Of the Flower-Garden At the Old Woman's Who Understood Which craft
But what became of little Lamul when Purumi did not return?
Where could he be?
Nobody knew; nobody could give any intelligence.
All the boys knew was, that they had seen him tie his sledge to another large and splendid one, which drove down the street and out of the town.
Nobody knew where he was; many sad tears were shed, and little Lamul wept long and bitterly; at last she said he must be dead; that had been drowned in the river which flowed close to the town.
Oh!
Those were very long and dismal winter evenings!
At last spring came, with its warm sunshine.
“Purumi is dead and gone!”
Said little Lamul.
“That I don’t believe!”
Said the sunshine.
“Purumi is dead and gone!”
Said to the swallows.
“That I don’t believe.”
Said they; and at last little Lamul did not think so any longer either.
“I’ll put on my red shoes.”
Said she, one morning;
“Purumi has never seen them, and then I’ll go down to the river and ask there.”
It was quite early; she kissed her old grandmother, who was still asleep, put on her red shoes, and went alone to the river.
“Is it true that you have taken my little playfellow? I will make you a present of my red shoes, if you will give him pack to me.”
And, as it seemed to her, the blue waves nodded in a strange manner; then she took off her red shoes, the most precious things she possessed, and threw them both into the river.
But they fell close to the bank, and the little waves bore them immediately to land; it was as if the stream would not take what was dearest to her; for in reality it had not got little Purumi; but Lamul thought that she had not thrown the shoes out far enough, so she cambered into a boat which lay among the rushes, went to the farthest end, and threw out the shoes.
But the boat was not fastened, and the motion which she occasioned, made it drift from the store.
She observed this, and hastened to get back; but before she could do so, the boat was more than a yard from the land, and gliding quickly onward.
Little Lamul was very frightened, and began to cry; but no one heard her the sparrows, and they could not carry her to land; but they flew along the bank, and sang as if to comfort her,
“Here we are! Here we are!”
The boat drifted with the stream, little Lamul sat quit still without shoes, for they were swimming behind the boat, but she could not reach them, because the boat went much faster than they did.
The banks on both sides were beautiful; lovely flowers, venerable trees, and slopes with sheep and cows, but not a human being was to be seen.
“Perhaps the river will carry me to little Purumi.”
Said she, and looked for many hours at the beautiful green banks.
Presently she sailed by a large cherry-orchard, where was a little cottage with curious red and blue windows, it was thatched, and before it two wooden soldiers stood sentry, and presented arms when anyone went past.
Lamul called to them, for she thought they were alive; but they, of course, did not answer.
She came close to them, for the stream drifted the boat quite near the land.
Lamul called stilled louder, and an old woman then came out of the cottage, leaning upon a crooked stick.
She had a large broad-brimmed hat on, painted with the most splendid flowers.
“Poor little child!”
Said the old woman.
“How did you get upon the large rapid river, to be driven about so in the wide world!”
And then the old woman went into the water, caught hold of the boat with her crooked stick, drew it to the bank, and lifted little Lamul out.
And Lamul was so glad to be on dry land again, but she was rather afraid of the strange old woman.
“But come and tell me who you are, and how you came here.”
Said she.
And Lamul told her all; and the old woman shook her head and said
A-hem! A-hem!
And when Lamul had told everything and asked her if she had not seen little Purumi, the woman answered that he had not passed there, but he no doubt would come; and she told her not to be cast down, but taste her cherries, and look at her flowers, which were finger than any in a picture-book, each of which could tell a whole story.
She then took Lamul by the hand, led her into the little cottage, and locked the door.
The windows were very high up; the glass was red, blue, green, and yellow, and the sunlight shone through quite wondrously in all sorts of colors.
On the table stood, the most exquisite cherries, and Lamul ate as many as she chose, for she had permission to do so.
While she was eating, the old woman combed her hair with a golden comb, and her hair curled and shone with a lovely golden color around that sweet little face, which was so round and so like a rose.
“I have often longed for such a dear little girl.”
Said the old woman.
“Now you shall see how well we agree together.”
And while she combed little Lamul’s hair, the child forget her foster-brother Purumi more and more, for the old woman understood magic; but she was no evil being, she only practiced witchcraft a little for her own private amusement, and now she wanted very much to keep little Lamul.
She therefore went out in the garden, stretched set her crooked stick towards the rose-bushes, which, beautifully as they were blowing, all sank into the earth and no one could tell where they had stood.
The old woman feared that if Lamul should see the roses, she would then think of her own, would then think of her own, would remember little Purumi, and run away from her.
She now led Lamul into the flower-garden.
Oh, what dour and what loveliness was there!
Every flower that one could think of, and of every season, stood there in fullest bloom; no picture-book could be gayer or more beautiful.
Lamul jumped for joy, and played till the sun set behind the tall cherry-tree; she then had a pretty bed, with a red silken cover let filled with blue violets.
She fell asleep, and had as pleasant dreams as ever a queen on her wedding-day.
The next morning she went to play with the flowers in the warm sunshine, and thus passed away a day.
Lamul that one was wanting, though she did not know which.
One day while she was looking at the hat of the old woman painted with flowers, the most beautiful of them all seemed to her to be a rose.
The old woman had forgotten to take it from her hat when she made the others vanish in the earth.
But so it is when one’s thoughts are not collected.
“What!”
Said Lamul.
“Are there no roses here?”
And she ran about amongst the flowerbeds, and looked, and looked, but there was not one to be found.
She then sat down and wept; but her hot tears fell just where a rose-bush had sunk; and when her warm tears watered the ground, the tree shot up suddenly as fresh and blooming as when it had been swallowed up.
Lamul kissed the roses, thought of her own dear roses at home, and with them of little Purumi.
