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A Christmas Carol
CHARLES DICKENS MASTER Peter, and the two ubiquito...

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The Three Kings

The Story Of Oello

Once upon a time there was a young girl, who had the pretty name of
Oello. I say, once upon a time, because I do not know when the time
was,--nor do I know what the place was,--though my story, in the main,
is a true story. I do not mean that I sat by and saw Oello when she wove
and when she spun. But I know she did weave and did spin. I do not mean
that I heard her speak the word I tell of; for it was many, many hundred
years ago. But I do know that she must have said some such words; for I
know many of the things which she did, and much of what kind of girl she

She grew up like other girls in her country. She did not know how to
read. None of them knew how to read. But she knew how to braid straw,
and to make fish-nets and to catch fish. She did not know how to spell.
Indeed, in that country they had no letters. But she knew how to split
open the fish she had caught, how to clean them, how to broil them on
the coals, and how to eat them neatly. She had never studied the
"analysis of her language." But she knew how to use it like a lady; that
is, prettily, simply, without pretence, and always truly. She could sing
her baby brother to sleep. She could tell stories to her sisters all day
long. And she and they were not afraid when evening came, or when they
were in any trouble, to say a prayer aloud to the good God. So they got
along, although they could not analyze their language. She knew no
geography. She could count her fingers, and the stars in the Southern
Cross. She had never seen Orion, or the stars in the Great Bear, or the

Oello was very young when she married a young kinsman, with whom she had
grown up since they were babies. Nobody knows much about him. But he
loved her and she loved him. And when morning came they were not afraid
to pray to God together,--and when night came she asked her husband to
forgive her if she had troubled him, and he asked her to forgive
him,--so that their worries and trials never lasted out the day. And
they lived a very happy life, till they were very old and died.

There is a bad gap in the beginning of their history. I do not know how
it happened. But the first I knew of them, they had left their old home
and were wandering alone on foot toward the South. Sometimes I have
thought a great earthquake had wrecked their old happy home. Sometimes I
have thought there was some horrid pestilence, or fire. No matter what
happened, something happened,--so that Oello and her husband, of a hot,
very hot day, were alone under a forest of laurels mixed with palms,
with bright flowering orchids on them, looking like a hundred
butterflies; ferns, half as high as the church is, tossing over them;
nettles as large as trees, and tangled vines, threading through the
whole. They were tired, oh, how tired! hungry, oh, how hungry! and hot
and foot-sore.

"I wish so we were out of this hole," said he to her, "and yet I am
afraid of the people we shall find when we come down to the lake side."

"I do not know," said Oello, "why they should want to hurt us."

"I do not know why they should want to," said he, "but I am afraid they
will hurt us."

"But we do not want to hurt them," said she. "For my part, all I want is
a shelter to live under; and I will help them take care of their
children, and

'I will spin their flax,
And weave their thread,
And pound their corn,
And bake their bread.'"

"How will you tell them that you will do this?" said he.

"I will do it," said Oello, "and that will be better than telling them."

"But do not you just wish," said he, "that you could speak five little
words of their language, to say to them that we come as friends, and not
as enemies?"

Oello laughed very heartily. "Enemies," said she, "terrible enemies, who
have two sticks for their weapons, two old bags for their stores, and
cotton clothes for their armor. I do not believe more than half the army
will turn out against us." So Oello pulled out the potatoes from the
ashes, and found they were baked; she took a little salt from her
haversack or scrip, and told her husband that dinner would be ready, if
he would only bring some water. He pretended to groan, but went, and
came in a few minutes with two gourds full, and they made a very merry

* * * * *

The same evening they came cautiously down on the beautiful meadow land
which surrounded the lake they had seen. It is one of the most beautiful
countries in the world. It was an hour before sunset,--the hour, I
suppose, when all countries are most beautiful. Oello and her husband
came joyfully down the hill, through a little track the llamas had made
toward the water, wondering at the growth of the wild grasses, and,
indeed, the freshness of all the green; when they were startled by
meeting a horde of the poor, naked, half-starved Indians, who were just
as much alarmed to meet with them.

I do not think that the most stupid of them could have supposed Oello an
enemy, nor her husband. For they stepped cheerfully down the path,
waving boughs of fresh cinchona as tokens of peace, and looking kindly
and pleasantly on the poor Indians, as I believe nobody had looked on
them before. There were fifty of the savages, but it was true that they
were as much afraid of the two young Northerners as if they had been an
army. They saw them coming down the hill, with the western sun behind
them, and one of the women cried out, "They are children of the sun,
they are children of the sun!" and Oello and her husband looked so as if
they had come from a better world that all the other savages believed

But the two young people came down so kindly and quickly, that the
Indian women could not well run away. And when Oello caught one of the
little babies up, and tossed it in her arms, and fondled it, and made it
laugh, the little girl's mother laughed too. And when they had all once
laughed together, peace was made among them all, and Oello saw where the
Indian women had been lying, and what their poor little shelters were,
and she led the way there, and sat down on a log that had fallen there,
and called the children round her, and began teaching them a funny game
with a bit of crimson cord. Nothing pleases savage people or tame people
more than attention to their children, and in less time than I have
been telling this they were all good friends. The Indian women produced
supper. Pretty poor supper it was. Some fresh-water clams from the lake,
some snails which Oello really shuddered at, but some bananas which were
very nice, and some ulloco, a root Oello had never seen before, and
which she thought sickish. But she acted on her motto. "I will do the
best I can," she had said all along; so she ate and drank, as if she had
always been used to raw snails and to ulloco, and made the wild women
laugh by trying to imitate the names of the strange food. In a few
minutes after supper the sun set. There is no twilight in that country.
When the sun goes down,

"Like battle target red,--
He rushes to his burning bed,
Dyes the whole wave with ruddy light,
Then sinks at once, and all is night."

The savage people showed the strangers a poor little booth to sleep in,
and went away to their own lairs, with many prostrations, for they
really thought them "children of the sun."

Oello and her husband laughed very heartily when they knew they were
alone. Oello made him promise to go in the morning early for potatoes,
and oca, and mashua, which are two other tubers like potatoes which grow
there. "And we will show them," said she, "how to cook them." For they
had seen by the evening feast, that the poor savage people had no
knowledge of the use of fire. So, early in the morning, he went up a
little way on the lake shore, and returned with strings of all these
roots, and with another string of fish he had caught in a brook above.
And when the savage people waked and came to Oello's hut, they found her
and her husband just starting their fire,--a feat these people had never
seen before.

He had cut with his copper knife a little groove in some soft palm-wood,
and he had fitted in it a round piece of iron-wood, and round the
iron-wood had bound a bow-string, and while Oello held the palm-wood
firm, he made the iron-wood fly round and round and round, till the pith
of the palm smoked, and smoked, and at last a flake of the pith caught
fire, and then another and another, and Oello dropped other flakes upon
these, and blew them gently, and fed them with dry leaves, till they
were all in a blaze.

The savage people looked on with wonder and terror. They cried out when
they saw the blaze, "They are children of the sun,--they are children of
the sun!"--and ran away. Oello and her husband did not know what they
said, and went on broiling the fish and baking the potatoes, and the
mashua, and the oca, and the ulloco.

And when they were ready, Oello coaxed some of the children to come
back, and next their mothers came and next the men. But still they said,
"They are children of the sun." And when they ate of the food that had
been cooked for them, they said it was the food of the immortals.

Now, in Oello's home, this work of making the fire from wood had been
called menial work, and was left to servants only. But even the princes
of that land were taught never to order another to do what they could
not do themselves. And thus it happened that the two young travellers
could do it so well. And thus it was, that, because they did what they
could, the savage people honored them with such exceeding honor, and
because they did the work of servants they called them gods. As it is
written: "He who is greatest among you shall be your servant."

And this was much the story of that day and many days. While her husband
went off with the men, taught them how he caught the fish, and how they
could catch huanacos, Oello sat in the shade with the children, who were
never tired of pulling at the crimson cord around her waist, and at the
tassels of her head-dress. All savage children are curious about the
dress of their visitors. So it was easy for Oello to persuade them to go
with her and pick tufts of wild cotton, till they had quite a store of
it, and then to teach them to spin it on distaffs she made for them from
laurel-wood, and at last to braid it and to knit it,--till at last one
night, when the men came home, Oello led out thirty of the children in
quite a grand procession, dressed all of them in pretty cotton suits
they had knit for themselves, instead of the filthy, greasy skins they
had always worn before. This was a great triumph for Oello; but when the
people would gladly have worshipped her, she only said, "I did what I
could,--I did what I could,--say no more, say no more."

And as the year passed by, she and her husband taught the poor people
how, if they would only plant the maize, they could have all they wanted
in the winter, and if they planted the roots of the ulloco, and the oca,
and the mashua, and the potato, they would have all they needed of them;
how they might make long fish-ways for the fish, and pitfalls for the
llama. And they learned the language of the poor people, and taught them
the language to which they themselves were born. And year by year their
homes grew neater and more cheerful. And year by year the children were
stronger and better. And year by year the world in that part of it was
more and more subdued to the will and purpose of a good God. And
whenever Manco, Oello's husband, was discouraged, she always said, "We
will do the best we can," and always it proved that that was all that a
good God wanted them to do.

It was from the truth and steadiness of those two people, Manco and
Oello, that the great nation of Peru was raised up from a horde of
savages, starving in the mountains, to one of the most civilized and
happy nations of their times. Unfortunately for their descendants, they
did not learn the use of iron or gunpowder, so that the cruel Spaniards
swept them and theirs away. But for hundreds of years they lived
peacefully and happily,--growing more and more civilized with every
year, because the young Oello and her husband Manco had done what they
could for them.

They did not know much. But what they knew they could do. They were not,
so far as we know, skilful in talking. But they were cheerful in acting.

They did not hide their light under a bushel. They made it shine on all
that came around. Their duties were the humblest, only making a fire in
the morning, cleaning potatoes and cooking them, spinning, braiding,
twisting, and weaving. This was the best Oello could do. She did that,
and in doing it she reared an empire. We can contrast her life with that
of the savages around her. As we can see a drop of blood when it falls
into a cup of water, we can see how that one life swayed theirs. If she
had lived among her kindred, and done at home these simple things, we
should never have heard her name. But none the less would she have done
them. None the less, year in and year out, century in and century out,
would that sweet, loving, true, unselfish life have told in God's
service. And he would have known it, though you and I--who are we?--had
never heard her name!

Forgotten! do not ever think that anything is forgotten!

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