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           The Orange Fairy Book
           Edited by Andrew Lang


Preface



The children who read fairy books, or have fairy books read to them, do
not read prefaces, and the parents, aunts, uncles, and cousins, who
give fairy books to their daughters, nieces, and cousines, leave
prefaces unread.  For whom, then, are prefaces written?  When an author
publishes a book ‘out of his own head,’ he writes the preface for his
own pleasure.  After reading over his book in print--to make sure that
all the ‘u’s’ are not printed as ‘n’s,’ and all the ‘n’s’ as ‘u’s’ in
the proper names--then the author says, mildly, in his preface, what he
thinks about his own book, and what he means it to prove--if he means
it to prove anything--and why it is not a better book than it is.  But,
perhaps, nobody reads prefaces except other authors; and critics, who
hope that they will find enough in the preface to enable them to do
without reading any of the book.

This appears to be the philosophy of prefaces in general, and perhaps
authors might be more daring and candid than they are with advantage,
and write regular criticisms of their own books in their prefaces, for
nobody can be so good a critic of himself as the author--if he has a
sense of humour.  If he has not, the less he says in his preface the
better.

These Fairy Books, however, are not written by the Editor, as he has
often explained, ‘out of his own head.’  The stories are taken from
those told by grannies to grandchildren in many countries and in many
languages-- French, Italian, Spanish, Catalan, Gaelic, Icelandic,
Cherokee, African, Indian, Australian, Slavonic, Eskimo, and what not.
The stories are not literal, or word by word translations, but have
been altered in many ways to make them suitable for children.  Much has
been left out in places, and the narrative has been broken up into
conversations, the characters telling each other how matters stand, and
speaking for themselves, as children, and some older people, prefer
them to do.  In many tales, fairly cruel and savage deeds are done, and
these have been softened down as much as possible; though it is
impossible, even if it were desirable, to conceal the circumstance that
popular stories were never intended to be tracts and nothing else.
Though they usually take the side of courage and kindness, and the
virtues in general, the old story-tellers admire successful cunning as
much as Homer does in the Odyssey.  At least, if the cunning hero,
human or animal, is the weaker, like Odysseus, Brer Rabbit, and many
others, the story-teller sees little in intellect but superior cunning,
by which tiny Jack gets the better of the giants.  In the fairy tales
of no country are ‘improper’ incidents common, which is to the credit
of human nature, as they were obviously composed mainly for children.
It is not difficult to get rid of this element when it does occur in
popular tales.

The old puzzle remains a puzzle--why do the stories of the remotest
people so closely resemble each other?  Of course, in the immeasurable
past, they have been carried about by conquering races, and learned by
conquering races from vanquished peoples.  Slaves carried far from home
brought their stories with them into captivity.  Wanderers, travellers,
shipwrecked men, merchants, and wives stolen from alien tribes have
diffused the stories; gipsies and Jews have passed them about; Roman
soldiers of many different races, moved here and there about the
Empire, have trafficked in them.  From the remotest days men have been
wanderers, and wherever they went their stories accompanied them.  The
slave trade might take a Greek to Persia, a Persian to Greece; an
Egyptian woman to Phoenicia; a Babylonian to Egypt; a Scandinavian
child might be carried with the amber from the Baltic to the Adriatic;
or a Sidonian to Ophir, wherever Ophir may have been; while the
Portuguese may have borne their tales to South Africa, or to Asia, and
thence brought back other tales to Egypt.  The stories wandered
wherever the Buddhist missionaries went, and the earliest French
voyageurs told them to the Red Indians.  These facts help to account
for the sameness of the stories everywhere;  and the uniformity of
human fancy in early societies must be the cause of many other
resemblances.

In this volume there are stories from the natives of Rhodesia,
collected by Mr. Fairbridge, who speaks the native language, and one is
brought by Mr. Cripps from another part of Africa, Uganda.  Three tales
from the Punjaub were collected and translated by Major Campbell.
Various savage tales, which needed a good deal of editing, are derived
from the learned pages of the ‘Journal of the Anthropological
Institute.’  With these exceptions, and ‘The Magic Book,’ translated by
Mrs. Pedersen, from ‘Eventyr fra Jylland,’ by Mr. Ewald Tang Kristensen
(Stories from Jutland), all the tales have been done, from various
sources, by Mrs. Lang, who has modified, where it seemed desirable, all
the narratives.



                   CONTENTS



The Story of the Hero Makoma The Magic Mirror Story of the King who
would see Paradise How Isuro the Rabbit tricked Gudu Ian, the Soldier’s
Son The Fox and the Wolf How Ian Direach got the Blue Falcon The Ugly
Duckling The Two Caskets The Goldsmith’s Fortune The Enchanted Wreath
The Foolish Weaver The Clever Cat The Story of Manus Pinkel the Thief
The Adventures of a Jackal The Adventures of the Jachal’s Eldest Son
The Adventures of the Younger Son of the Jackal The Three Treasures of
the Giants The Rover of the Plain The White Doe The Girl Fish The Owl
and the Eagle The Frog and the Lion Fairy The Adventures of Covan the
Brown-haired The Princess Bella-Flor The Bird of Truth The Mink and the
Wolf Adventures of an Indian Brave How the Stalos were Tricked Andras
Baive The White Slipper The Magic Book



            The Orange Fairy Book



       The Story of the Hero Makoma        From the Senna (Oral
Tradition)



Once upon a time, at the town of Senna on the banks of the Zambesi, was
born a child.  He was not like other children, for he was very tall and
strong; over his shoulder he carried a big sack, and in his hand an
iron hammer.  He could also speak like a grown man, but usually he was
very silent.

One day his mother said to him: ‘My child, by what name shall we know
you?’

And he answered: ‘Call all the head men of Senna here to the river’s
bank.’ And his mother called the head men of the town, and when they
had come he led them down to a deep black pool in the river where all
the fierce crocodiles lived.

‘O great men!’ he said, while they all listened, ‘which of you will
leap into the pool and overcome the crocodiles?’ But no one would come
forward.  So he turned and sprang into the water and disappeared.

The people held their breath, for they thought: ‘Surely the boy is
bewitched and throws away his life, for the crocodiles will eat him!’
Then suddenly the ground trembled, and the pool, heaving and swirling,
became red with blood, and presently the boy rising to the surface swam
on shore.

But he was no longer just a boy!  He was stronger than any man and very
tall and handsome, so that the people shouted with gladness when they
saw him.

‘Now, O my people!’ he cried, waving his hand, ‘you know my name--I am
Makoma, “the Greater”; for have I not slain the crocodiles into the
pool where none would venture?’

Then he said to his mother: ‘Rest gently, my mother, for I go to make a
home for myself and become a hero.’  Then, entering his hut he took
Nu-endo, his iron hammer, and throwing the sack over his shoulder, he
went away.

Makoma crossed the Zambesi, and for many moons he wandered towards the
north and west until he came to a very hilly country where, one day, he
met a huge giant making mountains.

‘Greeting,’ shouted Makoma, ‘you are you?’

‘I am Chi-eswa-mapiri, who makes the mountains,’ answered the giant;
‘and who are you?’

‘I am Makoma, which signifies “greater,”’ answered he.

‘Greater than who?’ asked the giant.

‘Greater than you!’ answered Makoma.

The giant gave a roar and rushed upon him.  Makoma said nothing, but
swinging his great hammer, Nu-endo, he struck the giant upon the head.

He struck him so hard a blow that the giant shrank into quite a little
man, who fell upon his knees saying: ‘You are indeed greater than I, O
Makoma; take me with you to be your slave!’  So Makoma picked him up
and dropped him into the sack that he carried upon his back.

He was greater than ever now, for all the giant’s strength had gone
into him; and he resumed his journey, carrying his burden with as
little difficulty as an eagle might carry a hare.

Before long he came to a country broken up with huge stones and immense
clods of earth.   Looking over one of the heaps he saw a giant wrapped
in dust dragging out the very earth and hurling it in handfuls on
either side of him.

‘Who are you,’ cried Makoma, ‘that pulls up the earth in this way?’

‘I am Chi-dubula-taka,’ said he, ‘and I am making the river-beds.’

‘Do you know who I am?’ said Makoma.  ‘I am he that is called
“greater”!’

‘Greater than who?’ thundered the giant.

‘Greater than you!’ answered Makoma.

With a shout, Chi-dubula-taka seized a great clod of earth and launched
it at Makoma.  But the hero had his sack held over his left arm and the
stones and earth fell harmlessly upon it, and, tightly gripping his
iron hammer, he rushed in and struck the giant to the ground.
Chi-dubula-taka grovelled before him, all the while growing smaller and
smaller; and when he had become a convenient size Makoma picked him up
and put him into the sack beside Chi- eswa-mapiri.

He went on his way even greater than before, as all the river-maker’s
power had become his; and at last he came to a forest of bao- babs and
thorn trees.  He was astonished at their size, for every one was full
grown and larger than any trees he had ever seen, and close by he saw
Chi-gwisa-miti, the giant who was planting the forest.

Chi-gwisa-miti was taller than either of his brothers, but Makoma was
not afraid, and called out to him: ‘Who are you, O Big One?’

‘I,’ said the giant, ‘am Chi-gwisa-miti, and I am planting these
bao-babs and thorns as food for my children the elephants.’

‘Leave off!’ shouted the hero, ‘for I am Makoma, and would like to
exchange a blow with thee!’

The giant, plucking up a monster bao-bab by the roots, struck heavily
at Makoma; but the hero sprang aside, and as the weapon sank deep into
the soft earth, whirled Nu-endo the hammer round his head and felled
the giant with one blow.

So terrible was the stroke that Chi-gwisa- miti shrivelled up as the
other giants had done; and when he had got back his breath he begged
Makoma to take him as his servant.  ‘For,’ said he, ‘it is honourable
to serve a man so great as thou.’

Makoma, after placing him in his sack, proceeded upon his journey, and
travelling for many days he at last reached a country so barren and
rocky that not a single living thing grew upon it--everywhere reigned
grim desolation.  And in the midst of this dead region he found a man
eating fire.

‘What are you doing?’ demanded Makoma.

‘I am eating fire,’ answered the man, laughing; ‘and my name is
Chi-idea-moto, for I am the flame-spirit, and can waste and destroy
what I like.’

‘You are wrong,’ said Makoma; ‘for I am Makoma, who is “greater” than
you--and you cannot destroy me!’

The fire-eater laughed again, and blew a flame at Makoma.  But the hero
sprang behind a rock--just in time, for the ground upon which he had
been standing was turned to molten glass, like an overbaked pot, by the
heat of the flame-spirit’s breath.

Then the hero flung his iron hammer at Chi- idea-moto, and, striking
him, it knocked him helpless; so Makoma placed him in the sack,
Woro-nowu, with the other great men that he had overcome.

And now, truly, Makoma was a very great hero; for he had the strength
to make hills, the industry to lead rivers over dry wastes, foresight
and wisdom in planting trees, and the power of producing fire when he
wished.

Wandering on he arrived one day at a great plain, well watered and full
of game; and in the very middle of it, close to a large river, was a
grassy spot, very pleasant to make a home upon.

Makoma was so delighted with the little meadow that he sat down under a
large tree and removing the sack from his shoulder, took out all the
giants and set them before him.  ‘My friends,’ said he, ‘I have
travelled far and am weary.  Is not this such a place as would suit a
hero for his home?  Let us then go, to-morrow, to bring in timber to
make a kraal.’

So the next day Makoma and the giants set out to get poles to build the
kraal, leaving only Chi-eswa-mapiri to look after the place and cook
some venison which they had killed.  In the evening, when they
returned, they found the giant helpless and tied to a tree by one
enormous hair!

‘How is it,’ said Makoma, astonished, ‘that we find you thus bound and
helpless?’

‘O Chief,’ answered Chi-eswa-mapiri, ‘at mid- day a man came out of the
river; he was of immense statue, and his grey moustaches were of such
length that I could not see where they ended!  He demanded of me “Who
is thy master?” And I answered: “Makoma, the greatest of heroes.” Then
the man seized me, and pulling a hair from his moustache, tied me to
this tree--even as you see me.’

Makoma was very wroth, but he said nothing, and drawing his finger-nail
across the hair (which was as thick and strong as palm rope) cut it,
and set free the mountain-maker.

The three following days exactly the same thing happened, only each
time with a different one of the party; and on the fourth day Makoma
stayed in camp when the others went to cut poles, saying that he would
see for himself what sort of man this was that lived in the river and
whose moustaches were so long that they extended beyond men’s sight.

So when the giants had gone he swept and tidied the camp and put some
venison on the fire to roast.  At midday, when the sun was right
overhead, he heard a rumbling noise from the river, and looking up he
saw the head and shoulders of an enormous man emerging from it.  And
behold! right down the river-bed and up the river-bed, till they faded
into the blue distance, stretched the giant’s grey moustaches!

‘Who are you?’ bellowed the giant, as soon as he was out of the water.

‘I am he that is called Makoma,’ answered the hero; ‘and, before I slay
thee, tell me also what is thy name and what thou doest in the river?’

‘My name is Chin-debou Mau-giri,’ said the giant.  ‘My home is in the
river, for my moustache is the grey fever-mist that hangs above the
water, and with which I bind all those that come unto me so that they
die.’

‘You cannot bind me!’ shouted Makoma, rushing upon him and striking
with his hammer.  But the river giant was so slimy that the blow slid
harmlessly off his green chest, and as Makoma stumbled and tried to
regain his balance, the giant swung one of his long hairs around him
and tripped him up.

For a moment Makoma was helpless, but remembering the power of the
flame-spirit which had entered into him, he breathed a fiery breath
upon the giant’s hair and cut himself free.

As Chin-debou Mau-giri leaned forward to seize him the hero flung his
sack Woronowu over the giant’s slippery head, and gripping his iron
hammer, struck him again; this time the blow alighted upon the dry sack
and Chin- debou Mau-giri fell dead.

When the four giants returned at sunset with the poles, they rejoiced
to find that Makoma had overcome the fever-spirit, and they feasted on
the roast venison till far into the night; but in the morning, when
they awoke, Makoma was already warming his hands to the fire, and his
face was gloomy.

‘In the darkness of the night, O my friends,’ he said presently, ‘the
white spirits of my fathers came upon me and spoke, saying: “Get thee
hence, Makoma, for thou shalt have no rest until thou hast found and
fought with Sakatirina, who had five heads, and is very great and
strong; so take leave of thy friends, for thou must go alone.”’

Then the giants were very sad, and bewailed the loss of their hero; but
Makoma comforted them, and gave back to each the gifts he had taken
from them.  Then bidding them ‘Farewell,’ he went on his way.

Makoma travelled far towards the west; over rough mountains and
water-logged morasses, fording deep rivers, and tramping for days
across dry deserts where most men would have died, until at length he
arrived at a hut standing near some large peaks, and inside the hut
were two beautiful women.

‘Greeting!’ said the hero.  ‘Is this the country of Sakatirina of five
heads, whom I am seeking?’

‘We greet you, O Great One!’ answered the women.  ‘We are the wives of
Sakatirina; your search is at an end, for there stands he whom you
seek!’  And they pointed to what Makoma had thought were two tall
mountain peaks.  ‘Those are his legs,’ they said; ‘his body you cannot
see, for it is hidden in the clouds.’

Makoma was astonished when he beheld how tall was the giant; but,
nothing daunted, he went forward until he reached one of Sakatirina’s
legs, which he struck heavily with Nu-endo.  Nothing happened, so he
hit again and then again until, presently, he heard a tired, far-away
voice saying: ‘Who is it that scratches my feet?’

And Makoma shouted as loud as he could, answering: ‘It is I, Makoma,
who is called “Greater”!’ And he listened, but there was no answer.

Then Makoma collected all the dead brushwood and trees that he could
find, and making an enormous pile round the giant’s legs, set a light
to it.

This time the giant spoke; his voice was very terrible, for it was the
rumble of thunder in the clouds.  ‘Who is it,’ he said, ‘making that
fire smoulder around my feet?’

‘It is I, Makoma!’ shouted the hero.  ‘And I have come from far away to
see thee, O Sakatirina, for the spirits of my fathers bade me go seek
and fight with thee, lest I should grow fat, and weary of myself.’

There was silence for a while, and then the giant spoke softly: ‘It is
good, O Makoma!’ he said.  ‘For I too have grown weary.  There is no
man so great as I, therefore I am all alone.  Guard thyself!’ and
bending suddenly he seized the hero in his hands and dashed him upon
the ground.  And lo! instead of death, Makoma had found life, for he
sprang to his feet mightier in strength and stature than before, and
rushing in he gripped the giant by the waist and wrestled with him.

Hour by hour they fought, and mountains rolled beneath their feet like
pebbles in a flood; now Makoma would break away, and summoning up his
strength, strike the giant with Nu-endo his iron hammer, and Sakatirina
would pluck up the mountains and hurl them upon the hero, but neither
one could slay the other.  At last, upon the second day, they grappled
so strongly that they could not break away; but their strength was
failing, and, just as the sun was sinking, they fell together to the
ground, insensible.

In the morning when they awoke, Mulimo the Great Spirit was standing by
them; and he said: ‘O Makoma and Sakatirina!  Ye are heroes so great
that no man may come against you.  Therefore ye will leave the world
and take up your home with me in the clouds.’  And as he spake the
heroes became invisible to the people of the Earth, and were no more
seen among them.

[Native Rhodesian Tale.]



               The Magic Mirror                From the Senna



A long, long while ago, before ever the White Men were seen in Senna,
there lived a man called Gopani-Kufa.

One day, as he was out hunting, he came upon a strange sight.  An
enormous python had caught an antelope and coiled itself around it; the
antelope, striking out in despair with its horns, had pinned the
python’s neck to a tree, and so deeply had its horns sunk in the soft
wood that neither creature could get away.

‘Help!’ cried the antelope, ‘for I was doing no harm, yet I have been
caught, and would have been eaten, had I not defended myself.’

‘Help me,’ said the python, ‘for I am Insato, King of all the Reptiles,
and will reward you well!’

Gopani-Kufa considered for a moment, then stabbing the antelope with
his assegai, he set the python free.

‘I thank you,’ said the python; ‘come back here with the new moon, when
I shall have eaten the antelope, and I will reward you as I promised.’

‘Yes,’ said the dying antelope, ‘he will reward you, and lo! your
reward shall be your own undoing!’

Gopani-Kufa went back to his kraal, and with the new moon he returned
again to the spot where he had saved the python.

Insato was lying upon the ground, still sleepy from the effects of his
huge meal, and when he saw the man he thanked him again, and said:
‘Come with me now to Pita, which is my own country, and I will give you
what you will of all my possessions.’

Gopani-Kufa at first was afraid, thinking of what the antelope had
said, but finally he consented and followed Insato into the forest.

For several days they travelled, and at last they came to a hole
leading deep into the earth.  It was not very wide, but large enough to
admit a man.  ‘Hold on to my tail,’ said Insato, ‘and I will go down
first, drawing you after me.’  The man did so, and Insato entered.

Down, down, down they went for days, all the while getting deeper and
deeper into the earth, until at last the darkness ended and they
dropped into a beautiful country; around them grew short green grass,
on which browsed herds of cattle and sheep and goats.  In the distance
Gopani-Kufa saw a great collection of houses all square, built of stone
and very tall, and their roofs were shining with gold and burnished
iron.

Gopani-Kufa turned to Insato, but found, in the place of the python, a
man, strong and handsome, with the great snake’s skin wrapped round him
for covering; and on his arms and neck were rings of pure gold.

The man smiled.  ‘I am Insato,’ said he, ‘but in my own country I take
man’s shape--even as you see me--for this is Pita, the land over which
I am king.’  He then took Gopani-Kufa by the hand and led him towards
the town.

On the way they passed rivers in which men and women were bathing and
fishing and boating; and farther on they came to gardens covered with
heavy crops of rice and maize, and many other grains which Gopani-Kufa
did not even know the name of.  And as they passed, the people who were
singing at their work in the fields, abandoned their labours and
saluted Insato with delight, bringing also palm wine and green
cocoanuts for refreshment, as to one returned from a long journey.

‘These are my children!’ said Insato, waving his hand towards the
people.  Gopani-Kufa was much astonished at all that he saw, but he
said nothing.  Presently they came to the town; everything here, too,
was beautiful, and everything that a man might desire he could obtain.
Even the grains of dust in the streets were of gold and silver.

Insato conducted Gopani-Kufa to the palace, and showing him his rooms,
and the maidens who would wait upon him, told him that they would have
a great feast that night, and on the morrow he might name his choice of
the riches of Pita and it should be given him.  Then he was away.

Now Gopani-Kufa had a wasp called Zengi-mizi.  Zengi-mizi was not an
ordinary wasp, for the spirit of the father of Gopani-Kufa had entered
it, so that it was exceedingly wise.  In times of doubt Gopani-Kufa
always consulted the wasp as to what had better be done, so on this
occasion he took it out of the little rush basket in which he carried
it, saying: ‘Zengi-mizi, what gift shall I ask of Insato to-morrow when
he would know the reward he shall bestow on me for saving his life?’

‘Biz-z-z,’ hummed Zengi-mizi, ‘ask him for Sipao the Mirror.’  And it
flew back into its basket.

Gopani-Kufa was astonished at this answer; but knowing that the words
of Zengi-mizi were true words, he determined to make the request.  So
that night they feasted, and on the morrow Insato came to Gopani-Kufa
and, giving him greeting joyfully, he said:

‘Now, O my friend, name your choice amongst my possessions and you
shall have it!’

‘O king!’ answered Gopani-Kufa, ‘out of all your possessions I will
have the Mirror, Sipao.’

The king started.  ‘O friend, Gopani-Kufa,’ he said, ‘ask anything but
that!  I did not think that you would request that which is most
precious to me.’

‘Let me think over it again then, O king,’ said Gopani-Kufa, ‘and
to-morrow I will let you know if I change my mind.’

But the king was still much troubled, fearing the loss of Sipao, for
the mirror had magic powers, so that he who owned it had but to ask and
his wish would be fulfilled; to it Insato owed all that he possessed.

As soon as the king left him, Gopani-Kufa again took Zengi-mizi, out of
his basket.  ‘Zengi-mizi,’ he said, ‘the king seems loth to grant my
request for the Mirror--is there not some other thing of equal value
for which I might ask?’

And the wasp answered: ‘There is nothing in the world, O Gopani-Kufa,
which is of such value as this Mirror, for it is a Wishing Mirror, and
accomplishes the desires of him who owns it.  If the king hesitates, go
to him the next day, and the day after, and in the end he will bestow
the Mirror upon you, for you saved his life.’

And it was even so.  For three days Gopani- Kufa returned the same
answer to the king, and, at last, with tears in his eyes, Insato gave
him the Mirror, which was of polished iron, saying: ‘Take Sipao, then,
O Gopani- Kufa, and may thy wishes come true.  Go back now to thine own
country; Sipao will show you the way.’

Gopani-Kufa was greatly rejoiced, and, taking farewell of the king,
said to the Mirror:

‘Sipao, Sipao, I wish to be back upon the Earth again!’

Instantly he found himself standing upon the upper earth; but, not
knowing the spot, he said again to the Mirror:

‘Sipao, Sipao, I want the path to my own kraal!’

And behold! right before him lay the path!

When he arrived home he found his wife and daughter mourning for him,
for they thought that he had been eaten by lions; but he comforted
them, saying that while following a wounded antelope he had missed his
way and had wandered for a long time before he had found the path again.

That night he asked Zengi-mizi, in whom sat the spirit of his father,
what he had better ask Sipao for next?

‘Biz-z-z,’ said the wasp, ‘would you not like to be as great a chief as
Insato?’

And Gopani-Kufa smiled, and took the Mirror and said to it:

‘Sipao, Sipao, I want a town as great as that of Insato, the King of
Pita; and I wish to be chief over it!’

Then all along the banks of the Zambesi river, which flowed near by,
sprang up streets of stone buildings, and their roofs shone with gold
and burnished iron like those in Pita; and in the streets men and women
were walking, and young boys were driving out the sheep and cattle to
pasture; and from the river came shouts and laughter from the young men
and maidens who had launched their canoes and were fishing.  And when
the people of the new town beheld Gopani-Kufa they rejoiced greatly and
hailed him as chief.

Gopani-Kufa was now as powerful as Insato the King of the Reptiles had
been, and he and his family moved into the palace that stood high above
the other buildings right in the middle of the town.  His wife was too
astonished at all these wonders to ask any questions, but his daughter
Shasasa kept begging him to tell her how he had suddenly become so
great; so at last he revealed the whole secret, and even entrusted
Sipao the Mirror to her care, saying:

‘It will be safer with you, my daughter, for you dwell apart; whereas
men come to consult me on affairs of state, and the Mirror might be
stolen.’

Then Shasasa took the Magic Mirror and hid it beneath her pillow, and
after that for many years Gopani-Kufa ruled his people both well and
wisely, so that all men loved him, and never once did he need to ask
Sipao to grant him a wish.

Now it happened that, after many years, when the hair of Gopani-Kufa
was turning grey with age, there came white men to that country.  Up
the Zambesi they came, and they fought long and fiercely with
Gopani-Kufa; but, because of the power of the Magic Mirror, he beat
them, and they fled to the sea-coast.  Chief among them was one Rei, a
man of much cunning, who sought to discover whence sprang Gopani-Kufa’s
power.  So one day he called to him a trusty servant named Butou, and
said: ‘Go you to the town and find out for me what is the secret of its
greatness.’

And Butou, dressing himself in rags, set out, and when he came to
Gopani-Kufa’s town he asked for the chief; and the people took him into
the presence of Gopani-Kufa.  When the white man saw him he humbled
himself, and said: ‘O Chief! take pity on me, for I have no home!  When
Rei marched against you I alone stood apart, for I knew that all the
strength of the Zambesi lay in your hands, and because I would not
fight against you he turned me forth into the forest to starve!’

And Gopani-Kufa believed the white man’s story, and he took him in and
feasted him, and gave him a house.

In this way the end came.  For the heart of Shasasa, the daughter of
Gopani-Kufa, went forth to Butou the traitor, and from her he learnt
the secret of the Magic Mirror.  One night, when all the town slept, he
felt beneath her pillow and, finding the Mirror, he stole it and fled
back with it to Rei, the chief of the white men.

So it befell that, one day, as Gopani-Kufa was gazing up at the river
from a window of the palace he again saw the war-canoes of the white
men; and at the sight his spirit misgave him.

‘Shasasa! my daughter!’ he cried wildly, ‘go fetch me the mirror, for
the white men are at hand.’

‘Woe is me, my father!’ she sobbed.  ‘The Mirror is gone!  For I loved
Butou the traitor, and he has stolen Sipao from me!’

Then Gopani-Kufa calmed himself, and drew out Zengi-mizi from its rush
basket.

‘O spirit of my father!’ he said, ‘what now shall I do?’

‘O Gopani-Kufa!’ hummed the wasp, ‘there is nothing now that can be
done, for the words of the antelope which you slew are being fulfilled.’

‘Alas!  I am an old man--I had forgotten!’ cried the chief.  ‘The words
of the antelope were true words--my reward shall be my undoing--they
are being fulfilled!’

Then the white men fell upon the people of Gopani-Kufa and slew them
together with the chief and his daughter Shasasa; and since then all
the power of the Earth has rested in the hands of the white men, for
they have in their possession Sipao, the Magic Mirror.



       Story of the King Who Would See                   Paradise



Once upon a time there was king who, one day out hunting, came upon a
fakeer in a lonely place in the mountains.  The fakeer was seated on a
little old bedstead reading the Koran, with his patched cloak thrown
over his shoulders.

The king asked him what he was reading; and he said he was reading
about Paradise, and praying that he might be worthy to enter there.
Then they began to talk, and, by-and- bye, the king asked the fakeer if
he could show him a glimpse of Paradise, for he found it very difficult
to believe in what he could not see.  The fakeer replied that he was
asking a very difficult, and perhaps a very dangerous, thing; but that
he would pray for him, and perhaps he might be able to do it; only he
warned the king both against the dangers of his unbelief, and against
the curiosity which prompted him to ask this thing.  However, the king
was not to be turned from his purpose, and he promised the fakeer
always to provided him with food, if he, in return, would pray for him.
 To this the fakeer agreed, and so they parted.

Time went on, and the king always sent the old fakeer his food
according to his promise; but, whenever he sent to ask him when he was
going to show him Paradise, the fakeer always replied: ‘Not yet, not
yet!’

After a year or two had passed by, the king heard one day that the
fakeer was very ill-- indeed, he was believed to be dying.  Instantly
he hurried off himself, and found that it was really true, and that the
fakeer was even then breathing his last.  There and then the king
besought him to remember his promise, and to show him a glimpse of
Paradise.  The dying fakeer replied that if the king would come to his
funeral, and, when the grave was filled in, and everyone else was gone
away, he would come and lay his hand upon the grave, he would keep his
word, and show him a glimpse of Paradise.  At the same time he implored
the king not to do this thing, but to be content to see Paradise when
God called him there.  Still the king’s curiosity was so aroused that
he would not give way.

Accordingly, after the fakeer was dead, and had been buried, he stayed
behind when all the rest went away; and then, when he was quite alone,
he stepped forward, and laid his hand upon the grave!  Instantly the
ground opened, and the astonished king, peeping in, saw a flight of
rough steps, and, at the bottom of them, the fakeer sitting, just as he
used to sit, on his rickety bedstead, reading the Koran!

At first the king was so surprised and frightened that he could only
stare; but the fakeer beckoned to him to come down, so, mustering up
his courage, he boldly stepped down into the grave.

The fakeer rose, and, making a sign to the king to follow, walked a few
paces along a dark passage.  Then he stopped, turned solemnly to his
companion, and, with a movement of his hand, drew aside as it were a
heavy curtain, and revealed--what?  No one knows what was there shown
to the king, nor did he ever tell anyone; but, when the fakeer at
length dropped the curtain, and the king turned to leave the place, he
had had his glimpse of Paradise!  Trembling in every limb, he staggered
back along the passage, and stumbled up the steps out of the tomb into
the fresh air again.

The dawn was breaking.  It seemed odd to the king that he had been so
long in the grave.  It appeared but a few minutes ago that he had
descended, passed along a few steps to the place where he had peeped
beyond the veil, and returned again after perhaps five minutes of that
wonderful view!  And what WAS it he had seen?  He racked his brains to
remember, but he could not call to mind a single thing!  How curious
everything looked too!  Why, his own city, which by now he was
entering, seemed changed and strange to him!  The sun was already up
when he turned into the palace gate and entered the public durbar hall.
 It was full; and there upon the throne sat another king!  The poor
king, all bewildered, sat down and stared about him.  Presently a
chamberlain came across and asked him why he sat unbidden in the king’s
presence.  ‘But I am the king!’ he cried.

‘What king?’ said the chamberlain.

‘The true king of this country,’ said he indignantly.

Then the chamberlain went away, and spoke to the king who sat on the
throne, and the old king heard words like ‘mad,’ ‘age,’ ‘compassion.’
Then the king on the throne called him to come forward, and, as he
went, he caught sight of himself reflected in the polished steel shield
of the bodyguard, and started back in horror!  He was old, decrepit,
dirty, and ragged!  His long white beard and locks were unkempt, and
straggled all over his chest and shoulders.  Only one sign of royalty
remained to him, and that was the signet ring upon his right hand.  He
dragged it off with shaking fingers and held it up to the king.

‘Tell me who I am,’ he cried; ‘there is my signet, who once sat where
you sit--even yesterday!’

The king looked at him compassionately, and examined the signet with
curiosity.  Then he commanded, and they brought out dusty records and
archives of the kingdom, and old coins of previous reigns, and compared
them faithfully.  At last the king turned to the old man, and said:
‘Old man, such a king as this whose signet thou hast, reigned seven
hundred years ago; but he is said to have disappeared, none know
whither; where got you the ring?’

Then the old man smote his breast, and cried out with a loud
lamentation; for he understood that he, who was not content to wait
patiently to see the Paradise of the faithful, had been judged already.
 And he turned and left the hall without a word, and went into the
jungle, where he lived for twenty-five years a life of prayer and
meditations, until at last the Angel of Death came to him, and
mercifully released him, purged and purified through his punishment.

[A Pathan story told to Major Campbell.]



      How Isuro the Rabbit Tricked Gudu



Far away in a hot country, where the forests are very thick and dark,
and the rivers very swift and strong, there once lived a strange pair
of friends.  Now one of the friends was a big white rabbit named Isuro,
and the other was a tall baboon called Gudu, and so fond were they of
each other that they were seldom seen apart.

One day, when the sun was hotter even than usual, the rabbit awoke from
his midday sleep, and saw Gudu the baboon standing beside him.

‘Get up,’ said Gudu; ‘I am going courting, and you must come with me.
So put some food in a bag, and sling it round your neck, for we may not
be able to find anything to eat for a long while.’

Then the rabbit rubbed his eyes, and gathered a store of fresh green
things from under the bushes, and told Gudu that he was ready for the
journey.

They went on quite happily for some distance, and at last they came to
a river with rocks scattered here and there across the stream.

‘We can never jump those wide spaces if we are burdened with food,’
said Gudu, ‘we must throw it into the river, unless we wish to fall in
ourselves.’  And stooping down, unseen by Isuro, who was in front of
him, Gudu picked up a big stone, and threw it into the water with a
loud splash.

‘It is your turn now,’ he cried to Isuro.  And with a heavy sigh, the
rabbit unfastened his bag of food, which fell into the river.

The road on the other side led down an avenue of trees, and before they
had gone very far Gudu opened the bag that lay hidden in the thick hair
about his neck, and began to eat some delicious-looking fruit.

‘Where did you get that from?’ asked Isuro enviously.

‘Oh, I found after all that I could get across the rocks quite easily,
so it seemed a pity not to keep my bag,’ answered Gudu.

‘Well, as you tricked me into throwing away mine, you ought to let me
share with you,’ said Isuro.  But Gudu pretended not to hear him, and
strode along the path.

By-and-bye they entered a wood, and right in front of them was a tree
so laden with fruit that its branches swept the ground.  And some of
the fruit was still green, and some yellow.  The rabbit hopped forward
with joy, for he was very hungry; but Gudu said to him: ‘Pluck the
green fruit, you will find it much the best.  I will leave it all for
you, as you have had no dinner, and take the yellow for myself.’  So
the rabbit took one of the green oranges and began to bite it, but its
skin was so hard that he could hardly get his teeth through the rind.

‘It does not taste at all nice,’ he cried, screwing up his face; ‘I
would rather have one of the yellow ones.’

‘No! no!  I really could not allow that,’ answered Gudu.  ‘They would
only make you ill.  Be content with the green fruit.’  And as they were
all he could get, Isuro was forced to put up with them.

After this had happened two or three times, Isuro at last had his eyes
opened, and made up his mind that, whatever Gudu told him, he would do
exactly the opposite.  However, by this time they had reached the
village where dwelt Gudu’s future wife, and as they entered Gudu
pointed to a clump of bushes, and said to Isuro: ‘Whenever I am eating,
and you hear me call out that my food has burnt me, run as fast as you
can and gather some of those leaves that they may heal my mouth.’

The rabbit would have liked to ask him why he ate food that he knew
would burn him, only he was afraid, and just nodded in reply; but when
they had gone on a little further, he said to Gudu:

‘I have dropped my needle; wait here a moment while I go and fetch it.’

‘Be quick then,’ answered Gudu, climbing into a tree.  And the rabbit
hastened back to the bushes, and gathered a quantity of the leaves,
which he hid among his fur, ‘For,’ thought he, ‘if I get them now I
shall save myself the trouble of a walk by-and-by.’

When he had plucked as many as he wanted he returned to Gudu, and they
went on together.

 The sun was almost setting by the time they reached their journey’s
end and being very tired they gladly sat down by a well.  Then Gudu’s
betrothed, who had been watching for him, brought out a pitcher of
water--which she poured over them to wash off the dust of the road--and
two portions of food.  But once again the rabbit’s hopes were dashed to
the ground, for Gudu said hastily:

‘The custom of the village forbids you to eat till I have finished.’
And Isuro did not know that Gudu was lying, and that he only wanted
more food.  So he saw hungrily looking on, waiting till his friend had
had enough.

In a little while Gudu screamed loudly: ‘I am burnt!  I am burnt!’
though he was not burnt at all.  Now, though Isuro had the leaves about
him, he did not dare to produce them at the last moment lest the baboon
should guess why he had stayed behind.  So he just went round a corner
for a short time, and then came hopping back in a great hurry.  But,
quick though he was, Gudu had been quicker still, and nothing remained
but some drops of water.

‘How unlucky you are,’ said Gudu, snatching the leaves; ‘no sooner had
you gone than ever so many people arrived, and washed their hands, as
you see, and ate your portion.’  But, though Isuro knew better than to
believe him, he said nothing, and went to bed hungrier than he had ever
been in his life.

Early next morning they started for another village, and passed on the
way a large garden where people were very busy gathering monkey- nuts.

‘You can have a good breakfast at last,’ said Gudu, pointing to a heap
of empty shells; never doubting but that Isuro would meekly take the
portion shown him, and leave the real nuts for himself.  But what was
his surprise when Isuro answered:

‘Thank you; I think I should prefer these.’  And, turning to the
kernels, never stopped as long as there was one left.  And the worst of
it was that, with so many people about, Gudu could not take the nuts
from him.

It was night when they reached the village where dwelt the mother of
Gudu’s betrothed, who laid meat and millet porridge before them.

‘I think you told me you were fond of porridge,’ said Gudu; but Isuro
answered: ‘You are mistaking me for somebody else, as I always eat meat
when I can get it.’  And again Gudu was forced to be content with the
porridge, which he hated.

While he was eating it, however a sudden thought darted into his mind,
and he managed to knock over a great pot of water which was hanging in
front of the fire, and put it quite out.

‘Now,’ said the cunning creature to himself, ‘I shall be able in the
dark to steal his meat!’  But the rabbit had grown as cunning as he,
and standing in a corner hid the meat behind him, so that the baboon
could not find it.

‘O Gudu!’ he cried, laughing aloud, ‘it is you who have taught me to be
clever.’  And calling to the people of the house, he bade them kindle
the fire, for Gudu would sleep by it, but that he would pass the night
with some friends in another hut.

 It was still quite dark when Isuro heard his name called very softly,
and, on opening his eyes, beheld Gudu standing by him.  Laying his
finger on his nose, in token of silence, he signed to Isuro to get up
and follow him, and it was not until they were some distance from the
hut that Gudu spoke.

‘I am hungry and want something to eat better than that nasty porridge
that I had for supper.  So I am going to kill one of those goats, and
as you are a good cook you must boil the flesh for me.’  The rabbit
nodded, and Gudu disappeared behind a rock, but soon returned dragging
the dead goat with him.  The two then set about skinning it, after
which they stuffed the skin with dried leaves, so that no one would
have guessed it was not alive, and set it up in the middle of a lump of
bushes, which kept it firm on its feet.  While he was doing this, Isuro
collected sticks for a fire, and when it was kindled, Gudu hastened to
another hut to steal a pot which he filled with water from the river,
and, planting two branches in the ground, they hung the pot with the
meat in it over the fire.

‘It will not be fit to eat for two hours at least,’ said Gudu, ‘so we
can both have a nap.’  And he stretched himself out on the ground, and
pretended to fall fast asleep, but, in reality, he was only waiting
till it was safe to take all the meat for himself.  ‘Surely I hear him
snore,’ he thought; and he stole to the place where Isuro was lying on
a pile of wood, but the rabbit’s eyes were wide open.

‘How tiresome,’ muttered Gudu, as he went back to his place; and after
waiting a little longer he got up, and peeped again, but still the
rabbit’s pink eyes stared widely.  If Gudu had only known, Isuro was
asleep all the time; but this he never guessed, and by-and- bye he grew
so tired with watching that he went to sleep himself.  Soon after,
Isuro woke up, and he too felt hungry, so he crept softly to the pot
and ate all the meat, while he tied the bones together and hung them in
Gudu’s fur.  After that he went back to the wood-pile and slept again.

In the morning the mother of Gudu’s betrothed came out to milk her
goats, and on going to the bushes where the largest one seemed
entangled, she found out the trick.  She made such lament that the
people of the village came running, and Gudu and Isuro jumped up also,
and pretended to be as surprised and interested as the rest.  But they
must have looked guilty after all, for suddenly an old man pointed to
them, and cried:

‘Those are thieves.’  And at the sound of his voice the big Gudu
trembled all over.

‘How dare you say such things?  I defy you to prove it,’ answered Isuro
boldly.  And he danced forward, and turned head over heels, and shook
himself before them all.

‘I spoke hastily; you are innocent,’ said the old man; ‘but now let the
baboon do likewise.’  And when Gudu began to jump the goat’s bones
rattled and the people cried: ‘It is Gudu who is the goat-slayer!’  But
Gudu answered:

‘Nay, I did not kill your goat; it was Isuro, and he ate the meat, and
hung the bones round my neck.  So it is he who should die!’  And the
people looked at each other, for they knew not what to believe.  At
length one man said:

‘Let them both die, but they may choose their own deaths.’

Then Isuro answered:

‘If we must die, put us in the place where the wood is cut, and heap it
up all round us, so that we cannot escape, and set fire to the wood;
and if one is burned and the other is not, then he that is burned is
the goat- slayer.’

And the people did as Isuro had said.  But Isuro knew of a hole under
the wood-pile, and when the fire was kindled he ran into the hole, but
Gudu died there.

When the fire had burned itself out and only ashes were left where the
wood had been, Isuro came out of his hole, and said to the people:

‘Lo! did I not speak well?  He who killed your goat is among those
ashes.’

[Mashona Story.]



            Ian, the Soldier’s Son



There dwelt a knight in Grianaig of the land of the West, who had three
daughters, and for goodness and beauty they had not their like in all
the isles.  All the people loved them, and loud was the weeping when
one day, as the three maidens sat on the rocks on the edge of the sea,
dipping their feet in the water, there arose a great beast from under
the waves and swept them away beneath the ocean.  And none knew whither
they had gone, or how to seek them.

Now there lived in a town a few miles off a soldier who had three sons,
fine youths and strong, and the best players at shinny in that country.
 At Christmastide that year, when families met together and great
feasts were held, Ian, the youngest of the three brothers, said:

‘Let us have a match at shinny on the lawn of the knight of Grianaig,
for his lawn is wider and the grass smoother than ours.’

But the others answered:

‘Nay, for he is in sorrow, and he will think of the games that we have
played there when his daughters looked on.’

‘Let him be pleased or angry as he will,’ said Ian; ‘we will drive our
ball on his lawn to-day.’

And so it was done, and Ian won three games from his brothers.  But the
knight looked out of his window, and was wroth; and bade his men bring
the youths before him.  When he stood in his hall and beheld them, his
heart was softened somewhat; but his face was angry as he asked:

‘Why did you choose to play shinny in front of my castle when you knew
full well that the remembrance of my daughters would come back to me?
The pain which you have made me suffer you shall suffer also.’

‘Since we have done you wrong,’ answered Ian, the youngest, ‘build us a
ship, and we will go and seek your daughters.  Let them be to windward,
or to leeward, or under the four brown boundaries of the sea, we will
find them before a year and a day goes by, and will carry them back to
Grianaig.’

In seven days the ship was built, and great store of food and wine
placed in her.  And the three brothers put her head to the sea and
sailed away, and in seven days the ship ran herself on to a beach of
white sand, and they all went ashore.  They had none of them ever seen
that land before, and looked about them.  Then they saw that, a short
way from them, a number of men were working on a rock, with one man
standing over them.

‘What place is this?’ asked the eldest brother.  And the man who was
standing by made answer:

‘This is the place where dwell the three daughters of the knight of
Grianaig, who are to be wedded to-morrow to three giants.’

‘How can we find them?’ asked the young man again.  And the overlooker
answered:

‘To reach the daughters of the knight of Grianaig you must get into
this basket, and be drawn by a rope up the face of this rock.’

‘Oh, that is easily done,’ said the eldest brother, jumping into the
basket, which at once began to move--up, and up, and up--till he had
gone about half-way, when a fat black raven flew at him and pecked him
till he was nearly blind, so that he was forced to go back the way he
had come.

After that the second brother got into the creel; but he fared no
better, for the raven flew upon him, and he returned as his brother had
done.

‘Now it is my turn,’ said Ian.  But when he was halfway up the raven
set upon him also.

‘Quick! quick!’ cried Ian to the men who held the rope.  ‘Quick! quick!
or I shall be blinded!’ And the men pulled with all their might, and in
another moment Ian was on top, and the raven behind him.

‘Will you give me a piece of tobacco?’ asked the raven, who was now
quite quiet.

‘You rascal!  Am I to give you tobacco for trying to peck my eyes out?’
answered Ian.

‘That was part of my duty,’ replied the raven; ‘but give it to me, and
I will prove a good friend to you.’  So Ian broke off a piece of
tobacco and gave it to him.  The raven hid it under his wing, and then
went on; ‘Now I will take you to the house of the big giant, where the
knight’s daughter sits sewing, sewing, till even her thimble is wet
with tears.’  And the raven hopped before him till they reached a large
house, the door of which stood open.  They entered and passed through
one hall after the other, until they found the knight’s daughter, as
the bird had said.

‘What brought you here?’ asked she.  And Ian made answer:

‘Why may I not go where you can go?’

‘I was brought hither by a giant,’ replied she.

‘I know that,’ said Ian; ‘but tell me where the giant is, that I may
find him.’

‘He is on the hunting hill,’ answered she; ‘and nought will bring him
home save a shake of the iron chain which hangs outside the gate.  But,
there, neither to leeward, nor to windward, nor in the four brown
boundaries of the sea, is there any man that can hold battle against
him, save only Ian, the soldier’s son, and he is now but sixteen years
old, and how shall he stand against the giant?’

‘In the land whence I have come there are many men with the strength of
Ian,’ answered he.  And he went outside and pulled at the chain, but he
could not move it, and fell on to his knees.  At that he rose swiftly,
and gathering up his strength, he seized the chain, and this time he
shook it so that the link broke.  And the giant heard it on the hunting
hill, and lifted his head, thinking--

‘It sounds like the noise of Ian, the soldier’s son,’ said he; ‘but as
yet he is only sixteen years old.  Still, I had better look to it.’
And home he came.

‘Are you Ian, the soldier’s son?’ he asked, as he entered the castle.

‘No, of a surety,’ answered the youth, who had no wish that they should
know him.

‘Then who are you in the leeward, or in the windward, or in the four
brown boundaries of the sea, who are able to move my battle- chain?’

‘That will be plain to you after wrestling with me as I wrestle with my
mother.  And one time she got the better of me, and two times she did
not.’

So they wrestled, and twisted and strove with each other till the giant
forced Ian to his knee.

‘You are the stronger,’ said Ian; and the giant answered:

‘All men know that!’ And they took hold of each other once more, and at
last Ian threw the giant, and wished that the raven were there to help
him.  No sooner had he wished his wish than the raven came.

‘Put your hand under my right wing and you will find a knife sharp
enough to take off his head,’ said the raven.  And the knife was so
sharp that it cut off the giant’s head with a blow.

‘Now go and tell the daughter of the king of Grianaig; but take heed
lest you listen to her words, and promise to go no further, for she
will seek to help you.  Instead, seek the middle daughter, and when you
have found her, you shall give me a piece of tobacco for reward.’

‘Well have you earned the half of all I have,’ answered Ian.  But the
raven shook his head.

‘You know only what has passed, and nothing of what lies before.  If
you would not fail, wash yourself in clean water, and take balsam from
a vessel on top of the door, and rub it over your body, and to-morrow
you will be as strong as many men, and I will lead you to the dwelling
of the middle one.’

Ian did as the raven bade him, and in spite of the eldest daughter’s
entreaties, he set out to seek her next sister.  He found her where she
was seated sewing, her very thimble wet from the tears which she had
shed.

‘What brought you here?’ asked the second sister.

‘Why may I not go where you can go?’ answered he; ‘and why are you
weeping?’

‘Because in one day I shall be married to the giant who is on the
hunting hill.’

‘How can I get him home?’ asked Ian.

‘Nought will bring him but a shake of that iron chain which hangs
outside the gate.  But there is neither to leeward, nor to westward,
nor in the four brown boundaries of the sea, any man that can hold
battle with him, save Ian, the soldier’s son, and he is now but sixteen
years of age.’

‘In the land whence I have come there are many men with the strength of
Ian,’ said he.  And he went outside and pulled at the chain, but he
could not move it, and fell on his knees.  At that he rose to his feet,
and gathering up his strength mightily, he seized the chain, and this
time he shook it so that three links broke.  And the second giant heard
it on the hunting hill, and lifted his head, thinking--

‘It sounds like the noise of Ian, the soldier’s son,’ said he; ‘but as
yet he is only sixteen years old.  Still, I had better look to it.’
And home he came.

‘Are you Ian, the soldier’s son?’ he asked, as he entered the castle.

‘No, of a surety,’ answered the youth, who had no wish that this giant
should know him either; ‘but I will wrestle with you as if I were he.’

Then they seized each other by the shoulder, and the giant threw him on
his two knees.  ‘You are the stronger,’ cried Ian; ‘but I am not beaten
yet.’  And rising to his feet, he threw his arms round the giant.

Backwards and forwards they swayed, and first one was uppermost and
then the other; but at length Ian worked his leg round the giant’s and
threw him to the ground.  Then he called to the raven, and the raven
came flapping towards him, and said: ‘Put your hand under my right
wing, and you will find there a knife sharp enough to take off his
head.’  And sharp indeed it was, for with a single blow, the giant’s
head rolled from his body.

‘Now wash yourself with warm water, and rub yourself over with oil of
balsam, and to- morrow you will be as strong as many men.  But beware
of the words of the knight’s daughter, for she is cunning, and will try
to keep you at her side.  So farewell; but first give me a piece of
tobacco.’

‘That I will gladly,’ answered Ian breaking off a large bit.

He washed and rubbed himself that night, as the raven had told him, and
the next morning he entered the chamber where the knight’s daughter was
sitting.

‘Abide here with me,’ she said, ‘and be my husband.  There is silver
and gold in plenty in the castle.’  But he took no heed, and went on
his way till he reached the castle where the knight’s youngest daughter
was sewing in the hall.  And tears dropped from her eyes on to her
thimble.

‘What brought you here?’ asked she.  And Ian made answer:

‘Why may I not go where you can go?’

‘I was brought hither by a giant.’

‘I know full well,’ said he.

‘Are you Ian, the soldier’s son?’ asked she again.  And again he
answered:

‘Yes, I am; but tell me, why are you weeping?’

‘To-morrow the giant will return from the hunting hill, and I must
marry him,’ she sobbed.  And Ian took no heed, and only said: ‘How can
I bring him home?’

‘Shake the iron chain that hangs outside the gate.’

And Ian went out, and gave such a pull to the chain that he fell down
at full length from the force of the shake.  But in a moment he was on
his feet again, and seized the chain with so much strength that four
links came off in his hand.  And the giant heard him in the hunting
hill, as he was putting the game he had killed into a bag.

‘In the leeward, or the windward, or in the four brown boundaries of
the sea, there is none who could give my chain a shake save only Ian,
the soldier’s son.  And if he has reached me, then he has left my two
brothers dead behind him.’  With that he strode back to the castle, the
earth trembling under him as he went.

‘Are you Ian, the soldier’s son?’ asked he.  And the youth answered:

‘No, of a surety.’

‘Then who are you in the leeward, or the windward, or in the four brown
boundaries of the sea, who are able to shake my battle chain?  There is
only Ian, the soldier’s son, who can do this, and he is but now sixteen
years old.

‘I will show you who I am when you have wrestled with me,’ said Ian.
And they threw their arms round each other, and the giant forced Ian on
to his knees; but in a moment he was up again, and crooking his leg
round the shoulders of the giant, he threw him heavily to the ground.
‘Stumpy black raven, come quick!’ cried he; and the raven came, and
beat the giant about the head with his wings, so that he could not get
up.  Then he bade Ian take out a sharp knife from under his feathers,
which he carried with him for cutting berries, and Ian smote off the
giant’s head with it.  And so sharp was that knife that, with one blow,
the giant’s head rolled on the ground.

‘Rest now this night also,’ said the raven, ‘and to-morrow you shall
take the knight’s three daughters to the edge of the rock that leads to
the lower world.  But take heed to go down first yourself, and let them
follow after you.  And before I go you shall give me a piece of
tobacco.’

‘Take it all,’ answered Ian, ‘for well have you earned it.’

‘No; give me but a piece.  You know what is behind you, but you have no
knowledge of what is before you.’  And picking up the tobacco in his
beak, the raven flew away.

So the next morning the knight’s youngest daughter loaded asses with
all the silver and gold to be found in the castle, and she set out with
Ian the soldier’s son for the house where her second sister was waiting
to see what would befall.  She also had asses laden with precious
things to carry away, and so had the eldest sister, when they reached
the castle where she had been kept a prisoner.  Together they all rode
to the edge of the rock, and then Ian lay down and shouted, and the
basket was drawn up, and in it they got one by one, and were let down
to the bottom.  When the last one was gone, Ian should have gone also,
and left the three sisters to come after him; but he had forgotten the
raven’s warning, and bade them go first, lest some accident should
happen.  Only, he begged the youngest sister to let him keep the little
gold cap which, like the others, she wore on her head; and then he
helped them, each in her turn, into the basket.

 Long he waited, but wait as he might, the basket never came back, for
in their joy at being free the knight’s daughters had forgotten all
about Ian, and had set sail in the ship that had brought him and his
brothers to the land of Grianaig.

At last he began to understand what had happened to him, and while he
was taking counsel with himself what had best be done, the raven came
to him.

‘You did not heed my words,’ he said gravely.

‘No, I did not, and therefore am I here,’ answered Ian, bowing his head.

‘The past cannot be undone,’ went on the raven.  ‘He that will not take
counsel will take combat.  This night, you will sleep in the giant’s
castle.  And now you shall give me a piece of tobacco.’

‘I will.  But, I pray you, stay in the castle with me.’

‘That I may not do, but on the morrow I will come.’

And on the morrow he did, and he bade Ian go to the giant’s stable
where stood a horse to whom it mattered nothing if she journeyed over
land or sea.

‘But be careful,’ he added, ‘how you enter the stable, for the door
swings without ceasing to and fro, and if it touches you, it will cause
you to cry out.  I will go first and show you the way.’

‘Go,’ said Ian.  And the raven gave a bob and a hop, and thought he was
quite safe, but the door slammed on a feather of his tail, and he
screamed loudly.

Then Ian took a run backwards, and a run forwards, and made a spring;
but the door caught one of his feet, and he fell fainting on the stable
floor.  Quickly the raven pounced on him, and picked him up in his beak
and claws, and carried him back to the castle, where he laid ointments
on his foot till it was as well as ever it was.

‘Now come out to walk,’ said the raven, ‘but take heed that you wonder
not at aught you may behold; neither shall you touch anything.  And,
first, give me a piece of tobacco.’

Many strange things did Ian behold in that island, more than he had
thought for.  In a glen lay three heroes stretched on their backs, done
to death by three spears that still stuck in their breasts.  But he
kept his counsel and spake nothing, only he pulled out the spears, and
the men sat up and said:

‘You are Ian the soldier’s son, and a spell is laid upon you to travel
in our company, to the cave of the black fisherman.’

So together they went till they reached the cave, and one of the men
entered, to see what should be found there.  And he beheld a hag,
horrible to look upon, seated on a rock, and before he could speak, she
struck him with her club, and changed him into a stone; and in like
manner she dealt with the other three.  At the last Ian entered.

‘These men are under spells,’ said the witch, ‘and alive they can never
be till you have anointed them with the water which you must fetch from
the island of Big Women.  See that you do not tarry.’  And Ian turned
away with a sinking heart, for he would fain have followed the youngest
daughter of the knight of Grianaig.

‘You did not obey my counsel,’ said the raven, hopping towards him,
‘and so trouble has come upon you.  But sleep now, and to- morrow you
shall mount the horse which is in the giant’s stable, that can gallop
over sea and land.  When you reach the island of Big Women, sixteen
boys will come to meet you, and will offer the horse food, and wish to
take her saddle and bridle from her.  But see that they touch her not,
and give her food yourself, and yourself lead her into the stable, and
shut the door.  And be sure that for every turn of the lock given by
the sixteen stable lads you give one.  And now you shall break me off a
piece of tobacco.’

The next morning Ian arose, and led the horse from the stable, without
the door hurting him, and he rode across the sea to the island of the
Big Women, where the sixteen stable lads met him, and each one offered
to take his horse, and to feed her, and to put her into the stable.
But Ian only answered:

‘I myself will put her in and will see to her.’  And thus he did.  And
while he was rubbing her sides the horse said to him:

‘Every kind of drink will they offer you, but see you take none, save
whey and water only.’  And so it fell out; and when the sixteen
stable-boys saw that he would drink nothing, they drank it all
themselves, and one by one lay stretched around the board.

Then Ian felt pleased in his heart that he had withstood their fair
words, and he forgot the counsel that the horse had likewise given him
saying:

‘Beware lest you fall asleep, and let slip the chance of getting home
again’; for while the lads were sleeping sweet music reached his ears,
and he slept also.

When this came to pass the steed broke through the stable door, and
kicked him and woke him roughly.

‘You did not heed my counsel,’ said she; ‘and who knows if it is not
too late to win over the sea?  But first take that sword which hangs on
the wall, and cut off the heads of the sixteen grooms.’

Filled with shame at being once more proved heedless, Ian arose and did
as the horse bade him.  Then he ran to the well and poured some of the
water into a leather bottle, and jumping on the horse’s back rode over
the sea to the island where the raven was waiting for him.

‘Lead the horse into the stable,’ said the raven, ‘and lie down
yourself to sleep, for to-morrow you must make the heroes to live
again, and must slay the hag.  And have a care not to be so foolish
to-morrow as you were to-day.’

‘Stay with me for company,’ begged Ian; but the raven shook his head,
and flew away.

In the morning Ian awoke, and hastened to the cave where the old hag
was sitting, and he struck her dead as she was, before she could cast
spells on him.  Next he sprinkled the water over the heroes, who came
to life again, and together they all journeyed to the other side of the
island, and there the raven met them.

‘At last you have followed the counsel that was given you,’ said the
raven; ‘and now, having learned wisdom, you may go home again to
Grianaig.  There you will find that the knight’s two eldest daughters
are to be wedded this day to your two brothers, and the youngest to the
chief of the men at the rock.  But her gold cap you shall give to me
and, if you want it, you have only to think of me and I will bring it
to you.  And one more warning I give you.  If anyone asks you whence
you came, answer that you have come from behind you; and if anyone asks
you whither you are going, say that you are going before you.’

So Ian mounted the horse and set her face to the sea and her back to
the shore, and she was off, away and away till she reached the church
of Grianaig, and there, in a field of grass, beside a well of water, he
leaped down from his saddle.

‘Now,’ the horse said to him, ‘draw your sword and cut off my head.’
But Ian answered:

‘Poor thanks would that be for all the help I have had from you.’

‘It is the only way that I can free myself from the spells that were
laid by the giants on me and the raven; for I was a girl and he was a
youth wooing me!  So have no fears, but do as I have said.’

Then Ian drew his sword as she bade him, and cut off her head, and went
on his way without looking backwards.  As he walked he saw a woman
standing at her house door.  She asked him whence he had come, and he
answered as the raven had told him, that he came from behind.  Next she
inquired whither he was going, and this time he made reply that he was
going on before him, but that he was thirsty and would like a drink.

‘You are an impudent fellow,’ said the woman; ‘but you shall have a
drink.’  And she gave him some milk, which was all she had till her
husband came home.

‘Where is your husband?’ asked Ian, and the woman answered him:

‘He is at the knight’s castle trying to fashion gold and silver into a
cap for the youngest daughter, like unto the caps that her sisters
wear, such as are not to be found in all this land.  But, see, he is
returning; and now we shall hear how he has sped.’

At that the man entered the gate, and beholding a strange youth, he
said to him: ‘What is your trade, boy?’

‘I am a smith,’ replied Ian.  And the man answered:

‘Good luck has befallen me, then, for you can help me to make a cap for
the knight’s daughter.’

‘You cannot make that cap, and you know it,’ said Ian.

‘Well, I must try,’ replied the man, ‘or I shall be hanged on a tree;
so it were a good deed to help me.’

‘I will help you if I can,’ said Ian; ‘but keep the gold and silver for
yourself, and lock me into the smithy to-night, and I will work my
spells.’  So the man, wondering to himself, locked him in.

As soon as the key was turned in the lock Ian wished for the raven, and
the raven came to him, carrying the cap in his mouth.

‘Now take my head off,’ said the raven.  But Ian answered:

‘Poor thanks were that for all the help you have given me.’

‘It is the only thanks you can give me,’ said the raven, ‘for I was a
youth like yourself before spells were laid on me.’

Then Ian drew his sword and cut off the head of the raven, and shut his
eyes so that he might see nothing.  After that he lay down and slept
till morning dawned, and the man came and unlocked the door and shook
the sleeper.

‘Here is the cap,’ said Ian drowsily, drawing it from under his pillow.
 And he fell asleep again directly.

The sun was high in the heavens when he woke again, and this time he
beheld a tall, brown- haired youth standing by him.

‘I am the raven,’ said the youth, ‘and the spells are broken.  But now
get up and come with me.’

Then they two went together to the place where Ian had left the dead
horse; but no horse was there now, only a beautiful maiden.

‘I am the horse,’ she said, ‘and the spells are broken’; and she and
the youth went away together.

In the meantime the smith had carried the cap to the castle, and bade a
servant belonging to the knight’s youngest daughter bear it to her
mistress.  But when the girl’s eyes fell on it, she cried out:

‘He speaks false; and if he does not bring me the man who really made
the cap I will hang him on the tree beside my window.’

The servant was filled with fear at her words, and hastened and told
the smith, who ran as fast as he could to seek for Ian.  And when he
found him and brought him into the castle, the girl was first struck
dumb with joy; then she declared that she would marry nobody else.  At
this some one fetched to her the knight of Grianaig, and when Ian had
told his tale, he vowed that the maiden was right, and that his elder
daughters should never wed with men who had not only taken glory to
themselves which did not belong to them, but had left the real doer of
the deeds to his fate.

And the wedding guests said that the knight had spoken well; and the
two elder brothers were fain to leave the country, for no one would
converse with them.

[From Tales of the West Highlands.]



             The Fox and the Wolf



At the foot of some high mountains there was, once upon a time, a small
village, and a little way off two roads met, one of them going to the
east and the other to the west.  The villagers were quiet, hard-working
folk, who toiled in the fields all day, and in the evening set out for
home when the bell began to ring in the little church.  In the summer
mornings they led out their flocks to pasture, and were happy and
contented from sunrise to sunset.

One summer night, when a round full moon shone down upon the white
road, a great wolf came trotting round the corner.

‘I positively must get a good meal before I go back to my den,’ he said
to himself; ‘it is nearly a week since I have tasted anything but
scraps, though perhaps no one would think it to look at my figure!  Of
course there are plenty of rabbits and hares in the mountains; but
indeed one needs to be a greyhound to catch them, and I am not so young
as I was!  If I could only dine off that fox I saw a fortnight ago,
curled up into a delicious hairy ball, I should ask nothing better; I
would have eaten her then, but unluckily her husband was lying beside
her, and one knows that foxes, great and small, run like the wind.
Really it seems as if there was not a living creature left for me to
prey upon but a wolf, and, as the proverb says: “One wolf does not bite
another.” However, let us see what this village can produce.  I am as
hungry as a schoolmaster.’

Now, while these thoughts were running through the mind of the wolf,
the very fox he had been thinking of was galloping along the other road.

‘The whole of this day I have listened to those village hens clucking
till I could bear it no longer,’ murmured she as she bounded along,
hardly seeming to touch the ground.  ‘When you are fond of fowls and
eggs it is the sweetest of all music.  As sure as there is a sun in
heaven I will have some of them this night, for I have grown so thin
that my very bones rattle, and my poor babies are crying for food.’
And as she spoke she reached a little plot of grass, where the two
roads joined, and flung herself under a tree to take a little rest, and
to settle her plans.  At this moment the wolf came up.

At the sight of the fox lying within his grasp his mouth began to
water, but his joy was somewhat checked when he noticed how thin she
was.  The fox’s quick ears heard the sound of his paws, though they
were soft as velvet, and turning her head she said politely:

‘Is that you, neighbour?  What a strange place to meet in!  I hope you
are quite well?’

‘Quite well as regards my health,’ answered the wolf, whose eye
glistened greedily, ‘at least, as well as one can be when one is very
hungry.  But what is the matter with you?  A fortnight ago you were as
plump as heart could wish!’

‘I have been ill--very ill,’ replied the fox, ‘and what you say is
quite true.  A worm is fat in comparison with me.’

‘He is.  Still, you are good enough for me; for “to the hungry no bread
is hard.”’

‘Oh, you are always joking!  I’m sure you are not half as hungry as I!’

‘That we shall soon see,’ cried the wolf, opening his huge mouth and
crouching for a spring.

‘What are you doing?’ exclaimed the fox, stepping backwards.

‘What am I doing?  What I am going to do is to make my supper off you,
in less time than a cock takes to crow.’

‘Well, I suppose you must have your joke,’ answered the fox lightly,
but never removing her eye from the wolf, who replied with a snarl
which showed all his teeth:

‘I don’t want to joke, but to eat!’

‘But surely a person of your talents must perceive that you might eat
me to the very last morsel and never know that you had swallowed
anything at all!’

‘In this world the cleverest people are always the hungriest,’ replied
the wolf.

‘Ah! how true that is; but--’

‘I can’t stop to listen to your “buts” and “yets,”’ broke in the wolf
rudely; ‘let us get to the point, and the point is that I want to eat
you and not talk to you.’

‘Have you no pity for a poor mother?’ asked the fox, putting her tail
to her eyes, but peeping slily out of them all the same.

‘I am dying of hunger,’ answered the wolf, doggedly; ‘and you know,’ he
added with a grin, ‘that charity begins at home.’

‘Quite so,’ replied the fox; ‘it would be unreasonable of me to object
to your satisfying your appetite at my expense.  But if the fox resigns
herself to the sacrifice, the mother offers you one last request.’

‘Then be quick and don’t waste my time, for I can’t wait much longer.
What is it you want?’

‘You must know,’ said the fox, ‘that in this village there is a rich
man who makes in the summer enough cheeses to last him for the whole
year, and keeps them in an old well, now dry, in his courtyard.  By the
well hang two buckets on a pole that were used, in former days, to draw
up water.  For many nights I have crept down to the palace, and have
lowered myself in the bucket, bringing home with me enough cheese to
feed the children.  All I beg of you is to come with me, and, instead
of hunting chickens and such things, I will make a good meal off cheese
before I die.’

‘But the cheeses may be all finished by now?’

‘If you were only to see the quantities of them!’ laughed the fox.
‘And even if they were finished, there would always be ME to eat.’

‘Well, I will come.  Lead the way, but I warn you that if you try to
escape or play any tricks you are reckoning without your host-- that is
to say, without my legs, which are as long as yours!’

All was silent in the village, and not a light was to be seen but that
of the moon, which shone bright and clear in the sky.  The wolf and the
fox crept softly along, when suddenly they stopped and looked at each
other; a savoury smell of frying bacon reached their noses, and reached
the noses of the sleeping dogs, who began to bark greedily.

‘Is it safe to go on, think you?’ asked the wolf in a whisper.  And the
fox shook her head.

‘Not while the dogs are barking,’ said she; ‘someone might come out to
see if anything was the matter.’  And she signed to the wolf to curl
himself up in the shadow beside her.

In about half an hour the dogs grew tired of barking, or perhaps the
bacon was eaten up and there was no smell to excite them.  Then the
wolf and the fox jumped up, and hastened to the foot of the wall.

‘I am lighter than he is,’ thought the fox to herself, ‘and perhaps if
I make haste I can get a start, and jump over the wall on the other
side before he manages to spring over this one.’  And she quickened her
pace.  But if the wolf could not run he could jump, and with one bound
he was beside his companion.

‘What were you going to do, comrade?’

‘Oh, nothing,’ replied the fox, much vexed at the failure of her plan.

‘I think if I were to take a bit out of your haunch you would jump
better,’ said the wolf, giving a snap at her as he spoke.  The fox drew
back uneasily.

‘Be careful, or I shall scream,’ she snarled.  And the wolf,
understanding all that might happen if the fox carried out her threat,
gave a signal to his companion to leap on the wall, where he
immediately followed her.

Once on the top they crouched down and looked about them.  Not a
creature was to be seen in the courtyard, and in the furthest corner
from the house stood the well, with its two buckets suspended from a
pole, just as the fox had described it.  The two thieves dragged
themselves noiselessly along the wall till they were opposite the well,
and by stretching out her neck as far as it would go the fox was able
to make out that there was only very little water in the bottom, but
just enough to reflect the moon, big, and round and yellow.

‘How lucky!’ cried she to the wolf.  ‘There is a huge cheese about the
size of a mill wheel.  Look! look! did you ever see anything so
beautiful!’

‘Never!’ answered the wolf, peering over in his turn, his eyes
glistening greedily, for he imagined that the moon’s reflection in the
water was really a cheese.

‘And now, unbeliever, what have you to say?’ and the fox laughed gently.

‘That you are a woman--I mean a fox--of your word,’ replied the wolf.

‘Well, then, go down in that bucket and eat your fill,’ said the fox.

‘Oh, is that your game?’ asked the wolf, with a grin.  ‘No! no!  The
person who goes down in the bucket will be you!  And if you don’t go
down your head will go without you!’

‘Of course I will go down, with the greatest pleasure,’ answered the
fox, who had expected the wolf’s reply.

‘And be sure you don’t eat all the cheese, or it will be the worse for
you,’ continued the wolf.  But the fox looked up at him with tears in
her eyes.

‘Farewell, suspicious one!’ she said sadly.  And climbed into the
bucket.

In an instant she had reached the bottom of the well, and found that
the water was not deep enough to cover her legs.

‘Why, it is larger and richer than I thought,’ cried she, turning
towards the wolf, who was leaning over the wall of the well.

‘Then be quick and bring it up,’ commanded the wolf.

‘How can I, when it weighs more than I do?’ asked the fox.

‘If it is so heavy bring it in two bits, of course,’ said he.

‘But I have no knife,’ answered the fox.  ‘You will have to come down
yourself, and we will carry it up between us.’

‘And how am I to come down?’ inquired the wolf.

‘Oh, you are really very stupid!  Get into the other bucket that is
nearly over your head.’

The wolf looked up, and saw the bucket hanging there, and with some
difficulty he climbed into it.  As he weighed at least four times as
much as the fox the bucket went down with a jerk, and the other bucket,
in which the fox was seated, came to the surface.

As soon as he understood what was happening, the wolf began to speak
like an angry wolf, but was a little comforted when he remembered that
the cheese still remained to him.

‘But where is the cheese?’ he asked of the fox, who in her turn was
leaning over the parapet watching his proceedings with a smile.

‘The cheese?’ answered the fox; ‘why I am taking it home to my babies,
who are too young to get food for themselves.’

‘Ah, traitor!’ cried the wolf, howling with rage.  But the fox was not
there to hear this insult, for she had gone off to a neighbouring
fowl-house, where she had noticed some fat young chickens the day
before.

‘Perhaps I did treat him rather badly,’ she said to herself.  ‘But it
seems getting cloudy, and if there should be heavy rain the other
bucket will fill and sink to the bottom, and his will go up--at least
it may!’

[From Cuentos Populares, por Antonio de Trueba.]



     How Ian Direach Got the Blue Falcon



Long ago a king and queen ruled over the islands of the west, and they
had one son, whom they loved dearly.  The boy grew up to be tall and
strong and handsome, and he could run and shoot, and swim and dive
better than any lad of his own age in the country.  Besides, he knew
how to sail about, and sing songs to the harp, and during the winter
evenings, when everyone was gathered round the huge hall fire shaping
bows or weaving cloth, Ian Direach would tell them tales of the deeds
of his fathers.

So the time slipped by till Ian was almost a man, as they reckoned men
in those days, and then his mother the queen died.  There was great
mourning throughout all the isles, and the boy and his father mourned
her bitterly also; but before the new year came the king had married
another wife, and seemed to have forgotten his old one.  Only Ian
remembered.

On a morning when the leaves were yellow in the trees of the glen, Ian
slung his bow over his shoulder, and filling his quiver with arrows,
went on to the hill in search of game.  But not a bird was to be seen
anywhere, till at length a blue falcon flew past him, and raising his
bow he took aim at her.  His eye was straight and his hand steady, but
the falcon’s flight was swift, and he only shot a feather from her
wing.  As the sun was now low over the sea he put the feather in his
game bag, and set out homewards.

‘Have you brought me much game to-day?’ asked his stepmother as he
entered the hall.

‘Nought save this,’ he answered, handing her the feather of the blue
falcon, which she held by the tip and gazed at silently.  Then she
turned to Ian and said:

‘I am setting it on you as crosses and as spells, and as the fall of
the year!  That you may always be cold, and wet and dirty, and that
your shoes may ever have pools in them, till you bring me hither the
blue falcon on which that feather grew.’

‘If it is spells you are laying I can lay them too,’ answered Ian
Direach; ‘and you shall stand with one foot on the great house and
another on the castle, till I come back again, and your face shall be
to the wind, from wheresoever it shall blow.’  Then he went away to
seek the bird, as his stepmother bade him; and, looking homewards from
the hill, he saw the queen standing with one foot on the great house,
and the other on the castle, and her face turned towards whatever
tempest should blow.

On he journeyed, over hills, and through rivers till he reached a wide
plain, and never a glimpse did he catch of the falcon.  Darker and
darker it grew, and the small birds were seeking their nests, and at
length Ian Direach could see no more, and he lay down under some bushes
and sleep came to him.  And in his dream a soft nose touched him, and a
warm body curled up beside him, and a low voice whispered to him:

‘Fortune is against you, Ian Direach; I have but the cheek and the hoof
of a sheep to give you, and with these you must be content.’  With that
Ian Direach awoke, and beheld Gille Mairtean the fox.

Between them they kindled a fire, and ate their supper.  Then Gille
Mairtean the fox bade Ian Direach lie down as before, and sleep till
morning.  And in the morning, when he awoke, Gille Mairtean said:

‘The falcon that you seek is in the keeping of the Giant of the Five
Heads, and the Five Necks, and the Five Humps.  I will show you the way
to his house, and I counsel you to do his bidding, nimbly and
cheerfully, and, above all, to treat his birds kindly, for in this
manner he may give you his falcon to feed and care for.  And when this
happens, wait till the giant is out of his house; then throw a cloth
over the falcon and bear her away with you.  Only see that not one of
her feathers touches anything within the house, or evil will befall
you.’

‘I thank you for your counsel,’ spake Ian Direach, ‘and I will be
careful to follow it.’  Then he took the path to the giant’s house.

‘Who is there?’ cried the giant, as someone knocked loudly on the door
of his house.

‘One who seeks work as a servant,’ answered Ian Direach.

‘And what can you do?’ asked the giant again.

‘I can feed birds and tend pigs; I can feed and milk a cow, and also
goats and sheep, if you have any of these,’ replied Ian Direach.

‘Then enter, for I have great need of such a one,’ said the giant.

So Ian Direach entered, and tended so well and carefully all the birds
and beasts, that the giant was better satisfied than ever he had been,
and at length he thought that he might even be trusted to feed the
falcon.  And the heart of Ian was glad, and he tended the blue falcon
till his fathers shone like the sky, and the giant was well pleased;
and one day he said to him:

‘For long my brothers on the other side of the mountain have besought
me to visit them, but never could I go for fear of my falcon.  Now I
think I can leave her with you for one day, and before nightfall I
shall be back again.’

Scarcely was the giant out of sight next morning when Ian Direach
seized the falcon, and throwing a cloth over her head hastened with her
to the door.  But the rays of the sun pierced through the thickness of
the cloth, and as they passed the doorpost she gave a spring, and the
tip of one of her feathers touched the post, which gave a scream, and
brought the giant back in three strides.  Ian Direach trembled as he
saw him; but the giant only said:

‘If you wish for my falcon you must first bring me the White Sword of
Light that is in the house of the Big Women of Dhiurradh.’

‘And where do they live?’ asked Ian.  But the giant answered:

‘Ah, that is for you to discover.’  And Ian dared say no more, and
hastened down to the waste.  There, as he hoped, he met his friend
Gille Mairtean the fox, who bade him eat his supper and lie down to
sleep.  And when he had wakened next morning the fox said to him:

‘Let us go down to the shore of the sea.’  And to the shore of the sea
they went.  And after they had reached the shore, and beheld the sea
stretching before them, and the isle of Dhiurradh in the midst of it,
the soul of Ian sank, and he turned to Gille Mairtean and asked why he
had brought him thither, for the giant, when he had sent him, had known
full well that without a boat he could never find the Big Women.

‘Do not be cast down,’ answered the fox, ‘it is quite easy!  I will
change myself into a boat, and you shall go on board me, and I will
carry you over the sea to the Seven Big Women of Dhiurradh.  Tell them
that you are skilled in brightening silver and gold, and in the end
they will take you as servant, and if you are careful to please them
they will give you the White Sword of Light to make bright and shining.
 But when you seek to steal it, take heed that its sheath touches
nothing inside the house, or ill will befall you.’

So Ian Direach did all things as the fox had told him, and the Seven
Big Women of Dhiurradh took him for their servant, and for six weeks he
worked so hard that his seven mistresses said to each other: ‘Never has
a servant had the skill to make all bright and shining like this one.
Let us give him the White Sword of Light to polish like the rest.’

Then they brought forth the White Sword of Light from the iron closet
where it hung, and bade him rub it till he could see his face in the
shining blade; and he did so.  But one day, when the Seven Big Women
were out of the way, he bethought him that the moment had come for him
to carry off the sword, and, replacing it in its sheath, he hoisted it
on his shoulder.  But just as he was passing through the door the tip
of the sheath touched it, and the door gave a loud shriek.  And the Big
Women heard it, and came running back, and took the sword from him, and
said:

‘If it is our sword you want, you must first bring us the bay colt of
the King of Erin.’

Humbled and ashamed, Ian Direach left the house, and sat by the side of
the sea, and soon Gille Mairtean the fox came to him.

‘Plainly I see that you have taken no heed to my words, Ian Direach,’
spoke the fox.  ‘But eat first, and yet once more will I help you.’

At these words the heart returned again to Ian Direach, and he gathered
sticks and made a fire and ate with Gille Mairtean the fox, and slept
on the sand.  At dawn next morning Gille Mairtean said to Ian Direach:

‘I will change myself into a ship, and will bear you across the seas to
Erin, to the land where dwells the king.  And you shall offer yourself
to serve in his stable, and to tend his horses, till at length so well
content is he, that he gives you the bay colt to wash and brush.  But
when you run away with her see that nought except the soles of her
hoofs touch anything within the palace gates, or it will go ill with
you.’

After he had thus counselled Ian Direach, the fox changed himself into
a ship, and set sail for Erin.  And the king of that country gave into
Ian Direach’s hands the care of his horses, and never before did their
skins shine so brightly or was their pace so swift.  And the king was
well pleased, and at the end of a month he sent for Ian and said to him:

‘You have given me faithful service, and now I will entrust you with
the most precious thing that my kingdom holds.’  And when he had
spoken, he led Ian Direach to the stable where stood the bay colt.  And
Ian rubbed her and fed her, and galloped with her all round the
country, till he could leave one wind behind him and catch the other
which was in front.

 ‘I am going away to hunt,’ said the king one morning while he was
watching Ian tend the bay colt in her stable.  ‘The deer have come down
from the hill, and it is time for me to give them chase.’  Then he went
away; and when he was no longer in sight, Ian Direach led the bay colt
out of the stable, and sprang on her back.  But as they rode through
the gate, which stood between the palace and the outer world, the colt
swished her tail against the post, which shrieked loudly.  In a moment
the king came running up, and he seized the colt’s bridle.

‘If you want my bay colt, you must first bring me the daughter of the
king of the Franks.’

With slow steps went Ian Direach down to the shore where Gille Mairtean
the fox awaited him.

‘Plainly I see that you have not done as I bid you, nor will you ever
do it,’ spoke Gille Mairtean the fox; ‘but I will help you yet again.
for a third time I will change myself into a ship, and we will sail to
France.’

And to France they sailed, and, as he was the ship, the Gille Mairtean
sailed where he would, and ran himself into the cleft of a rock, high
on to the land.  Then, he commanded Ian Direach to go up to the king’s
palace, saying that he had been wrecked, that his ship was made fast in
a rock, and that none had been saved but himself only.

Ian Direach listened to the words of the fox, and he told a tale so
pitiful, that the king and queen, and the princess their daughter, all
came out to hear it.  And when they had heard, nought would please them
except to go down to the shore and visit the ship, which by now was
floating, for the tide was up.  Torn and battered was she, as if she
had passed through many dangers, yet music of a wondrous sweetness
poured forth from within.

‘Bring hither a boat,’ cried the princess, ‘that I may go and see for
myself the harp that gives forth such music.’  And a boat was brought,
and Ian Direach stepped in to row it to the side of the ship.

To the further side he rowed, so that none could see, and when he
helped the princess on board he gave a push to the boat, so that she
could not get back to it again.  And the music sounded always sweeter,
though they could never see whence it came, and sought it from one part
of the vessel to another.  When at last they reached the deck and
looked around them, nought of land could they see, or anything save the
rushing waters.

The princess stood silent, and her face grew grim.  At last she said:

‘An ill trick have you played me!  What is this that you have done, and
whither are we going?’

‘It is a queen you will be,’ answered Ian Direach, ‘for the king of
Erin has sent me for you, and in return he will give me his bay colt,
that I may take him to the Seven Big Women of Dhiurradh, in exchange
for the White Sword of Light.  This I must carry to the giant of the
Five Heads and Five Necks and Five Humps, and, in place of it, he will
bestow on me the blue falcon, which I have promised my stepmother, so
that she may free me from the spell which she has laid on me.’

‘I would rather be wife to you,’ answered the princess.

By-and-by the ship sailed into a harbour on the coast of Erin, and cast
anchor there.  And Gille Mairtean the fox bade Ian Direach tell the
princess that she must bide yet a while in a cave amongst the rocks,
for they had business on land, and after a while they would return to
her.  Then they took a boat and rowed up to some rocks, and as they
touched the land Gille Mairtean changed himself into a fair woman, who
laughed, and said to Ian Direach, ‘I will give the king a fine wife.’

Now the king of Erin had been hunting on the hill, and when he saw a
strange ship sailing towards the harbour, he guessed that it might be
Ian Direach, and left his hunting, and ran down to the hill to the
stable.  Hastily he led the bay colt from his stall, and put the golden
saddle on her back, and the silver bridle over his head, and with the
colt’s bridle in his hand, he hurried to meet the princess.

‘I have brought you the king of France’s daughter,’ said Ian Direach.
And the king of Erin looked at the maiden, and was well pleased, not
knowing that it was Gille Mairtean the fox.  And he bowed low, and
besought her to do him the honour to enter the palace; and Gille
Mairtean, as he went in, turned to look back at Ian Direach, and
laughed.

In the great hall the king paused and pointed to an iron chest which
stood in a corner.

‘In that chest is the crown that has waited for you for many years,’ he
said, ‘and at last you have come for it.’  And he stooped down to
unlock the box.

In an instant Gille Mairtean the fox had sprung on his back, and gave
him such a bite that he fell down unconscious.  Quickly the fox took
his own shape again, and galloped away to the sea shore, where Ian
Direach and the princess and the bay colt awaited him.

‘I will become a ship,’ cried Gille Mairtean, ‘and you shall go on
board me.’  And so he did, and Ian Direach let the bay colt into the
ship and the princess went after them, and they set sail for Dhiurradh.
 The wind was behind them, and very soon they saw the rocks of
Dhiurradh in front.  Then spoke Gille Mairtean the fox:

‘Let the bay colt and the king’s daughter hide in these rocks, and I
will change myself into the colt, and go with you to the house of the
Seven Big Women.’

Joy filed the hearts of the Big Women when they beheld the bay colt led
up to their door by Ian Direach.  And the youngest of them fetched the
White Sword of Light, and gave it into the hands of Ian Direach, who
took off the golden saddle and the silver bridle, and went down the
hill with the sword to the place where the princess and the real colt
awaited him.

‘Now we shall have the ride that we have longed for!’ cried the Seven
Big Women; and they saddled and bridled the colt, and the eldest one
got upon the saddle.  Then the second sister sat on the back of the
first, and the third on the back of the second, and so on for the whole
seven.  And when they were all seated, the eldest struck her side with
a whip and the colt bounded forward.  Over the moors she flew, and
round and round the mountains, and still the Big Women clung to her and
snorted with pleasure.  At last she leapt high in the air, and came
down on top of Monadh the high hill, where the crag is.  And she rested
her fore feet on the crag, and threw up her hind legs, and the Seven
Big Women fell over the crag, and were dead when they reached the
bottom.  And the colt laughed, and became a fox again and galloped away
to the sea shore, where Ian Direach, and the princess and the real colt
and the White Sword of Light were awaiting him.

‘I will make myself into a ship,’ said Gille Mairtean the fox, ‘and
will carry you and the princess, and the bay colt and the White Sword
of Light, back to the land.’  And when the shore was reached, Gille
Mairtean the fox took back his own shape, and spoke to Ian Direach in
this wise:

‘Let the princess and the White Sword of Light, and the bay colt,
remain among the rocks, and I will change myself into the likeness of
the White Sword of Light, and you shall bear me to the giant, and,
instead, he will give you the blue falcon.’  And Ian Direach did as the
fox bade him, and set out for the giant’s castle.  From afar the giant
beheld the blaze of the White Sword of Light, and his heart rejoiced;
and he took the blue falcon and put it in a basket, and gave it to Ian
Direach, who bore it swiftly away to the place where the princess, and
the bay colt, and the real Sword of Light were awaiting him.

So well content was the giant to possess the sword he had coveted for
many a year, that he began at once to whirl it through the air, and to
cut and slash with it.  For a little while Gille Mairtean let the giant
play with him in this manner; then he turned in the giant’s hand, and
cut through the Five Necks, so that the Five Heads rolled on the
ground.  Afterwards he went back to Ian Direach and said to him:

‘Saddle the colt with the golden saddle, and bridle her with the silver
bridle, and sling the basket with the falcon over your shoulders, and
hold the White Sword of Light with its back against your nose.  Then
mount the colt, and let the princess mount behind you, and ride thus to
your father’s palace.  But see that the back of the sword is ever
against your nose, else when your stepmother beholds you, she will
change you into a dry faggot.  If, however, you do as I bid you, she
will become herself a bundle of sticks.’

Ian Direach hearkened to the words of Gille Mairtean, and his
stepmother fell as a bundle of sticks before him; and he set fire to
her, and was free from her spells for ever.  After that he married the
princess, who was the best wife in all the islands of the West.
Henceforth he was safe from harm, for had he not the bay colt who could
leave one wind behind her and catch the other wind, and the blue falcon
to bring him game to eat, and the White Sword of Light to pierce
through his foes?

And Ian Direach knew that all this he owed to Gille Mairtean the fox,
and he made a compact with him that he might choose any beast out of
his herds, whenever hunger seized him, and that henceforth no arrow
should be let fly at him or at any of his race.  But Gille Mairtean the
fox would take no reward for the help he had given to Ian Direach, only
his friendship.  Thus all things prospered with Ian Direach till he
died.

[From Tales of the West Highlands.]



              The Ugly Duckling



It was summer in the land of Denmark, and though for most of the year
the country looks flat and ugly, it was beautiful now.  The wheat was
yellow, the oats were green, the hay was dry and delicious to roll in,
and from the old ruined house which nobody lived in, down to the edge
of the canal, was a forest of great burdocks, so tall that a whole
family of children might have dwelt in them and never have been found
out.

It was under these burdocks that a duck had built herself a warm nest,
and was not sitting all day on six pretty eggs.  Five of them were
white, but the sixth, which was larger than the others, was of an ugly
grey colour.  The duck was always puzzled about that egg, and how it
came to be so different from the rest.  Other birds might have thought
that when the duck went down in the morning and evening to the water to
stretch her legs in a good swim, some lazy mother might have been on
the watch, and have popped her egg into the nest.  But ducks are not
clever at all, and are not quick at counting, so this duck did not
worry herself about the matter, but just took care that the big egg
should be as warm as the rest.

This was the first set of eggs that the duck had ever laid, and, to
begin with, she was very pleased and proud, and laughed at the other
mothers, who were always neglecting their duties to gossip with each
other or to take little extra swims besides the two in the morning and
evening that were necessary for health.  But at length she grew tired
of sitting there all day.  ‘Surely eggs take longer hatching than they
did,’ she said to herself; and she pined for a little amusement also.
Still, she knew that if she left her eggs and the ducklings in them to
die none of her friends would ever speak to her again; so there she
stayed, only getting off the eggs several times a day to see if the
shells were cracking--which may have been the very reason why they did
not crack sooner.

She had looked at the eggs at least a hundred and fifty times, when, to
her joy, she saw a tiny crack on two of them, and scrambling back to
the nest she drew the eggs closer the one to the other, and never moved
for the whole of that day.  Next morning she was rewarded by noticing
cracks in the whole five eggs, and by midday two little yellow heads
were poking out from the shells.  This encouraged her so much that,
after breaking the shells with her bill, so that the little creatures
could get free of them, she sat steadily for a whole night upon the
nest, and before the sun arose the five white eggs were empty, and ten
pairs of eyes were gazing out upon the green world.

Now the duck had been carefully brought up, and did not like dirt, and,
besides, broken shells are not at all comfortable things to sit or walk
upon; so she pushed the rest out over the side, and felt delighted to
have some company to talk to till the big egg hatched.  But day after
day went on, and the big egg showed no signs of cracking, and the duck
grew more and more impatient, and began to wish to consult her husband,
who never came.

‘I can’t think what is the matter with it,’ the duck grumbled to her
neighbour who had called in to pay her a visit.  ‘Why I could have
hatched two broods in the time that this one has taken!’

‘Let me look at it,’ said the old neighbour.  ‘Ah, I thought so; it is
a turkey’s egg.  Once, when I was young, they tricked me to sitting on
a brood of turkey’s eggs myself, and when they were hatched the
creatures were so stupid that nothing would make them learn to swim.  I
have no patience when I think of it.’

‘Well, I will give it another chance,’ sighed the duck, ‘and if it does
not come out of its shell in another twenty-four hours, I will just
leave it alone and teach the rest of them to swim properly and to find
their own food.  I really can’t be expected to do two things at once.’
And with a fluff of her feathers she pushed the egg into the middle of
the nest.

All through the next day she sat on, giving up even her morning bath
for fear that a blast of cold might strike the big egg.  In the
evening, when she ventured to peep, she thought she saw a tiny crack in
the upper part of the shell.  Filled with hope, she went back to her
duties, though she could hardly sleep all night for excitement.  When
she woke with the first steaks of light she felt something stirring
under her.  Yes, there it was at last; and as she moved, a big awkward
bird tumbled head foremost on the ground.

There was no denying it was ugly, even the mother was forced to admit
that to herself, though she only said it was ‘large’ and ‘strong.’
‘You won’t need any teaching when you are once in the water,’ she told
him, with a glance of surprise at the dull brown which covered his
back, and at his long naked neck.  And indeed he did not, though he was
not half so pretty to look at as the little yellow balls that followed
her.

When they returned they found the old neighbour on the bank waiting for
them to take them into the duckyard.  ‘No, it is not a young turkey,
certainly,’ whispered she in confidence to the mother, ‘for though it
is lean and skinny, and has no colour to speak of, yet there is
something rather distinguished about it, and it holds its head up well.’

‘It is very kind of you to say so,’ answered the mother, who by this
time had some secret doubts of its loveliness.  ‘Of course, when you
see it by itself it is all right, though it is different, somehow, from
the others.  But one cannot expect all one’s children to be beautiful!’

By this time they had reached the centre of the yard, where a very old
duck was sitting, who was treated with great respect by all the fowls
present.

‘You must go up and bow low before her,’ whispered the mother to her
children, nodding her head in the direction of the old lady, ‘and keep
your legs well apart, as you see me do.  No well-bred duckling turns in
its toes.  It is a sign of common parents.’

The little ducks tried hard to make their small fat bodies copy the
movements of their mother, and the old lady was quite pleased with
them; but the rest of the ducks looked on discontentedly, and said to
each other:

‘Oh, dear me, here are ever so many more!  The yard is full already;
and did you ever see anything quite as ugly as that great tall
creature?  He is a disgrace to any brood.  I shall go and chase him
out!’  So saying she put up her feathers, and running to the big
duckling bit his neck.

The duckling gave a loud quack; it was the first time he had felt any
pain, and at the sound his mother turned quickly.

‘Leave him alone,’ she said fiercely, ‘or I will send for his father.
He was not troubling you.’

‘No; but he is so ugly and awkward no one can put up with him,’
answered the stranger.  And though the duckling did not understand the
meaning of the words, he felt he was being blamed, and became more
uncomfortable still when the old Spanish duck who ruled the fowlyard
struck in:

‘It certainly is a great pity he is so different from these beautiful
darlings.  If he could only be hatched over again!’

The poor little fellow drooped his head, and did not know where to
look, but was comforted when his mother answered:

‘He may not be quite as handsome as the others, but he swims better,
and is very strong; I am sure he will make his way in the world as well
as anybody.’

‘Well, you must feel quite at home here,’ said the old duck waddling
off.  And so they did, all except the duckling, who was snapped at by
everyone when they thought his mother was not looking.  Even the
turkey-cock, who was so big, never passed him without mocking words,
and his brothers and sisters, who would not have noticed any difference
unless it had been put into their heads, soon became as rude and unkind
as the rest.

At last he could bear it no longer, and one day he fancied he saw signs
of his mother turning against him too; so that night, when the ducks
and hens were still asleep, he stole away through an open door, and
under cover of the burdock leaves scrambled on by the bank of the
canal, till he reached a wide grassy moor, full of soft marshy places
where the reeds grew.  Here he lay down, but he was too tired and too
frightened to fall asleep, and with the earliest peep of the sun the
reeds began to rustle, and he saw that he had blundered into a colony
of wild ducks.  But as he could not run away again he stood up and
bowed politely.

‘You are ugly,’ said the wild ducks, when they had looked him well
over; ‘but, however, it is no business of ours, unless you wish to
marry one of our daughters, and that we should not allow.’  And the
duckling answered that he had no idea of marrying anybody, and wanted
nothing but to be left alone after his long journey.

So for two whole days he lay quietly among the reeds, eating such food
as he could find, and drinking the water of the moorland pool, till he
felt himself quite strong again.  He wished he might stay were he was
for ever, he was so comfortable and happy, away from everyone, with
nobody to bite him and tell him how ugly he was.

He was thinking these thoughts, when two young ganders caught sight of
him as they were having their evening splash among the reeds, looking
for their supper.

‘We are getting tired of this moor,’ they said, ‘and to-morrow we think
of trying another, where the lakes are larger and the feeding better.
Will you come with us?’

‘Is it nicer than this?’ asked the duckling doubtfully.  And the words
were hardly out of his mouth, when ‘Pif! pah!’ and the two new- comers
were stretched dead beside him.

At the sound of the gun the wild ducks in the rushes flew into the air,
and for a few minutes the firing continued.

Luckily for himself the duckling could not fly, and he floundered along
through the water till he could hide himself amidst some tall ferns
which grew in a hollow.  But before he got there he met a huge creature
on four legs, which he afterwards knew to be a dog, who stood and gazed
at him with a long red tongue hanging out of his mouth.  The duckling
grew cold with terror, and tried to hide his head beneath his little
wings; but the dog snuffed at him and passed on, and he was able to
reach his place of shelter.

‘I am too ugly even for a dog to eat,’ said he to himself.  ‘Well, that
is a great mercy.’  And he curled himself up in the soft grass till the
shots died away in the distance.

When all had been quiet for a long time, and there were only stars to
see him, he crept out and looked about him.

He would never go near a pool again, never, thought he; and seeing that
the moor stretched far away in the opposite direction from which he had
come, he marched bravely on till he got to a small cottage, which
seemed too tumbledown for the stones to hold together many hours
longer.  Even the door only hung upon one hinge, and as the only light
in the room sprang from a tiny fire, the duckling edged himself
cautiously in, and lay down under a chair close to the broken door,
from which he could get out if necessary.  But no one seemed to see him
or smell him; so he spend the rest of the night in peace.

Now in the cottage dwelt an old woman, her cat, and a hen; and it was
really they, and not she, who were masters of the house.  The old
woman, who passed all her days in spinning yarn, which she sold at the
nearest town, loved both the cat and the hen as her own children, and
never contradicted them in any way; so it was their grace, and not
hers, that the duckling would have to gain.

It was only next morning, when it grew light, that they noticed their
visitor, who stood trembling before them, with his eye on the door
ready to escape at any moment.  They did not, however, appear very
fierce, and the duckling became less afraid as they approached him.

‘Can you lay eggs?’ asked the hen.  And the duckling answered meekly:

‘No; I don’t know how.’  Upon which the hen turned her back, and the
cat came forward.

‘Can you ruffle your fur when you are angry, or purr when you are
pleased?’ said she.  And again the duckling had to admit that he could
do nothing but swim, which did not seem of much use to anybody.

So the cat and the hen went straight off to the old woman, who was
still in bed.

‘Such a useless creature has taken refuge here,’ they said.  ‘It calls
itself a duckling; but it can neither lay eggs nor purr!  What had we
better do with it?’

‘Keep it, to be sure!’ replied the old woman briskly.  ‘It is all
nonsense about it not laying eggs.  Anyway, we will let it stay here
for a bit, and see what happens.’

So the duckling remained for three weeks, and shared the food of the
cat and the hen; but nothing in the way of eggs happened at all.  Then
the sun came out, and the air grew soft, and the duckling grew tired of
being in a hut, and wanted with all his might to have a swim.  And one
morning he got so restless that even his friends noticed it.

‘What is the matter?’ asked the hen; and the duckling told her.

‘I am so longing for the water again.  You can’t think how delicious it
is to put your head under the water and dive straight to the bottom.’

‘I don’t think I should enjoy it,’ replied the hen doubtfully.  ‘And I
don’t think the cat would like it either.’  And the cat, when asked,
agreed there was nothing she would hate so much.

‘I can’t stay here any longer, I Must get to the water,’ repeated the
duck.  And the cat and the hen, who felt hurt and offended, answered
shortly:

‘Very well then, go.’

The duckling would have liked to say good- bye, and thank them for
their kindness, as he was polite by nature; but they had both turned
their backs on him, so he went out of the rickety door feeling rather
sad.  But, in spite of himself, he could not help a thrill of joy when
he was out in the air and water once more, and cared little for the
rude glances of the creatures he met.  For a while he was quite happy
and content; but soon the winter came on, and snow began to fall, and
everything to grow very wet and uncomfortable.  And the duckling soon
found that it is one thing to enjoy being in the water, and quite
another to like being damp on land.

The sun was setting one day, like a great scarlet globe, and the river,
to the duckling’s vast bewilderment, was getting hard and slippery,
when he heard a sound of whirring wings, and high up in the air a flock
of swans were flying.  They were as white as snow which had fallen
during the night, and their long necks with yellow bills were stretched
southwards, for they were going--they did not quite know whither--but
to a land where the sun shone all day.  Oh, if he only could have gone
with them!  But that was not possible, of course; and besides, what
sort of companion could an ugly thing like him be to those beautiful
beings?  So he walked sadly down to a sheltered pool and dived to the
very bottom, and tried to think it was the greatest happiness he could
dream of.  But, all the same, he knew it wasn’t!

And every morning it grew colder and colder, and the duckling had hard
work to keep himself warm.  Indeed, it would be truer to say that he
never was warm at all; and at last, after one bitter night, his legs
moved so slowly that the ice crept closer and closer, and when the
morning light broke he was caught fast, as in a trap; and soon his
senses went from him.

A few hours more and the poor duckling’s life had been ended.  But, by
good fortune, a man was crossing the river on his way to his work, and
saw in a moment what had happened.  He had on thick wooden shoes, and
he went and stamped so hard on the ice that it broke, and then he
picked up the duckling and tucked him under his sheepskin coat, where
his frozen bones began to thaw a little.

Instead of going on his work, the man turned back and took the bird to
his children, who gave him a warm mess to eat and put him in a box by
the fire, and when they came back from school he was much more
comfortable than he had been since he had left the old woman’s cottage.
 They were kind little children, and wanted to play with him; but,
alas! the poor fellow had never played in his life, and thought they
wanted to tease him, and flew straight into the milk-pan, and then into
the butter-dish, and from that into the meal- barrel, and at last,
terrified at the noise and confusion, right out of the door, and hid
himself in the snow amongst the bushes at the back of the house.

He never could tell afterwards exactly how he had spent the rest of the
winter.  He only knew that he was very miserable and that he never had
enough to eat.  But by-and-by things grew better.  The earth became
softer, the sun hotter, the birds sang, and the flowers once more
appeared in the grass.  When he stood up, he felt different, somehow,
from what he had done before he fell asleep among the reeds to which he
had wandered after he had escaped from the peasant’s hut.  His body
seemed larger, and his wings stronger.  Something pink looked at him
from the side of a hill.  He thought he would fly towards it and see
what it was.

Oh, how glorious it felt to be rushing through the air, wheeling first
one way and then the other!  He had never thought that flying could be
like that!  The duckling was almost sorry when he drew near the pink
cloud and found it was made up of apple blossoms growing beside a
cottage whose garden ran down to the banks of the canal.  He fluttered
slowly to the ground and paused for a few minutes under a thicket of
syringas, and while he was gazing about him, there walked slowly past a
flock of the same beautiful birds he had seen so many months ago.
Fascinated, he watched them one by one step into the canal, and float
quietly upon the waters as if they were part of them.

‘I will follow them,’ said the duckling to himself; ‘ugly though I am,
I would rather be killed by them than suffer all I have suffered from
cold and hunger, and from the ducks and fowls who should have treated
me kindly.’  And flying quickly down to the water, he swam after them
as fast as he could.

It did not take him long to reach them, for they had stopped to rest in
a green pool shaded by a tree whose branches swept the water.  And
directly they saw him coming some of the younger ones swam out to meet
him with cries of welcome, which again the duckling hardly understood.
He approached them glad, yet trembling, and turning to one of the older
birds, who by this time had left the shade of the tree, he said:

‘If I am to die, I would rather you should kill me.  I don’t know why I
was ever hatched, for I am too ugly to live.’  And as he spoke, he
bowed his head and looked down into the water.

Reflected in the still pool he saw many white shapes, with long necks
and golden bills, and, without thinking, he looked for the dull grey
body and the awkward skinny neck.  But no such thing was there.
Instead, he beheld beneath him a beautiful white swan!

‘The new one is the best of all,’ said the children when they came down
to feed the swans with biscuit and cake before going to bed.  ‘His
feathers are whiter and his beak more golden than the rest.’  And when
he heard that, the duckling thought that it was worth while having
undergone all the persecution and loneliness that he had passed
through, as otherwise he would never have known what it was to be
really happy.

[Hans Andersen.]



               The Two Caskets



Far, far away, in the midst of a pine forest, there lived a woman who
had both a daughter and a stepdaughter.  Ever since her own daughter
was born the mother had given her all that she cried for, so she grew
up to be as cross and disagreeable as she was ugly.  Her stepsister, on
the other hand, had spent her childhood in working hard to keep house
for her father, who died soon after his second marriage; and she was as
much beloved by the neighbours for her goodness and industry as she was
for her beauty.

As the years went on, the difference between the two girls grew more
marked, and the old woman treated her stepdaughter worse than ever, and
was always on the watch for some pretext for beating her, or depriving
her of her food.  Anything, however foolish, was good enough for this,
and one day, when she could think of nothing better, she set both the
girls to spin while sitting on the low wall of the well.

‘And you had better mind what you do,’ said she, ‘for the one whose
thread breaks first shall be thrown to the bottom.’

But of course she took good care that her own daughter’s flax was fine
and strong, while the stepsister had only some coarse stuff, which no
one would have thought of using.  As might be expected, in a very
little while the poor girl’s thread snapped, and the old woman, who had
been watching from behind a door, seized her stepdaughter by her
shoulders, and threw her into the well.

‘That is an end of you!’ she said.  But she was wrong, for it was only
the beginning.

Down, down, down went the girl--it seemed as if the well must reach to
the very middle of the earth; but at last her feet touched the ground,
and she found herself in a field more beautiful than even the summer
pastures of her native mountains.  Trees waved in the soft breeze, and
flowers of the brightest colours danced in the grass.  And though she
was quite alone, the girl’s heart danced too, for she felt happier than
she had since her father died.  So she walked on through the meadow
till she came to an old tumbledown fence--so old that it was a wonder
it managed to stand up at all, and it looked as if it depended for
support on the old man’s beard that climbed all over it.

The girl paused for a moment as she came up, and gazed about for a
place where she might safely cross.  But before she could move a voice
cried from the fence:

‘Do not hurt me, little maiden; I am so old, so old, I have not much
longer to live.’

And the maiden answered:

‘No, I will not hurt you; fear nothing.’  And then seeing a spot where
the clematis grew less thickly than in other places, she jumped lightly
over.

‘May all go well with thee,’ said the fence, as the girl walked on.

She soon left the meadow and turned into a path which ran between two
flowery hedges.  Right in front of her stood an oven, and through its
open door she could see a pile of white loaves.

‘Eat as many loaves as you like, but do me no harm, little maiden,’
cried the oven.  And the maiden told her to fear nothing, for she never
hurt anything, and was very grateful for the oven’s kindness in giving
her such a beautiful white loaf.  When she had finished it, down to the
last crumb, she shut the oven door and said: ‘Good-morning.’

‘May all go well with thee,’ said the oven, as the girl walked on.

By-and-by she became very thirsty, and seeing a cow with a milk-pail
hanging on her horn, turned towards her.

‘Milk me and drink as much as you will, little maiden,’ cried the cow,
‘but be sure you spill none on the ground; and do me no harm, for I
have never harmed anyone.’

‘Nor I,’ answered the girl; ‘fear nothing.’  So she sat down and milked
till the pail was nearly full.  Then she drank it all up except a
little drop at the bottom.

‘Now throw any that is left over my hoofs, and hang the pail on my
horns again,’ said the cow.  And the girl did as she was bid, and
kissed the cow on her forehead and went her way.

Many hours had now passed since the girl had fallen down the well, and
the sun was setting.

‘Where shall I spend the night?’ thought she.  And suddenly she saw
before her a gate which she had not noticed before, and a very old
woman leaning against it.

‘Good evening,’ said the girl politely; and the old woman answered:

‘Good evening, my child.  Would that everyone was as polite as you.
Are you in search of anything?’

‘I am in search of a place,’ replied the girl; and the woman smiled and
said:

‘Then stop a little while and comb my hair, and you shall tell me all
the things you can do.’

‘Willingly, mother,’ answered the girl.  And she began combing out the
old woman’s hair, which was long and white.

Half an hour passed in this way, and then the old woman said:

‘As you did not think yourself too good to comb me, I will show you
where you may take service.  Be prudent and patient and all will go
well.’

So the girl thanked her, and set out for a farm at a little distance,
where she was engaged to milk the cows and sift the corn.

As soon as it was light next morning the girl got up and went into the
cow-house.  ‘I’m sure you must be hungry,’ said she, patting each in
turn.  And then she fetched hay from the barn, and while they were
eating it, she swept out the cow-house, and strewed clean straw upon
the floor.  The cows were so pleased with the care she took of them
that they stood quite still while she milked them, and did not play any
of the tricks on her that they had played on other dairymaids who were
rough and rude.  And when she had done, and was going to get up from
her stool, she found sitting round her a whole circle of cats, black
and white, tabby and tortoise- shell, who all cried with one voice:

‘We are very thirsty, please give us some milk!’

‘My poor little pussies,’ said she, ‘of course you shall have some.’
And she went into the dairy, followed by all the cats, and gave each
one a little red saucerful.  But before they drank they all rubbed
themselves against her knees and purred by way of thanks.

The next thing the girl had to do was to go to the storehouse, and to
sift the corn through a sieve.  While she was busy rubbing the corn she
heard a whirr of wings, and a flock of sparrows flew in at the window.

‘We are hungry; give us some corn! give us some corn!’ cried they; and
the girl answered:

‘You poor little birds, of course you shall have some!’ and scattered a
fine handful over the floor.  When they had finished they flew on her
shoulders and flapped their wings by way of thanks.

 Time went by, and no cows in the whole country-side were so fat and
well tended as hers, and no dairy had so much milk to show.  The
farmer’s wife was so well satisfied that she gave her higher wages, and
treated her like her own daughter.  At length, one day, the girl was
bidden by her mistress to come into the kitchen, and when there, the
old woman said to her: ‘I know you can tend cows and keep a diary; now
let me see what you can do besides.  Take this sieve to the well, and
fill it with water, and bring it home to me without spilling one drop
by the way.’

The girl’s heart sank at this order; for how was it possible for her to
do her mistress’s bidding?  However, she was silent, and taking the
sieve went down to the well with it.  Stopping over the side, she
filled it to the brim, but as soon as she lifted it the water all ran
out of the holes.  Again and again she tried, but not a drop would
remaining in the sieve, and she was just turning away in despair when a
flock of sparrows flew down from the sky.

‘Ashes! ashes!’ they twittered; and the girl looked at them and said:

‘Well, I can’t be in a worse plight than I am already, so I will take
your advice.’  And she ran back to the kitchen and filled her sieve
with ashes.  Then once more she dipped the sieve into the well, and,
behold, this time not a drop of water disappeared!

‘Here is the sieve, mistress,’ cried the girl, going to the room where
the old woman was sitting.

‘You are cleverer than I expected,’ answered she; ‘or else someone
helped you who is skilled in magic.’  But the girl kept silence, and
the old woman asked her no more questions.

Many days passed during which the girl went about her work as usual,
but at length one day the old woman called her and said:

‘I have something more for you to do.  There are here two yarns, the
one white, the other black.  What you must do is to wash them in the
river till the black one becomes white and the white black.’  And the
girl took them to the river and washed hard for several hours, but wash
as she would they never changed one whit.

‘This is worse than the sieve,’ thought she, and was about to give up
in despair when there came a rush of wings through the air, and on
every twig of the birch trees which grew by the bank was perched a
sparrow.

‘The black to the east, the white to the west!’ they sang, all at once;
and the girl dried her tears and felt brave again.  Picking up the
black yarn, she stood facing the east and dipped it in the river, and
in an instant it grew white as snow, then turning to the west, she held
the white yarn in the water, and it became as black as a crow’s wing.
She looked back at the sparrows and smiled and nodded to them, and
flapping their wings in reply they flew swiftly away.

At the sight of the yarn the old woman was struck dumb; but when at
length she found her voice she asked the girl what magician had helped
her to do what no one had done before.  But she got no answer, for the
maiden was afraid of bringing trouble on her little friends.

For many weeks the mistress shut herself up in her room, and the girl
went about her work as usual.  She hoped that there was an end to the
difficult tasks which had been set her; but in this she was mistaken,
for one day the old woman appeared suddenly in the kitchen, and said to
her:

‘There is one more trial to which I must put you, and if you do not
fail in that you will be left in peace for evermore.  Here are the
yarns which you washed.  Take them and weave them into a web that is as
smooth as a king’s robe, and see that it is spun by the time that the
sun sets.’

‘This is the easiest thing I have been set to do,’ thought the girl,
who was a good spinner.  But when she began she found that the skein
tangled and broke every moment.

‘Oh, I can never do it!’ she cried at last, and leaned her head against
the loom and wept; but at that instant the door opened, and there
entered, one behind another, a procession of cats.

‘What is the matter, fair maiden?’ asked they.  And the girl answered:

‘My mistress has given me this yarn to weave into a piece of cloth,
which must be finished by sunset, and I have not even begun yet, for
the yarn breaks whenever I touch it.’

‘If that is all, dry your eyes,’ said the cats; ‘we will manage it for
you.’  And they jumped on the loom, and wove so fast and so skilfully
that in a very short time the cloth was ready and was as fine as any
king ever wore.  The girl was so delighted at the sight of it that she
gave each cat a kiss on his forehead as they left the room behind one
the other as they had come.

‘Who has taught you this wisdom?’ asked the old woman, after she had
passed her hands twice or thrice over the cloth and could find no
roughness anywhere.  But the girl only smiled and did not answer.  She
had learned early the value of silence.

After a few weeks the old woman sent for her maid and told her that as
her year of service was now up, she was free to return home, but that,
for her part, the girl had served her so well that she hoped she might
stay with her.  But at these words the maid shook her head, and
answered gently:

‘I have been happy here, Madam, and I thank you for your goodness to
me; but I have left behind me a stepsister and a stepmother, and I am
fain to be with them once more.’  The old woman looked at her for a
moment, and then she said:

‘Well, that must be as you like; but as you have worked faithfully for
me I will give you a reward.  Go now into the loft above the store
house and there you will find many caskets.  Choose the one which
pleases you best, but be careful not to open it till you have set it in
the place where you wish it to remain.’

The girl left the room to go to the loft, and as soon as she got
outside, she found all the cats waiting for her.  Walking in
procession, as was their custom, they followed her into the loft, which
was filled with caskets big and little, plain and splendid.  She lifted
up one and looked at it, and then put it down to examine another yet
more beautiful.  Which should she choose, the yellow or the blue, the
red or the green, the gold or the silver?  She hesitated long, and went
first to one and then to another, when she heard the cats’ voices
calling: ‘Take the black! take the black!’

The words make her look round--she had seen no black casket, but as the
cats continued their cry she peered into several corners that had
remained unnoticed, and at length discovered a little black box, so
small and so black, that it might easily have been passed over.

‘This is the casket that pleases me best, mistress,’ said the girl,
carrying it into the house.  And the old woman smiled and nodded, and
bade her go her way.  So the girl set forth, after bidding farewell to
the cows and the cats and the sparrows, who all wept as they said
good-bye.

She walked on and on and on, till she reached the flowery meadow, and
there, suddenly, something happened, she never knew what, but she was
sitting on the wall of the well in her stepmother’s yard.  Then she got
up and entered the house.

The woman and her daughter stared as if they had been turned into
stone; but at length the stepmother gasped out:

‘So you are alive after all!  Well, luck was ever against me!  And
where have you been this year past?’ Then the girl told how she had
taken service in the under-world, and, beside her wages, had brought
home with her a little casket, which she would like to set up in her
room.

‘Give me the money, and take the ugly little box off to the outhouse,’
cried the woman, beside herself with rage, and the girl, quite
frightened at her violence, hastened away, with her precious box
clasped to her bosom.

The outhouse was in a very dirty state, as no one had been near it
since the girl had fallen down the well; but she scrubbed and swept
till everything was clean again, and then she placed the little casket
on a small shelf in the corner.

‘Now I may open it,’ she said to herself; and unlocking it with the key
which hung to its handle, she raised the lid, but started back as she
did so, almost blinded by the light that burst upon her.  No one would
ever have guessed that that little black box could have held such a
quantity of beautiful things!  Rings, crowns, girdles, necklaces--all
made of wonderful stones; and they shone with such brilliance that not
only the stepmother and her daughter but all the people round came
running to see if the house was on fire.  Of course the woman felt
quite ill with greed and envy, and she would have certainly taken all
the jewels for herself had she not feared the wrath of the neighbours,
who loved her stepdaughter as much as they hated her.

But if she could not steal the casket and its contents for herself, at
least she could get another like it, and perhaps a still richer one.
So she bade her own daughter sit on the edge of the well, and threw her
into the water, exactly as she had done to the other girl; and, exactly
as before, the flowery meadow lay at the bottom.

Every inch of the way she trod the path which her stepsister had
trodden, and saw the things which she had seen; but there the likeness
ended.  When the fence prayed her to do it no harm, she laughed rudely,
and tore up some of the stakes so that she might get over the more
easily; when the oven offered her bread, she scattered the loaves onto
the ground and stamped on them; and after she had milked the cow, and
drunk as much as she wanted, she threw the rest on the grass, and
kicked the pail to bits, and never heard them say, as they looked after
her: ‘You shall not have done this to me for nothing!’

Towards evening she reached the spot where the old woman was leaning
against the gate- post, but she passed her by without a word.

‘Have you no manners in your country?’ asked the crone.

‘I can’t stop and talk; I am in a hurry,’ answered the girl.  ‘It is
getting late, and I have to find a place.’

‘Stop and comb my hair for a little,’ said the old woman, ‘and I will
help you to get a place.’

‘Comb your hair, indeed!  I have something better to do than that!’ And
slamming the gate in the crone’s face she went her way.  And she never
heard the words that followed her: ‘You shall not have done this to me
for nothing!’

By-and-by the girl arrived at the farm, and she was engaged to look
after the cows and sift the corn as her stepsister had been.  But it
was only when someone was watching her that she did her work; at other
times the cow-house was dirty, and the cows ill-fed and beaten, so that
they kicked over the pail, and tried to butt her; and everyone said
they had never seen such thin cows or such poor milk.  As for the cats,
she chased them away, and ill-treated them, so that they had not even
the spirit to chase the rats and mice, which nowadays ran about
everywhere.  And when the sparrows came to beg for some corn, they
fared no better than the cows and the cats, for the girl threw her
shoes at them, till they flew in a fright to the woods, and took
shelter amongst the trees.

Months passed in this manner, when, one day, the mistress called the
girl to her.

‘All that I have given you to do you have done ill,’ said she, ‘yet
will I give you another chance.  For though you cannot tend cows, or
divide the grain from the chaff, there may be other things that you can
do better.  Therefore take this sieve to the well, and fill it with
water, and see that you bring it back without spilling a drop.’

The girl took the sieve and carried it to the well as her sister had
done; but no little birds came to help her, and after dipping it in the
well two or three times she brought it back empty.

‘I thought as much,’ said the old woman angrily; ‘she that is useless
in one thing is useless in another.’

Perhaps the mistress may have thought that the girl had learnt a
lesson, but, if she did, she was quite mistaken, as the work was no
better done than before.  By-and-by she sent for her again, and gave
her maid the black and white yarn to wash in the river; but there was
no one to tell her the secret by which the black would turn white, and
the white black; so she brought them back as they were.  This time the
old woman only looked at her grimly but the girl was too well pleased
with herself to care what anyone thought about her.

After some weeks her third trial came, and the yarn was given her to
spin, as it had been given to her stepsister before her.

But no procession of cats entered the room to weave a web of fine
cloth, and at sunset she only brought back to her mistress an armful of
dirty, tangled wool.

‘There seems nothing in the world you can do,’ said the old woman, and
left her to herself.

Soon after this the year was up, and the girl went to her mistress to
tell her that she wished to go home.

‘Little desire have I to keep you,’ answered the old woman, ‘for no one
thing have you done as you ought.  Still, I will give you some payment,
therefore go up into the loft, and choose for yourself one of the
caskets that lies there.  But see that you do not open it till you
place it where you wish it to stay.’

This was what the girl had been hoping for, and so rejoiced was she,
that, without even stopping to thank the old woman, she ran as fast as
she could to the loft.  There were the caskets, blue and red, green and
yellow, silver and gold; and there in the corner stood a little black
casket just like the one her stepsister had brought home.

‘If there are so many jewels in that little black thing, this big red
one will hold twice the number,’ she said to herself; and snatching it
up she set off on her road home without even going to bid farewell to
her mistress.

‘See, mother, see what I have brought!’ cried she, as she entered the
cottage holding the casket in both hands.

‘Ah! you have got something very different from that little black box,’
answered the old woman with delight.  But the girl was so busy finding
a place for it to stand that she took little notice of her mother.

‘It will look best here--no, here,’ she said, setting it first on one
piece of furniture and then on another.  ‘No, after all it is to fine
to live in a kitchen, let us place it in the guest chamber.’

So mother and daughter carried it proudly upstairs and put it on a
shelf over the fireplace; then, untying the key from the handle, they
opened the box.  As before, a bright light leapt out directly the lid
was raised, but it did not spring from the lustre of jewels, but from
hot flames, which darted along the walls and burnt up the cottage and
all that was in it and the mother and daughter as well.

As they had done when the stepdaughter came home, the neighbours all
hurried to see what was the matter; but they were too late.  Only the
hen-house was left standing; and, in spite of her riches, there the
stepdaughter lived happily to the end of her days.

[From Thorpe’s Yule-Tide Stories.]





           The Goldsmith’s Fortune



Once upon a time there was a goldsmith who lived in a certain village
where the people were as bad and greedy, and covetous, as they could
possibly be; however, in spite of his surroundings, he was fat and
prosperous.  He had only one friend whom he liked, and that was a
cowherd, who looked after cattle for one of the farmers in the village.
 Every evening the goldsmith would walk across to the cowherd’s house
and say: ‘Come, let’s go out for a walk!’

Now the cowherd didn’t like walking in the evening, because, he said,
he had been out grazing the cattle all day, and was glad to sit down
when night came; but the goldsmith always worried him so that the poor
man had to go against his will.  This at last so annoyed him that he
tried to think how he could pick a quarrel with the goldsmith, so that
he should not beg him to walk with him any more.  He asked another
cowherd for advice, and he said the best thing he could do was to go
across and kill the goldsmith’s wife, for then the goldsmith would be
sure to regard him as an enemy; so, being a foolish person, and there
being no laws in that country by which a man would be certainly
punished for such a crime, the cowherd one evening took a big stick and
went across to the goldsmith’s house when only Mrs. Goldsmith was at
home, and banged her on the head so hard that she died then and there.

When the goldsmith came back and found his wife dead he said nothing,
but just took her outside into the dark lane and propped her up against
the wall of his house, and then went into the courtyard and waited.
Presently a rich stranger came along the lane, and seeing someone
there, as he supposed, he said:

‘Good-evening, friend! a fine night to- night!’  But the goldsmith’s
wife said nothing.  The man then repeated his words louder; but still
there was no reply.  A third time he shouted:

‘Good-evening, friend! are you deaf?’ but the figure never replied.
Then the stranger, being angry at what he thought very rude behaviour,
picked up a big stone and threw it at Mrs. Goldsmith, crying:

‘Let that teach you manners!’

Instantly poor Mrs.  Goldsmith tumbled over; and the stranger,
horrified at seeing what he had done, was immediately seized by the
goldsmith, who ran out screaming:

‘Wretch! you have killed my wife!  Oh, miserable one; we will have
justice done to thee!’

With many protestations and reproaches they wrangled together, the
stranger entreating the goldsmith to say nothing and he would pay him
handsomely to atone for the sad accident.  At last the goldsmith
quieted down, and agreed to accept one thousand gold pieces from the
stranger, who immediately helped him to bury his poor wife, and then
rushed off to the guest house, packed up his things and was off by
daylight, lest the goldsmith should repent and accuse him as the
murderer of his wife.  Now it very soon appeared that the goldsmith had
a lot of extra money, so that people began to ask questions, and
finally demanded of him the reason for his sudden wealth.

‘Oh,’ said he, ‘my wife died, and I sold her.’

‘You sold your dead wife?’ cried the people.

‘Yes,’ said the goldsmith.

‘For how much?’

‘A thousand gold pieces,’ replied the goldsmith.

Instantly the villagers went away and each caught hold of his own wife
and throttled her, and the next day they all went off to sell their
dead wives.  Many a weary mile did they tramp, but got nothing but hard
words or laughter, or directions to the nearest cemetery, from people
to whom they offered dead wives for sale.  At last they perceived that
they had been cheated somehow by that goldsmith.  So off they rushed
home, seized the unhappy man, and, without listening to his cries and
entreaties, hurried him down to the river bank and flung
him--plop!--into the deepest, weediest, and nastiest place they could
find.

‘That will teach him to play tricks on us,’ said they.  ‘For as he
can’t swim he’ll drown, and we sha’n’t have any more trouble with him!’

Now the goldsmith really could not swim, and as soon as he was thrown
into the deep river he sank below the surface; so his enemies went away
believing that they had seen the last of him.  But, in reality, he was
carried down, half drowned, below the next bend in the river, where he
fortunately came across a ‘snag’ floating in the water (a snag is, you
know, a part of a tree or bush which floats very nearly under the
surface of the water); and he held on to this snag, and by great good
luck eventually came ashore some two or three miles down the river.  At
the place where he landed he came across a fine fat cow buffalo, and
immediately he jumped on her back and rode home.  When the village
people saw him, they ran out in surprise, and said:

‘Where on earth do you come from, and where did you get that buffalo?’

‘Ah!’ said the goldsmith, ‘you little know what delightful adventures I
have had!  Why, down in that place in the river where you threw me in I
found meadows, and trees, and fine pastures, and buffaloes, and all
kinds of cattle.  In fact, I could hardly tear myself away; but I
thought that I must really let you all know about it.’

‘Oh, oh!’ thought the greedy village people; ‘if there are buffaloes to
be had for the taking we’ll go after some too.’  Encouraged by the
goldsmith they nearly all ran off the very next morning to the river;
and, in order that they might get down quickly to the beautiful place
the goldsmith told them of, they tied great stones on to their feet and
their necks, and one after another they jumped into the water as fast
as the could, and were drowned.  And whenever any one of them waved his
hands about and struggled the goldsmith would cry out:

‘Look! he’s beckoning the rest of you to come; he’s got a fine
buffalo!’ And others who were doubtful would jump in, until not one was
left.  Then the cunning goldsmith went back and took all the village
for himself, and became very rich indeed.  But do you think he was
happy?  Not a bit.  Lies never made a man happy yet.  Truly, he got the
better of a set of wicked and greedy people, but only by being wicked
and greedy himself; and, as it turned out, when he got so rich he got
very fat; and at last was so fat that he couldn’t move, and one day he
got the apoplexy and died, and no one in the world cared the least bit.

[Told by a Pathan to Major Campbell.]



             The Enchanted Wreath



Once upon a time there lived near a forest a man and his wife and two
girls; one girl was the daughter of the man, and the other the daughter
of his wife; and the man’s daughter was good and beautiful, but the
woman’s daughter was cross and ugly.  However, her mother did not know
that, but thought her the most bewitching maiden that ever was seen.

One day the man called to his daughter and bade her come with him into
the forest to cut wood.  They worked hard all day, but in spite of the
chopping they were very cold, for it rained heavily, and when they
returned home, they were wet through.  Then, to his vexation, the man
found that he had left his axe behind him, and he knew that if it lay
all night in the mud it would become rusty and useless.  So he said to
his wife:

‘I have dropped my axe in the forest, bid your daughter go and fetch
it, for mine has worked hard all day and is both wet and weary.’

But the wife answered:

‘If your daughter is wet already, it is all the more reason that she
should go and get the axe.  Besides, she is a great strong girl, and a
little rain will not hurt her, while my daughter would be sure to catch
a bad cold.’

By long experience the man knew there was no good saying any more, and
with a sigh he told the poor girl she must return to the forest for the
axe.

The walk took some time, for it was very dark, and her shoes often
stuck in the mud, but she was brave as well as beautiful and never
thought of turning back merely because the path was both difficult and
unpleasant.  At last, with her dress torn by brambles that she could
not see, and her fact scratched by the twigs on the trees, she reached
the spot where she and her father had been cutting in the morning, and
found the axe in the place he had left it.  To her surprise, three
little doves were sitting on the handle, all of them looking very sad.

‘You poor little things,’ said the girl, stroking them.  ‘Why do you
sit there and get wet?  Go and fly home to your nest, it will be much
warmer than this; but first eat this bread, which I saved from my
dinner, and perhaps you will feel happier.  It is my father’s axe you
are sitting on, and I must take it back as fast as I can, or I shall
get a terrible scolding from my stepmother.’  She then crumbled the
bread on the ground, and was pleased to see the doves flutter quite
cheerfully towards it.

‘Good-bye,’ she said, picking up the axe, and went her way homewards.

By the time they had finished all the crumbs the doves felt must
better, and were able to fly back to their nest in the top of a tree.

‘That is a good girl,’ said one; ‘I really was too weak to stretch out
a wing before she came.  I should like to do something to show how
grateful I am.’

‘Well, let us give her a wreath of flowers that will never fade as long
as she wears it,’ cried another.

‘And let the tiniest singing birds in the world sit amongst the
flowers,’ rejoined the third.

‘Yes, that will do beautifully,’ said the first.  And when the girl
stepped into her cottage a wreath of rosebuds was on her head, and a
crowd of little birds were singing unseen.

The father, who was sitting by the fire, thought that, in spite of her
muddy clothes, he had never seen his daughter looking so lovely; but
the stepmother and the other girl grew wild with envy.

‘How absurd to walk about on such a pouring night, dressed up like
that,’ she remarked crossly, and roughly pulled off the wreath as she
spoke, to place it on her own daughter.  As she did so the roses became
withered and brown, and the birds flew out of the window.

‘See what a trumpery thing it is!’ cried the stepmother; ‘and now take
your supper and go to bed, for it is near upon midnight.’

But though she pretended to despise the wreath, she longed none the
less for her daughter to have one like it.

Now it happened that the next evening the father, who had been alone in
the forest, came back a second time without his axe.  The stepmother’s
heart was glad when she saw this, and she said quite mildly:

‘Why, you have forgotten your axe again, you careless man!  But now
your daughter shall stay at home, and mine shall go and bring it back’;
and throwing a cloak over the girl’s shoulders, she bade her hasten to
the forest.

With a very ill grace the damsel set forth, grumbling to herself as she
went; for though she wished for the wreath, she did not at all want the
trouble of getting it.

By the time she reached the spot where her stepfather had been cutting
the wood the girl was in a very bad temper indeed, and when she caught
sight of the axe, there were the three little doves, with drooping
heads and soiled, bedraggled feathers, sitting on the handle.

‘You dirty creatures,’ cried she, ‘get away at once, or I will throw
stones at you!   And the doves spread their wings in a fright and flew
up to the very top of a tree, their bodies shaking with anger.

‘What shall we do to revenge ourselves on her?’ asked the smallest of
the doves, ‘we were never treated like that before.’

‘Never,’ said the biggest dove.  ‘We must find some way of paying her
back in her own coin!’

‘I know,’ answered the middle dove; ‘she shall never be able to say
anything but “dirty creatures” to the end of her life.’

‘Oh, how clever of you!  That will do beautifully,’ exclaimed the other
two.  And they flapped their wings and clucked so loud with delight,
and made such a noise, that they woke up all the birds in the trees
close by.

‘What in the world is the matter?’ asked the birds sleepily.

‘That is our secret,’ said the doves.

Meanwhile the girl had reached home crosser than ever; but as soon as
her mother heard her lift the latch of the door she ran out to hear her
adventures.  ‘Well, did you get the wreath?’ cried she.

‘Dirty creatures!’ answered her daughter.

‘Don’t speak to me like that!  What do you mean?’ asked the mother
again.

‘Dirty creatures!’ repeated the daughter, and nothing else could she
say.

Then the woman saw that something evil had befallen her, and turned in
her rage to her stepdaughter.

‘You are at the bottom of this, I know,’ she cried; and as the father
was out of the way she took a stick and beat the girl till she screamed
with pain and went to bed sobbing.

If the poor girl’s life had been miserable before, it was ten times
worse now, for the moment her father’s back was turned the others
teased and tormented her from morning till night; and their fury was
increased by the sight of her wreath, which the doves had placed again
on her head.

Things went on like this for some weeks, when, one day, as the king’s
son was riding through the forest, he heard some strange birds singing
more sweetly than birds had ever sung before.  He tied his horse to a
tree, and followed where the sound led him, and, to his surprise, he
saw before him a beautiful girl chopping wood, with a wreath of pink
rose-buds, out of which the singing came.  Standing in the shelter of a
tree, he watched her a long while, and then, hat in hand, he went up
and spoke to her.

‘Fair maiden, who are you, and who gave you that wreath of singing
roses?’ asked he, for the birds were so tiny that till you looked
closely you never saw them.

‘I live in a hut on the edge of the forest,’ she answered, blushing,
for she had never spoken to a prince before.  ‘As to the wreath, I know
not how it came there, unless it may be the gift of some doves whom I
fed when they were starving!   The prince was delighted with this
answer, which showed the goodness of the girl’s heart, and besides he
had fallen in love with her beauty, and would not be content till she
promised to return with him to the palace, and become his bride.  The
old king was naturally disappointed at his son’s choice of a wife, as
he wished him to marry a neighbouring princess; but as from his birth
the prince had always done exactly as he like, nothing was said and a
splendid wedding feast was got ready.

The day after her marriage the bride sent a messenger, bearing handsome
presents to her father, and telling him of the good fortune which had
befallen her.  As may be imagined, the stepmother and her daughter were
so filled with envy that they grew quite ill, and had to take to their
beds, and nobody would have been sorry it they had never got up again;
but that did not happen.  At length, however, they began to feel
better, for the mother invented a plan by which she could be revenged
on the girl who had never done her any harm.

Her plan was this.  In the town where she had lived before she was
married there was an old witch, who had more skill in magic that any
other witch she knew.  To this witch she would go and beg her to make
her a mask with the face of her stepdaughter, and when she had the mask
the rest would be easy.  She told her daughter what she meant to do,
and although the daughter could only say ‘dirty creatures,’ in answer,
she nodded and smiled and looked well pleased.

Everything fell out exactly as the woman had hoped.  By the aid of her
magic mirror the witch beheld the new princess walking in her gardens
in a dress of green silk, and in a few minutes had produced a mask so
like her, that very few people could have told the difference.
However, she counselled the woman that when her daughter first wore
it-- for that, of course, was what she intended her to do--she had
better pretend that she had a toothache, and cover her head with a lace
veil.  The woman thanked her and paid her well, and returned to her
hut, carrying the mask under her cloak.

In a few days she heard that a great hunt was planned, and the prince
would leave the palace very early in the morning, so that his wife
would be alone all day.  This was a chance not to be missed, and taking
her daughter with her she went up to the palace, where she had never
been before.  The princess was too happy in her new home to remember
all that she had suffered in the old one, and she welcomed them both
gladly, and gave them quantities of beautiful things to take back with
them.  At last she took them down to the shore to see a pleasure boat
which her husband had had made for her; and here, the woman seizing her
opportunity, stole softly behind the girl and pushed her off the rock
on which she was standing, into the deep water, where she instantly
sank to the bottom.  Then she fastened the mask on her daughter, flung
over her shoulders a velvet cloak, which the princess had let fall, and
finally arranged a lace veil over her head.

‘Rest your cheek on your hand, as if you were in pain, when the prince
returns,’ said the mother; ‘and be careful not to speak, whatever you
do.  I will go back to the witch and see if she cannot take off the
spell laid on you by those horrible birds.  Ah! why did I not think of
it before!’

No sooner had the prince entered the palace than he hastened to the
princess’s apartments, where he found her lying on the sofa apparently
in great pain.

‘My dearest wife, what is the matter with you?’ he cried, kneeling down
beside her, and trying to take her hand; but she snatched it away, and
pointing to her cheek murmured something he could not catch.

‘What is it?  tell me!  Is the pain bad?  When did it begin?  Shall I
send for your ladies to bath the place?’ asked the prince, pouring out
these and a dozen other questions, to which the girl only shook her
head.

‘But I can’t leave you like this,’ he continued, starting up, ‘I must
summon all the court physicians to apply soothing balsams to the sore
place!   And as he spoke he sprang to his feet to go in search of them.
 This so frightened the pretended wife, who knew that if the physicians
once came near her the trick would at once be discovered, that she
forgot her mother’s counsel not to speak, and forgot even the spell
that had been laid upon her, and catching hold of the prince’s tunic,
she cried in tones of entreaty: ‘Dirty creatures!’

The young man stopped, not able to believe his ears, but supposed that
pain had made the princess cross, as it sometimes does.  However, he
guessed somehow that she wised to be left alone, so he only said:

‘Well, I dare say a little sleep will do you good, if you can manage to
get it, and that you will wake up better to-morrow.’

Now, that night happened to be very hot and airless, and the prince,
after vainly trying to rest, at length got up and went to the window.
Suddenly he beheld in the moonlight a form with a wreath of roses on
her head rise out of the sea below him and step on to the sands,
holding out her arms as she did so towards the palace.

‘That maiden is strangely like my wife,’ thought he; ‘I must see her
closer!   And he hastened down to the water.  But when he got there,
the princess, for she indeed it was, had disappeared completely, and he
began to wonder if his eyes had deceived him.

The next morning he went to the false bride’s room, but her ladies told
him she would neither speak nor get up, though she ate everything they
set before her.  The prince was sorely perplexed as to what could be
the matter with her, for naturally he could not guess that she was
expecting her mother to return every moment, and to remove the spell
the doves had laid upon her, and meanwhile was afraid to speak lest she
should betray herself.  At length he made up his mind to summon all the
court physicians; he did not tell her what he was going to do, lest it
should make her worse, but he went himself and begged the four learned
leeches attached to the king’s person to follow him to the princess’s
apartments.  Unfortunately, as they entered, the princess was so
enraged at the sight of them that she forgot all about the doves, and
shrieked out: ‘Dirty creatures! dirty creatures!’ which so offended the
physicians that they left the room at once, and nothing that the prince
could say would prevail on them to remain.  He then tried to persuade
his wife to send them a message that she was sorry for her rudeness,
but not a word would she say.

Late that evening, when he had performed all the tiresome duties which
fall to the lot of every prince, the young man was leaning out of his
window, refreshing himself with the cool breezes that blew off the sea.
 His thoughts went back to the scene of the morning, and he wondered
if, after all, he had not made a great mistake in marrying a low-born
wife, however beautiful she might be.  How could he have imagined that
the quiet, gentle girl who had been so charming a companion to him
during the first days of their marriage, could have become in a day the
rude, sulky woman, who could not control her temper even to benefit
herself.  One thing was clear, if she did not change her conduct very
shortly he would have to send her away from court.

He was thinking these thoughts, when his eyes fell on the sea beneath
him, and there, as before, was the figure that so closely resembled his
wife, standing with her feet in the water, holding out her arms to him.

‘Wait for me!  Wait for me!  Wait for me!’ he cried; not even knowing
he was speaking.  But when he reached the shore there was nothing to be
seen but the shadows cast by the moonlight.

A state ceremonial in a city some distance off caused the prince to
ride away at daybreak, and he left without seeing his wife again.

‘Perhaps she may have come to her senses by to-morrow,’ said he to
himself; ‘and, anyhow, if I am going to send her back to her father, it
might be better if we did not meet in the meantime!  Then he put the
matter from his mind, and kept his thoughts on the duty that lay before
him.

It was nearly midnight before he returned to the palace, but, instead
of entering, he went down to the shore and hid behind a rock.  He had
scarcely done so when the girl came out of the sea, and stretched out
her arms towards his window.  In an instant the prince had seized her
hand, and though she made a frightened struggle to reach the water--for
she in her turn had had a spell laid upon her--he held her fast.

‘You are my own wife, and I shall never let you go,’ he said.  But the
words were hardly out of his mouth when he found that it was a hare
that he was holding by the paw.  Then the hare changed into a fish, and
the fish into a bird, and the bird into a slimy wriggling snake.  This
time the prince’s hand nearly opened of itself, but with a strong
effort he kept his fingers shut, and drawing his sword cut off its
head, when the spell was broken, and the girl stood before him as he
had seen her first, the wreath upon her head and the birds singing for
joy.

The very next morning the stepmother arrived at the palace with an
ointment that the old witch had given her to place upon her daughter’s
tongue, which would break the dove’s spell, if the rightful bride had
really been drowned in the sea; if not, then it would be useless.  The
mother assured her that she had seen her stepdaughter sink, and that
there was no fear that she would ever come up again; but, to make all
quite safe, the old woman might bewitch the girl; and so she did.
After that the wicked stepmother travelled all through the night to get
to the palace as soon as possible, and made her way straight into her
daughter’s room.

‘I have got it!  I have got it!’ she cried triumphantly, and laid the
ointment on her daughter’s tongue.

‘Now what do you say?’ she asked proudly.

‘Dirty creatures! dirty creatures!’ answered the daughter; and the
mother wrung her hands and wept, as she knew that all her plans had
failed.

At this moment the prince entered with his real wife.  ‘You both
deserved death,’ he said, ‘and if it were left to me, you should have
it.  But the princess has begged me to spare your lives, so you will be
put into a ship and carried off to a desert island, where you will stay
till you die.’

Then the ship was made ready and the wicked woman and her daughter were
placed in it, and it sailed away, and no more was heard of them.  But
the prince and his wife lived together long and happily, and ruled
their people well.

[Adapted from Thorpe’s Yule-Tide Stories.]



              The Foolish Weaver



Once a weaver, who was in want of work, took service with a certain
farmer as a shepherd.

The farmer, knowing that the man was very slow-witted, gave him most
careful instructions as to everything that he was to do.

Finally he said: ‘If a wolf or any wild animal attempts to hurt the
flock you should pick up a big stone like this’ (suiting the action to
the word) ‘and throw a few such at him, and he will be afraid and go
away.’  The weaver said that he understood, and started with the flocks
to the hillsides where they grazed all day.

By chance in the afternoon a leopard appeared, and the weaver instantly
ran home as fast as he could to get the stones which the farmer had
shown him, to throw at the creature.  When he came back all the flock
were scattered or killed, and when the farmer heard the tale he beat
him soundly.  ‘Were there no stones on the hillside that you should run
back to get them, you senseless one?’ he cried; ‘you are not fit to
herd sheep.  To-day you shall stay at home and mind my old mother who
is sick, perhaps you will be able to drive flies off her face, if you
can’t drive beasts away from sheep!’

So, the next day, the weaver was left at home to take care of the
farmer’s old sick mother.  Now as she lay outside on a bed, it turned
out that the flies became very troublesome, and the weaver looked round
for something to drive them away with; and as he had been told to pick
up the nearest stone to drive the beasts away from the flock, he
thought he would this time show how cleverly he could obey orders.
Accordingly he seized the nearest stone, which was a big, heavy one,
and dashed it at the flies; but, unhappily, he slew the poor old woman
also; and then, being afraid of the wrath of the farmer, he fled and
was not seen again in that neighbourhood.

All that day and all the next night he walked, and at length he came to
a village where a great many weavers lived together.

‘You are welcome,’ said they.  ‘Eat and sleep, for to-morrow six of us
start in search of fresh wool to weave, and we pray you to give us your
company.’

‘Willingly,’ answered the weaver.  So the next morning the seven
weavers set out to go to the village where they could buy what they
wanted.  On the way they had to cross a ravine which lately had been
full of water, but now was quite dry.  The weavers, however, were
accustomed to swim over this ravine; therefore, regardless of the fact
that this time it was dry, they stripped, and, tying their clothes on
their heads, they proceeded to swim across the dry sand and rocks that
formed the bed of the ravine.  Thus they got to the other side without
further damage than bruised knees and elbows, and as soon as they were
over, one of them began to count the party to make sure that all were
safe there.  He counted all except himself, and then cried out that
somebody was missing!  This set each of them counting; but each made
the same mistake of counting all except himself, so that they became
certain that one of their party was missing!  They ran up and down the
bank of the ravine wringing their hands in great distress and looking
for signs of their lost comrade.  There a farmer found them and asked
what was the matter.  ‘Alas!’ said one, ‘seven of us started from the
other bank and one must have been drowned on the crossing, as we can
only find six remaining!’ The farmer eyed them a minute, and then,
picking up his stick, he dealt each a sounding blow, counting, as he
did so, ‘One! two! three!’ and so on up to the seven.  When the weavers
found that there were seven of them they were overcome with gratitude
to one whom they took for a magician as he could thus make seven out of
an obvious six.

[From the Pushto.]





               The Clever Cat



Once upon a time there lived an old man who dwelt with his son in a
small hut on the edge of the plain.  He was very old, and had worked
very hard, and when at last he was struck down by illness he felt that
he should never rise from his bed again.

So, one day, he bade his wife summon their son, when he came back from
his journey to the nearest town, where he had been to buy bread.

‘Come hither, my son,’ said he; ‘I know myself well to be dying, and I
have nothing to leave you but my falcon, my cat and my greyhound; but
if you make good use of them you will never lack food.  Be good to your
mother, as you have been to me.  And now farewell!’

Then he turned his face to the wall and died.

There was great mourning in the hut for many days, but at length the
son rose up, and calling to his greyhound, his cat and his falcon, he
left the house saying that he would bring back something for dinner.
Wandering over the plain, he noticed a troop of gazelles, and pointed
to his greyhound to give chase.  The dog soon brought down a fine fat
beast, and slinging it over his shoulders, the young man turned
homewards.  On the way, however, he passed a pond, and as he approached
a cloud of birds flew into the air.  Shaking his wrist, the falcon
seated on it darted into the air, and swooped down upon the quarry he
had marked, which fell dead to the ground.  The young man picked it up,
and put it in his pouch and then went towards home again.

Near the hut was a small barn in which he kept the produce of the
little patch of corn, which grew close to the garden.  Here a rat ran
out almost under his feet, followed by another and another; but quick
as thought the cat was upon them and not one escaped her.

When all the rats were killed, the young man left the barn.  He took
the path leading to the door of the hut, but stopped on feeling a hand
laid on his shoulder.

‘Young man,’ said the ogre (for such was the stranger), ‘you have been
a good son, and you deserve the piece of luck which has befallen you
this day.  Come with me to that shining lake yonder, and fear nothing.’

Wondering a little at what might be going to happen to him, the youth
did as the ogre bade him, and when they reached the shore of the lake,
the ogre turned and said to him:

‘Step into the water and shut your eyes!  You will find yourself
sinking slowly to the bottom; but take courage, all will go well.  Only
bring up as much silver as you can carry, and we will divide it between
us.’

So the young man stepped bravely into the lake, and felt himself
sinking, sinking, till he reached firm ground at last.  In front of him
lay four heaps of silver, and in the midst of them a curious white
shining stone, marked over with strange characters, such as he had
never seen before.  He picked it up in order to examine it more
closely, and as he held it the stone spoke.

‘As long as you hold me, all your wishes will come true,’ it said.
‘But hide me in your turban, and then call to the ogre that you are
ready to come up.’

In a few minutes the young man stood again by the shores of the lake.

‘Well, where is the silver?’ asked the ogre, who was awaiting him.

‘Ah, my father, how can I tell you!  So bewildered was I, and so
dazzled with the splendours of everything I saw, that I stood like a
statue, unable to move.  Then hearing steps approaching I got
frightened, and called to you, as you know.’

‘You are no better than the rest,’ cried the ogre, and turned away in a
rage.

When he was out of sight the young man took the stone from his turban
and looked at it.  ‘I want the finest camel that can be found, and the
most splendid garments,’ said he.

‘Shut your eyes then,’ replied the stone.  And he shut them; and when
he opened them again the camel that he had wished for was standing
before him, while the festal robes of a desert prince hung from his
shoulders.  Mounting the camel, he whistled the falcon to his wrist,
and, followed by his greyhound and his cat, he started homewards.

His mother was sewing at her door when this magnificent stranger rode
up, and, filled with surprise, she bowed low before him.

‘Don’t you know me, mother?’ he said with a laugh.  And on hearing his
voice the good woman nearly fell to the ground with astonishment.

‘How have you got that camel and those clothes?’ asked she.  ‘Can a son
of mine have committed murder in order to possess them?’

‘Do not be afraid; they are quite honestly come by,’ answered the
youth.  ‘I will explain all by-and-by; but now you must go to the
palace and tell the king I wish to marry his daughter.’

At these words the mother thought her son had certainly gone mad, and
stared blankly at him.  The young man guessed what was in her heart,
and replied with a smile:

‘Fear nothing.  Promise all that he asks; it will be fulfilled somehow.’

So she went to the palace, where she found the king sitting in the Hall
of Justice listening to the petitions of his people.  The woman waited
until all had been heard and the hall was empty, and then went up and
knelt before the throne.

‘My son has sent me to ask for the hand of the princess,’ said she.

The king looked at her and thought that she was mad; but, instead of
ordering his guards to turn her out, he answered gravely:

‘Before he can marry the princess he must build me a palace of ice,
which can be warmed with fires, and wherein the rarest singing- birds
can live!’

‘It shall be done, your Majesty,’ said she, and got up and left the
hall.

Her son was anxiously awaiting her outside the palace gates, dressed in
the clothes that he wore every day.

‘Well, what have I got to do?’ he asked impatiently, drawing his mother
aside so that no one could overhear them.

‘Oh, something quite impossible; and I hope you will put the princess
out of your head,’ she replied.

‘Well, but what is it?’ persisted he.

‘Nothing but to build a palace of ice wherein fires can burn that shall
keep it so warm that the most delicate singing-birds can live in it!’

‘I thought it would be something much harder than that,’ exclaimed the
young man.  ‘I will see about it at once.’  And leaving his mother, he
went into the country and took the stone from his turban.

‘I want a palace of ice that can be warmed with fires and filled with
the rarest singing-birds!’

‘Shut your eyes, then,’ said the stone; and he shut them, and when he
opened them again there was the palace, more beautiful than anything he
could have imagined, the fires throwing a soft pink glow over the ice.

‘It is fit even for the princess,’ thought he to himself.

As soon as the king awoke next morning he ran to the window, and there
across the plain he beheld the palace.

‘That young man must be a great wizard; he may be useful to me.’  And
when the mother came again to tell him that his orders had been
fulfilled he received her with great honour, and bade her tell her son
that the wedding was fixed for the following day.

The princess was delighted with her new home, and with her husband
also; and several days slipped happily by, spent in turning over all
the beautiful things that the palace contained.  But at length the
young man grew tired of always staying inside walls, and he told his
wife that the next day he must leave her for a few hours, and go out
hunting.  ‘You will not mind?’ he asked.  And she answered as became a
good wife:

‘Yes, of course I shall mind; but I will spend the day in planning out
some new dresses; and then it will be so delightful when you come back,
you know!’

So the husband went off to hunt, with the falcon on his wrist, and the
greyhound and the cat behind him--for the palace was so warm that even
the cat did not mind living in it.

No sooner had he gone, than the ogre who had been watching his chance
for many days, knocked at the door of the palace.

‘I have just returned from a far country,’ he said, ‘and I have some of
the largest and most brilliant stones in the world with me.  The
princess is known to love beautiful things, perhaps she might like to
buy some?’

Now the princess had been wondering for many days what trimming she
should put on her dresses, so that they should outshine the dresses of
the other ladies at the court balls.  Nothing that she thought of
seemed good enough, so, when the message was brought that the ogre and
his wares were below, she at once ordered that he should be brought to
her chamber.

Oh! what beautiful stones he laid before her; what lovely rubies, and
what rare pearls!  No other lady would have jewels like those--of that
the princess was quite sure; but she cast down her eyes so that the
ogre might not see how much she longed for them.

‘I fear they are too costly for me,’ she said carelessly; ‘and besides,
I have hardly need of any more jewels just now.’

‘I have no particular wish to sell them myself,’ answered the ogre,
with equal indifference.  ‘But I have a necklace of shining stones
which was left me by father, and one, the largest engraven with weird
characters, is missing.  I have heard that it is in your husband’s
possession, and if you can get me that stone you shall have any of
these jewels that you choose.  But you will have to pretend that you
want it for yourself; and, above all, do not mention me, for he sets
great store by it, and would never part with it to a stranger!
To-morrow I will return with some jewels yet finer than those I have
with me to-day.  So, madam, farewell!’

Left alone, the princess began to think of many things, but chiefly as
to whether she would persuade her husband to give her the stone or not.
 At one moment she felt he had already bestowed so much upon her that
it was a shame to ask for the only object he had kept back.  No, it
would be mean; she could not do it!  But then, those diamonds, and
those string of pearls!  After all, they had only been married a week,
and the pleasure of giving it to her ought to be far greater than the
pleasure of keeping it for himself.  And she was sure it would be!

Well, that evening, when the young man had supped off his favourite
dishes which the princess took care to have specially prepared for him,
she sat down close beside him, and began stroking his head.  For some
time she did not speak, but listened attentively to all the adventures
that had befallen him that day.

‘But I was thinking of you all the time,’ said he at the end, ‘and
wishing that I could bring you back something you would like.  But,
alas! what is there that you do not possess already?’

‘How good of you not to forget me when you are in the midst of such
dangers and hardships,’ answered she.  ‘Yes, it is true I have many
beautiful things; but if you want to give me a present--and to-morrow
is my birthday--there IS one thing that I wish for very much.’

‘And what is that?  Of course you shall have it directly!’ he asked
eagerly.

‘It is that bright stone which fell out of the folds of your turban a
few days ago,’ she answered, playing with his finger; ‘the little stone
with all those funny marks upon it.  I never saw any stone like it
before.’

The young man did not answer at first; then he said, slowly:

‘I have promised, and therefore I must perform.  But will you swear
never to part from it, and to keep it safely about you always?  More I
cannot tell you, but I beg you earnestly to take heed to this.’

The princess was a little startled by his manner, and began to be sorry
that she had every listened to the ogre.  But she did not like to draw
back, and pretended to be immensely delighted at her new toy, and
kissed and thanked her husband for it.

‘After all I needn’t give it to the ogre,’ thought she as she dropped
off to sleep.

Unluckily the next morning the young man went hunting again, and the
ogre, who was watching, knew this, and did not come till much later
than before.  At the moment that he knocked at the door of the palace
the princess had tired of all her employments, and her attendants were
at their wits’ end how to amuse her, when a tall negro dressed in
scarlet came to announce that the ogre was below, and desired to know
if the princess would speak to him.

‘Bring him hither at once!’ cried she, springing up from her cushions,
and forgetting all her resolves of the previous night.  In another
moment she was bending with rapture over the glittering gems.

‘Have you got it?’ asked the ogre in a whisper, for the princess’s
ladies were standing as near as they dared to catch a glimpse of the
beautiful jewels.

‘Yes, here,’ she answered, slipping the stone from her sash and placing
it among the rest.  Then she raised her voice, and began to talk
quickly of the prices of the chains and necklaces, and after some
bargaining, to deceive the attendants, she declared that she liked one
string of pearls better than all the rest, and that the ogre might take
away the other things, which were not half as valuable as he supposed.

‘As you please, madam,’ said he, bowing himself out of the palace.

Soon after he had gone a curious thing happened.  The princess
carelessly touched the wall of her room, which was wont to reflect the
warm red light of the fire on the hearth, and found her hand quite wet.
 She turned round, and--was it her fancy? or did the fire burn more
dimly than before?  Hurriedly she passed into the picture gallery,
where pools of water showed here and there on the floor, and a cold
chill ran through her whole body.  At that instant her frightened
ladies came running down the stairs, crying:

‘Madam! madam! what has happened?  The palace is disappearing under our
eyes!’

‘My husband will be home very soon,’ answered the princess--who, though
nearly as much frightened as her ladies, felt that she must set them a
good example.  ‘Wait till then, and he will tell us what to do.’

So they waited, seated on the highest chairs they could find, wrapped
in their warmest garments, and with piles of cushions under their feet,
while the poor birds flew with numbed wings hither and thither, till
they were so lucky as to discover an open window in some forgotten
corner.  Through this they vanished, and were seen no more.

At last, when the princess and her ladies had been forced to leave the
upper rooms, where the walls and floors had melted away, and to take
refuge in the hall, the young man came home.  He had ridden back along
a winding road from which he did not see the palace till he was close
upon it, and stood horrified at the spectacle before him.  He knew in
an instant that his wife must have betrayed his trust, but he would not
reproach her, as she must be suffering enough already.  Hurrying on he
sprang over all that was left of the palace walls, and the princess
gave a cry of relief at the sight of him.

‘Come quickly,’ he said, ‘or you will be frozen to death!’  And a
dreary little procession set out for the king’s palace, the greyhound
and the cat bringing up the rear.

At the gates he left them, though his wife besought him to allow her to
enter.

‘You have betrayed me and ruined me,’ he said sternly; ‘I go to seek my
fortune alone.’  And without another word he turned and left her.

With his falcon on his wrist, and his greyhound and cat behind him, the
young man walked a long way, inquiring of everyone he met whether they
had seen his enemy the ogre.  But nobody had.  Then he bade his falcon
fly up into the sky--up, up, and up--and try if his sharp eyes could
discover the old thief.  The bird had to go so high that he did not
return for some hours; but he told his master that the ogre was lying
asleep in a splendid palace in a far country on the shores of the sea.
This was delightful news to the young man, who instantly bought some
meat for the falcon, bidding him make a good meal.

‘To-morrow,’ said he, ‘you will fly to the palace where the ogre lies,
and while he is asleep you will search all about him for a stone on
which is engraved strange signs; this you will bring to me.  In three
days I shall expect you back here.’

‘Well, I must take the cat with me,’ answered the bird.

The sun had not yet risen before the falcon soared high into the air,
the cat seated on his back, with his paws tightly clasping the bird’s
neck.

‘You had better shut your eyes or you may get giddy,’ said the bird;
and the cat, you had never before been off the ground except to climb a
tree, did as she was bid.

All that day and all that night they flew, and in the morning they saw
the ogre’s palace lying beneath them.

‘Dear me,’ said the cat, opening her eyes for the first time, ‘that
looks to me very like a rat city down there, let us go down to it; they
may be able to help us.’  So they alighted in some bushes in the heart
of the rat city.  The falcon remained where he was, but the cat lay
down outside the principal gate, causing terrible excitement among the
rats.

At length, seeing she did not move, one bolder than the rest put its
head out of an upper window of the castle, and said, in a trembling
voice:

‘Why have you come here?  What do you want?  If it is anything in our
power, tell us, and we will do it.’

‘If you would have let me speak to you before, I would have told you
that I come as a friend,’ replied the cat; ‘and I shall be greatly
obliged if you would send four of the strongest and cunningest among
you, to do me a service.’

‘Oh, we shall be delighted,’ answered the rat, much relieved.  ‘But if
you will inform me what it is you wish them to do I shall be better
able to judge who is most fitted for the post.’

‘I thank you,’ said the cat.  ‘Well, what they have to do is this:
To-night they must burrow under the walls of the castle and go up to
the room were an ogre lies asleep.  Somewhere about him he has hidden a
stone, on which are engraved strange signs.  When they have found it
they must take it from him without his waking, and bring it to me.’

‘Your orders shall be obeyed,’ replied the rat.  And he went out to
give his instructions.

About midnight the cat, who was still sleeping before the gate, was
awakened by some water flung at her by the head rat, who could not make
up his mind to open the doors.

‘Here is the stone you wanted,’ said he, when the cat started up with a
loud mew; ‘if you will hold up your paws I will drop it down.’  And so
he did.  ‘And now farewell,’ continued the rat; ‘you have a long way to
go, and will do well to start before daybreak.’

‘Your counsel is good,’ replied the cat, smiling to itself; and putting
the stone in her mouth she went off to seek the falcon.

Now all this time neither the cat nor the falcon had had any food, and
the falcon soon got tired carrying such a heavy burden.  When night
arrived he declared he could go no further, but would spend it on the
banks of a river.

‘And it is my turn to take care of the stone,’ said he, ‘or it will
seem as if you had done everything and I nothing.’

‘No, I got it, and I will keep it,’ answered the cat, who was tired and
cross; and they began a fine quarrel.  But, unluckily, in the midst of
it, the cat raised her voice, and the stone fell into the ear of a big
fish which happened to be swimming by, and though both the cat and the
falcon sprang into the water after it, they were too late.

Half drowned, and more than half choked, the two faithful servants
scrambled back to land again.  The falcon flew to a tree and spread his
wings in the sun to dry, but the cat, after giving herself a good
shake, began to scratch up the sandy banks and to throw the bits into
the stream.

‘What are you doing that for?’ asked a little fish.  ‘Do you know that
you are making the water quite muddy?’

‘That doesn’t matter at all to me,’ answered the cat.  ‘I am going to
fill up all the river, so that the fishes may die.’

‘That is very unkind, as we have never done you any harm,’ replied the
fish.  ‘Why are you so angry with us?’

‘Because one of you has got a stone of mine-- a stone with strange
signs upon it--which dropped into the water.  If you will promise to
get it back for me, why, perhaps I will leave your river alone.’

‘I will certainly try,’ answered the fish in a great hurry; ‘but you
must have a little patience, as it may not be an easy task.’  And in an
instant his scales might be seen flashing quickly along.

The fish swam as fast as he could to the sea, which was not far
distant, and calling together all his relations who lived in the
neighbourhood, he told them of the terrible danger which threatened the
dwellers in the river.

‘None of us has got it,’ said the fishes, shaking their heads; ‘but in
the bay yonder there is a tunny who, although he is so old, always goes
everywhere.  He will be able to tell you about it, if anyone can.’  So
the little fish swam off to the tunny, and again related his story.

‘Why I was up that river only a few hours ago!’ cried the tunny; ‘and
as I was coming back something fell into my ear, and there it is still,
for I went to sleep, when I got home and forgot all about it.  Perhaps
it may be what you want.’  And stretching up his tail he whisked out
the stone.

‘Yes, I think that must be it,’ said the fish with joy.  And taking the
stone in his mouth he carried it to the place where the cat was waiting
for him.

‘I am much obliged to you,’ said the cat, as the fish laid the stone on
the sand, ‘and to reward you, I will let your river alone.’  And she
mounted the falcon’s back, and they flew to their master.

Ah, how glad he was to see them again with the magic stone in their
possession.  In a moment he had wished for a palace, but this time it
was of green marble; and then he wished for the princess and her ladies
to occupy it.  And there they lived for many years, and when the old
king died the princess’s husband reigned in his stead.

[Adapted from Contes Berberes.]



              The Story of Manus



Far away over the sea of the West there reigned a king who had two
sons; and the name of the one was Oireal, and the name of the other was
Iarlaid.  When the boys were still children, their father and mother
died, and a great council was held, and a man was chosen from among
them who would rule the kingdom till the boys were old enough to rule
it themselves.

The years passed on, and by-and-by another council was held, and it was
agreed that the king’s sons were now of an age to take the power which
rightly belonged to them.  So the youths were bidden to appear before
the council, and Oireal the elder was smaller and weaker than his
brother.

‘I like not to leave the deer on the hill and the fish in the rivers,
and sit in judgment on my people,’ said Oireal, when he had listened to
the words of the chief of the council.  And the chief waxed angry, and
answered quickly:

‘Not one clod of earth shall ever be yours if this day you do not take
on yourself the vows that were taken by the king your father.’

Then spake Iarlaid, the younger, and he said: ‘Let one half be yours,
and the other give to me; then you will have fewer people to rule over.’

‘Yes, I will do that,’ answered Oireal.

After this, one half of the men of the land of Lochlann did homage to
Oireal, and the other half to Iarlaid.  And they governed their
kingdoms as they would, and in a few years they became grown men with
beards on their chins; and Iarlaid married the daughter of the king of
Greece, and Oireal the daughter of the king of Orkney.  The next year
sons were born to Oireal and Iarlaid; and the son of Oireal was big and
strong, but the son of Iarlaid was little and weak, and each had six
foster brothers who went everywhere with the princes.

One day Manus, son of Oireal, and his cousin, the son of Iarlaid,
called to their foster brothers, and bade them come and play a game at
shinny in the great field near the school where they were taught all
that princes and nobles should know.  Long they played, and swiftly did
the ball pass from one to another, when Manus drove the ball at his
cousin, the son of Iarlaid.  The boy, who was not used to be roughly
handled, even in jest, cried out that he was sorely hurt, and went home
with his foster brothers and told his tale to his mother.  The wife of
Iarlaid grew white and angry as she listened, and thrusting her son
aside, sought the council hall where Iarlaid was sitting.

‘Manus has driven a ball at my son, and fain would have slain him,’
said she.  ‘Let an end be put to him and his ill deeds.’

But Iarlaid answered:

‘Nay, I will not slay the son of my brother.’

‘And he shall not slay my son,’ said the queen.  And calling to her
chamberlain she ordered him to lead the prince to the four brown
boundaries of the world, and to leave him there with a wise man, who
would care for him, and let no harm befall him.  And the wise man set
the boy on the top of a hill where the sun always shone, and he could
see every man, but no man could see him.

Then she summoned Manus to the castle, and for a whole year she kept
him fast, and his own mother could not get speech of him.  But in the
end, when the wife of Oireal fell sick, Manus fled from the tower which
was his prison, and stole back to his on home.

For a few years he stayed there in peace, and then the wife of Iarlaid
his uncle sent for him.

‘It is time that you were married,’ she said, when she saw that Manus
had grown tall and strong like unto Iarlaid.  ‘Tall and strong you are,
and comely of face.  I know a bride that will suit you well, and that
is the daughter of the mighty earl of Finghaidh, that does homage for
his lands to me.  I myself will go with a great following to his house,
and you shall go with me.’

Thus it was done; and though the earl’s wife was eager to keep her
daughter with her yet a while, she was fain to yield, as the wife of
Iarlaid vowed that not a rood of land should the earl have, unless he
did her bidding.  But if he would give his daughter to Manus, she would
bestow on him the third part of her own kingdom, with much treasure
beside.  This she did, not from love to Manus, but because she wished
to destroy him.  So they were married, and rode back with the wife of
Iarlaid to her own palace.  And that night, while he was sleeping,
there came a wise man, who was his father’s friend, and awoke him
saying: ‘Danger lies very close to you, Manus, son of Oireal.  You hold
yourself favoured because you have as a bride the daughter of a mighty
earl; but do you know what bride the wife of Iarlaid sought for her own
son?  It was no worldly wife she found for him, but the swift March
wind, and never can you prevail against her.’

‘Is it thus?’ answered Manu.  And at the first streak of dawn he went
to the chamber where the queen lay in the midst of her maidens.

‘I have come,’ he said, ‘for the third part of the kingdom, and for the
treasure which you promised me.’  But the wife of Iarlaid laughed as
she heard him.

‘Not a clod shall you have here,’ spake she.  ‘You must go to the Old
Bergen for that.  Mayhap under its stones and rough mountains you may
find a treasure!’

‘Then give me your son’s six foster brothers as well as my own,’
answered he.  And the queen gave them to him, and they set out for Old
Bergen.

A year passed by, and found them still in that wild land, hunting the
reindeer, and digging pits for the mountain sheep to fall into.  For a
time Manus and his companions lived merrily, but at length Manus grew
weary of the strange country, and they all took ship for the land of
Lochlann.  The wind was fierce and cold, and long was the voyage; but,
one spring day, they sailed into the harbour that lay beneath the
castle of Iarlaid.  The queen looked from her window and beheld him
mounting the hill, with the twelve foster brothers behind him.  Then
she said to her husband: ‘Manus has returned with his twelve foster
brothers.  Would that I could put an end to him and his murdering and
his slaying.’

‘That were a great pity,’ answered Iarlaid.  ‘And it is not I that will
do it.’

‘If you will not do it I will,’ said she.  And she called the twelve
foster brothers and made them vow fealty to herself.  So Manus was left
with no man, and sorrowful was he when he returned alone to Old Bergen.
 It was late when his foot touched the shore, and took the path towards
the forest.  On his way there met him a man in a red tunic.

‘Is it you, Manus, come back again?’ asked he.

‘It is I,’ answered Manus; ‘alone have I returned from the land of
Lochlann.’

The man eyed him silently for a moment, and then he said:

‘I dreamed that you were girt with a sword and became king of
Lochlann.’  But Manus answered:

‘I have no sword and my bow is broken.’

‘I will give you a new sword if you will make me a promise,’ said the
man once more.

‘To be sure I will make it, if ever I am king,’ answered Manus.  ‘But
speak, and tell me what promise I am to make.’

‘I was your grandfather’s armourer,’ replied the man, ‘and I wish to be
your armourer also.’

‘That I will promise readily,’ said Manus; and followed the man into
his house, which was at a little distance.  But the house was not like
other houses, for the walls of every room were hung so thick with arms
that you could not see the boards.

‘Choose what you will,’ said the man; and Manus unhooked a sword and
tried it across his knee, and it broke, and so did the next, and the
next.

‘Leave off breaking the swords,’ cried the man, ‘and look at this old
sword and helmet and tunic that I wore in the wars of your grandfather.
 Perhaps you may find them of stouter steel.’  And Manus bent the sword
thrice across his knee but he could not break it.  So he girded it to
his side, and put on the old helmet.  As he fastened the strap his eye
fell on a cloth flapping outside the window.

‘What cloth is that?’ asked he.

‘It is a cloth that was woven by the Little People of the forest,’ said
the man; ‘and when you are hungry it will give you food and drink, and
if you meet a foe, he will not hurt you, but will stoop and kiss the
back of your hand in token of submission.  Take it, and use it well.’
Manus gladly wrapped the shawl round his arm, and was leaving the
house, when he heard the rattling of a chain blown by the wind.

‘What chain is that?’ asked he.

‘The creature who has that chain round his neck, need not fear a
hundred enemies,’ answered the armourer.  And Manus wound it round him
and passed on into the forest.

Suddenly there sprang out from the bushes two lions, and a lion cub
with them.  The fierce beasts bounded towards him, roaring loudly, and
would fain have eaten him, but quickly Manus stooped and spread the
cloth upon the ground.  At that the lions stopped, and bowing their
great heads, kissed the back of his wrist and went their ways.  But the
cub rolled itself up in the cloth; so Manus picked them both up, and
carried them with him to Old Bergen.

Another year went by, and then he took the lion cub and set forth to
the land of Lochlann.  And the wife of Iarlaid came to meet him, and a
brown dog, small but full of courage, came with her.  When the dog
beheld the lion cub he rushed towards him, thinking to eat him; but the
cub caught the dog by the neck, and shook him, and he was dead.  And
the wife of Iarlaid mourned him sore, and her wrath was kindled, and
many times she tried to slay Manus and his cub, but she could not.  And
at last they two went back to Old Bergen, and the twelve foster
brothers went also.

‘Let them go,’ said the wife of Iarlaid, when she heard of it.  ‘My
brother the Red Gruagach will take the head off Manus as well in Old
Bergen as elsewhere.’

Now these words were carried by a messenger to the wife of Oireal, and
she made haste and sent a ship to Old Bergen to bear away her son
before the Red Gruagach should take the head off him.  And in the ship
was a pilot.  But the wife of Iarlaid made a thick fog to cover the
face of the sea, and the rowers could not row, lest they should drive
the ship on to a rock.  And when night came, the lion cub, whose eyes
were bright and keen, stole up to Manus, and Manus got on his back, and
the lion cub sprang ashore and bade Manus rest on the rock and wait for
him.  So Manus slept, and by-and-by a voice sounded in his ears,
saying: ‘Arise!’ And he saw a ship in the water beneath him, and in the
ship sat the lion cup in the shape of the pilot.

Then they sailed away through the fog, and none saw them; and they
reached the land of Lochlann, and the lion cub with the chain round his
neck sprang from the ship and Manus followed after.  And the lion cub
killed all the men that guarded the castle, and Iarlaid and his wife
also, so that, in the end, Manus son of Oireal was crowned king of
Lochlann.

[Shortened from West Highland Tales.]



               Pinkel the Thief



Long, long ago there lived a widow who had three sons.  The two eldest
were grown up, and though they were known to be idle fellows, some of
the neighbours had given them work to do on account of the respect in
which their mother was held.  But at the time this story begins they
had both been so careless and idle that their masters declared they
would keep them no longer.

So home they went to their mother and youngest brother, of whom they
thought little, because he made himself useful about the house, and
looked after the hens, and milked the cow.  ‘Pinkel,’ they called him
in scorn, and by-and-by ‘Pinkel’ became his name throughout the village.

The two young men thought it was much nicer to live at home and be idle
than to be obliged to do a quantity of disagreeable things they did not
like, and they would have stayed by the fire till the end of their
lives had not the widow lost patience with them and said that since
they would not look for work at home they must seek it elsewhere, for
she would not have them under her roof any longer.  But she repented
bitterly of her words when Pinkel told her that he too was old enough
to go out into the world, and that when he had made a fortune he would
send for his mother to keep house for him.

The widow wept many tears at parting from her youngest son, but as she
saw that his heart was set upon going with his brothers, she did not
try to keep him.  So the young men started off one morning in high
spirits, never doubting that work such as they might be willing to do
would be had for the asking, as soon as their little store of money was
spent.

But a very few days of wandering opened their eyes.  Nobody seemed to
want them, or, if they did, the young men declared that they were not
able to undertake all that the farmers or millers or woodcutters
required of them.  The youngest brother, who was wiser, would gladly
have done some of the work that the others refused, but he was small
and slight, and no one thought of offering him any.  Therefore they
went from one place to another, living only on the fruit and nuts they
could find in the woods, and getting hungrier every day.

One night, after they had been walking for many hours and were very
tired, they came to a large lake with an island in the middle of it.
From the island streamed a strong light, by which they could see
everything almost as clearly as if the sun had been shining, and they
perceived that, lying half hidden in the rushes, was a boat.

‘Let us take it and row over to the island, where there must be a
house,’ said the eldest brother; ‘and perhaps they will give us food
and shelter.’  And they all got in and rowed across in the direction of
the light.  As they drew near the island they saw that it came from a
golden lantern hanging over the door of a hut, while sweet tinkling
music proceeded from some bells attached to the golden horns of a goat
which was feeding near the cottage.  The young men’s hearts rejoiced as
they thought that at last they would be able to rest their weary limbs,
and they entered the hut, but were amazed to see an ugly old woman
inside, wrapped in a cloak of gold which lighted up the whole house.
They looked at each other uneasily as she came forward with her
daughter, as they knew by the cloak that this was a famous witch.

‘What do you want?’ asked she, at the same time signing to her daughter
to stir the large pot on the fire.

‘We are tired and hungry, and would fain have shelter for the night,’
answered the eldest brother.

‘You cannot get it here,’ said the witch, ‘but you will find both food
and shelter in the palace on the other side of the lake.  Take your
boat and go; but leave this boy with me--I can find work for him,
though something tells me he is quick and cunning, and will do me ill.’

‘What harm can a poor boy like me do a great Troll like you?’ answered
Pinkel.  ‘Let me go, I pray you, with my brothers.  I will promise
never to hurt you.’  And at last the witch let him go, and he followed
his brothers to the boat.

The way was further than they thought, and it was morning before they
reached the palace.

Now, at last, their luck seemed to have turned, for while the two
eldest were given places in the king’s stables, Pinkel was taken as
page to the little prince.  He was a clever and amusing boy, who saw
everything that passed under his eyes, and the king noticed this, and
often employed him in his own service, which made his brothers very
jealous.

Things went on this way for some time, and Pinkel every day rose in the
royal favour.  At length the envy of his brothers became so great that
they could bear it no longer, and consulted together how best they
might ruin his credit with the king.  They did not wish to kill
him--though, perhaps, they would not have been sorry if they had heard
he was dead--but merely wished to remind him that he was after all only
a child, not half so old and wise as they.

Their opportunity soon came.  It happened to be the king’s custom to
visit his stables once a week, so that he might see that his horses
were being properly cared for.  The next time he entered the stables
the two brothers managed to be in the way, and when the king praised
the beautiful satin skins of the horses under their charge, and
remarked how different was their condition when his grooms had first
come across the lake, the young men at once began to speak of the
wonderful light which sprang from the lantern over the hut.  The king,
who had a passion for collection all the rarest things he could find,
fell into the trap directly, and inquired where he could get this
marvellous lantern.

‘Send Pinkel for it, Sire,’ said they.  ‘It belongs to an old witch,
who no doubt came by it in some evil way.  But Pinkel has a smooth
tongue, and he can get the better of any woman, old or young.’

‘Then bid him go this very night,’ cried the king; ‘and if he brings me
the lantern I will make him one of the chief men about my person.’

Pinkel was much pleased at the thought of his adventure, and without
more ado he borrowed a little boat which lay moored to the shore, and
rowed over to the island at once.  It was late by the time he arrived,
and almost dark, but he knew by the savoury smell that reached him that
the witch was cooking her supper.  So he climbed softly on to the roof,
and, peering, watched till the old woman’s back was turned, when he
quickly drew a handful of salt from his pocket and threw it into the
pot.  Scarcely had he done this when the witch called her daughter and
bade her lift the pot off the fire and put the stew into a dish, as it
had been cooking quite long enough and she was hungry.  But no sooner
had she tasted it than she put her spoon down, and declared that her
daughter must have been meddling with it, for it was impossible to eat
anything that was all made of salt.

‘Go down to the spring in the valley, and get some fresh water, that I
may prepare a fresh supper,’ cried she, ‘for I feel half- starved.’

‘But, mother,’ answered the girl, ‘how can I find the well in this
darkness?  For you know that the lantern’s rays shed no light down
there.’

‘Well, then, take the lantern with you,’ answered the witch, ‘for
supper I must have, and there is no water that is nearer.’

So the girl took her pail in one hand and the golden lantern in the
other, and hastened away to the well, followed by Pinkel, who took care
to keep out of the way of the rays.  When at last she stooped to fill
her pail at the well Pinkel pushed her into it, and snatching up the
lantern hurried back to his boat and rowed off from the shore.

He was already a long distance from the island when the witch, who
wondered what had become of her daughter, went to the door to look for
her.  Close around the hut was thick darkness, but what was that
bobbing light that streamed across the water?  The witch’s heart sank
as all at once it flashed upon her what had happened.

‘Is that you, Pinkel?’ cried she; and the youth answered:

‘Yes, dear mother, it is I!’

‘And are you not a knave for robbing me?’ said she.

‘Truly, dear mother, I am,’ replied Pinkel, rowing faster than ever,
for he was half afraid that the witch might come after him.  But she
had no power on the water, and turned angrily into the hut, muttering
to herself all the while:

‘Take care! take care!  A second time you will not escape so easily!’

The sun had not yet risen when Pinkel returned to the palace, and,
entering the king’s chamber, he held up the lantern so that its rays
might fall upon the bed.  In an instant the king awoke, and seeing the
golden lantern shedding its light upon him, he sprang up, and embraced
Pinkel with joy.

‘O cunning one,’ cried he, ‘what treasure hast thou brought me!’ And
calling for his attendants he ordered that rooms next his own should be
prepared for Pinkel, and that the youth might enter his presence at any
hour.  And besides this, he was to have a seat on the council.

It may easily be guessed that all this made the brothers more envious
than they were before; and they cast about in their minds afresh how
best they might destroy him.  At length they remembered the goat with
golden horns and the bells, and they rejoiced; ‘For,’ said they, ‘THIS
time the old woman will be on the watch, and let him be as clever as he
likes, the bells on the horns are sure to warn her.’  So when, as
before, the king came down to the stables and praised the cleverness of
their brother, the young men told him of that other marvel possessed by
the witch, the goat with the golden horns.

From this moment the king never closed his eyes at night for longing
after this wonderful creature.  He understood something of the danger
that there might be in trying to steal it, now that the witch’s
suspicions were aroused, and he spent hours in making plans for
outwitting her.  But somehow he never could think of anything that
would do, and at last, as the brothers had foreseen, he sent for Pinkel.

‘I hear,’ he said, ‘that the old witch on the island has a goat with
golden horns from which hang bells that tinkle the sweetest music.
That goat I must have!  But, tell me, how am I to get it?  I would give
the third part of my kingdom to anyone who would bring it to me.’

‘I will fetch it myself,’ answered Pinkel.

This time it was easier for Pinkel to approach the island unseen, as
there was no golden lantern to thrown its beams over the water.  But,
on the other hand, the goat slept inside the hut, and would therefore
have to be taken from under the very eyes of the old woman.  How was he
to do it?  All the way across the lake he thought and thought, till at
length a plan came into his head which seemed as if it might do, though
he knew it would be very difficult to carry out.

The first thing he did when he reached the shore was to look about for
a piece of wood, and when he had found it he hid himself close to the
hut, till it grew quite dark and near the hour when the witch and her
daughter went to bed.  Then he crept up and fixed the wood under the
door, which opened outwards, in such a manner that the more you tried
to shut it the more firmly it stuck.  And this was what happened when
the girl went as usual to bolt the door and make all fast for the night.

‘What are you doing?’ asked the witch, as her daughter kept tugging at
the handle.

‘There is something the matter with the door; it won’t shut,’ answered
she.

‘Well, leave it alone; there is nobody to hurt us,’ said the witch, who
was very sleepy; and the girl did as she was bid, and went to bed.
Very soon they both might have been heard snoring, and Pinkel knew that
his time was come.  Slipping off his shoes he stole into the hut on
tiptoe, and taking from his pocket some food of which the goat was
particularly fond, he laid it under his nose.  Then, while the animal
was eating it, he stuffed each golden bell with wool which he had also
brought with him, stopping every minute to listen, lest the witch
should awaken, and he should find himself changed into some dreadful
bird or beast.  But the snoring still continued, and he went on with
his work as quickly as he could.  When the last bell was done he drew
another handful of food out of his pocket, and held it out to the goat,
which instantly rose to its feet and followed Pinkel, who backed slowly
to the door, and directly he got outside he seized the goat in his arms
and ran down to the place where he had moored his boat.

As soon as he had reached the middle of the lake, Pinkel took the wool
out of the bells, which began to tinkle loudly.  Their sound awoke the
witch, who cried out as before:

‘Is that you, Pinkel?’

‘Yes, dear mother, it is I,’ said Pinkel.

‘Have you stolen my golden goat?’ asked she.

‘Yes, dear mother, I have,’ answered Pinkel.

‘Are you not a knave, Pinkel?’

‘Yes, dear mother, I am,’ he replied.  And the old witch shouted in a
rage:

‘Ah! beware how you come hither again, for next time you shall not
escape me!’

But Pinkel laughed and rowed on.

The king was so delighted with the goat that he always kept it by his
side, night and day; and, as he had promised, Pinkel was made ruler
over the third part of the kingdom.  As may be supposed, the brothers
were more furious than ever, and grew quite thin with rage.

‘How can we get rid of him?’ said one to the other.  And at length they
remembered the golden cloak.

‘He will need to be clever if he is to steal that!’ they cried, with a
chuckle.  And when next the king came to see his horses they began to
speak of Pinkel and his marvellous cunning, and how he had contrived to
steal the lantern and the goat, which nobody else would have been able
to do.

‘But as he was there, it is a pity he could not have brought away the
golden cloak,’ added they.

‘The golden cloak! what is that?’ asked the king.  And the young men
described its beauties in such glowing words that the king declared he
should never know a day’s happiness till he had wrapped the cloak round
his own shoulders.

‘And,’ added he, ‘the man who brings it to me shall wed my daughter,
and shall inherit my throne.’

‘None can get it save Pinkel,’ said they; for they did not imagine that
the witch, after two warnings, could allow their brother to escape a
third time.  So Pinkel was sent for, and with a glad heart he set out.

He passed many hours inventing first one plan and then another, till he
had a scheme ready which he thought might prove successful.

Thrusting a large bag inside his coat, he pushed off from the shore,
taking care this time to reach the island in daylight.  Having made his
boat fast to a tree, he walked up to the hut, hanging his head, and
putting on a face that was both sorrowful and ashamed.

‘Is that you, Pinkel?’ asked the witch when she saw him, her eyes
gleaming savagely.

‘Yes, dear mother, it is I,’ answered Pinkel.

‘So you have dared, after all you have done, to put yourself in my
power!’ cried she.  ‘Well, you sha’n’t escape me THIS time!’ And she
took down a large knife and began to sharpen it.’

‘Oh! dear mother, spare me!’ shrieked Pinkel, falling on his knees, and
looking wildly about him.

‘Spare you, indeed, you thief!  Where are my lantern and my goat?  No!
not! there is only one fate for robbers!’ And she brandished the knife
in the air so that it glittered in the firelight.

‘Then, if I must die,’ said Pinkel, who, by this time, was getting
really rather frightened, ‘let me at least choose the manner of my
death.  I am very hungry, for I have had nothing to eat all day.  Put
some poison, if you like, into the porridge, but at least let me have a
good meal before I die.’

‘That is not a bad idea,’ answered the woman; ‘as long as you do die,
it is all one to me.’  And ladling out a large bowl of porridge, she
stirred some poisonous herbs into it, and set about work that had to be
done.  Then Pinkel hastily poured all the contents of the bowl into his
bag, and make a great noise with his spoon, as if he was scraping up
the last morsel.

‘Poisoned or not, the porridge is excellent.  I have eaten it, every
scrap; do give me some more,’ said Pinkel, turning towards her.

‘Well, you have a fine appetite, young man,’ answered the witch;
‘however, it is the last time you will ever eat it, so I will give you
another bowlful.’  And rubbing in the poisonous herbs, she poured him
out half of what remained, and then went to the window to call her cat.

In an instant Pinkel again emptied the porridge into the bag, and the
next minute he rolled on the floor, twisting himself about as if in
agony, uttering loud groans the while.  Suddenly he grew silent and lay
still.

‘Ah! I thought a second dose of that poison would be too much for you,’
said the witch looking at him.  ‘I warned you what would happen if you
came back.  I wish that all thieves were as dead as you!  But why does
not my lazy girl bring the wood I sent her for, it will soon be too
dark for her to find her way?  I suppose I must go and search for her.
What a trouble girls are!’  And she went to the door to watch if there
were any signs of her daughter.  But nothing could be seen of her, and
heavy rain was falling.

‘It is no night for my cloak,’ she muttered; ‘it would be covered with
mud by the time I got back.’  So she took it off her shoulders and hung
it carefully up in a cupboard in the room.  After that she put on her
clogs and started to seek her daughter.  Directly the last sound of the
clogs had ceased, Pinkel jumped up and took down the cloak, and rowed
off as fast as he could.

He had not gone far when a puff of wind unfolded the cloak, and its
brightness shed gleams across the water.  The witch, who was just
entering the forest, turned round at that moment and saw the golden
rays.  She forgot all about her daughter, and ran down to the shore,
screaming with rage at being outwitted a third time.

‘Is that you, Pinkel?’ cried she.

‘Yes, dear mother, it is I.’

‘Have you taken my gold cloak?’

‘Yes, dear mother, I have.’

‘Are you not a great knave?’

‘Yes, truly dear mother, I am.’

And so indeed he was!

But, all the same, he carried the cloak to the king’s palace, and in
return he received the hand of the king’s daughter in marriage.  People
said that it was the bride who ought to have worn the cloak at her
wedding feast; but the king was so pleased with it that he would not
part from it; and to the end of his life was never seen without it.
After his death, Pinkel became king; and let up hope that he gave up
his bad and thievish ways, and ruled his subjects well.  As for his
brothers, he did not punish them, but left them in the stables, where
they grumbled all day long.

[Thorpe’s Yule-Tide Stories.]



          The Adventures of a Jackal



In a country which is full of wild beasts of all sorts there once lived
a jackal and a hedgehog, and, unlike though they were, the two animals
made great friends, and were often seen in each other’s company.

One afternoon they were walking along a road together, when the jackal,
who was the taller of the two, exclaimed:

‘Oh! there is a barn full of corn; let us go and eat some.’

‘Yes, do let us!’ answered the hedgehog.  So they went to the barn, and
ate till they could eat no more.  Then the jackal put on his shoes,
which he had taken off so as to make no noise, and they returned to the
high road.

After they had gone some way they met a panther, who stopped, and
bowing politely, said:

‘Excuse my speaking to you, but I cannot help admiring those shoes of
yours.  Do you mind telling me who made them?’

‘Yes, I think they are rather nice,’ answered the jackal; ‘I made them
myself, though.’

‘Could you make me a pair like them?’ asked the panther eagerly.

‘I would do my best, of course,’ replied the jackal; ‘but you must kill
me a cow, and when we have eaten the flesh I will take the skin and
make your shoes out of it.’

So the panther prowled about until he saw a fine cow grazing apart from
the rest of the herd.  He killed it instantly, and then gave a cry to
the jackal and hedgehog to come to the place where he was.  They soon
skinned the dead beasts, and spread its skin out to dry, after which
they had a grand feast before they curled themselves up for the night,
and slept soundly.

Next morning the jackal got up early and set to work upon the shoes,
while the panther sat by and looked on with delight.  At last they were
finished, and the jackal arose and stretched himself.

‘Now go and lay them in the sun out there,’ said he; ‘in a couple of
hours they will be ready to put on; but do not attempt to wear them
before, or you will feel them most uncomfortable.  But I see the sun is
high in the heavens, and we must be continuing our journey.’

The panther, who always believed what everybody told him, did exactly
as he was bid, and in two hours’ time began to fasten on the shoes.
They certainly set off his paws wonderfully, and he stretched out his
forepaws and looked at them with pride.  But when he tried to walk--ah!
that was another story!  They were so stiff and hard that he nearly
shrieked every step he took, and at last he sank down where he was, and
actually began to cry.

After some time some little partridges who were hopping about heard the
poor panther’s groans, and went up to see what was the matter.  He had
never tried to make his dinner off them, and they had always been quite
friendly.

‘You seem in pain,’ said one of them, fluttering close to him, ‘can we
help you?’

‘Oh, it is the jackal!  He made me these shoes; they are so hard and
tight that they hurt my feet, and I cannot manage to kick them off.’

‘Lie still, and we will soften them,’ answered the kind little
partridge.  And calling to his brothers, they all flew to the nearest
spring, and carried water in their beaks, which they poured over the
shoes.  This they did till the hard leather grew soft, and the panther
was able to slip his feet out of them.

‘Oh, thank you, thank you,’ he cried, skipping round with joy.  ‘I feel
a different creature.  Now I will go after the jackal and pay him my
debts.’  And he bounded away into the forest.

But the jackal had been very cunning, and had trotted backwards and
forwards and in and out, so that it was very difficult to know which
track he had really followed.  At length, however, the panther caught
sight of his enemy, at the same moment that the jackal had caught sight
of him.  The panther gave a loud roar, and sprang forward, but the
jackal was too quick for him and plunged into a dense thicket, where
the panther could not follow.

Disgusted with his failure, but more angry than ever, the panther lay
down for a while to consider what he should do next, and as he was
thinking, an old man came by.

‘Oh! father, tell me how I can repay the jackal for the way he has
served me!’ And without more ado he told his story.

‘If you take my advice,’ answered the old man, ‘you will kill a cow,
and invite all the jackals in the forest to the feast.  Watch them
carefully while they are eating, and you will see that most of them
keep their eyes on their food.  But if one of them glances at you, you
will know that is the traitor.’

The panther, whose manners were always good, thanked the old man, and
followed his counsel.  The cow was killed, and the partridges flew
about with invitations to the jackals, who gathered in large numbers to
the feast.  The wicked jackal came amongst them; but as the panther had
only seen him once he could not distinguish him from the rest.
However, they all took their places on wooden seats placed round the
dead cow, which was laid across the boughs of a fallen tree, and began
their dinner, each jackal fixing his eyes greedily on the piece of meat
before him.  Only one of them seemed uneasy, and every now and then
glanced in the direction of his host.  This the panther noticed, and
suddenly made a bound at the culprit and seized his tail; but again the
jackal was too quick for him, and catching up a knife he cut off his
tail and darted into the forest, followed by all the rest of the party.
 And before the panther had recovered from his surprise he found
himself alone.

‘What am I to do now?’ he asked the old man, who soon came back to see
how things had turned out.

‘It is very unfortunate, certainly,’ answered he; ‘but I think I know
where you can find him.  There is a melon garden about two miles from
here, and as jackals are very fond of melons they are nearly sure to
have gone there to feed.  If you see a tailless jackal you will know
that he is the one you want.’  So the panther thanked him and went his
way.

Now the jackal had guessed what advice the old man would give his
enemy, and so, while his friends were greedily eating the ripest melons
in the sunniest corner of the garden, he stole behind them and tied
their tails together.  He had only just finished when his ears caught
the sound of breaking branches; and he cried: ‘Quick! quick! here comes
the master of the garden!’ And the jackals sprang up and ran away in
all directions, leaving their tails behind them.  And how was the
panther to know which was his enemy?

‘They none of them had any tails,’ he said sadly to the old man, ‘and I
am tired of hunting them.  I shall leave them alone and go and catch
something for supper.’

Of course the hedgehog had not been able to take part in any of these
adventures; but as soon as all danger was over, the jackal went to look
for his friend, whom he was lucky enough to find at home.

‘Ah, there you are,’ he said gaily.  ‘I have lost my tail since I saw
you last.  And other people have lost theirs too; but that is no
matter!  I am hungry, so come with me to the shepherd who is sitting
over there, and we will ask him to sell us one of his sheep.’

‘Yes, that is a good plan,’ answered the hedgehog.  And he walked as
fast as his little legs would go to keep up with the jackal.  When they
reached the shepherd the jackal pulled out his purse from under his
foreleg, and made his bargain.

‘Only wait till to-morrow,’ said the shepherd, ‘and I will give you the
biggest sheep you ever saw.  But he always feeds at some distance from
the rest of the flock, and it would take me a long time to catch him.’

‘Well, it is very tiresome, but I suppose I must wait,’ replied the
jackal.  And he and the hedgehog looked about for a nice dry cave in
which to make themselves comfortable for the night.  But, after they
had gone, the shepherd killed one of his sheep, and stripped off his
skin, which he sewed tightly round a greyhound he had with him, and put
a cord round its neck.  Then he lay down and went to sleep.

Very, very early, before the sun was properly up, the jackal and the
hedgehog were pulling at the shepherd’s cloak.

‘Wake up,’ they said, ‘and give us that sheep.  We have had nothing to
eat all night, and are very hungry.’

The shepherd yawned and rubbed his eyes.  ‘He is tied up to that tree;
go and take him.’  So they went to the tree and unfastened the cord,
and turned to go back to the cave where they had slept, dragging the
greyhound after them.  When they reached the cave the jackal said to
the hedgehog.

‘Before I kill him let me see whether he is fat or thin.’  And he stood
a little way back, so that he might the better examine the animal.
After looking at him, with his head on one side, for a minute or two,
he nodded gravely.

‘He is quite fat enough; he is a good sheep.’

But the hedgehog, who sometimes showed more cunning than anyone would
have guessed, answered:

‘My friend, you are talking nonsense.  The wool is indeed a sheep’s
wool, but the paws of my uncle the greyhound peep out from underneath.’

‘He is a sheep,’ repeated the jackal, who did not like to think anyone
cleverer than himself.

‘Hold the cord while I look at him,’ answered the hedgehog.

Very unwillingly the jackal held the rope, while the hedgehog walked
slowly round the greyhound till he reached the jackal again.  He knew
quite well by the paws and tail that it was a greyhound and not a
sheep, that the shepherd had sold them; and as he could not tell what
turn affairs might take, he resolved to get out of the way.

‘Oh! yes, you are right,’ he said to the jackal; ‘but I never can eat
till I have first drunk.  I will just go and quench my thirst from that
spring at the edge of the wood, and then I shall be ready for
breakfast.’

‘Don’t be long, then,’ called the jackal, as the hedgehog hurried off
at his best pace.  And he lay down under a rock to wait for him.

More than an hour passed by and the hedgehog had had plenty of time to
go to the spring and back, and still there was no sign of him.  And
this was very natural, as he had hidden himself in some long grass
under a tree!

At length the jackal guessed that for some reason his friend had run
away, and determined to wait for his breakfast no longer.  So he went
up to the place where the greyhound had been tethered and untied the
rope.  But just as he was about to spring on his back and give him a
deadly bite, the jackal heard a low growl, which never proceeded from
the throat of any sheep.  Like a flash of lightning the jackal threw
down the cord and was flying across the plain; but though his legs were
long, the greyhound’s legs were longer still, and he soon came up with
his prey.  The jackal turned to fight, but he was no match for the
greyhound, and in a few minutes he was lying dead on the ground, while
the greyhound was trotting peacefully back to the shepherd.

[Nouveaux Contes Berberes, par Rene Basset.]



    The Adventures of the Jackal’s Eldest                     Son



Now, though the jackal was dead, he had left two sons behind him, every
whit as cunning and tricky as their father.  The elder of the two was a
fine handsome creature, who had a pleasant manner and made many
friends.  The animal he saw most of was a hyena; and one day, when they
were taking a walk together, they picked up a beautiful green cloak,
which had evidently been dropped by some one riding across the plain on
a camel.  Of course each wanted to have it, and they almost quarrelled
over the matter; but at length it was settled that the hyena should
wear the cloak by day and the jackal by night.  After a little while,
however, the jackal became discontented with this arrangement,
declaring that none of his friends, who were quite different from those
of the hyena, could see the splendour of the mantle, and that it was
only fair that he should sometimes be allowed to wear it by day.  To
this the hyena would by no means consent, and they were on the eve of a
quarrel when the hyena proposed that they should ask the lion to judge
between them.  The jackal agreed to this, and the hyena wrapped the
cloak about him, and they both trotted off to the lion’s den.

The jackal, who was fond of talking, at once told the story; and when
it was finished the lion turned to the hyena and asked if it was true.

‘Quite true, your majesty,’ answered the hyena.

‘Then lay the cloak on the ground at my feet,’ said the lion, ‘and I
will give my judgment.’  So the mantle was spread upon the red earth,
the hyena and the jackal standing on each side of it.

There was silence for a few moments, and then the lion sat up, looking
very great and wise.

‘My judgment is that the garment shall belong wholly to whoever first
rings the bell of the nearest mosque at dawn to-morrow.  Now go; for
much business awaits me!’

All that night the hyena sat up, fearing lest the jackal should reach
the bell before him, for the mosque was close at hand.  With the first
streak of dawn he bounded away to the bell, just as the jackal, who had
slept soundly all night, was rising to his feet.

‘Good luck to you,’ cried the jackal.  And throwing the cloak over his
back he darted away across the plain, and was seen no more by his
friend the hyena.

After running several miles the jackal thought he was safe from
pursuit, and seeing a lion and another hyena talking together, he
strolled up to join them.

‘Good morning,’ he said; ‘may I ask what is the matter?  You seem very
serious about something.’

‘Pray sit down,’ answered the lion.  ‘We were wondering in which
direction we should go to find the best dinner.  The hyena wishes to go
to the forest, and I to the mountains.  What do you say?’

‘Well, as I was sauntering over the plain, just now, I noticed a flock
of sheep grazing, and some of them had wandered into a little valley
quite out of sight of the shepherd.  If you keep among the rocks you
will never be observed.  But perhaps you will allow me to go with you
and show you the way?’

‘You are really very kind,’ answered the lion.  And they crept steadily
along till at length they reached the mouth of the valley where a ram,
a sheep and a lamb were feeding on the rich grass, unconscious of their
danger.

‘How shall we divide them?’ asked the lion in a whisper to the hyena.

‘Oh, it is easily done,’ replied the hyena.  ‘The lamb for me, the
sheep for the jackal, and the ram for the lion.’

‘So I am to have that lean creature, which is nothing but horns, am I?’
cried the lion in a rage.  ‘I will teach you to divide things in that
manner!’ And he gave the hyena two great blows, which stretched him
dead in a moment.  Then he turned to the jackal and said: ‘How would
you divide them?’

‘Quite differently from the hyena,’ replied the jackal.  ‘You will
breakfast off the lamb, you will dine off the sheep, and you will sup
off the ram.’

‘Dear me, how clever you are!  Who taught you such wisdom?’ exclaimed
the lion, looking at him admiringly.

‘The fate of the hyena,’ answered the jackal, laughing, and running off
at his best speed; for he saw two men armed with spears coming close
behind the lion!

 The jackal continued to run till at last he could run no longer.  He
flung himself under a tree panting for breath, when he heard a rustle
amongst the grass, and his father’s old friend the hedgehog appeared
before him.

‘Oh, is it you?’ asked the little creature; ‘how strange that we should
meet so far from home!’

‘I have just had a narrow escape of my life,’ gasped the jackal, ‘and I
need some sleep.  After that we must think of something to do to amuse
ourselves.’  And he lay down again and slept soundly for a couple of
hours.

‘Now I am ready,’ said he; ‘have you anything to propose?’

‘In a valley beyond those trees,’ answered the hedgehog, ‘there is a
small farmhouse where the best butter in the world is made.  I know
their ways, and in an hour’s time the farmer’s wife will be off to milk
the cows, which she keeps at some distance.  We could easily get in at
the window of the shed where she keeps the butter, and I will watch,
lest some one should come unexpectedly, while you have a good meal.
Then you shall watch, and I will eat.’

‘That sounds a good plan,’ replied the jackal; and they set off
together.

But when they reached the farmhouse the jackal said to the hedgehog:
‘Go in and fetch the pots of butter and I will hide them in a safe
place.’

‘Oh no,’ cried the hedgehog, ‘I really couldn’t.  They would find out
directly!  And, besides, it is so different just eating a little now
and then.’

‘Do as I bid you at once,’ said the jackal, looking at the hedgehog so
sternly that the little fellow dared say no more, and soon rolled the
jars to the window where the jackal lifted them out one by one.

When they were all in a row before him he gave a sudden start.

‘Run for your life,’ he whispered to his companion; ‘I see the woman
coming over the hill!’ And the hedgehog, his heart beating, set off as
fast as he could.  The jackal remained where he was, shaking with
laughter, for the woman was not in sight at all, and he had only sent
the hedgehog away because he did not want him to know where the jars of
butter were buried.  But every day he stole out to their hiding-place
and had a delicious feast.

At length, one morning, the hedgehog suddenly said:

‘You never told me what you did with those jars?’

‘Oh, I hid them safely till the farm people should have forgotten all
about them,’ replied the jackal.  ‘But as they are still searching for
them we must wait a little longer, and then I’ll bring them home, and
we will share them between us.’

So the hedgehog waited and waited; but every time he asked if there was
no chance of getting jars of butter the jackal put him off with some
excuse.  After a while the hedgehog became suspicious, and said:

‘I should like to know where you have hidden them.  To-night, when it
is quite dark, you shall show me the place.’

‘I really can’t tell you,’ answered the jackal.  ‘You talk so much that
you would be sure to confide the secret to somebody, and then we should
have had our trouble for nothing, besides running the risk of our necks
being broken by the farmer.  I can see that he is getting disheartened,
and very soon he will give up the search.  Have patience just a little
longer.’

The hedgehop said no more, and pretended to be satisfied; but when some
days had gone by he woke the jackal, who was sleeping soundly after a
hunt which had lasted several hours.

‘I have just had notice,’ remarked the hedgehog, shaking him, ‘that my
family wish to have a banquet to-morrow, and they have invited you to
it.  Will you come?’

‘Certainly,’ answered the jackal, ‘with pleasure.  But as I have to go
out in the morning you can meet me on the road.’

‘That will do very well,’ replied the hedgehog.  And the jackal went to
sleep again, for he was obliged to be up early.

Punctual to the moment the hedgehog arrived at the place appointed for
their meeting, and as the jackal was not there he sat down and waited
for him.

‘Ah, there you are!’ he cried, when the dusky yellow form at last
turned the corner.  ‘I had nearly given you up!  Indeed, I almost wish
you had not come, for I hardly know where I shall hide you.’

‘Why should you hide me anywhere?’ asked the jackal.  ‘What is the
matter with you?’

‘Well, so many of the guests have brought their dogs and mules with
them, that I fear it may hardly be safe for you to go amongst them.
No; don’t run off that way,’ he added quickly, ‘because there is
another troop that are coming over the hill.  Lie down here, and I will
throw these sacks over you; and keep still for your life, whatever
happens.’

And what did happen was, that when the jackal was lying covered up,
under a little hill, the hedgehog set a great stone rolling, which
crushed him to death.

[Contes Berberes.]



     The Adventures of the Younger Son of                  the Jackal



Now that the father and elder brother were both dead, all that was left
of the jackal family was one son, who was no less cunning than the
others had been.  He did not like staying in the same place any better
than they, and nobody ever knew in what part of the country he might be
found next.

One day, when we was wandering about he beheld a nice fat sheep, which
was cropping the grass and seemed quite contented with her lot.

‘Good morning,’ said the jackal, ‘I am so glad to see you.  I have been
looking for you everywhere.’

‘For ME?’ answered the sheep, in an astonished voice; ‘but we have
never met before!’

‘No; but I have heard of you.  Oh!  You don’t know what fine things I
have heard!  Ah, well, some people have all the luck!’

‘You are very kind, I am sure,’ answered the sheep, not knowing which
way to look.  ‘Is there any way in which I can help you?’

‘There is something that I had set my heart on, though I hardly like to
propose it on so short an acquaintance; but from what people have told
me, I thought that you and I might keep house together comfortably, if
you would only agree to try.  I have several fields belonging to me,
and if they are kept well watered they bear wonderful crops.’

‘Perhaps I might come for a short time,’ said the sheep, with a little
hesitation; ‘and if we do not get on, we can part company.’

‘Oh, thank you, thank you,’ cried the jackal; ‘do not let us lose a
moment.’  And he held out his paw in such an inviting manner that the
sheep got up and trotted beside him till they reached home.

‘Now,’ said the jackal, ‘you go to the well and fetch the water, and I
will pour it into the trenches that run between the patches of corn.’
And as he did so he sang lustily.  The work was very hard, but the
sheep did not grumble, and by-and-by was rewarded at seeing the little
green heads poking themselves through earth.  After that the hot sun
ripened them quickly, and soon harvest time was come.  Then the grain
was cut and ground and ready for sale.

When everything was complete, the jackal said to the sheep:

‘Now let us divide it, so that we can each do what we like with his
share.’

‘You do it,’ answered the sheep; ‘here are the scales.  You must weigh
it carefully.’

So the jackal began to weigh it, and when he had finished, he counted
out loud:

‘One, two, three, four, five, six, seven parts for the jackal, and one
part for the sheep.  If she likes it she can take it, if not, she can
leave it.’

The sheep looked at the two heaps in silence- -one so large, the other
so small; and then she answered:

‘Wait for a minute, while I fetch some sacks to carry away my share.’

But it was not sacks that the sheep wanted; for as soon as the jackal
could no longer see her she set forth at her best pace to the home of
the greyhound, where she arrived panting with the haste she had made.

‘Oh, good uncle, help me, I pray you!’ she cried, as soon as she could
speak.

‘Why, what is the matter?’ asked the greyhound, looking up with
astonishment.

‘I beg you to return with me, and frighten the jackal into paying me
what he owes me,’ answered the sheep.  ‘For months we have lived
together, and I have twice every day drawn the water, while he only
poured it into the trenches.  Together we have reaped our harvest; and
now, when the moment to divide our crop has come, he has taken seven
parts for himself, and only left one for me.’

She finished, and giving herself a twist, passed her woolly tail across
her eyes; while the greyhound watched her, but held his peace.  Then he
said:

‘Bring me a sack.’  And the sheep hastened away to fetch one.  Very
soon she returned, and laid the sack down before him.

‘Open it wide, that I may get in,’ cried he; and when he was
comfortably rolled up inside he bade the sheep take him on her back,
and hasten to the place where she had left the jackal.

She found him waiting for her, and pretending to be asleep, though she
clearly saw him wink one of his eyes.  However, she took no notice, but
throwing the sack roughly on the ground, she exclaimed:

‘Now measure!’

At this the jackal got up, and going to the heap of grain which lay
close by, he divided it as before into eight portions--seven for
himself and one for the sheep.

‘What are you doing that for?’ asked she indignantly.  ‘You know quite
well that it was I who drew the water, and you who only poured it into
the trenches.’

‘You are mistaken,’ answered the jackal.  ‘It was I who drew the water,
and you who poured it into the trenches.  Anybody will tell you that!
If you like, I will ask those people who are digging there!’

‘Very well,’ replied the sheep.  And the jackal called out:

‘Ho!  You diggers, tell me: Who was it you heard singing over the work?’

‘Why, it was you, of course, jackal!  You sang so loud that the whole
world might have heard you!’

‘And who it is that sings--he who draws the water, or he who empties
it?’

‘Why, certainly he who draws the water!’

‘You hear?’ said the jackal, turning to the sheep.  ‘Now come and carry
away your own portion, or else I shall take it for myself.’

‘You have got the better of me,’ answered the sheep; ‘and I suppose I
must confess myself beaten!  But as I bear no malice, go and eat some
of the dates that I have brought in that sack.’  And the jackal, who
loved dates, ran instantly back, and tore open the mouth of the sack.
But just as he was about to plunge his nose in he saw two brown eyes
calmly looking at him.  In an instant he had let fall the flap of the
sack and bounded back to where the sheep was standing.

‘I was only in fun; and you have brought my uncle the greyhound.  Take
away the sack, we will make the division over again.’  And he began
rearranging the heaps.

‘One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, for my mother the sheep, and
one for the jackal,’ counted he; casting timid glances all the while at
the sack.

‘Now you can take your share and go,’ said the sheep.  And the jackal
did not need twice telling!  Whenever the sheep looked up, she still
saw him flying, flying across the plain; and, for all I know, he may be
flying across it still.

[Contes Berberes, par Rene Basset.]



      The Three Treasures of the Giants



Long, long ago, there lived an old man and his wife who had three sons;
the eldest was called Martin, the second Michael, while the third was
named Jack.

One evening they were all seated round the table, eating their supper
of bread and milk.

‘Martin,’ said the old man suddenly, ‘I feel that I cannot live much
longer.  You, as the eldest, will inherit this hut; but, if you value
my blessing, be good to your mother and brothers.’

‘Certainly, father; how can you suppose I should do them wrong?’
replied Martin indignantly, helping himself to all the best bits in the
dish as he spoke.  The old man saw nothing, but Michael looked on in
surprise, and Jack was so astonished that he quite forgot to eat his
own supper.

A little while after, the father fell ill, and sent for his sons, who
were out hunting, to bid him farewell.  After giving good advice to the
two eldest, he turned to Jack.

‘My boy,’ he said, ‘you have not got quite as much sense as other
people, but if Heaven has deprived you of some of your wits, it was
given you a kind heart.  Always listen to what it says, and take heed
to the words of your mother and brothers, as well as you are able!’  So
saying the old man sank back on his pillows and died.

The cries of grief uttered by Martin and Michael sounded through the
house, but Jack remained by the bedside of his father, still and
silent, as if he were dead also.  At length he got up, and going into
the garden, hid himself in some trees, and wept like a child, while his
two brothers made ready for the funeral.

No sooner was the old man buried than Martin and Michael agreed that
they would go into the world together to seek their fortunes, while
Jack stayed at home with their mother.  Jack would have liked nothing
better than to sit and dream by the fire, but the mother, who was very
old herself, declared that there was no work for him to do, and that he
must seek it with his brothers.

So, one fine morning, all three set out; Martin and Michael carried two
great bags full of food, but Jack carried nothing.  This made his
brothers very angry, for the day was hot and the bags were heavy, and
about noon they sat down under a tree and began to eat.  Jack was as
hungry as they were, but he knew that it was no use asking for
anything; and he threw himself under another tree, and wept bitterly.

‘Another time perhaps you won’t be so lazy, and will bring food for
yourself,’ said Martin, but to his surprise Jack answered:

‘You are a nice pair!  You talk of seeking your fortunes so as not to
be a burden on our mother, and you begin by carrying off all the food
she has in the house!’

This reply was so unexpected that for some moments neither of the
brothers made any answer.  Then they offered their brother some of
their food, and when he had finished eating they went their way once
more.

Towards evening they reached a small hut, and knocking at the door,
asked if they might spend the night there.  The man, who was a
wood-cutter, invited them him, and begged them to sit down to supper.
Martin thanked him, but being very proud, explained that it was only
shelter they wanted, as they had plenty of food with them; and he and
Michael at once opened their bags and began to eat, while Jack hid
himself in a corner.  The wife, on seeing this, took pity on him, and
called him to come and share their supper, which he gladly did, and
very good he found it.  At this, Martin regretted deeply that he had
been so foolish as to refuse, for his bits of bread and cheese seemed
very hard when he smelt the savoury soup his brother was enjoying.

‘He shan’t have such a chance again,’ thought he; and the next morning
he insisted on plunging into a thick forest where they were likely to
meet nobody.

For a long time they wandered hither and thither, for they had no path
to guide them; but at last they came upon a wide clearing, in the midst
of which stood a castle.  Jack shouted with delight, but Martin, who
was in a bad temper, said sharply:

‘We must have taken a wrong turning!  Let us go back.’

‘Idiot!’ replied Michael, who was hungry too, and, like many people
when they are hungry, very cross also.  ‘We set out to travel through
the world, and what does it matter if we go to the right or to the
left?’ And, without another word, took the path to the castle, closely
followed by Jack, and after a moment by Martin likewise.

The door of the castle stood open, and they entered a great hall, and
looked about them.  Not a creature was to be seen, and suddenly
Martin--he did not know why--felt a little frightened.  He would have
left the castle at once, but stopped when Jack boldly walked up to a
door in the wall and opened it.  He could not for very shame be outdone
by his younger brother, and passed behind him into another splendid
hall, which was filled from floor to ceiling with great pieces of
copper money.

The sight quite dazzled Martin and Michael, who emptied all the
provisions that remained out of their bags, and heaped them up instead
with handfuls of copper.

Scarcely had they done this when Jack threw open another door, and this
time it led to a hall filled with silver.  In an instant his brothers
had turned their bags upside down, so that the copper money tumbled out
on to the floor, and were shovelling in handfuls of the silver instead.
 They had hardly finished, when Jack opened yet a third door, and all
three fell back in amazement, for this room as a mass of gold, so
bright that their eyes grew sore as they looked at it.  However, they
soon recovered from their surprise, and quickly emptied their bags of
silver, and filled them with gold instead.  When they would hold no
more, Martin said:

‘We had better hurry off now lest somebody else should come, and we
might not know what to do’; and, followed by Michael, he hastily left
the castle.  Jack lingered behind for a few minutes to put pieces of
gold, silver, and copper into his pocket, and to eat the food that his
brothers had thrown down in the first room.  Then he went after them,
and found them lying down to rest in the midst of a forest.  It was
near sunset, and Martin began to feel hungry, so, when Jack arrived, he
bade him return to the castle and bring the bread and cheese that they
had left there.

‘It is hardly worth doing that,’ answered Jack; ‘for I picked up the
pieces and ate them myself.’

At this reply both brothers were beside themselves with anger, and fell
upon the boy, beating him, and calling him names, till they were quite
tired.

‘Go where you like,’ cried Martin with a final kick; ‘but never come
near us again.’  And poor Jack ran weeping into the woods.

The next morning his brothers went home, and bought a beautiful house,
where they lived with their mother like great lords.

 Jack remained for some hours in hiding, thankful to be safe from his
tormentors; but when no one came to trouble him, and his back did not
ache so much, he began to think what he had better do.  At length he
made up his mind to go to the caste and take away as much money with
him as would enable him to live in comfort for the rest of his life.
This being decided, he sprang up, and set out along the path which led
to the castle.  As before, the door stood open, and he went on till he
had reached the hall of gold, and there he took off his jacket and tied
the sleeves together so that it might make a kind of bag.  He then
began to pour in the gold by handfuls, when, all at once, a noise like
thunder shook the castle.  This was followed by a voice, hoarse as that
of a bull, which cried:

‘I smell the smell of a man.’  And two giants entered.

‘So, little worm! it is you who steal our treasures!’ exclaimed the
biggest.  ‘Well, we have got you now, and we will cook you for supper!’
 But here the other giant drew him aside, and for a moment or two they
whispered together.  At length the first giant spoke:

‘To please my friend I will spare your life on condition that, for the
future, you shall guard our treasures.  If you are hungry take this
little table and rap on it, saying, as you do so: “The dinner of an
emperor!” and you will get as much food as you want.’

With a light heart Jack promised all that was asked of him, and for
some days enjoyed himself mightily.  He had everything he could wish
for, and did nothing from morning till night; but by-and-by he began to
get very tired of it all.

‘Let the giants guard their treasures themselves,’ he said to himself
at last; ‘I am going away.  But I will leave all the gold and silver
behind me, and will take nought but you, my good little table.’

So, tucking the table under his arm, he started off for the forest, but
he did not linger there long, and soon found himself in the fields on
the other side.  There he saw an old man, who begged Jack to give him
something to eat.

‘You could not have asked a better person,’ answered Jack cheerfully.
And signing to him to sit down with him under a tree, he set the table
in front of them, and struck it three times, crying:

‘The dinner of an emperor!’ He had hardly uttered the words when fish
and meat of all kinds appeared on it!

‘That is a clever trick of yours,’ said the old man, when he had eaten
as much as he wanted.  ‘Give it to me in exchange for a treasure I have
which is still better.  Do you see this cornet?  Well, you have only to
tell it that you wish for an army, and you will have as many soldiers
as you require.’

Now, since he had been left to himself, Jack had grown ambitious, so,
after a moment’s hesitation, he took the cornet and gave the table in
exchange.  The old man bade him farewell, and set off down one path,
while Jack chose another, and for a long time he was quite pleased with
his new possession.  Then, as he felt hungry, he wished for his table
back again, as no house was in sight, and he wanted some supper badly.
All at once he remembered his cornet, and a wicked thought entered his
mind.

‘Two hundred hussars, forward!’ cried he.  And the neighing of horses
and the clanking of swords were heard close at hand.  The officer who
rode at their head approached Jack, and politely inquired what he
wished them to do.

‘A mile or two along that road,’ answered Jack, ‘you will find an old
man carrying a table.  Take the table from him and bring it to me.’

The officer saluted and went back to his men, who started at a gallop
to do Jack’s bidding.

In ten minutes they had returned, bearing the table with them.

‘That is all, thank you,’ said Jack; and the soldiers disappeared
inside the cornet.

Oh, what a good supper Jack had that night, quite forgetting that he
owed it to a mean trick.  The next day he breakfasted early, and then
walked on towards the nearest town.  On the way thither he met another
old man, who begged for something to eat.

‘Certainly, you shall have something to eat,’ replied Jack.  And,
placing the table on the ground he cried:

‘The dinner of an emperor!’ when all sorts of food dishes appeared.  At
first the old man ate quite greedily, and said nothing; but, after his
hunger was satisfied, he turned to Jack and said:

‘That is a very clever trick of yours.  Give the table to me and you
shall have something still better.’

‘I don’t believe that there is anything better,’ answered Jack.

‘Yes, there is.  Here is my bag; it will give you as many castles as
you can possibly want.’

Jack thought for a moment; then he replied: ‘Very well, I will exchange
with you.’  And passing the table to the old man, he hung the bag over
his arm.

Five minutes later he summoned five hundred lancers out of the cornet
and bade them go after the old man and fetch back the table.

Now that by his cunning he had obtained possession of the three magic
objects, he resolved to return to his native place.  Smearing his face
with dirt, and tearing his clothes so as to look like a beggar, he
stopped the passers by and, on pretence of seeking money or food, he
questioned them about the village gossip.  In this manner he learned
that his brothers had become great men, much respected in all the
country round.  When he heard that, he lost no time in going to the
door of their fine house and imploring them to give him food and
shelter; but the only thing he got was hard words, and a command to beg
elsewhere.  At length, however, at their mother’s entreaty, he was told
that he might pass the night in the stable.  Here he waited until
everybody in the house was sound asleep, when he drew his bag from
under his cloak, and desired that a castle might appear in that place;
and the cornet gave him soldiers to guard the castle, while the table
furnished him with a good supper.  In the morning, he caused it all to
vanish, and when his brothers entered the stable they found him lying
on the straw.

Jack remained here for many days, doing nothing, and--as far as anybody
knew--eating nothing.  This conduct puzzled his brothers greatly, and
they put such constant questions to him, that at length he told them
the secret of the table, and even gave a dinner to them, which far
outdid any they had ever seen or heard of.  But though they had
solemnly promised to reveal nothing, somehow or other the tale leaked
out, and before long reached the ears of the king himself.  That very
evening his chamberlain arrived at Jack’s dwelling, with a request from
the king that he might borrow the table for three days.

‘Very well,’ answered Jack, ‘you can take it back with you.  But tell
his majesty that if he does not return it at the end of the three days
I will make war upon him.’

So the chamberlain carried away the table and took it straight to the
king, telling him at the same time of Jack’s threat, at which they both
laughed till their sides ached.

Now the king was so delighted with the table, and the dinners it gave
him, that when the three days were over he could not make up his mind
to part with it.  Instead, he sent for his carpenter, and bade him copy
it exactly, and when it was done he told his chamberlain to return it
to Jack with his best thanks.  It happened to be dinner time, and Jack
invited the chamberlain, who knew nothing of the trick, to stay and
dine with him.  The good man, who had eaten several excellent meals
provided by the table in the last three days, accepted the invitation
with pleasure, even though he was to dine in a stable, and sat down on
the straw beside Jack.

‘The dinner of an emperor!’ cried Jack.  But not even a morsel of
cheese made its appearance.

‘The dinner of an emperor!’ shouted Jack in a voice of thunder.  Then
the truth dawned on him; and, crushing the table between his hands, he
turned to the chamberlain, who, bewildered and half-frightened, was
wondering how to get away.

‘Tell your false king that to-morrow I will destroy his castle as
easily as I have broken this table.’

The chamberlain hastened back to the palace, and gave the king Jack’s
message, at which he laughed more than before, and called all his
courtiers to hear the story.  But they were not quite so merry when
they woke next morning and beheld ten thousand horsemen, and as many
archers, surrounding the palace.  The king saw it was useless to hold
out, and he took the white flag of truce in one hand, and the real
table in the other, and set out to look for Jack.

‘I committed a crime,’ said he; ‘but I will do my best to make up for
it.  Here is your table, which I own with shame that I tried to steal,
and you shall have besides, my daughter as your wife!’

 There was no need to delay the marriage when the table was able to
furnish the most splendid banquet that ever was seen, and after
everyone had eaten and drunk as much as they wanted, Jack took his bag
and commanded a castle filled with all sorts of treasures to arise in
the park for himself and his bride.

At this proof of his power the king’s heart died within him.

‘Your magic is greater than mine,’ he said; ‘and you are young and
strong, while I am old and tired.  Take, therefore, the sceptre from my
hand, and my crown from my head, and rule my people better than I have
done.’

So at last Jack’s ambition was satisfied.  He could not hope to be more
than king, and as long as he had his cornet to provide him with
soldiers he was secure against his enemies.  He never forgave his
brothers for the way they had treated him, though he presented his
mother with a beautiful castle, and everything she could possibly wish
for.  In the centre of his own palace was a treasure chamber, and in
this chamber the table, the cornet, and the bag were kept as the most
prized of all his possessions, and not a week passed without a visit
from king John to make sure they were safe.  He reigned long and well,
and died a very old man, beloved by his people.  But his good example
was not followed by his sons and his grandsons.  They grew so proud
that they were ashamed to think that the founder of their race had once
been a poor boy; and as they and all the world could not fail to
remember it, as long as the table, the cornet, and the bag were shown
in the treasure chamber, one king, more foolish than the rest, thrust
them into a dark and damp cellar.

For some time the kingdom remained, though it became weaker and weaker
every year that passed.  Then, one day, a rumour reached the king that
a large army was marching against him.  Vaguely he recollected some
tales he had heard about a magic cornet which could provide as many
soldiers as would serve to conquer the earth, and which had been
removed by his grandfather to a cellar.  Thither he hastened that he
might renew his power once more, and in that black and slimy spot he
found the treasures indeed.  But the table fell to pieces as he touched
it, in the cornet there remained only a few fragments of leathern belts
which the rats had gnawed, and in the bag nothing but broken bits of
stone.

And the king bowed his head to the doom that awaited him, and in his
heart cursed the ruin wrought by the pride and foolishness of himself
and his forefathers.

[From Contes Populaires Slaves, par Louis Leger.]



            The Rover of the Plain



A long way off, near the sea coast of the east of Africa, there dwelt,
once upon a time, a man and his wife.  They had two children, a son and
a daughter, whom they loved very much, and, like parents in other
countries, they often talked of the fine marriages the young people
would make some day.  Out there both boys and girls marry early, and
very soon, it seemed to the mother, a message was sent by a rich man on
the other side of the great hills offering a fat herd of oxen in
exchange for the girl.  Everyone in the house and in the village
rejoiced, and the maiden was despatched to her new home.  When all was
quiet again the father said to his son:

‘Now that we own such a splendid troop of oxen you had better hasten
and get yourself a wife, lest some illness should overtake them.
Already we have seen in the villages round about one or two damsels
whose parents would gladly part with them for less than half the herd.
Therefore tell us which you like best, and we will buy her for you.’

But the son answered:

‘Not so; the maidens I have seen do not please me.  If, indeed, I must
marry, let me travel and find a wife for myself.’

‘It shall be as you wish,’ said the parents; ‘but if by-and-by trouble
should come of it, it will be your fault and not ours.’

The youth, however, would not listen; and bidding his father and mother
farewell, set out on his search.  Far, far away he wandered, over
mountains and across rivers, till he reached a village where the people
were quite different from those of his own race.  He glanced about him
and noticed that the girls were fair to look upon, as they pounded
maize or stewed something that smelt very nice in earthen
pots--especially if you were hot and tired; and when one of the maidens
turned round and offered the stranger some dinner, he made up his mind
that he would wed her and nobody else.

So he sent a message to her parents asking their leave to take her for
his wife, and they came next day to bring their answer.

‘We will give you our daughter,’ said they, ‘if you can pay a good
price for her.  Never was there so hardworking a girl; and how we shall
do without her we cannot tell!  Still-- no doubt your father and mother
will come themselves and bring the price?’

‘No; I have the price with me,’ replied the young man; laying down a
handful of gold pieces.  ‘Here it is--take it.’

The old couple’s eyes glittered greedily; but custom forbade them to
touch the price before all was arranged.

‘At least,’ said they, after a moment’s pause, ‘we may expect them to
fetch your wife to her new home?’

‘No; they are not used to travelling,’ answered the bridegroom.  ‘Let
the ceremony be performed without delay, and we will set forth at once.
 It is a long journey.’

Then the parents called in the girl, who was lying in the sun outside
the hut, and, in the presence of all the village, a goat was killed,
the sacred dance took place, and a blessing was said over the heads of
the young people.  After that the bride was led aside by her father,
whose duty it was to bestow on her some parting advice as to her
conduct in her married life.

‘Be good to your husband’s parents,’ added he, ‘and always do the will
of your husband.’  And the girl nodded her head obediently.  Next it
was the mother’s turn; and, as was the custom of the tribe, she spoke
to her daughter:

‘Will you choose which of your sisters shall go with you to cut your
wood and carry your water?’

‘I do not want any of them,’ answered she; ‘they are no use.  They will
drop the wood and spill the water.’

‘Then will you have any of the other children?  There are enough to
spare,’ asked the mother again.  But the bride said quickly:

‘I will have none of them!  You must give me our buffalo, the Rover of
the Plain; he alone shall serve me.’

‘What folly you talk!’ cried the parents.  ‘Give you our buffalo, the
Rover of the Plain?  Why, you know that our life depends on him.  Here
he is well fed and lies on soft grass; but how can you tell what will
befall him in another country?  The food may be bad, he will die of
hunger; and, if he dies we die also.’

‘No, no,’ said the bride; ‘I can look after him as well as you.  Get
him ready, for the sun is sinking and it is time we set forth.’

So she went away and put together a small pot filled with healing
herms, a horn that she used in tending sick people, a little knife, and
a calabash containing deer fat; and, hiding these about her, she took
leave of her father and mother and started across the mountains by the
side of her husband.

But the young man did not see the buffalo that followed them, which had
left his home to be the servant of his wife.

No one ever knew how the news spread to the kraal that the young man
was coming back, bringing a wife with him; but, somehow or other, when
the two entered the village, every man and woman was standing in the
road uttering shouts of welcome.

‘Ah, you are not dead after all,’ cried they; ‘and have found a wife to
your liking, though you would have none of our girls.  Well, well, you
have chosen your own path; and if ill comes of it beware lest you
grumble.’

Next day the husband took his wife to the fields and showed her which
were his, and which belonged to his mother.  The girl listened
carefully to all he told her, and walked with him back to the hut; but
close to the door she stopped, and said:

‘I have dropped my necklace of beads in the field, and I must go and
look for it.’  But in truth she had done nothing of the sort, and it
was only an excuse to go and seek the buffalo.

The beast was crouching under a tree when she came up, and snorted with
pleasure at the sight of her.

‘You can roam about this field, and this, and this,’ she said, ‘for
they belong to my husband; and that is his wood, where you may hide
yourself.  But the other fields are his mother’s, so beware lest you
touch them.’

‘I will beware,’ answered the buffalo; and, patting his head, the girl
left him.

Oh, how much better a servant he was than any of the little girls the
bride had refused to bring with her!  If she wanted water, she had only
to cross the patch of maize behind the hut and seek out the place where
the buffalo lay hidden, and put down her pail beside him.  Then she
would sit at her ease while he went to the lake and brought the bucket
back brimming over.  If she wanted wood, he would break the branches
off the trees and lay them at her feet.  And the villagers watched her
return laden, and said to each other:

‘Surely the girls of her country are stronger than our girls, for none
of them could cut so quickly or carry so much!’  But then, nobody knew
that she had a buffalo for a servant.

Only, all this time she never gave the poor buffalo anything to eat,
because she had just one dish, out of which she and her husband ate;
while in her old home there was a dish put aside expressly for the
Rover of the Plain.  The buffalo bore it as long as he could; but, one
day, when his mistress bade him go to the lake and fetch water, his
knees almost gave way from hunger.  He kept silence, however, till the
evening, when he said to his mistress:

‘I am nearly starved; I have not touched food since I came here.  I can
work no more.’

‘Alas!’ answered she, ‘what can I do?  I have only one dish in the
house.  You will have to steal some beans from the fields.  Take a few
here and a few there; but be sure not to take too many from one place,
or the owner may notice it.’

Now the buffalo had always lived an honest life, but if his mistress
did not feed him, he must get food for himself.  So that night, when
all the village was asleep, he came out from the wood and ate a few
beans here and a few there, as his mistress had bidden him.  And when
at last his hunger was satisfied, he crept back to his lair.  But a
buffalo is not a fairy, and the next morning, when the women arrived to
work in the fields, they stood still with astonishment, and said to
each other:

‘Just look at this; a savage beast has been destroying our crops, and
we can see the traces of his feet!’  And they hurried to their homes to
tell their tale.

In the evening the girl crept out to the buffalo’s hiding-place, and
said to him:

‘They perceived what happened, of course; so to-night you had better
seek your supper further off.’  And the buffalo nodded his head and
followed her counsel; but in the morning, when these women also went
out to work, the races of hoofs were plainly to be seen, and they
hastened to tell their husbands, and begged them to bring their guns,
and to watch for the robber.

It happened that the stranger girl’s husband was the best marksman in
all the village, and he hid himself behind the trunk of a tree and
waited.

The buffalo, thinking that they would probably make a search for him in
the fields he had laid waste the evening before, returned to the bean
patch belonging to his mistress.

The young man saw him coming with amazement.

‘Why, it is a buffalo!’ cried he; ‘I never have beheld one in this
country before!’  And raising his gun, he aimed just behind the ear.

The buffalo gave a leap into the air, and then fell dead.

‘It was a good shot,’ said the young man.  And he ran to the village to
tell them that the thief was punished.

When he entered his hut he found his wife, who had somehow heard the
news, twisting herself to and fro and shedding tears.

‘Are you ill?’ asked he.  And she answered: ‘Yes; I have pains all over
my body.’  But she was not ill at all, only very unhappy at the death
of the buffalo which had served her so well.  Her husband felt anxious,
and sent for the medicine man; but though she pretended to listen to
him, she threw all his medicine out of the door directly he had gone
away.

With the first rays of light the whole village was awake, and the women
set forth armed with baskets and the men with knives in order to cut up
the buffalo.  Only the girl remained in her hut; and after a while she
too went to join them, groaning and weeping as she walked along.

‘What are you doing here?’ asked her husband when he saw her.  ‘If you
are ill you are better at home.’

‘Oh!  I could not stay alone in the village,’ said she.  And her
mother-in-law left off her work to come and scold her, and to tell her
that she would kill herself if she did such foolish things.  But the
girl would not listen and sat down and looked on.

When they had divided the buffalo’s flesh, and each woman had the
family portion in her basket, the stranger wife got up and said:

‘Let me have the head.’

‘You could never carry anything so heavy,’ answered the men, ‘and now
you are ill besides.’

‘You do not know how strong I am,’ answered she.  And at last they gave
it her.

She did not walk to the village with the others, but lingered behind,
and, instead of entering her hut, she slipped into the little shed
where the pots for cooking and storing maize were kept.  Then she laid
down the buffalo’s head and sat beside it.  Her husband came to seek
her, and begged her to leave the shed and go to bed, as she must be
tired out; but the girl would not stir, neither would she attend to the
words of her mother-in-law.

‘I wish you would leave me alone!’ she answered crossly.  ‘It is
impossible to sleep if somebody is always coming in.’  And she turned
her back on them, and would not even eat the food they had brought.  So
they went away, and the young man soon stretched himself out on his
mat; but his wife’s odd conduct made him anxious, and he lay wake all
night, listening.

When all was still the girl made a fire and boiled some water in a pot.
 As soon as it was quite hot she shook in the medicine that she had
brought from home, and then, taking the buffalo’s head, she made
incisions with her little knife behind the ear, and close to the temple
where the shot had struck him.  Next she applied the horn to the spot
and blew with all her force till, at length, the blood began to move.
After that she spread some of the deer fat out of the calabash over the
wound, which she held in the steam of the hot water.  Last of all, she
sang in a low voice a dirge over the Rover of the Plain.

As she chanted the final words the head moved, and the limbs came back.
 The buffalo began to feel alive again and shook his horns, and stood
up and stretched himself.  Unluckily it was just at this moment that
the husband said to himself:

‘I wonder if she is crying still, and what is the matter with her!
Perhaps I had better go and see.’  And he got up and, calling her by
name, went out to the shed.

‘Go away!  I don’t want you!’ she cried angrily.  But it was too late.
The buffalo had fallen to the ground, dead, and with the wound in his
head as before.

The young man who, unlike most of his tribe, was afraid of his wife,
returned to his bed without having seen anything, but wondering very
much what she could be doing all this time.  After waiting a few
minutes, she began her task over again, and at the end the buffalo
stood on his feet as before.  But just as the girl was rejoicing that
her work was completed, in came the husband once more to see what his
wife was doing; and this time he sat himself down in the hut, and said
that he wished to watch whatever was going on.  Then the girl took up
the pitcher and all her other things and left the shed, trying for the
third time to bring the buffalo back to life.

She was too late; the dawn was already breaking, and the head fell to
the ground, dead and corrupt as it was before.

The girl entered the hut, where her husband and his mother were getting
ready to go out.

‘I want to go down to the lake, and bathe,’ said she.

‘But you could never walk so far,’ answered they.  ‘You are so tired,
as it is, that you can hardly stand!’

However, in spite of their warnings, the girl left the hut in the
direction of the lake.  Very soon she came back weeping, and sobbed out:

‘I met some one in the village who lives in my country, and he told me
that my mother is very, very ill, and if I do not go to her at once she
will be dead before I arrive.  I will return as soon as I can, and now
farewell.’  And she set forth in the direction of the mountains.  But
this story was not true; she knew nothing about her mother, only she
wanted an excuse to go home and tell her family that their prophecies
had come true, and that the buffalo was dead.

 Balancing her basket on her head, she walked along, and directly she
had left the village behind her she broke out into the song of the
Rover of the Plain, and at last, at the end of the day, she came to the
group of huts where her parents lived.  Her friends all ran to meet
her, and, weeping, she told them that the buffalo was dead.

This sad news spread like lightning through the country, and the people
flocked from far and near to bewail the loss of the beast who had been
their pride.

‘If you had only listened to us,’ they cried, ‘he would be alive now.
But you refused all the little girls we offered you, and would have
nothing but the buffalo.  And remember what the medicine-man said: “If
the buffalo dies you die also!”’

So they bewailed their fate, one to the other, and for a while they did
not perceive that the girl’s husband was sitting in their midst,
leaning his gun against a tree.  Then one man, turning, beheld him, and
bowed mockingly.

‘Hail, murderer! hail! you have slain us all!’

The young man stared, not knowing what he meant, and answered,
wonderingly:

‘I shot a buffalo; is that why you call me a murderer?’

‘A buffalo--yes; but the servant of your wife!  It was he who carried
the wood and drew the water.  Did you not know it?’

‘No; I did not know it,’ replied the husband in surprise.  ‘Why did no
one tell me?  Of course I should not have shot him!’

‘Well, he is dead,’ answered they, ‘and we must die too.’

At this the girl took a cup in which some poisonous herbs had been
crushed, and holding it in her hands, she wailed: ‘O my father, Rover
of the Plain!’  Then drinking a deep draught from it, fell back dead.
One by one her parents, her brothers and her sisters, drank also and
died, singing a dirge to the memory of the buffalo.

The girl’s husband looked on with horror; and returned sadly home
across the mountains, and, entering his hut, threw himself on the
ground.  At first he was too tired to speak; but at length he raised
his head and told all the story to his father and mother, who sat
watching him.  When he had finished they shook their heads and said:

‘Now you see that we spoke no idle words when we told you that ill
would come of your marriage!  We offered you a good and hard- working
wife, and you would have none of her.  And it is not only your wife you
have lost, but your fortune also.  For who will give you back your
money if they are all dead?’

‘It is true, O my father,’ answered the young man.  But in his heart he
thought more of the loss of his wife than of the money he had given for
her.

[From L’Etude Ethnographique sur les Baronga, par Henri Junod.]



                The White Doe



Once upon a time there lived a king and queen who loved each other
dearly, and would have been perfectly happy if they had only had a
little son or daughter to play with.  They never talked about it, and
always pretended that there was nothing in the world to wish for; but,
sometimes when they looked at other people’s children, their faces grew
sad, and their courtiers and attendants knew the reason why.

One day the queen was sitting alone by the side of a waterfall which
sprung from some rocks in the large park adjoining the castle.  She was
feeling more than usually miserable, and had sent away her ladies so
that no one might witness her grief.  Suddenly she heard a rustling
movement in the pool below the waterfall, and, on glancing up, she saw
a large crab climbing on to a stone beside her.

‘Great queen,’ said the crab, ‘I am here to tell you that the desire of
your heart will soon be granted.  But first you must permit me to lead
you to the palace of the fairies, which, though hard by, has never been
seen by mortal eyes because of the thick clouds that surround it.  When
there you will know more; that is, if you will trust yourself to me.’

The queen had never before heard an animal speak, and was struck dumb
with surprise.  However, she was so enchanted at the words of the crab
that she smiled sweetly and held out her hand; it was taken, not by the
crab, which had stood there only a moment before, but by a little old
woman smartly dressed in white and crimson with green ribbons in her
grey hair.  And, wonderful to say, not a drop of water fell from her
clothes.

The old woman ran lightly down a path along which the queen had been a
hundred times before, but it seemed so different she could hardly
believe it was the same.  Instead of having to push her way through
nettles and brambles, roses and jasmine hung about her head, while
under her feet the ground was sweet with violets.  The orange trees
were so tall and thick that, even at mid-day, the sun was never too
hot, and at the end of the path was a glimmer of something so dazzling
that the queen had to shade her eyes, and peep at it only between her
fingers.

‘What can it be?’ she asked, turning to her guide; who answered:

‘Oh, that is the fairies’ palace, and here are some of them coming to
meet us.’

As she spoke the gates swung back and six fairies approached, each
bearing in her hand a flower made of precious stones, but so like a
real one that it was only by touching you could tell the difference.

‘Madam,’ they said, ‘we know not how to thank you for this mark of your
confidence, but have the happiness to tell you that in a short time you
will have a little daughter.’

The queen was so enchanted at this news that she nearly fainted with
joy; but when she was able to speak, she poured out all her gratitude
to the fairies for their promised gift.

‘And now,’ she said, ‘I ought not to stay any longer, for my husband
will think that I have run away, or that some evil beast has devoured
me.’

In a little while it happened just as the fairies had foretold, and a
baby girl was born in the palace.  Of course both the king and queen
were delighted, and the child was called Desiree, which means
‘desired,’ for she had been ‘desired’ for five years before her birth.

At first the queen could think of nothing but her new plaything, but
then she remembered the fairies who had sent it to her.  Bidding her
ladies bring her the posy of jewelled flowers which had been given her
at the palace, she took each flower in her hand and called it by name,
and, in turn, each fairy appeared before her.  But, as unluckily often
happens, the one to whom she owed the most, the crab-fairy, was
forgotten, and by this, as in the case of other babies you have read
about, much mischief was wrought.

However, for the moment all was gaiety in the palace, and everybody
inside ran to the windows to watch the fairies’ carriages, for no two
were alike.  One had a car of ebony, drawn by white pigeons, another
was lying back in her ivory chariot, driving ten black crows, while the
rest had chosen rare woods or many-coloured sea-shells, with scarlet
and blue macaws, long-tailed peacocks, or green love-birds for horses.
These carriages were only used on occasions of state, for when they
went to war flying dragons, fiery serpents, lions or leopards, took the
place of the beautiful birds.

The fairies entered the queen’s chamber followed by little dwarfs who
carried their presents and looked much prouder than their mistresses.
One by one their burdens were spread upon the ground, and no one had
ever seen such lovely things.  Everything that a baby could possibly
wear or play with was there, and besides, they had other and more
precious gifts to give her, which only children who have fairies for
godmothers can ever hope to possess.

They were all gathered round the heap of pink cushions on which the
baby lay asleep, when a shadow seemed to fall between them and the sun,
while a cold wind blew through the room.  Everybody looked up, and
there was the crab- fairy, who had grown as tall as the ceiling in her
anger.

‘So I am forgotten!’ cried she, in a voice so loud that the queen
trembled as she heard it.  ‘Who was it soothed you in your trouble?
Who was it led you to the fairies?  Who was it brought you back in
safety to your home again?  Yet I--I--am overlooked, while these who
have done nothing in comparison, are petted and thanked.’

The queen, almost dumb with terror, in vain tried to think of some
explanation or apology; but there was none, and she could only confess
her fault and implore forgiveness.  The fairies also did their best to
soften the wrath of their sister, and knowing that, like many plain
people who are not fairies, she was very vain, they entreated her to
drop her crab’s disguise, and to become once more the charming person
they were accustomed to see.

For some time the enraged fairy would listen to nothing; but at length
the flatteries began to take effect.  The crab’s shell fell from her,
she shrank into her usual size, and lost some of her fierce expression.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘I will not cause the princess’s death, as I had
meant to do, but at the same time she will have to bear the punishment
of her mother’s fault, as many other children have done before her.
The sentence I pass upon her is, that if she is allowed to see one ray
of daylight before her fifteenth birthday she will rue it bitterly, and
it may perhaps cost her her life.’  And with these words she vanished
by the window through which she came, while the fairies comforted the
weeping queen and took counsel how best the princess might be kept safe
during her childhood.

At the end of half an hour they had made up their minds what to do, and
at the command of the fairies, a beautiful palace sprang up, close to
that of the king and queen, but different from every palace in the
world in having no windows, and only a door right under the earth.
However, once within, daylight was hardly missed, so brilliant were the
multitudes of tapers that were burning on the walls.

Now up to this time the princess’s history has been like the history of
many a princess that you have read about; but, when the period of her
imprisonment was nearly over, her fortunes took another turn.  For
almost fifteen years the fairies had taken care of her, and amused her
and taught her, so that when she came into the world she might be no
whit behind the daughters of other kings in all that makes a princess
charming and accomplished.  They all loved her dearly, but the fairy
Tulip loved her most of all; and as the princess’s fifteenth birthday
drew near, the fairy began to tremble lest something terrible should
happen--some accident which had not been foreseen.  ‘Do not let her out
of your sight,’ said Tulip to the queen, ‘and meanwhile, let her
portrait be painted and carried to the neighbouring Courts, as is the
custom in order that the kings may see how far her beauty exceeds that
of every other princess, and that they may demand her in marriage for
their sons.’

And so it was done; and as the fairy had prophesied, all the young
princes fell in love with the picture; but the last one to whom it was
shown could think of nothing else, and refused to let it be removed
from his chamber, where he spent whole days gazing at it.

The king his father was much surprised at the change which had come
over his son, who generally passed all his time in hunting or hawking,
and his anxiety was increased by a conversation he overheard between
two of his courtiers that they feared the prince must be going out of
his mind, so moody had he become.  Without losing a moment the king
went to visit his son, and no sooner had he entered the room than the
young man flung himself at his father’s feet.

‘You have betrothed me already to a bride I can never love!’ cried he;
‘but if you will not consent to break off the match, and ask for the
hand of the princess Desiree, I shall die of misery, thankful to be
alive no longer.’

These words much displeased the king, who felt that, in breaking off
the marriage already arranged he would almost certainly be bringing on
his subjects a long and bloody war; so, without answering, he turned
away, hoping that a few days might bring his son to reason.  But the
prince’s condition grew rapidly so much worse that the king, in
despair, promised to send an embassy at once to Desiree’s father.

This news cured the young man in an instant of all his ills; and he
began to plan out every detail of dress and of horses and carriages
which were necessary to make the train of the envoy, whose name was
Becasigue, as splendid as possible.  He longed to form part of the
embassy himself, if only in the disguise of a page; but this the king
would not allow, and so the prince had to content himself with
searching the kingdom for everything that was rare and beautiful to
send to the princess.  Indeed, he arrived, just as the embassy was
starting, with his portrait, which had been painted in secret by the
court painter.

The king and queen wished for nothing better than that their daughter
marry into such a great and powerful family, and received the
ambassador with every sign of welcome.  They even wished him to see the
princess Desiree, but this was prevented by the fairy Tulip, who feared
some ill might come of it.

‘And be sure you tell him,’ added she, ‘that the marriage cannot be
celebrated till she is fifteen years old, or else some terrible
misfortune will happen to the child.’

So when Becasigue, surround by his train, made a formal request that
the princess Desiree might be given in marriage to his master’s son,
the king replied that he was much honoured, and would gladly give his
consent; but that no one could even see the princess till her fifteenth
birthday, as the spell laid upon her in her cradle by a spiteful fairy,
would not cease to work till that was past.  The ambassador was greatly
surprised and disappointed, but he knew too much about fairies to
venture to disobey them, therefore he had to content himself with
presenting the prince’s portrait to the queen, who lost no time in
carrying it to the princess.  As the girl took it in her hands it
suddenly spoke, as it had been taught to do, and uttered a compliment
of the most delicate and charming sort, which made the princess flush
with pleasure.

‘How would you like to have a husband like that?’ asked the queen,
laughing.

‘As if I knew anything about husbands!’ replied Desiree, who had long
ago guessed the business of the ambassador.

‘Well, he will be your husband in three months,’ answered the queen,
ordering the prince’s presents to be brought in.  The princess was very
pleased with them, and admired them greatly, but the queen noticed that
all the while her eyes constantly strayed from the softest silks and
most brilliant jewels to the portrait of the prince.

The ambassador, finding that there was no hope of his being allowed to
see the princess, took his leave, and returned to his own court; but
here a new difficulty appeared.  The prince, though transported with
joy at the thought that Desiree was indeed to be his bride, was
bitterly disappointed that she had not been allowed to return with
Becasigue, as he had foolishly expected; and never having been taught
to deny himself anything or to control his feelings, he fell as ill as
he had done before.  He would eat nothing nor take pleasure in
anything, but lay all day on a heap of cushions, gazing at the picture
of the princess.

‘If I have to wait three months before I can marry the princess I shall
die!’ was all this spoilt boy would say; and at length the king, in
despair, resolved to send a fresh embassy to Desiree’s father to
implore him to permit the marriage to be celebrated at once.  ‘I would
have presented my prayer in person, he added in his letter, ‘but my
great age and infirmities do not suffer me to travel; however my envoy
has orders to agree to any arrangement that you may propose.’

On his arrival at the palace Becasigue pleaded his young master’s cause
as fervently as the king his father could have done, and entreated that
the princess might be consulted in the matter.  The queen hastened to
the marble tower, and told her daughter of the sad state of the prince.
 Desiree sank down fainting at the news, but soon came to herself
again, and set about inventing a plan which would enable her to go to
the prince without risking the doom pronounced over her by the wicked
fairy.

‘I see!’ she exclaimed joyfully at last.  ‘Let a carriage be built
through which no light can come, and let it be brought into my room.  I
will then get into it, and we can travel swiftly during the night and
arrive before dawn at the palace of the prince.  Once there, I can
remain in some underground chamber, where no light can come.’

‘Ah, how clever you are,’ cried the queen, clasping her in her arms.
And she hurried away to tell the king.

‘What a wife our prince will have!’ said Becasigue bowing low; ‘but I
must hasten back with the tidings, and to prepare the underground
chamber for the princess.’  And so he took his leave.

In a few days the carriage commanded by the princess was ready.  It was
of green velvet, scattered over with large golden thistles, and lined
inside with silver brocade embroidered with pink roses.  It had no
windows, of course; but the fairy Tulip, whose counsel had been asked,
had managed to light it up with a soft glow that came no one knew
whither.

It was carried straight up into the great hall of the tower, and the
princess stepped into it, followed by her faithful maid of honour,
Eglantine, and by her lady in waiting Cerisette, who also had fallen in
love with the prince’s portrait and was bitterly jealous of her
mistress.  The fourth place in the carriage was filled by Cerisette’s
mother, who had been sent by the queen to look after the three young
people.

Now the Fairy of the Fountain was the godmother of the princess Nera,
to whom the prince had been betrothed before the picture of Desiree had
made him faithless.  She was very angry at the slight put upon her
godchild, and from that moment kept careful watch on the princess.  In
this journey she saw her chance, and it was she who, invisible, sat by
Cerisette, and put bad thoughts into the minds of both her and her
mother.

The way to the city where the prince lived ran for the most part
through a thick forest, and every night when there was no moon, and not
a single star could be seen through the trees, the guards who travelled
with the princess opened the carriage to give it an airing.  This went
on for several days, till only twelve hours journey lay between them
and the palace.  The Cerisette persuaded her mother to cut a great hole
in the side of the carriage with a sharp knife which she herself had
brought for the purpose.  In the forest the darkness was so intense
that no one perceived what she had done, but when they left the last
trees behind them, and emerged into the open country, the sun was up,
and for the first time since her babyhood, Desiree found herself in the
light of day.

She looked up in surprise at the dazzling brilliance that streamed
through the hole; then gave a sigh which seemed to come from her heart.
 The carriage door swung back, as if by magic, and a white doe sprang
out, and in a moment was lost to sight in the forest.  But, quick as
she was, Eglantine, her maid of honour, had time to see where she went,
and jumped from the carriage in pursuit of her, followed at a distance
by the guards.

Cerisette and her mother looked at each other in surprise and joy.
They could hardly believe in their good fortune, for everything had
happened exactly as they wished.  The first thing to be done was to
conceal the hole which had been cut, and when this was managed (with
the help of the angry fairy, though they did not know it), Cerisette
hastened to take off her own clothes, and put on those of the princess,
placing the crown of diamonds on her head.  She found this heavier than
she expected; but then, she had never been accustomed to wear crowns,
which makes all the difference.

At the gates of the city the carriage was stopped by a guard of honour
sent by the king as an escort to his son’s bride.  Though Cerisette and
her mother could of course see nothing of what was going on outside,
they heard plainly the shouts of welcome from the crowds along the
streets.

The carriage stopped at length in the vast hall which Becasigue had
prepared for the reception of the princess.  The grand chamberlain and
the lord high steward were awaiting her, and when the false bride
stepped into the brilliantly lighted room, they bowed low, and said
they had orders to inform his highness the moment she arrived.  The
prince, whom the strict etiquette of the court had prevented from being
present in the underground hall, was burning with impatience in his own
apartments.

‘So she had come!’ cried he, throwing down the bow he had been
pretending to mend.  ‘Well, was I not right?  Is she not a miracle of
beauty and grace?  And has she her equal in the whole world?’ The
ministers looked at each other, and made no reply; till at length the
chamberlain, who was the bolder of the two, observed:

‘My lord, as to her beauty, you can judge of that for yourself.  No
doubt it is as great as you say; but at present it seems to have
suffered, as is natural, from the fatigues of the journey.’

This was certainly not what the prince had expected to hear.  Could the
portrait have flattered her?  He had known of such things before, and a
cold shiver ran through him; but with an effort he kept silent from
further questioning, and only said:

‘Has the king been told that the princess is in the palace?’

‘Yes, highness; and he has probably already joined her.’

‘Then I will go too,’ said the prince.

Weak as he was from his long illness, the prince descended the
staircase, supported by the ministers, and entered the room just in
time to hear his father’s loud cry of astonishment and disgust at the
sight of Cerisette.

‘There was been treachery at work,’ he exclaimed, while the prince
leant, dumb with horror, against the doorpost.  But the lady in
waiting, who had been prepared for something of the sort, advanced,
holding in her hand the letters which the king and queen had entrusted
to her.

‘This is the princess Desiree,’ said she, pretending to have heard
nothing, ‘and I have the honour to present to you these letters from my
liege lord and lady, together with the casket containing the princess’
jewels.’

The king did not move or answer her; so the prince, leaning on the arm
of Becasigue, approached a little closer to the false princess, hoping
against hope that his eyes had deceived him.  But the longer he looked
the more he agreed with his father that there was treason somewhere,
for in no single respect did the portrait resemble the woman before
him.  Cerisette was so tall that the dress of the princess did not
reach her ankles, and so thin that her bones showed through the stuff.
Besides that her nose was hooked, and her teeth black and ugly.

In his turn, the prince stood rooted to the spot.  At last he spoke,
and his words were addressed to his father, and not to the bride who
had come so far to marry him.

‘We have been deceived,’ he said, ‘and it will cost me my life.’  And
he leaned so heavily on the envoy that Becasigue feared he was going to
faint, and hastily laid him on the floor.  For some minutes no one
could attend to anybody but the prince; but as soon as he revived the
lady in waiting made herself heard.

‘Oh, my lovely princess, why did we ever leave home?’ cried she.  ‘But
the king your father will avenge the insults that have been heaped on
you when we tell him how you have been treated.’

‘I will tell him myself,’ replied the king in wrath; ‘he promised me a
wonder of beauty, he has sent me a skeleton!  I am not surprised that
he has kept her for fifteen years hidden away from the eyes of the
world.  Take them both away,’ he continued, turning to his guards, ‘and
lodge them in the state prison.  There is something more I have to
learn of this matter.’

His orders were obeyed, and the prince, loudly bewailing his sad fate,
was led back to bed, where for many days he lay in a high fever.  At
length he slowly began to gain strength, but his sorrow was still so
great that he could not bear the sight of a strange face, and shuddered
at the notion of taking his proper part in the court ceremonies.
Unknown to the king, or to anybody but Becasigue, he planned that, as
soon as he was able, he would make his escape and pass the rest of his
life alone in some solitary place.  It was some weeks before he had
regained his health sufficiently to carry out his design; but finally,
one beautiful starlight night, the two friends stole away, and when the
king woke next morning he found a letter lying by his bed, saying that
his son had gone, he knew not whither.  He wept bitter tears at the
news, for he loved the prince dearly; but he felt that perhaps the
young man had done wisely, and he trusted to time and Becasigue’s
influence to bring the wanderer home.

And while these things were happening, what had become of the white
doe?  Though when she sprang from the carriage she was aware that some
unkind fate had changed her into an animal, yet, till she saw herself
in a stream, she had no idea what it was.

‘Is it really, I, Desiree?’ she said to herself, weeping.  ‘What wicked
fairy can have treated me so; and shall I never, never take my own
shape again?  My only comfort that, in this great forest, full of lions
and serpents, my life will be a short one.’

Now the fairy Tulip was as much grieved at the sad fate of the princess
as Desiree’s own mother could have been if she had known of it.  Still,
she could not help feeling that if the king and queen had listened to
her advice the girl would by this time be safely in the walls of her
new home.  However, she loved Desiree too much to let her suffer more
than could be helped, and it was she who guided Eglantine to the place
where the white doe was standing, cropping the grass which was her
dinner.

At the sound of footsteps the pretty creature lifted her head, and when
she saw her faithful companion approaching she bounded towards her, and
rubbed her head on Eglantine’s shoulder.  The maid of honour was
surprised; but she was fond of animals, and stroked the white doe
tenderly, speaking gently to her all the while.  Suddenly the beautiful
creature lifted her head, and looked up into Eglantine’s face, with
tears streaming from her eyes.  A thought flashed through her mind, and
quick as lightning the girl flung herself on her knees, and lifting the
animal’s feet kissed them one by one.  ‘My princess!  O my dear
princess!’ cried she; and again the white doe rubbed her head against
her, for thought the spiteful fairy had taken away her power of speech,
she had not deprived her of her reason!

All day long the two remained together, and when Eglantine grew hungry
she was led by the white doe to a part of the forest where pears and
peaches grew in abundance; but, as night came on, the maid of honour
was filled with the terrors of wild beasts which had beset the princess
during her first night in the forest.

‘Is there no hut or cave we could go into?’ asked she.  But the doe
only shook her head; and the two sat down and wept with fright.

The fairy Tulip, who, in spite of her anger, was very soft-hearted, was
touched at their distress, and flew quickly to their help.

‘I cannot take away the spell altogether,’ she said, ‘for the Fairy of
the Fountain is stronger than I; but I can shorten the time of your
punishment, and am able to make it less hard, for as soon as darkness
fall you shall resume your own shape.’

To think that by-and-by she would cease to be a white doe--indeed, that
she would at once cease to be one during the night--was for the present
joy enough for Desiree, and she skipped about on the grass in the
prettiest manner.

‘Go straight down the path in front of you,’ continued the fairy,
smiling as she watched her; ‘go straight down the path and you will
soon reach a little hut where you will find shelter.’  And with these
words she vanished, leaving her hearers happier than they ever thought
they could be again.

An old woman was standing at the door of the hut when Eglantine drew
near, with the white doe trotting by her side.

‘Good evening!’ she said; ‘could you give me a night’s lodging for
myself and my doe?’

‘Certainly I can,’ replied the old woman.  And she led them into a room
with two little white beds, so clean and comfortable that it made you
sleepy even to look at them.

The door had hardly closed behind the old woman when the sun sank below
the horizon, and Desiree became a girl again.

‘Oh, Eglantine! what should I have done if you had not followed me,’
she cried.  And she flung herself into her friend’s arms in a transport
of delight.

Early in the morning Eglantine was awakened by the sound of someone
scratching at the door, and on opening her eyes she saw the white doe
struggling to get out.  The little creature looked up and into her
face, and nodded her head as the maid of honour unfastened the latch,
but bounded away into the woods, and was lost to sight in a moment.

 Meanwhile, the prince and Becasigue were wandering through the wood,
till at last the prince grew so tired, that he lay down under a tree,
and told Becasigue that he had better go in search of food, and of some
place where they could sleep.  Becasigue had not gone very far, when a
turn of the path brought him face to face with the old woman who was
feeding her doves before her cottage.

‘Could you give me some milk and fruit?’ asked he.  ‘I am very hungry
myself, and, besides, I have left a friend behind me who is still weak
from illness.’

‘Certainly I can,’ answered the old woman.  ‘But come and sit down in
my kitchen while I catch the goat and milk it.’

Becasigue was glad enough to do as he was bid, and in a few minutes the
old woman returned with a basket brimming over with oranges and grapes.

‘If your friend has been ill he should not pass the night in the
forest,’ said she.  ‘I have room in my hut--tiny enough, it is true;
but better than nothing, and to that you are both heartily welcome.’

Becasigue thanked her warmly, and as by this time it was almost sunset,
he set out to fetch the prince.  It was while he was absent that
Eglantine and the white doe entered the hut, and having, of course, no
idea that in the very next room was the man whose childish impatience
had been the cause of all their troubles.

In spite of his fatigue, the prince slept badly, and directly it was
light he rose, and bidding Becasigue remain where he was, as he wished
to be alone, he strolled out into the forest.  He walked on slowly,
just as his fancy led him, till, suddenly, he came to a wide open
space, and in the middle was the white doe quietly eating her
breakfast.  She bounded off at the sight of a man, but not before the
prince, who had fastened on his bow without thinking, had let fly
several arrows, which the fairy Tulip took care should do her no harm.
But, quickly as she ran, she soon felt her strength failing her, for
fifteen years of life in a tower had not taught her how to exercise her
limbs.

Luckily, the prince was too weak to follow her far, and a turn of a
path brought her close to the hut, where Eglantine was awaiting her.
Panting for breath, she entered their room, and flung herself down on
the floor.

When it was dark again, and she was once more the princess Desiree, she
told Eglantine what had befallen her.

‘I feared the Fairy of the Fountain, and the cruel beasts,’ said she;
‘but somehow I never thought of the dangers that I ran from men.  I do
not know now what saved me.’

‘You must stay quietly here till the time of your punishment is over,’
answered Eglantine.  But when the morning dawned, and the girl turned
into a doe, the longing for the forest came over her, and she sprang
away as before.

As soon as the prince was awake he hastened to the place where, only
the day before, he had found the white doe feeding; but of course she
had taken care to go in the opposite direction.  Much disappointed, he
tried first one green path and then another, and at last, wearied with
walking, he threw himself down and went fast asleep.

Just at this moment the white doe sprang out of a thicket near by, and
started back trembling when she beheld her enemy lying there.  Yet,
instead of turning to fly, something bade her go and look at him
unseen.  As she gazed a thrill ran through her, for she felt that, worn
and wasted though he was by illness, it was the face of her destined
husband.  Gently stooping over him she kissed his forehead, and at her
touch he awoke.

For a minute they looked at each other, and to his amazement he
recognized the white doe which had escaped him the previous day.  But
in an instant the animal was aroused to a sense of her danger, and she
fled with all her strength into the thickest part of the forest.  Quick
as lightning the prince was on her track, but this time it was with no
wish to kill or even wound the beautiful creature.

‘Pretty doe! pretty doe! stop!  I won’t hurt you,’ cried he, but his
words were carried away by the wind.

At length the doe could run no more, and when the prince reached her,
she was lying stretched out on the grass, waiting for her death blow.
But instead the prince knelt at her side, and stroked her, and bade her
fear nothing, as he would take care of her.  So he fetched a little
water from the stream in his horn hunting cup, then, cutting some
branches from the trees, he twisted them into a litter which he covered
with moss, and laid the white doe gently on it.

For a long time they remained thus, but when Desiree saw by the way
that the light struck the trees, that he sun must be near its setting,
she was filled with alarm lest the darkness should fall, and the prince
should behold her in her human shape.

‘No, he must not see me for the first time here,’ she thought, and
instantly began to plan how to get rid of him.  Then she opened her
mouth and let her tongue hang out, as if she were dying of thirst, and
the prince, as she expected, hastened to the stream to get her some
more water.

When he returned, the white doe was gone.

That night Desiree confessed to Eglantine that her pursuer was no other
than the prince, and that far from flattering him, the portrait had
never done him justice.

‘Is it not hard to meet him in this shape,’ wept she, ‘when we both
love each other so much?’ But Eglantine comforted her, and reminded her
that in a short time all would be well.

The prince was very angry at the flight of the white doe, for whom he
had taken so much trouble, and returning to the cottage he poured out
his adventures and his wrath to Becasigue, who could not help smiling.

‘She shall not escape me again,’ cried the prince.  ‘If I hunt her
every day for a year, I will have her at last.’  And in this frame of
mind he went to bed.

 When the white doe entered the forest next morning, she had not made
up her mind whether she would go and meet the prince, or whether she
would shun him, and hide in thickets of which he knew nothing.  She
decided that the last plan was the best; and so it would have been if
the prince had not taken the very same direction in search of her.

Quite by accident he caught sight of her white skin shining through the
bushes, and at the same instant she heard a twig snap under his feet.
In a moment she was up and away, but the prince, not knowing how else
to capture her, aimed an arrow at her leg, which brought her to the
ground.

The young man felt like a murderer as he ran hastily up to where the
white doe lay, and did his best to soothe the pain she felt, which, in
reality, was the last part of the punishment sent by the Fairy of the
Fountain.  First he brought her some water, and then he fetched some
healing herbs, and having crushed them in his hand, laid them on the
wound.

‘Ah! what a wretch I was to have hurt you,’ cried he, resting her head
upon his knees; ‘and now you will hate me and fly from me for ever!’

For some time the doe lay quietly where she was, but, as before, she
remembered that the hour of her transformation was near.  She struggled
to her feet, but the prince would not hear of her walking, and thinking
the old woman might be able to dress her wound better than he could, he
took her in his arms to carry her back to the hut.  But, small as she
was, she made herself so heavy that, after staggering a few steps under
her weight, he laid her down, and tied her fast to a tree with some of
the ribbons of his hat.  This done he went away to get help.

Meanwhile Eglantine had grown very uneasy at the long absence of her
mistress, and had come out to look for her.  Just as the prince passed
out of sight the fluttering ribbons dance before her eyes, and she
descried her beautiful princess bound to a tree.  With all her might
she worked at the knots, but not a single one could she undo, though
all appeared so easy.  She was still busy with them when a voice behind
her said:

‘Pardon me, fair lady, but it is MY doe you are trying to steal!’

‘Excuse me, good knight’ answered Eglantine, hardly glancing at him,
‘but it is MY doe that is tied up here!  And if you wish for a proof of
it, you can see if she knows me or not.  Touch my heart, my little
one,’ she continued, dropping on her knees.  And the doe lifted up its
fore-foot and laid it on her side.  ‘Now put your arms round my neck,
and sigh.’  And again the doe did as she was bid.

‘You are right,’ said the prince; ‘but it is with sorrow I give her up
to you, for though I have wounded her yet I love her deeply.’

To this Eglantine answered nothing; but carefully raising up the doe,
she led her slowly to the hut.

Now both the prince and Becasigue were quite unaware that the old woman
had any guests besides themselves, and, following afar, were much
surprised to behold Eglantine and her charge enter the cottage.  They
lost no time in questioning the old woman, who replied that she knew
nothing about the lady and her white doe, who slept next the chamber
occupied by the prince and his friend, but that they were very quiet,
and paid her well.  Then she went back to her kitchen.

‘Do you know,’ said Becasigue, when they were alone, ‘I am certain that
the lady we saw is the maid of honour to the Princess Desiree, whom I
met at the palace.  And, as her room is next to this, it will be easy
to make a small hole through which I can satisfy myself whether I am
right or not.’

So, taking a knife out of his pocket, he began to saw away the
woodwork.  The girls heard the grating noise, but fancying it was a
mouse, paid no attention, and Becasigue was left in peace to pursue his
work.  At length the hole was large enough for him to peep through, and
the sight was one to strike him dumb with amazement.  He had guessed
truly: the tall lady was Eglantine herself; but the other--where had he
seen her?  Ah! now he knew--it was the lady of the portrait!

Desiree, in a flowing dress of green silk, was lying stretched out upon
cushions, and as Eglantine bent over her to bathe the wounded leg, she
began to talk:

‘Oh! let me die,’ cried she, ‘rather than go on leading this life.  You
cannot tell the misery of being a beast all the day, and unable to
speak to the man I love, to whose impatience I owe my cruel fate.  Yet,
even so, I cannot bring myself to hate him.’

These words, low though they were spoken, reached Becasigue, who could
hardly believe his ears.  He stood silent for a moment; then, crossing
to the window out of which the prince was gazing, he took his arm and
led him across the room.  A single glance was sufficient to show the
prince that it was indeed Desiree; and how another had come to the
palace bearing her name, at that instant he neither knew nor cared.
Stealing on tip- toe from the room, he knocked at the next door, which
was opened by Eglantine, who thought it was the old woman bearing their
supper.

She started back at the sight of the prince, whom this time she also
recognised.  But he thrust her aside, and flung himself at the feet of
Desiree, to whom he poured out all his heart!

Dawn found them still conversing; and the sun was high in the heavens
before the princess perceived that she retained her human form.  Ah!
how happy she was when she knew that the days of her punishment were
over; and with a glad voice she told the prince the tale of her
enchantment.

So the story ended well after all; and the fairy Tulip, who turned out
to be the old woman of the hut, made the young couple such a wedding
feast as had never been seen since the world began.  And everybody was
delighted, except Cerisette and her mother, who were put in a boat and
carried to a small island, where they had to work hard for their living.

[Contes des Fees, par Madame d’Aulnoy.]



                The Girl-Fish



Once upon a time there lived, on the bank of a stream, a man and a
woman who had a daughter.  As she was an only child, and very pretty
besides, they never could make up their minds to punish her for her
faults or to teach her nice manners; and as for work-- she laughed in
her mother’s face if she asked her to help cook the dinner or to wash
the plates.  All the girl would do was to spend her days in dancing and
playing with her friends; and for any use she was to her parents they
might as well have no daughter at all.

However, one morning her mother looked so tired that even the selfish
girl could not help seeing it, and asked if there was anything she was
able to do, so that her mother might rest a little.

The good woman looked so surprised and grateful for this offer that the
girl felt rather ashamed, and at that moment would have scrubbed down
the house if she had been requested; but her mother only begged her to
take the fishing-net out to the bank of the river and mend some holes
in it, as her father intended to go fishing that night.

The girl took the net and worked so hard that soon there was not a hole
to be found.  She felt quite pleased with herself, though she had had
plenty to amuse her, as everybody who passed by had stopped and had a
chat with her.  But by this time the sun was high overhead, and she was
just folding her net to carry it home again, when she heard a splash
behind her, and looking round she saw a big fish jump into the air.
Seizing the net with both hands, she flung it into the water where the
circles were spreading one behind the other, and, more by luck than
skill, drew out the fish.

‘Well, you are a beauty!’ she cried to herself; but the fish looked up
to her and said:

‘You had better not kill me, for, if you do, I will turn you into a
fish yourself!’

The girl laughed contemptuously, and ran straight in to her mother.

‘Look what I have caught,’ she said gaily; ‘but it is almost a pity to
eat it, for it can talk, and it declares that, if I kill it, it will
turn me into a fish too.’

‘Oh, put it back, put it back!’ implored the mother.  ‘Perhaps it is
skilled in magic.  And I should die, and so would your father, if
anything should happen to you.’

‘Oh, nonsense, mother; what power could a creature like that have over
me?  Besides, I am hungry, and if I don’t have my dinner soon, I shall
be cross.’  And off she went to gather some flowers to stick in her
hair.

About an hour later the blowing of a horn told her that dinner was
ready.

‘Didn’t I say that fish would be delicious?’ she cried; and plunging
her spoon into the dish the girl helped herself to a large piece.  But
the instant it touched her mouth a cold shiver ran through her.  Her
head seemed to flatten, and her eyes to look oddly round the corners;
her legs and her arms were stuck to her sides, and she gasped wildly
for breath.  With a mighty bound she sprang through the window and fell
into the river, where she soon felt better, and was able to swim to the
sea, which was close by.

No sooner had she arrived there than the sight of her sad face
attracted the notice of some of the other fishes, and they pressed
round her, begging her to tell them her story.

‘I am not a fish at all,’ said the new-comer, swallowing a great deal
of salt water as she spoke; for you cannot learn how to be a proper
fish all in a moment.  ‘I am not a fish at all, but a girl; at least I
was a girl a few minutes ago, only--’ And she ducked her head under the
waves so that they should not see her crying.

‘Only you did not believe that the fish you caught had power to carry
out its threat,’ said an old tunny.  ‘Well, never mind, that has
happened to all of us, and it really is not a bad life.  Cheer up and
come with us and see our queen, who lives in a palace that is much more
beautiful than any your queens can boast of.’

The new fish felt a little afraid of taking such a journey; but as she
was still more afraid of being left alone, she waved her tail in token
of consent, and off they all set, hundreds of them together.  The
people on the rocks and in the ships that saw them pass said to each
other:

‘Look what a splendid shoal!’ and had no idea that they were hastening
to the queen’s palace; but, then, dwellers on land have so little
notion of what goes on in the bottom of the sea!  Certainly the little
new fish had none.  She had watched jelly-fish and nautilus swimming a
little way below the surface, and beautiful coloured sea-weeds floating
about; but that was all.  Now, when she plunged deeper her eyes fell
upon strange things.

Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl, inestimable stones,
unvalued jewels-- all scattered in the bottom of the sea!  Dead men’s
bones were there also, and long white creatures who had never seen the
light, for they mostly dwelt in the clefts of rocks where the sun’s
rays could not come.  At first our little fish felt as if she were
blind also, but by-and-by she began to make out one object after
another in the green dimness, and by the time she had swum for a few
hours all became clear.

‘Here we are at last,’ cried a big fish, going down into a deep valley,
for the sea has its mountains and valleys just as much as the land.
‘That is the palace of the queen of the fishes, and I think you must
confess that the emperor himself has nothing so fine.’

‘It is beautiful indeed,’ gasped the little fish, who was very tired
with trying to swim as fast as the rest, and beautiful beyond words the
palace was.  The walls were made of pale pink coral, worn smooth by the
waters, and round the windows were rows of pearls; the great doors were
standing open, and the whole troop floated into the chamber of
audience, where the queen, who was half a woman after all, was seated
on a throne made of a green and blue shell.

‘Who are you, and where do you come from?’ said she to the little fish,
whom the others had pushed in front.  And in a low, trembling voice,
the visitor told her story.

‘I was once a girl too,’ answered the queen, when the fish had ended;
‘and my father was the king of a great country.  A husband was found
for me, and on my wedding-day my mother placed her crown on my head and
told me that as long as I wore it I should likewise be queen.  For many
months I was as happy as a girl could be, especially when I had a
little son to play with.  But, one morning, when I was walking in my
gardens, there came a giant and snatched the crown from my head.
Holding me fast, he told me that he intended to give the crown to his
daughter, and to enchant my husband the prince, so that he should not
know the difference between us.  Since then she has filled my place and
been queen in my stead.  As for me, I was so miserable that I threw
myself into the sea, and my ladies, who loved me, declared that they
would die too; but, instead of dying, some wizard, who pitied my fate,
turned us all into fishes, though he allowed me to keep the face and
body of a woman.  And fished we must remain till someone brings me back
my crown again!’

‘I will bring it back if you tell me what to do!’ cried the little
fish, who would have promised anything that was likely to carry her up
to earth again.  And the queen answered:

‘Yes, I will tell you what to do.’

She sat silent for a moment, and then went on:

‘There is no danger if you will only follow my counsel; and first you
must return to earth, and go up to the top of a high mountain, where
the giant has built his castle.  You will find him sitting on the steps
weeping for his daughter, who has just died while the prince was away
hunting.  At the last she sent her father my crown by a faithful
servant.  But I warn you to be careful, for if he sees you he may kill
you.  Therefore I will give you the power to change yourself into any
creature that may help you best.  You have only to strike your
forehead, and call out its name.’

This time the journey to land seemed much shorter than before, and when
once the fish reached the shore she struck her forehead sharply with
her tail, and cried:

‘Deer, come to me!’

In a moment the small, slimy body disappeared, and in its place stood a
beautiful beast with branching horns and slender legs, quivering with
longing to be gone.  Throwing back her head and snuffing the air, she
broke into a run, leaping easily over the rivers and walls that stood
in her way.

It happened that the king’s son had been hunting since daybreak, but
had killed nothing, and when the deer crossed his path as he was
resting under a tree he determined to have her.  He flung himself on
his horse, which went like the wind, and as the prince had often hunted
the forest before, and knew all the short cuts, he at last came up with
the panting beast.

‘By your favour let me go, and do not kill me,’ said the deer, turning
to the prince with tears in her eyes, ‘for I have far to run and much
to do.’  And as the prince, struck dumb with surprise, only looked at
her, the deer cleared the next wall and was soon out of sight.

‘That can’t really be a deer,’ thought the prince to himself, reining
in his horse and not attempting to follow her.  ‘No deer ever had eyes
like that.  It must be an enchanted maiden, and I will marry her and no
other.’  So, turning his horse’s head, he rode slowly back to his
palace.

 The deer reached the giant’s castle quite out of breath, and her heart
sank as she gazed at the tall, smooth walls which surrounded it.  Then
she plucked up courage and cried:

‘Ant, come to me!’ And in a moment the branching horns and beautiful
shape had vanished, and a tiny brown ant, invisible to all who did not
look closely, was climbing up the walls.

It was wonderful how fast she went, that little creature!  The wall
must have appeared miles high in comparison with her own body; yet, in
less time than would have seemed possible, she was over the top and
down in the courtyard on the other side.  Here she paused to consider
what had best be done next, and looking about her she saw that one of
the walls had a tall tree growing by it, and in the corner was a window
very nearly on a level with the highest branches of the tree.

‘Monkey, come to me!’ cried the ant; and before you could turn round a
monkey was swinging herself from the topmost branches into the room
where the giant lay snoring.

‘Perhaps he will be so frightened at the sight of me that he may die of
fear, and I shall never get the crown,’ thought the monkey.  ‘I had
better become something else.’  And she called softly: ‘Parrot, come to
me!’

Then a pink and grey parrot hopped up to the giant, who by this time
was stretching himself and giving yawns which shook the castle.  The
parrot waited a little, until he was really awake, and then she said
boldly that she had been sent to take away the crown, which was not his
any longer, now his daughter the queen was dead.

On hearing these words the giant leapt out of bed with an angry roar,
and sprang at the parrot in order to wring her neck with his great
hands.  But the bird was too quick for him, and, flying behind his
back, begged the giant to have patience, as her death would be of no
use to him.

‘That is true,’ answered the giant; ‘but I am not so foolish as to give
you that crown for nothing.  Let me think what I will have in
exchange!’  And he scratched his huge head for several minutes, for
giants’ minds always move slowly.

‘Ah, yes, that will do!’ exclaimed the giant at last, his face
brightening.  ‘You shall have the crown if you will bring me a collar
of blue stones from the Arch of St.  Martin, in the Great City.’

Now when the parrot had been a girl she had often heard of this
wonderful arch and the precious stones and marbles that had been let
into it.  It sounded as if it would be a very hard thing to get them
away from the building of which they formed a part, but all had gone
well with her so far, and at any rate she could but try.  So she bowed
to the giant, and made her way back to the window where the giant could
not see her.  Then she called quickly:

‘Eagle, come to me!’

Before she had even reached the tree she felt herself borne up on
strong wings ready to carry her to the clouds if she wished to go
there, and seeming a mere speck in the sky, she was swept along till
she beheld the Arch of St.  Martin far below, with the rays of the sun
shining on it.  Then she swooped down, and, hiding herself behind a
buttress so that she could not be detected from below, she set herself
to dig out the nearest blue stones with her beak.  It was even harder
work than she had expected; but at last it was done, and hope arose in
her heart.  She next drew out a piece of string that she had found
hanging from a tree, and sitting down to rest strung the stones
together.  When the necklace was finished she hung it round her neck,
and called: ‘Parrot, come to me!’  And a little later the pink and grey
parrot stood before the giant.

‘Here is the necklace you asked for,’ said the parrot.  And the eyes of
the giant glistened as he took the heap of blue stones in his hand.
But for all that he was not minded to give up the crown.

‘They are hardly as blue as I expected,’ he grumbled, though the parrot
knew as well as he did that he was not speaking the truth; ‘so you must
bring me something else in exchange for the crown you covet so much.
If you fail it will cost you not only the crown but you life also.’

‘What is it you want now?’ asked the parrot; and the giant answered:

‘If I give you my crown I must have another still more beautiful; and
this time you shall bring me a crown of stars.’

The parrot turned away, and as soon as she was outside she murmured:

‘Toad, come to me!’  And sure enough a toad she was, and off she set in
search of the starry crown.

She had not gone far before she came to a clear pool, in which the
stars were reflected so brightly that they looked quite real to touch
and handle.  Stooping down she filled a bag she was carrying with the
shining water and, returning to the castle, wove a crown out of the
reflected stars.  Then she cried as before:

‘Parrot, come to me!’  And in the shape of a parrot she entered the
presence of the giant.

‘Here is the crown you asked for,’ she said; and this time the giant
could not help crying out with admiration.  He knew he was beaten, and
still holding the chaplet of stars, he turned to the girl.

‘Your power is greater than mine: take the crown; you have won it
fairly!’

The parrot did not need to be told twice.  Seizing the crown, she
sprang on to the window, crying: ‘Monkey, come to me!’  And to a
monkey, the climb down the tree into the courtyard did not take half a
minute.  When she had reached the ground she said again: ‘Ant, come to
me!’  And a little ant at once began to crawl over the high wall.  How
glad the ant was to be out of the giant’s castle, holding fast the
crown which had shrunk into almost nothing, as she herself had done,
but grew quite big again when the ant exclaimed:

‘Deer, come to me!’

Surely no deer ever ran so swiftly as that one!  On and on she went,
bounding over rivers and crashing through tangles till she reached the
sea.  Here she cried for the last time:

‘Fish, come to me!’  And, plunging in, she swam along the bottom as far
as the palace, where the queen and all the fishes gathered together
awaiting her.

The hours since she had left had gone very slowly--as they always do to
people that are waiting--and many of them had quite given up hope.

‘I am tired of staying here,’ grumbled a beautiful little creature,
whose colours changed with every movement of her body, ‘I want to see
what is going on in the upper world.  It must be months since that fish
went away.’

‘It was a very difficult task, and the giant must certainly have killed
her or she would have been back long ago,’ remarked another.

‘The young flies will be coming out now,’ murmured a third, ‘and they
will all be eaten up by the river fish!  It is really too bad!’  When,
suddenly, a voice was heard from behind: ‘Look! look! what is that
bright thing that is moving so swiftly towards us?’ And the queen
started up, and stood on her tail, so excited was she.

A silence fell on all the crowd, and even the grumblers held their
peace and gazed like the rest.  On and on came the fish, holding the
crown tightly in her mouth, and the others moved back to let her pass.
On she went right up to the queen, who bent and, taking the crown,
placed it on her own head.  Then a wonderful thing happened.  Her tail
dropped away or, rather, it divided and grew into two legs and a pair
of the prettiest feet in the world, while her maidens, who were grouped
around her, shed their scales and became girls again.  They all turned
and looked at each other first, and next at the little fish who had
regained her own shape and was more beautiful than any of them.

‘It is you who have given us back our life; you, you!’ they cried; and
fell to weeping from very joy.

So they all went back to earth and the queen’s palace, and quite forgot
the one that lay under the sea.  But they had been so long away that
they found many changes.  The prince, the queen’s husband, had died
some years since, and in his place was her son, who had grown up and
was king!  Even in his joy at seeing his mother again an air of sadness
clung to him, and at last the queen could bear it no longer, and begged
him to walk with her in the garden.  Seated together in a bower of
jessamine--where she had passed long hours as a bride--she took her
son’s hand and entreated him to tell her the cause of his sorrow.
‘For,’ said she, ‘if I can give you happiness you shall have it.’

‘It is no use,’ answered the prince; ‘nobody can help me.  I must bear
it alone.’

‘But at least let me share your grief,’ urged the queen.

‘No one can do that,’ said he.  ‘I have fallen in love with what I can
never marry, and I must get on as best I can.’

‘It may not be as impossible as you think,’ answered the queen.  ‘At
any rate, tell me.’

There was silence between them for a moment, then, turning away his
head, the prince answered gently:

‘I have fallen in love with a beautiful deer!’

‘Ah, if that is all,’ exclaimed the queen joyfully.  And she told him
in broken words that, as he had guessed, it was no deer but an
enchanted maiden who had won back the crown and brought her home to her
own people.

‘She is here, in my palace,’ added the queen.  ‘I will take you to her.’

But when the prince stood before the girl, who was so much more
beautiful than anything he had ever dreamed of, he lost all his
courage, and stood with bent head before her.

Then the maiden drew near, and her eyes, as she looked at him, were the
eyes of the deer that day in the forest.  She whispered softly:

‘By your favour let me go, and do not kill me.’

And the prince remembered her words, and his heart was filled with
happiness.  And the queen, his mother, watched them and smiled.

[From Cuentos Populars Catalans, por lo Dr.  D.  Francisco de S.
Maspons y Labros.]



            The Owl and the Eagle



Once upon a time, in a savage country where the snow lies deep for many
months in the year, there lived an owl and an eagle.  Though they were
so different in many ways they became great friends, and at length set
up house together, one passing the day in hunting and the other the
night.  In this manner they did not see very much of each other--and
perhaps agreed all the better for that; but at any rate they were
perfectly happy, and only wanted one thing, or, rather, two things, and
that was a wife for each.

‘I really am too tired when I come home in the evening to clean up the
house,’ said the eagle.

‘And I am much too sleepy at dawn after a long night’s hunting to begin
to sweep and dust,’ answered the owl.  And they both made up their
minds that wives they must have.

They flew about in their spare moments to the young ladies of their
acquaintance, but the girls all declared they preferred one husband to
two.  The poor birds began to despair, when, one evening, after they
had been for a wonder hunting together, they found two sisters fast
asleep on their two beds.  The eagle looked at the owl and the owl
looked at the eagle.

‘They will make capital wives if they will only stay with us,’ said
they.  And they flew off to give themselves a wash, and to make
themselves smart before the girls awoke.

For many hours the sisters slept on, for they had come a long way, from
a town where there was scarcely anything to eat, and felt weak and
tired.  But by-and-by they opened their eyes and saw the two birds
watching them.

‘I hope you are rested?’ asked the owl politely.

‘Oh, yes, thank you,’ answered the girls.  ‘Only we are so very hungry.
 Do you think we could have something to eat?’

‘Certainly!’ replied the eagle.  And he flew away to a farmhouse a mile
or two off, and brought back a nest of eggs in his strong beak; while
the owl, catching up a tin pot, went to a cottage where lived an old
woman and her cow, and entering the shed by the window dipped the pot
into the pail of new milk that stood there.

The girls were so much delighted with the kindness and cleverness of
their hosts that, when the birds inquired if they would marry them and
stay there for ever, they accepted without so much as giving it a
second thought.  So the eagle took the younger sister to wife, and the
owl the elder, and never was a home more peaceful than theirs!

All went well for several months, and then the eagle’s wife had a son,
while, on the same day, the owl’s wife gave birth to a frog, which she
placed directly on the banks of a stream near by, as he did not seem to
like the house.  The children both grew quickly, and were never tired
of playing together, or wanted any other companions.

One night in the spring, when the ice had melted, and the snow was
gone, the sisters sat spinning in the house, awaiting their husbands’
return.  But long though they watched, neither the owl nor the eagle
ever came; neither that day nor the next, nor the next, nor the next.
At last the wives gave up all hope of their return; but, being sensible
women, they did not sit down and cry, but called their children, and
set out, determined to seek the whole world over till the missing
husbands were found.

Now the women had no idea in which direction the lost birds had gone,
but they knew that some distance off was a thick forest, where good
hunting was to be found.  It seemed a likely place to find them, or, at
any rate, they might hear something of them, and they walked quickly
on, cheered by the thought that they were doing something.  Suddenly
the younger sister, who was a little in front, gave a cry of surprise.

‘Oh! look at that lake!’ she said, ‘we shall never get across it.’

‘Yes we shall,’ answered the elder; ‘I know what to do.’  And taking a
long piece of string from her pocket, fastened it into the frog’s
mouth, like a bit.

‘You must swim across the lake,’ she said, stooping to put him in, ‘and
we will walk across on the line behind you.’  And so they did, till
they got to about the middle of the lake, when the frog boy stopped.

‘I don’t like it, and I won’t go any further,’ cried he sulkily.  And
his mother had to promise him all sorts of nice things before he would
go on again.

When at last they reached the other side, the owl’s wife untied the
line from the frog’s mouth and told him he might rest and play by the
lake till they got back from the forest.  Then she and her sister and
the boy walked on, with the great forest looming before them.  But they
had by this time come far and were very tired, and felt glad enough to
see some smoke curling up from a little hut in front of them.

‘Let us go in and ask for some water,’ said the eagle’s wife; and in
they went.

The inside of the hut was so dark that at first they could see nothing
at all; but presently they heard a feeble croak from one corner.  But
sisters turned to look, and there, tied by wings and feet, and their
eyes sunken, were the husbands that they sought.  Quick as lightning
the wives cut the deer- thongs which bound them; but the poor birds
were too weak from pain and starvation to do more than utter soft
sounds of joy.  Hardly, however, were they set free, than a voice of
thunder made the two sisters jump, while the little boy clung tightly
round his mother’s neck.

‘What are you doing in my house?’ cried she.  And the wives answered
boldly that now they had found their husbands they meant to save them
from such a wicked witch.

‘Well, I will give you your chance,’ answered the ogress, with a
hideous grin; ‘we will see if you can slide down this mountain.  If you
can reach the bottom of the cavern, you shall have your husbands back
again.’  And as she spoke she pushed them before her out of the door to
the edge of a precipice, which went straight down several hundreds of
feet.  Unseen by the witch, the frog’s mother fastened one end of the
magic line about her, and whispered to the little boy to hold fast the
other.  She had scarcely done so when the witch turned round.

‘You don’t seem to like your bargain,’ said she; but the girl answered:

‘Oh, yes, I am quite ready.  I was only waiting for you!’  And sitting
down she began her slide.  On, on, she went, down to such a depth that
even the witch’s eyes could not follow her; but she took for granted
that the woman was dead, and told the sister to take her place.  At
that instant, however, the head of the elder appeared above the rock,
brought upwards by the magic line.  The witch gave a howl of disgust,
and hid her face in her hands; thus giving the younger sister time to
fasten the cord to her waist before the ogress looked up.

‘You can’t expect such luck twice,’ she said; and the girl sat down and
slid over the edge.  But in a few minutes she too was back again, and
the witch saw that she had failed, and feared lest her power was going.
 Trembling with rage though she was, she dared not show it, and only
laughed hideously.

‘I sha’n’t let my prisoners go as easily as all that!’ she said.  ‘Make
my hair grow as thick and as black as yours, or else your husbands
shall never see daylight again.’

‘That is quite simple,’ replied the elder sister; ‘only you must do as
we did--and perhaps you won’t like the treatment.’

‘If you can bear it, of course I can,’ answered the witch.  And so the
girls told her they had first smeared their heads with pitch and then
laid hot stones upon them.

‘It is very painful,’ said they, ‘but there is no other way that we
know of.  And in order to make sure that all will go right, one of us
will hold you down while the other pours on the pitch.’

And so they did; and the elder sister let down her hair till it hung
over the witch’s eyes, so that she might believe it was her own hair
growing.  Then the other brought a huge stone, and, in short, there was
an end of the witch.  The sisters were savages who had never seen a
missionary.

So when the sisters saw that she was dead they went to the hut, and
nursed their husbands till they grew strong.  Then they picked up the
frog, and all went to make another home on the other side of the great
lake.

[From the Journal of the Anthropological Institute.]



         The Frog and the Lion Fairy



Once upon a time there lived a king who was always at war with his
neighbours, which was very strange, as he was a good and kind man,
quite content with his own country, and not wanting to seize land
belonging to other people.  Perhaps he may have tried too much to
please everybody, and that often ends in pleasing nobody; but, at any
rate, he found himself, at the end of a hard struggle, defeated in
battle, and obliged to fall back behind the walls of his capital city.
Once there, he began to make preparations for a long siege, and the
first thing he did was to plan how best to send his wife to a place of
security.

The queen, who loved her husband dearly, would gladly have remained
with him to share his dangers, but he would not allow it.  So they
parted, with many tears, and the queen set out with a strong guard to a
fortified castle on the outskirts of a great forest, some two hundred
miles distant.  She cried nearly all the way, and when she arrived she
cried still more, for everything in the castle was dusty and old, and
outside there was only a gravelled courtyard, and the king had
forbidden her to go beyond the walls without at least two soldiers to
take care of her.

Now the queen had only been married a few months, and in her own home
she had been used to walk and ride all over the hills without any
attendants at all; so she felt very dull at her being shut up in this
way.  However, she bore it for a long while because it was the king’s
wish, but when time passed and there were no signs of the war drifting
in the direction of the castle, she grew bolder, and sometimes strayed
outside the walls, in the direction of the forest.

Then came a dreadful period, when news from the king ceased entirely.

‘He must surely be ill or dead,’ thought the poor girl, who even now
was only sixteen.  ‘I can bear it no longer, and if I do not get a
letter from him soon I shall leave this horrible place and go back to
see what is the matter.  Oh!  I do wish I had never come away!’

So, without telling anyone what she intended to do, she ordered a
little low carriage to be built, something like a sledge, only it was
on two wheels--just big enough to hold one person.

‘I am tired of being always in the castle,’ she said to her attendants;
‘and I mean to hunt a little.  Quite close by, of course,’ she added,
seeing the anxious look on their faces.  ‘And there is no reason that
you should not hunt too.’

All the faces brightened at that, for, to tell the truth, they were
nearly as dull as their mistress; so the queen had her way, and two
beautiful horses were brought from the stable to draw the little
chariot.  At first the queen took care to keep near the rest of the
hunt, but gradually she stayed away longer and longer, and at last, one
morning, she took advantage of the appearance of a wild boar, after
which her whole court instantly galloped, to turn into a path in the
opposite direction.

Unluckily, it did not happen to lead towards the king’s palace, where
she intended to go, but she was so afraid her flight would be noticed
that she whipped up her horses till they ran away.

When she understood what was happening the poor young queen was
terribly frightened, and, dropping the reins, clung to the side of the
chariot.  The horses, thus left without any control, dashed blindly
against a tree, and the queen was flung out on the ground, where she
lay for some minutes unconscious.

A rustling sound near her at length caused her to open her eyes; before
her stood a huge woman, almost a giantess, without any clothes save a
lion’s skin, which was thrown over her shoulders, while a dried snake’s
skin was plaited into her hair.  In one hand she held a club on which
she leaned, and in the other a quiver full of arrows.

At the sight of this strange figure the queen thought she must be dead,
and gazing on an inhabitant of another world.  So she murmured softly
to herself:

‘I am not surprised that people are so loth to die when they know that
they will see such horrible creatures.’  But, low as she spoke, the
giantess caught the words, and began to laugh.

‘Oh, don’t be afraid; you are still alive, and perhaps, after all, you
may be sorry for it.  I am the Lion Fairy, and you are going to spend
the rest of your days with me in my palace, which is quite near this.
So come along.’  But the queen shrank back in horror.

‘Oh, Madam Lion, take me back, I pray you, to my castle; and fix what
ransom you like, for my husband will pay it, whatever it is.  But the
giantess shook her head.

‘I am rich enough already,’ she answered, ‘but I am often dull, and I
think you may amuse me a little.’  And, so saying, she changed her
shape into that of a lion, and throwing the queen across her back, she
went down the ten thousand steps that led to her palace.  The lion had
reached the centre of the earth before she stopped in front of a house,
lighted with lamps, and built on the edge of a lake of quicksilver.  In
this lake various huge monsters might be seen playing or fighting--the
queen did not know which-- and around flew rooks and ravens, uttering
dismal croaks.  In the distance was a mountain down whose sides waters
slowly coursed--these were the tears of unhappy lovers--and nearer the
gate were trees without either fruit of flowers, while nettles and
brambles covered the ground.  If the castle had been gloomy, what did
the queen feel about this?

For some days the queen was so much shaken by all she had gone through
that she lay with her eyes closed, unable either to move or speak.
When she got better, the Lion Fairy told her that if she liked she
could build herself a cabin, as she would have to spend her life in
that place.  At these words the queen burst into tears, and implored
her gaoler to put her to death rather than condemn her to such a life;
but the Lion Fairy only laughed, and counselled her to try to make
herself pleasant, as many worse things might befall her.

‘Is there no way in which I can touch your heart?’ asked the poor girl
in despair.

‘Well, if you really wish to please me you will make me a pasty out of
the stings of bees, and be sure it is good.’

‘But I don’t see any bees,’ answered the queen, looking round.

‘Oh, no, there aren’t any,’ replied her tormentor; ‘but you will have
to find them all the same.’  And, so saying, she went away.

‘After all, what does it matter?’ thought the queen to herself, ‘I have
only one life, and I can but lose it.’  And not caring what she did,
she left the palace and seating herself under a yew tree, poured out
all her grief.

‘Oh, my dear husband,’ wept she, ‘what will you think when you come to
the castle to fetch me and find me gone?  Rather a thousand times that
you should fancy me dead than imagine that I had forgotten you!  Ah,
how fortunate that the broken chariot should be lying in the wood, for
then you may grieve for me as one devoured by wild beasts.  And if
another should take my place in your heart--Well, at least I shall
never know it.’

She might have continued for long in this fashion had not the voice of
a crow directly overhead attracted her attention.  Looking up to see
what was the matter she beheld, in the dim light, a crow holding a fat
frog in his claws, which he evidently intended for his supper.  The
queen rose hastily from the seat, and striking the bird sharply on the
claws with the fan which hung from her side, she forced him to drop the
frog, which fell to the round more dead than alive.  The crow, furious
at his disappointment, flew angrily away.

As soon as the frog had recovered her senses she hopped up to the
queen, who was still sitting under the yew.  Standing on her hind legs,
and bowing low before her, she said gently:

‘Beautiful lady, by what mischance do you come here?  You are the only
creature that I have seen do a kind deed since a fatal curiosity lured
me to this place.’

‘What sort of a frog can you be that knows the language of mortals?’
asked the queen in her turn.  ‘But if you do, tell me, I pray, if I
alone am a captive, for hitherto I have beheld no one but the monsters
of the lake.’

‘Once upon a time they were men and women like yourself,’ answered the
frog, ‘but having power in their hands, they used it for their own
pleasure.  Therefore fate has sent them here for a while to bear the
punishment of their misdoings.’

‘But you, friend frog, you are not one of these wicked people, I am
sure?’ asked the queen.

‘I am half a fairy,’ replied the frog; ‘but, although I have certain
magic gifts, I am not able to do all I wish.  And if the Lion Fairy
were to know of my presence in her kingdom she would hasten to kill me.’

‘But if you are a fairy, how was it that you were so nearly slain by
the crow?’ said the queen, wrinkling her forehead.

‘Because the secret of my power lies in my little cap that is made of
rose leaves; but I had laid it aside for the moment, when that horrible
crow pounced upon me.  Once it is on my head I fear nothing.  But let
me repeat; had it not been for you I could not have escaped death, and
if I can do anything to help you, or soften your hard fate, you have
only to tell me.’

‘Alas,’ sighed the queen, ‘I have been commanded by the Lion Fairy to
make her a pasty out of the stings of bees, and, as far as I can
discover, there are none here; as how should there be, seeing there are
no flowers for them to feed on?  And, even if there were, how could I
catch them?’

‘Leave it to me,’ said the frog, ‘I will manage it for you.’  And,
uttering a strange noise, she struck the ground thrice with her foot.
In an instant six thousand frogs appeared before her, one of them
bearing a little cap.

‘Cover yourselves with honey, and hop round by the beehives,’ commanded
the frog, putting on the cap which her friend was holding in her mouth.
 And turning to the queen, he added:

‘The Lion Fairy keeps a store of bees in a secret place near to the
bottom of the ten thousand steps leading into the upper world.  Not
that she wants them for herself, but they are sometimes useful to her
in punishing her victims.  However, this time we will get the better of
her.’

Just as she had finished speaking the six thousand frogs returned,
looking so strange with bees sticking to every part of them that, sad
as she felt, the poor queen could not help laughing.  The bees were all
so stupefied with what they had eaten that it was possible to draw
their stings without hunting them.  So, with the help of her friend,
the queen soon made ready her pasty and carried it to the Lion Fairy.

‘Not enough pepper,’ said the giantess, gulping down large morsels, in
order the hide the surprise she felt.  ‘Well, you have escaped this
time, and I am glad to find I have got a companion a little more
intelligent than the others I have tried.  Now, you had better go and
build yourself a house.’

So the queen wandered away, and picking up a small axe which lay near
the door she began with the help of her friend the frog to cut down
some cypress trees for the purpose.  And not content with that the six
thousand froggy servants were told to help also, and it was not long
before they had built the prettiest little cabin in the world, and made
a bed in one corner of dried ferns which they fetched from the top of
the ten thousand steps.  It looked soft and comfortable, and the queen
was very glad to lie down upon it, so tired was she with all that had
happened since the morning.  Scarcely, however, had she fallen asleep
when the lake monsters began to make the most horrible noises just
outside, while a small dragon crept in and terrified her so that she
ran away, which was just what the dragon wanted!

The poor queen crouched under a rock for the rest of the night, and the
next morning, when she woke from her troubled dreams, she was cheered
at seeing the frog watching by her.

‘I hear we shall have to build you another palace,’ said she.  ‘Well,
this time we won’t go so near the lake.’  And she smiled with her funny
wide mouth, till the queen took heart, and they went together to find
wood for the new cabin.

The tiny palace was soon ready, and a fresh bed made of wild thyme,
which smelt delicious.  Neither the queen nor the frog said anything
about it, but somehow, as always happens, the story came to the ears of
the Lion Fairy, and she sent a raven to fetch the culprit.

‘What gods or men are protecting you?’ she asked, with a frown.  ‘This
earth, dried up by a constant rain of sulphur and fire, produces
nothing, yet I hear that YOUR bed is made of sweet smelling herbs.
However, as you can get flowers for yourself, of course you can get
them for me, and in an hour’s time I must have in my room a nosegay of
the rarest flowers.  If not--! Now you can go.’

The poor queen returned to her house looking so sad that the frog, who
was waiting for her, noticed it directly.

‘What is the matter?’ said she, smiling.

‘Oh, how can you laugh!’ replied the queen.  ‘This time I have to bring
her in an hour a posy of the rarest flowers, and where am I to find
them?  If I fail I know she will kill me.’

‘Well, I must see if I can’t help you,’ answered the frog.  ‘The only
person I have made friends with here is a bat.  She is a good creature,
and always does what I tell her, so I will just lend her my cap, and if
she puts it on, and flies into the world, she will bring back all we
want.  I would go myself, only she will be quicker.’

Then the queen dried her eyes, and waited patiently, and long before
the hour had gone by the bat flew in with all the most beautiful and
sweetest flowers that grew on the earth.  The girl sprang up overjoyed
at the sight, and hurried with them to the Lion Fairy, who was so
astonished that for once she had nothing to say.

Now the smell and touch of the flowers had made the queen sick with
longing for her home, and she told the frog that she would certainly
die if she did not manage to escape somehow.

‘Let me consult my cap,’ said the frog; and taking it off she laid it
in a box, and threw in after it a few sprigs of juniper, some capers,
and two peas, which she carried under her right leg; she then shut down
the lid of the box, and murmured some words which the queen did not
catch.

In a few moments a voice was heard speaking from the box.

‘Fate, who rules us all,’ said the voice, ‘forbids your leaving this
place till the time shall come when certain things are fulfilled.  But,
instead, a gift shall be given you, which will comfort you in all your
troubles.’

And the voice spoke truly, for, a few days after, when the frog peeped
in at the door she found the most beautiful baby in the world lying by
the side of the queen.

‘So the cap has kept its word,’ cried the frog with delight.  ‘How soft
its cheeks are, and what tiny feet it has got!  What shall we call it?’

This was a very important point, and needed much discussion.  A
thousand names were proposed and rejected for a thousand silly reasons.
 One was too long, and one was too short.  One was too harsh, and
another reminded the queen of somebody she did not like; but at length
an idea flashed into the queen’s head, and she called out:

‘I know!  We will call her Muffette.’

‘That is the very thing,’ shouted the frog, jumping high into the air;
and so it was settled.

The princess Muffette was about six months old when the frog noticed
that the queen had begun to grow sad again.

‘Why do you have that look in your eyes?’ she asked one day, when she
had come in to play with the baby, who could now crawl.

The way they played their game was to let Muffette creep close to the
frog, and then for the frog to bound high into the air and alight on
the child’s head, or back, or legs, when she always sent up a shout of
pleasure.  There is no play fellow like a frog; but then it must be a
fairy frog, or else you might hurt it, and if you did something
dreadful might happen to you.  Well, as I have said, our frog was
struck with the queen’s sad face, and lost no time in asking her what
was the reason.

‘I don’t see what you have to complain of now; Muffette is quite well
and quite happy, and even the Lion Fairy is kind to her when she sees
her.  What is it?’

‘Oh! if her father could only see her!’ broke forth the queen, clasping
her hands.  ‘Or if I could only tell him all that has happened since we
parted.  But they will have brought him tidings of the broken carriage,
and he will have thought me dead, or devoured by wild beasts.  And
though he will mourn for me long--I know that well--yet in time they
will persuade him to take a wife, and she will be young and fair, and
he will forget me.’

And in all this the queen guessed truly, save that nine long years were
to pass before he would consent to put another in her place.

The frog answered nothing at the time, but stopped her game and hopped
away among the cypress trees.  Here she sat and thought and thought,
and the next morning she went back to the queen and said:

‘I have come, madam, to make you an offer.  Shall I go to the king
instead of you, and tell him of your sufferings, and that he has the
most charming baby in the world for his daughter?  The way is long, and
I travel slowly; but, sooner or later, I shall be sure to arrive.
Only, are you not afraid to be left without my protection?  Ponder the
matter carefully; it is for you to decide.’

‘Oh, it needs no pondering,’ cried the queen joyfully, holding up her
clasped hands, and making Muffette do likewise, in token of gratitude.
But in order that he may know that you have come from me I will send
him a letter.’  And pricking her arm, she wrote a few words with her
blood on the corner of her handkerchief.  Then tearing it off, she gave
it to the frog, and they bade each other farewell.

It took the frog a year and four days to mount the ten thousand steps
that led to the upper world, but that was because she was still under
the spell of a wicked fairy.  By the time she reached the top, she was
so tired that she had to remain for another year on the banks of a
stream to rest, and also to arrange the procession with which she was
to present herself before the king.  For she knew far too well what was
due to herself and her relations, to appear at Court as if she was a
mere nobody.  At length, after many consultations with her cap, the
affair was settled, and at the end of the second year after her parting
with the queen they all set out.

First walked her bodyguard of grasshoppers, followed by her maids of
honour, who were those tiny green frogs you see in the fields, each one
mounted on a snail, and seated on a velvet saddle.  Next came the
water-rats, dressed as pages, and lastly the frog herself, in a litter
borne by eight toads, and made of tortoiseshell.  Here she could lie at
her ease, with her cap on her head, for it was quite large and roomy,
and could easily have held two eggs when the frog was not in it.

The journey lasted seven years, and all this time the queen suffered
tortures of hope, though Muffette did her best to comfort her.  Indeed,
she would most likely have died had not the Lion Fairy taken a fancy
that the child and her mother should go hunting with her in the upper
world, and, in spite of her sorrows, it was always a joy to the queen
to see the sun again.  As for little Muffette, by the time she was
seven her arrows seldom missed their mark.  So, after all, the years of
waiting passed more quickly than the queen had dared to hope.

The frog was always careful to maintain her dignity, and nothing would
have persuaded her to show her face in public places, or even along the
high road, where there was a chance of meeting anyone.  But sometimes,
when the procession had to cross a little stream, or go over a piece of
marshy ground, orders would be given for a halt; fine clothes were
thrown off, bridles were flung aside, and grasshoppers, water-rats,
even the frog herself, spent a delightful hour or two playing in the
mud.

But at length the end was in sight, and the hardships were forgotten in
the vision of the towers of the king’s palace; and, one bright morning,
the cavalcade entered the gates with all the pomp and circumstance of a
royal embassy.  And surely no ambassador had ever created such a
sensation!  Door and windows, even the roofs of houses, were filled
with people, whose cheers reached the ears of the king.  However, he
had no time to attend to such matters just then, as, after nine years,
he had at last consented to the entreaties of his courtiers, and was on
the eve of celebrating his second marriage.

The frog’s heart beat high when her litter drew up before the steps of
the palace, and leaning forward she beckoned to her side one of the
guards who were standing in his doorway.

‘I wish to see his Majesty,’ said he.

‘His Majesty is engaged, and can see no one,’ answered the soldier.

‘His Majesty will see ME,’ returned the frog, fixing her eye upon him;
and somehow the man found himself leading the procession along the
gallery into the Hall of Audience, where the king sat surrounded by his
nobles arranging the dresses which everyone was to wear at his marriage
ceremony.

All stared in surprise as the procession advanced, and still more when
the frog gave one bound from the litter on to the floor, and with
another landed on the arm of the chair of state.

‘I am only just in time, sire,’ began the frog; ‘had I been a day later
you would have broken your faith which you swore to the queen nine
years ago.’

‘Her remembrance will always be dear to me,’ answered the king gently,
though all present expected him to rebuke the frog severely for her
impertinence.  But know, Lady Frog, that a king can seldom do as he
wishes, but must be bound by the desires of his subjects.  For nine
years I have resisted them; now I can do so no longer, and have made
choice of the fair young maiden playing at ball yonder.’

‘You cannot wed her, however fair she may be, for the queen your wife
is still alive, and sends you this letter written in her own blood,’
said the frog, holding out the square of handkerchief as she spoke.
‘And, what is more, you have a daughter who is nearly nine years old,
and more beautiful than all the other children in the world put
together.’

The king turned pale when he heard these words, and his hand trembled
so that he could hardly read what the queen had written.  Then he
kissed the handkerchief twice or thrice, and burst into tears, and it
was some minutes before he could speak.  When at length he found his
voice he told his councillors that the writing was indeed that of the
queen, and now that he had the joy of knowing she was alive he could,
of course, proceed no further with his second marriage.  This naturally
displeased the ambassadors who had conducted the bride to court, and
one of them inquired indignantly if he meant to put such an insult on
the princess on the word of a mere frog.

‘I am not a “mere frog,” and I will give you proof of it,’ retorted the
angry little creature.  And putting on her cap, she cried: Fairies that
are my friends, come hither!’  And in a moment a crowd of beautiful
creatures, each one with a crown on her head, stood before her.
Certainly none could have guessed that they were the snails, water-
rats, and grasshoppers from which she had chosen her retinue.

At a sign from the frog the fairies danced a ballet, with which
everyone was so delighted that they begged to have to repeated; but now
it was not youths and maidens who were dancing, but flowers.  Then
these again melted into fountains, whose waters interlaced and, rushing
down the sides of the hall, poured out in a cascade down the steps, and
formed a river found the castle, with the most beautiful little boats
upon it, all painted and gilded.

‘Oh, let us go in them for a sail!’ cried the princess, who had long
ago left her game of ball for a sight of these marvels, and, as she was
bent upon it, the ambassadors, who had been charged never to lose sight
of her, were obliged to go also, though they never entered a boat if
they could help it.

But the moment they and the princess had seated themselves on the soft
cushions, river and boats vanished, and the princess and the
ambassadors vanished too.  Instead the snails and grasshoppers and
water-rats stood round the frog in their natural shapes.

‘Perhaps,’ said she, ‘your Majesty may now be convinced that I am a
fairy and speak the truth.  Therefore lose no time in setting in order
the affairs of your kingdom and go in search of your wife.  Here is a
ring that will admit you into the presence of the queen, and will
likewise allow you to address unharmed the Lion Fairy, though she is
the most terrible creature that ever existed.’

By this time the king had forgotten all about the princess, whom he had
only chosen to please his people, and was as eager to depart on his
journey as the frog was for him to go.  He made one of his ministers
regent of the kingdom, and gave the frog everything her heart could
desire; and with her ring on his finger he rode away to the outskirts
of the forest.  Here he dismounted, and bidding his horse go home, he
pushed forward on foot.

Having nothing to guide him as to where he was likely to find the
entrance of the under- world, the king wandered hither and thither for
a long while, till, one day, while he was resting under a tree, a voice
spoke to him.

‘Why do you give yourself so much trouble for nought, when you might
know what you want to know for the asking?  Alone you will never
discover the path that leads to your wife.’

Much startled, the king looked about him.  He could see nothing, and
somehow, when he thought about it, the voice seemed as if it were part
of himself.  Suddenly his eyes fell on the ring, and he understood.

‘Fool that I was!’ cried he; ‘and how much precious time have I wasted?
 Dear ring, I beseech you, grant me a vision of my wife and my
daughter!’  And even as he spoke there flashed past him a huge lioness,
followed by a lady and a beautiful young maid mounted on fairy horses.

Almost fainting with joy he gazed after them, and then sank back
trembling on the ground.

‘Oh, lead me to them, lead me to them!’ he exclaimed.  And the ring,
bidding him take courage, conducted him safely to the dismal place
where his wife had lived for ten years.

Now the Lion Fairy knew beforehand of his expected presence in her
dominions, and she ordered a palace of crystal to be built in the
middle of the lake of quicksilver; and in order to make it more
difficult of approach she let it float whither it would.  Immediately
after their return from the chase, where the king had seen them, she
conveyed the queen and Muffette into the palace, and put them under the
guard of the monsters of the lake, who one and all had fallen in love
with the princess.  They were horribly jealous, and ready to eat each
other up for her sake, so they readily accepted the charge.  Some
stationed themselves round the floating palace, some sat by the door,
while the smallest and lightest perched themselves on the roof.

Of course the king was quite ignorant of these arrangements, and boldly
entered the palace of the Lion Fairy, who was waiting for him, with her
tail lashing furiously, for she still kept her lion’s shape.  With a
roar that shook the walls she flung herself upon him; but he was on the
watch, and a blow from his sword cut off the paw she had put forth to
strike him dead.  She fell back, and with his helmet still on and his
shield up, he set his foot on her throat.

‘Give me back the wife and the child you have stolen from me,’ he said,
‘or you shall not live another second!’

But the fairy answered:

‘Look through the window at that lake and see if it is in my power to
give them to you.’  And the king looked, and through the crystal walls
he beheld his wife and daughter floating on the quicksilver.  At that
sight the Lion Fairy and all her wickedness was forgotten.  Flinging
off his helmet, he shouted to them with all his might.  The queen knew
his voice, and she and Muffette ran to the window and held out their
hands.  Then the king swore a solemn oath that he would never leave the
spot without taking them if it should cost him his life; and he meant
it, though at the moment he did not know what he was undertaking.

Three years passed by, and the king was no nearer to obtaining his
heart’s desire.  He had suffered every hardship that could be
imagined--nettles had been his bed, wild fruits more bitter than gall
his food, while his days had been spent in fighting the hideous
monsters which kept him from the palace.  He had not advanced one
single step, nor gained one solitary advantage.  Now he was almost in
despair, and ready to defy everything and throw himself into the lake.

It was at this moment of his blackest misery that, one night, a dragon
who had long watched him from the roof crept to his side.

‘You thought that love would conquer all obstacles,’ said he; ‘well,
you have found it hasn’t!  But if you will swear to me by your crown
and sceptre that you will give me a dinner of the food that I never
grow tired of, whenever I choose to ask for it, I will enable you to
reach your wife and daughter.’

Ah, how glad the king was to hear that!  What oath would he not have
taken so as to clasp his wife and child in is arms?  Joyfully he swore
whatever the dragon asked of him; then he jumped on his back, and in
another instant would have been carried by the strong wings into the
castle if the nearest monsters had not happened to awake and hear the
noise of talking and swum to the shore to give battle.  The fight was
long and hard, and when the king at last beat back his foes another
struggle awaited him.  At the entrance gigantic bats, owls, and crows
set upon him from all sides; but the dragon had teeth and claws, while
the queen broke off sharp bits of glass and stabbed and cut in her
anxiety to help her husband.  At length the horrible creatures flew
away; a sound like thunder was heard, the palace and the monsters
vanished, while, at the same moment--no one knew how-- the king found
himself standing with his wife and daughter in the hall of his own home.

The dragon had disappeared with all the rest, and for some years no
more was heard or thought of him.  Muffette grew every day more
beautiful, and when she was fourteen the kings and emperors of the
neighbouring countries sent to ask her in marriage for themselves or
their sons.  For a long time the girl turned a deaf ear to all their
prayers; but at length a young prince of rare gifts touched her heart,
and though the king had left her free to choose what husband she would,
he had secretly hoped that out of all the wooers this one might be his
son-in-law.  So they were betrothed that some day with great pomp, and
then with many tears, the prince set out for his father’s court,
bearing with him a portrait of Muffette.

The days passed slowly to Muffette, in spite of her brave efforts to
occupy herself and not to sadden other people by her complaints.  One
morning she was playing on her harp in the queen’s chamber when the
king burst into the room and clasped his daughter in his arms with an
energy that almost frightened her.

‘Oh, my child! my dear child! why were you ever born?’ cried he, as
soon as he could speak.

‘Is the prince dead?’ faltered Muffette, growing white and cold.

‘No, no; but--oh, how can I tell you!’  And he sank down on a pile of
cushions while his wife and daughter knelt beside him.

At length he was able to tell his tale, and a terrible one it was!
There had just arrived at court a huge giant, as ambassador from the
dragon by whose help the king had rescued the queen and Muffette from
the crystal palace.  The dragon had been very busy for many years past,
and had quite forgotten the princess till the news of her betrothal
reached his ears.  Then he remembered the bargain he had made with her
father; and the more he heard of Muffette the more he felt sure she
would make a delicious dish.  So he had ordered the giant who was his
servant to fetch her at once.

No words would paint the horror of both the queen and the princess as
they listened to this dreadful doom.  They rushed instantly to the
hall, where the giant was awaiting them, and flinging themselves at his
feet implored him to take the kingdom if he would, but to have pity on
the princess.  The giant looked at them kindly, for he was not at all
hard- hearted, but said that he had no power to do anything, and that
if the princess did not go with him quietly the dragon would come
himself.

Several days went by, and the king and queen hardly ceased from
entreating the aid of the giant, who by this time was getting weary of
waiting.

‘There is only one way of helping you,’ he said at last, ‘and that is
to marry the princess to my nephew, who, besides being young and
handsome, has been trained in magic, and will know how to keep her safe
from the dragon.’

‘Oh, thank you, thank you!’ cried the parents, clasping his great hands
to their breasts.  ‘You have indeed lifted a load from us.  She shall
have half the kingdom for her dowry.’  But Muffette stood up and thrust
them aside.

‘I will not buy my life with faithlessness,’ she said proudly; ‘and I
will go with you this moment to the dragon’s abode.’  And all her
father’s and mother’s tears and prayers availed nothing to move her.

The next morning Muffette was put into a litter, and, guarded by the
giant and followed by the king and queen and the weeping maids of
honour, they started for the foot of the mountain where the dragon had
his castle.  The way, though rough and stony, seemed all too short, and
when they reached the spot appointed by the dragon the giant ordered
the men who bore the litter to stand still.

‘It is time for you to bid farewell to your daughter,’ said he; ‘for I
see the dragon coming to us.’

It was true; a cloud appeared to pass over the sun, for between them
and it they could all discern dimly a huge body half a mile long
approaching nearer and nearer.  At first the king could not believe
that this was the small beast who had seemed so friendly on the shore
of the lake of quicksilver but then he knew very little of necromancy,
and had never studied the art of expanding and contracting his body.
But it was the dragon and nothing else, whose six wings were carrying
him forward as fast as might be, considering his great weight and the
length of his tail, which had fifty twists and a half.

He came quickly, yes; but the frog, mounted on a greyhound, and wearing
her cap on her head, went quicker still.  Entering a room where the
prince was sitting gazing at the portrait of his betrothed, she cried
to him:

‘What are you doing lingering here, when the life of the princess is
nearing its last moment?  In the courtyard you will find a green horse
with three heads and twelve feet, and by its side a sword eighteen
yards long.  Hasten, lest you should be too late!’

The fight lasted all day, and the prince’s strength was well-nigh
spent, when the dragon, thinking that the victory was won, opened his
jaws to give a roar of triumph.  The prince saw his chance, and before
his foe could shut his mouth again had plunged his sword far down his
adversary’s throat.  There was a desperate clutching of the claws to
the earth, a slow flagging of the great wings, then the monster rolled
over on his side and moved no more.  Muffette was delivered.

After this they all went back to the palace.  The marriage took place
the following day, and Muffette and her husband lived happy for ever
after.

[From Les Contes des Fees, par Madame d’Aulnoy.]



      The Adventures of Covan the Brown-                    Haired



On the shores of the west, where the great hills stand with their feet
in the sea, dwelt a goatherd and his wife, together with their three
sons and one daughter.  All day long the young men fished and hunted,
while their sister took out the kids to pasture on the mountain, or
stayed at home helping her mother and mending the nets.

For several years they all lived happily together, when one day, as the
girl was out on the hill with the kids, the sun grew dark and an air
cold as a thick white mist came creeping, creeping up from the sea.
She rose with a shiver, and tried to call to her kids, but the voice
died away in her throat, and strong arms seemed to hold her.

Loud were the wails in the hut by the sea when the hours passed on and
the maiden came not.  Many times the father and brothers jumped up,
thinking they heard her steps, but in the thick darkness they could
scarcely see their own hands, nor could they tell where the river lay,
nor where the mountain.  One by one the kids came home, and at every
bleat someone hurried to open the door, but no sound broke the
stillness.  Through the night no one slept, and when morning broke and
the mist rolled back, they sought the maiden by sea and by land, but
never a trace of her could be found anywhere.

Thus a year and a day slipped by, and at the end of it Gorla of the
Flocks and his wife seemed suddenly to have grown old.  Their sons too
were sadder than before, for they loved their sister well, and had
never ceased to mourn for her.  At length Ardan the eldest spoke and
said:

‘It is now a year and a day since our sister was taken from us, and we
have waited in grief and patience for her to return.  Surely some evil
has befallen her, or she would have sent us a token to put our hearts
at rest; and I have vowed to myself that my eyes shall not know sleep
till, living or dead, I have found her.’

‘If you have vowed, then must you keep your vow,’ answered Gorla.  ‘But
better had it been if you had first asked your father’s leave before
you made it.  Yet, since it is so, your mother will bake you a cake for
you to carry with you on your journey.  Who can tell how long it may
be?’

So the mother arose and baked not one cake but two, a big one and a
little one.

‘Choose, my son,’ said she.  ‘Will you have the little cake with your
mother’s blessing, or the big one without it, in that you have set
aside your father and taken on yourself to make a vow?’

‘I will have the large cake,’ answered the youth; ‘for what good would
my mother’s blessing do for me if I was dying of hunger?’  And taking
the big cake he went his way.

Straight on he strode, letting neither hill nor river hinder him.
Swiftly he walked-- swiftly as the wind that blew down the mountain.
The eagles and the gulls looked on from their nests as he passed,
leaving the deer behind him; but at length he stopped, for hunger had
seized on him, and he could walk no more.  Trembling with fatigue he
sat himself on a rock and broke a piece off his cake.

‘Spare me a morsel, Ardan son of Gorla,’ asked a raven, fluttering down
towards him.

‘Seek food elsewhere, O bearer of ill-news,’ answered Ardan son of
Gorla; ‘it is but little I have for myself.’  And he stretched himself
out for a few moments, then rose to his feet again.  On and on went he
till the little birds flew to their nests, and the brightness died out
of the sky, and a darkness fell over the earth.  On and on, and on,
till at last he saw a beam of light streaming from a house and hastened
towards it.

The door was opened and he entered, but paused when he beheld an old
man lying on a bench by the fire, while seated opposite him was a
maiden combing out the locks of her golden hair with a comb of silver.

‘Welcome, fair youth,’ said the old man, turning his head.  ‘Sit down
and warm yourself, and tell me how fares the outer world.  It is long
since I have seen it.’

‘All my news is that I am seeking service,’ answered Ardan son of
Gorla; ‘I have come from far since sunrise, and glad was I to see the
rays of your lamp stream into the darkness.’

‘I need someone to herd my three dun cows, which are hornless,’ said
the old man.  ‘If, for the space of a year, you can bring them back to
me each evening before the sun sets, I will make you payment that will
satisfy your soul.’

But here the girl looked up and answered quickly:

‘Ill will come of it if he listens to your offer.’

‘Counsel unsought is worth nothing,’ replied, rudely, Ardan son of
Gorla.  ‘It would be little indeed that I am fit for if I cannot drive
three cows out to pasture and keep them safe from the wolves that may
come down from the mountains.  Therefore, good father, I will take
service with you at daybreak, and ask no payment till the new year
dawns.’

Next morning the bell of the deer was not heard amongst the fern before
the maiden with the hair of gold had milked the cows, and led them in
front of the cottage where the old man and Ardan son of Gorla awaited
them.

‘Let them wander where they will,’ he said to his servant, ‘and never
seek to turn them from their way, for well they know the fields of good
pasture.  But take heed to follow always behind them, and suffer
nothing that you see, and nought that you hear, to draw you into
leaving them.  Now go, and may wisdom go with you.’

As he ceased speaking he touched one of the cows on her forehead, and
she stepped along the path, with the two others one on each side.  As
he had been bidden, behind them came Ardan son of Gorla, rejoicing in
his heart that work so easy had fallen to his lot.  At the year’s end,
thought he, enough money would lie in his pocket to carry him into far
countries where his sister might be, and, in the meanwhile, someone
might come past who could give him tidings of her.

Thus he spoke to himself, when his eyes fell on a golden cock and a
silver hen running swiftly along the grass in front of him.  In a
moment the words that the old man had uttered vanished from his mind
and he gave chase.  They were so near that he could almost seize their
tails, yet each time he felt sure he could catch them his fingers
closed on the empty air.  At length he could run no more, and stopped
to breathe, while the cock and hen went on as before.  Then he
remembered the cows, and, somewhat frightened, turned back to seek
them.  Luckily they had not strayed far, and were quietly feeding on
the thick green grass.

Ardan son of Gorla was sitting under a tree, when he beheld a staff of
gold and a staff of silver doubling themselves in strange ways on the
meadow in front of him, and starting up he hastened towards them.  He
followed them till he was tired, but he could not catch them, though
they seemed ever within his reach.  When at last he gave up the quest
his knees trembled beneath him for very weariness, and glad was he to
see a tree growing close by lade with fruits of different sorts, of
which he ate greedily.

The sun was by now low in the heavens, and the cows left off feeding,
and turned their faces home again, followed by Ardan son of Gorla.  At
the door of their stable the maiden stood awaiting them, and saying
nought to their herd, she sat down and began to milk.  But it was not
milk that flowed into her pail; instead it was filled with a thin
stream of water, and as she rose up from the last cow the old man
appeared outside.

‘Faithless one, you have betrayed your trust!’ he said to Ardan son of
Gorla.  ‘Not even for one day could you keep true!  Well, you shall
have your reward at once, that others may take warning from you.’  And
waving his wand he touched with it the chest of the youth, who became a
pillar of stone.

Now Gorla of the Flocks and his wife were full of grief that they had
lost a son as well as a daughter, for no tidings had come to them of
Ardan their eldest born.  At length, when two years and two days had
passed since the maiden had led her kids to feed on the mountain and
had been seen no more, Ruais, second son of Gorla, rose up one morning,
and said:

‘Time is long without my sister and Ardan my brother.  So I have vowed
to seek them wherever they may be.’

And his father answered:

‘Better it had been if you had first asked my consent and that of your
mother; but as you have vowed so must you do.’  Then he bade his wife
make a cake, but instead she made two, and offered Ruais his choice, as
she had done to Ardan.  Like Ardan, Ruais chose the large, unblessed
cake, and set forth on his way, doing always, though he knew it not,
that which Ardan had done; so, needless is it to tell what befell him
till he too stood, a pillar of stone, on the hill behind the cottage,
so that all men might see the fate that awaited those who broke their
faith.

Another year and a day passed by, when Covan the Brown-haired, youngest
son of Gorla of the Flocks, one morning spake to his parents, saying:

‘It is more than three years since my sister left us.  My brothers have
also gone, no one know whither, and of us four none remains but I.  No,
therefore, I long to seek them, and I pray you and my mother to place
no hindrance in my way.’

And his father answered:

‘Go, then, and take our blessing with you.’

So the wife of Gorla of the Flocks baked two cakes, one large and one
small; and Covan took the small one, and started on his quest.  In the
wood he felt hungry, for he had walked far, and he sat down to eat.
Suddenly a voice behind him cried:

‘A bit for me! a bit for me!’  And looking round he beheld the black
raven of the wilderness.

‘Yes, you shall have a bit,’ said Covan the Brown-haired; and breaking
off a piece he stretched it upwards to the raven, who ate it greedily.
Then Covan arose and went forward, till he saw the light from the
cottage streaming before him, and glad was he, for night was at hand.

‘Maybe I shall find some work there,’ he thought, ‘and at least I shall
gain money to help me in my search; for who knows how far my sister and
my brothers may have wandered?’

The door stood open and he entered, and the old man gave him welcome,
and the golden- haired maiden likewise.  As happened before, he was
offered by the old man to herd his cows; and, as she had done to his
brothers, the maiden counselled him to leave such work alone.  But,
instead of answering rudely, like both Ardan and Ruais, he thanked her,
with courtesy, though he had no mind to heed her; and he listened to
the warnings and words of his new master.

Next day he set forth at dawn with the dun cows in front of him, and
followed patiently wherever they might lead him.  On the way he saw the
gold cock and silver hen, which ran even closer to him than they had
done to his brothers.  Sorely tempted, he longed to give them chase;
but, remembering in time that he had been bidden to look neither to the
right nor to the left, with a mighty effort he turned his eyes away.
Then the gold and silver staffs seemed to spring from the earth before
him, but this time also he overcame; and though the fruit from the
magic tree almost touched his mouth, he brushed it aside and went
steadily on.

That day the cows wandered father than ever they had done before, and
never stopped till they had reached a moor where the heather was
burning.  The fire was fierce, but the cows took no heed, and walked
steadily through it, Covan the Brown-haired following them.  Next they
plunged into a foaming river, and Covan plunged in after them, though
the water came high above his waist.  On the other side of the river
lay a wide plain, and here the cows lay down, while Covan looked about
him.  Near him was a house built of yellow stone, and from it came
sweet songs, and Covan listened, and his heart grew light within him.

While he was thus waiting there ran up to him a youth, scarcely able to
speak so swiftly had he sped; and he cried aloud:

‘Hasten, hasten, Covan the Brown-haired, for your cows are in the corn,
and you must drive them out!’

‘Nay,’ said Covan smiling, ‘it had been easier for you to have driven
them out than to come here to tell me.’  And he went on listening to
the music.

Very soon the same youth returned and cried with panting breath:

‘Out upon you, Covan son of Gorla, that you stand there agape.  For our
dogs are chasing your cows, and you must drive them off!’

‘Nay, then,’ answered Covan as before, ‘it had been easier for you to
call off your dogs than to come here to tell me.’  And he stayed where
he was till the music ceased.

Then he turned to look for the cows, and found them all lying in the
place where he had left them; but when they saw Covan they rose up and
walked homewards, taking a different path to that they had trod in the
morning.  This time they passed over a plain so bare that a pin could
not have lain there unnoticed, yet Covan beheld with surprise a foal
and its mother feeding there, both as fat as if they had pastured on
the richest grass.  Further on they crossed another plain, where the
grass was thick and green, but on it were feeding a foal and its
mother, so lean that you could have counted their ribs.  And further
again the path led them by the shores of a lake whereon were floating
two boats; one full of gay and happy youths, journeying to the land of
the Sun, and another with grim shapes clothed in black, travelling to
the land of Night.

‘What can these things mean?’ said Covan to himself, as he followed his
cows.

Darkness now fell, the wind howled, and torrents of rain poured upon
them.  Covan knew not how far they might yet have to go, or indeed if
they were on the right road.  He could not even see his cows, and his
heart sank lest, after all, he should have failed to bring them safely
back.  What was he to do?

He waited thus, for he could go neither forwards nor backwards, till he
felt a great friendly paw laid on his shoulder.

‘My cave is just here,’ said the Dog of Maol- mor, of whom Covan son of
Gorla had heard much.  ‘Spend the night here, and you shall be fed on
the flesh of lamb, and shall lay aside three-thirds of thy weariness.’

And Covan entered, and supped, and slept, and in the morning rose up a
new man.

‘Farewell, Covan,’ said the Dog of Maol-mor.  ‘May success go with you,
for you took what I had to give and did not mock me.  So, when danger
is your companion, wish for me, and I will not fail you.’

At these words the Dog of Maol-mor disappeared into the forest, and
Covan went to seek his cows, which were standing in the hollow where
the darkness had come upon them.

At the sight of Covan the Brown-haired they walked onwards, Covan
following ever behind them, and looking neither to the right nor to the
left.  All that day they walked, and when night fell they were in a
barren plain, with only rocks for shelter.

‘We must rest here as best we can,’ spoke Covan to the cows.  And they
bowed their heads and lay down in the place where they stood.  Then
came the black raven of Corri- nan-creag, whose eyes never closed, and
whose wings never tired; and he fluttered before the face of Covan and
told him that he knew of a cranny in the rock where there was food in
plenty, and soft moss for a bed.

‘Go with me thither,’ he said to Covan, ‘and you shall lay aside
three-thirds of your weariness, and depart in the morning refreshed,’
and Covan listened thankfully to his words, and at dawn he rose up to
seek his cows.

‘Farewell!’ cried the black raven.  ‘You trusted me, and took all I had
to offer in return for the food you once gave me.  So if in time to
come you need a friend, wish for me, and I will not fail you.’

As before, the cows were standing in the spot where he had left them,
ready to set out.  All that day they walked, on and on, and on, Covan
son of Gorla walking behind them, till night fell while they were on
the banks of a river.

‘We can go no further,’ spake Covan to the cows.  And they began to eat
the grass by the side of the stream, while Covan listened to them and
longed for some supper also, for they had travelled far, and his limbs
were weak under him.  Then there was a swish of water at his feet, and
out peeped the head of the famous otter Doran-donn of the stream.

‘Trust to me and I will find you warmth and shelter,’ said Doran-donn;
‘and for food fish in plenty.’  And Covan went with him thankfully, and
ate and rested, and laid aside three-thirds of his weariness.  At
sunrise he left his bed of dried sea-weed, which had floated up with
the tide, and with a grateful heart bade farewell to Doran-donn.

‘Because you trusted me and took what I had to offer, you have made me
your friend, Covan,’ said Doran-donn.  ‘And if you should be in danger,
and need help from one who can swim a river or dive beneath a wave,
call to me and I will come to you.’  Then he plunged into the stream,
and was seen no more.

The cows were standing ready in the place where Covan had left them,
and they journeyed on all that day, till, when night fell, they reached
the cottage.  Joyful indeed was the old man as the cows went into their
stables, and he beheld the rich milk that flowed into the pail of the
golden-haired maiden with the silver comb.

‘You have done well indeed,’ he said to Covan son of Gorla.  ‘And now,
what would you have as a reward?’

‘I want nothing for myself,’ answered Covan the Brown-haired; ‘but I
ask you to give me back my brothers and my sister who have been lost to
us for three years past.  You are wise and know the lore of fairies and
of witches; tell me where I can find them, and what I must do to bring
them to life again.’

The old man looked grave at the words of Covan.

‘Yes, truly I know where they are,’ answered he, ‘and I say not that
they may not be brought to life again.  But the perils are great--too
great for you to overcome.’

‘Tell me what they are,’ said Covan again, ‘and I shall know better if
I may overcome them.’

‘Listen, then, and judge.  In the mountain yonder there dwells a roe,
white of foot, with horns that branch like the antlers of a deer.  On
the lake that leads to the land of the Sun floats a duck whose body is
green and whose neck is of gold.  In the pool of Corri- Bui swims a
salmon with a skin that shines like silver, and whose gills are
red--bring them all to me, and then you shall know where dwell your
brothers and your sister!’

‘To-morrow at cock-crow I will begone!’ answered Covan.

The way to the mountain lay straight before him, and when he had
climbed high he caught sight of the roe with the white feet and the
spotted sides, on the peak in front.

Full of hope he set out in pursuit of her, but by the time he had
reached that peak she had left it and was to be seen on another.  And
so it always happened, and Covan’s courage had well-nigh failed him,
when the thought of the Dog of Maol-mor darted into his mind.

‘Oh, that he was here!’ he cried.  And looking up he saw him.

‘Why did you summon me?’ asked the Dog of Maol-mor.  And when Covan had
told him of his trouble, and how the roe always led him further and
further, the Dog only answered:

‘Fear nothing; I will soon catch her for you.’  And in a short while he
laid the roe unhurt at Covan’s feet.

‘What will you wish me to do with her?’ said the Dog.  And Covan
answered:

‘The old man bade me bring her, and the duck with the golden neck, and
the salmon with the silver sides, to his cottage; if I shall catch
them, I know not.  But carry you the roe to the back of the cottage,
and tether her so that she cannot escape.’

‘It shall be done,’ said the Dog of Maol-mor.

Then Covan sped to the lake which led to the land of the Sun, where the
duck with the green body and the golden neck was swimming among the
water-lilies.

‘Surely I can catch him, good swimmer as I am,’ to himself.  But, if he
could swim well, the duck could swim better, and at length his strength
failed him, and he was forced to seek the land.

‘Oh that the black raven were here to help me!’ he thought to himself.
And in a moment the black raven was perched on his shoulder.

‘How can I help you?’ asked the raven.  And Covan answered:

‘Catch me the green duck that floats on the water.’  And the raven flew
with his strong wings and picked him up in his strong beak, and in
another moment the bird was laid at the feet of Covan.

This time it was easy for the young man to carry his prize, and after
giving thanks to the raven for his aid, he went on to the river.

In the deep dark pool of which the old man had spoken the silver-sided
salmon was lying under a rock.

‘Surely I, good fisher as I am, can catch him,’ said Covan son of
Gorla.  And cutting a slender pole from a bush, he fastened a line to
the end of it.  But cast with what skill he might, it availed nothing,
for the salmon would not even look at the bait.

‘I am beaten at last, unless the Doran-donn can deliver me,’ he cried.
And as he spoke there was a swish of the water, and the face of the
Doran-donn looked up at him.

‘O catch me, I pray you, that salmon under the rock!’ said Covan son of
Gorla.  And the Doran-donn dived, and laying hold of the salmon by his
tail, bore it back to the place where Covan was standing.

‘The roe, and the duck, and the salmon are here,’ said Covan to the old
man, when he reached the cottage.  And the old man smiled on him and
bade him eat and drink, and after he hungered no more, he would speak
with him.

And this was what the old man said: ‘You began well, my son, so things
have gone well with you.  You set store by your mother’s blessing,
therefore you have been blest.  You gave food to the raven when it
hungered, you were true to the promise you had made to me, and did not
suffer yourself to be turned aside by vain shows.  You were skilled to
perceive that the boy who tempted you to leave the temple was a teller
of false tales, and took with a grateful heart what the poor had to
offer you.  Last of all, difficulties gave you courage, instead of
lending you despair.

And now, as to your reward, you shall in truth take your sister home
with you, and your brothers I will restore to life; but idle and
unfaithful as they are their lot is to wander for ever.  And so
farewell, and may wisdom be with you.’

‘First tell me your name?’ asked Covan softly.

‘I am the Spirit of Age,’ said the old man.

[Taken from a Celtic Story.  Translated by Doctor Macleod Clarke.]



           The Princess Bella-Flor



Once upon a time there lived a man who had two sons.  When they grew up
the elder went to seek his fortune in a far country, and for many years
no one heard anything about him.  Meanwhile the younger son stayed at
home with his father, who died at last in a good old age, leaving great
riches behind him.

For some time the son who stayed at home spent his father’s wealth
freely, believing that he alone remained to enjoy it.  But, one day, as
he was coming down stairs, he was surprised to see a stranger enter the
hall, looking about as if the house belonged to him.

‘Have you forgotten me?’ asked the man.

‘I can’t forget a person I have never known,’ was the rude answer.

‘I am your brother,’ replied the stranger, ‘and I have returned home
without the money I hoped to have made.  And, what is worse, they tell
me in the village that my father is dead.  I would have counted my lost
gold as nothing if I could have seen him once more.’

‘He died six months ago,’ said the rich brother, ‘and he left you, as
your portion, the old wooden chest that stands in the loft.  You had
better go there and look for it; I have no more time to waste.’  And he
went his way.

So the wanderer turned his steps to the loft, which was at the top of
the storehouse, and there he found the wooden chest, so old that it
looked as if it were dropping to pieces.

‘What use is this old thing to me?’ he said to himself.  ‘Oh, well, it
will serve to light a fire at which I can warm myself; so things might
be worse after all.’

Placing the chest on his back, the man, whose name was Jose, set out
for his inn, and, borrowing a hatchet, began to chop up the box.  In
doing so he discovered a secret drawer, and in it lay a paper.  He
opened the paper, not knowing what it might contain, and was astonished
to find that it was the acknowledgment of a large debt that was owing
to his father.  Putting the precious writing in his pocket, he hastily
inquired of the landlord where he could find the man whose name was
written inside, and he ran out at once in search of him.

The debtor proved to be an old miser, who lived at the other end of the
village.  He had hoped for many months that the paper he had written
had been lost or destroyed, and, indeed, when he saw it, was very
unwilling to pay what he owed.  However, the stranger threatened to
drag him before the king, and when the miser saw that there was no help
for it he counted out the coins one by one.  The stranger picked them
up and put them in his pocket, and went back to his inn feeling that he
was now a rich man.

A few weeks after this he was walking through the streets of the
nearest town, when he met a poor woman crying bitterly.  He stopped and
asked her what was the matter, and she answered between her sobs that
her husband was dying, and, to make matters worse, a creditor whom he
could not pay was anxious to have him taken to prison.

‘Comfort yourself,’ said the stranger kindly; ‘they shall neither send
your husband to prison nor sell your goods.  I will not only pay his
debts but, if he dies, the cost of his burial also.  And now go home,
and nurse him as well as you can.’

And so she did; but, in spite of her care, the husband died, and was
buried by the stranger.  But everything cost more than he expected, and
when all was paid he found that only three gold pieces were left.

‘What am I to do now?’ said he to himself.  ‘I think I had better go to
court, and enter into the service of the king.’

At first he was only a servant, who carried the king the water for his
bath, and saw that his bed was made in a particular fashion.  But he
did his duties so well that his master soon took notice of him, and in
a short time he rose to be a gentleman of the bedchamber.

Now, when this happened the younger brother had spent all the money he
had inherited, and did not know how to make any for himself.  He then
bethought him of the king’s favourite, and went whining to the palace
to beg that his brother, whom he had so ill-used, would give him his
protection, and find him a place.  The elder, who was always ready to
help everyone spoke to the king on his behalf, and the next day the
young man took up is work at court.

Unfortunately, the new-comer was by nature spiteful and envious, and
could not bear anyone to have better luck than himself.  By dint of
spying through keyholes and listening at doors, he learned that the
king, old and ugly though he was, had fallen in love with the Princess
Bella-Flor, who would have nothing to say to him, and had hidden
herself in some mountain castle, no one knew where.

‘That will do nicely,’ thought the scoundrel, rubbing his hands.  ‘It
will be quite easy to get the king to send my brother in search of her,
and if he returns without finding her, his head will be the forfeit.
Either way, he will be out of MY path.’

So he went at once to the Lord High Chamberlain and craved an audience
of the king, to whom he declared he wished to tell some news of the
highest importance.  The king admitted him into the presence chamber
without delay, and bade him state what he had to say, and to be quick
about it.

‘Oh, sire! the Princess Bella-Flor--’ answered the man, and then
stopped as if afraid.

‘What of the Princess Bella-Flor?’ asked the king impatiently.

‘I have heard--it is whispered at court--that your majesty desires to
know where she lies in hiding.’

‘I would give half my kingdom to the man who will bring her to me,’
cried the king, eagerly.  ‘Speak on, knave; has a bird of the air
revealed to you the secret?’

‘It is not I, but my brother, who knows,’ replied the traitor; ‘if your
majesty would ask him--’ But before the words were out of his mouth the
king had struck a blow with his sceptre on a golden plate that hung on
the wall.

‘Order Jose to appear before me instantly,’ he shouted to the servant
who ran to obey his orders, so great was the noise his majesty had
made; and when Jose entered the hall, wondering what in the world could
be the matter, the king was nearly dumb from rage and excitement.

‘Bring me the Princess Bella-Flor this moment,’ stammered he, ‘for if
you return without her I will have you drowned!’  And without another
word he left the hall, leaving Jose staring with surprise and horror.

‘How can I find the Princess Bella-Flor when I have never even seen
her?’ thought he.  ‘But it is no use staying here, for I shall only be
put to death.’  And he walked slowly to the stables to choose himself a
horse.

There were rows upon rows of fine beasts with their names written in
gold above their stalls, and Jose was looking uncertainly from one to
the other, wondering which he should choose, when an old white horse
turned its head and signed to him to approach.

‘Take me,’ it said in a gentle whisper, ‘and all will go well.’

Jose still felt so bewildered with the mission that the king had given
him that he forgot to be astonished at hearing a horse talk.
Mechanically he laid his hand on the bridle and led the white horse out
of the stable.  He was about to mount on his back, when the animal
spoke again:

‘Pick up those three loaves of bread which you see there, and put them
in your pocket.’

Jose did as he was told, and being in a great hurry to get away, asked
no questions, but swung himself into the saddle.

They rode far without meeting any adventures, but at length they came
to an ant-hill, and the horse stopped.

‘Crumble those three loaves for the ants,’ he said.  But Jose hesitated.

‘Why, we may want them ourselves!’ answered he.

‘Never mind that; give them to the ants all the same.  Do not lose a
chance of helping others.’  And when the loaves lay in crumbs on the
road, the horse galloped on.

By-and-by they entered a rocky pass between two mountains, and here
they saw an eagle which had been caught in a hunter’s net.

‘Get down and cut the meshes of the net, and set the poor bird free,’
said the horse.

‘But it will take so long,’ objected Jose, ‘and we may miss the
princess.’

‘Never mind that; do not lose a chance of helping others,’ answered the
horse.  And when the meshes were cut, and the eagle was free, the horse
galloped on.

The had ridden many miles, and at last they came to a river, where they
beheld a little fish lying gasping on the sand, and the horse said:

‘Do you see that little fish?  It will die if you do not put it back in
the water.’

‘But, really, we shall never find the Princess Bella-Flor if we waste
our time like this!’ cried Jose.

‘We never waste time when we are helping others,’ answered the horse.
And soon the little fish was swimming happily away.

A little while after they reached a castle, which was built in the
middle of a very thick wood, and right in front was the Princess
Bella-Flor feeding her hens.

‘Now listen,’ said the horse.  ‘I am going to give all sorts of little
hops and skips, which will amuse the Princess Bella-Flor.  Then she
will tell you that she would like to ride a little way, and you must
help her to mount.  When she is seated I shall begin to neigh and kick,
and you must say that I have never carried a woman before, and that you
had better get up behind so as to be able to manage me.  Once on my
back we will go like the wind to the king’s palace.’

Jose did exactly as the horse told him, and everything fell out as the
animal prophesied; so that it was not until they were galloping
breathlessly towards the palace that the princess knew that she was
taken captive.  She said nothing, however, but quietly opened her apron
which contained the bran for the chickens, and in a moment it lay
scattered on the ground.

‘Oh, I have let fall my bran!’ cried she; ‘please get down and pick it
up for me.’  But Jose only answered:

‘We shall find plenty of bran where we are going.’  And the horse
galloped on.

They were now passing through a forest, and the princess took out her
handkerchief and threw it upwards, so that it stuck in one of the
topmost branches of a tree.

‘Dear me; how stupid!  I have let my handkerchief blow away,’ said she.
 ‘Will you climb up and get it for me?’  But Jose answered:

‘We shall find plenty of handkerchiefs where we are going.’  And the
horse galloped on.

After the wood they reached a river, and the princess slipped a ring
off her finger and let it roll into the water.

‘How careless of me,’ gasped she, beginning to sob.  ‘I have lost my
favourite ring; DO stop for a moment and look if you can see it.’  But
Jose answered:

‘You will find plenty of rings where you are going.’  And the horse
galloped on.

At last they entered the palace gates, and the king’s heart bounded
with joy at beholding his beloved Princess Bella-Flor.  But the
princess brushed him aside as if he had been a fly, and locked herself
into the nearest room, which she would not open for all his entreaties.

‘Bring me the three things I lost on the way, and perhaps I may think
about it,’ was all she would say.  And, in despair, the king was driven
to take counsel of Jose.

‘There is no remedy that I can see,’ said his majesty, ‘but that you,
who know where they are, should go and bring them back.  And if you
return without them I will have you drowned.’

Poor Jose was much troubled at these words.  He thought that he had
done all that was required of him, and that his life was safe.
However, he bowed low, and went out to consult his friend the horse.

‘Do not vex yourself,’ said the horse, when he had heard the story;
‘jump up, and we will go and look for the things.’  And Jose mounted at
once.

They rode on till they came to the ant-hill, and then the horse asked:

‘Would you like to have the bran?’

‘What is the use of liking?’ answered Jose.

‘Well, call the ants, and tell them to fetch it for you; and, if some
of it has been scattered by the wind, to bring in its stead the grains
that were in the cakes you gave them.’  Jose listened in surprise.  He
did not much believe in the horse’s plan; but he could not think of
anything better, so he called to the ants, and bade them collect the
bran as fast as they could.

Then he saw under a tree and waited, while his horse cropped the green
turf.

‘Look there!’ said the animal, suddenly raising its head; and Jose
looked behind him and saw a little mountain of bran, which he put into
a bag that was hung over his saddle.

‘Good deeds bear fruit sooner or later,’ observed the horse; ‘but mount
again, as we have far to go.’

When they arrived at the tree, they saw the handkerchief fluttering
like a flag from the topmost branch, and Jose’s spirits sank again.

‘How am I to get that handkerchief?’ cried he; ‘why I should need
Jacob’s ladder!’  But the horse answered:

‘Do not be frightened; call to the eagle you set free from the net, he
will bring it to you.’

So Jose called to the eagle, and the eagle flew to the top of the tree
and brought back the handkerchief in its beak.  Jose thanked him, and
vaulting on his horse they rode on to the river.

A great deal of rain had fallen in the night, and the river, instead of
being clear as it was before, was dark and troubled.

‘How am I to fetch the ring from the bottom of this river when I do not
know exactly where it was dropped, and cannot even see it?’ asked Jose.
 But the horse answered: ‘Do not be frightened; call the little fish
whose life you saved, and she will bring it to you.’

So he called to the fish, and the fish dived to the bottom and slipped
behind big stones, and moved little ones with its tail till it found
the ring, and brought it to Jose in its mouth.

Well pleased with all he had done, Jose returned to the palace; but
when the king took the precious objects to Bella-Flor, she declared
that she would never open her door till the bandit who had carried her
off had been fried in oil.

‘I am very sorry,’ said the king to Jose, ‘I really would rather not;
but you see I have no choice.’

 While the oil was being heated in the great caldron, Jose went to the
stables to inquire of his friend the horse if there was no way for him
to escape.

‘Do not be frightened,’ said the horse.  ‘Get on my back, and I will
gallop till my whole body is wet with perspiration, then rub it all
over your skin, and no matter how hot the oil may be you will never
feel it.’

Jose did not ask any more questions, but did as the horse bade him; and
men wondered at his cheerful face as they lowered him into the caldron
of boiling oil.  He was left there till Bella-Flor cried that he must
be cooked enough.  Then out came a youth so young and handsome, that
everyone fell in love with him, and Bella-Flor most of all.

As for the old king, he saw that he had lost the game; and in despair
he flung himself into the caldron, and was fried instead of Jose.  Then
Jose was proclaimed king, on condition that he married Bella-Flor which
he promised to do the next day.  But first he went to the stables and
sought out the horse, and said to him: ‘It is to you that I owe my life
and my crown.  Why have you done all this for me?’

And the horse answered: ‘I am the soul of that unhappy man for whom you
spent all your fortune.  And when I saw you in danger of death I begged
that I might help you, as you had helped me.  For, as I told you, Good
deeds bear their own fruit!’

[From Cuentos, Oraciones, y Adivinas, por Fernan Caballero.]



              The Bird of Truth



Once upon a time there lived a poor fisher who built a hut on the banks
of a stream which, shunning the glare of the sun and the noise of the
towns, flowed quietly past trees and under bushes, listening to the
songs of the birds overhead.

One day, when the fisherman had gone out as usual to cast his nets, he
saw borne towards him on the current a cradle of crystal.  Slipping his
net quickly beneath it he drew it out and lifted the silk coverlet.
Inside, lying on a soft bed of cotton, were two babies, a boy and a
girl, who opened their eyes and smiled at him.  The man was filled with
pity at the sight, and throwing down his lines he took the cradle and
the babies home to his wife.

The good woman flung up her hands in despair when she beheld the
contents of the cradle.

‘Are not eight children enough,’ she cried, ‘without bringing us two
more?  How do you think we can feed them?’

‘You would not have had me leave them to die of hunger,’ answered he,
‘or be swallowed up by the waves of the sea?  What is enough for eight
is also enough for ten.’

The wife said no more; and in truth her heart yearned over the little
creatures.  Somehow or other food was never lacking in the hut, and the
children grew up and were so good and gentle that, in time, their
foster-parents loved them as well or better than their own, who were
quarrelsome and envious.  It did not take the orphans long to notice
that the boys did not like them, and were always playing tricks on
them, so they used to go away by themselves and spend whole hours by
the banks of the river.  Here they would take out the bits of bread
they had saved from their breakfasts and crumble them for the birds.
In return, the birds taught them many things: how to get up early in
the morning, how to sing, and how to talk their language, which very
few people know.

But though the little orphans did their best to avoid quarrelling with
their foster- brothers, it was very difficult always to keep the peace.
 Matters got worse and worse till, one morning, the eldest boy said to
the twins:

‘It is all very well for you to pretend that you have such good
manners, and are so much better than we, but we have at least a father
and mother, while you have only got the river, like the toads and the
frogs.’

The poor children did not answer the insult; but it made them very
unhappy.  And they told each other in whispers that they could not stay
there any longer, but must go into the world and seek their fortunes.

So next day they arose as early as the birds and stole downstairs
without anybody hearing them.  One window was open, and they crept
softly out and ran to the side of the river.  Then, feeling as if they
had found a friend, they walked along its banks, hoping that by- and-by
they should meet some one to take care of them.

The whole of that day they went steadily on without seeing a living
creature, till, in the evening, weary and footsore, they saw before
them a small hut.  This raised their spirits for a moment; but the door
was shut, and the hut seemed empty, and so great was their
disappointment that they almost cried.  However, the boy fought down
his tears, and said cheerfully:

‘Well, at any rate here is a bench where we can sit down, and when we
are rested we will think what is best to do next.’

Then they sat down, and for some time they were too tired even to
notice anything; but by-and-by they saw that under the tiles of the
roof a number of swallows were sitting, chattering merrily to each
other.  Of course the swallows had no idea that the children understood
their language, or they would not have talked so freely; but, as it
was, they said whatever came into their heads.

‘Good evening, my fine city madam,’ remarked a swallow, whose manners
were rather rough and countryfied to another who looked particularly
distinguished.  ‘Happy, indeed, are the eyes that behold you!  Only
think of your having returned to your long-forgotten country friends,
after you have lived for years in a palace!’

‘I have inherited this nest from my parents,’ replied the other, ‘and
as they left it to me I certainly shall make it my home.  But,’ she
added politely, ‘I hope that you and all your family are well?’

‘Very well indeed, I am glad to say.  But my poor daughter had, a short
time ago, such bad inflammation in her eyes that she would have gone
blind had I not been able to find the magic herb, which cured her at
once.’

‘And how is the nightingale singing?  Does the lark soar as high as
ever?  And does the linnet dress herself as smartly?’  But here the
country swallow drew herself up.

‘I never talk gossip,’ she said severely.  ‘Our people, who were once
so innocent and well-behaved, have been corrupted by the bad examples
of men.  It is a thousand pities.’

‘What! innocence and good behaviour are not to be met with among birds,
nor in the country!  My dear friend, what are you saying?’

‘The truth and nothing more.  Imagine, when we returned here, we met
some linnets who, just as the spring and the flowers and the long days
had come, were setting out for the north and the cold?  Out of pure
compassion we tried to persuade them to give up this folly; but they
only replied with the utmost insolence.’

‘How shocking!’ exclaimed the city swallow.

‘Yes, it was.  And worse than that, the crested lark, that was formerly
so timid and shy, is now no better than a thief, and steals maize and
corn whenever she can find them.’

‘I am astonished at what you say.’

‘You will be more astonished when I tell you that on my arrival here
for the summer I found my nest occupied by a shameless sparrow!  “This
is my nest,” I said.  “Yours?” he answered, with a rude laugh.  “Yes,
mine; my ancestors were born here, and my sons will be born here also.”
 And at that my husband set upon him and threw him out of the nest.  I
am sure nothing of this sort ever happens in a town.’

‘Not exactly, perhaps.  But I have seen a great deal--if you only knew!’

‘Oh! do tell us! do tell us!’ cried they all.  And when they had
settled themselves comfortably, the city swallow began:

‘You must know, then that our king fell in love with the youngest
daughter of a tailor, who was as good and gentle as she was beautiful.
His nobles hoped that he would have chosen a queen from one of their
daughters, and tried to prevent the marriage; but the king would not
listen to them, and it took place.  Not many months later a war broke
out, and the king rode away at the head of his army, while the queen
remained behind, very unhappy at the separation.  When peace was made,
and the king returned, he was told that his wife had had two babies in
his absence, but that both were dead; that she herself had gone out of
her mind and was obliged to be shut up in a tower in the mountains,
where, in time, the fresh air might cure her.’

‘And was this not true?’ asked the swallows eagerly.

‘Of course not,’ answered the city lady, with some contempt for their
stupidity.  ‘The children were alive at that very moment in the
gardener’s cottage; but at night the chamberlain came down and put them
in a cradle of crystal, which he carried to the river.

‘For a whole day they floated safely, for though the stream was deep it
was very still, and the children took no harm.  In the morning--so I am
told by my friend the kingfisher--they were rescued by a fisherman who
lived near the river bank.’

 The children had been lying on the bench, listening lazily to the
chatter up to this point; but when they heard the story of the crystal
cradle which their foster-mother had always been fond of telling them,
they sat upright and looked at each other.

‘Oh, how glad I am I learnt the birds’ language!’ said the eyes of one
to the eyes of the other.

Meanwhile the swallows had spoken again.

‘That was indeed good fortune!’ cried they.

‘And when the children are grown up they can return to their father and
set their mother free.’

‘It will not be so easy as you think,’ answered the city swallow,
shaking her head; ‘for they will have to prove that they are the king’s
children, and also that their mother never went mad at all.  In fact,
it is so difficult that there is only one way of proving it to the
king.’

‘And what is that?’ cried all the swallows at once.  ‘And how do you
know it?’

‘I know it,’ answered the city swallow, ‘because, one day, when I was
passing through the palace garden, I met a cuckoo, who, as I need not
tell you, always pretends to be able to see into the future.  We began
to talk about certain things which were happening in the palace, and of
the events of past years.  “Ah,” said he, “the only person who can
expose the wickedness of the ministers and show the king how wrong he
has been, is the Bird of Truth, who can speak the language of men.”

‘“And where can this bird be found?” I asked.

‘“It is shut up in a castle guarded by a fierce giant, who only sleeps
one quarter of an hour out of the whole twenty-four,” replied the
cuckoo.

‘And where is this castle?’ inquired the country swallow, who, like all
the rest, and the children most of all, had been listening with deep
attention.

‘That is just what I don’t know,’ answered her friend.  ‘All I can tell
you is that not far from here is a tower, where dwells an old witch,
and it is she who knows the way, and she will only teach it to the
person who promises to bring her the water from the fountain of many
colours, which she uses for her enchantments.  But never will she
betray the place where the Bird of Truth is hidden, for she hates him,
and would kill him if she could; knowing well, however, that this bird
cannot die, as he is immortal, she keeps him closely shut up, and
guarded night and day by the Birds of Bad Faith, who seek to gag him so
that his voice should not be heard.’

‘And is there no one else who can tell the poor boy where to find the
bird, if he should ever manage to reach the tower?’ asked the country
swallow.

‘No one,’ replied the city swallow, ‘except an owl, who lives a
hermit’s life in that desert, and he knows only one word of man’s
speech, and that is “cross.” So that even if the prince did succeed in
getting there, he could never understand what the owl said.  But, look,
the sun is sinking to his nest in the depths of the sea, and I must go
to mine.  Good-night, friends, good-night!’

Then the swallow flew away, and the children, who had forgotten both
hunger and weariness in the joy of this strange news, rose up and
followed in the direction of her flight.  After two hours’ walking,
they arrived at a large city, which they felt sure must be the capital
of their father’s kingdom.  Seeing a good-natured looking woman
standing at the door of a house, they asked her if she would give them
a night’s lodging, and she was so pleased with their pretty faces and
nice manners that she welcomed them warmly.

It was scarcely light the next morning before the girl was sweeping out
the rooms, and the boy watering the garden, so that by the time the
good woman came downstairs there was nothing left for her to do.  This
so delighted her that she begged the children to stay with her
altogether, and the boy answered that he would leave his sisters with
her gladly, but that he himself had serious business on hand and must
not linger in pursuit of it.  So he bade them farewell and set out.

 For three days he wandered by the most out- of-the-way paths, but no
signs of a tower were to be seen anywhere.  On the fourth morning it
was just the same, and, filled with despair, he flung himself on the
ground under a tree and hid his face in his hands.  In a little while
he heard a rustling over his head, and looking up, he saw a turtle dove
watching him with her bright eyes.

‘Oh dove!’ cried the boy, addressing the bird in her own language, ‘Oh
dove! tell me, I pray you, where is the castle of Come-and- never-go?’

‘Poor child,’ answered the dove, ‘who has sent you on such a useless
quest?’

‘My good or evil fortune,’ replied the boy, ‘I know not which.’

‘To get there,’ said the dove, ‘you must follow the wind, which to-day
is blowing towards the castle.’

The boy thanked her, and followed the wind, fearing all the time that
it might change its direction and lead him astray.  But the wind seemed
to feel pity for him and blew steadily on.

With each step the country became more and more dreary, but at
nightfall the child could see behind the dark and bare rocks something
darker still.  This was the tower in which dwelt the witch; and seizing
the knocker he gave three loud knocks, which were echoed in the hollows
of the rocks around.

The door opened slowly, and there appeared on the threshold an old
woman holding up a candle to her face, which was so hideous that the
boy involuntarily stepped backwards, almost as frightened by the troop
of lizards, beetles and such creatures that surrounded her, as by the
woman herself.

‘Who are you who dare to knock at my door and wake me?’ cried she.  ‘Be
quick and tell me what you want, or it will be the worse for you.’

‘Madam,’ answered the child, ‘I believe that you alone know the way to
the castle of Come- and-never-go, and I pray you to show it to me.’

‘Very good,’ replied the witch, with something that she meant for a
smile, ‘but to-day it is late.  To-morrow you shall go.  Now enter, and
you shall sleep with my lizards.’

‘I cannot stay,’ said he.  ‘I must go back at once, so as to reach the
road from which I started before day dawns.’

‘If I tell you, will you promise me that you will bring me this jar
full of the many- coloured water from the spring in the court- yard of
the castle?’ asked she.  ‘If you fail to keep your word I will change
you into a lizard for ever.’

‘I promise,’ answered the boy.

Then the old woman called to a very thin dog, and said to him:

‘Conduct this pig of a child to the castle of Come-and-never-go, and
take care that you warn my friend of his arrival.’  And the dog arose
and shook itself, and set out.

At the end of two hours they stopped in front of a large castle, big
and black and gloomy, whose doors stood wide open, although neither
sound nor light gave sign of any presence within.  The dog, however,
seemed to know what to expect, and, after a wild howl, went on; but the
boy, who was uncertain whether this was the quarter of an hour when the
giant was asleep, hesitated to follow him, and paused for a moment
under a wild olive that grew near by, the only tree which he had beheld
since he had parted from the dove.  ‘Oh, heaven, help me!’ cried he.

‘Cross! cross!’ answered a voice.

The boy leapt for joy as he recognised the note of the owl of which the
swallow had spoken, and he said softly in the bird’s language:

‘Oh, wise owl, I pray you to protect and guide me, for I have come in
search of the Bird of Truth.  And first I must fill this far with the
many-coloured water in the courtyard of the castle.’

‘Do not do that,’ answered the owl, ‘but fill the jar from the spring
which bubbles close by the fountain with the many-coloured water.
Afterwards, go into the aviary opposite the great door, but be careful
not to touch any of the bright-plumaged birds contained in it, which
will cry to you, each one, that he is the Bird of Truth.  Choose only a
small white bird that is hidden in a corner, which the others try
incessantly to kill, not knowing that it cannot die.  And, be
quick!--for at this very moment the giant has fallen asleep, and you
have only a quarter of an hour to do everything.’

The boy ran as fast as he could and entered the courtyard, where he saw
the two spring close together.  He passed by the many- coloured water
without casting a glance at it, and filled the jar from the fountain
whose water was clear and pure.  He next hastened to the aviary, and
was almost deafened by the clamour that rose as he shut the door behind
him.  Voices of peacocks, voices of ravens, voices of magpies, each
claiming to be the Bird of Truth.  With steadfast face the boy walked
by them all, to the corner, where, hemmed in by a hand of fierce crows,
was the small white bird he sought.  Putting her safely in his breast,
he passed out, followed by the screams of the birds of Bad Faith which
he left behind him.

Once outside, he ran without stopping to the witch’s tower, and handed
to the old woman the jar she had given him.

‘Become a parrot!’ cried she, flinging the water over him.  But instead
of losing his shape, as so many had done before, he only grew ten times
handsomer; for the water was enchanted for good and not ill.  Then the
creeping multitude around the witch hastened to roll themselves in the
water, and stood up, human beings again.

When the witch saw what was happening, she took a broomstick and flew
away.

Who can guess the delight of the sister at the sight of her brother,
bearing the Bird of Truth?  But although the boy had accomplished much,
something very difficult yet remained, and that was how to carry the
Bird of Truth to the king without her being seized by the wicked
courtiers, who would be ruined by the discovery of their plot.

Soon--no one knew how--the news spread abroad that the Bird of Truth
was hovering round the palace, and the courtiers made all sorts of
preparations to hinder her reaching the king.

They got ready weapons that were sharpened, and weapons that were
poisoned; they sent for eagles and falcons to hunt her down, and
constructed cages and boxes in which to shut her up if they were not
able to kill her.  They declared that her white plumage was really put
on to hide her black feathers--in fact there was nothing they did not
do in order to prevent the king from seeing the bird or from paying
attention to her words if he did.

As often happens in these cases, the courtiers brought about that which
they feared.  They talked so much about the Bird of Truth that at last
the king heard of it, and expressed a wish to see her.  The more
difficulties that were put in his way the stronger grew his desire, and
in the end the king published a proclamation that whoever found the
Bird of Truth should bring her to him without delay.

As soon as he saw this proclamation the boy called his sister, and they
hastened to the palace.  The bird was buttoned inside his tunic, but,
as might have been expected, the courtiers barred the way, and told the
child that he could not enter.  It was in vain that the boy declared
that he was only obeying the king’s commands; the courtiers only
replied that his majesty was not yet out of bed, and it was forbidden
to wake him.

They were still talking, when, suddenly, the bird settled the question
by flying upwards through an open window into the king’s own room.
Alighting on the pillow, close to the king’s head, she bowed
respectfully, and said:

‘My lord, I am the Bird of Truth whom you wished to see, and I have
been obliged to approach you in the manner because the boy who brought
me is kept out of the palace by your courtiers.’

‘They shall pay for their insolence,’ said the king.  And he instantly
ordered one of his attendants to conduct the boy at once to his
apartments; and in a moment more the prince entered, holding his sister
by the hand.

‘Who are you?’ asked the king; ‘and what has the Bird of Truth to do
with you?’

‘If it please your majesty, the Bird of Truth will explain that
herself,’ answered the boy.

And the bird did explain; and the king heard for the first time of the
wicked plot that had been successful for so many years.  He took his
children in his arms, with tears in his eyes, and hurried off with them
to the tower in the mountains where the queen was shut up.  The poor
woman was as white as marble, for she had been living almost in
darkness; but when she saw her husband and children, the colour came
back to her face, and she was as beautiful as ever.

They all returned in state to the city, where great rejoicings were
held.  The wicked courtiers had their heads cut off, and all their
property was taken away.  As for the good old couple, they were given
riches and honour, and were loved and cherished to the end of their
lives.

[From Cuentos, Oraciones y Adivinas, por Fernan Caballero.]



            The Mink and the Wolf



In a big forest in the north of America lived a quantity of wild
animals of all sorts.  They were always very polite when they met; but,
in spite of that, they kept a close watch one upon the other, as each
was afraid of being killed and eaten by somebody else.  But their
manners were so good that no one would ever had guessed that.

One day a smart young wolf went out to hunt, promising his grandfather
and grandmother that he would be sure to be back before bedtime.  He
trotted along quite happily through the forest till he came to a
favourite place of his, just where the river runs into the sea.  There,
just as he had hoped, he saw the chief mink fishing in a canoe.

‘I want to fish too,’ cried the wolf.  But the mink said nothing and
pretended not to hear.

‘I wish you would take me into your boat!’ shouted the wolf, louder
than before, and he continued to beseech the mink so long that at last
he grew tired of it, and paddled to the shore close enough for the wolf
to jump in.

‘Sit down quietly at that end or we shall be upset,’ said the mink;
‘and if you care about sea-urchins’ eggs, you will find plenty in that
basket.  But be sure you eat only the white ones, for the red ones
would kill you.’

So the wolf, who was always hungry, began to eat the eggs greedily; and
when he had finished he told the mink he thought he would have a nap.

‘Well, then, stretch yourself out, and rest your head on that piece of
wood,’ said the mink.  And the wolf did as he was bid, and was soon
fast asleep.  Then the mink crept up to him and stabbed him to the
heart with his knife, and he died without moving.  After that he landed
on the beach, skinned the wolf, and taking the skin to his cottage, he
hung it up before the fire to dry.

Not many days later the wolf’s grandmother, who, with the help of her
relations, had been searching for him everywhere, entered the cottage
to buy some sea-urchins’ eggs, and saw the skin, which she at once
guessed to be that of her grandson.

‘I knew he was dead--I knew it!  I knew it!’ she cried, weeping
bitterly, till the mink told her rudely that if she wanted to make so
much noise she had better do it outside as he liked to be quiet.  So,
half-blinded by her tears, the old woman went home the way she had
come, and running in at the door, she flung herself down in front of
the fire.

‘What are you crying for?’ asked the old wolf and some friends who had
been spending the afternoon with him.

‘I shall never see my grandson any more!’ answered she.  ‘Mink has
killed him, oh! oh!’  And putting her head down, she began to weep as
loudly as ever.

‘There! there!’ said her husband, laying his paw on her shoulder.  ‘Be
comforted; if he IS dead, we will avenge him.’  And calling to the
others they proceeded to talk over the best plan.  It took them a long
time to make up their minds, as one wolf proposed one thing and one
another; but at last it was agreed that the old wolf should give a
great feast in his house, and that the mink should be invited to the
party.  And in order that no time should be lost it was further agreed
that each wolf should bear the invitations to the guests that lived
nearest to him.

Now the wolves thought they were very cunning, but the mink was more
cunning still; and though he sent a message by a white hare, that was
going that way, saying he should be delighted to be present, he
determined that he would take his precautions.  So he went to a mouse
who had often done him a good turn, and greeted her with his best bow.

‘I have a favour to ask of you, friend mouse,’ said he, ‘and if you
will grant it I will carry you on my back every night for a week to the
patch of maize right up the hill.’

‘The favour is mine,’ answered the mouse.  ‘Tell me what it is that I
can have the honour of doing for you.’

‘Oh, something quite easy,’ replied the mink.  ‘I only want
you--between to-day and the next full moon--to gnaw through the bows
and paddles of the wolf people, so that directly they use them they
will break.  But of course you must manage it so that they notice
nothing.’

‘Of course,’ answered the mouse, ‘nothing is easier; but as the full
moon is to-morrow night, and there is not much time, I had better begin
at once.’  Then the mink thanked her, and went his way; but before he
had gone far he came back again.

‘Perhaps, while you are about the wolf’s house seeing after the bows,
it would do no harm if you were to make that knot-hole in the wall a
little bigger,’ said he.  ‘Not large enough to draw attention, of
course; but it might come in handy.’  And with another nod he left her.

The next evening the mink washed and brushed himself carefully and set
out for the feast.  He smiled to himself as he looked at the dusty
track, and perceived that though the marks of wolves’ feet were many,
not a single guest was to be seen anywhere.  He knew very well what
that meant; but he had taken his precautions and was not afraid.

The house door stood open, but through a crack the mink could see the
wolves crowding in the corner behind it.  However, he entered boldly,
and as soon as he was fairly inside the door was shut with a bang, and
the whole herd sprang at him, with their red tongues hanging out of
their mouths.  Quick as they were they were too late, for the mink was
already through the knot-hole and racing for his canoe.

The knot-hole was too small for the wolves, and there were so many of
them in the hut that it was some time before they could get the door
open.  Then they seized the bows and arrows which were hanging on the
walls and, once outside, aimed at the flying mink; but as they pulled
the bows broke in their paws, so they threw them away, and bounded to
the shore, with all their speed, to the place where their canoes were
drawn up on the beach.

Now, although the mink could not run as fast as the wolves, he had a
good start, and was already afloat when the swiftest among them threw
themselves into the nearest canoe.  They pushed off, but as they dipped
the paddles into the water, they snapped as the bows had done, and were
quite useless.

‘I know where there are some new ones,’ cried a young fellow, leaping
on shore and rushing to a little cave at the back of the beach.  And
the mink’s heart smote him when he heard, for he had not known of this
secret store.

After a long chase the wolves managed to surround their prey, and the
mink, seeing it was no good resisting any more, gave himself up.  Some
of the elder wolves brought out some cedar bands, which they always
carried wound round their bodies, but the mink laughed scornfully at
the sight of them.

‘Why I could snap those in a moment,’ said he; ‘if you want to make
sure that I cannot escape, better take a line of kelp and bind me with
that.’

‘You are right,’ answered the grandfather; ‘your wisdom is greater than
ours.’  And he bade his servants gather enough kelp from the rocks to
make a line, as they had brought none with them.

‘While the line is being made you might as well let me have one last
dance,’ remarked the mink.  And the wolves replied: ‘Very good, you may
have your dance; perhaps it may amuse us as well as you.’  So they
brought two canoes and placed them one beside the other.  The mink
stood up on his hind legs and began to dance, first in one canoe and
then in the other; and so graceful was he, that the wolves forgot they
were going to put him to death, and howled with pleasure.

‘Pull the canoes a little apart; they are too close for this new
dance,’ he said, pausing for a moment.  And the wolves separated them
while he gave a series of little springs, sometime pirouetting while he
stood with one foot on the prow of both.  ‘Now nearer, now further
apart,’ he would cry as the dance went on.  ‘No! further still.’  And
springing into the air, amidst howls of applause, he came down
head-foremost, and dived to the bottom.  And through the wolves, whose
howls had now changed into those of rage, sought him everywhere, they
never found him, for he hid behind a rock till they were out of sight,
and then made his home in another forest.

[From the Journal of the Anthropological Institute.]



        Adventures of an Indian Brave



A long, long way off, right away in the west of America, there once
lived an old man who had one son.  The country round was covered with
forests, in which dwelt all kinds of wild beasts, and the young man and
his companions used to spend whole days in hunting them, and he was the
finest hunter of all the tribe.

One morning, when winter was coming on, the youth and his companions
set off as usual to bring back some of the mountain goats and deer to
be salted down, as he was afraid of a snow-storm; and if the wind blew
and the snow drifted the forest might be impassable for some weeks.
The old man and the wife, however, would not go out, but remained in
the wigwam making bows and arrows.

It soon grew so cold in the forest that at last one of the men declared
they could walk no more, unless they could manage to warm themselves.

‘That is easily done,’ said the leader, giving a kick to a large tree.
Flames broke out in the trunk, and before it had burnt up they were as
hot as if it had been summer.  Then they started off to the place where
the goats and deer were to be found in the greatest numbers, and soon
had killed as many as they wanted.  But the leader killed most, as he
was the best shot.

‘Now we must cut up the game and divide it,’ said he; and so they did,
each one taking his own share; and, walking one behind the other, set
out for the village.  But when they reached a great river the young man
did not want the trouble of carrying his pack any further, and left it
on the bank.

‘I am going home another way,’ he told his companions.  And taking
another road he reached the village long before they did.

‘Have you returned with empty hands?’ asked the old man, as his son
opened the door.

‘Have I ever done that, that you put me such a question?’ asked the
youth.  ‘No; I have slain enough to feast us for many moons, but it was
heavy, and I left the pack on the bank of the great river.  Give me the
arrows, I will finish making them, and you can go to the river and
bring home the pack!’

So the old man rose and went, and strapped the meat on his shoulder;
but as he was crossing the ford the strap broke and the pack fell into
the river.  He stooped to catch it, but it swirled past him.  He
clutched again; but in doing so he over- balanced himself and was
hurried into some rapids, where he was knocked against some rocks, and
he sank and was drowned, and his body was carried down the stream into
smoother water when it rose to the surface again.  But by this time it
had lost all likeness to a man, and was changed into a piece of wood.

The wood floated on, and the river got bigger and bigger and entered a
new country.  There it was borne by the current close to the shore, and
a woman who was down there washing her clothes caught it as it passed,
and drew it out, saying to herself: ‘What a nice smooth plank!  I will
use it as a table to put my food upon.’  And gathering up her clothes
she took the plank with her into her hut.

When her supper time came she stretched the board across two strings
which hung from the roof, and set upon it the pot containing a stew
that smelt very good.  The woman had been working hard all day and was
very hungry, so she took her biggest spoon and plunged it into the pot.
 But what was her astonishment and disgust when both pot and food
vanished instantly before her!

‘Oh, you horrid plank, you have brought me ill-luck!’ she cried.  And
taking it up she flung it away from her.

 The woman had been surprised before at the disappearance of her food,
but she was more astonished still when, instead of the plank, she
beheld a baby.  However, she was fond of children and had none of her
own, so she made up her mind that she would keep it and take care of
it.  The baby grew and throve as no baby in that country had ever done,
and in four days he was a man, and as tall and strong as any brave of
the tribe.

‘You have treated me well,’ he said, ‘and meat shall never fail to your
house.  But now I must go, for I have much work to do.’

Then he set out for his home.

It took him many days to get there, and when he saw his son sitting in
his place his anger was kindled, and his heart was stirred to take
vengeance upon him.  So he went out quickly into the forest and shed
tears, and each tear became a bird.  ‘Stay there till I want you,’ said
he; and he returned to the hut.

‘I saw some pretty new birds, high up in a tree yonder,’ he remarked.
And the son answered: ‘Show me the way and I will get them for dinner.’

The two went out together, and after walking for about half an hour
they old man stopped.  ‘That is the tree,’ he said.  And the son began
to climb it.

Now a strange thing happened.  The higher the young man climbed the
higher the birds seemed to be, and when he looked down the earth below
appeared no bigger than a star.  Sill he tried to go back, but he could
not, and though he could not see the birds any longer he felt as if
something were dragging him up and up.

He thought that he had been climbing that tree for days, and perhaps he
had, for suddenly a beautiful country, yellow with fields of maize,
stretched before him, and he gladly left the top of the tree and
entered it.  He walked through the maize without knowing where he was
going, when he heard a sound of knocking, and saw two old blind women
crushing their food between two stones.  He crept up to them on tiptoe,
and when one old woman passed her dinner to the other he held out his
hand and took it and ate if for himself.

‘How slow you are kneading that cake,’ cried the other old woman at
last.

‘Why, I have given you your dinner, and what more do you want?’ replied
the second.

‘You didn’t; at least I never got it,’ said the other.

‘I certainly thought you took it from me; but here is some more.’  And
again the young man stretched out his hand; and the two old women fell
to quarrelling afresh.  But when it happened for the third time the old
women suspected some trick, and one of them exclaimed:

‘I am sure there is a man here; tell me, are you not my grandson?’

‘Yes,’ answered the young man, who wished to please her, ‘and in return
for your good dinner I will see if I cannot restore your sight; for I
was taught in the art of healing by the best medicine man in the
tribe.’  And with that he left them, and wandered about till he found
the herb which he wanted.  Then he hastened back to the old women, and
begging them to boil him some water, he threw the herb in.  As soon as
the pot began to sing he took off the lid, and sprinkled the eyes of
the women, and sight came back to them once more.

There was no night in that country, so, instead of going to bed very
early, as he would have done in his own hut, the young man took another
walk.  A splashing noise near by drew him down to a valley through
which ran a large river, and up a waterfall some salmon were leaping.
How their silver sides glistened in the light, and how he longed to
catch some of the great fellows!  But how could he do it?  He had
beheld no one except the old women, and it was not very likely that
they would be able to help him.  So with a sigh he turned away and went
back to them, but, as he walked, a thought struck him.  He pulled out
one of his hairs which hung nearly to his waist, and it instantly
became a strong line, nearly a mile in length.

‘Weave me a net that I may catch some salmon,’ said he.  And they wove
him the net he asked for, and for many weeks he watched by the river,
only going back to the old women when he wanted a fish cooked.

At last, one day, when he was eating his dinner, the old woman who
always spoke first, said to him:

‘We have been very glad to see you, grandson, but now it is time that
you went home.’  And pushing aside a rock, he saw a deep hole, so deep
that he could not see to the bottom.  Then they dragged a basket out of
the house, and tied a rope to it.  ‘Get in, and wrap this blanket round
your head,’ said they; ‘and, whatever happens, don’t uncover it till
you get to the bottom.’  Then they bade him farewell, and he curled
himself up in the basket.

Down, down, down he went; would he ever stop going?  But when the
basket did stop, the young man forgot what he had been told, and put
his head out to see what was the matter.  In an instant the basket
moved, but, to his horror, instead of going down, he felt himself being
drawn upwards, and shortly after he beheld the faces of the old women.

‘You will never see your wife and son if you will not do as you are
bid,’ said they.  ‘Now get in, and do not stir till you hear a crow
calling.’

This time the young man was wiser, and though the basket often stopped,
and strange creatures seemed to rest on him and to pluck at his
blanket, he held it tight till he heard the crow calling.  Then he
flung off the blanket and sprang out, while the basket vanished in the
sky.

He walked on quickly down the track that led to the hut, when, before
him, he saw his wife with his little son on her back.

‘Oh! there is father at last,’ cried the boy; but the mother bade him
cease from idle talking.

‘But, mother, it is true; father is coming!’ repeated the child.  And,
to satisfy him, the woman turned round and perceived her husband.

Oh, how glad they all were to be together again!  And when the wind
whistled through the forest, and the snow stood in great banks round
the door, the father used to take the little boy on his knee and tell
him how he caught salmon in the Land of the Sun.

[From the Journal of the Anthropological Institute.]



         How the Stalos Were Tricked



‘Mother, I have seen such a wonderful man,’ said a little boy one day,
as he entered a hut in Lapland, bearing in his arms the bundle of
sticks he had been sent out to gather.

‘Have you, my son; and what was he like?’ asked the mother, as she took
off the child’s sheepskin coat and shook it on the doorstep.

‘Well, I was tired of stooping for the sticks, and was leaning against
a tree to rest, when I heard a noise of ‘sh-’sh, among the dead leaves.
 I thought perhaps it was a wolf, so I stood very still.  But soon
there came past a tall man--oh! twice as tall as father--with a long
red beard and a red tunic fastened with a silver girdle, from which
hung a silver-handled knife.  Behind him followed a great dog, which
looked stronger than any wolf, or even a bear.  But why are you so
pale, mother?’

‘It was the Stalo,’ replied she, her voice trembling; ‘Stalo the
man-eater!  You did well to hide, or you might never had come back.
But, remember that, though he is so tall and strong, he is very stupid,
and many a Lapp has escaped from his clutches by playing him some
clever trick.’

Not long after the mother and son had held this talk, it began to be
whispered in the forest that the children of an old man called Patto
had vanished one by one, no one knew whither.  The unhappy father
searched the country for miles round without being able to find as much
as a shoe or a handkerchief, to show him where they had passed, but at
length a little boy came with news that he had seen the Stalo hiding
behind a well, near which the children used to play.  The boy had
waited behind a clump of bushes to see what would happen, and by-and-by
he noticed that the Stalo had laid a cunning trap in the path to the
well, and that anybody who fell over it would roll into the water and
drown there.

And, as he watched, Patto’s youngest daughter ran gaily down the path,
till her foot caught in the strings that were stretched across the
steepest place.  She slipped and fell, and in another instant had
rolled into the water within reach of the Stalo.

As soon as Patto heard this tale his heart was filled with rage, and he
vowed to have his revenge.  So he straightway took an old fur coat from
the hook where it hung, and putting it on went out into the forest.
When he reached the path that led to the well he looked hastily round
to be sure that no one was watching him, then laid himself down as if
he had been caught in the snare and had rolled into the well, though he
took care to keep his head out of the water.

Very soon he heard a ‘sh-’sh of the leaves, and there was the Stalo
pushing his way through the undergrowth to see what chance he had of a
dinner.  At the first glimpse of Patto’s head in the well he laughed
loudly, crying:

‘Ha! ha! This time it is the old ass!  I wonder how he will taste?’ And
drawing Patto out of the well, he flung him across his shoulders and
carried him home.  Then he tied a cord round him and hung him over the
fire to roast, while he finished a box that he was making before the
door of the hut, which he meant to hold Patto’s flesh when it was
cooked.  In a very short time the box was so nearly done that it only
wanted a little more chipping out with an axe; but this part of the
work was easier accomplished indoors, and he called to one of his sons
who were lounging inside to bring him the tool.

The young man looked everywhere, but he could not find the axe, for the
very good reason that Patto had managed to pick it up and hide it in
his clothes.

‘Stupid fellow! what is the use of you?’ grumbled his father angrily;
and he bade first one and then another of his sons to fetch him the
tool, but they had no better success than their brother.

‘I must come myself, I suppose!’ said Stalo, putting aside the box.
But, meanwhile, Patto had slipped from the hook and concealed himself
behind the door, so that, as Stalo stepped in, his prisoner raised the
axe, and with one blow the ogre’s head was rolling on the ground.  His
sons were so frightened at the sight that they all ran away.

And in this manner Patto avenged his dead children.

But though Stalo was dead, his three sons were still living, and not
very far off either.  They had gone to their mother, who was tending
some reindeer on the pastures, and told her that by some magic, they
knew not what, their father’s head had rolled from his body, and they
had been so afraid that something dreadful would happen to them that
they had come to take refuge with her.  The ogress said nothing.  Long
ago she had found out how stupid her sons were, so she just sent them
out to milk the reindeer, while she returned to the other house to bury
her husband’s body.

Now, three days’ journey from the hut on the pastures two brothers
Sodno dwelt in a small cottage with their sister Lyma, who tended a
large herd of reindeer while they were out hunting.  Of late it had
been whispered from one to another that the three young Stalos were to
be seen on the pastures, but the Sodno brothers did not disturb
themselves, the danger seemed too far away.

Unluckily, however, one day, when Lyma was left by herself in the hut,
the three Stalos came down and carried her and the reindeer off to
their own cottage.  The country was very lonely, and perhaps no one
would have known in which direction she had gone had not the girl
managed to tie a ball of thread to the handle of a door at the back of
the cottage and let it trail behind her.  Of course the ball was not
long enough to go all the way, but it lay on the edge of a snowy track
which led straight to the Stalos’ house.

When the brothers returned from their hunting they found both the hut
and the sheds empty.  Loudly they cried: ‘Lyma! Lyma!’  But no voice
answered them; and they fell to searching all about, lest perchance
their sister might have dropped some clue to guide them.  At length
their eyes dropped on the thread which lay on the snow, and they set
out to follow it.

On and on they went, and when at length the thread stopped the brothers
knew that another day’s journey would bring them to the Stalos’
dwelling.  Of course they did not dare to approach it openly, for the
Stalos had the strength of giants, and besides, there were three of
them; so the two Sodnos climbed into a big bushy tree which overhung a
well.

‘Perhaps our sister may be sent to draw water here,’ they said to each
other.

But it was not till the moon had risen that the sister came, and as she
let down her bucket into the well, the leaves seemed to whisper ‘Lyma!
Lyma!’

The girl started and looked up, but could see nothing, and in a moment
the voice came again.

‘Be careful--take no notice, fill your buckets, but listen carefully
all the while, and we will tell you what to do so that you may escape
yourself and set free the reindeer also.’

So Lyman bent over the well lower than before, and seemed busier than
ever.

‘You know,’ said her brother, ‘that when a Stalo finds that anything
has been dropped into his food he will not eat a morsel, but throws it
to his dogs.  Now, after the pot has been hanging some time over the
fire, and the broth is nearly cooked, just rake up the log of wood so
that some of the ashes fly into the pot.  The Stalo will soon notice
this, and will call you to give all the food to the dogs; but, instead,
you must bring it straight to us, as it is three days since we have
eaten or drunk.  That is all you need do for the present.’

Then Lyma took up her buckets and carried them into the house, and did
as her brothers had told her.  They were so hungry that they ate the
food up greedily without speaking, but when there was nothing left in
the pot, the eldest one said:

‘Listen carefully to what I have to tell you.  After the eldest Stalo
has cooked and eaten a fresh supper, he will go to bed and sleep so
soundly that not even a witch could wake him.  You can hear him snoring
a mile off, and then you must go into his room and pull off the iron
mantle that covers him, and put it on the fire till it is almost red
hot.  When that is done, come to us and we will give you further
directions.’

‘I will obey you in everything, dear brothers,’ answered Lyman; and so
she did.

It had happened that on this very evening the Stalos had driven in some
of the reindeer from the pasture, and had tied them up to the wall of
the house so that they might be handy to kill for next day’s dinner.
The two Sodnos had seen what they were doing, and where the beasts were
secured; so, at midnight, when all was still, they crept down from
their tree and seized the reindeer by the horns which were locked
together.  The animals were frightened, and began to neigh and kick, as
if they were fighting together, and the noise became so great that even
the eldest Stalo was awakened by it, and that was a thing which had
never occurred before.  Raising himself in his bed, he called to his
youngest brother to go out and separate the reindeer or they would
certainly kill themselves.

The young Stalo did as he was bid, and left the house; but no sooner
was he out of the door than he was stabbed to the heart by one of the
Sodnos, and fell without a groan.  Then they went back to worry the
reindeer, and the noise became as great as ever, and a second time the
Stalo awoke.

‘The boy does not seem to be able to part the beasts,’ he cried to his
second brother; ‘go and help him, or I shall never get to sleep.’  So
the brother went, and in an instant was struck dead as he left the
house by the sword of the eldest Sodno.  The Stalo waited in bed a
little longer for things to get quiet, but as the clatter of the
reindeer’s horns was as bad as ever, he rose angrily from his bed
muttering to himself:

‘It is extraordinary that they cannot unlock themselves; but as no one
else seems able to help them I suppose I must go and do it.’

Rubbing his eyes, he stood up on the floor and stretched his great arms
and gave a yawn which shook the walls.  The Sodnos heard it below, and
posted themselves, one at the big door and one at the little door at
the back, for they did not know what their enemy would come out at.

The Stalo put out his hand to take his iron mantle from the bed, where
it always lay, but the mantle was no there.  He wondered where it could
be, and who could have moved it, and after searching through all the
rooms, he found it hanging over the kitchen fire.  But the first touch
burnt him so badly that he let it alone, and went with nothing, except
a stick in his hand, through the back door.

The young Sodno was standing ready for him, and as the Stalo passed the
threshold struck him such a blow on the head that he rolled over with a
crash and never stirred again.  The two Sodnos did not trouble about
him, but quickly stripped the younger Stalos of their clothes, in which
they dressed themselves.  Then they sat still till the dawn should
break and they could find out from the Stalos’ mother where the
treasure was hidden.

With the first rays of the sun the young Sodno went upstairs and
entered the old woman’s room.  She was already up and dressed, and
sitting by the window knitting, and the young man crept in softly and
crouched down on the floor, laying his head on her lap.  For a while he
kept silence, then he whispered gently:

‘Tell me, dear mother, where did my eldest brother conceal his riches?’

‘What a strange question!  Surely you must know,’ answered she.

‘No, I have forgotten; my memory is so bad.’

‘He dug a hole under the doorstep and placed it there,’ said she.  And
there was another pause.

By-and-by the Sodno asked again:

‘And where may my second brother’s money be?’

‘Don’t you know that either?’ cried the mother in surprise.

‘Oh, yes; I did once.  But since I fell upon my head I can remember
nothing.’

‘It is behind the oven,’ answered she.  And again was silence.

‘Mother, dear mother,’ said the young man at last, ‘I am almost afraid
to ask you; but I really have grown so stupid of late.  Where did I
hide my own money?’

But at this question the old woman flew into a passion, and vowed that
if she could find a rod she would bring his memory back to him.
Luckily, no rod was within her reach, and the Sodno managed, after a
little, to coax her back into good humour, and at length she told him
that the youngest Stalo had buried his treasure under the very place
where she was sitting.

‘Dear mother,’ said Lyman, who had come in unseen, and was kneeling in
front of the fire.  ‘Dear mother, do you know who it is you have been
talking with?’

The old woman started, but answered quietly:

‘It is a Sodno, I suppose?’

‘You have guessed right,’ replied Lyma.

The mother of the Stalos looked round for her iron cane, which she
always used to kill her victims, but it was not there, for Lyma had put
it in the fire.

‘Where is my iron cane?’ asked the old woman.

‘There!’ answered Lyma, pointing to the flames.

The old woman sprang forwards and seized it, but her clothes caught
fire, and in a few minutes she was burned to ashes.

So the Sodno brothers found the treasure, and they carried it, and
their sister and the reindeer, to their own home, and were the richest
men in all Lapland.

[From Lapplandische Marchen, J.  C.  Poestion.]



                 Andras Baive



Once upon a time there lived in Lapland a man who was so very strong
and swift of foot that nobody in his native town of Vadso could come
near him if they were running races in the summer evenings.  The people
of Vadso were very proud of their champion, and thought that there was
no one like him in the world, till, by-and-by, it came to their ears
that there dwelt among the mountains a Lapp, Andras Baive by name, who
was said by his friends to be even stronger and swifter than the
bailiff.  Of course not a creature in Vadso believed that, and declared
that if it made the mountaineers happier to talk such nonsense, why,
let them!

The winter was long and cold, and the thoughts of the villagers were
much busier with wolves than with Andras Baive, when suddenly, on a
frosty day, he made his appearance in the little town of Vadso.  The
bailiff was delighted at this chance of trying his strength, and at
once went out to seek Andras and to coax him into giving proof of his
vigour.  As he walked along his eyes fell upon a big eight-oared boat
that lay upon the shore, and his face shone with pleasure.  ‘That is
the very thing,’ laughed he, ‘I will make him jump over that boat.’
Andras was quite ready to accept the challenge, and they soon settled
the terms of the wager.  He who could jump over the boat without so
much as touching it with his heel was to be the winner, and would get a
large sum of money as the prize.  So, followed by many of the
villagers, the two men walked down to the sea.

An old fisherman was chosen to stand near the boat to watch fair play,
and to hold the stakes, and Andras, as the stranger was told to jump
first.  Going back to the flag which had been stuck into the sand to
mark the starting place, he ran forward, with his head well thrown
back, and cleared the boat with a mighty bound.  The lookers- on
cheered him, and indeed he well deserve it; but they waited anxiously
all the same to see what the bailiff would do.  On he came, taller than
Andras by several inches, but heavier of build.  He too sprang high and
well, but as he came down his heel just grazed the edge of the boat.
Dead silence reigned amidst the townsfolk, but Andras only laughed and
said carelessly:

‘Just a little too short, bailiff; next time you must do better than
that.’

The bailiff turned red with anger at his rival’s scornful words, and
answered quickly: ‘Next time you will have something harder to do.’
And turning his back on his friends, he went sulkily home.  Andras,
putting the money he had earned in his pocket, went home also.

The following spring Andras happened to be driving his reindeer along a
great fiord to the west of Vadso.  A boy who had met him hastened to
tell the bailiff that his enemy was only a few miles off; and the
bailiff, disguising himself as a Stalo, or ogre, called his son and his
dog and rowed away across the fiord to the place where the boy had met
Andras.

Now the mountaineer was lazily walking along the sands, thinking of the
new hut that he was building with the money that he had won on the day
of his lucky jump.  He wandered on, his eyes fixed on the sands, so
that he did not see the bailiff drive his boat behind a rock, while he
changed himself into a heap of wreckage which floated in on the waves.
A stumble over a stone recalled Andras to himself, and looking up he
beheld the mass of wreckage.  ‘Dear me!  I may find some use for that,’
he said; and hastened down to the sea, waiting till he could lay hold
of some stray rope which might float towards him.  Suddenly--he could
not have told why--a nameless fear seized upon him, and he fled away
from the shore as if for his life.  As he ran he heard the sound of a
pipe, such as only ogres of the Stalo kind were wont to use; and there
flashed into his mind what the bailiff had said when they jumped the
boat: ‘Next time you will have something harder to do.’  So it was no
wreckage after all that he had seen, but the bailiff himself.

It happened that in the long summer nights up in the mountain, where
the sun never set, and it was very difficult to get to sleep, Andras
had spent many hours in the study of magic, and this stood him in good
stead now.  The instant he heard the Stalo music he wished himself to
become the feet of a reindeer, and in this guise he galloped like the
wind for several miles.  Then he stopped to take breath and find out
what his enemy was doing.  Nothing he could see, but to his ears the
notes of a pipe floated over the plain, and ever, as he listened, it
drew nearer.

A cold shiver shook Andras, and this time he wished himself the feet of
a reindeer calf.  For when a reindeer calf has reached the age at which
he begins first to lose his hair he is so swift that neither beast nor
bird can come near him.  A reindeer calf is the swiftest of all things
living.  Yes; but not so swift as a Stalo, as Andras found out when he
stopped to rest, and heard the pipe playing!

For a moment his heart sank, and he gave himself up for dead, till he
remembered that, not far off, were two little lakes joined together by
a short though very broad river.  In the middle of the river lay a
stone that was always covered by water, except in dry seasons, and as
the winter rains had been very heavy, he felt quite sure that not even
the top of it could be seen.  The next minute, if anyone had been
looking that way, he would have beheld a small reindeer calf speeding
northwards, and by-and-by giving a great spring, which landed him in
the midst of the stream.  But, instead of sinking to the bottom, he
paused a second to steady himself, then gave a second spring which
landed him on the further shore.  He next ran on to a little hill where
he saw down and began to neigh loudly, so that the Stalo might know
exactly where he was.

‘Ah!  There you are,’ cried the Stalo, appearing on the opposite bank;
‘for a moment I really thought I had lost you.’

‘No such luck,’ answered Andras, shaking his head sorrowfully.  By this
time he had taken his own shape again.

‘Well, but I don’t see how I am to get to you1’ said the Stalo, looking
up and down.

‘Jump over, as I did,’ answered Andras; ‘it is quite easy.’

‘But I could not jump this river; and I don’t know how you did,’
replied the Stalo.

‘I should be ashamed to say such things,’ exclaimed Andras.  ‘Do you
mean to tell me that a jump, which the weakest Lapp boy would make
nothing of, is beyond your strength?’

The Stalo grew red and angry when he heard these words, just as Andras
meant him to do.  He bounded into the air and fell straight into the
river.  Not that that would have mattered, for he was a good swimmer;
but Andras drew out the bow and arrows which every Lapp carries, and
took aim at him.  His aim was good, but the Stalo sprang so high into
the air that the arrow flew between his feet.  A second shot, directed
at his forehead, fared no better, for this time the Stalo jumped so
high to the other side that the arrow passed between his finger and
thumb.  Then Andras aimed his third arrow a little over the Stalo’s
head, and when he sprang up, just an instant too soon, it hit him
between the ribs.

Mortally wounded as he was, the Stalo was not yet dead, and managed to
swim to the shore.  Stretching himself on the sand, he said slowly to
Andras:

‘Promise that you will give me an honourable burial, and when my body
is laid in the grave go in my boat across the fiord, and take whatever
you find in my house which belongs to me.  My dog you must kill, but
spare my son, Andras.’

Then he died; and Andras sailed in his boat away across the fiord and
found the dog and boy.  The dog, a fierce, wicked-looking creature, he
slew with one blow from his fist, for it is well known that if a
Stalo’s dog licks the blood that flows from his dead master’s wounds
the Stalo comes to life again.  That is why no REAL Stalo is ever seen
without his dog; but the bailiff, being only half a Stalo, had
forgotten him, when he went to the little lakes in search of Andras.
Next, Andras put all the gold and jewels which he found in the boat
into his pockets, and bidding the boy get in, pushed it off from the
shore, leaving the little craft to drift as it would, while he himself
ran home.  With the treasure he possessed he was able to buy a great
herd of reindeer; and he soon married a rich wife, whose parents would
not have him as a son-in-law when he was poor, and the two lived happy
for ever after.

[From Lapplandische Mahrchen, J. C. Poestion.]



              The White Slipper



Once upon a time there lived a king who had a daughter just fifteen
years old.  And what a daughter!

Even the mothers who had daughters of their own could not help allowing
that the princess was much more beautiful and graceful than any of
them; and, as for the fathers, if one of them ever beheld her by
accident he could talk of nothing else for a whole day afterwards.

Of course the king, whose name was Balancin, was the complete slave of
his little girl from the moment he lifted her from the arms of her dead
mother; indeed, he did not seem to know that there was anyone else in
the world to love.

Now Diamantina, for that was her name, did not reach her fifteenth
birthday without proposals for marriage from every country under
heaven; but be the suitor who he might, the king always said him nay.

Behind the palace a large garden stretched away to the foot of some
hills, and more than one river flowed through.  Hither the princess
would come each evening towards sunset, attended by her ladies, and
gather herself the flowers that were to adorn her rooms.  She also
brought with her a pair of scissors to cut off the dead blooms, and a
basket to put them in, so that when the sun rose next morning he might
see nothing unsightly.  When she had finished this task she would take
a walk through the town, so that the poor people might have a chance of
speaking with her, and telling her of their troubles; and then she
would seek out her father, and together they would consult over the
best means of giving help to those who needed it.

But what has all this to do with the White Slipper? my readers will ask.

Have patience, and you will see.

Next to his daughter, Balancin loved hunting, and it was his custom to
spend several mornings every week chasing the boars which abounded in
the mountains a few miles from the city.  One day, rushing downhill as
fast as he could go, he put his foot into a hole and fell, rolling into
a rocky pit of brambles.  The king’s wounds were not very severe, but
his face and hands were cut and torn, while his feet were in a worse
plight still, for, instead of proper hunting boots, he only wore
sandals, to enable him to run more swiftly.

In a few days the king was as well as ever, and the signs of the
scratches were almost gone; but one foot still remained very sore,
where a thorn had pierced deeply and had festered.  The best doctors in
the kingdom treated it with all their skill; they bathed, and
poulticed, and bandaged, but it was in vain.  The foot only grew worse
and worse, and became daily more swollen and painful.

After everyone had tried his own particular cure, and found it fail,
there came news of a wonderful doctor in some distant land who had
healed the most astonishing diseases.  On inquiring, it was found that
he never left the walls of his own city, and expected his patients to
come to see him; but, by dint of offering a large sum of money, the
king persuaded the famous physician to undertake the journey to his own
court.

On his arrival the doctor was led at once into the king’s presence, and
made a careful examination of his foot.

‘Alas! your majesty,’ he said, when he had finished, ‘the wound is
beyond the power of man to heal; but though I cannot cure it, I can at
least deaden the pain, and enable you to walk without so much
suffering.’

‘Oh, if you can only do that,’ cried the king, ‘I shall be grateful to
you for life!  Give your own orders; they shall be obeyed.’

‘Then let your majesty bid the royal shoemaker make you a shoe of
goat-skin very loose and comfortable, while I prepare a varnish to
paint over it of which I alone have the secret!’  So saying, the doctor
bowed himself out, leaving the king more cheerful and hopeful than he
had been for long.

The days passed very slowly with him during the making of the shoe and
the preparation of the varnish, but on the eighth morning the physician
appeared, bringing with him the shoe in a case.  He drew it out to slip
on the king’s foot, and over the goat-skin he had rubbed a polish so
white that the snow itself was not more dazzling.

‘While you wear this shoe you will not feel the slightest pain,’ said
the doctor.  ‘For the balsam with which I have rubbed it inside and out
has, besides its healing balm, the quality of strengthening the
material it touches, so that, even were your majesty to live a thousand
years, you would find the slipper just as fresh at the end of that time
as it is now.’

The king was so eager to put it on that he hardly gave the physician
time to finish.  He snatched it from the case and thrust his foot into
it, nearly weeping for joy when he found he could walk and run as
easily as any beggar boy.

‘What can I give you?’ he cried, holding out both hands to the man who
had worked this wonder.  ‘Stay with me, and I will heap on you riches
greater than ever you dreamed of.’  But the doctor said he would accept
nothing more than had been agreed on, and must return at once to his
own country, where many sick people were awaiting him.  So king
Balancin had to content himself with ordering the physician to be
treated with royal honours, and desiring that an escort should attend
him on his journey home.

For two years everything went smoothly at court, and to king Balancin
and his daughter the sun no sooner rose than it seemed time for it to
set.  Now, the king’s birthday fell in the month of June, and as the
weather happened to be unusually fine, he told the princess to
celebrate it in any way that pleased her.  Diamantina was very fond of
being on the river, and she was delighted at this chance of delighting
her tastes.  She would have a merry-making such as never had been seen
before, and in the evening, when they were tired of sailing and rowing,
there should be music and dancing, plays and fireworks.  At the very
end, before the people went home, every poor person should be given a
loaf of bread and every girl who was to be married within the year a
new dress.

The great day appeared to Diamantina to be long in coming, but, like
other days, it came at last.  Before the sun was fairly up in the
heavens the princess, too full of excitement to stay in the palace, was
walking about the streets so covered with precious stones that you had
to shade your eyes before you could look at her.  By-and-by a trumpet
sounded, and she hurried home, only to appear again in a few moments
walking by the side of her father down to the river.  Here a splendid
barge was waiting for them, and from it they watched all sorts of races
and feats of swimming and diving.  When these were over the barge
proceeded up the river to the field where the dancing and concerts were
to take place, and after the prizes had been given away to the winners,
and the loaves and the dresses had been distributed by the princess,
they bade farewell to their guests, and turned to step into the barge
which was to carry them back to the palace.

Then a dreadful thing happened.  As the king stepped on board the boat
one of the sandals of the white slipper, which had got loose, caught in
a nail that was sticking out, and caused the king to stumble.  The pain
was great, and unconsciously he turned and shook his foot, so that the
sandals gave way, and in a moment the precious shoe was in the river.

It had all occurred so quickly that nobody had noticed the loss of the
slipper, not even the princess, whom the king’s cries speedily brought
to his side.

‘What is the matter, dear father?’ asked she.  But the king could not
tell her; and only managed to gasp out: ‘My shoe! my shoe!’  While the
sailors stood round staring, thinking that his majesty had suddenly
gone mad.

Seeing her father’s eyes fixed on the stream, Diamantina looked hastily
in that direction.  There, dancing on the current, was the point of
something white, which became more and more distant the longer they
watched it.  The king could bear the sight no more, and, besides, now
that the healing ointment in the shoe had been removed the pain in his
foot was as bad as ever; he gave a sudden cry, staggered, and fell over
the bulwarks into the water.

In an instant the river was covered with bobbing heads all swimming
their fastest towards the king, who had been carried far down by the
swift current.  At length one swimmer, stronger than the rest, seized
hold of his tunic, and drew him to the bank, where a thousand eager
hands were ready to haul him out.  He was carried, unconscious, to the
side of his daughter, who had fainted with terror on seeing her father
disappear below the surface, and together they were place in a coach
and driven to the palace, where the best doctors in the city were
awaiting their arrival.

In a few hours the princess was as well as ever; but the pain, the
wetting, and the shock of the accident, all told severely on the king,
and for three days he lay in a high fever.  Meanwhile, his daughter,
herself nearly mad with grief, gave orders that the white slipper
should be sought for far and wide; and so it was, but even the
cleverest divers could find no trace of it at the bottom of the river.

When it became clear that the slipper must have been carried out to sea
by the current, Diamantina turned her thoughts elsewhere, and sent
messengers in search of the doctor who had brought relief to her
father, begging him to make another slipper as fast as possible, to
supply the place of the one which was lost.  But the messengers
returned with the sad news that the doctor had died some weeks before,
and, what was worse, his secret had died with him.

In his weakness this intelligence had such an effect on the king that
the physicians feared he would become as ill as before.  He could
hardly be persuaded to touch food, and all night long he lay moaning,
partly with pain, and partly over his own folly in not having begged
the doctor to make him several dozens of white slippers, so that in
case of accidents he might always have one to put on.  However,
by-and-by he saw that it was no use weeping and wailing, and commanded
that they should search for his lost treasure more diligently than ever.

What a sight the river banks presented in those days!  It seemed as if
all the people in the country were gathered on them.  But this second
search was no more fortunate than the first, and at last the king
issued a proclamation that whoever found the missing slipper should be
made heir to the crown, and should marry the princess.

Now many daughters would have rebelled at being disposed of in the
manner; and it must be admitted that Diamantina’s heart sank when she
heard what the king had done.  Still, she loved her father so much that
she desired his comfort more than anything else in the world, so she
said nothing, and only bowed her head.

Of course the result of the proclamation was that the river banks
became more crowded than before; for all the princess’s suitors from
distant lands flocked to the spot, each hoping that he might be the
lucky finder.  Many times a shining stone at the bottom of the stream
was taken for the slipper itself, and every evening saw a band of
dripping downcast men returning homewards.  But one youth always
lingered longer than the rest, and night would still see him engaged in
the search, though his clothes stuck to his skin and his teeth
chattered.

One day, when the king was lying on his bed racked with pain, he heard
the noise of a scuffle going on in his antechamber, and rang a golden
bell that stood by his side to summon one of his servants.

‘Sire,’ answered the attendant, when the king inquired what was the
matter, ‘the noise you heard was caused by a young man from the town,
who has had the impudence to come here to ask if he may measure your
majesty’s foot, so as to make you another slipper in place of the lost
one.’

‘And what have you done to the youth?’ said the king.

‘The servants pushed him out of the palace, and, added a few blows to
teach him not to be insolent,’ replied the man.

‘Then they did very ill,’ answered the king, with a frown.  ‘He came
here from kindness, and there was no reason to maltreat him.’

‘Oh, my lord, he had the audacity to wish to touch your majesty’s
sacred person--he, a good-for-nothing boy, a mere shoemaker’s
apprentice, perhaps!  And even if he could make shoes to perfection
they would be no use without the soothing balsam.’

The king remained silent for a few moments, then he said:

‘Never mind.  Go and fetch the youth and bring him to me.  I would
gladly try any remedy that may relieve my pain.’

So, soon afterwards, the youth, who had not gone far from the palace,
was caught and ushered into the king’s presence.

He was tall and handsome and, though he professed to make shoes, his
manners were good and modest, and he bowed low as he begged the king
not only to allow him to take the measure of his foot, but also to
suffer him to place a healing plaster over the wound.

Balancin was pleased with the young man’s voice and appearance, and
thought that he looked as if he knew what he was doing.  So he
stretched out his bad foot which the youth examined with great
attention, and then gently laid on the plaster.

Very shortly the ointment began to soothe the sharp pain, and the king,
whose confidence increased every moment, begged the young man to tell
him his name.

‘I have no parents; they died when I was six, sire,’ replied the youth,
modestly.  ‘Everyone in the town calls me Gilguerillo[FN#1], because,
when I was little, I went singing through the world in spite of my
misfortunes.  Luckily for me I was born to be happy.’

‘And you really think you can cure me?’ asked the king.

‘Completely, my lord,’ answered Gilguerillo.

‘And how long do you think it will take?’

‘It is not an easy task; but I will try to finish it in a fortnight,’
replied the youth.

A fortnight seemed to the king a long time to make one slipper.  But he
only said:

‘Do you need anything to help you?’

‘Only a good horse, if your majesty will be kind enough to give me
one,’ answered Gilguerillo.  And the reply was so unexpected that the
courtiers could hardly restrain their smiles, while the king stared
silently.

‘You shall have the horse,’ he said at last, ‘and I shall expect you
back in a fortnight.  If you fulfil your promise you know your reward;
if not, I will have you flogged for your impudence.’

Gilguerillo bowed, and turned to leave the palace, followed by the
jeers and scoffs of everyone he met.  But he paid no heed, for he had
got what he wanted.

He waited in front of the gates till a magnificent horse was led up to
him, and vaulting into the saddle with an ease which rather surprised
the attendant, rode quickly out of the town amidst the jests of the
assembled crowd, who had heard of his audacious proposal.  And while he
is on his way let us pause for a moment and tell who he is.

Both father and mother had died before the boy was six years old; and
he had lived for many years with his uncle, whose life had been passed
in the study of chemistry.  He could leave no money to his nephew, as
he had a son of his own; but he taught him all he knew, and at his dead
Gilguerillo entered an office, where he worked for many hours daily.
In his spare time, instead of playing with the other boys, he passed
hours poring over books, and because he was timid and liked to be alone
he was held by everyone to be a little mad.  Therefore, when it became
known that he had promised to cure the king’s foot, and had ridden
away--no one knew where--a roar of laughter and mockery rang through
the town, and jeers and scoffing words were sent after him.

But if they had only known what were Gilguerillo’s thoughts they would
have thought him madder than ever.

The real truth was that, on the morning when the princess had walked
through the streets before making holiday on the river Gilguerillo had
seen her from his window, and had straightway fallen in love with her.
Of course he felt quite hopeless.  It was absurd to imagine that the
apothecary’s nephew could ever marry the king’s daughter; so he did his
best to forget her, and study harder than before, till the royal
proclamation suddenly filled him with hope.  When he was free he no
longer spent the precious moments poring over books, but, like the
rest, he might have been seen wandering along the banks of the river,
or diving into the stream after something that lay glistening in the
clear water, but which turned out to be a white pebble or a bit of
glass.

And at the end he understood that it was not by the river that he would
win the princess; and, turning to his books for comfort, he studied
harder than ever.

There is an old proverb which says: ‘Everything comes to him who knows
how to wait.’  It is not all men who know hot to wait, any more than it
is all men who can learn by experience; but Gilguerillo was one of the
few and instead of thinking his life wasted because he could not have
the thing he wanted most, he tried to busy himself in other directions.
 So, one day, when he expected it least, his reward came to him.

He happened to be reading a book many hundreds of years old, which told
of remedies for all kinds of diseases.  Most of them, he knew, were
merely invented by old women, who sought to prove themselves wiser than
other people; but at length he came to something which caused him to
sit up straight in his chair, and made his eyes brighten.  This was the
description of a balsam-- which would cure every kind of sore or
wound--distilled from a plant only to be found in a country so distant
that it would take a man on foot two months to go and come back again.

When I say that the book declared that the balsam could heal every sort
of sore or wound, there were a few against which it was powerless, and
it gave certain signs by which these might be known.  This was the
reason why Gilguerillo demanded to see the king’s foot before he would
undertake to cure it; and to obtain admittance he gave out that he was
a shoemaker.  However, the dreaded signs were absent, and his heart
bounded at the thought that the princess was within his reach.

Perhaps she was; but a great deal had to be accomplished yet, and he
had allowed himself a very short time in which to do it.

He spared his horse only so much as was needful, yet it took him six
days to reach the spot where the plant grew.  A thick wood lay in front
of him, and, fastening the bridle tightly to a tree, he flung himself
on his hands and knees and began to hunt for the treasure.  Many time
he fancied it was close to him, and many times it turned out to be
something else; but, at last, when light was fading, and he had almost
given up hope, he came upon a large bed of the plant, right under his
feet!  Trembling with joy, he picked every scrap he could see, and
placed it in his wallet.  Then, mounting his horse, he galloped quickly
back towards the city.

It was night when he entered the gates, and the fifteen days allotted
were not up till the next day.  His eyes were heavy with sleep, and his
body ached with the long strain, but, without pausing to rest, he
kindled a fire on is hearth, and quickly filling a pot with water,
threw in the herbs and left them to boil.  After that he lay down and
slept soundly.

The sun was shining when he awoke, and he jumped up and ran to the pot.
 The plant had disappeared and in its stead was a thick syrup, just as
the book had said there would be.  He lifted the syrup out with a
spoon, and after spreading it in the sun till it was partly dry, poured
it into a small flask of crystal.  He next washed himself thoroughly,
and dressed himself, in his best clothes, and putting the flask in his
pocket, set out for the palace, and begged to see the king without
delay.

Now Balancin, whose foot had been much less painful since Gilguerillo
had wrapped it in the plaster, was counting the days to the young man’s
return; and when he was told Gilguerillo was there, ordered him to be
admitted at once.  As he entered, the king raised himself eagerly on
his pillows, but his face fell when he saw no signs of a slipper.

‘You have failed, then?’ he said, throwing up his hands in despair.

‘I hope not, your majesty; I think not,’ answered the youth.  And
drawing the flask from his pocket, he poured two or three drops on the
wound.

‘Repeat this for three nights, and you will find yourself cured,’ said
he.  And before the king had time to thank him he had bowed himself out.

Of course the news soon spread through the city, and men and women
never tired of calling Gilguerillo an impostor, and prophesying that
the end of the three days would see him in prison, if not on the
scaffold.  But Gilguerillo paid no heed to their hard words, and no
more did the king, who took care that no hand but his own should put on
the healing balsam.

On the fourth morning the king awoke and instantly stretched out his
wounded foot that he might prove the truth or falsehood of
Gilguerillo’s remedy.  The wound was certainly cured on that side, but
how about the other?  Yes, that was cured also; and not even a scar was
left to show where it had been!

Was ever any king so happy as Balancin when he satisfied himself of
this?

Lightly as a deer he jumped from his bed, and began to turn head over
heels and to perform all sorts of antics, so as to make sure that his
foot was in truth as well as it looked.  And when he was quite tired he
sent for his daughter, and bade the courtiers bring the lucky young man
to his room.

‘He is really young and handsome,’ said the princess to herself,
heaving a sigh of relief that it was not some dreadful old man who had
healed her father; and while the king was announcing to his courtiers
the wonderful cure that had been made, Diamantina was thinking that if
Gilguerillo looked so well in his common dress, how much improved by
the splendid garments of a king’ son.  However, she held her peace, and
only watched with amusement when the courtiers, knowing there was no
help for it, did homage and obeisance to the chemist’s boy.

Then they brought to Gilguerillo a magnificent tunic of green velvet
bordered with gold, and a cap with three white plumes stuck in it; and
at the sight of him so arrayed, the princess fell in love with him in a
moment.  The wedding was fixed to take place in eight days, and at the
ball afterwards nobody danced so long or so lightly as king Balancin.

[From Capullos de Rosa, por D.  Enrique Ceballos Quintana.]

[FN#1] Linnet.



                The Magic Book



There was once an old couple named Peder and Kirsten who had an only
son called Hans.  From the time he was a little boy he had been told
that on his sixteenth birthday he must go out into the world and serve
his apprenticeship.  So, one fine summer morning, he started off to
seek his fortune with nothing but the clothes he wore on his back.

For many hours he trudged on merrily, now and then stopping to drink
from some clear spring or to pick some ripe fruit from a tree.  The
little wild creatures peeped at him from beneath the bushes, and he
nodded and smiled, and wished them ‘Good-morning.’  After he had been
walking for some time he met an old white-bearded man who was coming
along the footpath.  The boy would not step aside, and the man was
determined not to do so either, so they ran against one another with a
bump.

‘It seems to me,’ said the old fellow, ‘that a boy should give way to
an old man.’

‘The path is for me as well as for you,’ answered young Hans saucily,
for he had never been taught politeness.

‘Well, that’s true enough,’ answered the other mildly.  ‘And where are
you going?’

‘I am going into service,’ said Hans.

‘Then you can come and serve me,’ replied the man.

Well, Hans could do that; but what would his wages be?

‘Two pounds a year, and nothing to do but keep some rooms clean,’ said
the new-comer.

This seemed to Hans to be easy enough; so he agreed to enter the old
man’s service, and they set out together.  On their way they crossed a
deep valley and came to a mountain, where the man opened a trapdoor,
and bidding Hans follow him, he crept in and began to go down a long
flight of steps.  When they got to the bottom Hans saw a large number
of rooms lit by many lamps and full of beautiful things.  While he was
looking round the old man said to him:

‘Now you know what you have to do.  You must keep these rooms clean,
and strew sand on the floor every day.  Here is a table where you will
always find food and drink, and there is your bed.  You see there are a
great many suits of clothes hanging on the wall, and you may wear any
you please; but remember that you are never to open this locked door.
If you do ill will befall you.  Farewell, for I am going away again and
cannot tell when I may return.

No sooner had the old man disappeared than Hans sat down to a good
meal, and after that went to bed and slept until the morning.  At first
he could not remember what had happened to him, but by-and-by he jumped
up and went into all the rooms, which he examined carefully.

‘How foolish to bid me to put sand on the floors,’ he thought, ‘when
there is nobody here by myself!  I shall do nothing of the sort.’  And
so he shut the doors quickly, and only cleaned and set in order his own
room.  And after the first few days he felt that that was unnecessary
too, because no one came there to see if the rooms where clean or not.
At last he did no work at all, but just sat and wondered what was
behind the locked door, till he determined to go and look for himself.

The key turned easily in the lock.  Hans entered, half frightened at
what he was doing, and the first thing he beheld was a heap of bones.
That was not very cheerful; and he was just going out again when his
eye fell on a shelf of books.  Here was a good way of passing the time,
he thought, for he was fond of reading, and he took one of the books
from the shelf.  It was all about magic, and told you how you could
change yourself into anything in the world you liked.  Could anything
be more exciting or more useful?  So he put it in his pocket, and ran
quickly away out of the mountain by a little door which had been left
open.

When he got home his parents asked him what he had been doing and where
he had got the fine clothes he wore.

‘Oh, I earned them myself,’ answered he.

‘You never earned them in this short time,’ said his father.  ‘Be off
with you; I won’t keep you here.  I will have no thieves in my house!’

‘Well I only came to help you,’ replied the boy sulkily.  ‘Now I’ll be
off, as you wish; but to-morrow morning when you rise you will see a
great dog at the door.  Do not drive it away, but take it to the castle
and sell it to the duke, and they will give you ten dollars for it;
only you must bring the strap you lead it with, back to the house.’

Sure enough the next day the dog was standing at the door waiting to be
let in.  The old man was rather afraid of getting into trouble, but his
wife urged him to sell the dog as the boy had bidden him, so he took it
up to the castle and sold it to the duke for ten dollars.  But he did
not forget to take off the strap with which he had led the animal, and
to carry it home.  When he got there old Kirsten met him at the door.

‘Well, Peder, and have you sold the dog?’ asked she.

‘Yes, Kirsten; and I have brought back ten dollars, as the boy told
us,’ answered Peder.

‘Ay! but that’s fine!’ said his wife.  ‘Now you see what one gets by
doing as one is bid; if it had not been for me you would have driven
the dog away again, and we should have lost the money.  After all, I
always know what is best.’

‘Nonsense!’ said her husband; ‘women always think they know best.  I
should have sold the dog just the same whatever you had told me.  Put
the money away in a safe place, and don’t talk so much.’

The next day Hans came again; but though everything had turned out as
he had foretold, he found that his father was still not quite satisfied.

‘Be off with you!’ said he, ‘you’ll get us into trouble.’

‘I haven’t helped you enough yet,’ replied the boy.  ‘To-morrow there
will come a great fat cow, as big as the house.  Take it to the king’s
palace and you’ll get as much as a thousand dollars for it.  Only you
must unfasten the halter you lead it with and bring it back, and don’t
return by the high road, but through the forest.’

The next day, when the couple rose, they saw an enormous head looking
in at their bedroom window, and behind it was a cow which was nearly as
big as their hut.  Kirsten was wild with joy to think of the money the
cow would bring them.

‘But how are you going to put the rope over her head?’ asked she.

‘Wait and you’ll see, mother,’ answered her husband.  Then Peder took
the ladder that led up to the hayloft and set it against the cow’s
neck, and he climbed up and slipped the rope over her head.  When he
had made sure that the noose was fast they started for the palace, and
met the king himself walking in his grounds.

‘I heard that the princess was going to be married,’ said Peder, ‘so
I’ve brought your majesty a cow which is bigger than any cow that was
ever seen.  Will your majesty deign to buy it?’

The king had, in truth, never seen so large a beast, and he willingly
paid the thousand dollars, which was the price demanded; but Peder
remembered to take off the halter before he left.  After he was gone
the king sent for the butcher and told him to kill the animal for the
wedding feast.  The butcher got ready his pole-axe; but just as he was
going to strike, the cow changed itself into a dove and flew away, and
the butcher stood staring after it as if he were turned to stone.
However, as the dove could not be found, he was obliged to tell the
king what had happened, and the king in his turn despatched messengers
to capture the old man and bring him back.  But Peder was safe in the
woods, and could not be found.  When at last he felt the danger was
over, and he might go home, Kirsten nearly fainted with joy at the
sight of all the money he brought with him.

‘Now that we are rich people we must build a bigger house,’ cried she;
and was vexed to find that Peder only shook his head and said: ‘No; if
they did that people would talk, and say they had got their wealth by
ill-doing.’

A few mornings later Hans came again.

‘Be off before you get us into trouble,’ said his father.  ‘So far the
money has come right enough, but I don’t trust it.’

‘Don’t worry over that, father,’ said Hans.  ‘To-morrow you will find a
horse outside by the gate.  Ride it to market and you will get a
thousand dollars for it.  Only don’t forget to loosen the bridle when
you sell it.’

Well, in the morning there was the horse; Kirsten had never seen so
find an animal.  ‘Take care it doesn’t hurt you, Peder,’ said she.

‘Nonsense, wife,’ answered he crossly.  ‘When I was a lad I lived with
horses, and could ride anything for twenty miles round.’  But that was
not quite the truth, for he had never mounted a horse in his life.

Still, the animal was quiet enough, so Peder got safely to market on
its back.  There he met a man who offered nine hundred and ninety-nine
dollars for it, but Peder would take nothing less than a thousand.  At
last there came an old, grey-bearded man who looked at the horse and
agreed to buy it; but the moment he touched it the horse began to kick
and plunge.  ‘I must take the bridle off,’ said Peder.  ‘It is not to
be sold with the animal as is usually the case.’

‘I’ll give you a hundred dollars for the bridle,’ said the old man,
taking out his purse.

‘No, I can’t sell it,’ replied Hans’s father.

‘Five hundred dollars!’

‘No.’

‘A thousand!’

At this splendid offer Peder’s prudence gave way; it was a shame to let
so much money go.  So he agreed to accept it.  But he could hardly hold
the horse, it became so unmanageable.  So he gave the animal in charge
to the old man, and went home with his two thousand dollars.

Kirsten, of course, was delighted at this new piece of good fortune,
and insisted that the new house should be built and land bought.  This
time Peder consented, and soon they had quite a fine farm.

Meanwhile the old man rode off on his new purchase, and when he came to
a smithy he asked the smith to forge shoes for the horse.  The smith
proposed that they should first have a drink together, and the horse
was tied up by the spring whilst they went indoors.  The day was hot,
and both men were thirsty, and, besides, they had much to say; and so
the hours slipped by and found them still talking.  Then the servant
girl came out to fetch a pail of water, and, being a kind- hearted
lass, she gave some to the horse to drink.  What was her surprise when
the animal said to her: ‘Take off my bridle and you will save my life.’

‘I dare not,’ said she; ‘your master will be so angry.’

‘He cannot hurt you,’ answered the horse, ‘and you will save my life.’

At that she took off the bridle; but nearly fainted with astonishment
when the horse turned into a dove and flew away just as the old man
came out of the house.  Directly he saw what had happened he changed
himself into a hawk and flew after the dove.  Over the woods and fields
they went, and at length they reached a king’s palace surrounded by
beautiful gardens.  The princess was walking with her attendants in the
rose garden when the dove turned itself into a gold ring and fell at
her feet.

‘Why, here is a ring!’ she cried, ‘where could it have come from?’  And
picking it up she put it on her finger.  As she did so the hill-man
lost his power over Hans--for of course you understand that it was he
who had been the dog, the cow, the horse and the dove.

‘Well, that is really strange,’ said the princess.  ‘It fits me as
though it had been made for me!’

Just at that moment up came the king.

‘Look at what I have found!’ cried his daughter.

‘Well, that is not worth much, my dear,’ said he.  ‘Besides, you have
rings enough, I should think.’

‘Never mind, I like it,’ replied the princess.

But as soon as she was alone, to her amazement, the ring suddenly left
her finger and became a man.  You can imagine how frightened she was,
as, indeed, anybody would have been; but in an instant the man became a
ring again, and then turned back to a man, and so it went on for some
time until she began to get used to these sudden changes.

‘I am sorry I frightened you,’ said Hans, when he thought he could
safely speak to the princess without making her scream.  ‘I took refuge
with you because the old hill-man, whom I have offended, was trying to
kill me, and here I am safe.’

‘You had better stay here then,’ said the princess.  So Hans stayed,
and he and she became good friends; though, of course, he only became a
man when no one else was present.

This was all very well; but, one day, as they were talking together,
the king happened to enter the room, and although Hans quickly changed
himself into a ring again it was too late.

The king was terribly angry.

‘So this is why you have refused to marry all the kings and princes who
have sought your hand?’ he cried.

And, without waiting for her to speak, he commanded that his daughter
should be walled up in the summer-house and starved to death with her
lover.

That evening the poor princess, still wearing her ring, was put into
the summer-house with enough food to last for three days, and the door
was bricked up.  But at the end of a week or two the king thought it
was time to give her a grand funeral, in spite of her bad behaviour,
and he had the summer-house opened.  He could hardly believe his eyes
when he found that the princess was not there, nor Hans either.
Instead, there lay at his feet a large hole, big enough for two people
to pass through.

Now what had happened was this.

When the princess and Hans had given up hope, and cast themselves down
on the ground to die, they fell down this hole, and right through the
earth as well, and at last they tumbled into a castle built of pure
gold at the other side of the world, and there they lived happily.  But
of this, of course, the king knew nothing.

‘Will anyone go down and see where the passage leads to?’ he asked,
turning to his guards and courtiers.  ‘I will reward splendidly the man
who is brave enough to explore it.’

For a long time nobody answered.  The hole was dark and deep, and if it
had a bottom no one could see it.  At length a soldier, who was a
careless sort of fellow, offered himself for the service, and
cautiously lowered himself into the darkness.  But in a moment he, too,
fell down, down, down.  Was he going to fall for ever, he wondered!
Oh, how thankful he was in the end to reach the castle, and to meet the
princess and Hans, looking quite well and not at all as if they had
been starved.  They began to talk, and the soldier told them that the
king was very sorry for the way he had treated his daughter, and wished
day and night that he could have her back again.

Then they all took ship and sailed home, and when they came to the
princess’s country, Hans disguised himself as the sovereign of a
neighbouring kingdom, and went up to the palace alone.  He was given a
hearty welcome by the king, who prided himself on his hospitality, and
a banquet was commanded in his honour.  That evening, whilst they sat
drinking their wine, Hans said to the king:

‘I have heard the fame of your majesty’s wisdom, and I have travelled
from far to ask your counsel.  A man in my country has buried his
daughter alive because she loved a youth who was born a peasant.  How
shall I punish this unnatural father, for it is left to me to give
judgment?’

The king, who was still truly grieved for his daughter’s loss, answered
quickly:

‘Burn him alive, and strew his ashes all over the kingdom.’

Hans looked at him steadily for a moment, and then threw off his
disguise.

‘You are the man,’ said he; ‘and I am he who loved your daughter, and
became a gold ring on her finger.  She is safe, and waiting not far
from here; but you have pronounced judgment on yourself.’

Then the king fell on his knees and begged for mercy; and as he had in
other respects been a good father, they forgave him.  The wedding of
Hans and the princess was celebrated with great festivities which
lasted a month.  As for the hill-man he intended to be present; but
whilst he was walking along a street which led to the palace a loose
stone fell on his head and killed him.  So Hans and the princess lived
in peace and happiness all their days, and when the old king died they
reigned instead of him.

[From AEventyr fra Zylland samlede og optegnede af Tang Kristensen.
Translated from the Danish by Mrs. Skavgaard-Pedersen.]