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Fabulous Fairy Tales for children and adults. From our vast collection of old traditional fairy tales and fables.

The Story Of A Mother

A MOTHER sat by her little child; she was very sad, for
she feared it would die. It was quite pale, and its little
eyes were closed, and sometimes it drew a heavy deep breath,
almost like a sigh; and then the mother gazed more sadly than
ever on the poor little creature. Some one knocked at the
door, and a poor old man walked in. He was wrapped in
something that looked like a great horse-cloth; and he
required it truly to keep him warm, for it was cold winter;
the country everywhere lay covered with snow and ice, and the
wind blew so sharply that it cut one's face. The little child
had dozed off to sleep for a moment, and the mother, seeing
that the old man shivered with the cold, rose and placed a
small mug of beer on the stove to warm for him. The old man
sat and rocked the cradle; and the mother seated herself on a
chair near him, and looked at her sick child who still
breathed heavily, and took hold of its little hand.

'You think I shall keep him, do you not?' she said. 'Our
all-merciful God will surely not take him away from me.'

The old man, who was indeed Death himself, nodded his head
in a peculiar manner, which might have signified either Yes,
or No; and the mother cast down her eyes, while the tears
rolled down her cheeks. Then her head became heavy, for she
had not closed her eyes for three days and nights, and she
slept, but only for a moment. Shivering with cold, she started
up and looked round the room. The old man was gone, and her
child- it was gone too!- the old man had taken it with him. In
the corner of the room the old clock began to strike; 'whirr'
went the chains, the heavy weight sank to the ground, and the
clock stopped; and the poor mother rushed out of the house
calling for her child. Out in the snow sat a woman in long
black garments, and she said to the mother, 'Death has been
with you in your room. I saw him hastening away with your
little child; he strides faster than the wind, and never
brings back what he has taken away.'

'Only tell me which way he has gone,' said the mother;
tell me the way, I will find him.'

'I know the way,' said the woman in the black garments;
'but before I tell you, you must sing to me all the songs that
you have sung to your child; I love these songs, I have heard
them before. I am Night, and I saw your tears flow as you
sang.'

'I will sing them all to you,' said the mother; 'but do
not detain me now. I must overtake him, and find my child.'

But Night sat silent and still. Then the mother wept and
sang, and wrung her hands. And there were many songs, and yet
even more tears; till at length Night said, 'Go to the right,
into the dark forest of fir-trees; for I saw Death take that
road with your little child.'

Within the wood the mother came to cross roads, and she
knew not which to take. Just by stood a thorn-bush; it had
neither leaf nor flower, for it was the cold winter time, and
icicles hung on the branches. 'Have you not seen Death go by,
with my little child?' she asked.

'Yes,' replied the thorn-bush; 'but I will not tell you
which way he has taken until you have warmed me in your bosom.
I am freezing to death here, and turning to ice.'

Then she pressed the bramble to her bosom quite close, so
that it might be thawed, and the thorns pierced her flesh, and
great drops of blood flowed; but the bramble shot forth fresh
green leaves, and they became flowers on the cold winter's
night, so warm is the heart of a sorrowing mother. Then the
bramble-bush told her the path she must take. She came at
length to a great lake, on which there was neither ship nor
boat to be seen. The lake was not frozen sufficiently for her
to pass over on the ice, nor was it open enough for her to
wade through; and yet she must cross it, if she wished to find
her child. Then she laid herself down to drink up the water of
the lake, which was of course impossible for any human being
to do; but the bereaved mother thought that perhaps a miracle
might take place to help her. 'You will never succeed in
this,' said the lake; let us make an agreement together which
will be better. I love to collect pearls, and your eyes are
the purest I have ever seen. If you will weep those eyes away
in tears into my waters, then I will take you to the large
hothouse where Death dwells and rears flowers and trees, every
one of which is a human life.'

'Oh, what would I not give to reach my child!' said the
weeping mother; and as she still continued to weep, her eyes
fell into the depths of the lake, and became two costly
pearls.

Then the lake lifted her up, and wafted her across to the
opposite shore as if she were on a swing, where stood a
wonderful building many miles in length. No one could tell
whether it was a mountain covered with forests and full of
caves, or whether it had been built. But the poor mother could
not see, for she had wept her eyes into the lake. 'Where shall
I find Death, who went away with my little child?' she asked.

'He has not arrived here yet,' said an old gray-haired
woman, who was walking about, and watering Death's hothouse.
'How have you found your way here? and who helped you?'

'God has helped me,' she replied. 'He is merciful; will
you not be merciful too? Where shall I find my little child?'

'I did not know the child,' said the old woman; 'and you
are blind. Many flowers and trees have faded to-night, and
Death will soon come to transplant them. You know already that
every human being has a life-tree or a life-flower, just as
may be ordained for him. They look like other plants; but they
have hearts that beat. Children's hearts also beat: from that
you may perhaps be able to recognize your child. But what will
you give me, if I tell you what more you will have to do?

'I have nothing to give,' said the afflicted mother; 'but
I would go to the ends of the earth for you.'

'I can give you nothing to do for me there,' said the old
woman; 'but you can give me your long black hair. You know
yourself that it is beautiful, and it pleases me. You can take
my white hair in exchange, which will be something in return.'

'Do you ask nothing more than that?' said she. 'I will
give it to you with pleasure.'

And she gave up her beautiful hair, and received in return
the white locks of the old woman. Then they went into Death's
vast hothouse, where flowers and trees grew together in
wonderful profusion. Blooming hyacinths, under glass bells,
and peonies, like strong trees. There grew water-plants, some
quite fresh, and others looking sickly, which had water-snakes
twining round them, and black crabs clinging to their stems.
There stood noble palm-trees, oaks, and plantains, and beneath
them bloomed thyme and parsley. Each tree and flower had a
name; each represented a human life, and belonged to men still
living, some in China, others in Greenland, and in all parts
of the world. Some large trees had been planted in little
pots, so that they were cramped for room, and seemed about to
burst the pot to pieces; while many weak little flowers were
growing in rich soil, with moss all around them, carefully
tended and cared for. The sorrowing mother bent over the
little plants, and heard the human heart beating in each, and
recognized the beatings of her child's heart among millions of
others.

'That is it,' she cried, stretching out her hand towards a
little crocus-flower which hung down its sickly head.

'Do not touch the flower,' exclaimed the old woman; 'but
place yourself here; and when Death comes- I expect him every
minute- do not let him pull up that plant, but threaten him
that if he does you will serve the other flowers in the same
manner. This will make him afraid; for he must account to God
for each of them. None can be uprooted, unless he receives
permission to do so.'

There rushed through the hothouse a chill of icy coldness,
and the blind mother felt that Death had arrived.

'How did you find your way hither?' asked he; 'how could
you come here faster than I have?'

'I am a mother,' she answered.

And Death stretched out his hand towards the delicate
little flower; but she held her hands tightly round it, and
held it fast at same time, with the most anxious care, lest
she should touch one of the leaves. Then Death breathed upon
her hands, and she felt his breath colder than the icy wind,
and her hands sank down powerless.

'You cannot prevail against me,' said Death.

'But a God of mercy can,' said she.

'I only do His will,' replied Death. 'I am his gardener. I
take all His flowers and trees, and transplant them into the
gardens of Paradise in an unknown land. How they flourish
there, and what that garden resembles, I may not tell you.'

'Give me back my child,' said the mother, weeping and
imploring; and she seized two beautiful flowers in her hands,
and cried to Death, 'I will tear up all your flowers, for I am
in despair.'

'Do not touch them,' said Death. 'You say you are unhappy;
and would you make another mother as unhappy as yourself?'

'Another mother!' cried the poor woman, setting the
flowers free from her hands.

'There are your eyes,' said Death. 'I fished them up out
of the lake for you. They were shining brightly; but I knew
not they were yours. Take them back- they are clearer now than
before- and then look into the deep well which is close by
here. I will tell you the names of the two flowers which you
wished to pull up; and you will see the whole future of the
human beings they represent, and what you were about to
frustrate and destroy.'

Then she looked into the well; and it was a glorious sight
to behold how one of them became a blessing to the world, and
how much happiness and joy it spread around. But she saw that
the life of the other was full of care and poverty, misery and
woe.

'Both are the will of God,' said Death.

'Which is the unhappy flower, and which is the blessed
one?' she said.

'That I may not tell you,' said Death; 'but thus far you
may learn, that one of the two flowers represents your own
child. It was the fate of your child that you saw,- the future
of your own child.'

Then the mother screamed aloud with terror, 'Which of them
belongs to my child? Tell me that. Deliver the unhappy child.
Release it from so much misery. Rather take it away. Take it
to the kingdom of God. Forget my tears and my entreaties;
forget all that I have said or done.'

'I do not understand you,' said Death. 'Will you have your
child back? or shall I carry him away to a place that you do
not know?'

Then the mother wrung her hands, fell on her knees, and
prayed to God, 'Grant not my prayers, when they are contrary
to Thy will, which at all times must be the best. Oh, hear
them not;' and her head sank on her bosom.

Then Death carried away her child to the unknown land.



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