THE DEVOTED FRIEND
Oscar Wilde.
One morning the old Water-rat put his head out of his hole. He had bright
beady eyes and stiff grey whiskers and his tail was like a long bit of black
india-rubber. The little ducks were swimming about in the pond, looking just
like a lot of yellow canaries, and their mother, who was pure white with real
red legs, was trying to teach them how to stand on their heads in the water.
“You will never be in the best society unless you can stand on your heads,”
she kept saying to them; and every now and then she showed them how it was
done. But the little ducks paid no attention to her. They were so young that
they did not know what an advantage it is to be in society at all.
“What disobedient children!” cried the old Water-rat; “they really deserve
to be drowned.”
“Nothing of the kind,” answered the Duck, “every one must make a beginning,
and parents cannot be too patient.”
“Ah! I know nothing about the feelings of parents,” said the Water-rat; “I
am not a family man. In fact, I have never been married, and I never intend to
be. Love is all very well in its way, but friendship is much higher. Indeed, I
know of nothing in the world that is either nobler or rarer than a devoted
friendship.”
“And what, pray, is your idea of the duties of a devoted friend?” asked a
Green Linnet, who was sitting in a willow-tree hard by, and had overheard the
conversation.
“Yes, that is just what I want to know,” said the Duck; and she swam away to
the end of the pond, and stood upon her head, in order to give her children a
good example.
“What a silly question!” cried the Water-rat. “I should expect my devoted
friend to be devoted to me, of course.”
“And what would you do in return?” said the little bird, swinging upon a
silver spray, and flapping his tiny wings.
“I don’t understand you,” answered the Water-rat.
“Let me tell you a story on the subject,” said the Linnet.
“Is the story about me?” asked the Water-rat. “If so, I will listen to it,
for I am extremely fond of fiction.”
“It is applicable to you,” answered the Linnet; and he flew down, and
alighting upon the bank, he told the story of The Devoted Friend.
“Once upon a time,” said the Linnet, “there was an honest little fellow
named Hans.”
“Was he very distinguished?” asked the Water-rat.
“No,” answered the Linnet, “I don’t think he was distinguished at all,
except for his kind heart, and his funny round good-humoured face. He lived in
a tiny cottage all by himself, and every day he worked in his garden. In all
the country-side there was no garden so lovely as his. Sweet-william grew
there, and Gilly-flowers, and Shepherds’-purses, and Fair-maids of France.
There were damask Roses, and yellow Roses, lilac Crocuses, and gold, purple
Violets and white. Columbine and Ladysmock, Marjoram and Wild Basil, the
Cowslip and the Flower-de-luce, the Daffodil and the Clove-Pink bloomed or
blossomed in their proper order as the months went by, one flower taking
another flower’s place, so that there were always beautiful things to look at,
and pleasant odours to smell.
“Little Hans had a great many friends, but the most devoted friend of all
was big Hugh the Miller. Indeed, so devoted was the rich Miller to little Hans,
that be would never go by his garden without leaning over the wall and plucking
a large nosegay, or a handful of sweet herbs, or filling his pockets with plums
and cherries if it was the fruit season.
“‘Real friends should have everything in common,’ the Miller used to say,
and little Hans nodded and smiled, and felt very proud of having a friend with
such noble ideas.
“Sometimes, indeed, the neighbours thought it strange that the rich Miller
never gave little Hans anything in return, though he had a hundred sacks of
flour stored away in his mill, and six milch cows, and a large flock of woolly
sheep; but Hans never troubled his head about these things, and nothing gave
him greater pleasure than to listen to all the wonderful things the Miller used
to say about the unselfishness of true friendship.
“So little Hans worked away in his garden. During the spring, the summer,
and the autumn he was very happy, but when the winter came, and he had no fruit
or flowers to bring to the market, he suffered a good deal from cold and
hunger, and often had to go to bed without any supper but a few dried pears or
some hard nuts. In the winter, also, he was extremely lonely, as the Miller
never came to see him then.
“‘There is no good in my going to see little Hans as long as the snow
lasts,’ the Miller used to say to his wife, ‘for when people are in trouble they
should be left alone, and not be bothered by visitors. That at least is my idea
about friendship, and I am sure I am right. So I shall wait till the spring
comes, and then I shall pay him a visit, and he will be able to give me a large
basket of primroses and that will make him so happy.’
“‘You are certainly very thoughtful about others,’ answered the Wife, as she
sat in her comfortable armchair by the big pinewood fire; ‘very thoughtful
indeed. It is quite a treat to hear you talk about friendship. I am sure the
clergyman himself could not say such beautiful things as you do, though he does
live in a three-storied house, and wear a gold ring on his little finger.’
“‘But could we not ask little Hans up here?’ said the Miller’s youngest son.
‘If poor Hans is in trouble I will give him half my porridge, and show him my
white rabbits.’
