Tudor Jenks was known for his humorous tales. The moral of this one shall be "We shall never ask the Professor for a story again." :-)It was a very hot day. Even on the piazzas, under the broad roof and awnings, there was hardly air enough to move the leaves of the honeysuckle-vines. Out in the pasture, the cattle gathered in the shadows and did not move except to lash lazily at the flies.
The children had come in from the lawn, and were sitting still. Their mother and father were in the city, and the only grown person at home was their visitor, an old friend of the family, a professor, who had come to stay over Sunday. He had been reading, but had now put down his book, and sat listening to the children's talk.
At length one of the little girls looked up and caught the Professor's kind glance. He smiled at her, and she had a happy thought.
"Professor, won't you tell us a story?" she asked.
"Oh, yes—do!" said another little girl; and then one of the brothers drew his chair closer, and the other brother put down his book to listen.
"Why, Daisy," the Professor said, a little uneasily, "I never told a story in my life. I hardly imagine I am capable of the feat."
"Please do," said the second little girl, whose name was Violet.
"Do; that 's a good fellow," said Hal.
"If you insist, I '11 try to accommodate myself to circumstances," the Professor said, after a moment. " But I am more accustomed to delivering lectures than to the narration of fiction. What shall I tell you about?"
"Oh, anything," said Stephen. "But make it lively."
"Did you ever hear the story of Havelock the Dane?" asked the Professor, looking severely at his young audience.
"No," came a chorus; "tell us that."
"Very well," said the Professor, "I '11 tell you about him."
The children settled themselves very comfortably, and the Professor began:
"In a remote period of antiquity, when most of our history partook of the nature of fabulous tradition, the reigning sovereign of Denmark died, leaving an only son. As the royal consort had previously died also, this son was an orphan, and his bringing-up devolved upon—"
"What does devolved upon mean?" asked Daisy, when a pause came.
"Devolved upon means fell to—that is, became the duty of," answered the Professor.
"Oh," said Daisy. "Go on, please."
"His bringing-up fell upon certain high officials of the court. The boy's name was Havelock, and the officials at length came to regard the little prince as an obstacle in the way of their own ambition. So they resolved to sacrifice the lad to their own advancement."
"They were going to kill him?" asked Hal.
"Not just that. Though far inferior to more modern peoples, they yet seem to have recognized the sanctity of human life, and consequently determined to rid themselves of him. Constructing, therefore, a rude raft, they set the orphan prince adrift, confiding him to the uncertain mercy of the winds and waves."
"They put him on a raft, and then let the raft go, did n't they? " Stephen said.
"Precisely," answered the Professor. "But the elements proved less unfeeling than his human guardians. Havelock upon his clumsy vessel accomplished a voyage that is hardly credible, for he is reported finally to have been stranded upon the coast of Lincolnshire—an eastern county of England. Here the helpless infant was fortunately discovered by a fisherman whom tradition accords the name of Grim; and Grim not only succored the foundling, but carefully tended his youthful years until the young man bade fair to do credit to his foster-parent."
"To his what?" asked Hal.
"Foster-parent. One who stands in loco parentis is so called—that is," the Professor explained, "one acting as a father to a child, though not a father really—or a mother, either—is known as a foster father or mother. Foster, you know, is to cherish or care for; and a foster-parent is one who—"
"Please go on, Professor," said Violet; " I see what you mean. It is one who takes care of a child like a parent."
"Yes," the Professor agreed. "Such was this benevolent Grim to Havelock, the waif whom chance or an overruling Providence had intrusted to his charge. Now, when the young Dane, dispossessed of his patrimony, and an exile in a foreign land, was, in spite of his humble station, grown to be a man in years and bearing, it happened that political events in England had caused a beautiful princess also to be left sole heiress to an extended dominion."
"Oh, I 'm glad there 's a princess!" said Daisy, clapping her hands. "I believe it 's going to be a fairy story, after all."
"Not just that," said the Professor, smiling indulgently; "but, at all events, a story that is not without its romantic features—though probably fabulous to some extent."
"Please go on about the princess," said Violet. "Was she beautiful?"
"Doubtless she was so reported, as the narrative was woven into a troubadour's ballad," said the Professor. "We are at liberty to assume that she was a paragon of personal attractions."
"Does that mean handsome?" asked Stephen.
"Yes," said the Professor. "Where was I? Oh, I remember. Being thus in a situation very similar to that occupied by Havelock before his expatriation—"
"What is expa—?" Daisy began.
"It means before he was sent out on the raft," said Hal. "Don't interrupt, please. Go on, Professor."
"She, too, was in the way of some powerful aristocrats who desired to usurp the throne. And in order to guard against her ever becoming the wife of some one willing and able to espouse her cause, these nobles came to the conclusion that they would wed her to some occupant of a humble station."
"And did they?" asked Stephen.
"Yes," the Professor went on. "And by a remarkable combination of events it came about that the supposed humble groom selected was none other than Havelock, the reputed son of Grim, the fisherman."
"And what did they do?" asked Violet.
"They married the princess to Havelock, making merry over the nuptials of the wronged heiress and him they regarded as the fisher-lad of Lincolnshire. But it happened that Grim had preserved some of the garments in which the boy Havelock was dressed at the time he was despatched from the Danish coast. And these furnished a clue to the young seafarer's nationality. This clue gave a starting-point for Havelock's inquiring spirit, and by patient analysis and persistent inquiry the young Danish prince at length succeeded in establishing his identity."
"What was that?" asked Stephen.
"He found out who he was—he found out he was a Danish prince and the missing heir to the throne. Appealing to some of the adherents to his dynasty, Havelock established his claim to sovereignty, and after some controversy attained supremacy."
"Did he get to be king?" Hal inquired.
"Yes ; and being then King of Denmark, he found himself in a position successfully to enforce the claim of the princess to her own usurped dominions."
"So she got back her throne, too?" asked Hal.
"Yes; and so Havelock the Dane came to be king not only of what was his inheritance, but also of the realm in Albion over which his wife's title brought him sovereignty."
"Is that all?" asked Violet, as the Professor paused.
"Yes," answered the Professor; "but the legend, if authentic, certainly furnishes a noteworthy example of poetic justice."
"Yes, sir," said Stephen. "And we are very much obliged to you."
"Quite welcome, I 'm sure," said the Professor, picking up his book and going indoors.
"Wake up, Daisy!" said Hal, shaking his sister gently by the shoulder. "It is n't polite to go to sleep like that."
"Is the—story—over? " asked Daisy, rubbing her eyes.
"Yes," said Violet.
"What was it about?—the last part of it?" Daisy asked drowsily.
"I don't know quite," said Hal. "I feel sure Havelock married the princess, anyway. But it was n't a fairy story."
"What kind of a story was it?" Violet asked.
"A kind of a dictionary story, I guess," said Stephen. "It must be nice to go to college and learn what big words mean. The Professor must—why, I 'm in the Fifth Reader, and I could n't tell what he was talking about."
"Nor I, either," said Hal. "But I 'm going to read that story when I 'm grown up and have been through college!"
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