The Halcyon Fairy Book

useless her labor was; and so she went in her sore trouble to the birch tree on her mother’s grave, and cried and cried, because her mother lay dead beneath the sod and could help her no longer. In the midst of her grief she suddenly heard her mother’s voice speak from the grave, and say to her, “Why do you weep, little daughter?”
I love my mother very much, and she is thankfully quite alive (Hi, mom!) but I would still probably be unsettled to hear the dead talking to me. On the other hand, if you’re having one of those days, you’re having one of those days. Still, this bespeaks a certain lack of coping mechanisms. It’s been long enough for a birch tree to grow up. If this were anywhere but a fairy tale, the moment when a witch has just threatened to eat you is probably not the best time to begin sobbing about your late mom. I miss my grandmother, but I don’t engage in a bout of tears about that when a semi is bearing down on me, ya know?
But it’s a fairy tale, so that’s fine.
“The witch has scattered barley-corns on the hearth, and bid me pick them out of the ashes,” said the girl; “that is why I weep, dear little mother.”
“Do not weep,” said her mother consolingly. “Break off one of my branches, and strike the hearth with it crosswise, and all will be put right.”
It’s like the Giving Tree! Only not so co-dependent!
The girl did so. She struck the hearth with the birchen branch, and lo! the barley-corns flew into the pot, and the hearth was clean. Then she went back to the birch tree and laid the branch upon the grave. Then her mother bade her bathe on one side of the stem, dry herself on another, and dress on the third.
When the girl had done all that, she had grown so lovely that no one on earth could rival her. Splendid clothing was given to her, and a horse, with hair partly of gold, partly of silver, and partly of something more precious still.
They gloss over how the horse arrived, but I like to think it just fell out of the upper branches, whinnying hysterically.
The girl sprang into the saddle, and rode as swift as an arrow to the palace.
As she turned into the courtyard of the castle the king’s son came out to meet her, tied her steed to a pillar, and led her in.
It was the butler’s day off.
He never left her side as they passed through the castle rooms;and all the people gazed at her, and wondered who the lovely maiden was, and from what castle she came; but no one knew her — no one knew anything about her. At the banquet the prince invited her to sit next him in the place of honor; but the witch’s daughter gnawed the bones under the table. The prince did not see her, and thinking it was a dog, he gave her such a push with his foot that her arm was broken. Are you not sorry for the witch’s daughter? It was not her fault that her mother was a witch.
I love this line. The stepsisters always get the cold shoulder, and the entire reason I love this story is because some unknown Russian storyteller actually felt the injustice of that.
Were I retelling this story, not merely blathering about it, I would be completely unable to resist turning the witch’s daughter into a dog turned into a human, in much the same way that the mother was turned into a sheep. (Makes sense, right? The witch can’t have children, adopts a dog, presents it to her husband, who has already proven to be less than observant, as a daughter. Ooh, maybe she’s the sheepdog! Wow, this writes itself …)
And then I would immediately be more interested in the dog-girl than in the daughter and her pet tree and things would get badly derailed.
Towards evening the good man’s daughter thought it was time to go home; but as she went, her ring caught on the latch of the door, for the king’s son had had it smeared with tar.
You know, like you do.
She did not take time to pull it off, but, hastily unfastening her horse from the pillar, she rode away beyond the castle walls as swift as an arrow. Arrived at home, she took off her clothes by the birch tree, left her horse standing there, and hastened to her place behind the stove.
Since nobody remarks on the horse or pile of clothes, I assume the tree ate them.
In a short time the man and the woman came home again too, and the witch said to the girl, “Ah! you poor thing, there you are to be sure! You don’t know what fine times we have had at the palace! The king’s son carried my daughter about, but the poor thing fell and broke her arm.”
This got weirdly cover-for-abuse suddenly, or is it just me?
The girl knew well how matters really stood, but she pretended to know nothing about it, and sat dumb behind the stove.
The next day they were invited again to the king’s banquet.
“Hey! old man,” said the witch, “get on your clothes as quick as you can; we are bidden to the feast. Take you the child; I will give the other one work, lest she weary.”
She kindled the fire, threw a potful of hemp seed among the ashes, and said to the girl, “If you do not get this sorted, and all the seed back into the pot, I shall kill you!”
No comment from her on the barley-corns yesterday. You’d think she’d figure out something odd was up. I say again, this is not a first-rate witch.
The girl wept bitterly; then she went to the birch tree, washed herself on one side of it and dried herself on the other; and this time still finer clothes were given to her, and