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    THE RAINBOW BOOK


          _BY THE SAME AUTHOR_

            LITTLEDOM CASTLE

            MY SON AND I

            MARGERY REDFORD

            THE LOVE FAMILY

            THE CHILD OF THE AIR


    _All rights reserved_


    [Illustration: _The Fish-King and the Dog-Fish_]


    [Illustration:
                   The
                   Rainbow
                   Book

                   Tales of Fun & Fancy

                   By
                   Mrs. M. H. SPIELMANN

                   Illustrated by
                   Arthur Rackham
                   Hugh Thomson
                   Bernard Partridge
                   Lewis Baumer
                   Harry Rountree
                   C. Wilhelm

                   NEW YORK
                   FREDERICK WARNE AND CO.
                   1909]

    TO

    BARBARA MARY RACKHAM

    WITH ALL GOOD WISHES

    FOR HER FUTURE HAPPINESS

                    MABEL H. SPIELMANN




PREFACE


It's all very well--but you, and I, and most of us who are healthy in
mind and blithe of spirit, love to give rein to our fun and fancy, and
to mingle fun with our fancy and fancy with our fun.

The little Fairy-people are the favourite children of Fancy, and were
born into this serious world ages and ages ago to help brighten it, and
make it more graceful and dainty and prettily romantic than it was. They
found the Folk-lore people already here--grave, learned people whose
learning was all topsy-turvy, for it dealt with toads, and storms, and
diseases, and what strange things would happen if you mixed them up
together, and how the devil would flee if you did something with a herb,
and how the tempest would stop suddenly, as Terence records, if you
sprinkled a few drops of vinegar in front of it. No doubt, since then
thousands of people have sprinkled tens of thousands of gallons of good
vinegar before advancing tempests, and although tempests pay far less
attention to the liquid than the troubled waters to a pint of oil, the
sprinklers and their descendants have gone on believing with a touching
faith. It is pretty, but not practical.

But what _is_ pretty and practical too, is that all of us should
sometimes let our fancy roam, and that we should laugh as well, even
over a Fairy-story. Yet there are some serious-minded persons, very
grave and very clever, who get angry if a smile so much as creeps into a
Fairy-tale, and if our wonder should be disturbed by anything so worldly
as a laugh. A Fairy-tale, they say, should be like an old Folk-tale,
marked by sincerity and simplicity--as if humour cannot be sincere and
simple too. "The true Fairy-story is not comic." Why not? Of this we may
be sure--take all the true humourless Fairy-stories and take
"Alice"--and "Alice" with its fun and fancy will live beside them as
long as English stories are read, loved for its fancy and its fun, and
hugged and treasured for its jokes and its laughter. The one objection
is this: the "true Fairy-story" appeals to all children, young and old,
in all lands, equally, by translation; and jokes and fun are sometimes
difficult to translate. But that is on account of the shortcomings of
language, and it is hard to make young readers suffer by starving them
of fun, because the power of words is less absolute than the power of
fancy in its merrier mood.

Some people, of course, take their Fairies very seriously indeed, and
we cannot blame them, for it is a very harmless and very beautiful
mental refreshment. Some, indeed, not only believe firmly in Fairies--in
their existence and their exploits--but believe themselves to be
actually visited by the Little People. For my part, I would rather be
visited by a Fairy than by a Spook any day, or night: but when the
"sincerity" of some of us drove the Fairies out, the world was left so
blank and unimaginative, that the Spooks had to be invited in. The
admixture of faith and imagination produces strange results, while it
raises us above the commonplaceness of everyday life.

But, as I say, certain favoured people, mostly little girls, it is true,
are regularly visited by Fairies even in the broad daylight, and they
watch them at their pretty business, at their games and play (for
Fairies, you may be sure, play and laugh, however much the Folk-lorists
may frown when we are made to laugh with them). Two hundred and fifty
years ago a Cornish girl declared that she had wonderful adventures with
the Fairies--and she meant truly what she said. And it is only fifty
years since an educated lady wrote a sincere account of her doings with
Fairies and theirs with her, in an account which was reprinted in one of
the most serious of papers, and which showed that the lady, like the
uneducated Cornish girl two centuries before, was a true "fairy-seer."
Here is a part of her story:--

"I used to spend a great deal of my time alone in our garden, and I
think it must have been soon after my brother's death that I first saw
(or perhaps recollect seeing) Fairies. I happened one day to break, with
a little whip I had, the flower of a buttercup: a little while after, as
I was resting on the grass, I heard a tiny but most beautiful voice
saying, 'Buttercup, who has broken your house?' Then another voice
replied, 'That little girl that is lying close by you.' I listened in
great wonder, and looked about me, until I saw a daisy, in which stood a
little figure not larger, certainly, than one of its petals.

"When I was between three and four years old we removed to London, and I
pined sadly for my country home and friends. I saw none of them for a
long time, I think because I was discontented; I did not try to make
myself happy. At last I found a copy of Shakespeare in my father's
study, which delighted me so much (though I don't suppose I understood
much of it) that I soon forgot we were living where I could not see a
tree or a flower. I used to take the book and my little chair, and sit
in a paved yard we had. (I could see the sky there.) One day, as I was
reading the 'Midsummer Night's Dream,' I happened to look up, and saw
before me a patch of soft, green grass with the Fairy-ring upon it:
whilst I was wondering how it came, my old friends appeared and acted
the whole play (I suppose to amuse me). After this they often came, and
did the same with the other plays."

There! what do you say to that? Do you wonder that the good folk of
Blagdon, for example, still point to the hill "where the fairies come to
dance," and show you the Fairy-rings, like that which Cedric saw (as is
recounted in this book), with the Little People capering about? Of
course, the country folk don't laugh at them, because it is all so
mysterious, and, as the scientific professors declare, abnormal, if not
supernormal; but do you believe for one moment, that in their joyous
dance the fairies do not laugh and joke as well as play and caper? The
Bird-Fairy, as appears later, was always grave and loving, and didn't
laugh--but then _she_ was an enchanted Princess, and had sad and serious
business on hand, and was not quite sure, sanguine though she was, of
defeating the machinations of the cunning and wicked Wizard. But look at
the classic Grimm, at the tiny, dancing, capering tailors whose
portraits Cruikshank drew so well in it, and say if there is not a peal
of laughter in every open mouth of them, and a chuckle in every limb and
joint. Not "comic," Mr. Folk-lorist? Why, they are the very spirit and
personification of comedy and fun!

But then your scientist comes along and tries to explain away the
Fairy-rings themselves, which have defied explanation since Fairy-rings
first came among us. Once at Kinning Park at Glasgow (and thousands of
times elsewhere) four Fairy-rings appeared in one night--on a
cricket-ground, if you please! on which the cricketers had been
continuously playing and practising; and the poets said that they were
made by the Fairies dancing under the moonlight, or, when the moon went
to bed, by the lamplight of a glow-worm. That, _I_ think, must be the
truth, simple and sincere. Each ring was a belt of grass darker and
greener than the surrounding turf, and was eight or ten inches broad;
and the largest were nine and ten feet in diameter, and the others five
and six, measuring from the centre of the belt. And the circles were
accurate and the advent of them quite sudden. Clearly, the Fairies
_must_ have made them. But then a learned professor arose and lectured
about them before the British Association. He was a great naturalist,
and said that the rings contained a great number of toad-stools. And he
brought along a chemist who analysed the fungi, and said he found in
them a lot of phosphoric acid and potash and peroxide of iron and
sulphuric acid, and a lot of things the fairies had never heard of and
certainly never brought there, and he said that that, with phosphated
alkali and magnesia, accounted for the rings! And then another great
professor said that they must have been years in coming, and that
electricity might have something to do with it, and that small rings
sometimes spread to fifty yards in diameter--which only proves the
wonderful power of happy industry of the Fairies, even in their revels
and in their play.

So much for the Fairies.

But everybody is not in love with Fairies; some people don't care for
them, some (as we have seen) don't even believe in them! Many don't care
to read about them, being insensible to their grace and pretty elegance,
their exquisite dignity, and their ever-present youth. Who ever heard of
a middle-aged fairy? Such folk, be their age what it may, generally
prefer fun; especially do they love what Charles Dickens once for all
defined and established as the Spirit of Christmas. Well, here they may
find Father Christmas at home, and on his rounds. Here they will find
revealed and laid bare the whole secret and mystery of Santa
Claus--where the presents come from, and where they are stored--how they
are packed and how delivered while we are all asleep in our beds,
delivered from the waits. Here, too, the "old-fangled father" is
justified in the eyes of his "new-fangled sons," who recognise that
fundamental truths--and such truths!--are not shaken by the on-coming
tide of Time. And here, besides, you may learn what goes on on that
other side of the moon which we never see, and what is its service to
Man, and to Woman and Child as well. And for the first time in the
history of romance we discover what it was that the Sleeping Beauty
dreamt. And there are stories of other kinds--with a touch of pathos,
too.

Story-telling is the oldest of the arts--the art of which we never
tire--the art which will be out-lived by none other, however
fascinating, however beautiful, however perfect. It may deal with human
thought and human passion; it may appeal to the highest intellect and
the profoundest sentiments of men; or just to the brightest and
dreamiest fancy of the young. Be it but well told, even though it does
not stir our emotions, the little story delights the imagination, and
makes us grateful to the teller for an hour well spent or pleasantly
whiled away. That is the greatest reward of the writer, as it is the
sole ambition of the author of these little tales.

                                              _Mister_ M. H. SPIELMANN.




    CONTENTS


    ADVENTURES IN WIZARD-LAND--

      _Illustrated by_ ARTHUR RACKHAM, A.R.W.S.

       I. A Knock at the Red Door

      II. The Wizard at Home

     III. The Bird-Fairy Speaks

      IV. The Lost Catseye

       V. In the Fish-King's Realm

      VI. The Mystery of the Crab

     VII. The Magic Bracelets

    VIII. The Spell--and how it Worked

    THE OLD-FANGLED FATHER AND HIS NEW-FANGLED SONS

    THE LITTLE PICTURE GIRL
      _Illustrated by_ HUGH THOMSON, R.I.

    THE SLEEPING BEAUTY'S DREAM
      _Illustrated by_ BERNARD PARTRIDGE, R.I.

    THE GAMEKEEPER'S DAUGHTER
      _Illustrated by_ LEWIS BAUMER

    ALL ON A FIFTH OF NOVEMBER

    FATHER CHRISTMAS AT HOME
      _Illustrated by_ ARTHUR RACKHAM, A.R.W.S.

    A BIRTHDAY STORY

    LITTLE STARRY

    CEDRIC'S UNACCOUNTABLE ADVENTURE
      _Illustrated by_ HARRY ROUNTREE

    ROSELLA

    THE CUCKOO THAT LIVED IN THE CLOCK-HOUSE

    CHRISTMAS AT THE COURT OF KING JORUM
      _Illustrated by_ HUGH THOMSON, R.I.

    ONE APRIL DAY

    THE STORM THE TEAPOT BREWED

    MONICA THE MOON CHILD
      _Illustrated by_ C. WILHELM




    ILLUSTRATIONS


    THE FISH-KING AND THE DOG-FISH

    "SO YOU'VE COME TO SEE THE WIZARD," HE SAID

    ITS HEAD WAS PATTED GRACIOUSLY

    WHAT A GLORIOUS RIDE THAT WAS

    SHE STROKED IT--ACTUALLY STROKED IT

    TAKING THE BOY AND GIRL BY A HAND, HE LED THEM

    THE LITTLE PICTURE GIRL

    IN MARCHED A STOUT BEADLE

    THEN SHE ACCEPTED HIS INVITATION TO DANCE

    "IT IS YOU, O PRINCE, THE YOUTH OF MY DREAM!"

    "YOU CAN JUST HAND OVER THAT PHEASANT"

    "WHO ARE YOU, THEN?"

    SHE RAN AND FETCHED HIS PRESENTS SHE WAS ANXIOUS TO SHOW

    IT WAS A VERY, VERY LONG LADDER

    THE TWO REINDEER... SPED RAPIDLY AWAY

    LAY LOW, AND HATCHED AN AUDACIOUS PLOT

    "OF COURSE YOUR YOUNG MAJESTY HAS GOT THE KEY?"

    "I REALLY DO LOOK EVERY INCH A KING!"

    LOOKING NEITHER TO THE RIGHT NOR TO THE LEFT

    ROUND ABOUT WAS NOTHING BUT MOUNTAINS, CRATERS, CAVERNS




    ILLUSTRATIONS IN THE TEXT


    ADVENTURES IN WIZARD-LAND

    "ALL THESE POOR CREATURES WERE CHILDREN"

    HE TOOK TWO JEWELLED CIRCLETS OUT OF A SATCHEL

    "I AM THE BIRD-FAIRY," SHE SAID

    THEY MET MANY A QUAINT CREATURE

    THE WIZARD, WITH A GROAN OF PAIN, HAD LEAPT BACK

    LYING FULL LENGTH ON THE GROUND NEXT TO HIS SHATTERED INVENTION

    INITIAL

    HE MOUNTED IT VERY CAREFULLY

    SMILED AS SHE WAVED GOOD-BYE

    "I SUPPOSE YOU KNOW YOU'RE TRESPASSING?"

    MONICA THE MOON CHILD

    SHE WAS SOARING LIKE A BIRD RIGHT OUT INTO THE NIGHT

    A TINY FIGURE, NO BIGGER THAN MONICA'S DOLL

    ROWS UPON ROWS OF THE BEAUTIFULLEST ROSES

    THE MAN LIFTED HIS ARM SO THAT HIS FACE WAS ONCE
    MORE HIDDEN IN GLOOM


    _The Title-page and End-papers are by_ MR. CARTON MOORE PARK.




CHAPTER I

A KNOCK AT THE RED DOOR


"It's a shame, Dulcie. We mayn't go out just because it's raining a few
drops," said the boy at the nursery window.

"Yes, a fearful shame," replied his sister. She always sympathised with
him and gave in to him, right or wrong. She carefully propped her doll
bolt upright on a chair and came to where he stood. "Never mind, Cyril.
Let's play at something."

"Yes, but I do mind. It's too bad! It's always 'you mustn't' this, 'you
mustn't' that. It would be a saving of breath if they'd just say the few
things that we _might_ do. Are you willing to go on putting up with it?
I suppose you are, as you're only a girl."

"No, I don't want to, but I've got to. Mother says it is for our good,
and we are spoilt."

"I don't think so at all. It's very hard lines," growled Cyril. "I'm
sure the garden isn't a bit wet, and the rocks have only a sprinkle."

Certainly the window panes had more than a sprinkle trickling down them.
But the birds were twittering fussily in the bushes and amongst the ivy,
and the garden was looking its best in the summer shower. Fitful gleams
of sunshine cast loving touches here and there on the roses and the
sweet honeysuckle; and the tall white lilies never looked fresher or
smarter. Beyond, were those tempting rocks, with their surroundings of
sand, which rose so strangely in that part of inland Kent, telling of
former ages and of the vagaries of the sea and river. The rocks were the
happy playground of these lucky Twins, who lived in the fine solitary
house close by, and who were now peering so disconsolately through the
window, flattening their noses against the glass blurred with the
pattering rain.

They were exactly the same height; they resembled one another in
feature, and, being twins, were both nine years old; and there the
likeness ended, for his dark hair was short and thick, and hers was fair
and very long. She was timid and gentle though her bright face was very
happy; he, what is termed "a handful."

"_I_ know!" exclaimed Dulcie after a moment's silence, drawing her
brother away from the melancholy amusement of tracing down the trailing
drops with his finger until they disappeared mysteriously at the bottom
of the glass. "I know! Let's play 'Birds, Beasts, and Fishes.'"

Cyril cast a lingering look at the tiresome dark clouds, then with a
sigh and a frown turned round in token of consent, graciously suffered
himself to be settled at the table with paper and pencil, and was soon
excitedly trying to guess what Dulcie's Bird could be that began with
the letter c, had four between, and ended with an _e_.

"It's very easy, really," pleaded Dulcie, burning to tell. "Do you give
it up?"

Cyril wasn't so easily beaten as that, and thought till he grew
impatient.

"Shall I tell you?--_Let_ me tell you!" urged his sister.

"If you like," he replied magnanimously.

"Canare!"

"I'm sure it's spelt with a _y_," he said, as if he weren't quite
certain in spite of his words.

They argued who should score the mark, and settled the point by counting
it a draw. She followed it up with a Fish, which was _s_, two between,
and an _l_, which puzzled Cyril until he found, of course, that it was
"soul."

Believing he had lost again, he allowed his interest in the game to
flag, and still restless, he ran to the window.

"Hooray! it's fine now," he cried. "Come along, we don't want hats!"

"_Ought_ we to go, do you think, Cyril, without asking?"

"I'm not going to ask, not if I know it. We would be sure to be
'don't'-ed. I'm going out. It's so stuffy here. You can do as you like."

"If you go, I shall go too," she replied quickly, following him and
taking his hand. He didn't quite like that, but he felt, as she was
"only a woman," he would let her.

Away they ran lightly, out into the sunshine, happy to be in the warm,
scented air, through the garden, off to the dear old rocks which were
already drying nicely, and at once a fine game of hide-and-seek was in
full swing.

Dulcie had gone again to hide, and Cyril had his face buried in his
hands, waiting for the familiar "Cuckoo!" when he was startled instead
by a faint cry of surprise, followed by "Cyril, come quick! Quick!"

"It must be a beetle or a toad, or something," he said to himself as he
hurried to the spot from which her voice seemed to come; but it was only
after she had repeated her excited cries that he found her at last.

She had found a passage through the rocks which they had never noticed
before!

"Come along!" cried Cyril joyously at the sight of it. "Come along!
we'll go on a voyage of discovery!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Down the passage they went, far and carefully, for there was only a
glimmer of light in a thin streak peeping through, because the rocks all
but joined at the top, and the ground was uneven and slippery. But in
spite of their caution they got a sudden start, for they became aware of
a silent brook flowing deep and swiftly by, at their feet: another step
and they would have been in it. The Twins, rather startled, looked at
one another, and then without further thought they just jumped across.
Jumped into an open space--into MOONLIGHT. There was actually a full
moon overhead, but with such seams and lines about it that it bore the
appearance of being pieced together like a geographical puzzle.

"Cyril, look there!" whispered Dulcie, pressing close up to him, as soon
as she found words.

In the white light there stood an immense rock. In it there was a wooden
door with hewn-out steps leading up to it. A nice red door it was, with
a green knocker upon it in the shape of a mouth smiling a welcome. Of
course they went up to it, climbed the steps, which were high and
difficult, and stared at the neatly engraved brass plate below it,
which bore the words:

  +---------------------------------+
  | Knock if an answer is required. |
  |         If not, why?            |
  +---------------------------------+

"I'm going to knock," said Cyril.

"Oh no, we don't want any answer," said Dulcie, "so why do it?"

A backward glance at the steps puzzled her, for they had grown steeper
than before and impossible to climb down again, or up, for the matter of
that, and the door before which they stood was now at such a height from
the ground as to make her feel giddy to look below. She hardly had time
to think about it when Cyril raised the knocker and let it go. Instead
of the usual sound a knocker makes, a loud laugh rang out, discordant
and disconcerting. "You needn't be frightened," he remarked, for his
little sister hung back and tightened her grasp of his arm. The next
moment the door swung open and there stood on the threshold a very tall
man with an enormous bald head. He was clad in a yellow satin
dressing-gown, and wore great smoke- spectacles.

"So you've come to see the Wizard," he said blandly. "Pray walk in!"

[Illustration: _"So you've come to see the Wizard," he said_]

"I--I think we'd--we'd rather not, thank you very much," stammered
Cyril, very red, whilst Dulcie looked up, pale and wondering. "We're not
dressed for visiting," she urged in a loud whisper in her brother's ear.

"But you require an answer, or why knock?" retorted the strange man.
"_Pray_ walk in," he repeated. He was so polite.

The door swung behind them, and the trembling twins found themselves
alone with the Wizard in a very large cave, where the walls glowed with
phosphorescent light, while the further end was hidden in deep gloom.




CHAPTER II

THE WIZARD AT HOME


"How do you do?" said the Wizard, as if he remembered he had forgotten
to ask. The Twins shyly shook hands with him and said they were quite
well, thank him. They didn't want to a bit, but he seemed to expect it.
"Let's talk matters over," he added with a smile. It was such a winning
smile that the children began to feel less uncomfortable. "You're not
always quite content, I believe," and he rubbed his hands cheerfully
together. "That mother of yours interferes rather too much, eh?" With a
rapid movement he pushed his spectacles away on to the top of his bumpy
baldness, revealing a pair of small eyes with a red, slumbering glow in
them.

As Cyril didn't reply Dulcie ventured to remark, "If you please, my
brother thinks she says 'don't' too often."

"But how do you know that?" interrupted Cyril, who, though surprised,
took a more practical view of the situation.

"Because," slowly replied the Wizard, taking off his spectacles and
scratching his big nose with them--"because I was an optician in my
youth and made these glasses, through which I have only to look to see
people as they really are and not what they appear to be. ["How clever!"
broke in Dulcie under her breath.] I found out at a glance that you are
discontented with your lot, and prefer to be free. You are tired of
control, eh? Isn't that the state of Home Affairs?"

"Yes," said Cyril, once more full of his wrongs. "It's only children who
are not allowed to do what they want. Grown-ups do as they like; so does
our dog; he goes out and comes in when he likes, eats when he wants,
leaves what he likes--or rather, what he doesn't like; so does our cat.
You see," he continued, growing quite chummy, "we are never allowed to
do this, that, and the other, like other people--animals, I mean--and
they are free and happy, and they needn't bother with lessons. It's so
stupid being a child!" he concluded plaintively, and Dulcie nodded a
similar opinion.

"Just as I thought. Well, I shouldn't put up with it if I were you,"
replied their new friend, smiling again, and scratching his nose with
his spectacles in his thoughtful, insinuating manner. "I should advise
you to go your own way, seek your own fortunes, and find your own
happiness for yourselves. We must see what we can do to help you to
freedom. Eh?"

The little guests did not think to thank him, for their eyes had begun
to roam with curiosity over the strange things that were all about. The
cave dwelling was queerly furnished, if it could be called furniture.
There were animals of all sizes and shapes, standing around stuffed,
staring,