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THE LUCK BOY OF TOY VALLEY
Katherine Dunlap Gather
In a chalet high up among the Austrian mountains, blue-
eyed Franz was very unhappy because his mother and brother
Johan were going to Vienna and he had to stay at home with
his old grandfather. He bit his lips to keep back the tears as
he watched the packing of the box that was to carry their cloth-
ing. Then his mother tried to comfort him.
“Never mind, lad,” she said. “I send you a present from
Vienna, and well call it a *luck gift* and hope it will bring good
luck. If it does you’ll be a lucky boy.”
He smiled even if he did feel sad. He had often heard of
luck children, for among the Tyrolean peasants there were many
stories of those who had been led by fairies to have such won-
derful good fortune that ever afterward they were spoken of as
the elf-aided, or “Glucks Kinder,” and it was so delightful to
think about being one of them that he forgot his sorrow. Of
course it would be very fine to travel down to Vienna and go
into the service of a rich noble there, as his mother and brother
were to do, but it would be still better to be a “Gllicks Kind,”
and such things sometimes did happen. So he did not feel sad
any more, but whistled and sang and helped with the packing.
Early next morning the post chaise rattled up to the door,
and Johan and the mother drove away. Franz watched them
go down the winding, white road, calling after them in sweet
Tyrolean words of endearment until they were out of sight. Then
he went back into the hut and began to sandpaper some blocks
that his grandfather needed for his work. The old man was a
maker of picture frames, all carved and decorated with like-
nesses of mountain flowers, and these, when sent to Innsbruck
and Vienna, brought the money that gave him his living. The
figures were too fine and difficult for Franz to carve, but he could
lend a hand at fetching blocks and sandpapering. He worked
with a vim, for Tyrolean boys think it a disgrace to shirk, but
all the while his thoughts were on the luck gift.
“I wonder what it will be?” he said to his grandfather. They
took turns at guessing, until it was time to feed the goats and
house the chickens for the night.
A week later the man who had driven Johan and his mother
away came by on his return from Vienna, and Franz fairly flew
out to get his gift.
“It is something very big,” he called to the old frame maker
as he took a bulging bag. “See, it is stuffed full!” And he
expected to find something very wonderful.
But when he opened it, he thought it wasn’t wonderful at
all. There was a blue velvet jacket, trimmed with gold braid
and fastened with glittering buttons, such as Tyrolean boys
wore in those days, and in one of the pockets he found a shining
knife.
“Well, of all things!” he exclaimed as he held them up for
his grandfather to see. “It’s a splendid jacket, and the knife
is a beauty, but I don’t see where the luck part comes in.”
But Hals Bemer was old and wise, and a knowing smile
played over his wrinkled face as he spoke. “It won’t be the
first time luck has hidden in a knife” he said, as he bent over
his carving.
Franz did not know what he meant. He had always had a
knife, for being of a carver’s family he was taught to whittle
when he was a very little fellow, and he had become remarkably
skillful for one of his years. But no wonderful good fortune
had come to him, and he was very sure that although each
of the presents was nice, neither would bring luck, and he sent
that word to Johan. But the brother wrote back from the city,
“It will surely turn out to be a luck gift, Franz. Just wait and
see.” And still the boy wondered.
Winter came and icy winds blew down from the peaks. There
was no word from Vienna now, for the valley was shut in by a
glittering wall, and travel over the snow-drifted passes was im-
possible. There were other boys in the village, but each had his
work indoors, and there was Uttle time to play, so Franz had no
chance for games. He helped his grandfather part of the day
and sometimes whittled for his own amusement. It was a lonely
life there in the hut, with just the old frame maker, who was
often too busy to talk, so Franz was glad to do something to keep
him busy. Now he made rings and tops and then just fantastic
sticks or blocks.
One day, as he whittled, his grandfather said, “Why don’t
you make an animal, Franz?”
The boy looked up in surprise. “I don’t think I can,” he
answered.
“Not unless you try,” came the reply. “But if you do that
you may surprise yourself”
Franz hated to have any one think he was afraid to make
an attempt, so he exclaimed, “I wonder if I could make a sheep?”
“Begin and see,” the old man advised.
The boy went to work. At first it was discouraging. After
many minutes of whittling there was little to suggest what he
had in mind. But then, with an occasional turn of the knife
by the frame maker, and now and then a bit of advice, the boy
began to see that a sheep would grow out of the block, and when
it did he felt like a hero who had won a battle.
“It wasn’t a bit hard, was it lad?” Hals Bemer asked when
it was finished.
And Franz agreed that it was not.
That was the beginning, and every day thereafter Franz
worked at his whittling, and animal after animal grew under his
knife. He was so busy he did not have time to be lonely, and
had quite forgotten how sad he had felt over having to stay at
home. It was such fun to see the figures come out of the wood
and feel that he had made them. Of course they were crude,
and not half so handsome as those his grandfather could have
made; but anyone could tell what they were, and that was worth
a great deal.
By spring he had a whole menagerie, and when his mother
came home she foimd he had been a busy boy, and a happy
one as well.
“All made with the luck knife,” Johan said as he looked over
the work.
“So grandfather says,” Franz answered. “It’s a splendid
knife, but I don’t see where the luck comes in.”
And again the knowing smile went over the old man’s face.
One day soon afterward his mother had word from the man
who had been her employer in Vienna that his little son was not
well and he was sending him to regain his health in the mountain
air. A week later the child arrived with his nurse, and the first
thing that attracted his attention was Franz’s menagerie.
“Oh! oh!” he exclaimed, “dogs, cats, sheep, goats, lions,
elephants, and all made of wood! I want them.”
“He means that he wants to buy them,” his nurse explained.
“Will you sell them, Franz?”
For a minute the boy hesitated. That menagerie had meant
many months of whittling, and he loved every animal in it, and if
Johan hadn’t interrupted, probably he would have refused.
“Why, Franz” the brother exclaimed, “it begins to look like
a luck knife after all”
That put a thought into his mind that caused him to answer,
“Yes, take them. I can make some more”
So, when the child went back to Vienna he took a wooden
menagerie from the Tyrolean mountains. Other Viennese child-
ren, seeing it, wanted to possess one, and orders began to pour
in to Franz, far more than he could fill. Then other villagers
took up the work, until all over the valley people were making
animals and toys.
The work grew to be a big industry, and toys from the Grodner
Thai were sent all over Germany, and even to the lands beyond.
One generation after another went on with the work, and although
it is two hundred years since Franz began it, the craft continues
there to this day. At Christmas time shops in every land are
filled with toys from the Tyrolean mountains, and although
they do not know the story, thousands of children have been
happier because of a peasant boy’s whittling.
So out of the bag sent back from Vienna there came in truth
a luck gift, and it wasn’t the fine jacket either, but the knife
with which Franz whittled his first sheep. The boy had found out
that luck doesn’t mean something sent by fairies, but the doing
a thing so well that it brings a rich reward, and although he lived
to be a very old man, he never got over being grateful that his
mother made him stay behind when she and Johan went to the
city.
The little valley among the Austrian Alps is still called Grod-
ner Thai on the maps, but because of the animals and toys that
have come out of it, it is almost as well known by another name.
If you are good guessers you can surely tell what it is, especially
if you know that the peasants still speak of the lad who made
the first menagerie there as the Luck Boy of Toy Valley.
