The Saucy Boy

Once upon a time there was an old poet. He was a very good and wise poet.

One evening, as he was sitting at home, there was a terrible storm raging outside and the rain was pouring down. The old poet, though, sat comfortably by the fire, which was burning, and there were apples roasting.

“There will not be a dry thread left on the poor people who are out in this weather,” he said.

“Oh, open the door! I am so cold and wet,” called a little child outside. He was crying and knocking at the door, while the rain continued to pour down and the wind rattled all the windows.

“Poor little guy!” said the poet, and got up and opened the door. Before him stood a little boy who was naked, and the water flowed from his long blond hair. He was shivering with cold; if he had not been let in, he would certainly have died in the storm.

“Poor little thing!” said the poet, and took him by the hand. “Come in. I will soon warm you. You shall have some juice and an apple.”

He was a handsome boy. His eyes sparkled like two bright stars, and he had lush, curly hair. He looked like a little angel, but he was pale with cold and trembling all over. In his hand he held a splendid bow, but it had been entirely ruined by the rain, and the colors of the pretty arrows had run into one another because of the rain.

The old man sat down by the fire, and taking the little boy on his knee, wrung the water out of his locks and warmed his hands in his own. He then made the boy some hot spiced juice, which quickly revived him. So with glowing cheeks, the boy sprang upon the floor and danced around the old man.

“You are a merry boy,” said the poet. “What is your name?”

“My name is Cupid,” he answered. “Don't you know me? There is my bow. I shoot with that, you know. Look, the weather is getting fine again — the moon is shining.”

“But your bow is ruined from the rain,” said the old poet.

“That would be unfortunate,” said the little boy, taking it up and looking at it. “Oh, it's quite dry and isn't damaged at all. The string is quite tight. I'll try it.” So, drawing it back, he took an arrow, aimed, and shot the good old poet right in the heart. “Do you see now that my bow was not ruined?” he said, and, loudly laughing, ran away. What a naughty boy to shoot the old poet, who had taken him into his warm room, had been so good to him, and had given him the nicest juice and the best apple!

The good old man lay on the floor crying. He was really shot in the heart. “Oh!” he cried, “what a rotten boy this Cupid is! I shall tell all the good children about this, so that they never play with him.”

And all good children were on their guard against wicked Cupid, but he tricks them still. When the students come out of class, he walks beside them with a book under his arm and wearing a black coat. They cannot recognize him. And then, if they take him by the arm, believing him to be a student too, he sticks an arrow into their chest. He is always after people. He sits in the large chandelier in the theater and blazes away, so that people think it is only a light fixture; but they soon find out their mistake. He walks about in the castle garden. Yes, once he shot your father and your mother in the heart, too. Just ask them. He is a bad boy, this Cupid, and you must never have anything to do with him, for he is after every one of you!