Belgian Fairy Tales — Background and Themes

phies found on the field of Courtrai, when the Flemish weavers, with their pikes, beat the French knights, in 1302. Though he worked hard all day, outdoors on the farm in summer, and tended the cows and horses in winter, he had plenty of time to give to his hares, which were so big and fat, that they took the prize at the local fair. In his loft over the barn, he had a dozen or two carrier pigeons. Some of these had been hatched on his father’s farm, but most of them had been brought from Ghent, a city down on the plain, where the two rivers, the Lys and the Scheldt join. Here, where there were plenty of canals, he had a cousin Rogier, a boy of his own age. The two lads often sent messages to each other by their winged letter carriers.

The Walloon folk pronounced the name of this city of Ghent, or Gand, in the French way, which sounds a good deal like “gong”; while the Flemings, who talk Dutch, say it with a hard g, and as if “gent.” We Americans put an h in the name; for fear, I suppose, lest we should pronounce it like “gent” in gentleman.

In fact, when you get into Belgium, you find that even the laws and some of the newspapers, as well as names of places, have two forms, French or Walloon, and Dutch or Flemish. The British soldiers usually take no further trouble to pronounce foreign names, except as they are spelled at home, on their island. That is the reason why, for the name of Ypres, around which the war raged during four years, one may hear the sounds—French, eepe, or epray; Flemish, i-per; and, what the English Tommies say, “wipers.”

Not long after his nineteenth birthday, Emile sent to his cousin Rogier, at Ghent, a message. It was written on a note sheet, as light as tissue paper. Rolled inside a bit of tin foil, in case of rain, and with black sewing silk from his mother’s work basket, it was tied on the pigeon’s right leg, between its pink toes and the first joint of the knee. Safely making the journey, the bird fluttered down on Rogier’s dove cote, which was set on a post in his garden. Untying the missive very gently, and letting the bird into the cote to rest, Rogier read:

“Crops were poor this year, and father had to sell my pet horse, Baldwin. I took it hard, and almost cried, to see a German horse dealer pay down the money and lead it off. When out in the road, Baldy actually turned round and looked back at us. The very next day, word came from the army headquarters that I must report to camp at Ypres. From next week, Tuesday, I shall be a soldier under the black, yellow and red flag. Hurrah! Sister Yvette has been singing the ‘Brabançonne,’ when she isn’t crying. I have only one sister, you know. I hope they’ll put me in the cavalry; or, if not, assign me to the machine-gun battalion. Goodbye! We’ll meet, when I get down into Flanders.”

All too soon, the looming shadow, cast from the east, shortened and the war-storm broke. On Sunday night, August 2, 1914, Germany sent an ultimatum, demanding passage of her armies through Belgium to France. To the Kaiser, Belgium was no more than a turnpike road to Paris. The hero, King Albert, knowing he had his people behind him, refused to cringe and become a German slave. It was like the boy David defying the giant Philistine. The national flag—black, yellow and red—the ancient colors of Brabant, the central province in the kingdom of the nine that made Belgium a nation—was unfurled everywhere by “men determined to be free.” That is what our Anthony Wayne said at Stony Point, in 1779.

By this time, in 1914, Emile was a seasoned soldier, not in the saddle, as he had hoped at first, but with the dog-drawn mitrailleuse, or machine-gun battalion, No. 40. A happy soldier he was, ready to fight “for King, for Law, for Liberty”—as the chorus in the Brabançonne—the national anthem—declared. Still happier was he to have with him in harness, drawing the revolving, quick-firing cannon, of which he was sergeant pointer, his pet dog, Goldspur. Like man, like dog was the Belgian War Department’s acceptance of both—“in the first class of efficiency.”

This was Belgium at peace, under her beloved King Albert and Queen Margaret. Rich in wonders of art and architecture, in fairy, folk wonder and hero lore, in traditions of valor and industry. When, again and again, the story teller visited the country, he brought back, each time, the seed, for flowers, in the bed-time story-garden.

THE WAR STORM AND BALDY THE HORSE

War, in modern times, comes like a lightning flash. Seven thousand German automobiles, loaded with soldiers, rushed over the Belgian border. The Uhlans galloped in by other wagon roads, and twenty army corps, in swift trains, followed. Belgium was desolated by fire and sword. The Liège forts, once thought impregnable, were reduced to rubbish. Louvain was given to the flames.

What awful odds! Only 68,000 men of all arms, in the Belgian Service, to stand against the onrush of hordes! Yet they did. Day by day, the Belgians wondered! Where were the Allies, that had promised to help them? Where were the red coats, or the khaki of the English, or the kilts of the Scotch, or the “invisible blue” of the French poilus? Had any one heard a sound of the bagpipes?

During those six weeks, before the British guns fired a shot, or the French sent reinforcements, the Belgian soldiers fought on, contesting the possession of their native soil, inch by inch. Many a time the machine-gun batteries drove off the German Uhlans and destroyed both the gunners and horses of their batteries; each time retreating in order and safety, though many a comrade of Emile’s was missing. City after city fell, until Brussels was occupied. It was thought that Antwerp could be saved, though the garrison was very small. Some English marines had come to help; and more, yes, a big army, was coming. So every one said.

So Emile and the other gunners braced up. They were again full of courage, when ordered to defend a narrow road, which was really a dyke, or causeway, with mud fields on either side, but commanding the main road, over which the German artillery must come. Here, with what military men call an enfilading fire, they could open on the Germans. They were given this post the night before, with only haversack rations.

The next morning, when breakfast, and a cold one, was hardly over, and the dogs had been drawn out of the shafts and sent to the rear, the German train of guns was heard in the distance thundering towards them. The Huns must go straight ahead; for, on either side of the brick paved road, were the ditches and destruction.

“’Twill be a hot fight, but keep cool, gentlemen,” cried the officer in command, “then, at the right moment, let every shot tell.”

“Crack, crack, crack!” The machine-guns opened and sheets of lead and fire swept a wide area. Bullets, not by hundreds but thousands, were showered upon horses, men, caissons and guns. Within five minutes, half of that German battery was a wreck. The dead horses and men, of the three forward cannon of the six, were piled on top of each other, or were rolling and plunging over the dyke. The others behind had to halt.

Emile noticed that one of the horses, from the German battery, drawing the front gun had been stung by a ball that scraped his flank. Part of the wooden tongue and whiffle tree had been shot away. They were dangling behind him, as he dashed madly forward.

This horse was no other than Baldy. Instantly recognizing his old pet, Emile waved his hand to the gunners of his company to spare the animal. He ran forward, shouting “Baldy, Baldy.”

The horse stopped and sniffed the air; but at the strange uniform, halted, even while he cocked his ear, awaiting further developments. Emile took in the situation at once, for he too had “horse sense.” Jumping down along the grassy sides of the dyke, he picked off enough white flowers to stick between his fingers and in his palm, so as to look like salt. Then in Walloon talk, he tried his old trick of enticing Baldy. As if in front of a phonograph, this four legged creature that had, for years, heard only German words, for “halt” or “back” or “get up,” moved his head sideways, first to the right, then up to the left, then down, as if pondering. At last, throwing back his head he neighed joyfully and trotted forward, as if he surely recognized his old master, who now patted him as if he welcomed a human friend.

It was a family reunion, for Emile, leading his prize back, amid his admiring companions, quickly told his story in brief to his captain, who bade him to lead Baldy over to Goldspur. There was no time to unharness the dog, nor any need of doing it; for as soon as Baldy was near enough, the dog’s tongue was as active as his tail. While one end of the animal was busy in licking the horse’s muzzle, as in old friendship, the other terminal was wig-wagging, as if a sailor boy were signalling “I’m glad to see you.”

It was many minutes before the Germans, further back, could unlimber a gun on the narrow road, point it at the Belgians and send shrapnel among them. By this time, however, the machine-gunners had made good their retreat, according to orders. The dogs pulled off the light Belgian artillery and the whole army moved to the defence of Antwerp. Emile’s battalion was soon out of range of the enemy, who wasted his shells in vain.

It would be a sad story to tell in detail of the fall of Antwerp. Against the overwhelming numbers, with few or no allies to help, and the heavy siege guns of the Huns in activity, day and night, the Belgians were no match for their foes, and the Germans entered the city.

Two mighty heroes rose out of the Belgian commonwealth during this awful, desolating war. One was that of Cardinal Mercier—bravest of the brave. The other was King Albert. He lived up to his colors, for in the Belgian flag, the king’s color is black, standing for constancy, wisdom and prudence. Later, when the Americans had reached Belgium, Albert rode with his queen, Margaret, into Ghent and Brussels.

What happened later, to Emile, and Baldy, and Goldspur, is told in his letter, from Queen Wilhelmina’s dominions, to his boy friend in Ghent.

“We are interned in a large camp in Gelderland, with British marines and sailors in one part and the Belgian army men in another. Baldy is rented out to a Dutch farmer near Nijkerk, till the war is over. The Dutch commandant lets me have Goldspur, and being our mascot, is a great favorite with all the men. A prisoner’s life is dull and tiresome, and we can only wait for victory, which must surely come. Queen Wilhelmina’s government has cared for a quarter of a million of our Belgian civilians and Holland spends one fifth of all her revenue in feeding them. Our people are building a splendid memorial of gratitude, at Amersfoort, and I am glad of it. One of our boys got hold of the words and music of an American song, and now the whole camp has learned to sing ‘The Yanks are coming,’ and I believe they’ll come, even beyond the Rhine.”

And they came, and of the three sons of the story-teller (who was himself one of Lincoln’s and Grant’s soldiers, a veteran of ’63), one was there; and to his grand children, these Belgian tales—mostly of the kind that have fairies in them—were first told. In these “Belgian Fairy” and wonder tales, we shall learn about the colors of the flag, and the national motto, and other things that, it is hoped, will make us Americans love Belgium the more, and all of us, at some time, see the country itself.

The little folks in wooden shoes have not forgotten how the American children sent to them a ship load of Christmas presents. Nor should we fail to remember that Belgium is one of our fatherlands, whence came the people who made the first homes in the four Middle States. The first white children, born in New York State, were of Belgian parents.

Not all the stories in this book are fairy tales, but all tell of wonderful flowers, animals, inventions, people, things, and happenings, if not of dragons, ogres and lovely little fairy folks, who do astonishing things. In Belgium, neither fairies nor men are anything but industrious, so the fairies work hard always.

THE SWAN MAIDENS AND THE SILVER KNIGHT

The two countries, Gelderland and Brabant adjoin each other, but their rivers flow far apart.

Once there was a castle, that stood on the banks of the Scheldt, on which the city of Brabo, named Antwerp, stands. Instead of being full of light and joy for all within its walls, there was a princess named Elsje, who was kept a prisoner there.

Her father and mother, dying when she was a little child, left her in the care of a count, who was to be her guardian. This nobleman was a selfish villain, and hoped to get her lands and estate. So he shut her up as a prisoner in the castle. If any knight should fight and overcome him, the princess would be delivered; but, as the wicked count was a man of gigantic strength and skilled in war, no one had ever attempted to meet him in battle.

The Princess Elsje was very lovely in character. In her captivity she was kind to the birds and all the winged creatures, being especially fond of seven swans, which she fed every day. Each one was very tame and took its food out of her hand. She knew them all by the names she had given them, Fuzzy, Buzzy, Trumpet, Jet, Diamond, Whitey and Black Eye. They were her best friends, for she was very lonely and had no human companions. Nor had she any idea that they were anything but dumb creatures that never could repay her kindness. But, strange to say, these seven swans were birds only in form. They had been changed by a wicked fairy from pretty maidens into swans. It was on this wise.

Once, while the good king of Gelderland had gone out hunting in the forest, with his lords and retainers, he rode in advance, for he was pursuing a deer. He got so far from his companions that he lost his way. Coming near a hut in the woods, to inquire how he might get back to his palace, he met an old woman. She promised to show him the way out and back home. Immediately the king pulled out his purse to hand her a gold coin; but the old woman proudly waved her hand to scorn the money and said to him, “You must marry my daughter and make her your queen. If you do not, you can never get home again.”

The king hesitated about giving his promise at once, even before he had seen the lady, for he had seven motherless children, all daughters at home. Their mother, on her dying bed, had made her husband give her a promise that the children should always be first in his thoughts.

Now, if he should marry again, would his new wife be good to them? He would much rather that they should first see their future mother and give their love to her, before he took his second wife.

But now, as he was very weary and almost ready to drop with hunger, he could not hesitate. He might die of weakness, while vainly wandering in the forest. Moreover, the old woman said to him, quite sharply:

“If you refuse, you will never get out of these woods and will starve to death. Come into my hut and I will feed you well.”

The king entered and found sitting by the fire a most beautiful maiden. He thought he had never seen a woman so fair, yet he did not like her.

She rose from her seat and came forward to greet him, as if she had been waiting for him. There was a table spread with plenty of good things to eat. The king sat down and the damsel herself waited upon him while he enjoyed the meal.

But all the time, the king did not like her looks, any more than at the first. At times he shuddered, for fear she might be some evil creature in lovely human form. However, he had promised the old woman to marry her daughter and it was now death to refuse. So he took the beautiful girl on his steed and rode straight to his castle, for the horse seemed to know the right way.

That very evening, the wedding took place with great pomp. The wonderful thing was, that all the lords and ladies and servants had supposed that their master the king had purposely left them, the day before, to make a journey to get him a wife. So they were now all ready for him in their best dresses and jewels, and glad to welcome his bride. All remarked upon her beauty, but the king still feared that his new wife was wicked and cruel, and his heart sank within him.

So, to make sure, he took his seven children off into a castle that was deep in the forests and not easily found. Even he himself had trouble in getting to it, until a wise old woman gave him a ball of yarn. This ball had the wonderful property of finding paths in the wood. If one threw it on the ground it would unroll of itself. So the king had a clue to the forest palace and daily went to visit his little folks and played with them.

The new wife noticed his going away so often, and becoming jealous of her lord’s absences, she scolded him, saying to him that he did not love her, to be thus away from her so many times. At last she found out, from the palace servants, where he kept the ball.

Then she made seven little coats and in each one she sewed an evil charm, which her wicked old mother had taught her. Walking in the woods until she came to the castle, she pretended to be glad to see the children, telling them that she had brought each one a present. The little folks were delighted and thought their step-mother was both lovely and kind. They put on their new coats and then gleefully danced together, joining hands as in a chorus. But in a few minutes a strange feeling came over them. Wings grew where their arms had been, their necks lengthened, while their legs shortened and became weblike. They were all changed into swans and flew out of the window. So the king never saw his children again.

The seven swans enjoyed their life in the air and soon joined the great flock that belonged to the king of the country of Brabant, where the princess Elsje was kept in the castle, on the Scheldt River. The royal swanherd, though he had a thousand or more birds under his care, when counting the cygnets, or swan babies, noticed the addition of the seven pretty birds and wondered whence they had come.

The seven swan maidens soon got acquainted with all the other swans, for these birds are very sociable and talk to each other in their own language. In this way they learned the story of the captive Brabant princess. When they found they were her favorites, and she had given each one of them a name, and every day called them to be fed, their hearts were melted by the kindness of the pretty lady. Sometimes they found her in tears and heard her pray for wings to fly away. This made them wish that they could leave their swan forms and be like her again, as they once were. Or, if not thus able, they longed to help her in some way.