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From the ebook Sylvie and Bruno
The sequel to Alice in Wonderland
By Lewis Carrol
I said something, in the act of waking, I felt sure: the hoarse stifled cry was still ringing in my ears, even if the startled look of my fellow-traveler had not been evidence enough: but what could I possibly say by way of apology?
“I hope I didn’t frighten you?” I stammered out at last. “I have no idea what I said. I was dreaming.”
“You said ‘Uggug indeed!’” the young lady replied, with quivering lips that would curve themselves into a smile, in spite of all her efforts to look grave. “At least—you didn’t say it—you shouted it!”
“I’m very sorry,” was all I could say, feeling very penitent and helpless. “She has Sylvie’s eyes!” I thought to myself, half-doubting whether, even now, I were fairly awake. “And that sweet look of innocent wonder is all Sylvie’s, too. But Sylvie hasn’t got that calm resolute mouth—nor that far-away look of dreamy sadness, like one that has had some deep sorrow, very long ago——” And the thick-coming fancies almost prevented my hearing the lady’s next words.
“If you had had a ‘Shilling Dreadful’ in your hand,” she proceeded, “something about Ghosts—or Dynamite—or Midnight Murder—one could understand it: those things aren’t worth the shilling, unless they give one a Nightmare. But really—with only a medical treatise, you know——” and she glanced, with a pretty shrug of contempt, at the book over which I had fallen asleep.
Her friendliness, and utter unreserve, took me aback for a moment; yet there was no touch of forwardness, or boldness, about the child—for child, almost, she seemed to be: I guessed her at scarcely over twenty—all was the innocent frankness of some angelic visitant, new to the ways of earth and the conventionalisms—or, if you will, the barbarisms—of Society. “Even so,” I mused, “will Sylvie look and speak, in another ten years.”
“You don’t care for Ghosts, then,” I ventured to suggest, “unless they are really terrifying?”
“Quite so,” the lady assented. “The regular Railway-Ghosts—I mean the Ghosts of ordinary Railway-literature—are very poor affairs. I feel inclined to say, with Alexander Selkirk, ‘Their tameness is shocking to me’! And they never do any Midnight Murders. They couldn’t ‘welter in gore,’ to save their lives!”
“‘Weltering in gore’ is a very expressive phrase, certainly. Can it be done in any fluid, I wonder?”
“I think not,” the lady readily replied—quite as if she had thought it out, long ago. “It has to be something thick. For instance, you might welter in bread-sauce. That, being white, would be more suitable for a Ghost, supposing it wished to welter!”
“You have a real good terrifying Ghost in that book?” I hinted.
“How could you guess?” she exclaimed with the most engaging frankness, and placed the volume in my hands. I opened it eagerly, with a not unpleasant thrill (like what a good ghost-story gives one) at the ‘uncanny’ coincidence of my having so unexpectedly divined the subject of her studies.
It was a book of Domestic Cookery, open at the article ‘Bread Sauce.’
I returned the book, looking, I suppose, a little blank, as the lady laughed merrily at my discomfiture. “It’s far more exciting than some of the modern ghosts, I assure you! Now there was a Ghost last month—I don’t mean a real Ghost in—in Supernature—but in a Magazine. It was a perfectly flavourless Ghost. It wouldn’t have frightened a mouse! It wasn’t a Ghost that one would even offer a chair to!”
“Three score years and ten, baldness, and spectacles, have their advantages after all!” I said to myself. “Instead of a bashful youth and maiden, gasping out monosyllables at awful intervals, here we have an old man and a child, quite at their ease, talking as if they had known each other for years! Then you think,” I continued aloud, “that we ought sometimes to ask a Ghost to sit down? But have we any authority for it? In Shakespeare, for instance—there are plenty of ghosts there—does Shakespeare ever give the stage-direction ‘hands chair to Ghost’?”
The lady looked puzzled and thoughtful for a moment: then she almost clapped her hands. “Yes, yes, he does!” she cried. “He makes Hamlet say ‘Rest, rest, perturbed Spirit!’”
“And that, I suppose, means an easy-chair?”
“An American rocking-chair, I think——”
“Fayfield Junction, my Lady, change for Elveston!” the guard announced, flinging open the door of the carriage: and we soon found ourselves, with all our portable property around us, on the platform.
The accommodation, provided for passengers waiting at this Junction, was distinctly inadequate—a single wooden bench, apparently intended for three sitters only: and even this was already partially occupied by a very old man, in a smock frock, who sat, with rounded shoulders and drooping head, and with hands clasped on the top of his stick so as to make a sort of pillow for that wrinkled face with its look of patient weariness.
“Come, you be off!” the Station-master roughly accosted the poor old man. “You be off, and make way for your betters! This way, my Lady!” he added in a perfectly different tone. “If your Ladyship will take a seat, the train will be up in a few minutes.” The cringing servility of his manner was due, no doubt, to the address legible on the pile of luggage, which announced their owner to be “Lady Muriel Orme, passenger to Elveston, viâ Fayfield Junction.”
As I watched the old man slowly rise to his feet, and hobble a few paces down the platform, the lines came to my lips:—
“From sackcloth couch the Monk arose,
With toil his stiffen’d limbs he rear’d;
A hundred years had flung their snows
On his thin locks and floating beard.”
But the lady scarcely noticed the little incident. After one glance at the ‘banished man,’ who stood tremulously leaning on his stick, she turned to me. “This is not an American rocking-chair, by any means! Yet may I say,” slightly changing her place, so as to make room for me beside her, “may I say, in Hamlet’s words, ‘Rest, rest——’” she broke off with a silvery laugh.
‘COME, YOU BE OFF!’
“‘—perturbed Spirit!’” I finished the sentence for her. “Yes, that describes a railway-traveler exactly! And here is an instance of it,” I added, as the tiny local train drew up alongside the platform, and the porters bustled about, opening carriage-doors—one of them helping the poor old man to hoist himself into a third-class carriage, while another of them obsequiously conducted the lady and myself into a first-class.
She paused, before following him, to watch the progress of the other passenger. “Poor old man!” she said. “How weak and ill he looks! It was a shame to let him be turned away like that. I’m very sorry——” At this moment it dawned on me that these words were not addressed to me, but that she was unconsciously thinking aloud. I moved away a few steps, and waited to follow her into the carriage, where I resumed the conversation.
“Shakespeare must have traveled by rail, if only in a dream: ‘perturbed Spirit’ is such a happy phrase.”
“‘Perturbed’ referring, no doubt,” she rejoined, “to the sensational booklets peculiar to the Rail. If Steam has done nothing else, it has at least added a whole new Species to English Literature!”
“No doubt of it,” I echoed. “The true origin of all our medical books—and all our cookery-books——”
“No, no!” she broke in merrily. “I didn’t mean our Literature! We are quite abnormal. But the booklets—the little thrilling romances, where the Murder comes at page fifteen, and the Wedding at page forty—surely they are due to Steam?”
“And when we travel by Electricity—if I may venture to develop your theory—we shall have leaflets instead of booklets, and the Murder and the Wedding will come on the same page.”
“A development worthy of Darwin!” the lady exclaimed enthusiastically. “Only you reverse his theory. Instead of developing a mouse into an elephant, you would develop an elephant into a mouse!” But here we plunged into a tunnel, and I leaned back and closed my eyes for a moment, trying to recall a few of the incidents of my recent dream.
“I thought I saw——” I murmured sleepily: and then the phrase insisted on conjugating itself, and ran into “you thought you saw—he thought he saw——” and then it suddenly went off into a song:—
“He thought he saw an Elephant,
That practised on a fife:
He looked again, and found it was
A letter from his wife.
‘At length I realise,’ he said,
‘The bitterness of Life!’”
And what a wild being it was who sang these wild words! A Gardener he seemed to be—yet surely a mad one, by the way he brandished his rake—madder, by the way he broke, ever and anon, into a frantic jig—maddest of all, by the shriek in which he brought out the last words of the stanza!
It was so far a description of himself that he had the feet of an Elephant: but the rest of him was skin and bone: and the wisps of loose straw, that bristled all about him, suggested that he had been originally stuffed with it, and that nearly all the stuffing had come out.
Sylvie and Bruno waited patiently till the end of the first verse. Then Sylvie advanced alone (Bruno having suddenly turned shy) and timidly introduced herself with the words “Please, I’m Sylvie!”
“And who’s that other thing?” said the Gardener.
“What thing?” said Sylvie, looking round. “Oh, that’s Bruno. He’s my brother.”
“Was he your brother yesterday?” the Gardener anxiously enquired.
“Course I were!” cried Bruno, who had gradually crept nearer, and didn’t at all like being talked about without having his share in the conversation.
THE GARDENER
“Ah, well!” the Gardener said with a kind of groan. “Things change so, here. Whenever I look again, it’s sure to be something different! Yet I does my duty! I gets up wriggle-early at five——”
“If I was oo,” said Bruno, “I wouldn’t wriggle so early. It’s as bad as being a worm!” he added, in an undertone to Sylvie.
“But you shouldn’t be lazy in the morning, Bruno,” said Sylvie. “Remember, it’s the early bird that picks up the worm!”
“It may, if it likes!” Bruno said with a slight yawn. “I don’t like eating worms, one bit. I always stop in bed till the early bird has picked them up!”
“I wonder you’ve the face to tell me such fibs!” cried the Gardener.
To which Bruno wisely replied “Oo don’t want a face to tell fibs wiz—only a mouf.”
Sylvie discreetly changed the subject. “And did you plant all these flowers?” she said. “What a lovely garden you’ve made! Do you know, I’d like to live here always!”
“In the winter-nights——” the Gardener was beginning.
“But I’d nearly forgotten what we came about!” Sylvie interrupted. “Would you please let us through into the road? There’s a poor old beggar just gone out—and he’s very hungry—and Bruno wants to give him his cake, you know!”
“It’s as much as my place is worth!” the Gardener muttered, taking a key from his pocket, and beginning to unlock a door in the garden-wall.
“How much are it wurf?” Bruno innocently enquired.
But the Gardener only grinned. “That’s a secret!” he said. “Mind you come back quick!” he called after the children, as they passed out into the road. I had just time to follow them, before he shut the door again.
We hurried down the road, and very soon caught sight of the old Beggar, about a quarter of a mile ahead of us, and the children at once set off running to overtake him. Lightly and swiftly they skimmed over the ground, and I could not in the least understand how it was I kept up with them so easily. But the unsolved problem did not worry me so much as at another time it might have done, there were so many other things to attend to.
The old Beggar must have been very deaf, as he paid no attention whatever to Bruno’s eager shouting, but trudged wearily on, never pausing until the child got in front of him and held up the slice of cake. The poor little fellow was quite out of breath, and could only utter the one word “Cake!”—not with the gloomy decision with which Her Excellency had so lately pronounced it, but with a sweet childish timidity, looking up into the old man’s face with eyes that loved ‘all things both great and small.’
The old man snatched it from him, and devoured it greedily, as some hungry wild beast might have done, but never a word of thanks did he give his little benefactor—only growled “More, more!” and glared at the half-frightened children.
“There is no more!” Sylvie said with tears in her eyes. “I’d eaten mine. It was a shame to let you be turned away like that. I’m very sorry——”
I lost the rest of the sentence, for my mind had recurred, with a great shock of surprise, to Lady Muriel Orme, who had so lately uttered these very words of Sylvie’s—yes, and in Sylvie’s own voice, and with Sylvie’s gentle pleading eyes!
“Follow me!” were the next words I heard, as the old man waved his hand, with a dignified grace that ill suited his ragged dress, over a bush, that stood by the road side, which began instantly to sink into the earth. At another time I might have doubted the evidence of my eyes, or at least have felt some astonishment: but, in this strange scene, my whole being seemed absorbed in strong curiosity as to what would happen next.
When the bush had sunk quite out of our sight, marble steps were seen, leading downwards into darkness. The old man led the way, and we eagerly followed.
The staircase was so dark, at first, that I could only just see the forms of the children, as, hand-in-hand, they groped their way down after their guide: but it got lighter every moment, with a strange silvery brightness, that seemed to exist in the air, as there were no lamps visible; and, when at last we reached a level floor, the room, in which we found ourselves, was almost as light as day.
It was eight-sided, having in each angle a slender pillar, round which silken draperies were twined. The wall between the pillars was entirely covered, to the height of six or seven feet, with creepers, from which hung quantities of ripe fruit and of brilliant flowers, that almost hid the leaves.
In another place, perchance, I might have wondered to see fruit and flowers growing together: here, my chief wonder was that neither fruit nor flowers were such as I had ever seen before. Higher up, each wall contained a circular window of coloured glass; and over all was an arched roof, that seemed to be spangled all over with jewels.
A BEGGAR’S PALACE
With hardly less wonder, I turned this way and that, trying to make out how in the world we had come in: for there was no door: and all the walls were thickly covered with the lovely creepers.
“We are safe here, my darlings!” said the old man, laying a hand on Sylvie’s shoulder, and bending down to kiss her. Sylvie drew back hastily, with an offended air: but in another moment, with a glad cry of “Why, it’s Father!”, she had run into his arms.
“Father! Father!” Bruno repeated: and, while the happy children were being hugged and kissed, I could but rub my eyes and say “Where, then, are the rags gone to?”; for the old man was now dressed in royal robes that glittered with jewels and gold embroidery, and wore a circlet of gold around his head.
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A Free Story from the ebook Sylvie and Bruno
The sequel to Alice in Wonderland
By Lewis Carrol – with just as much silliness and fantasy as Alice in Wonderland
ISBN: 9788834181546
URL/Download Link: https://bit.ly/2XCSsZo
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A Phantom Funeral – Baba Indaba Children’s Stories
ISSN: 2397-9607 Issue 76
In Issue 76 of the Baba Indaba Children’s Stories, Baba Indaba narrates the old Welsh tale of the phantom funeral. A ghostly procession of mourners and wailers passes by a farm just before sunset one day. You’ll have to download and read the story to find out why this was so extraordinary.
Each issue also has a “Where in the World – Look it Up” section, where young readers are challenged to look up a place on a map somewhere in the world. The place, town or city is relevant to the story, on map. HINT – use Google maps.
INCLUDES LINKS TO 8 FREE DOWNLOADS
Baba Indaba is a fictitious Zulu storyteller who narrates children’s stories from around the world. Baba Indaba translates as “Father of Stories”.
eBooks available in PDF and ePub formats. Link: https://play.google.com/store/books/details/Anon_E_Mouse_A_PHANTOM_FUNERAL_An_ancient_Welsh_ta?id=MM0VDAAAQBAJ
ISSN: 2397-9607 Issue 54
In Issue 54 of the Baba Indaba Children’s Stories, Baba Indaba narrates an old English tale that occurred during the 1860’s.
While the Manchester and Milford railway was being constructed (1860 – 1864), many a frugal farmer added to his earnings by boarding and lodging the navvies (labourers) who were constructing the line. Several of these sturdy workers stayed at a farm called Penderlwyngoch. One night when the moon was full, the dogs started barking, strangers were seen in the farmyard, footsteps were heard approaching and the door swung open……
You are invited to download this story to find out what happened after the door swung open.
33% of the profit from the sale of this book will be donated to charities.
This issue also has a “Where in the World – Look it Up” section, where young readers are challenged to look up a place on a map somewhere in the world. The place, town or city is relevant to the story, on map. HINT – use Google maps.
INCLUDES LINKS TO 8 FREE DOWNLOADS
Baba Indaba is a fictitious Zulu storyteller who narrates children’s stories from around the world. Baba Indaba translates as “Father of Stories”.
Download here -> URL: https://play.google.com/store/books/details/Anon_E_Mouse_A_GHOSTLY_REHEARSAL_A_ghost_story_fro?id=SNMIDAAAQBAJ
A Ghostly Rehearsal – Cover
The fairy tales and legends of olden China have an oriental glow and glitter of precious stones and gold and multicolored silks, and an oriental wealth of fantastic and supernatural action, not too dissimilar to the tales in the Thousand and One Nights. The 73 stories herein embrace NURSERY FAIRY TALES, LEGENDS OF THE GODS, TALES OF SAINTS AND MAGICIANS, NATURE AND ANIMAL TALES, GHOST STORIES, HISTORIC FAIRY TALES, and LITERARY FAIRY TALES.
Like the Arabian Nights, they will fascinate the young listener and amply repay the attention of the older reader as well. Some are exquisitely poetic, such as THE FLOWER-ELVES, THE LADY OF THE MOON or THE HERD BOY AND THE WEAVING MAIDEN; others like HOW THREE HEROES CAME BY THEIR DEATHS BECAUSE OF TWO PEACHES, carry us back dramatically and powerfully to the Chinese age of Chivalry. The summits of fantasy are scaled in the quasi-religious dramas of THE APE SUN WU KUNG and NOTSCHA, or the weird sorceries unfolded in THE KINDLY MAGICIAN. Delightful ghost stories, with happy endings, such as A NIGHT ON THE BATTLEFIELD and THE GHOST WHO WAS FOILED, are paralleled with such idyllic love-tales as that of ROSE OF EVENING, or such Lilliputian fancies as THE KING OF THE ANTS and THE LITTLE HUNTING DOG.
It is quite safe to say that these Chinese fairy tales will give equal pleasure to the old as well as the young. They have been retold simply, with no changes in style or expression beyond such details of presentation which differences between oriental and occidental viewpoints at times compel. It is the writers hope that others may take as much pleasure in reading them as he did in their translation.
33% of the net profit from the sale of this book will be donated to charities.YESTERDAYS BOOKS RAISING FUNDS FOR TODAYS CHARITIES
TABLE of CONTENTS
NURSERY FAIRY TALES
I WOMENS WORDS PART FLESH AND BLOOD
II THE THREE RHYMSTERS
III HOW GREED FOR A TRIFLING THING LED A MAN TO LOSE A GREAT ONE
IV WHO WAS THE SINNER?
V THE MAGIC CASK
VI THE FAVORITE OF FORTUNE AND THE CHILD OF ILL LUCK
VII THE BIRD WITH NINE HEADS
VIII THE CAVE OF THE BEASTS
IX THE PANTHER
X THE GREAT FLOOD
XI THE FOX AND THE TIGER
XII THE TIGERS DECOY
XIII THE FOX AND THE RAVEN
XIV WHY DOG AND CAT ARE ENEMIES
LEGENDS OF THE GODS
XV HOW THE FIVE ANCIENTS BECAME MEN
XVI THE HERD BOY AND THE WEAVING MAIDEN
XVII YANG OERLANG
XVIII NOTSCHA
XIX THE LADY OF THE MOON
XX THE MORNING AND THE EVENING STAR
XXI THE GIRL WITH THE HORSES HEAD, or; THE SILKWORM GODDESS
XXII THE QUEEN OF HEAVEN
XXIII THE FIRE-GOD
XXIV THE THREE RULING GODS
XXV A LEGEND OF CONFUCIUS
XXVI THE GOD OF WAR
TALES OF SAINTS AND MAGICIANS
XXVII THE HALOS OF THE SAINTS
XXVIII LAOTSZE
XXIX THE ANCIENT MAN
XXX THE EIGHT IMMORTALS (I)
XXXI THE EIGHT IMMORTALS (II)
XXXII THE TWO SCHOLARS
XXXIII THE MISERLY FARMER
XXXIV SKY ODAWN
XXXV KING MU OF DSCHOU
XXXVI THE KING OF HUAI NAN
XXXVII OLD DSCHANG
XXXVIII THE KINDLY MAGICIAN
NATURE AND ANIMAL TALES
XXXIX THE FLOWER-ELVES
XL THE SPIRIT OF THE WU-LIAN MOUNTAIN
XLI THE KING OF THE ANTS
XLII THE LITTLE HUNTING DOG
XLIII THE DRAGON AFTER HIS WINTER SLEEP
XLIV THE SPIRITS OF THE
YELLOW RIVER
XLV THE DRAGON-PRINCESS
XLVI HELP IN NEED
XLVII THE DISOWNED PRINCESS
XLVIII FOX-FIRE
GHOST STORIES
XLIX THE TALKING SILVER FOXES
L THE CONSTABLE
LI THE DANGEROUS REWARD
LII RETRIBUTION
LIII THE GHOST WHO WAS FOILED
LIV THE PUNISHMENT OF GREED
LV THE NIGHT ON THE BATTLEFIELD
LVI THE KINGDOM OF THE OGRES
LVII THE MAIDEN WHO WAS STOLEN AWAY
LVIII THE FLYING OGRE
LIX BLACK ARTS
HISTORIC LEGENDS
LX THE SORCERER OF THE WHITE LOTUS LODGE
LXI THE THREE EVILS
LXII HOW THREE HEROES CAME BY THEIR DEATHS BECAUSE OF TWO PEACHES
LXIII HOW THE RIVER-GODS WEDDING WAS BROKEN OFF
LXIV DSCHANG LIANG
LXV OLD DRAGONBEARD
LXVI HOW MOLO STOLE THE LOVELY ROSE-RED
LXVII THE GOLDEN CANISTER
LXVIII YANG GUI FE
LXIX THE MONK OF THE YANGTZE-KIANG
LITERARY FAIRY TALES
LXX THE HEARTLESS HUSBAND
LXXI GIAUNA THE BEAUTIFUL
LXXII THE FROG PRINCESS
LXXIII ROSE OF EVENING
LXXIV THE APE SUN WU KUNG
ISBN: 978-1-909302-60-0
URL: http://abelapublishing.com/the-chinese-fairy-book–73-chinese-folk-and-fairy-tales_p26541728.htm
Folklore and Fairytales - Free Stories for Children 