The Sun's Sisters

was once a young Prince who had no playmates except a peasant lad named Lars. The King, of course, did not like to have his son play with such a common boy; but as there were no princes or kings in the neighborhood, he had no choice but to put up with Lars. One day the Prince and Lars were shooting at a mark; and Lars hit the bull’s-eye again and again, while the Prince’s arrows flew rattling among the tree-trunks, and sometimes did not even hit the target. Then he grew angry and called Lars a lout and a clodhopper. Lars did not mind that much, for he knew that princes were petted and spoiled, and could not bear to be crossed.

“Now, Prince,” he said, "let us shoot up into the air and see who can shoot the highest.”

The Prince, who had a beautiful gilt bow and polished steel-tipped arrows, had no doubt but that he could shoot much higher than Lars, whose bow was a juniper branch which he had himself cut and cured. So he accepted the offer.

“Let us aim at the sun,” he cried, gayly.

“All right,” shouted Lars; and at the same moment they let fly two arrows, which cleft the air with a whiz and vanished among the fleecy clouds.

The boys stood looking up into the sun-steeped air until their eyes ached; and after a moment or two, the Prince’s arrow fell at his side, and he picked it up. Nearly fifteen minutes elapsed before Lars’s arrow returned, and when he picked it up, he was astonished to find a drop of blood on the tip of it, to which clung a dazzlingly beautiful golden feather.

“Why—look at that!” cried the boy, with delight. "Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Yes, but it is mine,” replied the Prince; “it was my arrow.”

“It was no such thing,” said Lars; “I made the arrow myself and ought to know it. Yours are steel-tipped and polished.”

“I tell you it is my arrow,” cried the Prince in great anger; “and if you don’t give me the feather, it will go ill with you.”

Now, Lars would have been quite willing to part with the feather, if the Prince had asked him for it, but he was a high-spirited lad, and would not consent to be bullied.

“You know as well as I do that the arrow was mine,” he said, scowling; “and the feather is mine, too, and I won’t give it to anybody.”

The Prince said nothing; but, pale with rage, he hurried back to the castle and told his father, the King, that his arrow had brought down a beautiful golden feather and that Lars had taken it from him.

Now, if you have any acquaintance with kings, you may perhaps imagine how the old gentleman felt when he heard that his son and heir had been thus wronged. It was to no purpose that Lars showed him the drop of blood on the rude whittled arrow; he insisted that the feather was the Prince’s, and that Lars was a thief and a robber. But Lars was not to be frightened even at that. He stuck to his story and refused to give up the feather.

“Well, then,” said the King, with a wicked grin, “we’ll say that it is yours. But in that case you must be prepared to prove it. When you bring me the golden hen, from whose tail this feather has been shot, then I’ll admit that it is yours. But if you fail, you will be burned alive in a barrel of tar.”

Now, to be burned alive in a barrel of tar is not a pleasant thing; and Lars, when he heard that such a fate was in store for him, wished he had never seen the golden feather. But it would be disgraceful to back down now, so he accepted the terms, stuffed into his luncheon-bag a leg of smoked mutton and a dozen loaves of bread, which the cook at the castle gave him, and started on his journey. But the question now arose, where should he go? Golden hens were not such everyday affairs that he might expect to find them in any barn-yard. And barn-yard hens, moreover, were not in the habit of flying aloft; and the golden feather had come down to him from some high region of the air. He became heavy-hearted when he thought of these things, and imagined, whenever he saw a farmer burning stumps and rubbish at the roadside, that it was the barrel of tar in which he was to end his days. For all that, he kept trudging on, and when evening came he found himself on the outskirts of a great forest. Being very tired, he put his luncheon bag under his head, and soon fell asleep. But he had not been sleeping long when he was waked up by somebody trying to pull the bag away from under him. He raised himself on his elbow, rubbed his eyes, and to his astonishment saw a big fox sitting on his haunches and staring at him. “Where are you going?” asked the fox.

“I wasn’t going anywhere,” said Lars. “I was sleeping.”

“Well, I am aware of that,” observed Reynard; “But when you are not sleeping, where are you then going?”

“Oh, well,” said Lars, “the fact is, I am in a bad scrape. I have got to find the golden hen that has lost a tail-feather.”

And he told the fox his story.

“Hum,” said the fox; “that is pretty bad. Let me look at the feather.”

The boy pulled out the feather from his inside vest pocket, where he kept it carefully wrapped up in birch-bark.

“Ah,” said Reynard, when he had examined it; “you know I have a large acquaintance among hens. In fact, I am very fond of them. I shouldn’t wonder if I might help you find the one which has lost this feather.”

Lars, who had been quite down in the mouth at the prospect of the barrel of tar, was delighted to hear that.

“I wish you would bear me company,” said he. “If you’ll do me a good turn, I’ll do you another.”

The fox thought that was a fair bargain; and so they shook hands on it, and off they started together.

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“Do you know where we are going?” asked Reynard, after a while.

“No,” said Lars; “but I supposed you did.”

“I do. We are going to the Sun’s Sister. She has three golden hens. It was one of those you hit with your arrow.”

“But will she be willing to part with any of them?” asked the boy.

“Leave that to me,” answered Reynard; “you know I have had some experience with hens.”

Day after day they walked up one hill and down another until they came to the castle of the Sun. It was a gorgeous castle, shining with silver and gold and precious stones. The boy’s eyes ached when he looked at it. Even the smoke that curled up into the still air from the chimneys was radiant like clouds at sunset.

“That’s a nice place,” said Lars.

“So it is,” said Reynard. “It is best, I think, to have me sneak into the poultry-yard, where the three golden hens are, and then I’ll bring out the one that has lost its tail-feather.”

Lars somehow didn’t like that plan. He didn’t quite trust Reynard in the matter of hens; he knew the fox had a natural weakness for poultry, but, of course, he was too polite to say so.

“No, Reynard,” he began, blushing and hesitating; “I am really afraid you might come to harm. And you might make too much of a racket, you know, setting the whole poultry-yard in commotion.”

“Well, then, you go yourself,” said Reynard, somewhat offended; “but take heed of this warning. Look neither to the right nor to the left, and go straight to the poultry-yard, seize the hen that has lost one of the three long tail-feathers, and then hasten out as quick as you can.”

Lars promised that he would obey in all particulars. The gate was wide open; the sentries, who stood dozing in their boxes, did not seem to mind him as he entered. It was high noon; the watch-dogs slept in their kennels, and a noonday drowsiness hung over the whole dazzling palace. So the boy went straight to the poultry-yard, as he had been directed, spied the three golden hens, the splendor of which nearly blinded him, grabbed the one of them that had lost a tail-feather, and started again in hot haste for the gate. But as he passed by the wing of the palace he noticed a window, the shutters of which were ajar. A great curiosity to see what was behind these shutters took possession of him. “It would be a pity to leave this beautiful place without looking about a little,” he thought; “I can easily catch that hen again if I let her go now, for she is as tame as a house-chicken.”

So he let the hen go, opened the shutter, and peeped into the room. And what do you think he saw? Well, he could scarcely have told you himself, for he was so completely overwhelmed that he stood gazing stupidly, like a cow at a painted barn-door. But beautiful—oh, beautiful, beyond all conception, was that which he saw. That was the reason he stood speechless, with open mouth and staring eyes. Of course, now you can guess what it was. It was none other than the Sister of the Sun. She was lying upon her bed, sleeping sweetly, like a child that is taking an after-dinner nap. Goodness and kindness were shining from her features, and Lars was filled with such ineffable Joy at the mere sight of her that he forgot all about the hen and the barrel of tar, and his playmate the Prince, and the fox’s warning. He did not know that this was her great charm—every one who looked upon her was instantly filled with gladness unspeakable. Sorrow, and care, and malice, and hatred instantly fled from the heart of every one who came into her presence. No wonder Lars couldn’t think of hens, when he had so lovely a creature to look upon. For several minutes he stood at the window, lost in the rapturous sight. Then stealthily, and without thinking of what he was doing, he climbed over the window-sill, and step by step drew nearer.

“Oh, how beautiful! how beautiful! how beautiful!” he whispered with bated breath. “Oh, I must kiss her before I go, or I shall never have peace so long as I live.”

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And down he stooped and kissed the Sun’s Sister. You would have supposed now that she would have wakened. But, no! She lay perfectly still; her bosom heaved gently, and the red blood went meandering busily under her soft, transparent skin, and her dazzling hair billowed in a golden stream over the silken pillow, and down upon the door. Lars would have been content to spend all his life gazing at her. But a strange uneasiness came over him,—his errand, the golden hen, the barrel of tar, and all the rest of it came back to his memory slowly, as if emerging from a golden mist, and, with a sudden determination, he covered his eyes with his hands, jumped out of the window, and started again in search of the hen. But, somehow, the whole world had now a different look to him. Everything had changed, and the golden hen, too. When he tried to catch her, this time, she flapped with her wings, gave a hoarse shriek, and ran as fast as she could. Lars plunged ahead, reaching out with both his hands to catch her, but she slipped from his grasp, and yelled and screamed worse than ever. Instantly her two companions set up a sympathetic cackle, and in another minute the entire poultry-yard—geese, ducks, peacocks and hens—joined the chorus, making an ear-splitting racket, the like of which had scarcely been heard since the world was made. The Sun’s Sister, aroused by this terrible commotion, rubbed her beautiful eyes, and started in alarm for the poultry-yard. The dogs came rushing out of their kennels, barking furiously; the sentries who had been dozing at the gates drew their swords and flourished them savagely, and everybody in the whole castle was astir.

“What are you doing here?” asked the Sun’s Sister, when she saw the boy chasing her favorite golden hen.

“Oh, well,” said Lars, feeling rather bashful; “I was only amusing myself.”

“Well,” said the Sun’s Sister, gently (for she was as good as she was beautiful), “you can’t amuse yourself catching my hens unless—unless—”

“Unless what?” asked Lars.

“Unless” (and here the face of the Sun’s Sister grew very sad) “unless you can rescue my sister Afterglow from the Trolds, who carried her off far behind the western mountains many years ago.”

Lars scarcely knew what to answer to that; he would have liked to consult his friend Reynard before saying anything. But the Sun’s Sister looked so beautiful that he had not the heart to say her nay, and so he rashly promised. Then he took his leave reluctantly, and the moment he was outside the gate and could no more see the radiant face, his heart seemed ready to break with longing and sadness.

“Well, didn’t I tell you you would get into mischief?” said Reynard, when he heard the story of Lars’s exploits. “So now we shall have to rescue this Afterglow too. Well, that’ll be no easy matter; and if you can’t behave any better than you have done to-day, then there’s really no use in our attempting it.”

Lars had to coax and beg for a full hour, and promise that his behavior should be the very pink of propriety and discretion, if Reynard would only forgive him and help him in his next enterprise. Reynard held out long, but at last took pity on Lars and gave consent.

Day after day, and night after night, they traveled toward the far mountains in the west, and at last arrived at the castle of the Trolds.

“Now,” said the fox, “I shall go in alone, and when I have induced the girl to follow me, I shall hand her over to you, and then you must rush away with her as fast as you can; and leave me to detain the Trolds by my tricks, until you are so far away that they can not overtake you.”

Lars thought that was a capital plan, and stationed himself outside the gate while the fox slipped in. It was early evening, and it was almost dark; but there shot up a red blaze of light from all the windows of the castle of the Trolds. Reynard, who had been there many a time before, and was an old acquaintance of tho Trolds, soon perceived that something unusual was going on. So far as he could see they were having a ball; and the Trolds were all taking turns at dancing with Afterglow,—for she was the only girl in the whole company. When they saw the fox one of them cried out:

“Hallo, old Reynard, you have always been a light-footed fellow. Won’t you come in and have a dance?”

“Thanks,” said Reynard, “I am never loath to dance.”

And he placed his paw upon his breast and made his bow to Afterglow, who was darker than her sister Dawn, and more serious, but scarcely less beautiful. She filled the heart of every one who looked upon her, not with buoyant joy and hope, but meditation and gentle sadness. She was sad herself, too, because she hated the ugly Trolds who held her in captivity, and longed to go back to the beautiful palace of her brother, the Sun. So when Reynard asked her to dance, she scarcely looked at him, but with a weary listlessness allowed him to put his arm about her waist and swing her about to the measure of the music. And Reynard was a fine dancer. Swiftly and more swiftly he gyrated about, and every time he passed a candle he managed to blow it out. One—two—three!—before anybody knew it, it was pitch dark in the hall; and before the Trolds had recovered from their astonishment, Reynard had danced out through the door into the hall, from the hall into the court-yard, and from the court-yard into the open field, outside the gate.

“Lars,” he cried to the boy, “here is Afterglow. Now take her and hurry away as fast as you can.”

Lars did not have to be told that twice; but taking Afterglow by the hand ran as fast as his feet could carry him.

Reynard instantly slipped in again and pretended to help the Trolds to light the candles. But it took him a long time to strike fire with the flint, because the tinder was damp, and if the Trolds had not been as stupid as they were, they would have seen that the fox was making them trouble instead of helping them. After a long while, however, they succeeded in getting the candles lighted, and then they perceived that Afterglow was gone.

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“Where is Afterglow? Where is Afterglow?” they all roared in chorus, and some of them wept with anger, while others tore their beards and hair with rage.

“Oh, you sly old fox, it is you who have let her escape,” shouted one great, fat, furious Trold, “but you shall suffer for it. Just let me get hold of you, and you shan’t have another chance to play tricks again.”

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Instantly they all made a rush for Reynard, yelling and weeping, and stamping and threatening. But Reynard, as you know, is no easy customer to catch; and the Trolds were no match for him in running. He led them a dance over fields, and moors, and mountains, keeping just in front of them, so that they always supposed they were on the point of catching him, but yet eluding them by his agility and unexpected turns and leaps. He took good care to lay his course in the direction opposite to that which Lars and Afterglow had taken; and thus, the farther the Trolds ran, the slighter were their chances of recovering her. After a while, however, Reynard grew tired of this game, and then he remembered that there was a big swamp near by, and thither he hastened. But while he sprang lightly from hillock to hillock, the heavy Trolds in their wrath plunged ahead, and before they knew it, they sank down in the marsh up to their very waists. The more they struggled to get out, the deeper they settled in the mud; and a chorus of angry roars and shouts and hoarse yells rose from the floundering company in that swamp and swept across the sky like a fierce, discordant storm. But shouting did not do them any good. The night passed, and when the Dawn flushed the east, the fox, sitting on his hillock, called out:

“Look, there comes the Sun’s Sister.”

The Trolds, supposing it was Afterglow, turned with one accord toward the east, and instantly, as the first rays of the Dawn struck them, they turned into stone. For the Trolds only go abroad in the night, and can not endure the rays of the Sun. And the huge stones, vaguely retaining their shapes, can yet be seen in the marsh in Lapland where they perished.

Now, Reynard lost no time in seeking Lars and Afterglow, and toward evening he found their tracks, and before morning came he had overtaken them. When they arrived at the castle of the Sun they were received with great delight, and Dawn and Afterglow, after their long separation, kissed and embraced each other, and wept with joy. Now Lars was at liberty to take the golden hen and depart for the King’s castle; but the trouble with him now was that he did not want to depart. He could not tear himself away from Dawn’s radiant presence, but sat as one bewitched, staring into her lovely face. And so it came to pass that they were engaged, and Lars promised to come back and marry her, as soon as he had made his peace with his master the King, and presented him with the golden hen. Now, that seemed to Dawn a nice arrangement, and she let him depart. Lars invited his good friend Reynard to bear him company, but when they came to the place of their first meeting Reynard refused to go any farther. So Lars fell upon his neck, thanked him for his good service, and they embraced and kissed each other. The King received Lars pretty well, and was delighted to get the golden hen. But when he heard about the Sun’s Sister, whom no one could look upon without being filled with gladness, his brow became clouded, and it was easy to see that he was much displeased. So he told Lars that, unless he brought the Sun’s Sister instantly to the court and gave her as a bride to the young Prince, he would have to be burned in the barrel of tar after all. Now, that was the most unpleasant thing Lars had heard for a good while, and he wished he could have had the counsel of his good friend Reynard; for otherwise he saw no way out of the scrape. Then it occurred to him that the Sun had two sisters, and that possibly he might induce Afterglow to marry the Prince. He made haste accordingly to be off on his journey, and when he saw the tar-barrels being made ready on the hill-top behind the castle, he vowed that, unless he was successful in his errand, he would be in no haste to come back again. When he arrived at the palace of the Sun, Dawn was overjoyed to see him. But when he told his story and mentioned, in passing, the tar-barrel, then she was not quite so well pleased. However, she went to consult Afterglow; and Afterglow, after her experience with the ugly Trolds, was not at all averse to marrying a handsome young Prince. So she rode away on a splendid charger with Lars, and the Prince, when he heard she was coming, rode out to meet her, and even the old King himself vowed that he had never seen any one so beautiful. He grew so gentle, and courteous, and affectionate as he looked at her, that he forgot all about his threats; and when Afterglow asked him what that great pile of tar-barrels was for, he felt quite ashamed of himself, and answered:

“Oh, I was going to burn a wretch there; but as I suppose you don’t like the smell of burnt wretch on your wedding-day, I’ll give orders to have it removed.”

The next day the wedding was celebrated with great magnificence; and the feasting and the dancing and rejoicing lasted for an entire week. When it was all over, Lars asked the King’s permission to go on a long journey. He had no fear of a refusal, for the King had become so nice and gentle, since his daughter-in-law came into the family, that even his best friends scarcely recognized him. So he readily granted Lars’s request. With a light heart and bounding steps Lars went eastward, day after day, and night after night, until he came to the palace of the Sun. And there he celebrated his wedding with Dawn, and lived with joy ineffable in her sweet presence, until the end of his days. If he is not dead, he is probably living there yet.