faery ring;
an' any one that makes it an' steps inside, wishin' a wish, is like to
have anythin' at all happen them afore they steps out of it ag'in."
Eight breaths were drawn in and sighed out with the shivering delight
that always accompanies that feeling which lies between fear and
desire; likewise, eight delicious thrills zigzagged up eight cold
little spines. Then Bridget shook a commanding finger at Sandy.
"Ye take them flowers out o' the pot an' dthrop them, one by one, till
ye have the ground covered from the head of Pancho's bed to the tail o'
Michael's. 'Twon't make the whole of a ring, but if ye crook it out i'
the middle to the wall yondther, 'twill be like enough."
With a doubtful eye Sandy spanned the distance. "Na--na. Gien a
hustled a wud be a dee'd loonie afore a had 'em spilled."
"Aw, go on!" chorused the watchers.
"Thry, just," urged Bridget, "an' we'll sing 'Onward, Christian
Soldier' to hearten ye up."
Eight shrill voices piped out the tune; and Sandy, caught by its
martial spirit, before he knew it was limping a circle about the beds,
marking his trail with golden blossoms. Luckily for Ward C, the nurse
on duty during the dinner-hour was in the medical ward, with the door
closed. And when she came back to her listening post in the corridor
the last word had been sung, the last flower dropped, and Sandy was in
his cot again, stretching tired little legs under the covers.
Perhaps the geometrician, or the accurate-minded reader, will doubt
whether the primrose ring was made at all--seeing that the wall of Ward
C cut off nearly thirty degrees of it. But in the world of fancy
geometrical accuracy does not hold; and the only important thing is
believing that the ring has been made. I have known of a few who could
step inside the faery circle whenever they willed, and without a
visible primrose about; but for most of us the blossoms are needed to
make the enchantment.
This is one of the heritages that come to those who are lucky enough to
dwell much in the world of fancy. They can wish for things and possess
them, and enjoy them without actually grasping them with their two
hands and saying, "These are my personal belongings." Material things
are rather a nuisance, on the whole, for they have to be dusted and
kept in order, repatched or repainted; and if one wishes to carry them
about there are always the bother of packing and the danger of losing.
But these other possessions are different--they are with us wherever we
go and whenever we want them--to-day, to-morrow, or for eternity.
"If we had the wee red wishin'-cap," said Bridget, thoughtfully, "we'd
not have to be waitin' for what's likely to happen. We could just wish
ourselves into Tir-na-n'Og."
"What's that?" demanded Peter.
"Tis the place the faeries live in, an' 'tis in Irelan'. Sure, 'tis
easy gettin' the cap," continued Bridget, with conviction. "All ye
need do is to say afther me, 'I wish--I wish for the wee red cap,' an'
ye have it."
Bridget extended her hands, palms upward, and the others followed her
example; and together they whispered: "I wish--I wish for the wee red
cap."
Immediately Bridget's hands closed over a cubic inch of atmosphere, and
she cried, exultantly, "Hold on to it tight an' slip it on your head
quick--afore it gets from ye!"
Only seven pairs of hands obeyed--Michael protested.
"I have nothinks got," he said, disgustedly.
"Shut up!" And Bridget shook a menacing fist at him. "He's foolish
entirely. He thinks he hasn't anythin' foreby he can't see it. Now,
all together, 'We wish--'"
"Can we go 'thout any clothes?" interrupted Susan. "We'd feel awful
queer in nightshirts."
"Don't ye worry, darlin'. Like as not when we get there the queen
herself 'll open a monsthrous big chest where they keeps all the faery
clothes, an' let us choose anythin' at all we wants to wear."
"Pants?" queried Peter, eagerly.
"Sure, an' silk dresses an' straw hats wi' ribbon on them, an--"
"Will shoes in the chest be?" Pancho was very anxious; he had never
had a pair of shoes in all his six years.
Bridget beamed. "Not i' the chest; but I'll be tellin' ye how ye'll
come by them. When we get there we'll look about for a
blackthorn-bush--an' there--like as not--in undther it--will be a wee
man wi' a leather apron across his knee--the leprechaun, big as life!"
"What's him?"
"Faith I'm tellin' ye--'tis the faery cobbler. An' the minute he slaps
the tail of his eye on us he'll sing out: 'Hello, Pancho an' Sandy an'
Susan an' all o' yez. I've your boots finished, just.' An' wi' that
he'll fetch down the nine pairs an' hand them round."
A sigh of blissful contentment started from the cot by the door,
burbled down the length of the ward, and vanished out of the window.
Is there anything dearer to the pride of a child than boots--new boots?
Bridget took up the dropped thread and went on. "An' afther that the
leprechaun reaches for his crock o' gold an' pulls out a penny. Ye can
buy anythin' i' the whole world wi' a faery penny."
"Anythinks!" said Michael, skeptically.
"That's what I said."
"Could yer buy a dorg?" Peter asked, opening one renegade eye.
"Sure--a million dogs."
"Don't want a million. Want jus' one real live black dorg--named
Toby--wiv yeller spots an' half-legs--an' long ears--an' a stand-up
tail--an' legs--an' long--long--long--" The renegade eye closed tight
and Peter was smiling at something afar off.
An antiphonal chorus of yawns broke the hush that followed, while
Bridget worked herself back under the covers.
"A ken the penny micht be buyin' a hame," came in a drowsy voice from
Sandy's crib. "'Twad be a hame in Aberdeen--wi' trees an' flo'ers an'
mickle wee creepit things--an'--Miss Peggie--an'--us--"
"Sure, an' it could be buyin' a grand home in Irelan', the same,"
Bridget beamed; and then she added, struck forcibly with an
afterthought: "But what would be the sense of a home anywheres but
here--furninst--within easy reach of a crutch or a wheeled chair? Tell
me that!"
Sandy grunted ambiguously; and Bridget took up again the thread of her
recounting.
"Ye could never be guessin' half o' the sthrange adventures we'll be
havin'! Like as not Sandy 'll be gettin' his hump lifted off him. I
mind the story--me mother often told it me. There was a humpy back in
Irelan', once, who went always about wi' song in his heart an' another
on his lips; an' one day he fetched up inside a faery rath. The pipers
were pipin' an' the Wee People was dancin', an' while they was dancin'
they was singin' like this: 'Monday an' Tuesday--an' Monday an'
Tuesday--an' Monday an' Tuesday'--an' it sounded all jerky and bad.
'That's a terrible poor song,' says the humpy, speakin' out plain.
'What's that?' says the faeries, stoppin' their dance an' gatherin'
round him. ''Tis mortal poor music ye are making' says the humpy
ag'in. 'Can ye improve it any?' asked the faeries. 'I can that,' says
the humpy. 'Add Wednesday to it an' ye'll have double as good a song.'
An' when the faeries tried it it was so pretty, an' they was so
pleased, they took the hump off him."
Sandy had curled up like a kitten; his eyes were shut, and he was
smiling, too. Every one was very quiet; only Rosita moved, reaching
out a frightened hand to Bridget.
"Fwaid," she lisped. "All dark--fwaid to do."
"Whist, darlin', ye needn't be afeared. Bridget 'll hold tight to your
hand all the way. An' the stars will be out there makin' it bright--so
bright--foreby the stars are the faeries' old rush-lights. When
they're all burned out, just, they throw them up i' the sky--far as
ever they can--an' God reaches out an' catches them. Then He sets them
all a-burnin' ag'in, so's the wee angel babies can see what road to be
takin'. An' Sandy 'll lose his hump--an' Michael 'll get a new
heart--maybe--that won't bump--an' they'll put all the trusters in
cages--all but the nice Wee One--cages like they have in the circus--
An' they'll never get out to pesther us--never--never--no--more--"
Bridget's voice trailed off into the distance, carrying with it the
last of Rosita's fearing consciousness.
Ward C had suddenly become empty--empty except for a row of tumbled
beds and nine little tired-out, cast-off bodies. They had been shed as
easily as a boy slips out of his dusty, uncomfortable overalls on a
late sultry afternoon, and leaves them behind him on a shady bank,
while he plunges, head first, into the cool, dark waters of the
swimming-pool just below him, which have been calling and calling and
calling.
VII
AND BEYOND
What happened beyond the primrose ring is, perhaps, rather a
crazy-quilt affair, having to be patched out of the squares and
three-cornered bits of Fancy which the children remembered to bring
back with them. I have tried to piece them together into a fairly
substantial pattern; but, of course, it can be easily ripped out and
raveled into nothing. So I beg of you, on the children's account, to
handle it gently, for they believe implicitly in the durability of the
fabric.
Sandy remembered the beginning of it--the plunge straight across the
primrose ring into the River of Make-Believe; and how they paddled over
like puppies--one after another. It was perfectly safe to swim, even
if you had never swum before; and the only danger was for those who
might stop in the middle of the river and say, or think, "A dinna
believe i' faeries." Whoever should do this would sink like a stone,
going down, down, down until he struck his bed with a thud and woke,
crying.
It was starlight in Tir-na-n'Og--just as Bridget had said it would
be--only the stars were far bigger and brighter. The children stood on
the white, pebbly beach and shook themselves dry; while Bridget showed
them how to pull down their nightshirts to keep them from shrinking,
and how to wring out their faery caps to keep the wishes from growing
musty or mildewed. After that they met the faery ferryman,
who--according to Sandy--"wore a wee kiltie o' reeds, an' a tammie made
frae a loch-lily pad wi' a cat-o'-nine-tail tossel, lukin' sae ilk the
brae ye wad niver ken he was a mon glen ye dinna see his legs,
walkin'." He told them how he ferried over all the "old bodies" who
had grown feeble-hearted and were too afraid to swim.
It was Pancho who remembered best about the leprechaun--how they found
him sitting cross-legged under the blackthorn-bush with a leather apron
spread over his knees, and how he had called out--just as Bridget had
said he would:
"Hello, Pancho and Susan and Sandy and all!"
"Have you any shoes got?" Pancho shouted.
The faery cobbler nodded and pointed with his awl to the branches above
his head; there hung nine pairs of little green shoes, curled at the
toes, with silver buckles, all stitched and soled and ready to wear.
"Will they fit?" asked Pancho, breathlessly.
"Faery shoes always fit. Now reach them down and hand them round."
This Pancho did with despatch. Nine pairs of little white feet were
thrust joyously into the green shoes and buckled in tight. On looking
back, Pancho was quite sure that this was the happiest moment of his
life. The children squealed and clapped their hands and cried:
"They fit fine!"
"Shoes is grand to wear!"
"I feel skippy."
"I feel dancy."
Whereupon they all jumped to their feet and with arms wide-spread, hand
clasping hand, they ringed about the cobbler and the thorn-bush. They
danced until there was not a scrap of breath left in their bodies; then
they tumbled over and rolled about like a nest of young puppies, while
the cobbler laughed and laughed until he held his sides with the aching.
It was here that everybody remembered about the faery penny; in fact,
that was the one thing remembered by all. And this is hardly strange;
if you or I ever possessed a faery penny--even in the confines of a
primrose ring--we should never forget it.
It was Bridget, however, who reminded the leprechaun. "Ye haven't by
any chance forgotten somethin' ye'd like to be rememberin', have ye?"
she asked, diplomatically.
"I don't know," and the cobbler pulled his thinking-lock. "What might
it be?"
"Sure, it might be a faery penny," and Bridget eyed him anxiously.
The cobbler slapped his apron and laughed again. "To be sure it
might--and I came near forgetting it."
He reached, over and pulled up a tuft of sod at his side; for all one
could have told, it might have been growing there, neighbor to all the
other sods. Underneath was a dark little hole in the ground; and out
of this he brought a brown earthen crock.
"The crock o' gold!" everybody whispered, awesomely.
"Aye, the crock o' gold," agreed the cobbler. "But I keep it hidden,
for there is naught that can make more throuble--sometimes." He raised
the lid and took out a single shining piece. "Will one do ye?"
Nine heads nodded eloquently, while nine hands were stretched out
eagerly to take it.
"Bide a bit. Ye can't all be carrying it at the one time. I think ye
had best choose a treasurer."
Bridget was elected unanimously. She took the penny and deposited it
in the heel of her faery shoe.
"Mind," said the leprechaun as they were turning to go, "ye mind a
faery penny will buy but the one thing. See to it that ye are all
agreed on the same thing."
The children chorused an assent and skipped merrily away. And here is
where Peter's patch joins Pancho's.
They had not gone far over the silvery-green meadow--three
shadow-lengths, perhaps--when they saw something coming toward them.
It was coming as fast as half-legs could carry it; and it was wagging a
_long_, stand-up tail. Everybody guessed in an instant that it was
Peter's "black dorg wiv yeller spots."
"Who der thunk it? Who der thunk it?" shouted Peter, jumping up and
down; and then he knelt on the grass, his arms flung wide open, while
he called: "Toby, Toby! Here's me!"
Of course Toby knew Peter--that goes without saying. He barked and
wagged his tail and licked Peter's face; in fact, he did every
dog-thing Peter had longed for since Peter's mind had first fashioned
him.
"Well," and Bridget put both arms akimbo and smiled a smile of complete
satisfaction, "what was I a-tellin' ye, anyways? Faith, don't it beat
all how things come thrue--when ye think 'em pleasant an' hard enough?"
Peter remembered the wonderful way their feet skimmed over the
ground--"'most like flyin'." Not a blade of grass bent under their
weight, not a grain of sand was dislodged; and--more marvelous than
all--there was no tiredness, no aching of joint or muscle. All of
which was bound to happen when feet were shod with faery shoes.
"See me walk!" cried some one.
"See me run!" cried some one else.
"See me hop and jump!"
And Bridget added, "Faith, 'tis as easy as lyin' in bed."
They were no longer alone; hosts of Little People passed them, going in
the same direction. Peter said most of them rode "straddle-legs" on
night birds or moths, while some flew along on a funny thing that was
horse before and weeds behind. I judge this must have been the
buchailin buidhe or benweed, which the faeries bewitch and ride the
same as a witch mounts her broomstick.
And everybody who passed always called out in the friendliest way,
"Hello, Peter!" or "Hello, Bridget!" or "The luck rise with ye!" which
is the most common of all greetings in Tir-na-n'Og.
"Gee!" was Peter's habitual comment after the telling, "maybe it wasn't
swell havin' 'em know us--names an' all. Betcher life we wasn't cases
to them--no, siree!"
It was Susan who remembered best how everything looked--Susan, who had
never been to the country in all her starved little life--that is, if
one excepts the times Margaret MacLean had taken her on the Ward C
"special." She told so well how all the trees and flowers were
fashioned that it was an easy matter putting names to them.
In the center of Tir-na-n'Og towered a great hill; but instead of its
being capped with peak or rocks it was gently hollowed at the top, as
though in the beginning, when it was thrown up molten from the depths
of somewhere, a giant thumb had pressed it down and smoothed it round
and even. All about the brim of it grew hawthorns and rowans and
hazel-trees. In the grass, everywhere, were thousands and millions of
primroses, heart's-ease, and morning-glories; all crowded together, so
Susan said, like the patterns on the Persian carpet in the board-room.
It was all so beautiful and faeryish and heart-desired that "yer'd have
said it wasn't real if yer hadn't ha' knowed it was."
The children stood on the brink of the giant hollow and clapped their
hands for the very joy of seeing it all; and there--a little man
stepped up to them and doffed his cap. The queen wanted them--she was
waiting for them by the throne that very minute; and the little man was
to bring them to her.
Now that throne--according to Susan--was nothing like the thrones one
finds in stories or Journeys through palaces to see. It was not cold,
hard, or forbidding; instead, it was as soft and green and pillowy as
an inflated golf-bunker might be, and just high and comfortable enough
for the baby faeries to discover it and go to sleep there whenever they
felt tired. The throne was full of them when the children looked, and
some one was tumbling them off like so many kittens.
"That is the queen," said the little man, pointing.
The children stood on tiptoes and craned their necks the better to see;
but it was not until they had come quite close that they saw that her
dress was gray, and her hair was gray, and she was small, and her face
was like--
"Bless me if it ain't!" shouted Susan in amazement. "It's Sandy's wee
creepity woman!"
The queen smiled when she saw them. She reached out her hands and
patted theirs in turn, asking, "Now what is your name, dearie?"
"Are ye sure ye're the queen?" gasped Bridget.
"Maybe I am--and maybe I'm not," was the answer.
"Then ye been't the wee gray woman--back yonder?" asked Sandy.
"Maybe I'm not--and maybe I am." And then she laughed. "Dear
children, it doesn't matter in the least who I am. I look a hundred
different ways to a hundred different people. Now let me see--I think
you wanted some--clothes."
A long, rapturous sigh was the only answer. It lasted while the queen
got down on her knees--just like an every-day, ordinary person--and
pulled from under the throne a great carved chest. She threw open the
lid wide; and there, heaped to the top and spilling over, were dresses
and mantles and coats and trousers and caps. They were all lengths,
sizes, and fashions--just what you most wanted after you had been in
bed for years and never worn anything but a hospital shirt; and
everything was made of cloth o' dreams and embroidered with pearls from
the River of Make-Believe.
"You can choose whatever you like, dearies," said the queen. And
that--according to Susan--was the best of all.
Next came the dancing; the Apostles remembered about that
co-operatively. They had donned pants of pink and yellow,
respectively, with shirts of royal purple and striked stockings, when
the pipers began to play. James said it sounded like soldiers
marching; John was certain that it was more like a circus; but I am
inclined to believe that they played "The Music of Glad Memories" and
"What-is-Sure-to-Come-True," for those are the two popular airs in
Tir-na-n'Og.
Away and away must have danced pairs of little feet that had never
danced before, and pairs of old feet that had long ago forgotten how;
and millions of faery feet, for no one can dance half as joyously as
when faeries dance with them. And I have heard it said that the pipers
there can play sadness into gladness, and tears into laughter, and old
age young again; and that those who have ever danced to the music of
faery pipes never really grow heavy-hearted again.
Needless to say, the Apostles danced together, and Peter danced with
Toby; and it must have been the maddest, merriest dance, for they never
told about it afterward without bursting into peal after peal of
laughter. Truth to tell, the Apostles' patch of fancy ended right
there--all raveling out into smiles and squirms of delight.
Another memory of Sandy's adjoins that of the Apostles'; and he told it
with great precision and regard for the truth.
Ever since crossing the River of Make-Believe Sandy had been able to
think of nothing but the story Bridget had told--the very last thing in
Ward C--and ever since he had left the leprechaun's bush behind he had
been wondering and scheming how he could get rid of his hump. He was
the only person in Tir-na-n'Og that night who did not dance.
Unnoticed, he climbed into a corner of the throne--among the sleeping
baby faeries--and there he thought hard. As he listened to the pipers'
music he shook his head mournfully.
"A canna make music mair bonny nor that--a canna," he said; and he set
about searching through the scraps of his memory for what music he did
know. There were the hymns they sang every Sunday at Saint Margaret's;
but he somewhat doubted their appropriateness here. Then there were
the songs his mother had sung to him home in Aberdeen. Long ago the
words had been forgotten; but often and often he had hummed the music
of them over to himself when he was going to sleep--it was good music
for that. One of the airs popped into his mind that very minute; it
was a Jacobite song about "Charlie," and he started to hum it softly.
Close on the humming came an idea--a braw one; it made him sit up in
the corner of the throne and clap his hands, while his toes wriggled
exultantly inside his faery shoes.
"A can do't--a can!" He shouted it so loud that the baby faeries woke
up and asked what he was going to do, and gathered about him to listen
the better.
The pipers played until there were no more memories left and everything
had come true; and the queen came back to her throne to find Sandy
waiting, eager-eyed, for her.
"A have a bonny song made for ye. Wull ye tak it frae me noo?"
"Take what?"
"The hump. Ye tuk it frae the ither loonie gien he made ye some guid
music; an' a ha' fetched ye mair--here." And he tapped his head to
signify that it was not written down.
"Is the song ready, now?"
Sandy nodded.
"Then turn about and sing it loud enough for all to hear; they must be
the judges if the song is worth the price of a hump." And the queen
smiled very tenderly.
Sandy did as he was bid; he clasped his hands tightly in front of him.
"'Tis no for the faeries," he explained. "Ye see--they be hardly
needin' ony music, wi' muckle o' their ain. 'Tis for the children--the
children i' horspitals--a bonny song for them to sleepit on." He
marked the rhythm a moment with his foot, and hummed it through once to
be sure he had it. Then he broke out clearly into the old Jacobite
air--with words of his own making:
"Ye weave a bonny primrose ring;
Ye hear the River callin';
Ye ken the Land whaur faeries sing--
Whaur starlicht beams are fallin'.
'Tis there the pipers play things true;
'Tis there ye'll gae--my dearie--
The bonny Land 'at waits for you,
Whaur ye'll be nae mair weary.
"A wee man by a blackthorn-tree
Maun stitchit shoes for dancin',
An' there's a pair for ye an' me--
To set our feet a-prancin'.
'Tis muckle gladness 'at ye'll find
In Tir-na-n'Og, my dearie;
The bonny Land 'at's aye sae kind,
Whaur ye'll be nae mair weary.
"Ye'll ken the birdeen's blithie song,
Ye'll hark till flo'ers lauchen;
An' see the faeries trippit long
By brook an' brae an' bracken.
Sae doon your heid--an' shut your een;
Gien ye'd be away, my dearie--
An' the bonny sauncy faery queen
Wull keep ye--nae mair weary."
You may think it uncommonly strange that Sandy could make a song like
this, by himself; but, you see, he was not entirely alone--there were
the baby faeries. They helped a lot; as fast as ever he thought out
the words they rhymed them for him--this being a part of the A B C of
faery education.
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