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The Pot Of Gold

from Boys And Girls Bookshelf - VERSES ABOUT FAIRIES





BY MARY E. WILKINS FREEMAN


The Flower family lived in a little house in a broad grassy meadow,
which sloped a few rods from their front door down to a gentle, silvery
river. Right across the river rose a lovely dark green mountain, and
when there was a rainbow, as there frequently was, nothing could have
looked more enchanting than it did rising from the opposite bank of the
stream with the wet, shadowy mountain for a background. All the Flower
family would invariably run to their front windows and their door to see
it.

The Flower family numbered nine: Father and Mother Flower and seven
children. Father Flower was an unappreciated poet, Mother Flower was
very much like all mothers, and the seven children were very sweet and
interesting. Their first names all matched beautifully with their last
name, and with their personal appearance. For instance, the oldest girl,
who had soft blue eyes and flaxen curls, was called Flax Flower: the
little boy, who came next, and had very red cheeks and loved to sleep
late in the morning, was called Poppy Flower, and so on. This charming
suitableness of their names was owing to Father Flower. He had a theory
that a great deal of the misery and discord in the world comes from
things not matching properly as they should; and he thought there
ought to be a certain correspondence between all things that were in
juxtaposition to each other, just as there ought to be between the last
two words of a couplet of poetry. But he found, very often, there was no
correspondence at all, just as words in poetry do not always rhyme when
they should. However, he did his best to remedy it. He saw that every
one of his children's names was suitable and accorded with their
personal characteristics; and in his flower-garden--for he raised
flowers for the market--only those of complementary colors were allowed
to grow in adjoining beds, and, as often as possible, they rhymed in
their names. But that was a more difficult matter to manage, and very
few flowers were rhymed, or, if they were, none rhymed correctly. He had
a bed of box next to one of phlox, and a trellis of woodbine grew next
to one of eglantine, and a thicket of elderblows was next to one of
rose; but he was forced to let his violets and honeysuckles and many
others go entirely unrhymed--this disturbed him considerably, but he
reflected that it was not his fault, but that of the man who made the
language and named the different flowers--he should have looked to it
that those of complementary colors had names to rhyme with each other,
then all would have been harmonious and as it should have been.

Father Flower had chosen this way of earning his livelihood when he
realized that he was doomed to be an unappreciated poet, because it
suited so well with his name; and if the flowers had only rhymed a
little better he would have been very well contented. As it was, he
never grumbled. He also saw to it that the furniture in his little house
and the cooking utensils rhymed as nearly as possible, though that too
was oftentimes a difficult matter to bring about, and required a vast
deal of thought and hard study. The table always stood under the gable
end of the roof, the foot-stool always stood where it was cool, and the
big rocking-chair in a glare of sunlight; the lamp, too, he kept down
cellar where it was damp. But all these were rather far-fetched, and
sometimes quite inconvenient. Occasionally there would be an article
that he could not rhyme until he had spent years of thought over it, and
when he did it would disturb the comfort of the family greatly. There
was the spider. He puzzled over that exceedingly, and when he rhymed it
at last, Mother Flower or one of the little girls had always to take
the spider beside her, when she sat down, which was of course quite
troublesome. The kettle he rhymed first with nettle, and hung a bunch
of nettle over it, till all the children got dreadfully stung. Then he
tried settle, and hung the kettle over the settle. But that was no place
for it; they had to go without their tea, and everybody who sat on the
settle bumped his head against the kettle. At last it occurred to Father
Flower that if he should make a slight change in the language the kettle
could rhyme with the skillet, and sit beside it on the stove, as it
ought, leaving harmony out of the question, to do. Accordingly all the
children were instructed to call the skillet a skettle, and the kettle
stood by its side on the stove ever afterward.

The house was a very pretty one, although it was quite rude and very
simple. It was built of logs and had a thatched roof, which projected
far out over the walls. But it was all overrun with the loveliest
flowering vines imaginable, and, inside, nothing could have been more
exquisitely neat and homelike; although there was only one room and a
little garret over it. All around the house were the flower-beds and the
vine-trellises and the blooming shrubs, and they were always in the most
beautiful order. Now, although all this was very pretty to see, and
seemingly very simple to bring to pass, yet there was a vast deal of
labor in it for some one; for flowers do not look so trim and thriving
without tending, and houses do not look so spotlessly clean without
constant care. All the Flower family worked hard; even the littlest
children had their daily tasks set them. The oldest girl, especially,
little Flax Flower, was kept busy from morning till night taking care of
her younger brothers and sisters, and weeding flowers. But for all that
she was a very happy little girl, as indeed were the whole family, as
they did not mind working, and loved each other dearly.

Father Flower, to be sure, felt a little sad sometimes; for, although
his lot in life was a pleasant one, it was not exactly what he would
have chosen. Once in a while he had a great longing for something
different. He confided a great many of his feelings to Flax Flower; she
was more like him than any of the other children, and could understand
him even better than his wife, he thought.

One day, when there had been a heavy shower and a beautiful rainbow, he
and Flax were out in the garden tying up some rose-bushes, which the
rain had beaten down, and he said to her how he wished he could find the
Pot of Gold at the end of the rainbow. Flax, if you will believe me,
had never heard of it; so he had to tell her all about it, and also say
a little poem he had made about it to her.

The poem ran something in this way:

O what is it shineth so golden-clear
At the rainbow's foot on the dark green hill?
'Tis the Pot of Gold, that for many a year
Has shone, and is shining and dazzling still.
And whom is it for, O Pilgrim, pray?
For thee, Sweetheart, shouldst thou go that way.

Flax listened with her soft blue eyes very wide open. "I suppose if we
should find that pot of gold it would make us very rich, wouldn't it,
father?" said she.

"Yes," replied her father; "we could then have a grand house, and keep a
gardener, and a maid to take care of the children, and we should no
longer have to work so hard." He sighed as he spoke, and tears stood in
his gentle blue eyes, which were very much like Flax's. "However, we
shall never find it," he added.

"Why couldn't we run ever so fast when we saw the rainbow," inquired
Flax, "and get the Pot of Gold?"

"Don't be foolish, child!" said her father; "you could not possibly
reach it before the rainbow was quite faded away!"

"True," said Flax, but she fell to thinking as she tied up the dripping
roses.

The next rainbow they had she eyed very closely, standing out on the
front doorstep in the rain, and she saw that one end of it seemed to
touch the ground at the foot of a pine-tree on the side of the mountain,
which was quite conspicuous amongst its fellows, it was so tall. The
other end had nothing especial to mark it.

"I will try the end where the tall pine-tree is first," said Flax to
herself, "because that will be the easiest to find--if the Pot of Gold
isn't there I will try to find the other end."

A few days after that it was very hot and sultry, and at noon the
thunder heads were piled high all around the horizon.

"I don't doubt but we shall have showers this afternoon," said Father
Flower, when he came in from the garden for his dinner.

After the dinner-dishes were washed up, and the baby rocked to sleep,
Flax came to her mother with a petition.

"Mother," said she, "won't you give me a holiday this afternoon?"

"Why, where do you want to go, Flax?" said her mother.

"I want to go over on the mountain and hunt for wild flowers," replied
Flax.

"But I think it is going to rain, child, and you will get wet."

"That won't hurt me any, mother," said Flax, laughing.

"Well, I don't know as I care," said her mother, hesitatingly. "You have
been a very good industrious girl, and deserve a little holiday. Only
don't go so far that you cannot soon run home if a shower should come
up."

So Flax curled her flaxen hair and tied it up with a blue ribbon, and
put on her blue and white checked dress. By the time she was ready to go
the clouds over in the northwest were piled up very high and black, and
it was quite late in the afternoon. Very likely her mother would not
have let her go if she had been at home, but she had taken the baby, who
had waked from his nap, and gone to call on her nearest neighbor, half a
mile away. As for her father, he was busy in the garden, and all the
other children were with him, and they did not notice Flax when she
stole out of the front door. She crossed the river on a pretty arched
stone bridge nearly opposite the house, and went directly into the woods
on the side of the mountain.

Everything was very still and dark and solemn in the woods. They knew
about the storm that was coming. Now and then Flax heard the leaves
talking in queer little rustling voices. She inherited the ability to
understand what they said from her father. They were talking to each
other now in the words of her father's song. Very likely he had heard
them saying it sometime, and that was how he happened to know it.

"O what is it shineth so golden-clear
At the rainbow's foot on the dark green hill?"

Flax heard the maple-leaves inquire. And the pine-leaves answered back:

"'Tis the Pot of Gold, that for many a year
Has shone, and is shining and dazzling still."

Then the maple-leaves asked:

"And whom is it for, O Pilgrim, pray?"

And the pine-leaves answered:

"For thee, Sweetheart, shouldst thou go that way."

Flax did not exactly understand the sense of the last question and
answer between maple and pine-leaves. But they kept on saying it
over and over as she ran along. She was going straight to the tall
pine-tree. She knew just where it was, for she had often been there. Now
the rain-drops began to splash through the green boughs, and the thunder
rolled along the sky. The leaves all tossed about in a strong wind and
their soft rustles grew into a roar, and the branches and the whole tree
caught it up and called out so loud, as they writhed and twisted about
that Flax was almost deafened, the words of the song:

"O what is it shineth so golden-clear?"

Flax sped along through the wind and the rain and the thunder. She was
very much afraid that she should not reach the tall pine which was quite
a way distant before the sun shone out, and the rainbow came.

The sun was already breaking through the clouds when she came in sight
of it, way up above her on a rock. The rain-drops on the trees began to
shine like diamonds, and the words of the song rushed out from their
midst, louder and sweeter:

"O what is it shineth so golden-clear?"

Flax climbed for dear life. Red and green and golden rays were already
falling thick around her, and at the foot of the pine-tree something was
shining wonderfully clear and bright.

At last she reached it, and just at that instant the rainbow became a
perfect one, and there at the foot of the wonderful arch of glory was
the Pot of Gold. Flax could see it brighter than all the brightness of
the rainbow. She sank down beside it and put her hand on it, then she
closed her eyes and sat still, bathed in red and green and violet
light--that, and the golden light from the Pot, made her blind and
dizzy. As she sat there with her hand on the Pot of Gold at the foot
of the rainbow, she could hear the leaves over her singing louder and
louder, till the tones fairly rushed like a wind through her ears. But
this time they only sang the last words of the song:

"And whom is it for, O Pilgrim, pray?
For thee, Sweetheart, shouldst thou go that way."

At last she ventured to open her eyes. The rainbow had faded almost
entirely away, only a few tender rose and green shades were arching over
her; but the Pot of Gold under her hand was still there, and shining
brighter than ever. All the pine needles with which the ground around it
was thickly spread, were turned to needles of gold, and some stray
couplets of leaves which were springing up through them were all gilded.

Flax bent over it trembling and lifted the lid off the pot. She
expected, of course, to find it full of gold pieces that would buy the
grand house and the gardener and the maid that her father had spoken
about. But to her astonishment, when she had lifted the lid off and bent
over the Pot to look into it, the first thing she saw was the face of
her mother looking out of it at her. It was smaller of course, but just
the same loving, kindly face she had left at home. Then, as she looked
longer, she saw her father smiling gently up at her, then came Poppy and
the baby and all the rest of her dear little brothers and sisters
smiling up at her out of the golden gloom inside the Pot. At last she
actually saw the garden and her father in it tying up the roses, and the
pretty little vine-covered house, and, finally, she could see right into
the dear little room where her mother sat with the baby in her lap, and
all the others around her.

Flax jumped up. "I will run home," said she, "it is late, and I do want
to see them all dreadfully."

So she left the Golden Pot shining all alone under the pine-tree, and
ran home as fast as she could.

When she reached the house it was almost twilight, but her father was
still in the garden. Every rose and lily had to be tied up after the
shower, and he was but just finishing. He had the tin milk pan hung on
him like a shield, because it rhymed with man. It certainly was a
beautiful rhyme, but it was very inconvenient. Poor Mother Flower was at
her wits' end to know what to do without it, and it was very awkward for
Father Flower to work with it fastened to him.

Flax ran breathlessly into the garden, and threw her arms around her
father's neck and kissed him. She bumped her nose against the milk pan,
but she did not mind that; she was so glad to see him again. Somehow,
she never remembered being so glad to see him as she was now since she
had seen his face in the Pot of Gold.

"Dear father," cried she, "how glad I am to see you! I found the Pot of
Gold at the end of the rainbow!"

Her father stared at her in amazement.

"Yes, I did, truly, father," said she. "But it was not full of gold,
after all. You were in it, and mother and the children and the house and
garden and--everything."

"You were mistaken, dear," said her father, looking at her with his
gentle, sorrowful eyes. "You could not have found the true end of the
rainbow, nor the true Pot of Gold--that is surely full of the most
beautiful gold pieces, with an angel stamped on every one."

"But I did, father," persisted Flax.

"You had better go into your mother, Flax," said her father; "she will
be anxious to see you. I know better than you about the Pot of Gold at
the end of the rainbow."

So Flax went sorrowfully into the house. There was the tea-kettle
singing beside the "skettle," which had some nice smelling soup in it,
the table was laid for supper, and there sat her mother with the baby in
her lap and the others all around her--just as they had looked in the
Pot of Gold.

Flax had never been so glad to see them before--and if she didn't hug
and kiss them all!

"I found the Pot of Gold at the end of the rainbow, mother," cried she,
"and it was not full of gold, at all; but you and father and the
children looked out of it at me, and I saw the house and garden and
everything in it."

Her mother looked at her lovingly. "Yes, Flax dear," said she.

"But father said I was mistaken," said Flax, "and did not find it."

"Well dear," said her mother, "your father is a poet, and very wise; we
will say no more about it. You can sit down here and hold the baby now,
while I make the tea."

Flax was perfectly ready to do that; and, as she sat there with her
darling little baby brother crowing in her lap, and watched her pretty
little brothers and sisters and her dear mother, she felt so happy that
she did not care any longer whether she found the true Pot of Gold or
not.

But, after all, do you know, I think her father was mistaken, and that
she had.

[F] From "The Pot of Gold and Other Stories," by Mary E.
Wilkins Freeman, published by Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Company; used by
special arrangement.





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