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    The Maker of Rainbows And other Fairy-tales and Fables
    The Maker of Rainbows And other Fairy-tales and Fables
    The Maker of Rainbows And other Fairy-tales and Fables
    Ebook123 pages1 hour

    The Maker of Rainbows And other Fairy-tales and Fables

    By Elizabeth Shippen Green Elliott and Richard le Gallienne

    ()

    Read preview
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 26, 2013
    The Maker of Rainbows And other Fairy-tales and Fables

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      Book preview

      The Maker of Rainbows And other Fairy-tales and Fables - Elizabeth Shippen Green Elliott

      The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Maker of Rainbows, by Richard Le Gallienne

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

      almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or

      re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

      with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

      Title: The Maker of Rainbows

             And other Fairy-tales and Fables

      Author: Richard Le Gallienne

      Illustrator: Elizabeth Shippen Green

      Release Date: January 26, 2013 [EBook #41921]

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAKER OF RAINBOWS ***

      Produced by Anna Hall and the Online Distributed

      Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was

      produced from images generously made available by The

      Internet Archive)

      [See page 48

      OFTEN SHE WOULD LIFT THE LID OF THE GOLDEN COFFER AND LOOK AT THE TATTERED ROBE

      THE

      MAKER OF RAINBOWS

      AND OTHER FAIRY-TALES AND FABLES

      BY

      RICHARD LE GALLIENNE

      AUTHOR OF

      AN OLD COUNTRY HOUSE

      WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY

      ELIZABETH SHIPPEN GREEN

      HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS

      NEW YORK AND LONDON

      MCMXII

      COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY HARPER & BROTHERS

      PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

      PUBLISHED OCTOBER, 1912

      I · M

      THAT THIS VOLUME SHALL BE ENTIRELY IN KEEPING WITH ITS FAIRY-TALE CONTENTS, I DEDICATE IT TO MY GOOD FRIENDS, ITS PUBLISHERS, MESSRS. HARPER & BROTHERS IN REMEMBRANCE OF KINDLY RELATIONS BETWEEN THEM AND ITS WRITER SELDOM FOUND OUT OF A FAIRY-TALE

      CONTENTS

      chap.  page

      The Old Coat of Dreams1

      The Maker of Rainbows7

      The Man with Something in His Eye14

      Mother-of-Pearl17

      The Mer-Mother27

      The Sleepless Lord29

      The Man with No Money39

      The Rags of Queen Cophetua42

      The Wife from Fairy-Land51

      The Buyer of Sorrows54

      The Princess's Mirror60

      The Pine Lady73

      The King on His Way to be Crowned75

      The Stolen Dream88

      The Stern Education of Clowns103

      ILLUSTRATIONS

      OFTEN SHE WOULD LIFT THE LID OF THE GOLDEN COFFER AND LOOK AT THE TATTERED ROBE  Frontispiece

      A SUDDEN STRANGE NEW LIGHT WOULD SHINE OUT OF ITS PAGES  Facing p.30

      HE WENT FORTH INTO THE DAWN SLEEPLESS  Facing p.36

      THE HERALD ONCE MORE SET THE TRUMPET TO HIS LIPS AND BLEW  Facing p.56

      HER ONLY CARE WAS TO GAZE ALL DAY AT HER OWN FACE  Facing p.60

      THE MAKER OF

      RAINBOWS

      THE OLD COAT OF DREAMS

      A PROLOGUE

      eople in London—not merely literary folk, but even those higher social circles to which a certain publisher, whose name—or race—it is hardly fair to mention, had so obsequiously climbed—often wondered whence had come the wealth that enabled him to maintain such an establishment, give such elaborate parties, have so many automobiles, and generally make all that display which is so convincing to the modern mind.

      Of course they were not seriously concerned, because, so long as it is a party, and the chef is paid so much, and the wines are as old as they should be, not even the rarest blossom on the most ancient and distinguished genealogical tree cares whose party it is, or, indeed, with whom she dances. There is only one democracy, and that is controlled by gentlemen with names that hardly sound beautiful enough to mention in fairy tales—that democracy of money to which the fairest flower of our aristocracy now bows her coroneted head.

      Strange—but we all know that so it is. Therefore, all sorts of distinguished and beautiful people came to the publisher's parties.

      It would have made no difference, really, to their hard hearts, could they have known where all the champagne and conservatories and music came from—they would have gone on dancing all the same, and eating pâté de foie gras and sherbets; yet it may interest a sad heart here and there to know how it was that that publisher—whose name I forget, but whose nose I can never forget—was able to pay for all that music and dancing, strange flowers, and enchanted food, none of which he, of course, understood.

      Aristocrats in London, of course, know nothing of a northern district of New York City called Harlem, with so many streets that a learned arithmetician would be needed to number them: a district which, at the first call of spring, becomes vocal with children on door-steps and venders of every vegetable in every language. In this district, too, you hear strange trumpets blow, announcing knife and scissors grinders, and strange bells ringing from strings suspended across carts, whose merchandise is bottles and old newspapers. You will hear, too, just when the indomitable sweet smells from the terrible eternal spring are blowing in at your window, and the murmur of rich happy people going away is heard in the land, a raucous cry in the hot street—a cry full of melancholy, even despair: it goes something like this—Cash clo'! Cash clo'!

      Well, it was just then that a young poet, living in one of those highly arithmetical streets, was wondering, as all the sad spring murmur came to his ears, how he could possibly buy a rose for the bosom of his sweetheart, with whom he was to dance that night at a local ball. Everything he had in the world had gone. He had sold everything—except his poems. All his precious books had gone, sad one by one. Little paintings that once made his walls seem like the Louvre had gone. All his old silver spoons and all the little intaglios he loved so well, and yes! he had even sold the old copper chest of the Renaissance, all studded nails, with three locks, in which ... well, all had gone. Only, where was that rose for the bosom of his sweetheart—where was it growing? Where and how was it to be bought?

      Just as he was at his wit's end, he heard a cry through the window. It had meant nothing to him before. Now—strange as it may sound—it meant a rose!

      Cash clo'! Cash clo'!

      He had an old dress-suit in his wardrobe. Perhaps that would buy a rose! So, leaning through the window, he called down to the voice to come up.

      The gentleman from Palestine came up.

      It would be easy to describe the contempt with which he surveyed the distinguished though somewhat ancient garments thus offered to him—in exchange for a rose!—how he affected to examine linings and seams, knowing all the time the distinguished tailor that had made them, and what a bargain he was about to drive.

      Of course, they weren't, well ... really ... practically ... they weren't worth buying....

      The poet wondered a moment about the cost of a rose.

      Are they worth the price of a rose? he asked.

      The gentleman from Palestine didn't, of course, understand.

      You see, said he, finally; I'd like to give you more, but you know how it is ... look at these linings and buttonholes! Honestly, I don't really care about them at all—but—really a dollar and a half is the best I can do on them.... And he eyed the poet's clothes with contempt.

      A dollar seventy-five, said

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