Snow-White; or, The House in the Wood

The house was so well hidden, one might almost stumble against it
before one became aware of it. All round the woods stood tall and
dense, old woods of pine and hemlock, with here and there great smooth,
squat beeches, and ragged, glistening yellow birches. For the most
part they jostled one another so close that one almost fancied they
must be uncomfortable; but in one spot they fell away from a steep,
rocky bank or ledge, drawing back and standing in a circle at some
little distance, leaving an open space of sunny green, at the foot of
the rock. It was on this open space that the house looked; and as the
house was built of stone, and leaned up against the ledge behind it,
one could hardly tell where man's hand had begun, or where left off.
The stones might almost have been flung together by a boy at play; yet,
rough as they were, they fitted close, and kept the weather out. The
roof was of bark; the whole thing was half-covered with creepers that
made their way down in a leisurely fashion from the ledge above, not
too inquisitive, but still liking to know what was going on. To this
end they looked in at the windows, which stood open all summer long,
and saw many things which must have surprised them. The squirrels went
in boldly, several times a day; so did the birds, the braver of them;
and all came out looking pleased with themselves and with things in
general. So there was necessarily something or somebody pleasant inside
the house.
I said that the trees stood well back from the house in the wood. I
ought to have excepted three, a stately pine, and two glorious yellow
birches, which stood close to it, as close as might be. In fact,
part of the hut seemed to be built round the bole of the pine, which
disappeared for several feet, as if the stones had clasped it in a
rough embrace, and refused to let go their hold. The birches were a few
feet from the door, but near enough for one to lean out of window and
pull off the satin fringes. Their roots swelled out above the ground,
and twisted themselves into curves that might make a delightful seat,
under the green bending canopy, through whose waving folds the trunk

glistened like a giant prince of rags and tatters. In the centre of the
tiny glade stood a buttonwood-tree, whose vast girth seemed curiously
out of proportion to its surroundings. The pine and the birches were
noble trees; all the forest round was full of towering stems and
knotted, powerful branches; but beside the great buttonwood, they
seemed like sturdy dwarfs. If there had been any one to measure the
trunk, he would have found a girth of twenty-five feet or more, near
the base; while above the surrounding forest, it towered a hundred
feet and more in air. At a height of twelve or fifteen feet appeared
an opening, two or three feet in diameter. A hollow? surely! not so
large as that in the Lycian plane-tree, where Licinius Mucianus dined
with nineteen companions,--yes, and slept too, and enjoyed himself
immensely,--but large enough to hold two or three persons with all
comfort, if not convenience. As for the number of squirrels it might
hold, that was past counting; they were running in and out all day
long, and made such a noise that they disturbed the woodpeckers, and
made them irritable on a hot day.
There never was such a wood for birds! Partly from its great age,
partly from favourable accidents of soil and aspect, it had accumulated
an unusual variety of trees; and any bird, looking about for a good
building site, was sure of finding just the particular tree he liked
best, with building materials, food, and every other requisite to
heart's desire. So the trees rustled and quivered with wings, and rang
with song, all day long, except in the hot sleepy noons, when most
respectable birds keep within nests, and only the woodthrush from time
to time sends out his few perfect notes, to show that all times are
alike to the true singer. Not content with the forest itself, some
families--I think they were ruby-crowned wrens and bluebirds--had
made their nests in the creepers that matted the roof of the hut with
green; and the great buttonwood was a positive metropolis, densely
populated with titmice, warblers, and flycatchers of every description.
If anybody lived in the stone hut, he would not want for company, what

with the birds and the squirrels, and the woodchucks that came and
went across the little green as unconcernedly as if it were their own
front dooryard. Decidedly, the inhabitant, if there were one, must be
of kin to the wildwood creatures, for his dwelling and its surroundings
evidently belonged as much to the forest people as to him.
On the day when my story begins, the house in the wood was the only
lifeless thing, or so it seemed, in the whole joyous little scene. It
was a day in early May, and the world was so delighted with itself that
it laughed and twinkled all over. The trees were hardly yet in full
leaf, but had the gray-green misty look of spring, that makes one see
Erl-K├Ânig's daughters shimmering in every willow, and rustling out of
sight behind the white birch-trunks. The great buttonwood had put out
its leaves, covered with thick white down; the air was full of sweet
smells, for it had rained in the night, and wet leaves, pine needles,
new ferns, and a hundred other lovely awakening things, made the air
a life-giving ether. The little green was starred with anemones and
eyebrights; under the cool of the trees one might see other things
glimmering, exquisite shadowy forms,--hepaticas, were they, or fairies
in purple and gray fur? One felt the presence of mayflowers, though
one could not see them unless one went close and pulled away the brown
dry leaves; then the lovely rosy creatures would peep out and laugh,
as only mayflowers can when they play at hide and seek. There seemed
to be a robin party going on under the buttonwood-tree. A dozen of
them or more were running and hopping and strutting about, with their
breasts well forward, doing amazing things in the matter of worms. Yes,
it must surely have rained in the night, or there could not have been
such a worm-harvest. There seemed almost to be enough for the robins,
and any one who knows robins is aware that this is an extravagant
statement. The titmice had apparently not been invited; they sat in
the branches and looked on, or hopped and ran about their green leafy
city. There was no need for them to travel all that distance to the

ground; besides, they considered worms vulgar and coarse food. A
self-respecting titmouse, who provides over two hundred grubs a day
for himself and his family, may well be content to live in his own
city, the murmuring, rustling place where grubs lie close on the bough
and under the bark, and where flies are ready for the bill; he has no
need to pierce the friendly earth, and drag up her unsightly creeping
things, to swallow piecemeal. A titmouse has his opinion of robins,
though he is on intimate terms with most birds in the forest.
Now and then some sudden wave of instinct or purpose would run through
all the great army of birds,--those in the buttonwood city, the robins
struggling on the green, and far in the dim forest depths thrush and
song-sparrow and warbler. First a stray note here and there, setting
the pitch, it might be; then, fuller and fuller, a chorus, rising high
and higher, fluting, trilling, whistling, singing away like mad, every
little ruffled throat of them all. Praise, was it, or profession of
belief, or simply of joy of being alive and able to sing under green
leaves and summer sun?
But even these outbursts of rapture did not rouse the house in the
wood. It lay there in the morning glory, gray, silent, senseless,
crouched against the wall of rock behind it.

The child had grown tired of the road. At first it had been delightful
to patter along in the soft white dust, leaving the print of her feet
so clear behind her. She might be a hundred little girls, she thought,
instead of one. The prints reached away back, as far as she could see,
hundreds and hundreds of little trotty feet, each with its toes marked
as plain as if you drew them with a pencil. And the dust felt soft and
smooth, and when you put your foot down it went up puff in the air, and
made little clouds; only when it got in your throat it made you cough
and sneeze, and it was gritty in your eyes, too. By and by, as I said,
she grew tired of this, and it was a new joy to see the little river
that came running along just then.
"Running and running, without any feet;
Running and running, and isn't it sweet!"
That was what the child sang, for she had a way of singing when she
was alone. Without hesitating, she plumped into the river, and the
water was cool and delicious to her hot little toes. She walked along,
holding her petticoats high, though there was no need of that, as
they were short enough before; splashing just enough to make silver
sparkles at every step. The river did not seem to grow deeper; it was
just precisely made to wade in, the child thought. For some way the
banks were fringed with meadow-rue, and she had to stop every little
while to admire the fluffy white blossoms, and the slender, graceful
stems. Then came alders, stubby and thick, with last year's berries
still clinging here and there to the black twigs. Then, somehow, all
at once there began to be trees along by the river side. The child
had been so absorbed in making sparkles and shouting at them, she had
forgotten the banks for awhile; now, when she looked up, there was no
more meadow-rue. Trees came crowding down to the water's edge; trees
were all about her, ranks on ranks of them; wherever she looked, she
saw only green rustling tents and waving curtains.
"I am in a woods!" said the child. She laughed aloud at the idea, and
looked round again, full of joy and wonder. It was pretty enough,
surely. The woods were not so thick but that sunbeams could find their

way down through the branches, dappling the green gloom with fairy
gold. Here and there the gold lay on the river, too, and that was a
wonderful thing, handfuls of gold and diamonds flung down from the sky,
shimmering and sparkling on a crystal floor; but in other places the
water slept still and black in the shadow, only broken where a stone
humped itself out, shining and mossy, with the silver breaking over it
and running down with cheerful babblings into the soft blackness below.
By and by there was a stone so big that its top stood out dry and brown
above the water. It was a flat top, and the child sat down on it, and
gathered her petticoats about her, and let her feet rest in the cool
flowing. That was a great pleasure, to be really part of the brook, or
of the rock. She laughed aloud, suddenly, and kicked a little; till the
bright drops flew over her head; then she began to sing and talk, both
together.
"And I comed away,
And I runned away,
And I said I thought I did not
Want to stay!
"Well, and if Miss Tyler will not be surprised! she will say 'Oh, dear
me! where is that child?' and then she will look everywhere, and
everywhere, and everywhere, and I will not be nowhere!" She broke out
into a funny little bubbling laugh, and the brook laughed in almost
exactly the same way, so that the child nodded at it, and kicked up the
sparkles again, to show her appreciation.
"And then they will send out all over the village, and everybody will
say, 'Oh, yes, we seed that child. We seed her going into the store,
and we seed her going into the house, and we seed her running about all
over the place.' Yes! but, nobody seed me run, and nobody seed me go,
and nobody don't know nothing, and nothing don't nobody know!" and
she bubbled again. This time a green frog came up out of the water and
looked at her, and said "Croak," in an inquisitive tone.
"Why did I?" said the child, looking at him sidewise. "Well, if I tell,
will not you tell anybody, never no more? honest Injun? Well, then, I
will not tell you! I don't tell things to frogs!" She splashed a great
splash, and the frog departed in anger.
"Huh!" said the child. "He was noffin but an old frog. He wasn't a

fairy; though there was the Frog Prince, you know." She frowned
thoughtfully, but soon shook her head. "No, that wasn't him, I'm sure
it wasn't. He'd have had gold spots on his green, and this frog hadn't
a single one, he hadn't. He wasn't a prince; I'd know a frog that was a
prince, minute I seed him, I 'spect. And he'd say:
"'King's daughter youngest, open the door!'
"And then I would, and he would come in, and--and--I'd put him in Miss
Tyler's plate, and wouldn't she yellup and jump? and Mamma--"
Here the child suddenly looked grave. "Mamma!" she repeated, "Mamma.
Well, she went away and left me first, and that was how it was. When
you leave this kinds of child alone, it runs away, that's what it does;
and Miss Tylers isn't any kind of persons to leave this kinds of child
wiz, anyhow, and so I told them at first.
"And I comed away,
And I runned away,
And I said I thought I did not
Want to stay!
And they teared their hair,
And they made despair,
And--and--
And I said I thought perhaps I did not care!
"That's a long one. When I come to some fairies I'll make more. When I
am big, I'll talk that way all the time, wiz poetry in it."
She was silent for a few minutes, watching the bubbles that came
sailing down the stream. Most of the way they were clear like glass,
with a little rim of foam where they joined on, she thought; but when
they came to a certain place, where a shaft of yellow light came down
and made sparkles on the water, every bubble turned rainbow colour,
most beautiful. Only, some of them would go the wrong way, over into
the shadow.
"Hi!" she shouted to them. "Come over here and be rainbows! you are a
stupid, you are! If I was a bubble, I would know enough to come to the
right place, and be a rainbow, yes, I would. I'll kick you, old bubble,
if you go there!" Stretching out her foot, she stretched it a little
too far, and sat down in the stream with a souse. She scrambled out
hastily, but this time on the bank. She had had enough of the brook,
and was red with anger. "You needn't have your old stones so slippery!"
she said. "I needn't have sat on your old stone, anyhow, but I thought

it might be pleased. And my feet was cold, and I will not stay there any
more, not a single minute, so you can make all the noise you want to,
and noffin but frogs will stay in you, and not prince frogs One Bit,
only just common ones, so now!"
She shook her head at the brook, and turned away. Then she turned back
again, and her baby forehead clouded.
"See here!" said the child. "I 'spect I'm lost."
There seemed no doubt about that. There was no sign of a path anywhere.
The still trees came crowding down to the water's edge, sometimes
leaning far over, so that their drooping branches met across the still
pools. On every side were green arcades, long reaches of shimmering
leaves, cool deeps of fern; nothing else. The child had never known
fear, and it did not come to her now. She reflected for a moment; then
her brow cleared. "I must find a House in the Wood!" she announced to
the brook. She spoke with decision, and cheerfulness reigned in her
mind. Of course there was a house somewhere; there always was, in every
wood. Sometimes two children lived in it, and the brother was a white
fawn all day, and turned into a boy at night; that would be fun! and
sometimes it was an old woman--oh, dear, yes, but sometimes that old
woman was a witch, and put you in a chicken-coop, and ate you up when
you were fat. Yes; but you would know that house, because it was all
made of candy and pancakes and things, and you could just run round
behind it, and pull off some pancakes from the shed, p'r'aps, and then
run away as fast as ever you could, and old womans couldn't run half
so fast as children, and so! But the best house, on the whole, would
be the Dwarf House. Yes, that was the one to look for. The house where
seven dwarfs lived, and they had the table all ready set when you came,
and you took a little out of one bowl, and a little out of another
cup; and then they came in and found you asleep, and said, "Who is
this sweet maiden?" and then you stayed and cooked for them, just like
Snow-white, and--and--it was just lovely!
"Well, I wish it would be pretty soon!" said the child. "I'm pretty
hungry, I 'spect p'raps."