Twilight Land by Howard Pyle (black authors fiction txt) 📕

in its place were fields and orchards and gardens.

It was very beautiful to see, but when the Tailor beheld it his knees began to smite together, and the sweat ran down his face in streams. All that night he walked up and down and up and down, but he could not think of one other task for the Demon to do.

When the next morning came the Demon appeared like a whirlwind. His face was as black as ink and smoke, and sparks of fire flew from his nostrils.

“What have you for me to do?” cried he.

“I have nothing for you to do!” piped the poor Tailor.

“Nothing?” cried the Demon.

“Nothing.”

“Then prepare to die.”

“Stop!” cried the Tailor, falling on his knees, “let me first see my wife.”

“So be it,” said the Demon, and if he had been wiser he would have said “No.”

When the Tailor came to the princess, he flung himself on his face, and began to weep and wail. The princess asked him what was the matter, and at last, by dint of question, got the story from him, piece by piece. When she had it all she began laughing. “Why did you not come to me before?” said she, “instead of making all this trouble and uproar for nothing at all? I will give the Monster a task to do.” She plucked a single curling hair from her head. “Here,” said she, “let him take this hair and make it straight.”

The Tailor was full of doubt; nevertheless, as there was nothing better to do, he took it to the Demon.

“Hast thou found me a task to do?” cried the Demon.

“Yes,” said the Tailor. “It is only a little thing. Here is a hair from my wife’s head; take it and make it straight.”

When the Demon heard what was the task that the Tailor had set him to do he laughed aloud; but that was because he did not know. He took the hair and stroked it between his thumb and finger, and, when he done, it curled more than ever. Then he looked serious, and slapped it between his palms, and that did not better matters, for it curled as much as ever. Then he frowned, and, began beating the hair with his palm upon his knees, and that only made it worse. All that day he labored and strove at his task trying to make that one little hair straight, and, when the sun set, there was the hair just as crooked as ever. Then, as the great round sun sank red behind the trees, the Demon knew that he was beaten. “I am conquered! I am conquered!” he howled, and flew away, bellowing so dreadfully that all the world trembled.

So ends the story, with only this to say:

Where man’s strength fails, woman’s wit prevails.

For, to my mind, the princess—not to speak of her husband the little Tailor—did more with a single little hair and her mother wit than King Solomon with all his wisdom.

“Whose turn is it next to tell us a story?” said Sindbad the Sailor.

“Twas my turn,” said St. George; “but here be two ladies present, and neither hath so much as spoken a word of a story for all this time. If you, madam,” said he to Cinderella, “will tell us a tale, I will gladly give up my turn to you.”

The Soldier who cheated the Devil took the pipe out of his mouth and puffed away a cloud of smoke. “Aye,” said he, “always remember the ladies, say I. That is a soldier’s trade.”

“Very well, then; if it is your pleasure,” said Cinderella. “I will tell you a story, and it shall be of a friend of mine and of how she looked after her husband’s luck. She was,” said Cinderella, “a princess, and her father was a king.”

“And what is your story about?” said Sindbad the Sailor.

“It is,” said Cinderella, “about—”