they were a moment ago, it would be terrible; for they hate every live thing but themselves.—Not that they are much alive either!”
She whistled like a bird. The next instant not one of them was to be seen or heard, and the girl herself had disappeared.
It was my master, as doubtless he counted himself, come to take me home. He freed my ankles, and dragged me to the door of his hut; there he threw me on the ground, again tied my feet, gave me a kick, and left me.
Now I might at once have made my escape; but at length I had friends, and could not think of leaving them. They were so charming, so full of winsome ways, that I must see more of them! I must know them better! “To-morrow,” I said to myself with delight, “I shall see them again!” But from the moment there was silence in the huts until I fell asleep, I heard them whispering all about me, and knew that I was lovingly watched by a multitude. After that, I think they hardly ever left me quite alone.
I did not come to know the giants at all, and I believe there was scarcely anything in them to know. They never became in the least friendly, but they were much too stupid to invent cruelties. Often I avoided a bad kick by catching the foot and giving its owner a fall, upon which he never, on that occasion, renewed his attempt.
But the little people were constantly doing and saying things that pleased, often things that surprised me. Every day I grew more loath to leave them. While I was at work, they would keep coming and going, amusing and delighting me, and taking all the misery, and much of the weariness out of my monotonous toil. Very soon I loved them more than I can tell. They did not know much, but they were very wise, and seemed capable of learning anything. I had no bed save the bare ground, but almost as often as I woke, it was in a nest of children—one or other of them in my arms, though which I seldom could tell until the light came, for they ordered the succession among themselves. When one crept into my bosom, unconsciously I clasped him there, and the rest lay close around me, the smaller nearer. It is hardly necessary to say that I did not suffer much from the nightly cold! The first thing they did in the morning, and the last before sunset, was to bring the good giant plenty to eat.
One morning I was surprised on waking to find myself alone. As I came to my senses, however, I heard subdued sounds of approach, and presently the girl already mentioned, the tallest and gravest of the community, and regarded by all as their mother, appeared from the wood, followed by the multitude in jubilation manifest—but silent lest they should rouse the sleeping giant at whose door I lay. She carried a boy-baby in her arms: hitherto a girl-baby, apparently about a year old, had been the youngest. Three of the bigger girls were her nurses, but they shared their treasure with all the rest. Among the Little Ones, dolls were unknown; the bigger had the smaller, and the smaller the still less, to tend and play with.
Lona came to me and laid the infant in my arms. The baby opened his eyes and looked at me, closed them again, and fell asleep.
“He loves you already!” said the girl.
“Where did you find him?” I asked.
“In the wood, of course,” she answered, her eyes beaming with delight, “—where we always find them. Isn’t he a beauty? We’ve been out all night looking for him. Sometimes it is not easy to find!”
“How do you know when there is one to find?” I asked.
“I cannot tell,” she replied. “Every one makes haste to tell the other, but we never find out who told first. Sometimes I think one must have said it asleep, and another heard it half-awake. When there is a baby in the wood, no one can stop to ask questions; and when we have found it, then it is too late.”
“Do more boy or girl babies come to the wood?”
“They don’t come to the wood; we go to the wood and find them.”
“Are there more boys or girls of you now?”
I had found that to ask precisely the same question twice, made them knit their brows.
“I do not know,” she answered.
“You can count them, surely!”
“We never do that. We shouldn’t like to be counted.”
“Why?”
“It wouldn’t be smooth. We would rather not know.”
“Where do the babies come from first?”
“From the wood—always. There is no other place they can come from.”
She knew where they came from last, and thought nothing else was to be known about their advent.
“How often do you find one?”
“Such a happy thing takes all the glad we’ve got, and we forget the last time. You too are glad to have him—are you not, good giant?”
“Yes, indeed, I am!” I answered. “But how do you feed him?”
“I will show you,” she rejoined, and went away—to return directly with two or three ripe little plums. She put one to the baby’s lips.
“He would open his mouth if he were awake,” she said, and took him in her arms.
She squeezed a drop to the surface, and again held the fruit to the baby’s lips. Without waking he began at once to suck it, and she went on slowly squeezing until nothing but skin and stone were left.
“There!” she cried, in a tone of gentle triumph. “A big-apple world it would be with nothing for the babies! We wouldn’t stop in it—would we, darling? We would leave it to the bad giants!”
“But what if you let the stone into the baby’s mouth when you were feeding him?” I said.
“No mother would do that,” she replied. “I shouldn’t be fit to have a baby!”
I thought what a lovely woman she would grow. But what became of them when they grew up? Where did they go? That brought me again to the question—where did they come from first?
“Will you tell me where you lived before?” I said.
“Here,” she replied.
“Have you NEVER lived anywhere else?” I ventured.
“Never. We all came from the wood. Some think we dropped out of the trees.”
“How is it there are so many of you quite little?”
“I don’t understand. Some are less and some are bigger. I am very big.”
“Baby will grow bigger, won’t he?”
“Of course he will!”
“And will you grow bigger?”
“I don’t think so. I hope not. I am the biggest. It frightens me sometimes.”
“Why should it frighten you?”
She gave me no answer.
“How old are you?” I resumed.
“I do not know what you mean. We are all just that.”
“How big will the baby grow?”
“I
