“Ah,” said the mother, “that is what we cannot find out.”
“Will you tell me a story?” asked the boy.
“Yes, if you can tell me exactly how deep the gutter is in the little street through which you go to school.”
“Just half way up to my knee,” said the boy, “that is, if I stand in the deepest part.”
“It is easy to see how we got our feet wet,” said the old man. “Well, now I suppose I ought to tell a story, but I don’t know any more.”
“You can make up one, I know,” said the boy. “Mother says that you can turn everything you look at into a story, and everything, even, that you touch.”
“Ah, but those sort of tales and stories are worth nothing. The real ones come of themselves; they knock at my forehead, and say, ‘Here we are.’”
“Won’t there be a knock soon?” said the boy. And his mother laughed, while she put elder-flowers in the teapot, and poured boiling water over them. “Oh, do tell me a story.”
“Yes, if a story comes of itself; but tales and stories are very grand, they only come when it pleases them. Stop,” he cried all at once, “here we have it; look! there is a story in the teapot now.”
The little boy looked at the teapot, and saw the lid raise itself gradually, and long branches sprouted out, even from the spout, in all directions, till they became larger and larger, and there appeared a large elder-tree, covered with flowers white and fresh. It spread itself even to the bed, and pushed the curtains aside, and oh, how fragrant the blossoms smelt. In the midst of the tree, sat a pleasant-looking old woman, in a very strange dress. The dress was green, like the leaves of the elder-tree, and was decorated with large white elder-blossoms. It was not easy to tell whether the border was made of some kind of stuff, or of real flowers.
“What is that woman’s name?” asked the boy.
“The Romans and Greeks called her a dryad,” said the old man, “but we do not understand that name; we have a better one for her in the quarter of the town where the sailors live. They call her Elder-flower mother, and you must pay attention to her now, and listen while you look at the beautiful tree.”
“Just such a large blooming tree as this stands outside in the corner of a poor little yard; and under this tree, one bright sunny afternoon sat two old people, a sailor and his wife. They had great-grandchildren, and would soon celebrate the golden wedding, which is the fiftieth anniversary of the wedding-day in many continental countries, and the Elder-mother sat in the tree and looked as pleased as she does now. ‘I know when the golden wedding is to be,’ said she, but they did not hear her, they were talking of olden times. ‘Do you remember,’ said the old sailor, ‘when we were quite little, and used to run about and play in the very same yard where we are now sitting, and how we planted little twigs in one corner, and made a garden?’ ‘Yes,’ said the old women, ‘I remember it quite well, and how we watered the twigs, and one of them was a sprig of elder that took root,
