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The Junior Classics, Volume 1: Fairy and wonder tales

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Title: The Junior Classics, Volume 1: Fairy and wonder tales

Editor: William Patten

Author of introduction, etc.: Charles William Eliot

Contributor: William Allan Neilson


        
Release date: April 1, 2002 [eBook #3152]
                Most recently updated: December 15, 2022

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3152


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE JUNIOR CLASSICS, VOLUME 1: FAIRY AND WONDER TALES ***



THE JUNIOR CLASSICS

SELECTED AND ARRANGED BY

WILLIAM PATTEN,

MANAGING EDITOR OF THE HARVARD CLASSICS

INTRODUCTION BY CHARLES W. ELIOT, LL.D.,

PRESIDENT EMERITUS OF HARVARD UNIVERSITY


WITH A READING GUIDE BY WILLIAM ALLAN NEILSON, Ph. D., PROFESSOR OF
ENGLISH, HARVARD UNIVERSITY, PRESIDENT SMITH COLLEGE, NORTHAMPTON,
MASS., SINCE 1917

VOLUME ONE

Fairy and Wonder Tales


INTRODUCTION


The purpose of The Junior Classics is to provide, in ten volumes
containing about five thousand pages, a classified collection of tales,
stories, and poems, both ancient and modern, suitable for boys and
girls of from six to sixteen years of age. Thoughtful parents and
teachers, who realize the evils of indiscriminate reading on the part
of children, will appreciate the educational value of such a
collection. A child’s taste in reading is formed, as a rule, in the
first ten or twelve years of its life, and experience has shown that
the childish mind will prefer good literature to any other, if access
to it is made easy, and will develop far better on literature of proved
merit than on trivial or transitory material.

The boy or girl who becomes familiar with the charming tales and poems
in this collection will have gained a knowledge of literature and
history that will be of high value in other school and home work. Here
are the real elements of imaginative narration, poetry, and ethics,
which should enter into the education of every English-speaking child.

This collection, carefully used by parents and teachers with due
reference to individual tastes and needs, will make many children enjoy
good literature. It will inspire them with a love of good reading,
which is the best possible result of any elementary education. The
child himself should be encouraged to make his own selections from this
large and varied collection, the child’s enjoyment being the object in
view. A real and lasting interest in literature or in scholarship is
only to be developed through the individual’s enjoyment of his mental
occupations.

The most important change which has been made in American schools and
colleges within my memory is the substitution of leading for driving,
of inspiration for drill, of personal interest and love of work for
compulsion and fear. The schools are learning to use methods and
materials which interest and attract the children themselves. The
Junior Classics will put into the home the means of using this happy
method.

Committing to memory beautiful pieces of literature, either prose or
poetry, for recitation before a friendly audience, acting charades or
plays, and reading aloud with vivacity and sympathetic emotion, are
good means of instruction at home or at school This collection contains
numerous admirable pieces of literature for such use. In teaching
English and English literature we should place more reliance upon
processes and acts which awaken emotion, stimulate interest, prove to
be enjoyable for the actors, and result in giving children the power of
entertaining people, of blessing others with noble pleasures which the
children create and share.

From the home training during childhood there should result in the
child a taste for interesting and improving reading which will direct
and inspire its subsequent intellectual life. The training which
results in this taste for good reading, however unsystematic or
eccentric it may have been, has achieved one principal aim of
education; and any school or home training which does not result in
implanting this permanent taste has failed in a very important respect.
Guided and animated by this impulse to acquire knowledge and exercise
the imagination through good reading, the adult will continue to
educate him all through life.

The story of the human race through all its slow development should be
gradually conveyed to the child’s mind from the time he begins to read,
or to listen to his mother reading; and with description of facts and
actual events should be mingled charming and uplifting products of the
imagination. To try to feed the minds of children upon facts alone is
undesirable and unwise. The immense product of the imagination in art
and literature is a concrete fact with which every educated human being
should be made somewhat familiar, that product being a very real part
of every individual’s actual environment.

The right selection of reading matter for children is obviously of high
importance. Some of the mythologies, Old Testament stories, fairy
tales, and historical romances, on which earlier generations were
accustomed to feed the childish mind, contain a great deal that is
barbarous, perverse, or cruel; and to this infiltration into children’s
minds, generation after generation, of immoral, cruel, or foolish ideas
is probably to be attributed in part the slow ethical progress of the
race. The commonest justification of this thoughtless practice is that
children do not apprehend the evil in the bad mental pictures with
which we foolishly supply them; but what should we think of a mother
who gave her children dirty milk or porridge, on the theory that the
children would not assimilate the dirt? Should we be less careful about
mental and moral food materials? The Junior Classics have been selected
with this principle in mind, without losing sight of the fact that
every developing human being needs to have a vision of the rough and
thorny road over which the human race has been slowly advancing during
thousands of years.

Whoever has committed to memory in childhood such Bible extracts as
Genesis i, the Ten Commandments, Psalm xxiii, Matthew v, 8-12, The
Lord’s Prayer, and I Corinthians xiii, such English prose as Lincoln’s
Gettysburg speech, Bacon’s “Essay on Truth,” and such poems as Bryant’s
“Waterfowl,” Addison’s “Divine Ode,” Milton’s Sonnet on his Blindness,
Wotton’s “How happy is he born or taught,” Emerson’s “Rhodora,”
Holmes’s “Chambered Nautilus,” and Gray’s Elegy, and has stamped them
on his brain by frequent repetition, will have set up in his mind high
standards of noble thought and feeling, true patriotism, and pure
religion. He will also have laid in an invaluable store of good
English.

While the majority of the tales and poems are intended for children who
have begun to do their own reading, there will be found in every volume
selections fit for reading aloud to younger children. Throughout the
collection the authors tell the stories in their own words; so that the
salt which gave them savor is preserved. There are some condensations
however, such as any good teller of borrowed stories would make; but as
a rule condensation has been applied only in the case of long works
which otherwise could not have been included. The notes which precede
the condensations supply explanations, and answer questions which
experience has shown boys and girls are apt to ask about the works
condensed or their authors.

The Junior Classics constitute a set of books whose contents will
delight children and at the same time satisfy the legitimate ethical
requirements of those who have the children’s best interests at heart.

Charles W. Eliot

NOTE


Notices of copyright on material used in these volumes appear on the
back of the title pages of the particular volumes in which the stories
are printed. A complete list of acknowledgments to authors and
publishers, for their kind permission to use copyrighted material, is
given on pages 3 to 6 of Volume Ten.




CONTENTS

 INTRODUCTION                                    Charles, W. Eliot
 PREFACE                                         William Patten
 
TALES OF THE AMERICAN INDIANS
 Manabozho                                       H. R. Schoolcraft
 Why the Diver Duck Has So Few Tail Feathers     H. R. Schoolcraft
 Manabozho Changed to Wolf                       H. R. Schoolcraft
 Why the Woodpecker has Red Feathers             H. R. Schoolcraft
 Manabozho is Robbed                             H. R. Schoolcraft
 Manabozho and the Woodpeckers                   H. R. Schoolcraft
 The Boy and the Wolves                          Andrew Lang
 The Indian Who Lost His Wife                    Andrew Lang
 
TALES FROM INDIA
 Punchkin       E. Frere
 The Sun, Moon and Wind                          E. Frere
 Why the Fish Laughed                            Joseph Jacob
 The Farmer and Money Lender                     Joseph Jacob
 Pride Goeth Before a Fall                       Joseph Jacob
 The Wicked Sons                                 Joseph Jacob
 Tiger, Brahman, and Jackal                      Flora Annie Steel
 The Lambikin                                    Flora Annie Steel
 The Rat’s Wedding                               Flora Annie Steel
 The Jackal and the Partridge                    Flora Annie Steel
 The Jackal and the Crocodile                    Flora Annie Steel
 The Jackal and the Iguana                       Flora Annie Steel
 The Bear’s Bad Bargain                          Flora Annie Steel
 The Thief and the Fox                           Ramaswami Raju
 The Farmer and the Fox                          Ramaswami Raju
 The Fools and the Drum                          Ramaswami Raju
 The Lion and the Goat                           Ramaswami Raju
 The Glowworm and Jackdaw                        Ramaswami Raju
 The Camel and the Pig                           Ramaswami Raju
 The Dog and the Dog Dealer                      Ramaswami Raju
 The Tiger, Fox, and Hunters                     Ramaswami Raju
 The Sea, the Fox, and the Wolf                  Ramaswami Raju
 The Fox in the Well                             Ramaswami Raju
 
TALES FROM THE NORSELAND
 Ashiepattle                                     P. C. Asbjörnsen
 The Squire’s Bride                              P. C. Asbjörnsen
 The Doll in the Grass                           P. C. Asbjörnsen
 The Bear and the Fox                            P. C. Asbjörnsen
 The Lad Who Went to the North Wind              Sir George W. Dasent
 The Husband Who Was to Mind the House           Sir George W. Dasent
 How One Went Out to Woo                         Sir George W. Dasent
 Why the Bear is Stumpy-Tailed                   Sir George W. Dasent
 Boots and the Princess                          Sir George W. Dasent
 The Witch in the Stone Boat                     Andrew Lang
 
TALES FROM FRANCE, SPAIN, AND POLAND
 The Snuffbox                                    Paul Sébillot
 The Golden Blackbird                            Paul Sébillot
 The Half-Chick                                  Andrew Lang
 The Three Brothers                              Hermann R. Kletke
 The Glass Mountain                              Hermann R. Kletke
 
TALES FROM RUSSIA
 Huntsman the Unlucky                            John T. Naaké
 Story of Little Simpleton                       John T. Naaké
 The Golden Fish                                 Lillian M. Gask
 
TALES FROM SERBIA
 The Wonderful Hair                              W.S. Karajich
 The Language of Animals                         W.S. Karajich
 The Emperor Trojan’s Ears                       W.S. Karajich
 The Maiden Who Was Wiser Than the King          W.S. Karajich
 
AN IRISH TALE
 The Three Sons                                  Lady Gregory
 
TALES FROM CHINA AND JAPAN
 Hok Lee and the Dwarfs                          Andrew Lang
 A Dreadful Boar                                 Adele M. Fielde
 The Five Queer Brothers                         Adele M. Fielde
 The Accomplished Teakettle                      A.B. Mitford
 Adventures of Little Peachling                  A.B. Mitford
 
A TALE FROM NEW GUINEA
 The Two Lizards                                 Annie Ker
 
A TALE FROM JAMAICA
 De King and De Peafowl                          Mary P. Milne-Horne
 
SOME OLD FAVORITES
 Hansel and Grethel                              W. and J. Grimm
 Thumbling                                       W. and J. Grimm
 The Six Swans                                   W. and J. Grimm
 Snow-White and Rose-Red                         W. and J. Grimm
 The Ugly Duckling                               Hans C. Andersen
 The Tinder-Box                                  Hans C. Andersen
 The Constant Tin Soldier                        Hans C. Andersen
 The Fir Tree                                    Hans C. Andersen
 The Flying Trunk                                Hans C. Andersen
 The Darning Needle                              Hans C. Andersen
 Pen and Inkstand                                Hans C. Andersen
 Cinderella                                      Miss Mulock
 Little Red Riding-Hood                          Charles Perrault
 The Story of the Three Bears                    Robert Southey
 Puss in Boots                                   Charles Perrault
 Jack the Giant-Killer                           Joseph Jacobs
 Tom Thumb                                       Joseph Jacobs
 Blue Beard                                      Charles Perrault
 The Brave Little Tailor                         Anonymous
 The Sleeping Beauty                             Charles Perrault
 The Fair One With Golden Locks                  Miss Mulock
 Beauty and the Beast                            Mme. d’Aulnoy
 Jack and the Beanstalk                          Anonymous
 Hop-o’-My-Thumb                                 Joseph Jacobs
 The Goose-Girl                                  Anonymous
 He Who Knew Not Fear                            Anonymous
 
THE FABLES OF ÆSOP
 The Town Mouse and the Country Mouse            Æsop
 The Man, Boy, and Donkey                        Æsop
 The Shepherd’s Boy                              Æsop
 Androcles                                       Æsop
 The Fox and the Stork                           Æsop
 The Crow and the Pitcher                        Æsop
 The Frogs Desiring a King                       Æsop
 The Frog and the Ox                             Æsop
 The Cock and the Pearl                          Æsop
 The Fox Without a Tail                          Æsop
 The Fox and the Cat                             Æsop
 The Dog in the Manger                           Æsop
 The Fox and the Goat                            Æsop
 Belling the Cat                                 Æsop
 The Jay and the Peacock                         Æsop
 The Ass and the Lap-Dog                         Æsop
 The Ant and the Grasshopper                     Æsop
 The Woodman and the Serpent                     Æsop
 The Milkmaid and Her Pail                       Æsop
 The Lion and the Mouse                          Æsop
 Hercules and the Waggoner                       Æsop
 The Lion’s Share                                Æsop
 The Fox and the Crow                            Æsop
 The Dog and the Shadow                          Æsop
 The Wolf and the Lamb                           Æsop
 The Bat, Birds, and Beasts                      Æsop
 The Belly and the Members                       Æsop
 The Fox and the Grapes                          Æsop
 The Swallow and the Birds                       Æsop




ILLUSTRATIONS


HE OFTEN TREMBLED AT WHAT HE HEARD AND SAW, Manabozho the
Mischief-Maker, Frontispiece illustration in color from the painting by
Dan Sayre Groesbeck

WHILE THEY WERE STUPIDLY STARING, THE KETTLE BEGAN FLYING ABOUT THE
ROOM, The Accomplished and Lucky Teakettle, From the painting by
Warwick Goble

A VERY OLD WOMAN, WALKING UPON CRUTCHES, CAME OUT, Hansel and Grethel,
From the painting by Arthur Rackham

THEN BLUE BEARD BAWLED OUT SO LOUD THAT HE MADE THE WHOLE HOUSE
TREMBLE, Blue Beard, From the painting by Edmund Dulac

BEING INFORMED OF EVERYTHING BY A LITTLE DWARF WHO WORE SEVEN-LEAGUE
BOOTS, Sleeping Beauty, From the painting by Edmund Dulac




PREFACE


There are some things in this world we can get along without, but, the
experience of many thousand years has shown us that the fairy tale is
not one of them. There must have been fairy tales (or fables, or folk
tales, or myths, or whatever name we choose to give them) ever since
the world began. They are not exclusively French, German, Greek,
Russian, Indian or Chinese, but are the common property of the whole
human family and are as universal as human speech.

All the world over, fairy tales are found to be pretty much the same.
The story of Cinderella is found in all countries. Japan has a Rip Van
Winkle, China has a Beauty and the Beast, Egypt has a Puss in Boots,
and Persia has a Jack and the Beanstalk.

Those wise people who have made a careful study of literature, and
especially of what we call folk tales or fairy tales or fables or
myths, tell us that they all typify in some way the constant struggle
that is going on in every department of life. It may be the struggle of
Summer against Winter, the bright Day against dark Night, Innocence
against Cruelty, of Knowledge against Ignorance. We are not obliged to
think of these delightful stories as each having a meaning. Our
enjoyment of them will not be less if we overlook that side, but it may
help us to understand and appreciate good books if we remember that the
literature of the world is the story of man’s struggle against nature;
that the beginnings of literature came out of the mouths of
story-tellers, and that the stories they told were fairy
tales—imaginative stories based on truth.

There is one important fact to remember in connection with the old
fairy tales, and that is that they were repeated aloud from memory, not
read from a book or manuscript.

The printing of books from type may be said to date from the year 1470,
when Caxton introduced printing into England. It is said that the first
book printed in English which had the pages numbered was a book of
tales, “Æsop’s Fables.”

As late as 1600 printed books were still so rare that only rich men
could own them. There was one other way of printing a story—on
sheepskin (split and made into parchment) with a pen—but that was a
long and laborious art that could only be practiced by educated men who
had been taught to write. The monks were about the only men who had the
necessary education and time, and they cared more for making copies of
the Bible and Lives of the Saints than they did of fairy tales. The
common people, and even kings and queens, were therefore obliged to
depend upon the professional story-teller.

Fairy tales were very popular in the Middle Ages. In the long winter
months fields could not be cultivated, traveling had to be abandoned,
and all were kept within doors by the cold and snow. We know what the
knight’s house looked like in those days. The large beamed hall or
living room was the principal room. At one end of it, on a low
platform, was a table for the knight, his family, and any visiting
knights and ladies. At the other tables on the main floor were the
armed men, like squires and retainers, who helped defend the castle
from attack, and the maids of the household.

The story-teller, who was sometimes called a bard or skald or minstrel,
had his place of honor in the center of the room, and when the meal was
over he was called upon for a story. These story-tellers became very
expert in the practice of their art, and some of them could arouse
their audiences to a great pitch of excitement. In the note that
precedes the story “The Treason of Ganelon,” in the volume “Heroes and
Heroines of Chivalry,” you can see how one of these story-tellers, or
minstrels, sang aloud a story to the soldiers of William the Conqueror
to encourage them as he led them into battle.

The fairy tales collected by the Brothers Grimm were first published in
1812. They spent thirteen years collecting them, writing them down as
they were told by the peasants in Hesse, a mountainous province of
Germany lying far removed from the great main roads.

Their friends helped them, but their best friend was the wife of a
cowherd, a strong, intelligent woman of fifty, who had a perfect genius
for storytelling. She knew she told the stories well, and that not many
had her gift. The Grimms said that though she repeated a story for them
three times, the variations were so slight as to be hardly apparent.

The American Indian stories of Manabozho the Mischief-Maker and his
adventures with the Wolf and the Woodpeckers and the Ducks were
collected in very much the same way by Henry R. Schoolcraft
(1793–1864), the explorer and traveler, who lived among the Indian
tribes for thirty years.

Mrs. Steel has told us how she collected her Hindu stories, often
listening over and over to poor story-tellers who would spoil a story
in trying to tell it, until one day her patience would be rewarded by
hearing it from the lips of the best storyteller in the village, who
was generally a boy.

As all nations have their fairy tales, you will find in this collection
examples of English, Irish, French, German, Scandinavian, Icelandic,
Russian, Polish, Serbian, Spanish, Arabian, Hindu, Chinese, and
Japanese fairy tales, as well as those recited around the lodge fires
at night by American Indians for the entertainment of the red children
of the West.

I hope the work may prove for many a boy and girl (of any age up to a
hundred) the Golden Bridge over which they can plunge into that
marvelous world of fairies, elves, goblins, kobolds, trolls, afreets,
jinns, ogres, and giants that fascinates us all, lost to this world
till some one wakes us up to say “Bedtime!”

Such excursions fill the mind with beautiful fancies and help to
develop that most precious of our faculties, the imagination.

WILLIAM PATTEN.




MANABOZHO, THE MISCHIEF-MAKER


Adapted from H. R. Schoolcraft


There was never in the whole world a more mischievous busybody than
that notorious giant Manabozho. He was everywhere, in season and out of
season, running about, and putting his hand in whatever was going
forward.

To carry on his game he could take almost any shape he pleased. He
could be very foolish or very wise, very weak or very strong, very rich
or very poor—just as happened to suit his humor best. Whatever anyone
else could do, he would attempt without a moment’s reflection. He was a
match for any man he met, and there were few manitoes* (*good spirits
or evil spirits) that could get the better of him. By turns he would be
very kind or very cruel, an animal or a bird, a man or a spirit, and
yet, in spite of all these gifts, Manabozho was always getting himself
involved in all sorts of troubles. More than once, in the course of his
adventures, was this great maker of mischief driven to his wits’ ends
to come off with his life.

To begin at the beginning, Manabozho, while yet a youngster, was living
with his grandmother near the edge of a great prairie. It was on this
prairie that he first saw animals and birds of every kind; he also
there made first acquaintance with thunder and lightning. He would sit
by the hour watching the clouds as they rolled by, musing on the shades
of light and darkness as the day rose and fell.

For a stripling, Manabozho was uncommonly wide-awake. Every sight he
beheld in the heavens was a subject of remark, every new animal or bird
an object of deep interest, and every sound was like a new lesson which
he was expected to learn. He often trembled at what he heard and saw.

The first sound he heard was that of the owl, at which he was greatly
terrified, and, quickly descending the tree he had climbed, he ran with
alarm to the lodge. “Noko! noko! grandmother!” he cried. “I have heard
a monedo.”

She laughed at his fears, and asked him what kind of a noise it made.
He answered. “It makes a noise like this: ko-ko-ko-ho!”

His grandmother told him he was young and foolish; that what he heard
was only a bird which derived its name from the peculiar noise it made.

He returned to the prairie and continued his watch. As he stood there
looking at the clouds he thought to himself, “It is singular that I am
so simple and my grandmother so wise; and that I have neither father
nor mother. I have never heard a word about them. I must ask and find
out.”

He went home and sat down, silent and dejected. Finding that this did
not attract the notice of his grandmother, he began a loud lamentation,
which he kept increasing, louder and louder, till it shook the lodge
and nearly deafened the old grandmother.

“Manabozho, what is the matter with you?” she said, “you are making a
great deal of noise.”

Manabozho started off again with his doleful hubbub, but succeeded in
jerking out between his big sobs, “I haven’t got any father nor mother,
I haven’t.”

Knowing that he was of a wicked and revengeful nature, his grandmother
dreaded to tell him the story of his parentage, as she knew he would
make trouble of it.

Manabozho renewed his cries and managed to throw out for a third or
fourth time, his sorrowful lament that he was a poor unfortunate who
had no parents or relatives.

At last she said to him, to quiet him, “Yes, you have a father and
three brothers living. Your mother is dead. She was taken for a wife by
your father, the West, without the consent of her parents. Your
brothers are the North, East, and South; and being older than you your
father has given them great power with the winds, according to their
names. You are the youngest of his children. I have nursed you from
your infancy, for your mother died when you were born.”

“I am glad my father is living,” said Manabozho, “I shall set out in
the morning to visit him.”

His grandmother would have discouraged him, saying it was a long
distance to the place where his father, Ningabinn, or the West, lived.

This information seemed rather to please than to discourage Manabozho,
for by this time he had grown to such a size and strength that he had
been compelled to leave the narrow shelter of his grandmother’s lodge
and live out of doors. He was so tall that, if he had been so disposed,
he could have snapped off the heads of the birds roosting on the
topmost branches of the highest trees, as he stood up, without being at
the trouble to climb. And if he had at any time taken a fancy to one of
the same trees for a walking stick, he would have had no more to do
than to pluck it up with his thumb and finger and strip down the leaves
and twigs with the palm of his hand.

Bidding good-by to his old grandmother, who pulled a very long face
over his departure, Manabozho set out at a great pace, for he was able
to stride from one side of a prairie to the other at a single step.

He found his father on a high mountain far in the west. His father
espied his approach at a great distance, and bounded down the
mountainside several miles to give him welcome. Apparently delighted
with each other, they reached in two or three of their giant paces the
lodge of the West which stood high up near the clouds.

They spent some days in talking with each other—for these two great
persons did nothing on a small scale, and a whole day to deliver a
single sentence, such was the immensity of their discourse, was quite
an ordinary affair.

One evening Manabozho asked his father what he was most afraid of on
earth.

He replied—“Nothing.”

“But is there nothing you dread here—nothing that would hurt you if you
took too much of it? Come, tell me.”

Manabozho was very urgent, so at last his father said: “Yes, there is a
black stone to be found a couple of hundred miles from here, over that
way,” pointing as he spoke. “It is the only thing on earth I am afraid
of, for if it should happen to hit me on any part of my body it would
hurt me very much.” The West made this important circumstance known to
Manabozho in the strictest confidence.

“Now you will not tell anyone, Manabozho, that the black stone is bad
medicine for your father, will you?” he added. “You are a good son, and
I know you will keep it to yourself. Now tell me, my darling boy, is
there not something that you don’t like?”

Manabozho answered promptly—“Nothing.”

His father, who was of a steady and persevering nature, put the same
question to him seventeen times, and each time Manabozho made the same
answer—“Nothing.”

But the West insisted—“There must be something you are afraid of.”

“Well, I will tell you,” said Manabozho, “what it is.”

He made an effort to speak, but it seemed to be too much for him.

“Out with it,” said the West, fetching Manabozho such a blow on the
back as shook the mountain with its echo.

“Je-ee, je-ee—it is,” said Manabozho, apparently in great pain. “Yes,
yes! I cannot name it, I tremble so.”

The West told him to banish his fears, and to speak up; no one would
hurt him.

Manabozho began again, and he would have gone over the same
make-believe of pain, had not his father, whose strength he knew was
more than a match for his own, threatened to pitch him into a river
about five miles off. At last he cried out:

“Father, since you will know, it is the root of the bulrush.” He who
could with perfect ease spin a sentence a whole day long, seemed to be
exhausted by the effort of pronouncing that one word, “bulrush.”

Some time after Manabozho observed: “I will get some of the black rock,
merely to see how it looks.”

“Well,” said the father, “I will also get a little of the bulrush root,
to learn how it tastes.”

They were both double-dealing with each other, and in their hearts
getting ready for some desperate work. They had no sooner separated for
the evening than Manabozho was striding off the couple of hundred miles
necessary to bring him to the place where the black rock was to be
procured, while down the other side of the mountain hurried Ningabinn,
the West.

At the break of day they each appeared at the great level on the
mountain-top, Manabozho with twenty loads, at least, of the black
stone, on one side, and on the other the West, with a whole meadow of
bulrush in his arms.

Manabozho was the first to strike—hurling a great piece of the black
rock, which struck the West directly between the eyes, and he returned
the favor with a blow of bulrush that rung over the shoulders of
Manabozho, far and wide, like the long lash of the lightning among the
clouds.

First one and then the other, Manabozho poured in a tempest of black
rock, while the West discharged a shower of bulrush. Blow upon blow,
thwack upon thwack—they fought hand to hand until black rock and
bulrush were all gone. Then they betook themselves to hurling crags at
each other, cudgeling with huge oak trees, and defying each other from
one mountain top to another; while at times they shot enormous boulders
of granite across at each other’s heads, as though they had been mere
jackstones. The battle, which had commenced on the mountains, had
extended far west. The West was forced to give ground. Manabozho
pressing on, drove him across rivers and mountains, ridges and lakes,
till at last he got him to the very brink of the world.

“Hold!” cried the West. “My son, you know my power, and although I
allow I am now fairly out of breath, it is impossible to kill me. Stop
where you are, and I will also portion you out with as much power as
your brothers. The four quarters of the globe are already occupied, but
you can go and do a great deal of good to the people of the earth,
which is beset with serpents, beasts and monsters, who make great havoc
of human life. Go and do good, and if you put forth half the strength
you have to-day, you will acquire a name that will last forever. When
you have finished your work I will have a place provided for you. You
will then go and sit with your brother, Kabinocca, in the north.”

Manabozho gave his father his hand upon this agreement. And parting
from. him, he returned to his own grounds, where he lay for some time
sore of his wounds.




WHY THE DIVER DUCK HAS SO FEW TAIL FEATHERS


Adapted from H. R. Schoolcraft

Having overcome the powerful Pearl Feather, killed his serpents and
escaped all is wiles and charms, the heart of Manabozho welled within
him. An unconquerable desire for further adventures seized upon him. He
had won in a great fight on land, so he determined his next success
should come to him from the water.

He tried his luck as a fisherman and with such success that he captured
an enormous fish, a fish so rich in fat that with the oil Manabozho was
able to form a small lake. Wishing to be generous, and at the same time
having a cunning plan of his own, he invited all the birds and beasts
of his acquaintance to come and feast upon the oil, telling them that
the order in which they partook of the banquet would decide how fat
each was to be for all time to come.

As fast as they arrived he told them to plunge in and help themselves.

The first to make his appearance was the bear, who took a long and
steady draft; then came the deer, the opossum, and such others of the
family as are noted for their comfortable covering. The moose and the
buffalo were late in arriving on the scene, and the partridge, always
lean in flesh, looked on till the supply was nearly gone. There was not
a drop left by the time the hare and the marten appeared on the shore
of the lake, and they are, in consequence, the slenderest of all
creatures.

When this ceremony was over Manabozho suggested to his friends, the
assembled birds and animals, that the occasion was proper for a little
merrymaking; and taking up his drum he cried out:

“New songs from the South! Come, brothers, dance!”

They all fell in and commenced their rounds. Whenever Manabozho, as he
stood in the circle, saw a fat fowl which he fancied pass him, he
adroitly wrung its neck and slipped it under his belt, at the same time
beating his drum and singing at the top of his lungs to drown the noise
of the fluttering, crying out in a tone of admiration:

“That’s the way, my brothers; that’s the way.” At last a small duck of
the diver family, thinking there was something wrong, opened one eye
and saw what Manabozho was doing. Giving a spring, and crying:
“Ha-ha-a! Manabozho is killing us!” he made a dash for the water.

Manabozho was so angry that the creature should have played the spy
that he gave chase, and just as the Diver Duck was getting into the
water he gave him a kick, which is the reason that the diver’s tail
feathers are few, his back flattened, and his legs straightened out, so
that when he is seen walking on land he makes a sorry looking figure.

The other birds, having no ambition to be thrust in Manabozho’s belt,
flew off, and the animals scampered into the woods.




MANAIBOZHO IS CHANGED INTO A WOLF


Adapted from H. R. Schoolcraft

One evening, as Manabozho was walking along the shore of a great lake,
weary and hungry, he met a great magician in the form of an Old Wolf,
with six young ones, coming toward him.

The Wolf no Sooner caught sight of him than he told his whelps, who
were close beside him, to keep out of the way of Manabozho, “For I
know,” he said, “that it is that mischievous fellow whom we see
yonder.”

The young wolves were in the act of running off when Manabozho cried
out, “My grandchildren, where are you going? Stop and I will go with
you. I wish to have a little chat with your excellent father.”

Saying which, he advanced and greeted the Old Wolf, expressing himself
as delighted at seeing him looking so well. “Whither do you journey?”
he asked.

“We are looking for a good hunting-ground to pass the winter,” the Old
Wolf answered. “What brings you here?”

“I was looking for you,” said Manabozho. “For I have a passion for the
chase, brother. I always admired your family; are you willing to change
me into a wolf?”

The Wolf gave him a favorable answer, and he was forthwith changed into
a wolf.

“Well, that will do,” said Manabozho. “But,” he said, looking at his
tail, “could you oblige me by making my tail a little longer and more
bushy, just a little more bushy?”

“Certainly,” said the Old Wolf; and he straightway gave Manabozho such
a length and spread of tail that it was continually getting between his
legs, and it was so heavy that it was as much as he could do to carry
it. But, having asked for it, he was ashamed to say a word, and they
all started off in company, dashing up the ravine.

After getting into the woods for some distance they ran across the
tracks of moose. The young ones scampered off in pursuit, the Old Wolf
and Manabozho following at their leisure.

“Well,” said the Old Wolf, by way of starting the conversation, “who do
you think is the fastest of the boys? Can you tell by the jumps they
take?”

“Why,” he replied, “that one that takes such long jumps, he is surely
the fastest.”

“Ha! ha! you are mistaken,” said the Old Wolf. “He makes a good start,
but he will be the first to tire out; this one who appears to be behind
will be the one to kill the game.”

By this time they had come to the spot where the boys had started in
chase. One had dropped what seemed to be a small medicine-sack, which
he carried for the use of the hunting party.

“Take that, Manabozho,” said the Old Wolf.

“Why, what will I do with a dirty dog skin?”

The Old Wolf took it up; it was a beautiful robe.

“Oh, I will carry it now,” cried Manabozho.

“Oh, no,” said the Wolf, who had used his magical powers, “it is a robe
of pearls. Come along!” And away he sped at a great rate of speed.

“Not so fast,” called Manabozho after him; and then he added to himself
as he panted after, “Oh, this tail!”

Coming to a place where the moose had lain down, they saw that the
young wolves had made a fresh start after their prey. “Why,” said the
Old Wolf, “this moose is thin. I know by the tracks. I can always tell
whether they are fat or not.” A little farther on, one of the young
wolves, in dashing at the moose, had broken a tooth on a tree.

“Manabozho,” said the Old Wolf, “one of your grandchildren has shot at
the game. Take his arrow; there it is.”

“No,” replied Manabozho, “what will I do with a dirty dog’s tooth?”

The Old Wolf took it up, and behold it was a beautiful silver arrow.

When they at last overtook them, they found that the youngsters had
killed a very fat moose. Manabozho was very hungry, but the Old Wolf
just then again exerted his magical powers, and Manabozho saw nothing
but the bones picked quite clean. He thought to himself, “Just as I
expected; dirty, greedy fellows. If it had not been for this log at my
back I should have been in time to have got a mouthful”; and he cursed
the bushy tail which he carried to the bottom of his heart.

The Old Wolf finally called out to one of the young ones, “Give some
meat to your grandfather.”

One of them obeyed, and coming near to Manabozho he presented him the
end of his own bushy tail, which was now nicely seasoned with burs
gathered in the course of the hunt. Manabozho jumped up and called out:
“You dog, do you think I am going to eat you?” And he walked off in
anger.

“Come back brother,” cried the Wolf. “You are losing your eyes. You do
the child injustice. Look there!” and behold a heap of fresh meat was
lying on the spot, all prepared.

Manabozho turned back, and at the sight of so much good food put on a
smiling face. “Wonderful!” he said, “how fine the meat is!”

“Yes,” replied the Old Wolf, “it is always so with us; we know our work
and always get the best. It is not a long tail that makes the hunter.”

Manabozho bit his lip.




WHY THE WOODPECKER HAS RED HEAD FEATHERS


Adapted from H. R. Schoolcraft

When his wounds had all been cured by his grandmother’s skill in
medicine, Manabozho, as big and sturdy as ever, was ripe for new
adventures. He set his thoughts immediately upon a war excursion
against the Pearl Feather, a wicked old manito, living on the other
side of the great lake, who had killed his grandfather.

He began his preparations by making huge bows and arrows without
number, but he had no arrow heads. At last his grandmother, Noko, told
him that an old man who lived at some distance could furnish him with
some, and he sent her to get them. Though she returned with her wrapper
full, he told her that he had not enough and sent her again for more.

In the meanwhile he thought to himself, “I must find out the way of
making these heads.”

Instead of directly asking how it was done, he preferred—just like
Manabozho—to deceive his grandmother, in order to learn what he wanted
by a trick. “Noko,” said he, “while I take my drum and rattle, and sing
my war songs, do you go and try to get me some larger heads, for these
you have brought me are all of the same size. Go and see whether the
old man is not willing to make some a little larger.”

He followed her at a distance as she went, having left his drum at the
lodge, with a great bird tied at the top, whose fluttering wings should
keep up the drumbeat, the same as if he were standing there beating the
drum himself. He saw the old workman busy, and learned how he prepared
the heads; he also beheld the old man’s daughter, who was very
beautiful. Manabozho discovered for the first time that he had a heart
of his own, and the sigh he heaved passed through the arrow maker’s
lodge like a young gale of wind.

“My how it blows!” said the old man.

“It must be from the south, though,” said the daughter, “it is so
fragrant.”

Manabozho slipped away, and in two strides he was at home, shouting
forth his songs as though he had never left the lodge. He had just time
to untie the bird which had been beating the drum when his grandmother
came in and gave him the big arrowheads.

In the evening the grandmother said, “My son, you ought to fast before
you go to war, as your brothers do, to find out whether you will be
successful or not.”

He said he had no objection. Having privately stored away in a shady
place in the forest two or three dozen juicy bears, a moose, and twenty
strings of the tenderest birds, he would retire from the lodge so far
as to be entirely out of view of his grandmother and fall to and enjoy
himself heartily. At nightfall, having dispatched a dozen birds and
half a bear or so, he would return, tottering and forlorn, as if quite
famished, so as to make his grandmother feel sorry for him.

When he had finished his term of fasting, in the course of which he
slyly dispatched twenty fat bears, six dozen birds, and two fine moose,
Manabozho sung his war song and embarked in his canoe, fully prepared
for war.

Besides his weapons he took along a large supply of oil.

He traveled rapidly night and day, for he had only to will or speak,
and the canoe went. At length he arrived in sight of the fiery
serpents, and stopped to study them. He noticed that they were of
enormous length and of a bright color, that they were some distance
apart, and that the flames which poured forth from the mouths reached
across the pass, so he said good morning and began talking with them in
a very friendly way. They were not to be deceived, however.

“We know you, Manabozho,” they said, “you cannot pass.”

Turning his canoe as if about to go back, he suddenly cried out with a
loud and terrified voice: “WHAT IS THAT BEHIND YOU?”

The serpents thrown off their guard, instantly turned their heads, and
in a moment Manabozho glided silently past them.

“Well,” said he, softly, after he had got by, “how about it?”

He then took up his bow and arrows, and with deliberate aim shot every
one of them easily, for the serpents were fixed to one spot and could
not even turn around.

Having thus escaped the sentinel serpents, Manabozho pushed on in his
canoe until he came to a part of the lake called Pitch-Water, as
whatever touched it was sure to stick fast.

But Manabozho was prepared with his oil and, rubbing his canoe freely
with it, from end to end, he slipped through with ease—and he was the
first person who had ever succeeded in passing through the Pitch-Water.

“Nothing like a little oil,” said Manabozho to himself.

Having by this time come in view of land, he could see the lodge of the
Shining Manito, high upon a distant hill. At the dawn of day he put his
clubs and arrows in order and began his attack, yelling and shouting
and beating his drum, and calling out so as to make it appear that he
had many followers:

“Surround him! surround him! run up! run up!”

He stalked bravely forward, shouting aloud, “It was you that killed my
grandfather,” and shot off a whole forest of arrows.

The Pearl Feather appeared on the height, blazing like the sun, and
paid back Manabozho with a tempest of bolts which rattled like hail.

All day long the fight was kept up, and Manabozho had fired all of his
arrows but three without effect, for the Shining Manito was clothed in
pure wampum. It was only by immense leaps to right and left that
Manabozho could save his head from the sturdy blows which fell about
him on every side, like pine.trees, from the hands of the Manito. He
was badly bruised, and at his very wits’ end, when a large Woodpecker
flew past and lit on a tree. It was a bird he had known on the prairie,
near his grandmother’s lodge.

“Manabozho,” called out the Woodpecker, “your enemy has a weak point;
shoot at the lock of hair on the crown of his head.”

The first arrow he shot only drew a few drops of blood. The Manito made
one or two unsteady steps, but recovered himself. He began to parley,
but Manabozho, now that he had discovered a way to reach him, was in no
humor to trifle, and he let slip another arrow which brought the
Shining Manito to his knees. Having the crown of his head within good
range Manabozho shot his third arrow, and the Manito fell forward upon
the ground, dead.

Manabozho called the Woodpecker to come and receive a reward for the
timely hint he had given him, and he rubbed the blood of the Shining
Manito on the Woodpecker’s head, the feathers of which are red to this
day.

Full of his victory, Manabozho returned home, beating his war drum
furiously and shouting aloud his song of triumph. His grandmother was
on the shore to welcome him with the war dance, which she performed
with wonderful skill for one so far advanced in years.




MANABOZHO IS ROBBED BY THE WOLVES


Adapted from H. R. Schoolcraft

Shortly after this the Old Wolf suggested to Manabozho that he should
go out and try his luck in hunting by himself. When he chose to put his
mind to it he was quite expert, and this time he succeeded in killing a
fine fat moose which he thought he would take aside slyly and devour
alone.

He was very hungry and he sat down to eat, but as he never could go to
work in a straightforward way, he immediately fell into great doubts as
to the proper point at which to begin.

“Well,” said he, “I do not know where to commence. At the head? No,
people will laugh, and say, ‘He ate him backward.’”

He went to the side. “No,” said he, “they will say I ate him sideways.”

He then went to the hind quarter. “No, that will not do, either; they
will say I ate him forward. I will begin here, say what they will.”

He took a delicate piece from the small of the back, and was just on
the point of putting it to his mouth when a tree close by made a
creaking noise. He seemed vexed at the sound. He raised the morsel to
his mouth the second time, when the tree creaked again.

“Why,” he exclaimed, “I cannot eat when I hear such a noise. “Stop,
stop!” he cried to the tree. He put down the morsel of meat,
exclaiming. “I CANNOT eat with such a noise,” and starting away he
climbed the tree and was actually pulling at the limb which had
bothered him, when his forepaw was caught between the branches so that
he could not free himself.

While thus held fast he saw a pack of wolves advancing through the wood
in the direction of his meat. He suspected them to be the Old Wolf and
his cubs, but night was coming on and he could not make them out. “Go
the other way, go the other Way!” he cried out; “what do you expect to
get here?”

The Wolves stopped for a while and talked among themselves, and said:
“Manabozho must have something there, or he would not tell us to go
another way.”

“I begin to know know him,” said the Old Wolf, “and all his tricks. Let
us go forward and see.” They came on and, finding the moose soon made
away with it.

Manabozho looked wistfully on while they ate until they were fully
satisfied, when off they scampered in high spirits. A heavy blast of
wind opened the branches finally, and released him. The wolves had left
nothing but bare bones. He made for home.

When he related his mishap, the Old Wolf, taking him by the forepaw,
condoled with him deeply on his ill luck. A tear even started to his
eye as he added: “My brother, this should teach us not to meddle with
points of ceremony when we have good meat to eat.”




MANABOZHO AND THE WOODPECKERS


Adapted from H. R. Schoolcraft

Manabozho lost the greater part of his magical power through letting
his young wolf grandson fall through the thin ice and drown. No one
knew where his grandmother had gone to. He married the arrow maker’s
daughter, and became the father of several children, but he was very
poor and scarcely able to procure a living. His lodge was pitched in a
distant part of the country, where he could get no game, and it was
winter time. One day he said to his wife, “I will go out walking and
see if I can find some lodges.”

After walking some time he finally discovered a lodge at a distance.
There were children playing at the door, and when they saw him
approaching they ran in and told their parents Manabozho was coming.

It was the home of the large Red-Headed Woodpecker. He came to the door
and asked Manabozho to enter, and the invitation was promptly accepted.
After some time the Woodpecker, who was a magician, said to his wife:
“Have you nothing to give Manabozho? he must be hungry.”

She answered, “No.”

“He ought not to go without his supper,” said the Woodpecker. “I will
see what I can do.”

In the center of the lodge stood a large tamarack tree. Upon this the
Woodpecker flew, and commenced going up, turning his head on each side
of the tree, and every now and then driving in his bill. At last he
pulled something out of the tree and threw it down, when, behold, a
fine fat raccoon lay on the ground. He drew out six or seven more, and
then came down and told his wife to prepare them.

“Manabozho,” he said, “this is the only thing we eat; what else can we
give you?”

“It is very good,” replied Manabozho.

They smoked their pipes and conversed, and after a while Manabozho got
ready to go home, so the Woodpecker said to his wife, “Give him the
Other raccoons to take home for his children.”

In the act of leaving the lodge Manabozho on purpose dropped one of his
mittens, which was soon after observed upon the ground. “Run,” said the
Woodpecker to his eldest son, “and give it to him; but mind that you do
not give it into his hand; throw it at him, for there is no knowing
what he may do, he acts so curiously.”

The boy did as he was directed. “Grandfather,” he said, as he came up
to him, “you have left one of your mittens, and here it is.”

“Yes,” he said, making believe he did not know he had dropped it, “so I
did; but don’t throw it, you will get it wet on the snow.”

The lad, however, threw it, and was about to return when Manabozho
cried out, “Bakah! Bakah! Stop, stop; is that all you eat? Do you eat
nothing else with your raccoon? Tell me!”

“Yes, that is all, answered the Young Woodpecker; “we have nothing
else.”

“Tell your father,” continued Manabozho, “to come and visit me, and let
him bring a sack. I will give him what he shall eat with his raccoon
meat.”

When the young one returned and reported this message to his father the
Old Woodpecker turned up his nose at the invitation. “I wonder,” he
said “what he thinks he has got, poor fellow!” He was bound, however,
to answer the offer of hospitality, and he went accordingly, taking
along a cedar-sack, to pay a visit to Manabozho.

Manabozho received the Old Red-Headed Woodpecker with great ceremony.
He had stood at the door awaiting his arrival, and as soon as he came
in sight Manabozho commenced, while he was yet far off, bowing and
opening wide his arms, in token of welcome; all of which the Woodpecker
returned in due form, by ducking his bill and hopping to right and
left, extending his wings to their full length and fluttering them back
to his breast.

When the Woodpecker at last reached the lodge Manabozho made several
remarks upon the weather, the appearance of the country, and especially
spoke of the scarcity of game. “But we,” he added—“we always have
enough. Come in, and you shall not go away hungry, my noble birds!”

Manabozho had always prided himself on being able to give as good as he
had received; and to be up with the Woodpecker he had shifted his lodge
so as to inclose a large dry tamarack tree.

“What can I give you?” said he to the Woodpecker; “as we eat so shall
you eat.”

With this he hopped forward and, jumping on the tamarack tree, he
attempted to climb it just as he had seen the Woodpecker do in his own
lodge. He turned his head first on one side and then on the other, as
the Woodpecker does, striving to go up the tree, but as often slipping
down. Every now and then he would strike the tree with his nose, as if
it was a bell, and draw back as if to pull something out of the tree,
but he pulled out no raccoons. He dashed his nose so often against the
trunk that at last the blood began to flow, and he tumbled down
senseless on the ground.

The Woodpecker started up with his drum and rattle to restore him, and
by beating them violently he succeeded in bringing him to.

As soon as he came to his senses, Manabozho began to lay the blame of
his failure upon his wife, saying to his guest: “Nemesho, it is this
woman relation of yours—she is the cause of my not succeeding. She has
made me a worthless fellow. Before I married her I also could get
raccoons.

The Woodpecker said nothing, but flying on the tree he drew out several
fine raccoons. “Here,” said he, “this is the way we do” and left him in
disdain, carrying his bill high in the air, and stepping over the
doorsill as if it were not worthy to be touched by his toes.




THE BOY AND THE WOLVES


Retold by Andrew Lang

Once upon a time an Indian hunter built himself a house in the middle
of a great forest, far away from all his tribe; for his heart was
gentle and kind and he was weary of the treachery and cruel deeds of
those who had been his friends. So he left them and took his wife and
three children, and they journeyed on until they found a spot near to a
clear stream, where they began to cut down trees and to make ready
their wigwam. For many years they lived peacefully and happily in this
sheltered place, never leaving it except to hunt the wild animals,
which served them both for food and clothes. At last, however, the
strong man fell sick, and before long lie knew he must die. So he
gathered his family round him and said his last words to them.

“You, my wife, the companion of my days, will follow me ere many moons
have waned to the island of the blessed. But for you, 0 my children,
whose lives are but newly begun, the wickedness, unkindness, and
ingratitude from which I fled are before you. Yet I shall go hence in
peace, my children, if you will promise always to love each other and
never to forsake your youngest brother.”

“Never!” they replied, holding out their hands. And the hunter died
content.

Scarcely eight moons had passed when, just as he had said, the wife
went forth and followed her husband; but before leaving her children
she bade the two elder ones think of their promise never to forsake the
younger, for he was a child and weak. And while the snow lay thick upon
the ground they tended him and cherished him; but when the earth showed
green again the heart of the young man stirred within him, and he
longed to see the wigwams of the village where his father’s youth was
spent.

Therefore he opened all his heart to his sister, who answered: “My
brother, I understand your longing for our fellow-men, whom here we
cannot see. But remember our father’s words. Shall we not seek our own
pleasures and forget the little one?”

But he would not listen, and, making no reply, he took his bow and
arrows and left the hut. The snows fell and melted, yet he never
returned, and at last the heart of the girl grew cold and hard and her
little boy became a burden in her eyes, till one day she spoke thus to
him: “See, there is food for many days to come. Stay here within the
shelter of the hut. I go to seek our brother, and when I have found him
I shall return hither.”

But when, after hard journeying, she reached the village where her
brother dwelt and saw that he had a wife and was happy, and when she,
too, was sought by a young brave, then she also forgot the boy alone in
the forest and thought only of her husband.

Now as soon as the little boy had eaten all the food which his sister
had left him, he went out into the woods and gathered berries and dug
up roots, and while the sun shone he was contented and had his fill.
But when the snows began and the wind howled, then his stomach felt
empty and his limbs cold, and he hid in trees all the night and only
crept out to eat what the wolves had left behind. And by and by, having
no other friends, he sought their company, and sat by while they
devoured their prey, and they grew to know him and gave him food. And
without them he would have died in the snow. But at last the snows
melted and the ice upon the great lake, and as the wolves went down to
the shore the boy went after them. And it happened one day that his big
brother was fishing in his canoe near the shore, and he heard the voice
of a child singing in the Indian tone:

“My brother, my brother!
I am becoming a wolf,
I am becoming a wolf!”


And when he had so sung he howled as wolves howl. Then the heart of the
elder sank and he hastened toward him, crying: “Brother, little
brother, come to me;” but he, being half a wolf, only continued his
song. And the louder the elder called him, “Brother, little brother,
come to me,” the swifter he fled after his brothers the wolves and the
heavier grew his skin, till, with a long howl, he vanished into the
depths of the forest.

So, with shame and anguish in his soul, the elder brother went back to
his village, and with his sister mourned the little boy and the broken
promise till the end of his life.




THE INDIAN WHO LOST HIS WIFE


Retold by Andrew Lang

Once upon a time there was a man and his wife who lived in the forest
far from the rest of the tribe. Very often they spent the day in
hunting together, but after awhile the wife found that she had so many
things to do that she was obliged to stay at home; so he went alone,
though he found that when his wife was not with him he never had any
luck. One day, when he was away hunting, the woman fell ill, and in a
few days she died. Her husband grieved bitterly and buried her in the
house where she had passed her life; but as the time went on he felt so
lonely without her that he made a wooden doll about her height amid
size for company and dressed it in her clothes. He seated it in front
of the fire and tried to think he had his wife back again. The next day
he went out to hunt, and when he came home the first thing he did was
to go up to the doll and brush off some of the ashes from the fire
which had fallen on its face. But he was very busy now, for he had to
cook and mend, besides getting food, for there was no one to help him.
And so a whole year passed away.

At the end of that time he came back from hunting one night and found
some wood by the door and a fire within. The next night there was not
only wood and fire, but a piece of meat in the kettle, nearly ready for
eating. He searched all about to see who could have done this, but
could find no one. The next time he went to hunt he took care not to go
far and came in quite early. And while he was still a long way off he
saw a woman going into the house with wood on her shoulders. So he made
haste and opened the door quickly, and instead of the wooden doll his
wife sat in front of the fire. Then she spoke to him and said:

“The Great Spirit felt sorry for you because you would not be
comforted, so he let me come back to you, but you must not stretch out
your hand to touch me till we have seen the rest of our people. If you
do I shall die.”

So the man listened to her words, and the woman dwelt there and brought
the wood and kindled the fire, till one day her husband said to her:

“It is now two years since you died. Let us now go back to our tribe.
Then you will be well and I can touch you.”

And with that he prepared food for the journey, a string of deer’s
flesh for her to carry and one for himself; and so they started. Now,
the camp of the tribe was distant six days’ journey, and when they were
yet one day’s journey off it began to snow, and they felt weary and
longed for rest. Therefore they made a fire, cooked some food, and
spread out their skins to sleep.

Then the heart of the man was greatly stirred and he stretched out his
arms to his wife, but she waved her hands and said:

“We have seen no one yet. It is too soon.”

But he would not listen to her and caught her to him, and behold! he
was clasping the wooden doll. And when he saw it was the doll he pushed
it from him in his misery and rushed away to the camp and told them all
his story. And some doubted, and they went back with him to the place
where he and his wife had stopped to rest, and there lay the doll, and
besides, they saw in time snow the steps of two people, and the foot of
one was like the foot of the doll. And the man grieved sore all the
days of his life.




PUNCHKIN


By E. Frere

Once upon a time there was a Raja who had seven beautiful daughters.
They were all good girls; but the youngest, named Balna, was more
clever than the rest. The Raja’s wife died when they were quite little
children, so these seven poor Princesses were left with no mother to
take care of them.

The Raja’s daughters took it by turns to cook their father’s dinner
every day, while he was absent deliberating with his Ministers on the
affairs of the nation.

About this time the Prudhan died, leaving a widow and one daughter; and
every day, when the seven Princesses were preparing their father’s
dinner, the Prudhan’s widow and daughter would come and beg for a
little fire from the hearth. Then Balna used to say to her sisters,
“Send that woman away; send her away. Let her get the fire at her own
house. What does she want with ours? If we allow her to come here, we
shall suffer for it some day.”

But the other sisters would answer, “Be quiet, Balna; why must you
always be quarreling with this poor woman? Let her take some fire if
she likes.” Then the Prudhan’s widow used to go to the hearth and take
a few sticks from it; and while no one was looking, she would quickly
throw some mud into the midst of the dishes which were being prepared
for the Raja’s dinner.

Now the Raja was very fond of his daughters. Ever since their mother’s
death they had cooked his dinner with their own hands, in order to
avoid the danger of his being poisoned by his enemies. So, when he
found the mud mixed up with his dinner, he thought it must arise from
their carelessness, as it did not seem likely that anyone should have
put mud there on purpose; but being very kind he did not like to
reprove them for it, although this spoiling of the curry was repeated
many days.

At last, one day, he determined to hide, and watch his daughters
cooking, and see how it all happened; so he went into the next room,
and watched them through a hole in the wall.

There he saw his seven daughters carefully washing the rice and
preparing the curry, and as each dish was completed, they put it by the
fire ready to be cooked. Next he noticed the Prudhan’s widow come to
the door, and beg for a few sticks from the fire to cook her dinner
with. Balna turned to her, angrily, and said, “Why don’t you keep fuel
in your own house, and not come here every day and take ours? Sisters,
don’t give this woman any more wood; let her buy it for herself.”

Then the eldest sister answered, “Balna, let the poor woman take the
wood and the fire; she does us no harm.” But Balna replied, “If you let
her come here so often, maybe she will do us some harm, and make us
sorry for it, some day.”

The Raja then saw the Prudhan’s widow go to the place where all his
dinner was nicely prepared, and, as she took the wood, she threw a
little mud into each of the dishes.

At this he was very angry, and sent to have the woman seized and
brought before him. But when the widow came, she told him that she had
played this trick because she wanted to gain an audience with him; and
she spoke so cleverly, and pleased him so well with her cunning words,
that instead of punishing her, the Raja married her, and made her his
Ranee, and she and her daughter came to live in the palace.

Now the new Ranee hated the seven poor Princesses, and wanted to get
them, if possible, out of the way, in order that her daughter might
have all their riches, and live in the palace as Princess in their
place; and instead of being grateful to them for their kindness to her,
she did all she could to make them miserable. She gave them nothing but
bread to eat, and very little of that, and very little water to drink;
so these seven poor little Princesses, who had been accustomed to have
everything comfortable about them, and good food and good clothes all
their lives long, were very miserable and unhappy; and they used to go
out every day and sit by their dead mother’s tomb and cry—and say:

“O mother, mother, cannot you see your poor children, how unhappy we
are, and how we are starved by our cruel stepmother?”

One day, while they were thus sobbing and crying, lo and behold! a
beautiful pomelo tree grew up out of the grave, covered with fresh,
ripe pomeloes, and the children satisfied their hunger by eating some
of the fruit, and every day after this, instead of trying to eat the
bad dinner their stepmother provided for them, they used to go out to
their mother’s grave and eat the pommels which grew there on the
beautiful tree.

Then the Ranee said to her daughter, “I cannot tell how it is, every
day those seven girls say they don’t want any dinner, and won’t eat
any; and yet they never grow thin nor look ill; they look better than
you do. I cannot tell how it is.” And she bade her watch the seven
Princesses, and see if anyone gave them anything to eat.

So next day, when the Princesses went to their mother’s grave, and were
eating the beautiful pomeloes, the Prudhan’s daughter followed them,
and saw them gathering the fruit.

Then Balna said to her sisters, “Do you not see that girl watching us?
Let us drive her away, or hide the pomeloes, else she will go and tell
her mother all about it, and that will be bad for us.”

But the other sisters said, “Oh no, do not be unkind, Balna. The girl
would never be so cruel as to tell her mother. Let us rather invite her
to come and have some of the fruit.” And calling her to them, they gave
her one of the pomeloes.

No sooner had she eaten it, however, than the Prudhan’s daughter went
home and said to her mother, “I do not wonder the seven Princesses will
not eat the dinner you prepare for them, for by their mother’s grave
there grows a beautiful pomelo tree, and they go there every day and
eat the pomeloes. I ate one, and it was the nicest I have ever tasted.”

The cruel Ranee was much vexed at hearing this, and all next day she
stayed in her room, and told the Raja that she had a very bad headache.
The Raja was deeply grieved, and said to his wife, “What can I do for
you?” She answered, “There is only one thing that will make my headache
well. By your dead wife’s tomb there grows a fine pomelo tree; you must
bring that here, and boil it, root and branch, and put a little of the
water in which it has been boiled on my forehead, and that will cure my
headache.” So the Raja sent his servants, and had the beautiful pomelo
tree pulled up by the roots, and did as the Ranee desired; and when
some of the water, in which it had been boiled, was put on her
forehead, she said her headache was gone and she felt quite well.

Next day, when the seven Princesses went as usual to the grave of their
mother, the pomelo tree had disappeared. Then they all began to cry
very bitterly.

Now there was by the Ranee’s tomb a small tank, and as they were crying
they saw the tank was filled with a rich cream-like substance, which
quickly hardened into a thick white cake. At seeing this all the
Princesses were very glad, and they ate some of the cake, and liked it;
and next day the same thing happened, and so it went on for many days.
Every morning the Princesses went to their mother’s grave, and found
the little tank filled with the nourishing cream-like cake. Then the
cruel stepmother said to her daughter: “I cannot tell how it is, I have
had the pomelo tree which used to grow by the Ranee’s grave destroyed,
and yet the Princesses grow no thinner, nor look more sad, though they
never eat the dinner I give them. I cannot tell how it is!”

And her daughter said, “I will watch.”

Next day, while the Princesses were eating the cream cake, who should
come by but their stepmother’s daughter. Balna saw her first, and said,
“See, sisters, there comes that girl again. Let us sit round the edge
of the tank and not allow her to see it, for if we give her some of our
cake, she will go and tell her mother; and that will be very
unfortunate for us.”

The other sisters, however, thought Balna unnecessarily suspicious, and
instead of following her advice, they gave the Prudhan’s daughter some
of the cake, and she went home and told her mother all about it.

The Ranee, on hearing how well the Princesses fared, was exceedingly
angry, and sent her servants to pull down the dead Ranee’s tomb, and
fill the little tank with the ruins. And not content with this, she
next day pretended to be very, very ill—in fact, at the point of
death—and when the Raja was much grieved, and asked her whether it was
in his power to procure her any remedy, she said to him: “Only one
thing can save my life, but I know you will not do it.” He replied,
“Yes, whatever it is, I will do it.” She then said, “To save my life,
you must kill the seven daughters of your first wife, and put some of
their blood on my forehead and on the palms of my hands, and their
death will be my life.” At these words the Raja was very sorrowful; but
because he feared to break his word, he went out with a heavy heart to
find his daughters.

He found them crying by the ruins of their mother’s grave.

Then, feeling he could not kill them, the Raja spoke kindly to them,
and told them to come out into the jungle with him; and there he made a
fire and cooked some rice, and gave it to them. But in the afternoon,
it being very hot, the seven Princesses all fell asleep, and when he
saw they were fast asleep, the Raja, their father, stole away and left
them (for he feared his wife), saying to himself: “It is better my poor
daughters should die here, than be killed by their stepmother.”

He then shot a deer, and returning home, put some of its blood on the
forehead and hands of the Ranee, and she thought then that he had
really killed the Princesses, and said she felt quite well.

Meantime the seven Princesses awoke, and when they found themselves all
alone in the thick jungle they were much frightened, and began to call
out as loud as they could, in hopes of making their father hear; but he
was by that time far away, and would not have been able to hear them
even had their voices been as loud as thunder.

It so happened that this very day the seven young sons of a neighboring
Raja chanced to be hunting in that same jungle, and as they were
returning home, after the day’s sport was over, the youngest Prince
said to his brothers: “Stop, I think I hear some one crying and calling
out. Do you not hear voices? Let us go in the direction of the sound,
and find out what it is.”

So the seven Princes rode through the wood until they came to the place
where the seven Princesses sat crying and wringing their hands. At the
sight of them the young Princes were very much astonished, and still
more so on learning their story; and they settled that each should take
one of these poor forlorn ladies home with him, and marry her.

So the first and eldest Prince took the eldest Princess home with him,
and married her.

And the second took the second; and third took the third; and the
fourth took the fourth; and the fifth took the fifth; and the sixth
took the sixth; and the seventh, and the handsomest of all, took the
beautiful Balna.

And when they got to their own land, there was great rejoicing
throughout the kingdom, at the marriage of the seven young Princes to
seven such beautiful Princesses.

About a year after this Balna had a little son, and his uncles and
aunts were so fond of the boy that it was as if he had seven fathers
and seven mothers. None of the other Princes and Princesses had any
children, so the son of the seventh Prince and Balna was acknowledged
their heir by all the rest.

They had thus lived very happily for some time, when one fine day the
seventh Prince (Balna’s husband) said he would go out hunting, and away
he went; and they waited long for him, but he never came back.

Then his six brothers said they would go and see what had become of
him; and they went away, but they also did not return.

And the seven Princesses grieved very much, for they feared that their
kind husbands must have been killed.

One day, not long after this had happened, as Balna was rocking her
baby’s cradle, and while her sisters were working in the room below,
there came to the palace door a man in a long black dress, who said
that he was a Fakir, and came to beg. The servant said to him, “You
cannot go into the palace—the Raja’s sons have all gone away; we think
they must be dead, and their widows cannot be interrupted by your
begging.” But he said, “I am a holy man, you must let me in. Then the
stupid servants let him walk through the palace, but they did not know
that this was no Fakir, but a wicked Magician named Punchkin.

Punchkin Fakir wandered through the palace, and saw many beautiful
things there, till at last he reached the room where Balna sat singing
beside her little boy’s cradle. The Magician thought her more beautiful
than all the other beautiful things he had seen, insomuch that he asked
her to go home with him and to marry him. But she said, “My husband, I
fear, is dead, but my little boy is still quite young; I will stay here
and teach him to grow up a clever man, and when he is grown up he shall
go out into the world, and try and learn tidings of his father. Heaven
forbid that I should ever leave him, or marry yon.” At these words the
Magician was very angry, and turned her into a little black dog, and
led her away; saying, “Since yon will not come with me of your own free
will, I will make you.” So the poor Princess was dragged away, without
any power of effecting an escape, or of letting her sisters know what
had become of her. As Punchkin passed through the palace gate the
servants said to him, “Where did yon get that pretty little dog?” And
he answered, “One of the Princesses gave it to me as a present.” At
hearing which they let him go without further questioning.

Soon after this, the six elder Princesses heard the little baby, their
nephew, begin to cry, and when they went upstairs they were much
surprised to find him all alone, and Balna nowhere to be seen. Then
they questioned the servants, and when they heard of the Fakir and the
little black dog, they guessed what had happened, and sent in every
direction seeking them, but neither the Fakir nor the dog were to be
found. What could six poor women do? They gave up all hopes of ever
seeing their kind husbands, and their sister, and her husband again,
and devoted themselves thenceforward to teaching and taking care of
their little nephew.

Thus time went on, till Balna’s son was fourteen years old. Then, one
day, his aunts told him the history of the family; and no sooner did he
hear it, than be was seized with a great desire to go in search of his
father and mother and uncles, and if he could find them alive to bring
them home again. His aunts, on learning his determination, were much
alarmed and tried to dissuade him, saying, “We have lost our husbands,
and our sister and her husband, and you are now our sole hope; if you
go away, what shall we do?” But he replied, “I pray you not to be
discouraged; I will return soon, and if it is possible bring my father
and mother and uncles with me.” So he set out on his travels; but for
some months he could learn nothing to help him in his search.

At last, after he had journeyed many hundreds of weary miles, and
become almost hopeless of ever hearing anything further of his parents,
he one day came to a country that seemed full of stones, and rocks, and
trees, and there he saw a large palace with a tower; hard by was a
Malee’s little house.

As he was looking about, the Malee’s wife saw him, and ran out of the
house and said, “My dear boy, who are you that dare venture to this
dangerous place?” He answered, “I am a Raja’s son, and I come in search
of my father, and my uncles, and my mother whom a wicked enchanter
bewitched.”

Then the Malee’s wife said, “This country and this palace belong to a
great enchanter; he is all powerful, and if anyone displeases him, he
can turn them into stones and trees. All the rocks and trees you see
here were living people once, and the Magician turned them to what they
now are. Some time ago a Raja’s son came here, and shortly afterward
came his six brothers, and they were all turned into stones and trees;
and these are not the only unfortunate ones, for up in that tower lives
a beautiful Princess, whom the Magician has kept prisoner there for
twelve years, because she hates him and will not marry him.”

Then the little Prince thought, “These must be my parents and my
uncles. I have found what I seek at last.” So he told his story to the
Malee’s wife, and begged her to help him to remain in that place awhile
and inquire further concerning the unhappy people she mentioned; and
she promised to befriend him, and advised his disguising himself lest
the Magician should see him, and turn him likewise into stone. To this
the Prince agreed. So the Malee’s wife dressed him up in a saree, and
pretended that he was her daughter.

One day, not long after this, as the Magician was walking in his garden
he saw the little girl (as he thought) playing about, and asked her who
she was. She told him she was the Malee’s daughter, and the Magician
said, “You are a pretty little girl, and to-morrow you shall take a
present of flowers from me to the beautiful lady who lives in the
tower.”

The young Prince was much delighted at hearing this, and went
immediately to inform the Malee’s wife; after consultation with whom he
determined that it would be more safe for him to retain his disguise,
and trust to the chance of a favorable opportunity for establishing
some communication with his mother, if it were indeed she.

Now it happened that at Balna’s marriage her husband had given her a
small gold ring on which her name was engraved, and she had put it on
her little son’s finger when he was a baby, and afterward when he was
older his aunts had had it enlarged for him, so that he was still able
to wear it. The Malee’s wife advised him to fasten the well-known
treasure to one of the bouquets he presented to his mother, and trust
to her recognizing it. This was not to be done without difficulty, as
such a strict watch was kept over the poor Princess (for fear of her
ever establishing communication with her friends), that though the
supposed Malee’s daughter was permitted to take her flowers every day,
the Magician or one of his slaves was always in the room at the time.
At last one day, however, opportunity favored him, and when no one was
looking the boy tied the ring to a nosegay, and threw it at Balna’s
feet. It fell with a clang on the floor, and Balna, looking to see what
made the strange sound, found the little ring tied to the flowers. On
recognizing it, she at once believed the story her son told her of his
long search, and begged him to advise her as to what she had better do;
at the same time entreating him on no account to endanger his life by
trying to rescue her. She told him that for twelve long years the
Magician had kept her shut up in the tower because she refused to marry
him, and she was so closely guarded that she saw no hope of release.

Now Balna’s son was a bright, clever boy, so he said, “Do not fear,
dear mother; the first thing to do is to discover how far the
Magician’s power extends, in order that we may be able to liberate my
father and uncles, whom he has imprisoned in the form of the rocks and
trees. You have spoken to him angrily for twelve long years; now rather
speak kindly. Tell him you have given up all hopes of again seeing the
husband you have so long mourned, and say you are willing to harry him.
Then endeavor to find out what his power consists in, and whether he is
immortal, or can be put to death.”

Balna determined to take her son’s advice; and the next day sent for
Punchkin, and spoke to him as had been suggested.

The Magician greatly delighted, begged her to allow the wedding to take
place as soon as possible.

But she told him that before she married him he must allow her a little
more time, in which she might make his acquaintance, and that, after
being enemies so long, their friendship could but strengthen by
degrees. “And do tell me,” she said, “are you quite immortal? Can death
never touch you? And are you too great an enchanter ever to feel human
suffering?”

“Why do you ask?” said he.

“Because,” she replied. “if I am to be your wife, I would fain know all
about you, in order, if any calamity threatens you, to overcome, or if
possible to avert it.”

“It is true,” he added, “that I am not as others. Far, far away,
hundreds of thousands of miles from this, there lies a desolate country
covered with thick jungle. In the midst of the jungle grows a circle of
palm trees, and in the center of the circle stand six chattees full of
water, piled one above another: below the sixth chattee is a small cage
which contains a little green parrot; on the life of the parrot depends
my life; and if the parrot is killed I must die. It is. however,” he
added, “impossible that the parrot should sustain any injury, both on
account of the inaccessibility of the country, and because, by my
appointment, many thousand genii surround the palm trees, and kill all
who approach the place.”

Balna told her son what Punchkin had said; but at the same time
implored him to give up all idea of getting the parrot.

The Prince, however, replied, “Mother, unless I can get hold of that
parrot, you, and my father, and uncles, cannot be liberated: be not
afraid, I will shortly return. Do you, meantime, keep the Magician in
good humor—still putting off your marriage with him on various
pretexts; and before he finds out the cause of delay, I will be here.”
So saying, he went away.

Many, many weary miles did he travel, till at last he came to a thick
jungle; and, being very tired, sat down under a tree and fell asleep.
He was awakened by a soft rustling sound, and looking about him, saw a
large serpent which was making its way to an eagle’s nest built in the
tree under which he lay, and in the nest were two young eagles. The
Prince seeing the danger of the young birds, drew his sword, and killed
the serpent; at the same moment a rushing sound was heard in the air,
and the two old eagles, who had been out hunting for food for their
young ones, returned. They quickly saw the dead serpent and the young
Prince standing over it; and the old mother eagle said to him, “Dear
boy, for many’ years all our young ones have been devoured by that
cruel serpent; you have now saved the lives of our children; whenever
you are in need therefore, send to us and we will help you; and as for
these little eagles, take them, and let them be your servants.”

At this the Prince was very glad, and the two eaglets crossed their
wings, on which he mounted; and they carried him far, far away over the
thick, jungles, until he came to the place where grew the circle of
palm trees, in the midst of which stood the six chattees full of water.
It was the middle of the day, and the heat was very great. All round
the trees were the genii fast asleep; nevertheless, there were such
countless thousands of them, that it would have been quite impossible
for anyone to walk through their ranks to the place; down swooped the
strong-winged eaglets—down jumped the Prince; in an instant he had
overthrown the six chattees full of water, and seized the little green
parrot, which he rolled up in his cloak; while, as he mounted again
into the air, all the genii below awoke, and finding their treasure
gone, set up a wild and melancholy howl.

Away, away flew the little eagles, till they came to their home in the
great tree; then the Prince said to the old eagles, “Take back your
little ones; they have done me good service; if ever again I stand in
need of help, I will not fail to come to you.” He then continued his
journey on foot till he arrived once more at the Magician’s palace,
where he sat down at the door and began playing with the Parrot.
Punchkin saw him, and came to him quickly, and said, “My boy, where did
yon get that parrot? Give it to me, I pray you.”

But the Prince answered, “Oh no, I cannot give away my parrot, it is a
great pet of mine; I have had it many years.”

Then the Magician said, “If it is an old favorite, I can understand
your not caring to give it away; but come, what will you sell it for?”

“Sir,” said the Prince, “I will not sell my parrot.”

Then Punchkin got frightened, and said, “Anything, anything; name what
price you will, and it shall be yours.” The Prince answered, “Let the
seven Raja’s sons whom you turned into rocks and trees be instantly
liberated.”

“It is done as you desire,” said the Magician, “only give me my
parrot.” And With that, by a stroke of his wand, Balna’s husband and
his brothers resumed their natural shapes. “Now, give me my parrot,”
repeated Punchkin.

“Not so fast, my master,” rejoined the Prince; “I must first beg that
you will restore to life all whom you have thus imprisoned.”

The Magician immediately waved his wand again; and whilst he cried, in
an imploring voice, “Give me my parrot!” the whole garden became
suddenly alive: where rocks, and stones, and trees had been before,
stood Rajas, and Punts, and Sirdars, and mighty men on prancing horses,
and jeweled pages, and troops of armed attendants.

“Give me my parrot!” cried Punchkin. Then the boy took hold of the
parrot, and tore off one of its wings; and as he did so the Magician’s
right arm fell off.

Punchkin then stretched out his left arm, crying, “Give me my parrot!”
The Prince pulled off the parrot’s second wing, and the Magician’s left
arm tumbled off.

“Give me my parrot!” cried he, and fell on his knees. The Prince pulled
off the parrot’s right leg, and the Magician’s right leg fell off: the
Prince pulled off the parrot’s left leg, down fell the Magician’s left.

Nothing remained of him save the limbless body and the head; but still
he rolled his eyes, and cried “Give me my parrot!” “Take your parrot,
then, cried the boy, and with that. he wrung the bird’s neck, and threw
it at the magician; and as he did so, Punchkin’s head twisted round
and, with a fearful groan, he died!

Then they let Balna out of the tower; and she, her son, and the seven
Princes went to their own country, and lived very happily ever
afterward. And as to the rest of the world, everyone went to his own
house.




HOW SUN, MOON AND WIND WENT OUT TO DINNER


By E. Frere

One day Sun, Moon, and Wind went out to dine with their uncle and aunt
Thunder and Lightning. Their mother (one of the most distant Stars you
see far up in the sky) waited alone for her children’s return.

Now both Sun and Wind were greedy and selfish. They enjoyed the great
feast that had been prepared for them, without a thought of saving any
of it to take home to their mother—but the gentle Moon did not forget
her. Of every dainty dish that was brought round, she placed a small
portion under one of her beautiful long fingernails, that Star might
also have a share in the treat.

On their return, their mother, Who had kept watch for them all night
long with her little bright eye, said, “Well, children, what have yon
brought home for me?” Then Sun (who was eldest) said, “I have brought
nothing home for you. I went out to enjoy myself with my friends—not to
fetch dinner for my mother!” And Wind said, “Neither have I brought
anything home for you, mother. You could hardly expect me to bring a
collection of good things for you, when I merely went out for my own
pleasure.” But Moon said, “Mother, fetch a plate, see what I have
brought you.” And shaking her hands she showered down such a choice
dinner as never was seen before.

Then Star turned to Sun and spoke thus, “Because you went out to amuse
yourself with your friends, and feasted and enjoyed yourself, without
any thought of our mother at home—you shall be cursed. Henceforth, your
rays shall ever be hot and scorching, and shall burn all that they
touch. And men shall hate you, and cover their heads when you appear.

(And that is why the Sun is so hot to this day.)

Then she turned to Wind and said, “You also who forgot your mother in
the midst of your selfish pleasures—hear your doom. You shall always
blow in the hot, dry weather, and shall parch and shrivel all living
things. And men shall detest and avoid you from this very time.”

(And that is why the Wind in the hot weather is still so disagreeable.)

But to Moon she said, “Daughter, because you remembered your mother,
and kept for her a share in your own enjoyment, from henceforth you
shall be ever cool, and calm and bright. No noxious glare shall
accompany your pure rays, and men shall always call you ‘blessed.’”

(And that is why the Moon’s light is so soft, and cool, and beautiful
even to this day.)




WHY THE FISH LAUGHED


By Joseph Jacobs

As a certain fisherwoman passed by a palace crying her fish, the queen
appeared at one of the windows and beckoned her to come near and show
what she had. At that moment a very big fish jumped about in the bottom
of the basket.

“Is it a he or a she?” inquired the queen. “I wish to purchase a she
fish.”

On hearing this the fish laughed aloud.

“It’s a he,” replied the fisherwoman, and proceeded on her rounds.

The queen returned to her room in a great rage; and on coming to see
her in the evening, the king noticed that something had disturbed her.

“Are you indisposed?” he said.

“No; but I am very much annoyed at the strange behavior of a fish. A
woman brought me one to-day, and on my inquiring whether it was a male
or female, the fish laughed most rudely.”

“A fish laugh! Impossible! You must be dreaming.”

“I am not a fool. I speak of what I have seen with my own eyes and
heard with my own ears.”

“Passing strange! Be it so. I will inquire concerning it.”

On the morrow the king repeated to his vizier what his wife had told
him, and bade him investigate the matter, and be ready with a
satisfactory answer within six mouths, on pain of death. The vizier
promised to do his best, though he felt almost certain of failure. For
live months he labored indefatigably to find a reason for the laughter
of the fish. He sought everywhere and from everyone. The wise and
learned, and they who were skilled in magic and in all manner of
trickery, were consulted. Nobody, however, could explain the matter;
and so he returned broken-hearted to his house, and began to arrange
his affairs in prospect of certain death, for he had had sufficient
experience of the king to know that His Majesty would not go back from
his threat. Amongst other things, he advised his son to travel for a
time, until the king’s anger should have somewhat cooled.

The young fellow, who was both clever and handsome, started off
whithersoever Kismet might lead him. He had been gone some days, when
he fell in with an old farmer, who also was on a journey to a certain
village. Finding the old man very pleasant, he asked him if he might
accompany him, professing to be on a visit to the same place. The old
farmer agreed, and they walked along together. The day was hot, and the
way was long and weary.

“Don’t yon think it would be pleasanter if you and I sometimes gave one
another a lift?” said the youth.

“What a fool the man is!” thought the old farmer.

Presently they passed through a field of corn ready for the sickle, and
looking’ like a sea of gold as it waved to and fro in the breeze.

“Is this eaten or not?” said the young man.

Not understanding his meaning, the old man replied, “I don’t know.”

After a little while the two travelers arrived at a big village, where
the young man gave his companion a clasp knife, and said, “Take this,
friend, and get two horses with it; but mind and bring it back, for it
is very precious.”

The old man, looking half amused and half angry, pushed back the knife,
muttering something to the effect that his friend was either a fool
himself or else tying to play the fool with him. The young man
pretended not to notice his reply, and remained almost silent till they
reached the city, a short distance outside which was the old farmer’s
house.

They walked about the bazaar and went to the mosque, but nobody saluted
them or invited them to come in and rest.

“What a large cemetery!” exclaimed the young man.

“What does the man mean,” thought the old farmer, “calling this largely
populated city a cemetery?”

On leaving the city their way led through a cemetery where a few people
were praying beside a grave and distributing chupatties and kulchas to
Passers-by, in the name of their beloved dead. They beckoned to the two
travelers and gave them as much as they would.

“What a splendid city this is!” said the young man.

“Now, the man must surely be demented!” thought the old farmer. “I
wonder what he will do next? He will be calling the land water, and the
water land; and be speaking of light where there is darkness, and of
darkness where it is light.” However, he kept his thoughts to himself.

Presently they had to wade through a stream that ran along the edge of
the cemetery. The water was rather deep, so the old farmer took off his
shoes and pajamas and crossed over; but the young man waded through it
with his shoes and pajamas on.

“Well! I never did see such a perfect fool, both in word and in deed,
said the old man to himself.

However, he liked the fellow; and thinking that he would amuse his wife
and daughter, he invited him to come and stay at his house as long as
he had occasion to remain in the village.

“Thank you very much,” the young man replied; “but let me first
inquire, if you please, whether the beam of your house is strong.”

The old farmer left him in despair, and entered his house laughing.

“There is a man in yonder field,” he said, after returning their
greetings. “He has come the greater part of the way with me, and I
wanted him to put up here as long as he had to stay in this village.
But the fellow is such a fool that I cannot make anything out of him.
He wants to know if the beam of this house is all right. The man must
be mad!” and saying this he burst into a fit of laughter.

“Father,” said the farmer’s daughter, who was a very sharp and wise
girl, “this man, whosoever he is, is no fool, as you deem him. He only
wishes to know if you can afford to entertain him.”

“Oh! of course,” replied the farmer. “I see. Well perhaps you can help
me to solve some of his other mysteries. While we were walking together
he asked whether he should carry me or I should carry him, as he
thought that would be a pleasanter mode of proceeding.”

“Most assuredly,” said the girl. “He meant that one of you should tell
a story to beguile the time.”

“Oh, yes. Well, we were passing through a cornfield, when he asked me
whether it was eaten or not.”

“And didn’t you know the meaning of this, father? He simply wished to
know if the man was in debt or not; because if the owner of the field
was in debt, then the produce of the field was as good as eaten to him;
that is, it would have to go to his creditors.”

“Yes, yes, yes; of course! Then, on entering a certain village, he bade
me take his clasp knife and get two horses with it, and bring back the
knife again to him.”

“Are not two stout sticks as good as two horses for helping one along
on the road? He only asked you to cut a couple of sticks and be careful
not to lose his knife.”

“I see,” said time farmer. “While we were walking over the city we did
not see anybody that we knew, and not a soul gave us a scrap of
anything to eat, till we were passing the cemetery; but there some
people called to us and put into our hands some chupatties and kulchas;
so my companion called the city a cemetery, and the cemetery a city.”

“This also is to be understood, father, if one thinks of the city as
the place where everything is to be obtained, and of inhospitable
people as worse than the dead. The city, though crowded with people,
was as if dead, as far as you were concerned; while, in the cemetery,
which is crowded with time dead, you were saluted by kind friends and
provided with bread.”

“True, true!” said the astonished farmer. “Then, just now, when we were
crossing the stream, he waded through it without taking off his shoes
and pajamas.”

“I admire his wisdom,” replied time girl. “I have often thought how
stupid people were to venture into that swiftly flowing stream and over
those sharp stones with bare feet. The slightest stumble and they would
fall, and be wetted from head to foot. This friend of yours is a most
wise man. I should like to see him and speak to him.”

“Very well,” said time farmer; “I will go and find him, and bring him
in.”

“Tell him, father, that our beams are strong enough, and then he will
come in. I’ll send on ahead a present to the man, to show him that we
can afford to have him for our guest.”

Accordingly she called a servant and sent him to the young man with a
present of a basin of ghee, twelve chupatties, and a jar of milk, and
the following message: “O friend, time moon is full; twelve months make
a year, and the sea is overflowing with water.”

Half-way the bearer of this present and message met his little son,
who, seeing what was in the basket, begged his father to give him some
of the food. His father foolishly complied. Presently he saw the young
man, and gave him the rest of the present and the message.

“Give your mistress my salaam,” he replied, “and tell her that the moon
is new, and that I can only find eleven mouths in the year, and the sea
is by no means full.”

Not understanding the meaning of these words, the servant repeated them
word for word, as he had heard them, to his mistress; and thus his
theft was discovered, and he was severely punished. After a little
while the young man appeared with the old farmer. Great attention was
shown to him, and he was treated in every way as it he were the son of
a great man, although his humble host knew nothing of his origin. At
length be told them everything—about the laughing of the fish, his
father’s threatened execution, and his own banishment—and asked their
advice as to what he should do.

“The laughing of the fish,” said the girl “which seems to have been the
cause of all this trouble, indicates that there is a man in the palace
who is plotting against the king’s life.”

“Joy, joy!” exclaimed the vizier’s son. “There is yet time for me to
return and save my father from an ignominious and unjust death, and the
king from danger.”

The following day he hastened back to his own country, taking with him
the farmer’s daughter. Immediately on arrival he ran to the palace and
informed his father of what he had heard. The poor vizier, now almost
dead from the expectation of death, was at once carried to the king, to
whom he repeated the news that his son had just brought.

“Never!” said the king.

“But it must be so, Your Majesty,” replied the vizier; “and in order to
prove the truth of what I have heard, I pray you call together all the
maids in your palace, and order them to jump over a pit, which must be
dug. We’ll soon find out whether there is any man there.”

The king had time pit dug, and commanded all the maids belonging to the
palace to try to jump it. All of them tried, but only one succeeded.
That one was found to be a man!

Thus was the queen satisfied, and the faithful old vizier saved.

Afterward, as soon as could be, the vizier’s son married the old
farmer’s daughter; and a most happy marriage it was.




THE FARMER AND THE MONEY LENDER


By Joseph Jacobs

There was ounce a farmer who suffered much at time hands of the money
lender. Good harvests, or bad, the farmer was always poor, the money
lender rich. At the last, when he hadn’t a farthing left, the farmer
went to the money lender’s house, and said, “You can’t squeeze water
from a stone, and as you have nothing to get by me now, you might tell
me the secret of becoming rich.”

“My friend,” returned the money lender, piously, “riches come from
Ram—ask _him_.”

“Thank you, I will!” replied the simple farmer; so he prepared three
griddle cakes to last him on the journey, and set out to find Ram.

First he met a Brahman, and to him he gave a cake asking him to point
out the road to Ram; but the Brahman only took the cake and went on his
way without a word. Next the farmer met a Jogi or devotee, and to him
he gave a cake, without receiving any help in return. At last, he came
upon a poor man sitting under a tree, and finding out he was hungry,
the kindly farmer gave him his last cake, and sitting clown to rest
beside him, entered into conversation.

“And where are you going?” asked the poor man, at length.

“Oh, I have a long journey before me, for I am going to find Ram!”
replied the farmer. “I don’t suppose you could tell me which way to
go?”

“Perhaps I can,” said the poor man, smiling, “for I am Ram! What do you
want of me?”

Then the farmer told the whole story, and Rain, taking pity on him,
gave him a conch shell, and showed him how to blow it in a particular
way, saying, “Remember! whatever you wish for, you have only to blow
the conch that way, and your wish will be fulfilled. Only have a care
of that money lender, for even magic is not proof against their wiles!”

The farmer went back to his village rejoicing. In fact the money lender
noticed his high spirits at once, and said to himself, “Some good
fortune must have befallen the stupid fellow, to make him hold his head
so jauntily.” Therefore he went over to the simple farmer’s house, and
congratulated him on his good fortune, in such cunning words,
pretending to have heard all about it, that before long the farmer
found himself telling the whole story—all except the secret of blowing
the conch, for, with all his simplicity, the farmer was not quite such
a fool as to tell that.

Nevertheless, the money lender determined to have the conch by hook or
by crook, and as he was villain enough not to stick at trifles, he
waited for a favorable opportunity and stole the conch.

But, after nearly bursting himself with blowing the conch in every
conceivable way, he was obliged to give up the secret as a bad job.
However, being determined to succeed he went back to the farmer and
said, coolly, “Look here; I’ve got your conch, but I can’t use it; you
haven’t got it, So it’s clear you can’t use it either. Business is at a
standstill unless we make a bargain. Now, I promise to give you back
your conch, and never to interfere with your using it, on one
condition, which is this—Whatever you get from it, I am to get double.”

“Never!” cried the farmer; “that would be the old business all over
again!”

“Not at all!” replied time wily money lender; “you will have your
share! Now, don’t be a dog in the manger, for if you get all you want,
what can it matter to you if I am rich or poor?”

At last, though it went sorely against the grain to be of any benefit
to a money lender, the farmer was forced to yield, and from that time,
no matter what he gained by the power of the couch, time money lender
gained double. And the knowledge that this was so preyed upon the
farmer’s mind day and night, so that he had no satisfaction out of
anything.

At last, there came a very dry season—so dry that the farmer’s crops
withered for want of rain. Then he blew his conch, and wished for a
well to water them, and lo! there was the well, but the money lender
had two!—two beautiful new wells! This was too much for any farmer to
stand: and our friend brooded over it, and brooded over it, till at
last a bright idea came into his head. He seized the conch, blew it
loudly, and cried out, “Oh Ram! I wish to be blind of one eye!” And so
he was in a twinkling, but the money lender of course was blind of
both, and in trying to steer his way between the two new wells, he fell
into one and was drowned.

Now this true story shows that a farmer once got time better of a money
lender-but only by losing one of his eyes.




PRIDE GOETH BEFORE A FALL


By Joseph Jacobs

In a certain village there lived ten cloth merchants who always went
about together. Once upon a time they had traveled far afield, and were
returning home with a great deal of money which they had obtained by
selling their wares. Now there happened to be a dense forest near their
village, and this they reached early one morning. In it there lived
three notorious robbers, of whose existence the traders had never
heard, and while they were still in the middle of it the robbers stood
before them, with swords and cudgels in their hands, and ordered them
to lay down all they had. The traders had no weapons with them, and so,
though they were many more in number, they had to submit themselves to
the robbers, who took away everything from them, even the very clothes
they wore, and gave to each only a small loin cloth a span in breadth
and a cubit in length.

The idea that they had conquered ten men and plundered all their
property now took possession of the robbers’ minds. They seated
themselves like three monarchs before the men they had plundered, and
ordered them to dance to them before returning home. The merchants now
mourned their fate.

They had lost all they had, except their loin cloth, and still the
robbers were not satisfied, but ordered them to dance.

There was, among the ten merchants, one who was very clever. He
pondered over the calamity that had come upon him and his friends, the
dance they would have to perform, and the magnificent manner in which
the three robbers had seated themselves on the grass. At the same time
he observed that these last had placed their weapons on the ground, in
the assurance of having thoroughly cowed the traders, who were now
commencing to dance. So he took the lead in the dance, and, as a song
is always sung by the leader on such occasions, to which the rest keep
time with hands and feet, he thus began to sing:

We are enty men,
They are erith men:
If each erith man
Surround eno men,
Eno man remains.
Tâ, tai, tôm, tadingana.


The robbers were all uneducated, and thought that the leader was merely
singing a song as usual. So it was in one sense: for the leader
commenced from a distance, and had sung the song over twice before he
and his companions commenced to approach the robbers. They had
understood his meaning, because they had been trained in trade.

When two traders discuss the price of an article in the presence of a
purchaser, they use a riddling sort of language.

“What is the price of this cloth?” one trader will ask another.

“Enty rupees,” another will reply, meaning “ten rupees.”

Thus, there is no possibility of the purchaser knowing what is meant
unless he be acquainted with trade language. By the rules of this
secret language erith means “three,” enty means “ten,” and eno means
“one.” So the leader by his song meant to hint to his fellow-traders
that they were ten men, the robbers only three, that if three pounced
upon each of the robbers, nine of them could hold them down, while the
remaining one bound the robbers’ hands and feet.

The three thieves, glorying in their victory, and little understanding
the meaning of the song and the intentions of the dancers, were proudly
seated chewing betel and tobacco. Meanwhile the song was sung a third
time. Ta, tai, tom had left the lips of the singer; and, before
tadingana was out of them, the traders separated into parties of three,
and each party pounced upon a thief. The remaining one—the leader
himself—tore up into long narrow strips a large piece of cloth, six
cubits long, and tied the hands and feet of the robbers. These were
entirely humbled now, and rolled on the ground like three bags of rice!

The ten traders now took back all their property, and armed themselves
with the swords and cudgels of their enemies; and when they reached
their village, they often amused their friends and relatives by
relating their adventure.




HOW THE WICKED SONS WERE DUPED


By Joseph Jacobs

A very wealthy old man, imagining that he was on the point of death,
sent for his sons and divided his property among them. However, he did
not die for several years afterward, and miserable years many of them
were. Besides the weariness of old age, the old fellow had to bear with
much abuse and cruelty from his sons. Wretched, selfish ingrates!
Previously they vied with one another in trying to please their father,
hoping thus to receive more money, but now they had received their
patrimony, they cared not how soon he left them—nay, the sooner the
better, because he was only a needless trouble and expense. And they
let the poor old man know what they felt.

One day he met a friend and related to him all his troubles. The friend
sympathized very much with him, and promised to think over the matter,
and call in a little while and tell him what to do. He did so; in a few
days he visited the old man and put down four bags full of stones and
gravel before him.

“Look here, friend,” said he. “Your sons will get to know of my coming
here to-day, and will inquire about it. You must pretend that I came to
discharge a long-standing debt with you, and that you are several
thousands of rupees richer than you thought you were. Keep these bags
in your own hands, and on no account let your sons get to them as long
as you are alive. You will soon find them change their conduct toward
you. Salaam, I will come again soon to see how you are getting on.”

When the young men got to hear of this further increase of wealth they
began to be more attentive and pleasing to their father than ever
before. And thus they continued to the day of the old man’s demise,
when the bags were greedily opened, and found to contain only stones
and gravel!




THE TIGER, THE BRAHMAN, AND THE JACKAL


By Flora Annie Steel

Once upon a time a Tiger was caught in a trap. He tried in vain to get
out through the bars, and rolled and bit with rage and grief when he
failed.

By chance a poor Brahman came by.

“Let me out of this cage, oh pious one!” cried the Tiger.

“Nay, my friend,” replied the Brahman mildly, you would probably eat me
if I did.”

“Not at all!” swore the Tiger with many oaths; “on the contrary, I
should be forever grateful, and serve you as a slave!”

Now when the Tiger sobbed and sighed and wept and swore, the pious
Brahman’s heart softened, and at last he consented to open the door of
the cage. Out popped the Tiger, and, seizing the poor man, cried, “What
a fool you are! What is to prevent my eating you now, for after being
cooped up so long I am terribly hungry!”

In vain the Brahman Pleaded for his life; the most he could gain was a
promise to abide by the decision of the first three things he chose to
question as to the justice of the Tiger’s action.

So the Brahman first asked a Pipal Tree what it thought of the matter,
but the Pipal Tree replied coldly, “What have you to complain about?
Don’t I give shade and shelter to everyone who passes by, and don’t
they in return tear down my branches to feed their cattle? Don’t
whimper—be a man!”

Then the Brahman sad at heart, went farther afield till he saw a
Buffalo turning a well wheel; but he fared no better from it, for it
answered, “You are a fool to expect gratitude! Look at me! While I gave
milk they fed me on cottonseed and oil cake, but now I am dry they yoke
me here, and give me refuse as fodder!”

The Brahman, still more sad, asked the Road to give him its opinion.

“My dear sir,” said the Road, “how foolish you are to expect anything
else! Here am I, useful to everybody, yet all, rich and poor, great and
small, trample on me as they go past, giving me nothing but the ashes
of their pipes and the husks of their grain!”

On this the Brahman turned back sorrowfully, and on the way he met a
Jackal, who called out, “Why, what’s the matter, Mr. Brahman? You look
as miserable as a fish out of water!”

The Brahman told him all that had occurred.

“How very confusing!” said the Jackal, when the recital was ended;
“would you mind telling me over again, for everything has got so mixed
up?”

The Brahman told it all over again, but the Jackal shook his head in a
distracted sort of way, and still could not understand.

“It’s very odd,” said he, sadly, “but it all seems to go in at one ear
and out at the other! I will go to the place where it all happened, and
then perhaps I shall be able to give a judgment.”

So they returned to the cage, by which the Tiger was waiting for the
Brahman, and sharpening his teeth and claws.

“You’ve been away a long time!” growled the savage beast, “but now let
us begin our dinner.”

“Our dinner!” thought the wretched Brahman, as his knees knocked
together with fright; “what a remarkably delicate way of putting it!”

“Give mime five minutes, my lord!” he pleaded, “in order that I may
explain matters to the Jackal here, who is somewhat slow in his wits.”

The Tiger consented, and the Brahman began the whole story over again,
not missing a single detail, and spinning as long a yarn as possible.

“Oh, my poor brain! oh, my poor brain!” cried the Jackal, wringing its
paws. “Let me see! how did it all begin? You were in the cage, and the
Tiger came walking by—”

“Pooh!” interrupted the Tiger, “what a fool you are! _I_ was in the
cage.”

“Of course!” cried the Jackal, pretending to tremble with fright; “yes
I was in the cage—no I wasn’t—dear! dear, where are my wits? Let me
see—the Tiger was in the Brahman, and the cage came walking by—no,
that’s not it, either! Well, don’t mind me, but begin your dinner, for
I shall never understand!”

“Yes, you shall!” returned the Tiger, in a rage at the Jackal’s
stupidity; “I’ll make you understand! Look here—I am the Tiger—”

“Yes, my lord!”

“And that is the Brahman—”

“Yes, my lord!”

“And that is the cage—”

“Yes, my lord!”

“And I was in the cage—do you understand?”

“Yes—no— Please, my lord—”

“Well?” cried the Tiger impatiently.

“Please, my lord!—how did you get in?”

“How?—why, in the usual way, of course!”

“Oh, dear me!—My head is beginning to whirl again! Please don’t get
angry, my lord, but what is the usual way?”

At this the Tiger lost patience, and, jumping into the cage, cried,
“This way! Now do you understand how it was?”

“Perfectly!” grinned the Jackal, as he dexterously shut the door. “And
if you will permit me to say so, I think matters will remain as they
were!”




THE LAMBIKIN


By Flora Annie Steel

Once upon a time there was a wee wee Lambikin, who frolicked about on
his little tottery legs, and enjoyed himself amazingly.

Now one day he set off to visit his Granny, and was jumping with joy to
think of all the good things he should get from her, when who should he
meet but a Jackal, who looked at the tender young morsel and said:
“Lambikin! Lambikin! I’ll EAT YOU!”

But Lambikin only gave a little frisk and said:

“To Granny’s house I go,
Where I shall fatter grow,
Then you can eat me so.”


The Jackal thought this reasonable, and let Lambikin pass.

By and by he met a Vulture, and the Vulture, looking hungrily at the
tender morsel before him, said: “Lambikin! Lambikin! I’ll EAT YOU!”

But Lambikin only gave a little frisk, and said:

“To Granny’s house I go,
Where I shall fatter grow,
Then you can eat me so.”


The Vulture thought this reasonable, and let Lambikin pass.

And by and by he met a Tiger, and then a Wolf, and a Dog, arid an
Eagle, and all these, when they saw the tender little morsel, said:
“Lambikin! Lambikin! I’ll EAT YOU!”

But to all of them Lambikin replied, with a little frisk:

“To Granny’s house I go,
Where I shall fatter grow,
Then you can eat me so.


At last he reached his Granny’s house, and said, all in a great hurry,
“Granny, dear, I’ve promised to get very fat; so, as people ought to
keep their promises, please put me into the corn bin at once.”

So his Granny said he was a good boy, and put him into the corn bin,
and there the greedy little Lambikin stayed for seven days, and ate,
and ate, and ate, until he could scarcely waddle, and his Granny said
he was fat enough for anything, and must go home. But cunning little
Lambikin said that would never do, for some animal would be sure to eat
him on the way back, he was so plump and tender.

“I’ll tell you what you must do,” said Master Lambikin, “you must make
a little drumikin out of the skin of my little brother who died, and
then I can sit inside and trundle along nicely, for I’m as tight as a
drum myself.”

So his Granny made a nice little drumikin out of his brother’s skin,
with the wool inside, and Lambikin curled himself up snug and warm in
the middle, and trundled away gayly. Soon lie met with the Eagle, who
called out:

“Drumikin! Drumikin!
Have you seen Lambikin?”


And Mr. Lambikin, curled up in his soft warm nest, replied:

“Fallen into the fire, and so will you
On little Drumikin. Tum-pa, tum-too!”


“How very annoying!” sighed the Eagle, thinking regretfully of the
tender morsel he had let slip.

Meanwhile Lambikin trundled along, laughing to himself, and singing:

“Tum-pa, tum-too;
Tum-pa, tum-too!”


Every animal and bird he met asked him the same question:

“Drumikin! Drumikin!
Have you seen Lambikin?”


And to each of them the little slyboots replied:

“Fallen into the fire, and so will you
On little Drumikin. Tum-pa, tum-too;
Tum-pa, tum-too; Tum-pa, tum-too!”


Then they all sighed to think of the tender little morsel they had let
slip.

At last the Jackal came limping along, for all his sorry looks as sharp
as a needle, and he too called out—

“Drumikin! Drumikin!
Have you seen Lambikin?”


And Lambikin, curled up in his snug little nest, replied gayly:

“Fallen into the fire, and so will you
On little Drumikin! Tum-pa—”


But he never got any further, for the Jackal recognized his voice at
once, arid cried: “Hullo! you’ve turned yourself inside out, have you?
Just you come out of that!”

Whereupon he tore open Drumikin and gobbled up Lambikin.




THE RAT’S WEDDING


By Flora Annie Steel

Once upon a time a fat, sleek Rat was caught in a shower of rain, and
being far from shelter he set to work and soon dug a nice hole in the
ground, in which he sat as dry as a bone while the raindrops splashed
outside, making little puddles on the road.

Now in the course of digging, he came upon a fine bit of root, quite
dry and fit for fuel, which he set aside carefully—for the Rat is an
economical creature—in order to take it home with him. So when the
shower was over, he set off with the dry root in his mouth. As he went
along, daintily picking his way through the puddles, he Saw a Poor Man
vainly trying to light a fire, while a little circle of children stood
by, and cried piteously.

“Goodness gracious!” exclaimed the Rat, who was both soft-hearted and
curious, “What a dreadful noise to make! What is the matter?”

“The children are hungry,” answered the Man; “they are crying for their
breakfast, but the sticks are damp, the fire won’t burn, and so I can’t
bake the cakes.”

“If that is all your trouble, perhaps I can help you,” said the
good-natured Rat, “you are welcome to this dry root and I’ll warrant it
will soon make a fine blaze.”

The Poor Man, with a thousand thanks, took the dry root, and in his
turn presented the Rat with a morsel of dough, as a reward for his
kindness and generosity.

“What a remarkably lucky fellow I am!” thought the Rat, as he trotted
off gayly with his prize, “and clever, too! Fancy making a bargain like
that—food enough to last me five days in return for a rotten old stick!
Wah! Wah! Wah! What it is to have brains!”

Going along, hugging his good fortune in this way, he came presently to
a Potter’s yard, where the Potter, leaving his wheel to spin round by
itself, was trying to pacify his three little children, who were
screaming arid crying as if they would burst.

“My gracious!” cried the Rat, stopping his ears, “what a noise! do tell
me what it is all about.”

“I suppose they are hungry,” replied the Potter ruefully; “their mother
has gone to get flour in the bazaar, for there is none in the house. In
the meantime I can neither work nor rest because of them.”

“Is that all?” answered the officious Rat; then I can help you. Take
this dough, cook it quickly, and stop their mouths with food.”

The Potter overwhelmed the Rat with thanks for his obliging kindness,
and choosing out a nice well-burned pipkin, insisted on his accepting
it as a remembrance.

The Rat was delighted at the exchange, and though the pipkin was just a
trifle awkward for him to manage, he succeeded, after infinite trouble,
in balancing it on his head and went away gingerly, tink-a-tink,
tink-a-tink, down the road, with his tail over his arm for fear he
should trip on it. And all the time he kept saying to himself, “What a
lucky fellow I am! and clever, too! Such a hand at a bargain!”

By and by he came to where some cowherds were herding their cattle. One
of them was milking a buffalo, and having no pail, he used his shoes
instead.

“Oh fie! oh fie!” cried the cleanly Rat, quite shocked at the sight.
“What a nasty, dirty trick! Why don’t you use a pail?”

“For the best of all reasons—we haven’t got one!” growled the Cowherd,
who did not see why the Rat should put his finger in the pie.

“If that is all,” replied the dainty Rat, “oblige me by using this
pipkin, for I cannot bear dirt!”

The Cowherd, nothing loath, took the pipkin and milked away until it
was brimming over; then turning to the Rat, who stood looking on, said,
“Here, little fellow, You may have a drink, in payment.”

But if the Rat was good-natured he was also shrewd. “No, no, my
friend,” said he, “that will not do! As if I could drink the worth of
any pipkin at a draft! My dear sir, I couldn’t hold it! Besides, I
never make a bad bargain, so I expect you, at least to give me the
buffalo that gave the milk.”

“Nonsense!” cried the Cowherd; “a buffalo for a pipkin! Whoever heard
of such a price? And what on earth could you do with a buffalo when you
got it? Why, the pipkin was about as much as you could manage.”

At this the Rat drew himself up with dignity, for he did not like
allusions to his size. “That is my affair, not yours,” he retorted;
“your business is to hand over the buffalo.”

So just for the fun of the thing, and to amuse themselves at the Rat’s
expense, the cowherds loosened the buffalo’s halter and began to tie it
to the little animal’s tail.

“No! no!” he called, in a great hurry. “If the beast pulled, the skin
of my tail would come off, and then where should I be? Tie it around my
neck, if you please.”

So with much laughter the cowherds tied the halter round the Rat’s
neck, and he, after a polite leave-taking, set off gayly toward home
with his prize; that is to say, he set off with the rope, for no sooner
did he come to the end of the tether than be was brought up with a
round turn; the buffalo, nose down, grazing away, would not budge until
it had finished its tuft of grass, and then seeing another in a
different direction marched off toward it, while the Rat, to avoid
being dragged, had to trot humbly behind, willy-nilly. He was too proud
to confess the truth, of course, and, nodding his head knowingly to the
cowherds, said: “Ta-ta, good people! I am going home this way. It may
be a little longer, but it’s much shadier.”

And when the cowherds roared with laughter he took no notice, but
trotted on, looking as dignified as possible. “After all,” he reasoned
to himself, “when one keeps a buffalo one has to look after its
grazing. A beast must get a good bellyful of grass if it is to give any
milk, and I have plenty of time at my disposal.” So all day long he
trotted about after the buffalo, making believe; but by evening he was
dead tired, and felt truly thankful when the great big beast, having
eaten enough, lay down under a tree to chew the cud.

Just then a bridal party came by. The Bridegroom and his friends had
evidently gone on to the next village, leaving the Bride’s palanquin to
follow; so the palanquin bearers, being lazy fellows and seeing a nice
shady tree, put down their burden, and began to cook some food.

“What detestable meanness!” grumbled one; “a grand wedding, and nothing
but plain rice to eat! Not a scrap of meat in it, neither sweet nor
salt! It would serve the skinflints right if we upset the Bride into a
ditch!”

“Dear me!” cried the Rat at once, seeing a way out of his difficulty,
“that is a shame! I sympathize with your feelings so entirely that if
you will allow me, I’ll give you my buffalo. You can kill it, and cook
it.”

“Your buffalo!” returned the discontented bearers. “What rubbish!
Whoever heard of a rat owning a buffalo?”

“Not often, I admit,” replied the Rat with conscious pride; “but look
for yourselves. Can you not see that I am leading the beast by a
string?”

“Oh, never mind the string!” cried a great big hungry bearer; master or
no master, I mean to have meat for my dinner!” Whereupon they killed
the buffalo, and cooking its flesh, ate their dinner with a relish;
then, offering the remains to the Rat, said carelessly, “Here, little
Rat-skin, that is for you!”

“Now look here!” cried the Rat hotly; “I’ll have none of your pottage,
or your sauce, either. You don’t suppose I am going to give my best
buffalo, that gave quarts and quarts of milk—the buffalo I have been
feeding all day—for a wee bit of rice? No! I got a loaf for a bit of
stick; I got a pipkin for a little loaf; I got a buffalo for a pipkin;
and now I’ll have the Bride for my buffalo—the Bride, and nothing
else!”

By this time the servants, having satisfied their hunger, began to
reflect on what they had done, and becoming alarmed at the
consequences, arrived at the conclusion it would be wisest to make
their escape while they could. So, leaving the Bride in her palanquin,
they took to their heels in various directions.

The Rat, being as it were left in possession, advanced to the
palanquin, and drawing aside the curtain, with the sweetest of voices
and best of bows begged the Bride to descend. She hardly knew whether
to laugh or to cry, but as any company, even a Rat’s, was better than
being quite alone in the wilderness, she did what she was bidden, and
followed the lead of her guide, who set off as fast as be could for his
hole.

As he trotted along beside the lovely young Bride, who, by her rich
dress and glittering jewels, seemed to be some king’s daughter, he kept
saying to himself, “How clever I am! What bargains I do make, to be
sure!”

When they arrived at his hole, the Rat stepped forward with the
greatest politeness, and said, “Welcome, madam, to my humble abode!
Pray step in, or if you will allow me, and as the passage is somewhat
dark, I will show you the way.”

Whereupon he ran in first, but after a time, finding the Bride did not
follow, he put his nose out again, saying testily, “Well, madam, why
don’t you follow? Don’t you know it’s rude to keep your husband
waiting?”

“My good sir,” laughed the handsome young Bride, “I can’t squeeze into
that little hole!”

The Rat coughed; then after a moment’s thought he replied, “There is
some truth in your remark—you _are_ overgrown, and I suppose I shall
have to build you a thatch somewhere, For to-night you can rest under
that wild plum tree.”

“But I am so hungry!” said the Bride ruefully.

“Dear, dear! everybody seems hungry to-day!” returned the Rat
pettishly; “however, that’s easily settled—I’ll fetch you Some supper
in a trice.”

So he ran into his hole, returning immediately with an ear of millet
and a dry pea. “There!” said he, triumphantly, “isn’t that a fine
meal?”

“I can’t eat that!” whimpered the Bride; “it isn’t a mouthful; and I
want rice pottage, and cakes, and sweet eggs, and sugar drops. I shall
die if I don’t get them!”

“Oh, dear me!” cried the Rat in a rage, “what a nuisance a bride is, to
be sure! Why don’t you eat the wild plums?”

“I can’t live on wild plums!” retorted the weeping Bride; “nobody
could; besides, they are only half ripe, and I can’t reach them.”

“Rubbish!” cried the Rat; “ripe or unripe, they must do you for
to-night, and to-morrow you can gather a basketful, sell them in the
city, and buy sugar drops and sweet eggs to your heart’s content!”

So the next morning the Rat climbed up into the plum tree, and nibbled
away at the stalks till the fruit fell down into the Bride’s veil.
Then, unripe as they were, she carried them into the city, calling out
through the streets—

“Green plums I sell! green plums I sell!
Princess am I, Rat’s bride as well!”


As she passed by the palace, her mother, the Queen, heard her voice,
and running out, recognized her daughter. Great were the rejoicings,
for everyone thought the poor Bride had been eaten by wild beasts.

In the midst of the feasting and merriment, the Rat, who had followed
the Princess at a distance, and had become alarmed at her long absence,
arrived at the door, against which he beat with a big knobby stick,
calling out fiercely, “Give me my wife! Give me my wife! She is mine by
a fair bargain. I gave a stick and I got a loaf; I gave a loaf and I
got a pipkin; I gave a pipkin and I got a buffalo; I gave a buffalo and
I got a bride. Give me my wife! Give me my wife!”

“La! son-in-law! What a fuss you do make,” said the wily old Queen
through the door, “and all about nothing! Who wants to run away with
your wife? On the contrary, we are proud to see you, and I only keep
you waiting at the door till we can spread the carpets, and receive you
in style.”

Hearing this, the Rat was mollified, and waited patiently outside while
the cunning old Queen prepared for his reception, which she did by
cutting a hole in the very middle of a stool, putting a red hot stone
underneath, covering it over with a stew-pan lid, and then spreading a
beautiful embroidered cloth over all. Then she went to the door, and
receiving the Rat with the greatest respect, led him to the stool,
praying him to be seated.

“Dear! dear! how clever I am! What bargains I do make, to be sure!”
said he to himself as he climbed on to the stool. “Here I am,
son-in-law to a real live Queen! What will the neighbors say?”

At first he sat down on the edge of the stool, but even there it was
warm, and after a while he began to fidget, saying, “Dear me,
mother-in-law, how hot your house is! Everything I touch seems
burning!”

“You are out of the wind there, my son,” replied the cunning old Queen;
“sit more in the middle of the stool, and then you will feel the breeze
and get cooler.”

But he didn’t! for the stewpan lid by this time had become so hot that
the Rat fairly frizzled when he sat down on it; and it was not until he
had left all his tail, half his hair, and a large piece of his skin
behind him, that he managed to escape, howling with pain, and vowing
that never, never, never again would he make a bargain!




THE JACKAL AND THE PARTRIDGE


By Flora Annie Steel

A jackal and a partridge swore eternal friendship; but the Jackal was
very exacting and jealous. “You don’t do half as much for me as I do
for you,” he used to say, “and yet you talk a great deal of your
friendship. Now my idea of a friend is one who is able to make me laugh
or cry, give me a good meal, or save my life if need be. You couldn’t
do that!”

“Let us see,” answered the Partridge; “follow me at a little distance,
and if I don’t make you laugh soon you may eat me!”

So she flew on till she met two travelers trudging along, one behind
the other. They were both foot-sore and weary, and the first carried
his bundle on a stick over his shoulder, while the second had his shoes
in his hand.

Lightly as a feather the Partridge settled on the first traveler’s
stick. He, none the wiser, trudged on, but the second traveler, seeing
the bird sitting so tamely just in front of his nose, said to himself,
“What a chance for a supper!” and immediately flung his shoes at it,
they being ready to hand. Whereupon the Partridge flew away, and the
shoes knocked off the first traveler’s turban.

“What a plague do you mean?” cried he, angrily turning on his
companion. “Why did you throw your shoes at my head?”

“Brother,” replied the other mildly, “do not be vexed. I didn’t throw
them at you, but at a Partridge that was sitting on your stick.”

“On my stick! Do you take me for a fool?” shouted the injured man, in a
great rage. “Don’t tell me such cock-and-bull stories. First you insult
me, and then you lie like a coward; but I’ll teach you manners!”

Then he fell upon his fellow traveler without more ado, and they fought
until they could not see out of their eyes, till their noses were
bleeding, their clothes in rags, and the Jackal had nearly died of
laughing.

“Are you satisfied?” asked the Partridge of her friend.

“Well,” answered the Jackal, “you have certainly made nine laugh, but I
doubt if you could make me cry. It is easy enough to be a buffoon; it
is more difficult to excite the highest emotions.”

“Let us see,” retorted the Partridge, somewhat piqued; “there is a
huntsman with his dogs coming along the road. Just creep into that
hollow tree and watch me; if you don’t weep scalding tears, you must
have no feeling in you!”

The Jackal did as he was bid, and watched the Partridge, who began
fluttering about the bushes till the dogs caught sight of her, when she
flew to the hollow tree where the Jackal was hidden. Of course the dogs
smelt him at once, and set up such a yelping and scratching that the
huntsman came up, and seeing what it was, dragged the Jackal out by the
tail. Whereupon the dogs worried him to their heart’s content, and
finally left him for dead.

By and by he opened his eyes—for he was only foxing—and saw the
Partridge sitting on a branch above him.

“Did you cry?” she asked anxiously. “Did I rouse your high emo—”

“Be quiet, will you!” snarled the Jackal; half dead with fear!”

So there the Jackal lay for some time, getting the better of his
bruises, and meanwhile he became hungry.

“Now is the time for friendship!” said he to the Partridge. “Get me a
good dinner, and I will acknowledge you a true friend.”

“Very well!” replied the Partridge; “only watch me, and help yourself
when the time comes.”

Just then a troop of women came by, carrying their husbands dinners to
the harvest field. The Partridge gave a little plaintive cry, and began
fluttering along from bush to bush as if she were wounded.

“A wounded bird! a wounded bird!” cried the women; “we can easily catch
it.” Whereupon they set off in pursuit, but the cunning Partridge
played a thousand tricks, till they became so excited over the chase
that they put their bundles on the ground in order to pursue it more
nimbly. The Jackal, meanwhile, seizing his opportunity, crept up, and
made off with a good dinner.

“Are you satisfied now?” asked the Partridge.

“Well,” returned the Jackal, “I confess you have given me a very good
dinner; you have also made me laugh—and cry—ahem! But, after all, the
great test of friendship is beyond you—you couldn’t save my life!”

“Perhaps not,” acquiesced the Partridge mournfully, “I am so small and
weak. But it grows late—we should be getting home; and as it is a long
way round by the ford, let us go across the river. My friend the
Crocodile will carry us over.”

Accordingly they set off for the river, and the Crocodile kindly
consented to carry them across, so they sat on his broad back and he
ferried them over. But just as they were in the middle of the stream
the Partridge remarked. “I believe the Crocodile intends to play us a
trick. How awkward if he were to drop you into the water!”

“Awkward for you, too!” replied the Jackal, turning pale.

“Not at all! not at all! I have wings, you haven’t.”

On this the Jackal shivered and shook with fear, and when the
Crocodile, in a gruesome growl, remarked that he was hungry and wanted
a good meal, the wretched creature hadn’t a word to say.

“Pooh!” cried the Partridge airily, “don’t try tricks on us—I should
fly away, and as for my friend, the Jackal, you couldn’t hurt him. He
is not such a fool as to take his life with him on these little
excursions; he leaves it at home, locked up in the cupboard.”

“Is that a fact?” asked the Crocodile, surprised. “Certainly!” retorted
the Partridge. Try to eat him if you like, but you will only tire
yourself to no purpose.

“Dear me! how very odd!” gasped time Crocodile; and he was so taken
aback that he carried the Jackal safe to shore.

“Well, are you satisfied now?” asked the Partridge.

“My dear madam!” quoth the Jackal, “you have made me laugh, you have
made me cry, you have given me a good dinner, and you have saved my
life; but, upon my honor, I think you are too clever for a friend so
good-by!”

And the Jackal never went near the Partridge again.




THE JACKAL AND THE CROCODILE


By Flora Annie Steel

Once upon a time Mr. Jackal was trotting along gayly, when lie caught
sight of a wild plum tree laden with fruit on the other side of a
broad, deep stream. I could not get across anyhow, so he just sat down
on the bank and looked at the ripe, luscious fruit until his mouth
watered with desire.

Now it so happened that, just then, Miss Crocodile came floating down
stream with her nose in the air.

“Good morning, my dear!” said Mr. Jackal politely; “how beautiful you
look to-day, and how charmingly you swim! Now, if I could only swim
too, what a fine feast of plums we two friends might have over there
together!” And Mr. Jackal laid his paw on his heart, and sighed.

Now Miss Crocodile had a very inflammable heart, and when Mr. Jackal
looked at her so admiringly, and spoke so sentimentally, she simpered
and blushed, saying, “Oh! Mr. Jackal! how can you talk so? I could
never dream of going out to dinner with you, unless—unless—”

“Unless what?” asked the Jackal persuasively.

“Unless we were going to be married!” simpered Miss Crocodile.

“And why shouldn’t we be married, my charmer?” returned the Jackal
eagerly. “I would go and fetch the barber to begin the betrothal at
once, but I am so faint with hunger just at present that I should never
reach the village. Now, if the most adorable of her sex would only take
pity on her slave, and carry me over the stream, I might refresh myself
with those plums, and so gain strength to accomplish the ardent desire
of my heart!”

Here the Jackal sighed so piteously, and cast such sheep’s eyes at Miss
Crocodile, that she was unable to withstand him. So she carried him
across to the plum tree, and then sat on the water’s edge to think over
her wedding dress, while Mr. Jackal feasted on the plums and enjoyed
himself.

“Now for the barber, my beauty!” cried the gay Jackal, when he had
eaten as much as he could. Then the blushing Miss Crocodile carried him
back again, and bade him be quick about his business, like a dear good
creature, for really she felt so flustered at the very idea that she
didn’t know what might happen.

“Now don’t distress yourself, my dear!” quoth the deceitful Mr. Jackal,
springing to the bank, “because it’s not impossible that I may not find
the barber, and then, you know, you may have to wait some time, a
considerable time in fact, before I return. So don’t injure your health
for my sake, if you please.” With that he blew her a kiss, and trotted
away with his tail up.

Of course he never came back, though trusting Miss Crocodile waited
patiently for him; at last she understood what a gay, deceitful fellow
he was, and determined to have her revenge on him one way or another.

So she hid herself in the water, under the roots of a tree, close to a
ford where the Jackal always came to drink. By and by, sure enough, he
came lilting along in a self-satisfied way, and went right into the
water for a good long draft. Whereupon Miss Crocodile seized him by the
right legs and held on. He guessed at once what had happened, and
called out, “Oh! my heart’s adored! I’m drowning! I’m drowning! If you
love me, leave hold of that old root and get a good grip of my leg—it
is just next door!”

Hearing this, Miss Crocodile thought she must have made a mistake, and,
letting go the Jackal’s leg in a hurry, seized an old root close by,
and held on. Whereupon Mr. Jackal jumped nimbly to shore, and ran off
with his tail up, calling out, “Have a little patience, my beauty! The
barber will come some day!”

But this time Miss Crocodile knew better than to wait, and being now
dreadfully angry, she crawled away to the Jackal’s hole, and, slipping
inside, lay quiet.

By and by Mr. Jackal came lilting along with his tail up. “Ho! ho! That
is your game, is it?” said he to himself, when he saw the trail of the
Crocodile in the sandy soil. So he stood outside, and said aloud,
“Bless my stars! What has happened? I don’t half like to go in, for
whenever I come home my wife always calls out,

‘Oh, dearest hubby hub!
What have you brought for grub
to me and the darling cub?’


and to-day she doesn’t say anything!”

Hearing this, Miss Crocodile sang out from inside,

“Oh, dearest hubby hub!
What have you brought for grub
To me and the darling cub?”


The Jackal winked a very big wink, and, stealing in softly, stood at
the doorway. Meanwhile Miss Crocodile, hearing him coming, held her
breath, and lay, shamming dead, like a big log.

“Bless my stars!” cried Mr. Jackal, taking out his pocket handkerchief,
“how very sad! Here’s poor Miss Crocodile stone dead, and all for love
of me! Dear! dear! Yet it is very odd, and I don’t think she can be
quite dead, you know—for dead folks always wag their tails!”

On this, Miss Crocodile began to wag her tail very gently, and Mr.
Jackal ran off, roaring with laughter, and saying. “Oho! oho! so dead
folks always wag their tails!”




THE JACKAL AND THE IGUANA


By Flora Annie Steel

One moonlight night a miserable, half-starved Jackal, skulking through
the village, found a worn-out pair of shoes in the gutter. They were
too tough for him to eat, so, determined to make some use of them, he
strung them to his ears like earrings, and, going down to the edge of
the pond, gathered all the old bones he could find together and built a
platform of them, plastering it over with mud.

On this he sat in a dignified attitude, and when any animal came to the
pond to drink, he cried out in a loud voice, “Hi! stop! You must not
taste a drop till you have done homage to me. So repeat these verses
which I have composed in honor of the occasion:

‘Silver is his dais, plastered o’er with gold;
In his ears are jewels,—some prince I must behold!’”


Now, as most of the animals were very thirsty, and in a great hurry to
drink, they did not care to dispute the matter, but gabbled off the
words without a second thought. Even the royal tiger, treating it as a
jest, repeated the Jackal’s rime, in consequence of which the latter
became quite a cock-a-hoop, and really began to believe he was a
personage of great importance.

By and by an Iguana, or big lizard, came waddling down to the water,
looking for all the world like a baby alligator.

“Hi! you there!” sang out the Jackal; “you mustn’t drink until you have
said—

‘Silver is his dais, plastered o’er with gold;
In his ears are jewels,—some prince I must behold!’”


“Pouf! pouf! pouf!” gasped the Iguana. “Mercy on us, how dry my throat
is! Mightn’t I have just a wee sip of water first? and then I could do
justice to your admirable lines; at present I am as hoarse as a crow!”

“By all means,” replied the Jackal, with a gratified smirk. “I flatter
myself the verses are good, especially when well recited.”

So the Iguana, nose down in the water, drank away until the Jackal
began to think he would never leave off, and was quite taken aback when
he finally came to an end of his draft, and began to move away.

“Hi! hi!” cried the Jackal, recovering his presence of mind, “stop a
bit, and say—

‘Silver is his dais, plastered o’er with gold;
In his ears are jewels,—some prince I must behold!’”


“Dear me!” replied the Iguana, politely, “I was very near forgetting!
Let me see—I must try my voice first—do, re, me, fa, sol, la, si—that
is right! Now, how does it run?”

“Silver is his dais, plastered o’er with gold;
In his ears are jewels,—some prince I must behold!”


repeated the Jackal, not observing that the Lizard Was carefully edging
farther and farther away.

“Exactly so,” returned the Iguana; “I think I could say that!”
Whereupon he sang out at the top of his voice—

“Bones made up his dais, with mud it’s plastered o’er,
Old shoes are his eardrops; a jackal, nothing more!”


And turning round, he bolted for his hole as hard as he could.

The Jackal could scarcely believe his ears, and sat dumb with
astonishment. Then, rage lending him wings, he flew after the Lizard,
who, despite his short legs and scanty breath, put his best foot
foremost, and scuttled away at a great rate.

It was a near race, however, for just as he popped into his hole, the
Jackal caught him by the tail, and held on. Then it was a case of
“pull, butcher; pull, baker,” until the Lizard made certain his tail
must come off, and he felt as if his front teeth would come out. Still
not an inch did either budge, one way or the other, and there they
might have remained till the present day, had not the Iguana called
out, in his sweetest tones, “Friend, I give in! Just leave hold of my
tail, will you? then I can turn round and come out.”

Whereupon the Jackal let go, and the tail disappeared up the hole in a
twinkling; while all the reward the Jackal got for digging away until
his nails were nearly worn out was hearing the Iguana sing softly—

“Bones made up his dais, with mud it’s plastered o’er,
Old shoes are his eardrops; a jackal, nothing more




THE BEAR’S BAD BARGAIN


By Flora Annie Steel

Once upon a time a very old Woodman lived with his very old Wife in a
tiny hut close to the orchard of a very rich man, so close that the
boughs of a pear tree hung right over the cottage yard. Now it was
agreed between the rich man and the Woodman that if any of the fruit
fell into the yard, the old couple were to be allowed to eat it; so you
may imagine with what hungry eyes they watched the pears ripening, and
prayed for a storm of wind, or a flock of flying foxes, or anything
which would cause the fruit to fall. But nothing came, and the old
Wife, who was a grumbling, scolding old thing, declared they would
infallibly become beggars. So she took to giving her husband nothing
but dry bread to eat, and insisted on his working harder than ever,
till the poor soul got quite thin; and all because the pears would not
fall down!

At last the Woodman turned round and declared he would not work more
unless his Wife gave him Khichri for his dinner; so with a very bad
grace the old woman took some rice and pulse, some butter and spices,
and began to cook a savory Khichri. What an appetizing smell it had, to
be sure! The Woodman was for gobbling it up as soon as ever it was
ready. “No, no,” cried the greedy old Wife, not till you have brought
me in another load of Wood; and mind it is a good one. You must work
for your dinner.”

So the old man set off to the forest and began to hack and to hew with
such a will that he soon had quite a large bundle, and with every
faggot he cut he seemed to smell the savory Khichri and think of the
feast that was coming.

Just then a Bear came swinging by, with its great black nose tilted in
the air, and its little keen eyes peering about; for bears, though good
enough fellows on the whole, are just dreadfully inquisitive.

“Peace be with you, friend,” said the Bear, “and what may you be going
to do with that remarkably large bundle of wood?”

“It is for my Wife,” returned the Woodman. “The fact is,” he added
confidentially, smacking his lips, “she has made such a Khichri for
dinner! and if I bring in a good bundle of wood she is pretty sure to
give me a plentiful portion. Oh, my dear fellow, you should just smell
that Khichri.”

At this the Bear’s mouth began to water, for, like all bears, he was a
dreadful glutton.

“Do you think your Wife would give mite some, too, if I brought her a
bundle of wood?” he asked anxiously.

“Perhaps; if it is a very big load,” answered the Woodman craftily.

“Would—would four hundredweight be enough?” asked the Bear.

“I’m afraid not,” returned the Woodman, shaking his head; “you see
Khichri is an expensive dish to make—there is rice in it, and plenty of
butter, and pulse, and—”

“Would—would eight hundredweight do?”

“Say half a ton, and it’s a bargain!” quoth the Woodman.

“Half a ton is a large quantity!” sighed the Bear.

“There is saffron in the Khichri,” remarked the Woodman, casually.

The Bear licked his lips, and his little eyes twinkled with greed and
delight.

“Well it’s a bargain! Go home sharp and tell your Wife to keep the
Khichri hot; I’ll be with you in a trice.”

Away went the Woodman in great glee to tell his Wife how the Bear had
agreed to bring half a ton of wood in return for a share of the
Khichri.

Now the wife could not help allowing that her husband had made a good
bargain, but being by nature a grumbler, she was determined not to be
pleased, so she began to scold the old man for not having settled
exactly the share the Bear was to have. “For,” said she, “he will
gobble up the potful before we have finished our first helping.”

On this the Woodman became quite pale. “In that case,” he said, “we had
better begin now, and have a fair start.” So without more ado they
squatted down on the floor, with the brass pot full of Khichri between
them, and began to eat as fast as they could.

“Remember to leave some for the Bear, Wife,” said the Woodman, speaking
with his mouth crammed full.

“Certainly, certainly,” she replied, helping herself to another
handful.

“My dear,” cried the old woman in her turn, with her mouth so full she
could hardly speak, “remember the poor Bear!”

“Certainly, certainly, my love!” returned the old man, taking another
mouthful.

So it went on, till there was not a single grain left in the pot.

“What’s to be done now?” said the Woodman; “it is all your fault, Wife,
for eating so much.”

“My fault!” retorted his Wife scornfully, “why, you ate twice as much
as I did!”

“No, I didn’t!”

“Yes, you did! Men always eat more than women.

“No, they don’t!”

“Yes, they do!”

“Well, it’s no use quarreling about it now,” said the Woodman, “the
Khichri’s gone, and the Bear will be furious.”

“That wouldn’t matter much if we could get the wood,” said the greedy
old woman. “I’ll tell you what we must do—we must lock up everything
there is to eat in the house, leave the Khichri pot by the fire, and
hide in the garret. When the Bear comes he will think we have gone out
and left his dinner for him. Then he will throw down his bundle and
come in. Of course he will rampage a little when he finds the pot is
empty, but he can’t do much mischief, and I don’t think he will take
the trouble of carrying the wood away.”

So they made haste to lock up all the food and hide themselves in the
garret.

Meanwhile the Bear had been toiling and moiling away at his bundle of
wood, which took him much longer to collect than he expected; however,
at last he arrived quite exhausted at the woodcutter’s cottage. Seeing
the brass Khichri pot by the fire, he threw down his load and went in.
And then—mercy! wasn’t he angry when he found nothing in it—not even a
grain of rice, nor a tiny wee bit of pulse, but only a smell that was
so uncommonly nice that he actually cried with rage and disappointment.
He flew into the most dreadful temper, but though he turned the house
topsy-turvy, he could not find a morsel of food. Finally, he declared
he would take the wood away again, but, as the crafty old woman had
imagined, when he came to the task, he did not care, even for the sake
of revenge, to carry so heavy a burden.

“I won’t go away empty-handed,” said he to himself, seizing the Khichri
pot; “if I can’t get the taste I’ll have the smell!”

Now, as he left the cottage, he caught sight of the beautiful golden
pears hanging over into the yard. His mouth began to water at once, for
he was desperately hungry, and the pears were the best of the season.
In a trice he was on the wall, up the tree, and gathering the biggest
and ripest one he could find, was just putting it into his mouth when a
thought struck him.

“If I take these pears home I shall be able to sell them for ever so
much to the other bears, and then with the money I shall be able to buy
some Khichri. Ha, ha! I shall have the best of the bargain after all!”

So saying, he began to gather the ripe pears as fast as he could and
put them in the Khichri pot, but whenever he came to an unripe one he
would shake his head and say, “No one would buy that, yet it is a pity
to waste it.” So he would pop it into his mouth and eat it, making wry
faces if it was very sour.

Now all this time the Woodman’s Wife had been watching the Bear through
a crevice, and holding her breath for fear of discovery; but, at last,
what with being asthmatic, and having a cold in her head, she could
hold it no longer, and just as the Khichri pot was quite full of golden
ripe pears, out she came with the most tremendous sneeze you ever
heard—“A-h-che-u!”

The Bear, thinking some one had fired a gun at him, dropped the Khichri
pot into the cottage yard, and fled into the forest as fast as his legs
would carry him.

So the Woodrnan and his Wife got the Khichri, the wood, and the coveted
pears, but the poor bear got nothing but a very bad stomachache from
eating unripe fruit.




THE THIEF AND THE FOX


By Ramaswarni Raju

A man tied his horse to a tree and went into an inn. A Thief hid the
horse in a wood, and stood near the tree as if he had not done it.

“Did you see my horse?” said the man.

“Yes,” said the Thief, “I saw the tree eat up your horse.”

“How could the tree eat up my horse?” said the man.

“Why it did so,” said the Thief.

The two went to a Fox and told him of the case. The Fox said. “I am
dull. All last night the sea was on fire; I had to throw a great deal
of hay into it to quench the flames; so come to-morrow, and I shall
hear your case.

“Oh, you lie,” said the Thief. “How could the sea burn? How could hay
quench the flames?”

“Oh, you lie,” said the Fox, with a loud laugh; “how could a tree eat
up a horse?”

The Thief saw his lie had no legs, and gave the man his horse.




THE FARMER AND THE FOX


By Ramaswami Raju

A farmer was returning from a fair which he had attended the previous
day at a neighboring market town. He had a quantity of poultry which he
had purchased. A Fox observed this, and approaching the Farmer, said,
“Good morning, my friend.”

“What cheer, old fellow?” said the Farmer.

“I am just coming from the wood, through which you mean to go with your
poultry. A band of highwaymen has been tarrying there since daybreak.”

“Then what shall I do?” said the Farmer.

“Why,” said the Fox, “if I were you I should stay here a while, and
after breakfast enter the wood, for by that time the robbers will have
left the place.”

“So be it,” said the Farmer, and had a hearty breakfast, with Reynard
for his guest.

They kept drinking for a long time. Reynard appeared to have lost his
wits; he stood up and played the drunkard to perfection. The Farmer,
who highly admired the pranks of his guest, roared with laughter, and
gradually fell into a deep slumber. It was some time after noon when he
awoke. To his dismay he found that the Fox was gone, and that the
poultry had all disappeared!

“Alas!” said the Farmer, as he trudged on his way home with a heavy
heart, “I thought the old rogue was quite drowned in liquor, but I now
see it was all a pretense. One must indeed be very sober to play the
drunkard to perfection.”




THE FOOLS AND THE DRUM


By Ramaswami Raju

Two fools heard a Drum sounding, and said to themselves, There is some
one inside it who makes the noise.”

So, watching a moment, when the drummer was out, they pierced a hole in
each side of it, and pushed their hands in. Each felt the hand of the
other within the Drum, and exclaimed, “I have caught him!”

Then one said to the other, “Brother, the fellow seems to be a stubborn
knave; come what will, we should not give in.”

“Not an inch, brother,” said the other.

So they kept pulling each other’s hand, fancying it was the man in the
Drum. The drummer came up, and finding them in such an awkward plight
showed them with his fist who the man in the Drum really was. But as
his fine Drum was ruined, he said, with a sigh, “Alas! Fools have
fancies with a triple wing!”




THE LION AND THE GOAT


By Ramaswami Raju

A lion was eating up one after another the animals of a certain
country. One day an old Goat said, “We must put a stop to this. I have
a plan by which he may be sent away from this part of the country.”

“Pray act up to it at once,” said the other animals.

The old Goat laid himself down in a cave on the roadside, with his
flowing beard and long curved horns. The Lion, on his way to the
village, saw him, and stopped at the mouth of the cave.

“So you have come, after all,” said the Goat.

“What do you mean?” said the Lion.

“Why, I have long been lying in this cave. I have eaten up one hundred
elephants, a hundred tigers, a thousand wolves, and ninety-nine lions.
One more lion has been wanting. I have waited long and patiently.
Heaven has, after all, been kind to me,” said the Goat, and shook his
horns and his beard, and made a start as if he were about to spring
upon the Lion.

The latter said to himself, “This animal looks like a Goat, but it does
not talk like one. So it is very likely some wicked spirit in this
shape. Prudence often serves us better than valor, so for the present I
shall return to the wood,” and he turned back.

The Goat rose up, and, advancing to the mouth of the cave, said, “Will
you come back tomorrow?”

“Never again,” said the Lion.

“Do you think I shall be able to see you, at least, in the wood
to-morrow?”

“Neither in the wood nor in this neighborhood any more,” said the Lion,
and running to the forest, soon left it with his kindred.

The animals in the country, not hearing him roar any more, gathered
round the Goat, and said, “The wisdom of one doth save a host.”




THE GLOWWORM AND THE JACKDAW


By Ramaswami Raju

Jackdaw once ran up to a Glowworm and was about to seize him. “Wait a
moment, good friend,” said the Worm, “and you shall hear something to
your advantage.”

“Ah! what is it?” said the Daw.

“I am but one of the many glowworms that live in this forest. If you
wish to have them all, follow me,” said the Glowworm.

“Certainly!” said the Daw.

Then the Glowworm led him to a place in the wood where a fire had been
kindled by some woodmen, and pointing to the sparks flying about, said,
“There you find the glowworms warming themselves round a fire. When you
have done with them I shall show you some more, at a distance from this
place.”

The Daw darted at the sparks and tried to swallow some of them, but his
mouth being burned by the attempt, he ran away exclaiming, “Ah, the
Glowworm is a dangerous little creature!”




THE CAMEL AND THE PIG


By Ramaswami Raju

A camel said, “Nothing like being tall! Look how tall I am!”

A Pig, who heard these words, said, “Nothing like being short! Look how
short I am!”

The Camel said, “Well, if I fail to prove the truth of what I said. I
shall give up my hump.”

The Pig said, “If I fail to prove the truth of what I have said, I
shall give up my snout.”

“Agreed!” said the Camel.

“Just so!” said the Pig.

They came to a garden, inclosed by a low wall without any opening. The
Camel stood on this side of the wall, and reaching the plants within by
means of his long neck, made a breakfast on them. Then he turned,
jeeringly to the Pig, who had been standing at the bottom of the wall,
without even having a look at the good things in the garden, and said,
“Now, would you be tall or short?”

Next they came to a garden, inclosed by a high wall, with a wicket gate
at one end. The Pig entered by the gate, and, after having eaten his
fill of the vegetables within, came out, laughing at the poor Camel,
who had had to stay outside because he was too tall to enter the garden
by the gate, and said, “Now, would you be tall or short?”

Then they thought the matter over and came to the conclusion that the
Camel should keep his hump and the Pig his snout, observing, “Tall is
good, where tall would do; of short, again, ’tis also true!”




THE DOG AND THE DOG DEALER


By Ramaswami Raju

A dog was standing by the cottage of a peasant. A man who dealt in dogs
passed by the way. The Dog said, “Will you buy me?”

The man said, “Oh, you ugly little thing! I would not give a quarter of
a penny for you!”

Then the Dog went to the palace of the king and stood by the portal.
The sentinel caressed it, and said, “You are a charming little
creature!”

Just then the Dog Dealer came by. The Dog said, “Will you buy me?”

“Oh,” said the man, “you guard the palace of the king, who must have
paid a high price for you. I cannot afford to pay the amount, else I
would willingly take you.”

“Ah!” said the Dog, “how place and position affect people!”




THE TIGER, THE FOX, AND THE HUNTERS


By Ramaswami Raju

A fox was once caught in a trap. A hungry Tiger saw him and said, “So
you are here!”

“Only on your account,” said the Fox in a whisper.

“How so?” said the Tiger.

“Why, you were complaining you could not get men to eat, so I got into
this net to-day, that you may have the men when they come to take me,”
said the Fox, and gave a hint that if he would wait a while in a
thicket close by he would point out the men to him.

“May I depend upon your word?” said the Tiger.

“Certainly,” said the Fox.

The Hunters came, and seeing the Fox in the net, said, “So you are
here!”

“Only on your account,” said the Fox, in a whisper.

“How so?” said the men.

“Why, you were complaining you could not get at the Tiger that has been
devouring your cattle; I got into this net to-day that you may have
him. As I expected, he came to eat me up, and is in yonder thicket,”
said the Fox, and gave a hint that if they would take him out of the
trap he would point out the Tiger.

“May we depend upon your word?” said the men.

“Certainly,” said the Fox, while the men went with him in a circle to
see that he did not escape.

Then the Fox said to the Tiger and the men, “Sir Tiger, here are the
men; gentlemen, here is the Tiger.”

The men left the Fox and turned to the Tiger. The former beat a hasty
retreat to the wood, saying, “I have kept my promise to both; now you
may settle it between yourselves.”

The Tiger exclaimed, when it was too late, “Alas! what art for a double
part!”




THE SEA, THE FOX, AND THE WOLF


By Ramaswami Raju

A fox that lived by the seashore once met a Wolf that had never seen
the Sea. The Wolf said, “What is the Sea?”

“It is a great piece of water by my dwelling,” said the Fox.

“Is it under your control?” said the Wolf.

“Certainly,” said the Fox.

“Will you show me the Sea, then?” said the Wolf.

“With pleasure,” said the Fox. So the Fox led the Wolf to the Sea and
said to the waves, “Now go back”—they went back! “Now come up”—and they
came up! Then the Fox said to the waves, “My friend, the Wolf, has come
to see you, so you will come up and go back till I bid you stop; and
the Wolf saw with wonder the waves coming up and going back.

He said to the Fox, “May I go into the Sea?”

“As far as you like. Don’t be afraid, for at a word, the Sea would go
or come as I bid, and as you have already seen.”

The Wolf believed the Fox, and followed the waves rather far from the
shore. A great wave soon upset him, and threw his carcass on the shore.
The Fox made a hearty breakfast on it.




THE FOX IN THE WELL


By Ramaswami Raju

A fox fell into a well and was holding hard to some roots at the side
of it, just above the water. A Wolf, who was passing by, saw him, and
said, “Hello, Reynard, after all you have fallen into a well!”

“But not without a purpose, and not without the means of getting out of
it,” said the Fox.

“What do you mean?” said the Wolf.

“Why,” said the Fox, “there is a drought all over the country now, and
the water in this well is the only means of appeasing the thirst of the
thousands that live in this neighborhood. They held a meeting, and
requested me to keep the water from going down lower; so I am holding
it up for the public good.”

“What will be your reward?” said the Wolf.

“They will give me a pension, and save me the trouble of going about
every day in quest of food, not to speak of innumerable other
privileges that will be granted me. Further, I am not to stay here all
day. I have asked a kinsman of mine, to whom I have communicated the
secret of holding up the water, to relieve me from time to time. Of
course he will also get a pension, and have other privileges. I expect
him here shortly.”

“Ah, Reynard, may I relieve you, then? May I hope to get a pension and
other privileges? You know what a sad lot is mine, especially in
winter.”

“Certainly,” said the Fox; “but you must get a long rope, that I may
come up and let you in.

So the Wolf got a rope. Up came the Fox and down went the wo1f, when
the former observed, with a laugh, “My dear sir, you may remain there
till doomsday, or till the owner of the well throws up your carcass,”
and left the place.




ASHIEPATTLE AND HIS GOODLY CREW


By P. C. Asbjörnsen

Once upon a time there was a king, and this king had heard about a ship
which went just as fast by land as by water; and as he wished to have
one like it, he promised his daughter and half the kingdom to anyone
who could build one for him. And this was given out at every church all
over the country. There were many who tried, as you can imagine; for
they thought it would be a nice thing to have half the kingdom, and the
princess wouldn’t be a bad thing into the bargain. But they all fared
badly.

Now there were three brothers, who lived far away on the borders of a
forest; the eldest was called Peter, the second Paul, and the youngest
Espen Ashiepattle, because he always sat in the hearth, raking and
digging in the ashes.

It so happened that Ashiepattle was at church on the Sunday when the
proclamation about the ship, which the king wanted, was read. When he
came home amid told his family, Peter, the eldest, asked his mother to
get some food ready for him, for now he was going away to try if he
could build the ship and win the princess and half the kingdom. When
the bag was ready lie set out. On the way he met an old man who was
very crooked and decrepit.

“Where are you going?” said the man.

“I’m going into the forest to make a trough for my father. He doesn’t
like to eat at table in our company,” said Peter.

“Trough it shall he!” said the man. “What have you got in that bag of
yours?” he added.

“Stones,” said Peter.

“Stones it shall be,” said the man. Peter then went into the forest and
began to cut and chop away at the trees and work away as hard as he
could, but in spite of all his cutting and chopping he could only turn
out troughs. Toward dinner time he wanted something to eat and opened
his bag. But there was not a crumb of food in it. As he had nothing to
live upon, and as he did not turn out anything but troughs, he became
tired of the work, took his ax and bag on his shoulder, and went home
to his mother.

Paul then wanted to set out to try his luck at building the ship and
winning the princess and half the kingdom. He asked his mother for
provisions, and when the bag was ready he threw it over his shoulder
and went on his way to the forest. On the road he met the old man, who
was very crooked and decrepit.

“Where are you going?” said the man.

“Oh, I am going into the forest to make a trough for our sucking pig,”
said Paul.

“Pig trough it shall be,” said the man. “What have you got in that bag
of yours?” added the man.

“Stones,” said Paul.

“Stones it shall be,” said the man.

Paul then began felling trees and working away as hard as he could, but
no matter how he cut and how he worked he could only turn out pig
troughs. He did not give in, however, but worked away till far into the
afternoon before he thought of taking any food; then all at once he
became hungry and opened his bag, but not a crumb could he find. Paul
became so angry he turned the bag inside out and struck it against the
stump of a tree; then lie took his ax, went out of the forest, and set
off homeward.

As soon as Paul returned, Ashiepattle wanted to set out and asked his
mother for a bag of food.

“Perhaps I can manage to build the ship and win the princess and half
the kingdom,” said he.

“Well, I never heard the like,” said his mother. “Are you likely to win
the princess, you, who never do anything but root and dig in the ashes?
No, you shan’t have any bag with food!”

Ashiepattle did not give in, however, but he prayed and begged till he
got leave to go. He did not get any food, not he; but he stole a couple
of oatmeal cakes and some flat beer and set out.

When he had walked a while he met the same old man, who was so crooked
and tattered and decrepit.

“Where are you going?” said the man.

“Oh, I was going into the forest to try if it were possible to build a
ship which can go as fast by land as by water,” said Ashiepattle, “for
the king has given out that anyone who can build such a ship shall have
the princess and half the kingdom.”

“What have you got in that bag of yours?” said the man.

“Not much worth talking about; there ought to be a little food in it,”
answered Ashiepattle.

“If you’ll give me a little of it I’ll help you, said the man.

“With all my heart,” said Ashiepattle, “but there is nothing but some
oatmeal cakes and a drop of flat beer.”

It didn’t matter what it was, the man said; if he only got some of it
he would be sure to help Ashiepattle.

When they came up to an old oak in the wood the man said to the lad,
“Now you must cut off a chip and then put it back again in exactly the
same place, and when you have done that you can lie down and go to
sleep.”

Ashiepattle did as he was told and then lay down to sleep, and in his
sleep lie thought he heard somebody cutting and hammering and sawing
and carpentering, but he could not wake up till the man called him;
then the ship stood quite finished by the side of the oak.

“Now you must go on board and everyone you meet you must take with
you,” said the man. Espen Ashiepattle thanked him for the ship, said he
would do so, and then sailed away.

When he had sailed some distance he came to a long, thin tramp, who was
lying near some rocks, eating stones.

“What sort of a fellow are you, that you lie there eating stones?”
asked Ashiepattle. The tramp said he was so fond of meat he could never
get enough, therefore he was obliged to eat stones. And then he asked
if he might go with him in the ship.

“If you want to go with us, you must make haste and get on board,” said
Ashiepattle.

Yes, that he would, but he must take with him some large stones for
food.

When they had sailed some distance they met one who was lying on the
side of a sunny hill, sucking at a bung.

“Who are you,” said Ashiepattle, “and what is the good of lying there
sucking that bung?”

“Oh, when one hasn’t got the barrel, one must be satisfied with the
bung,” said the man. “I’m always so thirsty, I can never get enough
beer and wine.” And then he asked for leave to go with him in the ship.

“If you want to go with me you must make haste and get on board,” said
Ashiepattle.

Yes, that he would. And so he went on board and took the bung with him
to allay his thirst.

When they had sailed a while again they met one who was lying with his
ear to the ground, listening.

“Who are you, and what is the good of lying there on the ground
listening?” said Ashiepattle.

“I’m listening to the grass, for I have such good ears that I can hear
the grass growing,” said the man. And then he asked leave to go with
him in the ship. Ashiepattle could not say nay to that, so he said:

“If you want to go with me, you must make haste and get on board.”

Yes, the man would. And he also went on board.

When they had sailed some distance they came to one who was standing
taking aim with a gun.

“Who are you, and what is the good of standing there aiming like that?”
asked Ashiepattle.

So the man said: “I have such good eyes that I can hit anything, right
to the end of the world.” And then he asked for leave to go with him in
the ship.

“If you want to go with me, you must make haste and get on board,” said
Ashiepattle.

Yes, that he would. And he went on board.

When they had sailed some distance again they came to one who was
hopping and limping about on one leg, and on the other he had seven ton
weights.

“Who are you, said Ashiepattle, “and what is the good of hopping and
limping about on one leg with seven ton weights on the other?”

“I am so light,” said the man, “that if I walked on both my legs I
should get to the end of the world in less than five minutes.” And then
he asked for leave to go with him in the ship.

“If you want to go with us, you must make haste and get on board,” said
Ashiepattle.

Yes, that he would. And so he joined Ashiepattle and his crew on the
ship.

When they had sailed on some distance they met one who was standing
holding his hand to his mouth.

“Who are you?” said Ashiepattle, “and what is the good of standing
there, holding your mouth like that?”

“Oh, I have seven summers and fifteen winters in my body,” said the
man; “so I think I ought to keep my mouth shut, for if they get out all
at the same time they would finish off the world altogether.” And then
he asked for leave to go with him in the ship.

“If you want to go with us you must make haste and get on board,” said
Ashiepattle.

Yes, that he would, and then he joined the others on the ship.

When they had sailed a long time they came to the king’s palace.

Ashiepattle went straight in to the king and said the ship stood ready
in the courtyard outside; and now he wanted the princess, as the king
had promised.

The king did not like this very much, for Ashiepattle did not cut a
very fine figure; he was black and sooty, and the king did not care to
give his daughter to such a tramp, so he told Ashiepattle that he would
have to wait a little.

“But you can have her all the same, if by this time to-morrow you can
empty my storehouse of three hundred barrels of meat,” said the king.

“I suppose I must try,” said Ashiepattle; “but perhaps you don’t mind
my taking one of my crew with me?”

“Yes, you can do that, and take all six if you like,” said the king,
for he was quite sure that even if Ashiepattle took six hundred with
him, it would be impossible. So Ashiepattle took with him the one who
ate stones and always hungered after meat.

When they came next morning and opened the storehouse they found he had
eaten all the meat, except six small legs of mutton, one for each of
his companions. Ashiepattle then went to the king and said the
storehouse was empty, and he supposed he could now have the princess.

The king went into the storehouse and, sure enough, it was quite empty;
but Ashiepattle was still black and sooty, and the king thought it was
really too bad that such a tramp should have his daughter. So he said
he had a cellar full of beer and old wine, three hundred barrels of
each kind, which he would have him drink first.

“I don’t mind your having my daughter if you can drink them up by this
time to-morrow,” said the king.

“I suppose I must try,” said Ashiepattle, “but perhaps you don’t mind
my taking one of my crew with me?”

“Yes, you may do that,” said the king, for he was quite sure there was
too much beer and wine even for all seven of them. Ashiepattle took
with him the one who was always sucking the bung and was always
thirsty; and the king then shut them down in the cellar.

There the thirsty one drank barrel after barrel, as long as there was
any left, but in the last barrel he left a couple of pints to each of
his companions.

In the morning the cellar was opened and Ashiepattle went at once to
the king and said he had finished the beer and wine, and now he
supposed he could have the princess as the king had promised.

“Well, I must first go down to the cellar and see,” said the king, for
he could not believe it; but when he got there he found nothing but
empty barrels.

But Ashiepattle was both black and sooty and the king thought it
wouldn’t do for him to have such a son in law. So he said that if
Ashiepattle could get water from the end of the world in ten minutes
for the princess’s tea, he could have both her and half the kingdom;
for he thought that task would be quite impossible.

“I suppose I must try,” said Ashiepattle, and sent for the one of his
crew who jumped about on one leg and had seven ton weights on the
other, and told him he must take off the weights and use his legs as
quickly as he could, for he must have water from the end of the world
for the princess’s tea in ten minutes.

So he took off the weights, got a bucket, and set off, and the next
moment he was out of sight. But they waited and waited and still he did
not return. At last it wanted but three minutes to the time and the
king became as pleased as if he had won a big wager.

Then Ashiepattle called the one who could hear the grass grow and told
him to listen and find out what had become of their companion.

“He has fallen asleep at the well”,” said he who could hear the grass
grow; “I can hear him snoring, and a troll is scratching his head.”
Ashiepattle then called the one who could shoot to the end of the world
and told him to send a bullet into the troll; he did so and hit the
troll right in the eye. The troll gave such a yell that he woke the man
who had come to fetch the water for the tea, and when he returned to
the palace there was still one minute left out of the ten.

Ashiepattle went straight to the king and said: “Here is the water;”
and now he supposed he could have the princess, for surely the king
would not make any more fuss about it now. But the king thought that
Ashiepattle was just as black and sooty as ever, and did not like to
have him for a son-in-law; so he said he had three hundred fathoms of
wood with which he was going to dry corn in the bakehouse, and he
wouldn’t mind Ashiepattle having his daughter if he would first sit in
the bakehouse and burn all the wood; he should then have the princess,
and that without fail.

“I suppose I must try,” said Ashiepattle; “but perhaps you don’t mind
my taking one of my crew with me?”

“Oh, no, you can take all six,” said the king, for he thought it would
be warm enough for all of them.

Ashiepattle took with him the one who had fifteen winters and seven
summers in his body, and in the evening he went across to the
bakehouse: but the king had piled up so much wood on the fire that you
might almost have melted iron in the room. They could not get out of
it, for no sooner were they inside than the king fastened the bolt and
put a couple of padlocks on the door besides. Ashiepattle then said to
his companion:

“You had better let out six or seven winters, so that we may get
something like summer weather here.”

They were then just able to exist, but during the night it got cold
again and Ashiepattle then told the man to let out a couple of summers,
and so they slept far into the next day. But when they heard the king
outside Ashiepattle said:

“You must let out a couple more winters, but you must manage it so that
the last winter you let out strikes the king right in the face.”

He did so, and when the king opened the door, expecting to find
Ashiepattle and his companion burned to cinders, he saw them huddling
together and shivering with cold till their teeth chattered. The same
instant Ashiepattle’s companion with the fifteen winters in his body
let loose the last one right in the king’s face, which swelled up into
a big chilblain.

“Can I have the princess now?” asked Ashiepattle

“Yes, take her and keep her and the kingdom into the bargain,” said the
king, who dared not refuse any longer. And so the wedding took place
and they feasted and made merry and fired off guns and powder.

While the people were running about searching for wadding for their
guns, they took me instead, gave me some porridge in a bottle and some
milk in a basket, and fired me right across here, so that I could tell
you how it all happened.




THE SQUIRE’S BRIDE


By P. C. Asbjörnsen

Once upon a time there was a rich squire who owned a large farm, and
had plenty of silver at the bottom of his chest and money in the bank
besides; but he felt there was something wanting, for he was a widower.

One day the daughter of a neighboring farmer was working for him in the
hayfield. The squire saw her and liked her very much, and as she was
the child of poor parents he thought if he only hinted that he wanted
her she would be ready to marry him at once.

So he told her he had been thinking of getting married again.

“Aye! one may think of many things,” said the girl, laughing slyly.

In her opinion the old fellow ought to be thinking of something that
behooved him better than getting married.

“Well, you see, I thought that you should be my wife!”

“No, thank you all the same,” said she, “that’s not at all likely.”

The squire was not accustomed to be gainsaid, and the more she refused
him the more determined he was to get her.

But as he made no progress in her favor he sent for her father and told
him that if he could arrange the matter with his daughter he would
forgive him the money he had lent him, and he would also give him the
piece of land which lay close to his meadow into the bargain.

“Yes, you may be sure I’ll bring my daughter to her senses,” said the
father. “She is only a child, and she doesn’t know what’s best for
her.” But all his coaxing and talking did not help matters. She would
not have the squire, she said, if he sat buried in gold up to his ears.

The squire waited day after day, but at last he became so angry and
impatient that he told the father, if he expected him to stand by his
promise, he would have to put his foot down and settle the matter now,
for he would not wait any longer.

The man knew no other way out of it but to let the squire get
everything ready for the wedding; and when the parson and the wedding
guests had arrived the squire should send for the girl as if she were
wanted for some work on the farm. When she arrived she would have to be
married right away, so that she would have no time to think it over.

The squire thought this was well and good, and so he began brewing and
baking and getting ready for the wedding in grand style. When the
guests had arrived the squire called one of his farm lads and told him
to run down to his neighbor and ask him to send him what he had
promised.

“But if you are not back in a twinkling,” he said, shaking his fist at
him, “I’ll—”

He did not say more, for the lad ran off as if he had been shot at.

“My master has sent me to ask for that you promised him,” said the lad,
when he got to the neighbor, “but there is no time to be lost, for he
is terribly busy to-day.”

“Yes, yes! Run down into the meadow and take her with you. There she
goes!” answered the neighbor.

The lad ran off and when he came to the meadow he found the daughter
there raking the hay.

“I am to fetch what your father has promised my master,” said the lad.

“Ah, ha!” thought she. “Is that what they are up to?”

“Ah, indeed!” she said. “I suppose it’s that little bay mare of ours.
You had better go and take her. She stands there tethered on the other
side of the pea field,” said the girl.

The boy jumped on the back of the bay mare and rode home at full
gallop.

“Have you got her with you?” asked the squire.

“She is down at the door,” said the lad.

“Take her up to the room my mother had,” said the squire.

“But master, how can that be managed?” said the lad.

“You must just do as I tell you,” said the squire. “If you cannot
manage her alone you must get the men to help you,” for he thought the
girl might turn obstreperous.

When the lad saw his master’s face he knew it would be no use to
gainsay him. So he went and got all the farm tenants who were there to
help him. Some pulled at the head and the forelegs of the mare and
others pushed from behind, and at last they got her up the stairs and
into the room. There lay all the wedding finery ready.

“Now, that’s done master!” said the lad; “but it was a terrible job. It
was the worst I have ever had here on the farm.

“Never mind, you shall not have done it for nothing,” said his master.
“Now send the women up to dress her.”

“But I say master—!” said the lad.

“None of your talk!” said the squire. “Tell them they must dress her
and mind and not forget either wreath or crown.

The lad ran into the kitchen.

“Look here, lasses,” he said; “you must go upstairs and dress up the
bay mare as bride. I expect the master wants to give the guests a
laugh.”

The women dressed the bay mare in everything that was there, and then
the lad went and told his master that now she was ready dressed, with
wreath and crown and all.

“Very well, bring her down!” said the squire. “I will receive her
myself at the door,” said he.

There was a terrible clatter on the stairs; for that bride, you know,
had no silken shoes on.

When the door was opened and the squire’s bride entered the parlor you
can imagine there was a good deal of tittering and grinning.

And as for the squire you may he sure line had had enough of that
bride, and they say he never went courting again.




THE DOLL IN THE GRASS


By P. C. Asbjörnsen

Once upon a time there was a king who had twelve sons. When they were
grown up he told them they must go out into the world and find
themselves wives, who must all be able to spin and weave and make a
shirt in one day, else he would not have them for daughters-in-law. He
gave each of his sons a horse and a new suit of armor, and so they set
out in the world to look for wives.

When they had traveled a bit on the way they said they would not take
Ashiepattle with them, for he was good for nothing. Ashiepattle must
stop behind; there was no help for it. He did not know what he should
do or which way he should turn; he became so sad that he got off the
horse and sat down on the grass and began to cry.

When he had sat a while one of the tussocks among the grass began to
move, and out of it came a small white figure; as it came nearer
Ashiepattle saw that it was a beautiful little girl, but she was so
tiny, so very, very tiny.

She went up to him and asked him if he would come below and pay a visit
to the doll in the grass.

Yes, that he would; and so he did. When he came down below, the doll in
the grass was sitting in a chair dressed very finely and looking still
more beautiful. She asked Ashiepattle where he was going and what was
his errand.

He told her they were twelve brothers, and that the king had given them
each a horse and a suit of armor, and told them to go out in the world
and find themselves wives, but they must all be able to spin and weave
and make a shirt in a day.

“If you can do that and will become my wife, I will not travel any
farther,” said Ashiepattle to the doll in the grass.

Yes, that she would, and she set to work at once to get the shirt spun,
woven, and made; but it was so tiny, so very, very tiny, no bigger
than—so!

Ashiepattle then returned home, taking the shirt with him; but when he
brought it out he felt very shy because it was so small. But the king
said he could have her for all that, and you can imagine how happy and
joyful Ashiepattle became.

The road did not seem long to him as he set out to fetch his little
sweetheart. When he came to the doll in the grass he wanted her to sit
with him on his horse; but no, that she wouldn’t; she said she would
sit and drive in a silver spoon, and she had two small while horses
which would draw her. So they set out, he on his horse and she in the
silver spoon; and the horses which drew her were two small white mice.

Ashiepattle always kept to one side of the road, for he was so afraid
he should ride over her; she was so very, very tiny.

When they had traveled a bit on the way they came to a large lake;
there Ashiepattle’s horse took fright and shied over to the other side
of the road, and upset the spoon, so that the doll in the grass fell
into the water. Ashiepattle became very sad, for he did not know how he
should get her out again; but after a while a merman brought her up.

But now she had become just as big as any other grown-up being and was
much more beautiful than she was before. So he placed her in front of
him on the horse and rode home.

When Ashiepattle got there all his brothers had also returned, each
with a sweetheart; but they were so ugly and ill-favored and
bad-tempered that they had come to blows with their sweethearts on
their way home. On their heads they had hats which were painted with
tar and soot, and this had run from their hats down their faces, so
that they were still uglier and more ill-favored to behold.

When the brothers saw Ashiepattle’s sweetheart they all became envious
of him, but the king was so pleased with Ashiepattle and his sweetheart
that he drove all the others away, and so Ashiepattle was married to
the doll in the grass; and afterward they lived happy and comfortable
for a long, long while; and if they are not dead, they must be still
alive.




THE BEAR AND THE FOX


By P. C. Asbjörnsen

Once upon a time there was a bear, who sat on a sunny hillside taking a
nap. Just then a fox came slinking by and saw him.

“Aha! have I caught you napping, grandfather? See if I don’t play you a
trick this time!” said Reynard to himself.

He then found three wood mice and laid them on a stump of a tree just
under the bear’s nose.

“Boo! Bruin! Peter the hunter is just behind that stump!” shouted the
fox right into the bear’s ear, and then took to his heels and made off
into the wood.

The bear woke at once, and when he saw the three mice he became so
angry that he lifted his paw and was just going to strike them, for he
thought it was they who had shouted in his ear.

But just then he saw Reynard’s tail between the bushes and he set off
at such a speed that the branches crackled under him, and Bruin was
soon so close upon Reynard that he caught him by the right hind leg
just as be was running into a hole under a pine tree.

Reynard was now in a fix; but he was not to be outwitted, and he cried:

“Slip pine root, grip fox foot,” and so the bear let go his hold; but
the fox laughed far down in the hole and said:

“I sold you that time, also, grandfather!”

“Out of sight is not out of mind!” said the bear, who was in a fine
fury.

The other morning, when Bruin came trudging across the moor with a fat
pig, Master Reynard was lying on a stone by the moorside.

“Good-day, grandfather!” said the fox. “What nice thing have you got
there?”

“Pork,” said the bear.

“I have got something tasty as well,” said the fox.

“What’s that?” said the bear.

“It’s the biggest bees’ nest I ever found,” said Reynard.

“Ah, indeed,” said the bear, grinning, and his mouth began to water, he
thought a little honey would be so nice. “Shall we change victuals?” he
said.

“No, I won’t do that,” said Reynard. But they made a wager about naming
three kinds of trees. If the fox could say them quicker than the bear
he was to have one bite at the pig; but if the bear could say them
quicker he was to have one suck at the bee’s nest. The bear thought he
would be able to suck all the honey up at one gulp.

“Well said the fox, “that’s all well and good but if I win you must
promise to tear off the bristles where I want to have a bite,” he said.

“Well, I suppose I must, since you are too lazy yourself,” said the
bear.

Then they began to name the trees.

“Spruce, fir, pine,” growled the bear. His voice was very gruff. But
all these were only different names of one kind of tree.

“Ash, aspen, oak,” screeched the fox, so that the forest resounded. He
had thus won the bet, and so he jumped down, took the heart out of the
pig at one bite, and tried to run off. But the bear was angry, because
he had taken the best bit of the whole pig, and seized hold of him by
his tail and held him fast.

“Just wait a bit,” said the bear, who was furious.

“Never mind, grandfather; if you’ll let me go you shall have a taste of
my honey,” said the fox.

When the bear heard this he let go his hold and the fox jumped up on
the stone after the honey.

“Over this nest,” said Reynard, “I’ll put a leaf, and in the leaf there
is a hole, through which you can suck the honey.” He then put the nest
right up under the bear’s nose, pulled away the leaf, jumped on to the
stone, and began grinning and laughing; for there was neither honey nor
honeycomb in the nest. It was a wasp’s nest as big as a man’s head,
full of wasps, and out they swarmed and stung the bear in his eyes and
ears and on his mouth and snout. He had so much to do with scratching
them off him that he had no the to think of Reynard.

Ever since the bear has been afraid of wasps.

Once the fox and the bear made up their minds to have a field in
common. They found a small clearing far away in the forest, where they
sowed rye the first year.

“Now we must share and share alike,” said Reynard; “if you will have
the roots I will have the tops,” he said.

Yes, Bruin was quite willing; but when they had thrashed the crop the
fox got all the corn, while the bear got nothing but the roots and
tares.

Bruin didn’t like this, but the fox said it was only as they had
agreed.

“This year I am the gainer,” said the fox; “another year it will be
your turn; you can then have the tops and I will be satisfied with the
roots.”

Next spring the fox asked the bear if he didn’t think turnips would be
the right thing for that year.

“Yes, that’s better food than corn,” said the bear; and the fox thought
the same.

When the autumn came the fox took the turnips, but the bear only got
the tops.

The bear then became so angry that he parted company then and there
with Reynard.

One day the bear was lying eating a horse which he had killed. Reynard
was about again and came slinking along, his mouth watering for a tasty
bit of the horseflesh.

He sneaked in and out and round about till he came up behind the bear,
when he made a spring to the other side of the carcass, snatching a
piece as he jumped across.

The bear was not slow either; he made a dash after Reynard and caught
the tip of his red tail in his paw. Since that time the fox has always
had a white tip to his tail.

“Wait a bit Reynard, and come here,” said the bear, “and I’ll teach you
how to catch horses.”

Yes, Reynard was quite willing to learn that, but he didn’t trust
himself too near the bear.

“When you see a horse lying asleep in a sunny place,” said the bear,
“you must tie yourself fast with the hair of his tail to your brush,
and then fasten your teeth in his thigh,” he said.

Before long the fox found a horse lying asleep on a sunny hillside; and
so he did as the bear had told him; he knotted and tied himself well to
the horse with the hair of the tail and then fastened his teeth into
his thigh.

Up jumped the horse and began to kick and gallop so that Reynard was
dashed against stock and stone, and was so bruised and battered that he
nearly lost his senses.

All at once a hare rushed by. “Where are you off to in such a hurry,
Reynard?” said the hare.

“I’m having a ride, Bunny!” said the fox.

The hare sat up on his hind legs and laughed till the sides of his
mouth split right up to his ears, at the thought of Reynard having such
a grand ride; but since then the fox has never thought of catching
horses again.

That time it was Bruin who for once had the better of Reynard;
otherwise they say the bear is as simple-minded as the trolls.




THE LAD WHO WENT TO THE NORTH WIND


By Sir George Webbe Dasent

Once upon a time there was an old widow who had one son, and she was
poorly and weak, her son had to go up into the safe to fetch meal for
cooking; but when he got outside the safe, and was just going down the
steps, there came the North Wind, puffing and blowing, caught up the
meal, and so away with it through the air. Then the lad went back into
the safe for more; but when he came out again on the steps, if the
North Wind didn’t come again and carry off the meal with a puff; and
more than that, he did so the third time. At this the lad got very
angry; and as he thought it hard that the North Wind should behave so,
he thought he’d just look him up and ask him to give up his meal.

So off he went, but the way was long, and he walked and walked; but at
last he came to the North Wind’s house.

“Good day!” said the lad, and “thank you for coming to see us
yesterday.”

“GOOD DAY!” answered the North Wind, for his voice was loud and gruff,
“AND THANKS FOR COMING TO SEE ME. WHAT DO YOU WANT?”

“Oh!” answered the lad, “I only wished to ask you to be so good as to
let me have back that meal you took from me on the safe steps, for we
haven’t much to live on; and if you’re to go on snapping up the morsel
we have there’ll be nothing for it but to starve.”

“I haven’t got your meal,” said the North Wind; “but if you are in such
need, I’ll give you a cloth which will get you everything you want, if
you only say, ‘Cloth, spread yourself, and serve up all kinds of good
dishes!’”

With this the lad was well content. But, as the way was so long he
couldn’t get home in one day, he stopped at an inn on the way; and when
they were going to sit down to supper, h

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