Little Springling the Princess and Her Papa the King

Little Springling was a little princess with long black hair, so smooth and shiny that Papa sometimes said the evening sky must have secretly combed itself in it. She wore a blue dress that swayed around her knees with every step, and on her head sat a little crown made of golden paper, a bit crooked, which was exactly why it suited her so well. In the garden behind the house, her kingdom began just beyond the raspberry bushes, where the shrubs grew thicker, the birds sang louder, and the old plum tree laid its branches over the grass like a roof.

Her papa was her king. Not a king with a stern face and a heavy cloak, no, her Papa King wore a soft jacket, sometimes had soil on his shoes, and could turn a picnic blanket into a banquet hall. Whenever Little Springling looked at him and whispered, “Your Majesty Papa,” he placed one hand on his chest and bowed so low that his hair fell forward.

That afternoon, Little Springling stood in the middle of the garden in her blue dress, holding a basket in both hands. Inside were little plates, a few napkins, two cups, and a red fabric flower that absolutely had to go on the table, even though there was no table at all. “Papa King,” she called, “today we are having a picnic feast in the garden forest. Everyone has to come. The dwarfs too.”

Papa came out through the kitchen door with a blanket under his arm and such a solemn face that Little Springling had to giggle. “Then we need a royal feast place,” he said. “And someone to set seven garden dwarfs neatly along the edge, so none of them sits with his feet in the apple juice.”

Little Springling took that very seriously. Together they carried the blanket under the plum tree. Papa spread it out in the grass, Little Springling smoothed the corners, and then the seven garden dwarfs came over from their little flowerbed. Of course, they did not have to walk by themselves. Papa carried them one after another, and Little Springling gave each one his place.

The first was called Mumble, because his hat always slipped a little over his eyes. The second was called Pricklepatch and held a tiny shovel in his hand. Then came Grumblekin, Snuffles, Tiptop-Twist, Spoonbert, and the smallest of all, Pipdot, who was allowed to sit beside the cup because he looked as if he could watch over drinks especially well.

“Now all we need is music,” said Little Springling.

Three birds fluttered onto the plum tree and sang as if they had received the invitation long ago. A deer stepped out from between the bushes, very carefully and prettily, with big eyes and thin legs. Little Springling placed one finger on her lips and whispered, “Papa King, our guest of honor has arrived.”

Papa bowed toward the deer. “Welcome to the royal picnic feast, noble forest deer. The best seats are in the grass, and the finest crumbs will surely be everywhere soon.”

Little Springling laughed and placed the red fabric flower in an empty cup. Now the feast place truly looked like a feast place. The plates stood in a circle, the dwarfs looked important, the birds sang, and the deer nibbled on a leaf.

Then a little wind came through the garden. First it only brushed Little Springling’s hair over her shoulder. Then it tickled Papa’s jacket. Then it lifted a napkin, carried it over Pipdot’s hat, and set it right in the middle of Grumblekin’s nose.

“Well, well,” said Papa King. “Who is blowing into our feast?”

A funny whoosh rushed out of the leaves, and the red fabric flower wobbled in the cup. Little Springling put her hands on her hips. “That must be the Wind Prince. He wants to celebrate with us too, but he does not know how to ask properly.”

The Wind Prince blew again at once. Tiptop-Twist’s hat tilted to one side, Spoonbert’s shovel clinked against a plate, and the birds suddenly sang much faster, as if they had lost their own melody.

“Wind Prince,” called Little Springling, “at my picnic feast, not everything gets blown all over the place. Whoever wants to celebrate must help.”

The wind rushed around the plum tree and tugged at the blanket. Papa King knelt on one corner, Little Springling sat on the other, and Mumble had his hat straightened again.

“Perhaps he needs a task,” said Papa.

Little Springling looked up at the birds, then at the deer, then at the dwarfs. “Wind Prince, you may lead the music. But gently. Very gently, so the birds do not fall out of their song.”

For one tiny breath, only the leaves trembled. Then a soft wind moved across the meadow. The branches swayed in time, the birds found their song again, and Little Springling’s blue dress swayed a little too.

“Very good,” she said. “Now you may carry the napkins too, but only as far as the plates.”

The Wind Prince took a napkin, let it dance, spun it once above the grass, and laid it right beside Little Springling’s plate. Well, almost right beside it. One corner landed on Pricklepatch’s shoe, but Pricklepatch did not complain.

Papa clapped his hands softly. “An excellent feast helper.”

Then the Wind Prince grew a little too proud and blew Pipdot’s hat high into the air. Little Springling did not run after it, no, she simply lifted her arms and called, “Bring that back, you little whirl king.”

The hat sailed in a circle, landed on Papa’s head, and stayed there. Little Springling burst out laughing, Papa put on a very royal face and said, “I believe Pipdot has lent me his feast crown.”

Now they both laughed so much that even the deer lifted its head. The Wind Prince let the leaves rustle, softly and proudly, as if he were laughing along too.

When the picnic began, Little Springling and Papa King sat shoulder to shoulder on the blanket. The seven dwarfs stood around them, each in his place. The birds sang in the plum tree, the deer stayed near the bushes, and the Wind Prince only stroked gently over the plates, as if he wanted to say that he truly was trying his best now.

“Papa King,” said Little Springling, “tomorrow we will have another feast.”

“Of course,” said Papa. “Perhaps the Wind Prince will bring his very best manners then.”

“Perhaps,” said Little Springling, moving closer to him. “Perhaps he will bring the moon too.”

Above the garden, the sky slowly turned deep blue. Between the branches, the first star appeared, and then another one right after it. Little Springling laid her head against Papa’s arm, her blue dress resting on the blanket like a little lake, and somewhere in the garden forest the Wind Prince rustled so softly that it almost sounded like a promise.

Perhaps, just perhaps, he was already practicing for the next picnic feast.