<h2><SPAN name="KIND_WILLIAM_AND_THE_WATER_SPRITE" id="KIND_WILLIAM_AND_THE_WATER_SPRITE"></SPAN>KIND WILLIAM AND THE WATER SPRITE.</h2>
<p>There once lived a poor weaver, whose wife died a few years
after their marriage. He was now alone in the world except for
their child, who was a very quick and industrious little lad,
and, moreover, of such an obliging disposition that he gained
the nickname of Kind William.</p>
<p>On his seventh birthday his father gave him a little net
with a long handle, and with this Kind William betook himself
to a shallow part of the river to fish. After wandering on for
some time, he found a quiet pool dammed in by stones, and here
he dipped for the minnows that darted about in the clear brown
water. At the first and second casts he caught nothing, but
with the third he landed no less than twenty-one little fishes,
and such minnows he had never seen, for as they leaped and
struggled in the net they shone with alternate tints of green
and gold.</p>
<p>He was gazing at them with wonder and delight, when a voice
behind him cried, in piteous tones—</p>
<p>"Oh, my little sisters! Oh, my little sisters!"</p>
<p>Kind William turned round, and saw, sitting on a rock that
stood out of the stream, a young girl weeping bitterly. She had
a very pretty face, and abundant yellow hair of marvellous
length, and of such uncommon brightness that even in the shade
it shone like gold. She was dressed in grass green, and from
her knees downwards she was hidden by the clumps of fern and
rushes that grew by the stream.</p>
<p>"What ails you, my little lass?" said Kind William.</p>
<p>But the maid only wept more bitterly, and wringing her
hands, repeated, "Oh, my little sisters! Oh, my little
sisters!" presently adding in the same tone, "The little
fishes! Oh, the little fishes!"</p>
<p>"Dry your eyes, and I will give you half of them," said the
good-natured child; "and if you have no net you shall fish with
me this afternoon."</p>
<p>But at this proposal the maid's sobs redoubled, and she
prayed and begged with frantic eagerness that he would throw
the fish back into the river. For some time Kind William would
not consent to throw away his prize, but at last he yielded to
her excessive grief, and emptied the net into the pool, where
the glittering fishes were soon lost to sight under the sand
and pebbles.</p>
<p>The girl now laughed and clapped her hands.</p>
<p>"This good deed you shall never rue, Kind William," said
she, "and even now it shall repay you threefold. How many fish
did you catch?"</p>
<p>"Twenty-one," said Kind William, not without regret in his
tone.</p>
<p>The maid at once began to pull hairs out of her head, and
did not stop till she had counted sixty-three, and laid them
together in her fingers. She then began to wind the lock up
into a curl, and it took far longer to wind than the
sixty-three hairs had taken to pull. How long her hair really
was Kind William never could tell, for after it reached her
knees he lost sight of it among the fern; but he began to
suspect that she was no true village maid, but a water sprite,
and he heartily wished himself safe at home.</p>
<p>"Now," said she, when the lock was wound, "will you promise
me three things?"</p>
<p>"If I can do so without sin," said Kind William.</p>
<p>"First," she continued, holding out the lock of hair, "will
you keep this carefully, and never give it away? It will be for
your own good."</p>
<p>"One never gives away gifts," said Kind William, "I promise
that."</p>
<p>"The second thing is to spare what you have spared. Fish up
the river and down the river at your will, but swear never to
cast net in this pool again."</p>
<p>"One should not do kindness by halves," said Kind William.
"I promise that also."</p>
<p>"Thirdly, you must never tell what you have now seen and
heard till thrice seven years have passed. And now come hither,
my child, and give me your little finger, that I may see if you
can keep a secret."</p>
<p>But by this time Kind William's hairs were standing on end,
and he gave the last promise more from fear than from any other
motive, and seized his net to go.</p>
<p>"No hurry, no hurry," said the maiden (and the words sounded
like the rippling of a brook over pebbles). Then bending
towards him, with a strange smile, she added, "You are afraid
that I shall pinch too hard, my pretty boy. Well, give me a
farewell kiss before you go."</p>
<p>"I kiss none but the miller's lass," said Kind William,
sturdily; for she was his little sweetheart. Besides, he was
afraid that the water witch would enchant him and draw him
down. At his answer she laughed till the echoes rang, but Kind
William shuddered to hear that the echoes seemed to come from
the river instead of from the hills; and they rang in his ears
like a distant torrent leaping over rocks.</p>
<p>"Then listen to my song," said the water sprite. With which
she drew some of her golden hairs over her arm, and tuning them
as if they had been the strings of a harp, she began to
sing:</p>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span>"Warp of woollen and woof of gold:
<br/></span> <span>When seven and seven and seven are
told."
<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p>But when Kind William heard that the river was running with
the cadence of the tune, he could bear it no longer, and took
to his heels. When he had run a few yards he heard a splash, as
if a salmon had jumped, and on looking back he found that the
yellow-haired maiden was gone.</p>
<p>Kind William was trustworthy as well as obliging, and he
kept his word. He said nothing of his adventure. He put the
yellow lock into an old china teapot that had stood untouched
on the mantelpiece for years. And fishing up the river and down
the river he never again cast net into the haunted pool. And in
course of time the whole affair passed from his mind.</p>
<p>Fourteen years went by, and Kind William was Kind William
still. He was as obliging as ever, and still loved the miller's
daughter, who, for her part, had not forgotten her old
playmate. But the miller's memory was not so good, for the
fourteen years had been prosperous ones with him, and he was
rich, whereas they had only brought bad trade and poverty to
the weaver and his son. So the lovers were not allowed even to
speak to each other.</p>
<p>One evening Kind William wandered by the river-side
lamenting his hard fate. It was his twenty-first birthday, and
he might not even receive the good wishes of the day from his
old playmate. It was just growing dusk, a time when prudent
bodies hurry home from the neighbourhood of fairy rings,
sprite-haunted streams, and the like, and Kind William was
beginning to quicken his pace, when a voice from behind him
sang:</p>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span>"Warp of woollen and woof of gold:
<br/></span> <span>When seven and seven and seven are
told."
<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p>Kind William felt sure that he had heard this before, though
he could not recall when or where; but suspecting that it was
no mortal voice that sang, he hurried home without looking
behind him. Before he reached the house he remembered all, and
also that on this very day his promise of secrecy expired.</p>
<p>Meanwhile the old weaver had been sadly preparing the loom
to weave a small stock of yarn, which he had received in
payment for some work. He had set up the warp, and was about to
fill the shuttle, when his son came in and told the story, and
repeated the water sprite's song.</p>
<p>"Where is the lock of hair, my son?" asked the old man.</p>
<p>"In the teapot still, if you have not touched it," said Kind
William; "but the dust of fourteen years must have destroyed
all gloss and colour."</p>
<p>On searching the teapot, however, the lock of hair was found
to be as bright as ever, and it lay in the weaver's hand like a
coil of gold.</p>
<p>"It is the song that puzzles me," said Kind William. "Seven,
and seven, and seven make twenty-one. Now that is just my
age."</p>
<p>"There is your warp of woollen, if that is anything," added
the weaver, gazing at the loom with a melancholy air.</p>
<p>"And this is golden enough," laughed Kind William, pointing
to the curl. "Come, father, let us see how far one hair will go
on the shuttle." And suiting the action to the word, he began
to wind. He wound the shuttle full, and then sat down to the
loom and began to throw.</p>
<p>The result was a fabric of such beauty that the Weavers
shouted with amazement, and one single hair served for the woof
of the whole piece.</p>
<p>Before long there was not a town dame or a fine country lady
but must needs have a dress of the new stuff, and before the
sixty-three hairs were used up, the fortunes of the weaver and
his son were made.</p>
<p>About this time the miller's memory became clearer, and he
was often heard to speak of an old boy-and-girl love between
his dear daughter and the wealthy manufacturer of the golden
cloth. Within a year and a day Kind William married his
sweetheart, and as money sticks to money, in the end he added
the old miller's riches to his own.</p>
<p>Moreover there is every reason to believe that he and his
wife lived happily to the end of their days.</p>
<p>And what became of the water sprite?</p>
<p>That you must ask somebody else, for I do not know.</p>
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