 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Sretni Vashtar by Saki, also known as Hector Hugh Monroe. This reading by Suzanne Houghton. Conradin was ten years old and the doctor had pronounced his professional opinion that the boy would not live another five years. The doctor was silky and defeat and counted for little, but his opinion was endorsed by Mrs. Diropp, who counted for nearly everything. Mrs. Diropp was Conradin's cousin and guardian, and in his eyes she represented those three-fifths of the world that are necessary and disagreeable and real. The other two-fifths, in perpetual antagonism to the foregoing, were summed up in himself and his imagination. One of these days Conradin supposed he would succumb to the mastering pressure of wearisome, necessary things, such as illnesses and coddling restrictions and drawn-out dullness. Without his imagination, which was rampant under the spur of loneliness, he would have succumbed long ago. Mrs. Diropp would never, in her honestest moments, have confessed to herself that she disliked Conradin, though she might have been dimly aware that thwarting him for his good was a duty which she did not find particularly irksome. Conradin hated her with a desperate sincerity which he was perfectly able to mask. Such few pleasures as he could contrive for himself gained an added relish from the likelihood that they would be displeasing to his guardian, and from the realm of his imagination she was locked out, an unclean thing which should find no entrance. In the dull, cheerless garden overlooked by so many windows that were ready to open with the message not to do this or that, or a reminder that medicines were due, he found little attraction. The few fruit trees that it contained were set jealously apart from his plucking, as though they were rare specimens of their kind blooming in an arid waste. It would probably have been difficult to find a market gardener who would have offered ten shillings for their entire yearly produce. In a forgotten corner, however, almost hidden behind a dismal shrubbery, was a disused tool shed of respectable proportions, and within its walls Conradin found a haven, something that took on the varying aspects of a playroom and a cathedral. He had peopled it with a legion of familiar phantoms, evoked partly from fragments of history and partly from his own brain, but it also boasted two inmates of flesh and blood. In one corner lived a ragged plumage to Udenhen, on which the boy lavished an affection that had scarcely another outlet. Further back in the gloom stood a large hutch, divided into two compartments, one of which was fronted with close iron bars. This was the abode of a large pole-cat ferret, which a friendly butcher boy had once smuggled, cage and all, into its present quarters, in exchange for a long-secreted horde of small silver. Conradin was dreadfully afraid of the lithe-sharp fanged beast, but it was his most treasured possession. Its very presence in the tool shed was a secret and fearful joy, to be kept scrupulously from the knowledge of the woman as he privately dubbed his cousin. And one day out of heaven knows what material. He spun the beast a wonderful name, and from that moment it grew into a god and a religion. The woman indulged in religion once a week at a church nearby, and took Conradin with her, but to him the church service was an alien rite in the house of Riman. Every Thursday, in the dim and musty silence of the tool shed, he worshipped with mystic and elaborate ceremonial, before the wooden hutch were dwelt sredni vashtar, the great ferret. Red flowers in their season and scarlet berries in the winter time were offered at his shrine, for he was a god who laid some special stress on the fierce impatient side of things, as opposed to the woman's religion, which as far as Conradin could observe went to great lengths in the contrary direction. And on great festivals powdered nutmeg was strewn in front of his hutch, an important feature of the offering being that the nutmeg had to be stolen. These festivals were of irregular occurrence and were chiefly appointed to celebrate some passing event. On one occasion, when Mrs. Dirov suffered from acute toothache for three days, Conradin kept up the festival during the entire three days, and almost succeeded in persuading himself that sredni vashtar was personally responsible for the toothache. If the malady had lasted for another day, the supply of nutmeg would have given out. The Udenhen was never drawn into the cult of sredni vashtar. Conradin had long ago settled that she was an anabaptist. He did not pretend to have the remotest knowledge as to what an anabaptist was, but he privately hoped that it was dashing and not very respectable. Mrs. Dirov was the ground plan on which he based and detested all respectability. After a while, Conradin's absorption in the tool shed began to attract the notice of his guardian. It is not good for him to be pottering down there in all weathers, she promptly decided, and at breakfast one morning she announced that the Udenhen had been sold and taken away overnight. With her short-sighted eyes she peered at Conradin waiting for an outbreak of rage and sorrow, which she was ready to rebuke with a flow of excellent precepts and reasoning. But Conradin said nothing. There was nothing to be said. Something perhaps in his white, set face gave her a momentary qualm. For a tea that afternoon there was toast on the table, a delicacy which she usually banned on the ground that it was bad for him. Also because the making of it gave trouble, a deadly offence in the middle-class feminine eye. I thought you liked toast, she exclaimed, with an injured air, observing that he did not touch it. Sometimes, said Conradin. In the shed that evening there was an innovation in the worship of the Hutch God. Conradin had been wanted to chant his praises. Tonight he asked a boon. Do one thing for me, Sretni Vashtar. The thing was not specified. As Sretni Vashtar was a God he must be supposed to know. And choking back a sob as he looked at that other empty corner, Conradin went back to the world he so hated. And every night in the welcome darkness of his bedroom, and every evening in the dusk of the tool shed, Conradin's bitter ladenny went up. Do one thing for me, Sretni Vashtar. Mrs. Tharab noticed that the visits to the shed did not cease, and one day she made a further journey of inspection. What are you keeping in that locked hut, she asked? I believe it's skinny pigs. I'll have them all cleared away. Conradin shut his lips tight, but the woman ransacked his bedroom till she found the carefully hidden key, and forthwith marched down to the shed to complete her discovery. It was a cold afternoon, and Conradin had been bitten to keep to the house. From the furthest window of the dining room the door of the shed could just be seen beyond the corner of the shrubbery. And there Conradin stationed himself. He saw the woman enter, and then he imagined her opening the door of the sacred hutch, and peering down with her short-sighted eyes into the thick straw bed where his godly hidden. Perhaps she would prod at the straw in her clumsy impatience, and Conradin fervently breathed his prayer for the last time. But he knew, as he prayed, that he did not believe. He knew that the woman would come out presently with that pursed smile he loathed so well on her face, and that in an hour or two the gardener would carry away his wonderful god, a god no longer but a simple brown ferret in a hutch. And he knew that the woman would triumph always as she triumphed now, and that he would grow ever more sickly under her pestering and domineering and superior wisdom. Till one day nothing would matter much more with him, and the doctor would be proved right. And in the sting and misery of his defeat he began to chant loudly and defiantly the hymn of his threatened idol. Sredni vashtar went forth. His thoughts were red thoughts and his teeth were white. His enemies called for peace, but he brought them death. Sredni vashtar, the beautiful. And then of a sudden he stopped his chanting and drew closer to the window-paint. The door of the shed still stood ajar as it had been left and the minutes were slipping by. They were long minutes, but they slipped by nevertheless. He watched the starlings running and flying in little parties across the lawn. He counted them over and over again with one eye always on that swinging door. A sour-faced maid came in to lay the table for tea, and still Konradin stood and waited and watched. Hope had crept by inches into his heart. And now a look of triumph began to blaze in his eyes that had only known the wistful patients of defeat. Under his breath, with a furtive exultation, he began once again the hymn of victory and devastation, and presently his eyes were rewarded. Out through that doorway came a long, low, yellow and brown beast with eyes a blink of the waning daylight and dark wet stains around the fur of jaws and throat. Konradin dropped on his knees. The great pole-cat ferric made its way down to a small brook at the foot of the garden, drank for a moment, then crossed a little plank bridge and was lost to sight in the bushes. Such was the passing of Sretny Vostar. Tea is ready, said the sour-faced maid. Where is the mistress? She went down to the shed some time ago, said Konradin, and while the maid went to summon her mistress to tea, Konradin fished a toasting fork out of his sideboard drawer and proceeded to toast himself a piece of bread. And during the toasting of it, and the buttering of it with much butter, and the slow enjoyment of eating it, Konradin listened to the noises and silences which fell in quick spasms beyond the dining-room door. The loud foolish screaming of the maid, the answering chorus of wondering ejaculations from the kitchen-region, the scuttering footsteps and hurried embassies for outside help, and then, after alone, the scared sobbing and the shuffling tread of those who bore a heavy burden into the house. Whoever will break into the poor child, I couldn't for the life of me, exclaimed a shrill voice. And while they debated the matter among themselves, Konradin made himself another piece of toast. End of Sretny Vostar by Saki. Three Questions by Leo Tolstoy From the Collection What Men Live By and Other Tales, translated by L. and A. Maud It once occurred to a certain king that if he always knew the right time to begin everything, if he knew who were the right people to listen to and whom to avoid, and above all, if he always knew what was the most important thing to do, he would never fail in anything he might undertake. And this thought having occurred to him, he had it proclaimed throughout his kingdom that he would give a great reward to anyone who would teach him what was the right time for every action and who were the most necessary people and how he might know what was the most important thing to do. And learned men came to the king, but they all answered his questions differently. In reply to the first question some said that to know the right time for every action one must draw up in advance a table of days, months and years and must live strictly according to it. Only thus, said they, could everything be done at its proper time. Others declared that it was impossible to decide beforehand the right time for every action, but that, not letting oneself be absorbed in idle pastimes, one should always attend to all that was going on and then do what was most needful. Others again said that however attentive the king might be to what was going on it was impossible for one man to decide correctly the right time for every action, but that he should have a council of wise men who would help him to fix the proper time for everything. But then again others said that there were some things which could not wait to be laid before a council but about which one had at once to decide whether to undertake them or not. But in order to decide that one must know beforehand what was going to happen it is only magicians who know that and therefore in order to know the right time for every action one must consult magicians. Equally various were the answers to the second question some said the people the king most needed were his counsellors others the priests, others the doctors while some said the warriors were the most necessary. To the third question as to what was the most important occupation some replied that the most important thing in the world was science others said it was skill in warfare and others again that it was religious worship all the answers being different the king agreed with none of them and gave the reward to none but still wishing to find the right answers to his questions he decided to consult a hermit widely renowned for his wisdom the hermit lived in a wood which he never quitted and he received none but common folk so the king put on simple clothes and before reaching the hermit's cell dismounted from his horse and leaving his bodyguard behind went on alone when the king approached the hermit was digging the ground in front of his hut seeing the king he greeted him and went on digging the hermit was frail and weak and each time he stuck his spade into the ground and turned to little earth he breathed heavily the king went up to him and said I have come to you wise hermit to ask you to answer three questions how can I learn to do the right thing at the right time who are the people I most need whom should I therefore pay more attention than to the rest and what affairs are the most important and need my first attention the hermit listened to the king but answered nothing he just spat on his hands and recommended digging you're tired said the king let me take the spade and work a while for you thanks said the hermit when giving the spade to the king he sat down on the ground when he dug two beds the king stopped and repeated his questions the hermit again gave no answer but rose stretched out his hand for the spade and said now rest a while and let me work for a bit but the king did not give him the spade and continued to dig one hour passed and another the sun began to sink behind the trees and the king at last stuck the spade into the ground and said I came to you wise man for an answer to my questions if you can give me none tell me so and I'll return home here comes someone running said the hermit let us see who it is the king turned round and saw a bearded man come running out of the wood the man held his hands pressed against his stomach and blood was flowing from under them when he reached the king he fell fainting on the ground moaning feebly the king and the hermit unfastened the man's clothing there was a large wound in his stomach the king washed it as best as he could and bandaged it with his handkerchief and with the towel the hermit had but the blood would not stop flowing and the king again and again removed the bandage soaked with warm blood and washed and rebandaged the wound when at last the blood ceased flowing the man revived and asked for something to drink the king brought fresh water and gave it to him meanwhile the sun had set and it had become cool so the king with the hermit's help carried the wounded man into the hut and laid him on the bed lying on the bed the man closed his eyes and was quiet but the king was so tired with his walk and with the work that he'd done that he crouched down on the threshold and also fell asleep so soundly that he slept all through the short summer night when he awoke in the morning it was long before he could remember where he was or who was the strange bearded man lying on the bed and gazing intently at him with shining eyes forgive me said the bearded man in a weak voice when he saw that the king was awake and was looking at him I do not know you and have nothing to forgive you for said the king you do not know me but I know you I am that enemy of yours who swore to revenge himself on you because you executed his brother and seized his property I knew you had gone alone to see the hermit and I resolved to kill you on your way back but the day passed and you didn't return so I came out from my ambush to find you and I came upon your bodyguard and they recognized me and wounded me I escaped from them but should have bled to death had you not dressed my wound I wished to kill you and you have saved my life now if I live and if you wish it I will serve you as your most faithful slave and will bid my sons to do the same forgive me the king was very glad to have made peace with his enemy so easily and to have gained him for a friend and he not only forgave him but said he would send his servants and his own physician to attend him and promised to restore his property having taken leave of the wounded man the king went out into the porch and looked round for the hermit before going away he wished once more to beg an answer to the questions he'd put the hermit was outside on his knees sowing seeds in the beds that had been dug the day before the king approached him and said for the last time I pray you to answer my questions wise man you have already been answered said the hermit still crouching on his thin legs and looking up at the king who stood before him how answered what do you mean said the king do you not see replied the hermit if you had not pitted my weakness yesterday and had not dug those beds for me but had gone your way that man would have attacked you and you would have repented of not having stayed with me so the most important time was when you were digging the beds and I was the most important man and to do me good was your most important business afterwards when that man ran to us the most important time was when you were attending to him for if you had not bound up his wounds he would have died without having made peace with you so he was the most important man and what you did for him was your most important business remember then there is only one time that is important now it is the most important time because it is the only time when we have any power the most necessary man is he with whom you are for no man knows whether he will ever have dealings with anyone else and the most important affair is to do him good because for that purpose alone was man sent into this life end of three questions by Leo Tolstoy this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to find out how to volunteer please contact LibriVox.org recording by Peter Yersley The Watcher by Robert H. Benson one morning the priest and I went out soon after breakfast and walked up and down a grass path between two you hedges the dew was not yet off the grass that lay in shadow and thin patches of gossamer still hung like torn cambrick on the you shoots on either side as we passed for the second time up the path the old man suddenly stooped and pushing aside a dock leaf at the foot of the hedge lifted a dead mouse and looked at it as it lay stiffly on the palm of his hand I saw that his eyes filled slowly with the ready tears of old age he has chosen his own resting place he said let him lie there, why did I disturb him and he lay him gently down again and then gathering a fragment of wet earth he sprinkled it over the mouse earth to earth ashes to ashes he said insure and certain hope and then he stopped and straightening himself with difficulty walked on and I followed him you once expressed an interest he said in my tales of the visions of nature I have seen shall I tell you how once I saw a very different sight I was eighteen years old at the time that terrible age when the soul seems to have dwindled to a spark overlaid by a mountain of ashes when blood and fire and death and loud noises seen the only things of interest and all tender things shrink back and hide from the dreadful noon day of manhood someone gave me one of those shot pistols that you may have seen and I loved the sense of power that it gave me for I had never had a gun for a week or two in the summer holidays I was content with shooting at a mark or at the level surface of water and delighted to see the cardboard shattered or the quiet pool torn to shreds along its mirror where the sky and green lay sleeping then that ceased to interest me and I longed to see a living thing suddenly stop living at my will now and he held up a deprecating hand I think sport is necessary for some natures after all the killing of creatures is necessary for man's food and sport as you will tell me is a survival of man's delight in obtaining food and it requires certain noble qualities of endurance and skill all that and I know further that for some natures it is a relief an escape for humours that will otherwise find an evil outlet but I do know this that for me it was not necessary however there was every excuse and I went out in good faith one summer evening intending to shoot some rabbits as they ran to cover from the open field I walked along the inside of a fence with a wood above me and on my left and the green meadow on my right well, owing probably to my own lack of skill though I could hear the patter and rush of the rabbits all round me and could see them in the distance sitting up listening with cock-dears as I stole along the fence I could not get close enough to fire at them with any hope of what I fancied was success and by the time that I had arrived at the end of the wood I was in an impatient mood I stood for a moment or two leaning on the fence looking out of that pleasant coolness into the open meadow beyond the sun had at that moment dipped behind the hill before me and all was in shadow except where they hung a glory about the topmost leaves of a beach that still caught the sun the birds were beginning to come in from the fields and were settling one by one in the wood behind me staying here and there to sing one last line of melody I could hear the quiet rush and the sudden clap of a pigeon's wings as he came home and as I listened I heard peeling out above all other sounds the long liquid song of a thrush somewhere above me I looked up idly and tried to see the bird and after a moment or two caught sight of him as the leaves of the beach parted in the breeze his head lifted and his whole body vibrating with the joy of life and music as someone has said his body was one beating heart the last radiance of the sun over the hill reached him and bathed him in golden warmth then the leaves closed again as the breeze dropped but still his song rang out then there came on me a blinding desire to kill him all the other creatures had mocked me and run home here at least was a victim and I would pour out the sullen anger that had been gathering during my walk and at least demand this one life as a substitute side by side with this I remembered clearly that I had come out to kill for food that was my one justification side by side I saw both these things and I had no excuse, no excuse I turned my head every way and moved a step or two back to catch sight of him again and although this may sound fantastic and overwrought in my whole being was a struggle between light and darkness every fibre of my life told me that the thrush had a right to live ah, he had earned it if labour were wanting by this very song that was guiding death towards him but black sullen anger had thrown my conscience and was now struggling to hold it down till the shot had been fired still I waited for the breeze and then it came cool and sweet smelling like the breath of a garden and the leaves parted then he sang in the sunshine and in a moment I lifted the pistol and drew the trigger with the crack of the cap came silence overhead and after what seemed an interminable moment came the soft rush of something falling and the faint thud among last year's leaves then I stood half terrified and stared among the dead leaves all seemed dim and misty my eyes were still a little dazzled by the bright background of sunlit air and rosy clouds on which I had looked with such intensity and the space between the branches was a world of shadows still I looked a few yards away trying to make out the body of the thrush and fearing to hear a struggle of beating wings among the dry leaves and then I lifted my eyes a little vaguely a yard or two beyond where the thrush lay was a rhododendron bush the blossoms had fallen and the outline of dark heavy leaves was unreleaved by the slightest touch of colour as I looked at it I saw a face looking down from the higher branches it was a perfectly hairless head and face the thin lips were parted in a wide smile of laughter there were innumerable lines about the corners of the mouth and the eyes were surrounded by creases of merriment what was perhaps most terrible about it all was that the eyes were not looking at me but down among the leaves the heavy eyelids lay drooping and the long narrow shining slits showed how the eyes laughed beneath them the forehead sloped quickly back like a cat's head the face was the colour of earth and the outlines of the head faded below the ears and chin into the gloom of the dark bush there was no throat or body or limbs so far as I could see the face just hung there like a downturned eastern mask in an old curiosity shop and it smiled with sheer delight not at me but at the thrush's body there was no change of expression so long as I watched it just a silent smile of pleasure petrified on the face I could not move my eyes from it after what I suppose was a minute or so the face had gone I did not see it go but I became aware that I was looking only at leaves no, there was no outline of leaf or play of shadows that could possibly have been taken for form of a face you can guess how I tried to force myself to believe that that was all how I turned my head this way and that to catch it again but there was no hint of a face now I cannot tell you how I did it but although I was half beside myself with fright I went forward towards the bush and searched furiously among the leaves for the body of the thrush and at last I found it and lifted it it was still limp and warm to the touch its breast was a little ruffled and one tiny drop of blood lay at the root of the beak below the eyes like a tear of dismay and sorrow had such an unmerited, unexpected death I carried it to the fence and climbed over and then began to run in great steps looking now and then awfully at the gathering gloom of the wood behind where the laughing face had mocked the dead I think, looking back as I do now that my chief instinct was that I could not leave the thrush there to be laughed at and that I must get it out into the clean, airy meadow when I reached the middle of the meadow I came to a pond which never quite ran dry even in the hottest summer on the bank I laid the thrush down and then deliberately, but with all my force dashed the pistol into the water then emptied my pockets of the cartridges and threw them in too then I turned again to the piteous little body feeling that at least I had tried to make amends there was an old rabbit hole near the grass growing down in its mouth and a tangle of web and dead leaves behind I scooped a little space out among the leaves and then laid the thrush there gathered a little of the sandy soil and poured it upon the body saying, I remember, half unconsciously earth to earth, ashes to ashes insure and certain hope and then I stopped feeling that I had been a little profane though I do not think so now and then I went home as I dressed for dinner looking out over the darkening meadow where the thrush lay I remember feeling happy that no evil thing could mock the defenseless dead out there in the clean meadow where the wind blew and the stars shone down End of The Watcher by Robert H. Benson This is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information and to find out how you can volunteer please visit LibriVox.org The Winds Tale by Hans Christian Andersen read by West Winds 12 When the wind sweeps across a field of grass it makes little ripples in it like a lake In a field of corn it makes great waves like the sea itself This is the winds frolic then listen to the stories it tells it sings them aloud one kind of song among the trees of the forest and a very different one when it is pent up within walls with all their cracks and crannies Do you see how the wind chases the white fleecy clouds as if they were a flock of sheep? Do you hear the wind down there howling in the open doorway like a watchman winding his horn? Then, too how he whistles in the chimneys making the fire crackle and sparkle how cozy it is to sit in the warm glow of the fire listening to the tales it has to tell Let the wind tell its own story it can tell you more adventures than all of us put together Listen now Few, few, far away that was the refrain of his song Close to the great belt stands an old mansion with thick red walls says the wind I know every stone of it I knew them before when they reformed part of Mar Stig's castle on the nests it had to come down the stones were used again in another place Bora B. Hall, as it now stands I have watched the high-born men and women of all the various races who have lived there and now I am going to tell you about Valdemarda and his daughters He held his head very high for he came of a royal stock He knew more than the mere chasing of a stag or the emptying of a flagon he knew how to manage his affairs he said himself His lady-wife walked proudly across the brightly polished floors in her gold-brokaded curdle the tapestries in the rooms were gorgeous and the furniture of costly carved woods She had brought much gold and silver plate into the house with her and the cellars were full of German ale when there was anything there at all fiery black horses nade in the stables Bora B. Hall was a very rich place when wealth came there Then there were the children three dainty maidens Aida, Johanna, and Anna Dorothea I remember their names well They were rich and aristocratic people and they were born and bred in wealth Phew! Phew! Far away! roared the wind Then he went on with his story I did not see here as in other old noble castles a high-born lady sitting among her maidens in the great hall turning the spinning wheel No, she played upon the ringing lute and sang to its tones Her songs were not always the old Danish ditties, however but songs in foreign tongues All was life and hospitality Noble guests came from far and wide There were sounds of music and the clanging of flagons I could not drown them, said the wind Here were arrogance and ostentation enough and to spare Plenty of lords, but the lords had no place there Then came the evening of Mayday, said the wind I came from the west I had been watching ships being wrecked and broken up on the west coast of Jutland I tore over the heaths and the green-wooded coasts across the island of Funen and over the great belt, puffing and blowing I settled down to rest on the coast of Zeeland close to Borobi Hall where the splendid forest of oaks still stood The young bachelors of the neighborhood came out and collected faggots and branches the longest and driest they could find These they took to the town piled them up in a heap and set fire to them The men and maidens danced and sang around the bonfire I lay still, said the wind but I softly moved a branch the one laid by the handsomest young man and his billet blazed up highest of all He was the chosen one He had the name of honor He became Buck of the Street and he chose from among the girls his little May lamb All was life and merriment greater far than within rich Borobi Hall The great lady came driving towards the hall in her gilded chariot drawn by six horses She had her three dainty daughters with her They were indeed three lovely flowers a rose, a lily and a pale hyacinth The mother herself was a gorgeous tulip She took no notice whatever of the crowd who all stopped in their game to drop their curses and make their bows One might have thought that, like a tulip she was rather frail in the stalk and feared to bend her back The rose, the lily and the pale hyacinth Yes, I saw them all three Whose May lambs were they one day to become, I thought Their mates would be proud knights perhaps even princes Pew, pew, far away yes the chariot bore them away and the peasants whirled on in their dance They played at riding the summer into the village to Borobi village, Terabib village and many others But that night when I rose, said the wind the noble lady laid herself down to rise no more That came to her which comes to everyone There was nothing new about it Valdemarda stood grave and silent for a time The proudest tree may bend but it does not break said something within him The daughters wept and everyone else at the castle was wiping their eyes but Madame Da had fared away and I fared away too Pew, pew, said the wind I came back again I often come back across the island of Funen and the waters of the belt and took up my place on Borobi shore close to the great forest of oaks the ospreys and the wood pigeons used to build in it the blue raven and even the black stork it was early in the year some of the nests were full of eggs while in others the young ones were just hatched what a flying and screaming was there then came the sound of the axe whoosh blow upon blow the forest was to be felled Valdemarda was about to build a costly ship a three-decked man of war which it was expected the king would buy so the wood fell the ancient landmark of the seaman the home of the birds the shrike was frightened away its nest was torn down the osprey and all the other birds lost their nests too and they flew about distractedly shrieking in their terror and anger the crows and the jackdaws screamed in mockery ka-ka Valdemarda and his three daughters stood in the middle of the wood among the workmen they all laughed at the wild cries of the birds except Anadorthea who was touched by their distress and when they were about to fell a tree which was half dead and on whose naked branches a black stork had built its nest out of which the young ones were sticking their heads she begged them with tears in her eyes to spirit so the tree with the black stork's nest was allowed to stand it was only a little thing the chopping and the sawing went on the three-decker was built the master builder was a man of humble origin but of noble loyalty great power lay in his eyes and on his forehead and Valdemarda liked to listen to him and Little Ida liked to listen to the eldest fifteen-year-old daughter but whilst he built the ship for her father he built a castle in the air for himself in which he and Little Ida sat side by side as man and wife this might also have happened if his castle had been built of solid stone with moat and ramparts wood and gardens but with all his wisdom the ship builder was only a poor bird and what business has a sparrow in a crane's nest pew pew I rushed away and he rushed away for he dared not stay and Little Ida got over it as get over it she must the fiery black horses stood neighing in the stables they were worth looking at and they were looked at to some purpose too an admiral was sent from the king to look at the new man of war with a view to purchasing it the admiral was loud in his admiration of the horses I heard all he said added the wind I went through the open door with the gentleman and scattered the straw like gold before their feet Voldemort da wanted gold the admiral wanted the black horses and so he praised them as he did but his hints were not taken therefore the ship remained unsold there it stood by the shore covered up with boards like a Noah's Ark which never reached the water pew pew get along get along it was a miserable business in the winter when the fields were covered with snow and the belt was full of ice flows which I drove up onto the coast said the wind the ravens and the crows came in flocks the one blacker than the other and perched up on the desolate dead ship by the shore I heard themselves hoarse about the forest which had disappeared and the many precious bird's nests which had been devastated leaving old and young homeless and all for the sake of this old piece of lumber the proud ship which was never to touch the water I whirled the snow about till it lay in great heaps round the ship I let it hear my voice and all that a storm has to say I did my best to give it an idea of the sea pew pew the winter passed by winter and summer passed away they come and go just as I do the snow flakes the apple blossom and the leaves fall each in their turn pew pew they pass away as men pass too the daughters were still young little Ida the rose as lovely to look at as when the ship builder turned his gaze upon her I often took hold of her long brown hair when she stood lost in thought by the apple tree in the garden she never noticed that I showered apple blossom over her loosened hair she only gazed at the red sunset against the golden background of the sky and the dark trees and bushes of the garden her sister Johanna looks like a tall, stately lily she held herself as stiffly erect as her mother and seemed to have the same dread of bending her stem she liked to walk in the long gallery where the family portraits hung the ladies were painted in velvet and silk with tiny pearl embroidered caps on their braided tresses their husbands were all clad in steel or in costly cloaks lined with squirrel skins and stiff blue ruffs their swords hung loosely by their sides where would Johanna's portrait one day hang on these walls what would her noble husband look like these were her thoughts and she even spoke them aloud I heard her as I swept through the long corridor into the gallery where I veered round again Anna Dorothea the pale hyacinth the child of fourteen quiet and thoughtful her large blue eyes as clear as water were very solemn but childhood's smile still played upon her lips I could not blow it away nor did I wish to do so I used to meet her in the garden the ravine and in the manor fields she was always picking flowers and herbs those she knew her father could use for healing drinks and potions Voldemort Da was proud and conceited but he was also learned and he knew a great deal about many things one could see that and many whispers went about as to his learning the fire blazed in his stove even in summer and his chamber door was locked this went on for days and nights but he did not talk much about it one must deal silently with the forces of nature he discovered the best of everything the red, red, gold this was why his chimney flamed and smoked and sparkled yes, I was there too said the wind away with you away, I sang in the back of the chimney smoke, smoke embers and ashes that is all it will come to you will burn yourself up in it few, few away with it Voldemort Da could not let it go the fiery steeds in the stable where were they? the old gold and silver plate in the cupboard and chest where was that? the cattle the land, the castle itself yes, they could all be melted down in the crucible but yet no gold would come barn and larder got emptier and emptier fewer servants, more mice one pane of glass got broken and another followed it there was no need for me to go in by the doors, said the wind a smoking chimney means a cooking meal but the only chimney which smoked here swallowed up all the meals all for the sake of the red gold I blew through the castle gate like a watchman blowing his horn but there was no watchman said the wind I twisted round the weather cock on the tower and it creaked as if the watchman up there was snoring only there was no watchman rats and mice were the only inhabitants poverty laid at the table poverty lurked in the wardrobe and the larder the doors fell off their hinges cracks and crannies appeared everywhere I went in and out, said the wind so I know all about it the hare and the beard of Voldemort Daw grew grey in the sorrow of his sleepless nights amid smoke and ashes his skin grew grimy and yellow and his eyes greedy for gold the long expected gold I whistled through the broken panes and fissures I blew into the daughter's chests where their clothes lay faded and threadbare they had to last forever a song like this had never been sung over the cradles of these children a lordly life became a woeful life I was the only one to sing in the castle now said the wind I snowed them up for they said it gave warmth they had no firewood for the forest was cut down where they should have got it there was a biting frost even I had to keep rushing to keep myself lily they stayed in bed to keep themselves warm those noble ladies their father crept about under a fur rug nothing to bite and nothing to burn a lordly life indeed few few let it go but this was what Voldemort Daw could not do after winter comes the spring said he a good time will come a good time of need but they make us wait their pleasure wait the castle is mortgaged we are in extremities and yet the gold will come at Easter I heard him murmur to the spider's web you clever little weaver you teach me to persevere if your web is broken you begin at the beginning again and complete it broken again and cheerfully you begin it over again that is what one must do and one will be rewarded it was Easter morning the bells were ringing and the sun was at play in the heavens Voldemort Daw had watched through the night with his blood at fever pitch boiling and cooling mixing and distilling I heard him sigh like a despairing soul I heard him pray he held his breath the lamp had gone out but he never noticed it I blew up the embers and they shone upon his ashen face which took a tinge of color from their light his eyes started in their sockets they grew larger and larger as if they would leap out look at the alchemist's glass something twinkles in it it is glowing, pure and heavy he lifted it with a trembling hand and shouted with a trembling voice gold gold he reeled and I could easily have blown him over said the wind but I only blew upon the embers and followed him to the room where his daughters sat shivering his coat was powdered with ash as well as his beard and his matted hair he drew himself up to his full height and held up his precious treasure in the fragile glass and one gold he cried stretching up his hand with the glass which glittered in the sunbeams his hand shook and the alchemist's glass fell to the ground shivered into a thousand atoms the last bubble of his welfare was shattered too few few far away and away I rushed from the gold-maker's home late in the year when the days were short and dark up here and the fog enveloped the red berries and bare branches with its cold moisture I came along in a lively mood clearing the sky and snapping off the dead boughs this is no great labor it is true yet it has to be done Borobi Hall, the home of Valdemarda was having a clean sweep of a different sort the family enemy, O Vramel of Bassness appeared holding the mortgage of the hall at all its contents I drummed upon the cracked windowpains beat against the decaying doors and whistled through all the cracks and crannies few, I did my best to prevent Hare Ove taking a fancy to stay there Ida and Anna Dorothea faced it bravely although they shed some tears Johanna stood pale and erect and bit her finger till it bled much that would help her Ove Ramo offered to let them stay on at the castle for Valdemarda's lifetime but he got no thanks for his offer I was listening I saw the ruined gentleman stiffen his neck and hold his head higher than ever I beat against the walls and the old linden trees with such force that the thickest branch broke although it was not a bit rotten it fell across the gate like a broom and was about to sweep and a sweeping there was indeed to be I quite expected it it was a grievous day and a hard time for them but their wills were as stubborn as their necks were stiff they had not a possession in the world but the clothes on their backs yes, one thing an alchemist glass which had been bought and filled with the fragments scraped up from the floor promised much and fulfilled nothing Valdemarda hid it in his bosom took his staff in his hand and with his three daughters the once wealthy gentleman walked out of Borobi Hall for the last time I blew a cold blast upon his burning cheeks I fluttered his grey beard and his long white hair I sang such a tune as only I could sing few, few, away with them this was the end of all their grandeur Ida and Anna Dorothea walked one on each side of him Joanna turned around in the gateway but what was the good of that nothing could make their luck turn she looked at the red stones of what had once been Marsk Stig's castle was she thinking of his daughters the elder took the younger by the hand and out they roamed to a far away land was she thinking of that song here there were three and their father was with them they walked along the road were once they used to ride in their chariot they trot it now as vagrants on their way to a plastered cottage on Smidstrup Heath which was rented at 10 marks yearly this was their new country seat with empty walls and its empty vessels the crows and the magpies wheeled screaming over their heads with their mocking caw, caw out of the nest caw, caw just as they screamed in Borough before us when the trees were felled Herda and his daughters must have noticed it I blew into their ears to try and deaden the cries which after all were not worth listening to they rode in the plastered cottage on Smidstrup Heath and I tore off over marshes and meadows through naked hedges and bare woods to the open seas and other lands few, few, away, away and that for many years what happened to Voldemort Da what happened to his daughters this is what the wind relates the last of them I saw, yes for the last time was Anna Dorothea the pale hyacinth she was old and bent now it was half a century later she lived the longest she had gone through everything across the heath near the town of Viborg stood the deans new handsome mansion built of red stone with toothed gables the smoke curled thickly out of the chimneys the gentle lady and her fair daughters sat in the bay window looking into the garden at the drooping thorns and out to the brown heath beyond what were they looking at there they were looking at a stork's nest on a tumbled down cottage the roof was covered as far as there was any roof to cover with moss and house leak but the stork's nest made the best covering it was the only part that was done for the stork kept it in repair this house was only fit to be looked at not to be touched I had to mind what I was about said the wind the cottage was allowed to stand for the sake of the stork's nest in itself it was only a scarecrow on the heath but the dean did not want to frighten away the stork so the hovel was allowed to stand the poor soul inside was allowed to live in it she had the egyptian bird to thank for that or was it payment for once having pleaded for the nest of his wild black brother in the boroughby forest then poor thing she was a child a delicate pale hyacinth in a noble flower garden poor anodorthia she remembered it all ah, human beings can sigh as well as the wind when it sows through the rushes oh dear, no bells rang over the grave of valdemarda no school boys sang when the former lord of boroughby castle was laid in his grave well, everything must have an end even misery sister aida became the wife of a peasant and this was her father's sores trial his daughter's husband a miserable serf who might at any moment be ordered the punishment by his lord it is well that the sod covers him now and you too, aida ah, yes, ah, yes poor me, poor me I still linger on in thy mercy release me, oh christ this is the prayer of anodorthia as she lay in the miserable hovel which was only left standing for the sake of the stork I took charge of the boldest of the sisters, said the wind she had clothes made to suit her manly disposition and took a place as a lad with a skipper her words were few and looks stubborn but she was willing enough at her work but with all her will she could not climb the rigging so I blew her overboard before anyone discovered that she was a woman and I fancy that was not a bad deed of mine, said the wind on such an Easter morning as that on which the marda thought he had found the red gold I heard from beneath the stork's nest a psalm echoing through the miserable walls it was anodorthia's last song there was no window only a hole in the wall the sun rose in splendor and poured in upon her her eyes were glazed and her heart broken this would have been so this morning whether the sun had shown upon her or not the stork kept a roof over her head till her death I sang at her grave, said the wind and I sang at her father's grave I know where it is and hers too which is more than anyone else knows the old order changes giving place to the new the old high road now only leads to cultivated fields while peaceful graves are covered by busy traffic on the new road soon comes steam with its row of wagons behind it rushing over the graves forgotten like the names upon them few, few, let us be gone this is the story of Voldemarda and his daughters tell it better yourselves if you can said the wind as it veered around then it was gone the end of the wind's tale