# Fairy Tales for Workers' Children/Why?

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WHY?
"Why Didn't I Ever Get An Egg," Asked Paul
Once upon a time there was a little boy, who had neither father nor mother, who lived in the poorhouse in a little village. He was the only child in the whole house; all the others were broken-down old people who were always gloomy and cranky, who liked best to sit quietly in the sun, and who would become angry whenever the little boy, while at play, would bump against them or make too much noise.
A sad life it was for little Paul. He never heard a kind word, no one loved him, and no one petted or comforted him whenever he was unhappy. Instead of that he was scolded every day and often he was even spanked. One peculiarity of his particularly irritated the supervisors of the poorhouse: at every occasion he used to ask, "Why?" always wanting to know the cause for everything.
"You mustn't always ask why," angrily declared the stout Matron who was in charge of the poorhouse. "Everything is as it is, and therefore it is right."
"But why have I no parents like the other children of the village have?" insisted little Paul.
"Because they are dead."
"Why did they die?"
"Because the good Lord willed it so."
"Why did the Lord will it so?"
"Keep quiet, you good-for-nothing! Leave me alone with your eternal questions." The fat woman was quite red with anger, because she knew no answer to Paul's questions, and nothing angers ignorant persons more than to be forced to say, "I don't know."
But no one was able to keep little Paul quiet. He looked right up into the angry red face and asked further, "Why are you so impatient with me?"
Slap! and he got a box on the ears. He began to cry, ran away, and while running asked, "Why do you hit me?"
He came to the chicken yard. There stood a big hen with many-colored feathers, cackling aloud, proudly strutting. "I have laid an egg! I have laid an egg!" And from all sides of the yard there sounded in chorus: "I have laid an egg! I have laid an egg!" The rooster, however, was angry because the hens were so proud of having done something which he could not do, and cried scornfully, "I am the rooster, you are only hens!" Along came Mary, the little blond servant of the poorhouse, gathered the eggs carefully into her blue apron, and carried them into the house.
​"Where do all your eggs go to?" Paul asked the speckled Hen.
"To the city," she cackled.
"Who eats them there?"
"The rich people, the rich people." Thus spoke the hen proudly, as though it were a special honor for her.
"Why don't I ever have an egg?" complained Paul. "I am always so hungry, you know."
"Because you are a poor Have-nothing." And the hen spread her plumage with dignity, and cocked her eye defiantly at Paul over her crooked beak.
"But why am I a poor Have-nothing?"
Now the hen became angry as had the stout Matron, and raged: "Get off with you! You make me tired with your questions."
Disappointed, Paul slipped quietly away. The garden door stood open, and he stepped out onto the road, strolling along aimlessly until he came to the entrance of a cowshed. The shed belonged to a rich farmer.
Many sleek cows, white and reddish brown, stood in a row and gazed before them with large, soft eyes. Paul, feeling very hungry, stepped up to the most friendly looking cow, and begged, "Dear Cow, will you give me some of your milk to drink?"
"I dare not do that," replied the Cow. "The milk belongs to the farmer."
The little boy looked with astonishment at the Cow, then over the entire shed, slowly counting the animals: "One, two, three." Upon reaching twelve he stopped, for although there were many more cows, he stopped because the counting was too hard for him. In the poorhouse he was taught to be gentle and obedient, but nothing else. "Twelve cows," he said thoughtfully. "Is it possible that the farmer can drink the milk of twelve cows?"
​"Oh no," the friendly Cow informed him. "He sells the milk in the city."
Paul remembered the words of the speckled hen, and he asked, "Do the poor children there get any of the milk?"
"Good gracious, Paul," sighed the Cow, "how stupid and inexperienced you still are! From the milk they make delicious whipped cream, which then goes on cakes and puddings, and these are bought by rich people."
"Why not by the poor—don't they like to eat good cakes?"
"You shouldn't ask me so many questions, little boy," replied the Cow. "I am only a dumb Cow, and do not know what to answer you. Besides, you had better go away. This is the time when the farmer comes to the barn, and should he see you it might mean a good beating for you."
Paul stroked the shining hide of the friendly Cow, and pursued his way. On and on he went, until he reached a great big wheat field thru which the wind was blowing. It looked like softly moving golden waves. The ears sang with soft voices, sounding very sad, and Paul distinguished the words: "Soon the reapers will be here with their scythes, z-z, and will cut us down, z-z-z. Then the people will bake us into fine white bread, z-z-z."
"Who eats the white bread?" asked Paul, who had never in his life tasted a piece of white bread.
"The rich people, the rich people," sang the ears of wheat, swaying to the rhythm of the wind.
"Ah, again the rich people!" exclaimed Paul. "Does everything in this world belong to the rich people?"
"Everything, everything," buzzed the ears.
"Why?"
This question seemed to amuse the ears very much and almost doubling with laughter, they sang, "How silly, how stupid you are!" ​However, they failed to answer Paul's question. Paul was near to tears; he stamped angrily on the ground with his foot, and cried loudly, "I demand an answer to my questions. Is there no one to give me an answer?"
Just then a Porcupine crept slowly across the road and said, "The wisest creature I know of is the Owl who lives in the great oak forest. Why don't you go to her, you question mark."
"Can't you tell me why . . .?"
The Porcupine did not permit Paul to finish; impatiently he drew in his head, shot out his quills, until he looked like a ball covered with spikes.
"I do not associate with people," he said, and his voice became as sharp as his quills. "They are too stupid for me. Go to the Owl, but be sure not to irritate her or she will gouge her eyes at you."
Night fell, sending out its black shadows, and covered all the land. It was dark in the forest and Paul became somewhat uneasy, yet this mysterious forest seemed more pleasant to him than the terrible poorhouse, and he walked on further.
The further he went the thicker and closer were the trees. Soon there was no longer a path; but Paul pushed on over the soft carpet of green moss. The fragrance of the forest was pleasant. Beneath the tall trees grew delicious strawberries and the little boy picked them and refreshed himself as he went along.
At last he came to a great oak, and saw the owl perched on one of the branchs. The Owl wore a large pair of spectacles and studied attentively a green sheet which she held in her claws.
Paul halted beneath the tree and shouted, "Mrs. Owl! Mrs. Owl!"
But the Owl was so deeply absorbed in her studies, that she did not hear, and only after he had repeated his call several times did ​she look down. Uttering an angry cry, she glared down at Paul with fierce round eyes.
"Well, what is it you want?" she asked. "How dare you disturb me in my studies?"
"Excuse me, Mrs. Owl," begged Paul. "The Porcupine sent me to you. He told me that you are the wisest creature he knows of. Surely, you will be able to answer my questions."
"What matter the opinions of the Porcupine to me? What have I to do with your questions?" growled the Owl. "Why should I waste my precious time on such a stupid child as you? You know very well that I can see only at night and the summer nights are so short that I have hardly time enough for my studies. I, too, think over all kinds of questions. One in particular has bothered me for countless years; I have grown old and grey over it, and yet no science in the world has helped me to solve it." The Owl sighed deeply and her countenance became sorrowful.
"And just what is this question of yours?" Paul inquired anxiously.
"Do you think, perhaps, that YOU can answer it, you young saucebox?" sneered the Owl. Around this question hang all the other questions of the world; it is: Why are all people so stupid?"
"Are all people really so stupid?" asked Paul, astonished.
"Yes, and if you don't know that, why do you disturb me? Is it because you have never seen anything that you are so idiotic?"
"Very little," replied the little boy shamefacedly. "You ought to know, dear Mrs. Owl, that I live in a poorhouse, where there are only old folks, and naturally they are all wise."
"Ha, ha, ha," laughed the owl. It sounded most awful in the dark forest. "Ha, ha, ha! You are certainly another splendid example of the stupidity of mankind. So it is in the poorhouse that all ​people are wise? Well, we will see if you are right. Who is it that you like best in the poorhouse?"
| "Mary." "Who is Mary?" "The maid." "What does she do?" "She works all day long. She gets up at | five o'clock in the morning, and is the last one to go to bed." "Then she most likely earns lots of money, wears beautiful clothes, and eats good food?" |
"Oh no, she's as poor as a beggar, she patches her clothes over and over, and eats what other people leave."
"H-m-m. Well, why then does she work so hard if she gets nothing out of it?"
Little Paul thought a while, finally he said, "I don't know."
"But I know—it is because she is stupid. Mary knows, too, that there are fashionable ladies who don't move a hand, who wear gorgeous clothes, eat costly food, live in luxury. Hasn't Mary ever asked herself: How is it that I, who work all day long have nothing, and they, who do nothing have everything?"
"I believe not."
"Well then, your Mary is stupid, very stupid. Whom do you still consider wise, you little sheep?"
"Old Jacob."
"Who is this Old Jacob?"
"He is an old laborer, he is eighty years old. He worked until his seventieth year. Now he can't do anything more, and has his hands and feet and legs crippled by rheumatism."
"He worked sixty years for others! A pretty long time. I suppose that Old Jacob is treated like a prince, everybody is terribly anxious to serve him? He has a wonderful soft bed for his tired ​limbs, gets special kind of food every day, lives well and happily?"
"Oh no, the old matron always curses at him when he complains that the bread is too hard for his old teeth. And if he asks for a little tobacco, she gets angry and cries that he is unreasonable."
"Why then did Old Jacob work until he was seventy years old, if now when he's old he doesn't even live well?"
"I don't know."
"Because he is stupid. He knows also, just like Mary, that there are fine young gentlemen who do nothing at all and yet live like kings. Do you see now, little imp, that people are stupid?"
"Yes," said Paul sadly. "But I would like to ask you something, dear Mrs. Owl. Why are there rich people in the world?"
"You really ought to be able to answer this question yourself after our talk, little stupid head: Because the poor people are stupid."
"But why are they stupid?"
But now the owl became angry, the same as the fat matron and the brightly speckled hen.
"Didn't I tell you, little imp, you stupid little person, that I have been thinking about this question for years and years? Come back again eighty years from now, perhaps I will answer you then."
"But why . . . ?"
"Quiet!" the owl commanded little Paul. "You have stolen enough valuable time from me already. Go to the Cuckoo!"
​"Where does she live?" asked the frightened little boy.
But already the Owl had adjusted her spectacles, become absorbed in the green leaf, and gave no answer.
"Oh, poor me!" little Paul thought sadly. "Now I am to go to the Cuckoo, and I don't even know where he lives. Will the Cuckoo know more than the Owl? And I am already so tired, my feet hurt me."
He sank down upon the soft green moss at the foot of a slender young birch. Little by little he became very depressed. He was thinking how he was altogether abandoned and alone, how nobody was good to him, and all at once he began to weep bitterly. Thereupon he became aware of a thin small voice coming from somewhere high up; it sounded like little bells of pure silver.
"Why are you crying, little child?" the silvery voice asked.
Paul looked upward and he saw the most wonderful little creature he had ever beheld in his life. Upon a branch of the birch sat a fairy. She had long golden-blond hair, which reached down to her feet, her little face was pale and delicate as moonlight, and her big eyes shone green like the leaves of the birch. She fluttered down toward Paul very lightly, alighted on his shoulder, it was as tho a light leaf touched him, and stroked his face with her tiny white hands. Paul's heart warmed. How good it was to be touched by tender hands! His tears stopped, he stared at the little creature, and asked at last, "Who are you?"
"I am a Dryad, I am the soul of the birchtree," declared the little creature. "All day long I must sit in my tree, but when night comes I am free, I walk about on the earth, play with the other Dryads, my sisters. But tell me, for what reason are you sad?"
Paul told the Dryad of his unhappiness, saying at the end, "I must always ask why. The question burns in my heart, hurts me, and I believe if I ever receive an answer I will be happy. But now ​this qustion stands between me and all other people who do not ask the question like a big wall and this makes me so lonesome."
The little Dryad laughed and her pretty face became sweeter and more tender than before.
"You are mistaken, little Paul," she said softly. "You are not alone. Hundreds and thousands ask the same question, sad and troubled. Put your ear down to the earth and tell me what you hear."
Paul obeyed. At first he heard only an indistinct sighing and whispering, then he thought he heard a terrible weeping and crying, and at last he heard words.
"Mother, I am hungry, why is there nothing to eat?" cried a child's voice.
"I am stifling in this hot city, why can't I go to the country like my rich schoolmates?" murmured a boy's voice.
"I work all day, why are wages so low that I scarcely have enough to live on?" sobbed a woman's voice.
"Why have the idlers everything and the workers nothing?" said a man's voice threateningly.
And than all the voices rang together, crying, murmuring, sobbing, threatening, "Why? Why?"
Paul sat up, looked at the little Dryad who sat very quietly near him and asked, "Who are these people whom I heard?"
"They are your people," replied the little Dryad. "That is your family. You have heard all the languages in the world, you will hear questions from all mouths, angrily, anxiously, threateningly. Every day new voices join the chorus, and when the thousands of voices become millions and billions, then there will be an end to the misery and poverty and to those lazy parasites."
"When will that be?" asked Paul eagerly.
"That I cannot tell you, I know only this—every time I put ​my ear to the earth, I find new voices added and that is how I know that the day is not far distant."
"And can nothing be done to make the day come sooner?"
"Of course. There are many, many people who do not know yet how good it is for other people and how bad their lives are; who work like beasts and never ask why their honest labor brings a starvation wage. These poor blind people must be shown the truth, and this is not at all easy, because the poor are so tired from the day's work that they can hardly think; and the rich do everything not to awaken questions in the minds of the workers. That is why they punish every one who asks, 'Why?' You have already learned from your own experience, little Paul."
"Then I must continue asking questions?"
"Yes, little Paul, but do not ask the rich, they will not answer you because if they did they would have to say, 'The world is such a bad place for poor people because we, the rich, are greedy, selfish, vile,' and no person likes to say that about himself. But go to the poor people, ask them, 'Why do you eat dry bread tho you work hard, while the idle rich eat cake? Why are your children pale, thin and ill while the rich children are rosy, fat and healthy? Why does your long life of toil end in the poorhouse, whereas the lazy grafters are well taken care of in their old age, resting luxuriously from their lives of idleness?" Ask the poor people these questions so long and so often that they will fall on the structure of injustice like a hammer and smash it. Will you do it, little Paul?"
"Yes," replied the boy with eyes alight.
The little Dryad kissed his forehead and said earnestly, "Your life will be hard, little Paul. The rich, who are afraid of losing what they have robbed, will punish you. They will try to choke the question in your throat, they will throw you into jail, that no one may hear your voice. But you must not lose courage, for the question was ​not born in you in vain, you are destined to speak before many thousands who are today still dumb. And you will find comrades, friends—you will not be alone."
The little Dryad nodded laughingly to Paul, swept lightly upwards, and sat on a branch of the birch.
"Are you going already," asked little Paul, worried.
"You must go home, little Paul. But you must always come back and I will comfort you and help you."
"Wait a little," begged Paul. "The Owl said in eighty years, not until eighty years from now, she will be able to answer my question. That is a long time. Did the Owl speak truly?"
"That depends on you people," replied the light, silvery voice of the tiny Dryad. "Perhaps it will take you eighty years to become wise, perhaps if you, you and your comrades, do not stop asking questions, it may only take fifty years. The great day of freedom may come in twenty, in ten years. Yes, perhaps even tomorrow.
The tiny Dryad disappeared into the tree, but all the tree called in light, joyous voices to little Paul:
"Tomorrow! Tomorrow! Tomorrow!"