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                INDIAN FAIRY TALES

             COLLECTED AND TRANSLATED

                        BY

                   MAIVE STOKES.


           _WITH NOTES BY MARY STOKES,_

  _AND AN INTRODUCTION BY W. R. S. RALSTON, M.A._


                      London:
          ELLIS & WHITE, NEW BOND STREET.
                       1880.

             [_All Rights reserved._]




         To my dear Grannie, Susan Bazely.




[Decoration]

PREFACE.


The first twenty-five stories in this book were told me at Calcutta
and Simla by two Ayahs, Dunkní and Múniyá, and by Karím, a Khidmatgar.
The last five were told Mother by Múniyá. At first the servants would
only tell their stories to me, because I was a child and would not
laugh at them, but afterwards the Ayahs lost their shyness and told
almost all their stories over again to Mother when they were passing
through the press. Karím would never tell his to her or before her.
The stories were all told in Hindústání, which is the only language
that these servants know.

Dunkní is a young woman, and was born and brought up in Calcutta. She
got the stories, she told me, from her husband, Mochí, who was born in
Calcutta and brought up at Benares.

Múniyá is a very old, white-haired woman. She has
great-grandchildren. She was born at Patna, but when she was seven
years old she was taken to Calcutta, where she was brought up and
married. She and Dunkní are both Hindús.

Karím is a Muhammadan and was born at Lucknow. He says that "The
Mouse" and "The Wonderful Story" are both Lucknow tales.

The notes to this book were written by Mother, and Father helped her
to spell the Native names and words. He also made the Index.

Dr. George King helped us in the Botany; Mr. Tawney and Mr. Campbell
of Islay, who saw many of the stories in manuscript, have given us
several remarks. So has my uncle, John Boxwell.

                                            M. S. H. STOKES.

    CALCUTTA,
      _March 24th, 1879_.




[Decoration]

INTRODUCTION.


In almost every part of Europe the tales current among the common
people have been of late years diligently sought out, and carefully
collected. Variants of them pour in profusely every year. But it does
not seem probable that any entirely new stories will be discovered in
any European land. Nor is it likely that in fresh variants of the
longer and apparently more artificial tales, any quite new incidents,
or even any unquestionably novel features, will be found. The harvest
has been abundant, its chief fruits are now stored, and the work which
is still going on among the gleaners, although in itself good and
praiseworthy, may be regarded without the excitement of eager hope.
The task of the present seems to be, not so much the garnering of
European folk-tales, as their comparison and elucidation, and, so far
as possible, their explanation. But in many cases they do not appear
to contain in themselves the ingredients which are necessary for their
resolution into their primary elements. Nor do the records of the
lands in which they exist always supply what is wanted. The "fairy
tales" of Europe throw very little light upon, are but slightly
illuminated by, the histories of the widely differing lands in which
they so closely resemble each other. And the most interesting among
them, those which appear most clearly to bear witness to their being
embodiments of mythological ideas, or expansions of moral precepts,
seem to be but little in keeping with what we know of the sentiments
and beliefs of the heathen ancestors of the villagers in whose
memories they have been for so many centuries retained. Among such
tales of this kind, for instance, as linger on in our own islands,
there is but little to be found which can be looked upon as a
specially characteristic deposit left by the waves of Iberian, Celtic,
and Teutonic population which have successively passed over the face
of the land. This statement does not, of course, hold good in the case
of such legends about national heroes as Mr. J. F. Campbell has found
thriving in Ireland and the West Highlands of Scotland, and which he
justly believes to be "bardic recitations, fast disappearing, and
changing into prose." They belong to a different section of popular
fiction from that to which reference is now made. It is often
difficult to draw the line between these two classes of folk-tales.
But there is a striking difference between the typical representatives
of the two divisions, between cosmopolitan novelettes like Cinderella
or the Sleeping Beauty, on the one hand, and pseudo-historic legends
about local heroes on the other. It is unfortunate that we do not
possess a sufficiency of accurate designations for the numerous
species of the genus folk-tale. Their existence would prevent much
misapprehension. But in their absence, a discusser of popular tales
should take pains to define precisely to what tribe, family, or group
of stories his remarks are intended to apply.

There are to be found, in all European lands, certain tales which are
of a more complex structure than the rest, which appear to have been
constructed by a skilled workman, to be artificial productions rather
than natural growths. It is only with such stories as these that we
have at present to deal. These novelettes or comediettas, as they may
be called, of the European common people, differ but little in their
essential parts, whether they are recited in the cold north or the
balmy south, the rude east or the cultured west. Their openings, it is
true, vary with their localities; but in the main body of the tale,
not only does the same leading idea pervade all the variants, but also
the same sequence of events leads up in almost every case to the same
termination. To this class of stories belong nearly all the tales
which, under considerably modified forms, have naturalized themselves
in the nurseries of Europe. In it are comprised many popular fictions,
on the obscurer parts of which a quite insufficient light is thrown by
researches among the manners and mythologies of old European
heathenism.

It is upon such stories as these that a kindly light beams with the
greatest advantage from Asia. Very similar stories have been preserved
in the memories of the common people in many parts of Asia, but
especially in India. And their leading ideas are perfectly in
accordance with the mythology or the moral teaching of the Asiatics
who, age after age, have delighted in telling or hearing them. In such
cases as these it seems to be not very unreasonable to suppose that
the story was originally, if not created, at all events shaped and
trimmed in Asia, and thence was afterwards conveyed from lip to lip
into Europe. Such universal favourites as Beauty and the Beast and
Puss in Boots may be confidently cited as oriental fictions which have
taken possession of European minds. There is a rich store of other
popular fictions, which may be left to be accounted for according to
the two principal methods of interpretation in vogue. They may be
explained as independent developments of mythological germs common to
the ancestors of the various Aryan peoples of Europe. Or they may be
regarded as embodiments of certain ideas common to savages of all
races. It will be sufficient to deal at present with the more
limited, but better known class, to which special attention has been
called.

Among the Asiatic folk-tales which seem likely to assist in their
explanation, none are more copious or more useful than those of India.
There the old religion has maintained itself with which so many of
these stories are linked, and there the moral teaching still prevails
which made its voice heard in other tales of the far-off time when
they first became current. Any collection of genuine Indian Fairy
Tales is therefore certain to be, not only of interest to the general
reader, but also of real value to the specialist who devotes himself
to the comparison of folk-tales. The collection now before us has
great merits of its own. The stories have been told in Hindústání to
the very young collector by two ayahs, who are both Hindús, and by a
Muhammadan man-servant. In this respect Miss Stokes's contribution to
our knowledge of India differs from the very similar, and very
charming, work by Miss Frere, "Old Deccan Days," the stories in which
were told by an ayah who was, as her father and grandfather had been,
a native Christian. The two books ought to be compared with each
other. No possessor of the one ought to be without the other. All the
stories contained in the present volume, as we learn from the notes,
have been read back by the young collector to the tellers in
Hindústání after they were told, and a second time by the annotator
before they were printed. "I never saw people more anxious to have
their tales retold exactly, than are Dunkní and Múniyá," the two
story-telling ayahs. Not till each tale was pronounced by them to be
exact was it sent to the press. The stories may be taken then as
faithful transcripts of Indian thought. The merits of the copious
Notes contributed by the late Mrs. Whitley Stokes, bearing witness to
a very wide range of reading, and to a most intelligent use of the
authorities referred to, will be fully acknowledged by all who have
had occasion to explore the regions from which she has gathered so
much valuable information. Throughout the whole of the work thus
conscientiously compiled and intelligently annotated, there will be
found scattered, in addition to its other merits, many a parallel with
our own popular tales, many an illustration or explanation of their
meaning--a ray of light shot here or there which illumines their dark
places, and may enable the explorers of their mystic domains to avoid
stumbles which are often somewhat mortifying. It remains only to point
out a few of the most important passages.

       *       *       *       *       *

Some of the stories in this volume are so thoroughly oriental, so
little in accordance with western thought or feeling, that they have
not found an echo among ourselves; their counterparts are not to be
found naturalized in European lands. Of such a kind are the legends,
taken from literary sources, of "The Upright King," and of "Rájá
Harichand's Punishment," in which the patience of a religious monarch
is tried as was that of Job, and comes out from the trial equally
victorious. The sorrows of Patient Grissel have met with sympathy in
many lands, for meekness has ever been considered a womanly virtue.
But the heroism of a husband and father who sells his wife to a
merchant, and his son to a cowherd, in order that he may be able to
keep his promise to a holy mendicant, and bestow upon him two pounds
and a half of gold, can scarcely be expected to invest itself, to
western eyes, with the air of a manly virtue. In the same way, the
great sitting powers displayed by King Burtal, who never once moves
from his seat in the jungle for twelve whole years, during which space
of time he neither eats nor drinks, and thereby elevates himself to
the dignity of a fakír, are not of a kind to elicit the sympathies or
command the admiration of nations addicted to active exercise.

The explanation of Nánaksá's thrice repeated laugh, also, could
retain its vitality only in an atmosphere pervaded by a belief in the
transmigration of souls. Buddhistic apologues have sometimes passed
into legends of Christian Saints. But it would be difficult to perform
the operation in the case of an account of how a woman, who had
tormented to death her husband's sister, was justly punished by the
reappearance in the world of the ill-used sister-in-law, in the form
of that unkind woman's exceedingly peevish baby daughter. Numerous,
also, as are European stories about ogres, vampires, and other
demoniacal cannibals, we shall not readily find a western counterpart
of the terrible tale, in No. 24, of the "Rakshas" which sometimes
appears as a goat, and sometimes as a most beautiful young girl,
dressed in grand clothes and rich jewels, but at midnight turns into a
devouring demon with a craving for human flesh.

Just as some of the themes of these stories do not seem to have
European counterparts, so portions of their machinery appear to be
without exact western equivalents. The stupendous transformations
which now and then take place (see pp. 5, 148, 244) can reconcile
themselves only to an oriental imagination. However much the
occidental mind may attempt to "make believe," it cannot credit such a
statement as that when the Bél-Princess died, her eyes turned into two
birds, her heart into "a great tank," and her body into "a splendid
palace and garden," her arms and legs becoming "the pillars that
supported the verandah roof," and her head "the dome on the top of the
palace." In almost all countries, when a fairy hero has been slain by
a demoniacal or otherwise villainous personage, he is recalled to life
by magic means. In European folk-lore the resuscitating remedy is
usually a Water of Life, or a Balsam, or some similar fluid. In these
Indian tales, it is blood streaming from the resuscitator's little
finger. Thus when Loving Lailí (p. 83) found her husband dead and
headless, she put his head back on his shoulders, and smeared his neck
with the blood which flowed "like healing medicine," when "she cut
her little finger inside her hand straight down from the top of her
nail to her palm." A power of becoming at will invisible is everywhere
often attributed to heroes of romance. But it is generally connected
with "a cap of darkness," or some similar magic article. But the
Prince of No. 21, when he seeks the Bél-Princess, becomes invisible to
the "demons and fairies" who surround her, when he blows from the palm
of his hand, "all along his fingers," the earth which a friendly fakír
has given him for that purpose. A "sleep-thorn," or other somniferous
piece of wood, is commonly employed in our fairy tales, in order to
throw a hero or heroine into a magic slumber. In these Indian stories
a state of catalepsy, or of death, is produced or relieved by a
peculiar application of a magic stick. Thus the Princess who was
called the Golden Rání, "because her teeth and her hair were made of
gold," and who was stolen by a demon, informed the Prince who found
her, motionless but not sleeping, that "the Rakshas who had carried
her off, and whom she called papa, had a great thick stick, and when
he laid this stick at her feet she could not stir, but when he laid it
at her head she could move again." In "The Demon and the King's Son"
(No. 24), the hero opens a "forbidden chamber," and there finds the
demon's daughter lying on a bed, apparently lifeless; for "every day,
before her father went out he used to make the girl lie on her bed,
and cover her with a sheet, and he placed a thick stick at her head,
and another at her feet; then she died, till he came home in the
evening and changed the sticks, putting the one at her head at her
feet, and the one at her feet at her head. This brought her to life
again." An interesting parallel to the "sleep-thorn" is afforded by
the pin which, while it remains in the head of the bird which had been
the wife of the Pomegranate King (No. 2), prevents her from resuming
her human shape. When the Rájá pulled out the pin, "his own dear
wife, the Pomegranate Rání, stood before him." Magic boxes are common
in fairy land. But there is something new in at least the name of the
"sun-jewel box," which was sent by the "Red Fairy," who lived at the
bottom of the well, to "The Princess who loved her father like salt"
(No. 23), and which contained "seven little dolls, who were all little
fairies."

       *       *       *       *       *

Of more general interest than the few peculiarities of these tales are
the many points in which they resemble and illustrate some of the
familiar features of European folk-lore. As an example of the latter
may be taken a "husk-myth," which is a valuable contribution to the
literature of the "Beauty and the Beast" cycle. In all the stories
belonging to that group, the action turns upon the union of the human
hero or heroine with a spouse who is really or apparently an inferior
animal. In the modified version of the story with which our nurseries
have become acquainted through a French literary medium, the species
of Beast to which the Beauty is wedded is not stated, and its
transformation into a princely husband is attributed to her unaided
love. But in by far the greater part of the variants of the folk-tale
on which it seems to have been founded, as well as of the other
stories in which a similar transformation is the principal
feature--variants which have been gathered in abundance from all parts
of Europe, not to speak of Asia--the animal nature of the mysterious
spouse is clearly defined. In them the husband whom the Beauty is
induced by filial affection, fear, or compassion to wed, is an
unmistakable Beast--a pig in Sicily, a bear in Norway, a hedgehog in
Germany, a goat in Russia. Sometimes he is even of a lower type, often
a frog or a snake. And once, in Wallachia, he has been transferred
from the animal to the vegetable world, and figures as a pumpkin. In
every instance he is represented as being able to change at times his
repulsive appearance for one of beauty, and this he generally does by
doffing a kind of husk which when donned conceals his real form, and
invests him with that of an inferior being. If this husk be destroyed
during the temporary absence of its owner, he loses his transforming
power. The destruction of the husk is generally the work of the wife,
who is sometimes rewarded, her husband remaining with her constant to
his true nature; at other times she is punished, he being lost to her
for a time or for ever. These stories about a monster husband have
their exact counterparts in tales about a monster wife, the leading
idea being the same in both groups; the only difference being that it
is the wife who appears at times as a frog or other inferior creature,
and who continues to do so until her transforming power terminates
with the destruction of her disguising husk.

Now these temporary transformations, though common to the folk-tales
of all parts of Europe, are not in accordance with the European
superstitions of the present day, nor with those, so far as we are
acquainted with them, of old European heathenism. The nearest approach
to them is afforded by the wehr-wolf superstition, but that is an
isolated belief, and appears to be based upon altogether different
ideas. As to the metamorphoses of classical literature, they are of a
nature quite alien to that of the voluntary eclipse, under a degrading
form, of a Frog Princess or a Pig Prince. It may be said with
confidence that European "husk-myths" do not explain themselves; the
peasants among whom they are current, cannot explain them; and the
knowledge we have of ancient European paganism throws no light on
their meaning. But in India, where countless variants of such tales
exist--many of them preserved in ancient as well as in modern
literature, but by far the greater part still current among the
common people--the transformations in question are frequently, if not
generally, explained in the stories themselves, and explained in a
manner perfectly in accordance with the Indian thought of the present
as well as of the past. To Indian minds there is nothing monstrous in
the belief that a celestial being may have been condemned, in
consequence of the wrath of a superior divinity, or even of the magic
words pronounced by an offended sage, to assume for a time the
inferior form of a mere man or woman, or even to wear the shape of an
inferior animal--a monkey or a frog; and that this transformation is
to continue chronic, though not constant, until the destruction of the
disguising skin or husk, by the donning of which it is from time to
time brought about, deprives the curse of its power, and enables
earth's celestial visitor to return to heaven. The whole story is
closely connected with Indian religious beliefs, and may fairly be
looked upon, when found in India, as an expansion of a Hindu myth. Its
existence in other parts of Asia may, at least frequently, be
attributed to the natural spread of Hindu tales among the various
tribes and nations which accepted Buddhism from India.

If all this be true, and the "husk-myth" stories which are current all
over Europe may justly be supposed to have drifted westwards from
India, then all Indian variants of these tales naturally become
invested with special importance. The specimen in the present volume,
the "Monkey Prince" (No. 10), belongs to a remarkably interesting
class--that in which the story-teller gives an explanation of the
hero's transformation. A childless king is told by a fakír to give
some mangoes to his seven wives. Six of them eat up the fruit, and
each of the six gives birth to a prince of the usual kind. But the
seventh wife, who has been able to obtain as her share only the stone
of one of the mangoes, "had a monkey, who was called in consequence
Bandarsábásá, or Prince Monkey." In reality, the story-teller goes on
to explain, "he was a boy, but no one knew it, for he had a
monkey-skin covering him." And this monkey-skin he takes off when he
wishes to appear in true princely form, as when he woos and wins the
Princess Jahúran. Finding out what his real nature is, she insists
upon marrying him, in spite of her vexed father's natural question:
"Who ever heard of any one marrying a nasty monkey?" When he is alone
with his wife he takes off his monkey-skin, and reveals himself in all
his beauty, replying to her questions as to its use, "I wear it as a
protection, because my brothers are naughty, and would kill me if they
knew what I really am." On one occasion, when he has gone in state to
a nautch, after taking off his monkey skin, folding it up, and laying
it under his wife's pillow, she reveals her husband's secret to his
mother, who, "though she was very glad her monkey-son had such a wife,
could never understand how it was that her daughter-in-law was so
happy with him." Taking the monkey-skin from under her pillow, "See,"
she says, "when your son puts this on, then he is a monkey; when he
takes it off he is a beautiful man. And now I think I will burn this
skin, and then he must always be a man." So she throws it into the
fire. Prince Monkey's heart instantly tells him his wife has burnt his
skin, and he returns home in a rage. It passes off, however, and all
goes well. He now appears always as a beautiful prince, "with his hair
all gold." "Why did you wear that monkey-skin?" naturally asks his
father. "Because," he replies, "my mother ate the mango-stone instead
of eating the mango, and so I was born with this skin, and God ordered
me to wear it till I had found a wife." The story has evidently been
considerably altered in the course of time from its original form, but
it still keeps true to its ancient lines. In it, as in many other
specimens of the same class, the idea of the degradation of a divine
or semi-divine being has been lost, and the sufferer is merely a human
being cased in a disfiguring hide. It is noteworthy that, as we are
informed at p. 259, Dunkní, the narrator of the tale, "in telling this
husk-story, just as often called the monkey-skin a husk, as she called
it a skin."

Another of the apparently mythological European folk-tales,
instructive parallels to which are contained in the present volume, is
that which may be designated as the Golden-locks myth. It relates the
fortunes of a brilliant being, usually a radiant prince, who, often
without any apparent reason, submits himself to a voluntary eclipse,
hides from sight his grandeur and his good looks, and assumes an
appearance of squalor and misery. Like Cinderella, whose male
counterpart he is, he at times arises from his low estate, becomes
again a brilliant prince, but always capriciously eludes those who
wish to retain him in that shape. At last he is always detected, and
then he has to remain constant to his true and magnificent form. His
temporary eclipse is somewhat similar to that of the hero of a
husk-myth; but no special power is attached to the wrappings under
which his brilliance is concealed, nor is his change of form imposed
upon him against his will. The meaning of the Golden-locks story, in
its original form, still remains to be discovered, as also does that
of the sister tale of Cinderella. That they both refer to the
temporary eclipse, seclusion, or obscuration of a brilliant being, is
evident. But what that brilliant being represents is a problem of
which several solutions have been confidently offered, but which does
not seem to have been as yet certainly solved. In the story of "The
Boy who had a Moon on his forehead and a Star on his chin" (No. 20),
the self-eclipsing process is brought about by a twist of his right
ear; "when the boy had twisted it, he was no longer a handsome prince,
but a poor, common-looking, ugly man; and his moon and star were
hidden." And so, after he has been chosen out of a number of suitors
by a princess whose heart he has won by the beauty of his singing, he
restores himself to his true form by twisting his left ear; after
which operation "he stood no longer a poor, common, ugly man, but a
grand young prince, with a moon on his forehead and a star on his
chin."

A third class of stories for which an Asiatic origin may fairly be
claimed, contains those in which figures a monster or demon who cannot
be killed until some external object with which his life is
mysteriously linked has been destroyed. Such a being occurs at times
in European folk-tales, especially in those of the east and north of
Europe. The most familiar instance is that of "The Giant who had no
Heart in his body" of the "Tales from the Norse." Some of the best
specimens of this kind of monster are to be found in the Russian tales
about Koshchei the Deathless. But these remarkably abnormal beings
scarcely seem at home in western folk-lore. They are but little in
keeping with their European surroundings, and never seem to divest
themselves of their alien air. In oriental stories, on the other hand,
they figure frequently, and they seem to occupy a familiar and an
appropriate place. The oldest of the world's tales of wonder, the
Egyptian story of the Two Brothers, contains an heroic being whose
life comes to an end when his heart falls to the ground from the tree
upon which he has hung it. And in the modern folk-tales of India,
demons of this kind play their part without exciting any more than
usual surprise. Miss Frere's Deccan stories make us well acquainted
with one of these personages, "a wicked magician named Punchkin,"
whose name serves as a convenient designation for the long-lived
monsters in question. The present collection contains several
specimens. In "Brave Hírálálbásá" (No. 11) we meet with a Rakshas, who
is induced, as usual by female wiles, to reveal the secret of his
life. "Sixteen miles away from this place," he says, "is a tree. Round
the tree are tigers, and bears, and scorpions, and snakes; on the top
of the tree is a very great flat snake; on his head is a little cage;
in the cage is a bird; and my soul is in that bird." When the bird is
seized by the hero of the story, the Rakshas feels that something
terrible has occurred. When the bird's legs and wings are pulled off,
the Rakshas becomes a mere head and torso; and when the bird's neck is
wrung, down falls the Rakshas dead. In like manner, in the tale of
"The Demon and the King's Son" (No. 24), the demon dies when the
prince has killed a certain bird, the lives of the bird and of the
demon being conterminable. According to the narrator Dunkní, "all
Rakshases keep their souls in birds;" but another authority asserts
(p. 261) that "a whole tribe of Rakshases, dwelling in Ceylon, kept
theirs in one and the same lemon."

The tale of "The Voracious Frog" (No. 6) is a valuable contribution to
the store we already possess of what appear to be myths relating to
apparent destruction, but ultimate resuscitation. To this class seem
to belong the stories on which Little Red Riding Hood was probably
based, describing how a wolf or other monster swallowed various
innocent beings, but was at last forced to restore them uninjured to
the light of day. In its original form the tale may have been a nature
myth, illustrating the apparent annihilation brought about by the
darkness of night or the cold of winter, and the revival which
accompanies the return of the day or of spring; or, perhaps, a moral
apologue, intended to suggest that death may not be a lasting
annihilation. In its modern forms, whether in the east or the west, it
often assumes a grotesque air. A good illustration of this fact is
afforded by the well-known Norse tale of "The Greedy Cat," of which
"The Voracious Frog" (No. 6) is an Indian counterpart. The cat, after
devouring all that comes in its way, is at last split in half by a
goat, whereupon all its victims come forth unhurt. The frog, after
similar feats of gluttony, is cut open by a barber, who, while shaving
it, thinks that it looks very fat; and its victims also emerge
uninjured.

There are many tales now current in different parts of Europe, but
chiefly in the south and east, which turn upon the relations existing
between human beings and their fates: each person being supposed to
have a special fate or fortune, a species of guardian demon, upon
whose good will all his or her success in life depends. It is very
doubtful whether such stories are products of European fancy, their
leading ideas seeming to be little in keeping with the religious
beliefs--whether of classic times, or of Teutonic, Slavic, or Celtic
antiquity--respecting either an overruling destiny, or a triad of
Fates or Norns. But in India a belief in a personal "luck" has
prevailed from very early times; and such stories as "The Man who went
to seek his Fate" (No. 12), appear there to be as indigenous as in
Europe they seem to be exotic. The Servian story, for instance, of the
man who sets out to look for his fate, and the Sicilian account of how
the unfortunate Caterina is persecuted by hers until she discovers its
hiding-place, and propitiates it by cakes (see Notes, p. 263), have a
foreign air about them, which does not manifest itself in the Indian
tale. The likeness between the Servian and the Indian variants of the
narrative, especially as regards the questions which the fate-seeker
is requested by the beings he meets on the way to ask when he arrives
at his destination, is too great to allow it to be supposed that they
have been independently developed from a common germ. They are
manifestly, so far as the journey is concerned, copies of the same
model, differing but slightly from each other. But the embodiment of
the wayfarer's destiny is quite differently represented in the two
stories. The Servian pilgrim first discovers his fortune, or rather
misfortune, in the person of a hag, who tells him she has been given
to him as his luck by Fate. Then he seeks out Fate, who appears in
human form. But in the Indian tale, "the fates are stones, some
standing, and others lying on the ground." One of the prostrate
stones, the traveller felt sure, must belong to him. "This must be
mine," he said; "it is lying on the ground, that's why I am so poor."
Whereupon he took to beating it, and continued to do so all day. When
night came, "God sent a soul into the poor man's fate, and it became a
man," who satisfied the wanderer's own wishes, and also answered the
questions which he had been requested to ask. Then "God withdrew the
soul, and the fate became a stone again, which stood up on the
ground."

There are two stories which enjoy a world-wide popularity in peasant
circles, but which have not been made familiar by modern literature to
cultured children. One of them may for the sake of convenience be
known by the name of the Substituted Bride, and the other by that of
the Calumniated Wife. The first relates the sorrows of a maiden who is
compelled to see an impostor seated in the place which she was
intended to fill, by the side of the princely husband whom she was
meant to wed. The second describes the sufferings long undergone by a
faithful wife and tender mother, who is falsely accused of some crime
by an envious rival, and is hastily punished by her angry lord. In
both of them the supernatural usually plays a part, but their main
interests are always human, and it is easier to sympathize with their
heroines than with most of the similar characters of popular fiction.
Yet those ill-used but patient princesses are but little known to the
thousands of story-readers who are familiar with the adventures of
Cinderella and the Sleeping Beauty, Little Red Riding Hood, and the
wives of Bluebeard and of the Beast. They have at various times
entered into literature, but not into that section of it which has
supplied our nursery fiction. They figure in most of the now so
numerous collections of folk-tales, but they have not been introduced
into society by the novelists or playwrights who have made their
sister-sufferers undying favourites. They are essentially moral tales,
their good characters bearing their unmerited misfortunes with
unvarying meekness and patience, and being ultimately rewarded, while
the envious and malicious rivals who have supplanted or slandered them
are punished in the end. But they have not taken a firm hold on the
west, where they are probably destined to become forgotten when the
progress of education has replaced folk-lore by literature, while they
are likely to go on living for ages in the east, which seems to have
been their original home.

In the present collection the story of the Substituted Princess occurs
several times. In "Phúlmati Rání" the heroine is a wife instead of a
bride, which makes the substitution more than usually improbable. As
she and her husband are resting beside a tank, a shoemaker's wife
comes up, and pushes her into the water, in which she is drowned. The
shoemaker's wife takes her place, though she is "very black and ugly,"
one-eyed, and exceedingly wicked. It may be remarked that the
substitution in question generally takes place by the side of water.
In the "Bél-Princess," the beautiful maiden who has come out of the
fruit which the prince opened by the side of a well, is pushed into
the water, while the prince is asleep, by a wicked woman, very ugly,
and with "something wrong with one of her eyes," who then assumes her
place. In tales like the story of "The Princess who loved her Father
like Salt," the transformation scene is of a different nature, though
the leading idea of the change is the same. It is not an ordinary
bride or wife who is supplanted, and the substitution need not take
place beside water. The heroine is a stranger who, generally after
long wanderings, finds a prince really or apparently dead, by patient
watching all but effects his cure, but is at the last moment
supplanted by a servant, who gives the final touch to the work, claims
its entire merit, and is made the wife of the grateful patient. In the
Indian tale the prince lies motionless, his body "stuck full of
needles." The heroine sits down by the side of his couch, and there
remains for a whole week "without eating, or drinking, or sleeping,
pulling out the needles." At the end of two weeks more the needles are
all extracted, except those in the eyes. She then goes away to bathe;
and while she is absent, a servant maid whom she has left in charge of
the body pulls out the remaining needles. The prince opens his eyes,
thanks God for bringing him to life again, and makes the servant maid
his wife. The substitution is similar to that which takes place in
such stories as the Norse "Bushy Bride;" but closer parallels are
supplied by some of the stories of southern Europe. Mrs. Stokes refers
in her Notes to the dead prince in one of Gonzenbach's Sicilian tales,
who is brought to life by a wandering princess, who for more than
seven years rubs his body with grass from Mount Calvary. Pitre's great
collection of Sicilian _Fiabe_ also offers several variants of the
substitution story, in some of which occurs the singular incident,
known also to Swedish and Finnish folk-tales, of the imprisonment of
the heroine, after she has been flung into the sea, by a submarine
supernatural being. In some instances it is not water which the
heroine has to dread, but light. The true bride must be conveyed to
the bridegroom's palace in a darkened vehicle. Her supplanter draws
aside a curtain. The sunlight shines in. The princess turns into a
lizard or some other animal, and the false bride takes her place.

The Calumniated Wife story which occurs in No. 20 of the present
collection, closely resembles many European variants. A king hears a
girl say that when she is married she will have a son with a moon on
his forehead and a star on his chin. So he marries her. She gives
birth to a boy who really is thus decorated. But the king's other
wives, naturally jealous of her, put a stone in her bed, and pretend
that it is the object which she has brought into the world, upon which
she is disgraced and turned into a servant maid. In other variants of
the story she is often accused of having murdered her children, and
even eaten them. In one instance her mortified husband is represented
as twice forgiving her, after remonstrating with her on her inordinate
appetite, but as thinking it necessary to take some precautions when
the possibility of her committing the crime for the third time makes
itself manifest. Sometimes all the innocent wives of a king are
accused of murderous habits by a guilty wife, who is in reality a
destroying and devouring demon. Such is the case in No. 20 of the
present collection, which ends with the restoration of the seven
calumniated wives, and the death by burning of the demon spouse.

       *       *       *       *       *

Besides illustrating the themes or leading ideas of many groups of
European tales, these Indian stories frequently serve to throw light
upon some of their obscurer features, or at least to offer such
parallels to them as are useful contributions to our stock of
materials for a systematic classification. Among the strange
characters who figure in European folk tales, there are few more
puzzling than the fair maidens who are at times discovered inside
fruits, and who must be provided with water to drink the moment they
emerge into the light, or else they will die. They seem properly to
belong to the south and east of Europe, to such countries, for
instance, as Greece, Sicily, and Wallachia. When they are found
elsewhere, as in the Norse tale of "The Three Lemons," the very name
of which speaks of the sunny south, they seem out of keeping with
their surroundings. In these Indian stories, the enclosure of a
heroine in a fruit is an incident which does not appear to be more
than usually amazing. The need of immediate water drinking is not
referred to. But the hero is warned (p. 81) that he must not open the
fruit in public, because the enclosed maiden will be quite destitute
of clothes. In another story which is widely spread over Europe--but
which we know best in the form of the tale of "The Blue Bird," founded
upon the theme of "The Lay of Ywonec," by Marie de France--the
murderous means by which the bird-lover is all but done to death by
jealous hands, which set sharp knives in the narrow opening through
which he has to fly, or beset his path with some other instruments of
ill, find their counterpart in the powdered glass employed to injure
the hero of the "The Fan Prince" (No. 25). His wife's six sisters, who
"were angry at their youngest sister being married, while they who
were older were not married," insist upon making his bed, and cover
the spot on which he is to lie with the powder into which they have
ground a glass bottle. Whereupon the prince becomes very ill, from the
glass powder going into his flesh.

The ordinary opening of many familiar folk-tales, including the
"Beauty and the Beast" story, finds a parallel in the same Indian tale
(p. 195). In all of them a man, when starting on a journey, promises
his youngest daughter that he will bring her back some object. This he
forgets to obtain. On his homeward journey, his ship refuses to move
until he has acquired the object in question. The Indian parent
promised to bring home Sabr to his daughter, having no idea what Sabr
meant. Not having obtained it, he set out on his homeward journey.
"But the boat would not move, because he had forgotten one thing--the
thing his youngest daughter had asked for." Sabr turns out to be a
fairy prince. It is a common incident in Indian tales for a hero or
heroine to demand a spouse, generally of a more or less supernatural
nature, whose name is known but nothing more. Just as the Fan Prince
was demanded, under the apparently meaningless name of Sabr, so is the
hand of the Princess Labám longed for by the Rájá's son in No. 22,
although her existence was unknown to him till he heard a parrot
pronounce her name one day; and so is the acquisition of a
Bél-Princess resolved upon by the prince in No. 21, because his
sisters-in-law say to him, in a disagreeable manner, "We think that
you will marry a Bél-Princess." Múniyá, the narrator of the story,
"says that telling the prince he would marry a Bél-Princess was
equivalent to saying he would not marry at all; for these brothers'
wives knew she lived in the fairy country, and that it would be very
difficult, if not impossible, for the prince to find her, and take her
from it." But this seems to be merely a rationalistic view of the
matter. Some mystery seems to underlie these suggestions of, or
desires for, unions with unfamiliar beings. They occur not
unfrequently in Russian tales. In one of Afanasief's skazkas (vol.
vii., No. 6) a baby prince cries, and refuses to go to sleep, till his
royal father rocks his cradle, crooning the while, "Sleep, beloved
one! When you grow up you shall marry Never-enough-to-be-gazed-at
Beauty, daughter of three mothers, sister of nine brothers." Having
slept vigorously, the baby awakes, asks for the king's blessing, and
sets out in search of the unknown Beauty in question. In another (vol.
i., No. 14), Prince Ivan, having married his three sisters to the
Wind, the Hail, and the Thunder, wanders forth in search of a bride.
Finding the remains of two slaughtered armies, and discovering that
their slaughterer was named Anastasia the Fair, he resolves, though
knowing nothing else about her, to make her his wife. Among the
numerous minor incidents which are common to eastern and western
folk-tales, may be mentioned the aid lent to heroes in difficulties by
Magic Instruments, as in No. 22, or by Grateful Beasts, as in No. 24.
A belief in magic is of course world-wide, but the particular
instruments referred to seem to have good reasons for claiming an
oriental extraction. The stories in which stress is laid upon the
gratitude of the inferior animals are almost always derivable from the
east; especially if, as in the correct versions of the tale on which
Puss in Boots is founded, their gratitude is contrasted with the
ingratitude of that superior animal, man. When we meet with so close a
resemblance as exists between the miracle wrought by Shekh Faríd (p.
97), who turns the lying carter's sugar into ashes, and that
attributed to St. Brigit, who turns the liar's salt into stones, we
need have little scruple about referring both stories to the same
source and, considering how much monastic legend-writers were indebted
to oriental fancy, in locating that source in the east.

The comic elements of eastern and western folk-lore are closely akin,
and the Lie-stories, or _Lügenmärchen_, in Nos. 4, 8, and 17 of these
Indian Tales find their parallels in most European collections. As an
example of the close kinship which prevails among the jests which make
merry the hearts of men far apart from each other, we may take the
Indian story of "Foolish Sachúlí," and compare it with the Russian
tale of "The Fool and the Birch Tree" (Afanasief, vol. v., No. 22).
Sachúlí kills a woman; his Russian counterpart kills a man. The corpse
of the woman is hidden away in a well, that of the man in a cellar. In
each case the fool's sensible relatives, knowing that he will be sure
to tell the truth if he is asked, withdraw the body during his
absence, and substitute for it that of an animal killed for the
purpose. When the seekers after the victim arrive at Sachúlí's home,
he at once conducts them to the well. Being let down into it, he asks,
"Has she got eyes?" "Of course, every one has eyes," is the reply.
"Has she a nose?" "Yes, she has a nose." But at last he inquires if
she has four feet; and the seekers after the dead woman find that the
body in the well is that of a sheep. In the same way, when the Russian
fool has confessed his guilt, and has gone into the cellar to look for
his victim's remains, he finds there the body of a goat. So he calls
out to the anxious inquirers, "Was your man dark-haired?" "He was."
"And had he a beard?" "Yes, he had a beard." "And had he horns?" "What
horns are you talking about, fool?" they reply. So he hands up the
goat's head, and the Russian tale comes to the same conclusion as the
Indian. The likeness here is too strong to be attributed to an
accidental coincidence.

       *       *       *       *       *

It does not, of course, follow that, because a story is found both in
Europe and Asia, therefore the western version has been borrowed from
the east. Europe has, doubtless, sometimes lent a fancy to Asia. Greek
fables are supposed to have exercised an influence upon the Indian
mind. European missionaries may have sometimes rendered a Christian
legend current among Hindus. Professor Monier Williams was assured by
an intelligent native that the spread of railways had materially
diminished the number of malignant ghosts in India. Still, as a
general rule, the east is stubbornly conservative. The Japanese, it is
true, are abandoning their own costume and art for ours, not entirely
to their advantage. But the various peoples of India have never shown
any such tendencies towards change. In their popular fiction, at all
events, they have never shown an inclination to import foreign
manufactures in order to replace their home products. In their
thoughts and feelings they are now very much what they have been for
periods of time which it would be difficult to define. When we find
stories now current in all parts of India, which we know from their
occurrence in Sanskrit literature must have existed there very long
ago, and we see that the mythological element in those stories is in
accordance with religious ideas that have prevailed there for
countless centuries, we can have no doubt that these stories were
framed there at a very early period. Then if we find almost identical
stories current in all parts of Europe, many of their at least
apparently mythological features offering difficulties which cannot be
removed by a reference to the mythologies of the heathen ancestors of
the peasants who now repeat them, it seems not unreasonable to come to
the conclusion that such stories have been borrowed by the west from
the east. From mythological germs common to European and Asiatic
Aryans, it is quite true that legends might arise in Europe and in
Asia, independent of each other, but similar in their general tenor.
But it is not likely that out of any common germ could be
independently developed in several different countries as many
variants of the same tale, in each of which there is a similar
sequence of scenes or acts, and the dramatic action is brought to a
close by a termination that scarcely ever varies. Far more difficult
is it to believe in such a triumph of independent development, than to
place reliance upon a statement to the effect that the wave of
story-telling, as well as of empire, has wended its way westward.

                                           W. R. S. RALSTON.




[Decoration]

CONTENTS.


                                                                  PAGE

         I. PHÚLMATI RÁNÍ, OR THE FLOWER LADY                        1

        II. THE POMEGRANATE KING                                     7

       III. THE CAT AND THE DOG                                     15

        IV. THE CAT WHICH COULD NOT BE KILLED                       18

         V. THE JACKAL AND THE KITE                                 21

        VI. THE VORACIOUS FROG                                      24

       VII. THE STORY OF FOOLISH SACHÚLÍ                            27

      VIII. BARBER HÍM AND THE TIGERS                               35

        IX. THE BULBUL AND THE COTTON-TREE                          39

         X. THE MONKEY PRINCE                                       41

        XI. BRAVE HÍRÁLÁLBÁSÁ                                       51

       XII. THE MAN WHO WENT TO SEEK HIS FATE                       63

      XIII. THE UPRIGHT KING                                        68

       XIV. LOVING LAILÍ                                            73

        XV. HOW KING BURTAL BECAME A FAKÍR                          85

       XVI. SOME OF THE DOINGS OF SHEKH FARÍD                       95

      XVII. THE MOUSE                                              101

     XVIII. A WONDERFUL STORY                                      108

       XIX. THE FAKÍR NÁNAKSÁ SAVES THE MERCHANT'S LIFE            114

        XX. THE BOY WHO HAD A MOON ON HIS FOREHEAD AND A STAR
                ON HIS CHIN                                        119

       XXI. THE BÉL-PRINCESS                                       138

      XXII. HOW THE RÁJÁ'S SON WON THE PRINCESS LABÁM              153

     XXIII. THE PRINCESS WHO LOVED HER FATHER LIKE SALT            164

      XXIV. THE DEMON IS AT LAST CONQUERED BY THE KING'S SON       173

       XXV. THE FAN PRINCE                                         193

      XXVI. THE BED                                                201

     XXVII. PÁNWPATTÍ RÁNÍ                                         208

    XXVIII. THE CLEVER WIFE                                        216

      XXIX. RÁJÁ HARICHAND'S PUNISHMENT                            224

       XXX. THE KING'S SON AND THE WAZÍR'S DAUGHTER                234

    NOTES                                                          237

    GLOSSARY                                                       295

    LIST OF BOOKS REFERRED TO                                      297

    INDEX                                                          299

[Decoration]




[Decoration]

INDIAN FAIRY TALES.

I.

PHÚLMATI RÁNÍ.


There were once a Rájá and a Rání who had an only daughter called the
Phúlmati Rání, or the Pink-rose Queen. She was so beautiful that if
she went into a very dark room it was all lighted up by her beauty. On
her head was the sun; on her hands, moons; and her face was covered
with stars. She had hair that reached to the ground, and it was made
of pure gold.

Every day after she had had her bath, her father and mother used to
weigh her in a pair of scales. She only weighed one flower. She ate
very, very little food. This made her father most unhappy, and he
said, "I cannot let my daughter marry any one who weighs more than one
flower." Now, God loved this girl dearly, so he went down under the
ground to see if any of the fairy Rájás was fit to be the Phúlmati
Rání's husband, and he thought none of them good enough. So he went in
the form of a Fakír to see the great Indrásan Rájá who ruled over all
the other fairy Rájás. This Rájá was exceedingly beautiful. On his
head was the sun; and on his hands, moons; and on his face, stars. God
made him weigh very little. Then he said to the Rájá, "Come up with
me, and we will go to the palace of the Phúlmati Rání." God had told
the Rájá that he was God and not a Fakír, for he loved the Indrásan
Rájá. "Very well," said the Indrásan Rájá. So they travelled on until
they came to the Phúlmati Rání's palace. When they arrived there they
pitched a tent in her compound, and they used to walk about, and
whenever they saw the Phúlmati Rání they looked at her. One day they
saw her having her hair combed, so God said to the Indrásan Rájá, "Get
a horse and ride where the Phúlmati Rání can see you, and if any one
asks you who you are, say, 'Oh, it's only a poor Fakír, and I am his
son. We have come to stay here a little while just to see the country.
We will go away very soon.'" Well, he got a horse and rode about, and
Phúlmati Rání, who was having her hair combed in the verandah, said,
"I am sure that must be some Rájá; only see how beautiful he is." And
she sent one of her servants to ask him who he was. So the servant
said to the Indrásan Rájá, "Who are you? why are you here? what do you
want?" "Oh, it's only a poor Fakír, and I am his son. We have just
come here for a little while to see the country. We will go away very
soon." So the servants returned to the Phúlmati Rání and told her what
the Indrásan Rájá had said. The Phúlmati Rání told her father about
this. The next day, when the Phúlmati Rání and her father were
standing in the verandah, God took a pair of scales and weighed the
Indrásan Rájá in them. His weight was only that of one flower! "Oh,"
said the Rájá, when he saw that, "here is the husband for the Phúlmati
Rání!" The next day, after the Phúlmati Rání had had her bath, her
father took her and weighed her, and he also weighed the Indrásan
Rájá. And they were each the same weight. Each weighed one flower,
although the Indrásan Rájá was fat and the Phúlmati Rání thin. The
next day they were married, and there was a grand wedding. God said he
was too poor-looking to appear, so he bought a quantity of elephants,
and camels, and horses, and cows, and sheep, and goats, and made a
procession, and came to the wedding. Then he went back to heaven, but
before he went he said to the Indrásan Rájá "You must stay here one
whole year; then go back to your father and to your kingdom. As long
as you put flowers on your ears no danger will come near you." (This
was in order that the fairies might know that he was a very great Rájá
and not hurt him.) "All right," said the Indrásan Rájá. And God went
back to heaven.

So the Indrásan Rájá stayed for a whole year. Then he told the Rájá,
the Phúlmati Rání's father, that he wished to go back to his own
kingdom. "All right," said the Rájá, and he wanted to give him horses,
and camels, and elephants. But the Indrásan Rájá and the Phúlmati Rání
said they wanted nothing but a tent and a cooly. Well, they set out;
but the Indrásan Rájá forgot to put flowers on his ears, and after
some days the Indrásan Rájá was very, very tired, so he said, "We will
sit down under these big trees and rest awhile. Our baggage will soon
be here; it is only a little way behind." So they sat down, and the
Rájá said he felt so tired he must sleep. "Very well," said the Rání;
"lay your head in my lap and sleep." After a while a shoemaker's wife
came by to get some water from a tank which was close to the spot
where the Rájá and Rání were resting. Now, the shoemaker's wife was
very black and ugly, and she had only one eye, and she was exceedingly
wicked. The Rání was very thirsty and she said to the woman, "Please
give me some water, I am so thirsty." "If you want any," said the
shoemaker's wife, "come to the tank and get it yourself." "But I
cannot," said the Rání, "for the Rájá is sleeping in my lap." At last
the poor Rání got so very, very thirsty, she said she must have some
water; so laying the Rájá's head very gently on the ground she went to
the tank. Then the wicked shoemaker's wife, instead of giving her to
drink, gave her a push and sent the beautiful Rání into the water,
where she was drowned. The shoemaker's wife then went back to the
Rájá, and, taking his head on her knee, sat still until he woke. When
the Rájá woke he was much frightened, and he said, "This is not my
wife. My wife was not black, and she had two eyes." The poor Rájá felt
very unhappy. He said, "I am sure something has happened to my wife."
He went to the tank, and he saw flowers floating on the water and he
caught them, and as he caught them his own true wife stood before him.

They travelled on till they came to a little house. The shoemaker's
wife went with them. They went into the house and laid themselves down
to sleep, and the Rájá laid beside him the flowers he had found
floating in the tank. The Rání's life was in the flowers. As soon as
the Rájá and Rání were asleep, the shoemaker's wife took the flowers,
broke them into little bits, and burnt them. The Rání died
immediately, for the second time. Then the poor Rájá, feeling very
lonely and unhappy, travelled on to his kingdom, and the shoemaker's
wife went after him. God brought the Phúlmati Rání to life a second
time, and led her to the Indrásan Rájá's gardener.

One day as the Indrásan Rájá was going out hunting, he passed by the
gardener's house, and saw a beautiful girl sitting in it. He thought
she looked very like his wife, the Phúlmati Rání. So he went home to
his father and said, "Father, I should like to be married to the girl
who lives in our gardener's house." "All right," said the father; "you
can be married at once." So they were married the next day.

One night the shoemaker's wife took a ram, killed it, and put some of
its blood on the Phúlmati Rání's mouth while the Rání slept. The next
morning she went to the Indrásan Rájá and said, "Whom have you
married? You have married a Rakshas. Just see. She has been eating
cows, and sheep, and chickens. Just come and see." The Rájá went, and
when he saw the blood on his wife's mouth he was frightened, and he
thought she was really a Rakshas. The shoemaker's wife said to him,
"If you do not cut this woman in pieces, some harm will happen to
you." So the Rájá took a knife and cut his beautiful wife into pieces.
He then went away very sorrowful. The Phúlmati Rání's arms and legs
grew into four houses; her chest became a tank, and her head a house
in the middle of the tank; her eyes turned into two little doves; and
these five houses, the tank and the doves, were transported to the
jungle. No one knew this. The little doves lived in the house that
stood in the middle of the tank. The other four houses stood round the
tank.

One day when the Indrásan Rájá was hunting by himself in the jungle he
was very tired, and he saw the house in the tank. So he said, "I will
go into that house to rest a little while, and to-morrow I will return
home to my father." So, tying his horse outside, he went into the
house and lay down to sleep. By and by, the two little birds came and
perched on the roof above his head. They began to talk, and the Rájá
listened. The little husband-dove said to his wife, "This is the man
who cut his wife to pieces." And then he told her how the Indrásan
Rájá had married the beautiful Phúlmati Rání, who weighed only one
flower, and how the shoemaker's wife had drowned her; how God had
brought her to life again; how the shoemaker's wife had burned her;
and last of all, how the Rájá himself had cut her to pieces. "And
cannot the Rájá find her again?" said the little wife-dove. "Oh, yes,
he can," said her husband, "but he does not know how to do so." "But
do tell me how he can find her," said the little wife-dove. "Well,"
said her husband, "every night, at twelve o'clock, the Rání and her
servants come to bathe in the tank. Her servants wear yellow dresses,
but she wears a red one. Now, if the Rájá could get all their dresses,
every one, when they lay them down and go into the tank to bathe, and
throw away all the yellow dresses one by one, keeping only the red
one, he would recover his wife."

The Rájá heard all these things, and at midnight the Rání and her
servants came to bathe. The Rájá lay very quiet, and after they all
had taken off their dresses and gone into the tank, he jumped up and
seized every one of the dresses,--he did not leave one of them,--and
ran away as hard as he could. Then each of the servants, who were only
fairies, screamed out, "Give me my dress! What are you doing? why do
you take it away?" Then the Rájá dropped one by one the yellow dresses
and kept the red one. The fairy servants picked up the dresses, and
forsook the Phúlmati Rání and ran away. The Rájá came back to her with
her dress in his hand, and she said, "Oh, give me back my dress. If
you keep it I shall die. Three times has God brought me to life, but
he will bring me to life no more." The Rájá fell at her feet and
begged her pardon, and they were reconciled. And he gave her back her
dress. Then they went home, and Indrásan Rájá had the shoemaker's wife
cut to pieces, and buried in the jungle. And they lived happily ever
after.

    Told by Dunkní at Simla, July 25th, 1876.

[Decoration]




[Decoration]

II.

THE POMEGRANATE KING.


There was once a Mahárájá, called the Anárbásá, or Pomegranate King;
and a Mahárání called the Gulíanár, or Pomegranate-flower. The
Mahárání died leaving two children: a little girl of four or five
years old, and a little boy of three. The Mahárájá was very sorry when
she died, for he loved her dearly. He was exceedingly fond of his two
children, and got for them two servants: a man to cook their dinner,
and an ayah to take care of them. He also had them taught to read and
write. Soon after his wife's death the neighbouring Rájá's daughter's
husband died, and she said if any other Rájá would marry her, she
would be quite willing to marry him, and she also said she would like
very much to marry the Pomegranate Rájá. So her father went to see the
Pomegranate Rájá, and told him that his daughter wished to marry him.
"Oh," said the Pomegranate Rájá, "I do not want to marry again, for if
I do, the woman I marry will be sure to be unkind to my two children.
She will not take care of them. She will not pet them and comfort them
when they are unhappy." "Oh," said the other Rájá, "my daughter will
be very good to them, I assure you." "Very well," said the Mahárájá,
"I will marry her." So they were married.

For two or three months everything went on well, but then the new
Rání, who was called the Sunkásí Mahárání, began to beat the poor
children, and to scold their servants. One day she gave the boy such
a hard blow on his cheek that it swelled. When the Mahárájá came out
of his office to get his tiffin, he saw the boy's swollen face, and,
calling the two servants, he said, "Who did this? how did my boy get
hurt?" They said, "The Rání gave him such a hard blow on his cheek
that it swelled, and she gets very angry with us if we say anything
about her ill-treatment of the children, or how she scolds us." The
Mahárájá was exceedingly angry with his wife for this, and said to
her, "I never beat my children. Why should you beat them? If you beat
them I will send you away." And he went off to his office in a great
rage. The Rání was very angry. So she told the little girl to go with
the ayah to the bazar. The ayah and the little girl set off, never
suspecting any evil. As soon as they had gone, the Rání took the
little boy and told him she would kill him. The boy went down on his
knees and begged her to spare his life. But she said, "No; your father
is always quarrelling with me, beating me, and scolding me, all
through your fault." The boy begged and prayed again, saying he would
never be naughty any more. The Rání shook her head, and taking a large
knife she cut off his head. She then cut him up and made him into a
curry. She then buried his head, and his nails, and his feet in the
ground, and she covered them well with earth, and stamped the ground
well down so that no one should notice it had been disturbed. When the
Pomegranate Rájá came home to his dinner, she put the curry and some
rice on the table before him; but the Rájá, seeing his boy was not
there, would not eat. He went and looked everywhere for his son,
crying very much, and the little girl cried very much too, for she
loved her brother dearly. After they had hunted for him for some time,
the little boy appeared. His father embraced him. "Where have you
been?" said he. "I cannot eat my dinner without you." The little boy
said, "Oh, I was in the jungle playing with other boys." They then
sat down to dinner, and the curry changed into a kid curry. The Rání
was greatly astonished when she saw the boy. She said to herself, "I
cut his head off; I cut him into little pieces, and I made him into a
curry, and yet he is alive!" She then went into the garden to see if
his head, and nails, and feet were in the hole where she had buried
them. But they were not there; it was quite empty. She then called a
sepoy, and said to him, "If you will take two children into the jungle
and kill them, I will give you as much money as you like." "All
right," said the sepoy. She then brought the children, and told him to
take them to the jungle. So he took them away to the jungle, but he
had not the heart to kill them, for they were exceedingly beautiful,
and he left them in the jungle near their dead mother's grave. Then he
returned to the Rání, saying he had done as she wished, and she gave
him as much money as he wanted.

The poor Pomegranate Rájá was very unhappy when he saw his children
were not in the palace, and that they could not be found. He asked his
Rání where they were, but she said she did not know; they had gone out
to play and had never returned. From the day he lost his children the
Pomegranate Rájá became melancholy. He did not love the Rání any more;
he hated her.

Meanwhile the children lived in a little house built close to their
mother's grave. God had given her life again that she might take care
of them. But they did not know she was their mother; they thought she
was another woman sent to take care of them. God sent also a man to
teach them. Somehow or other the Rání Sunkásí heard they were still
alive in the jungle. She did not know how she could kill them. So at
last she pretended she was very ill, and she said to the Rájá, "The
doctor says that in the jungle there are two children, and he says if
you will have them killed, and will bring their livers for me to
stand on when I bathe, then I shall get well." The Rájá sent a second
sepoy to kill the children, and this man killed them and brought their
livers to the Rání. She stood on them while bathing, and then said she
was quite well. She then threw the livers into the garden, and during
the night a tree grew up there with two large beautiful flowers on it.
Next morning the Rání looked out and said, "I will gather those
flowers to-day." Every day she said she would gather them, and every
day she forgot. At last one day she said, "Every day I forget to
gather those flowers, but to-day I really will do so," and she sent
her servant to pluck them. So he went out, and, just as he was going
to gather them, the flowers flew up just out of his reach. Then the
Rání went down, and when she was going to pick them they flew up so
high that they could not be seen. Every day she tried to gather them,
and every day they went high up, and came back again to the tree as
soon as she had gone. Then the flowers disappeared and two large
fruits came in their stead. The Rání looked out of her window: "Oh,
what delicious fruits! I'll eat them all myself. I won't give a bit to
anybody, and I'll eat them by myself quite quietly." She went down to
the garden, but they flew high up into the sky, and then they came
down again. So this went on, day after day, until she got so cross she
ordered the tree to be cut down. But it was of no use. The tree was
cut down, but the fruits flew high up into the sky, and in the night
the tree grew up again and the fruits came back again to it. And so
this went on for many days. Every day she cut down the tree, and every
night it grew up again, but she could never get the fruits. At last
she became very angry, and had the tree hewn into tiny bits and all
the bits thrown away, but still the tree grew again in the night, and
in the morning the fruits were hanging on it. So she went to the Rájá
and told him that in the garden was a tree with two fruits, and every
time she tried to get them, the fruits went up into the air. She had
had the tree cut down ever so many times, and it always grew up again
in the night and the fruits returned to it. "Why cannot you leave the
tree alone?" said the Rájá. "But I should like to see if what you say
is true." So the Rájá and the Rání went down to the garden, and the
Rání tried to get the fruits, but she could not, for they went right
up into the air.

That evening the Rájá went alone to the garden to gather the fruits,
and the fruits of themselves fell into his hand. He took them into his
room, and putting them on a little table close to his bed, he lay down
to sleep. As soon as he was in bed a little voice inside one of the
fruits said, "Brother;" and a little voice in the other fruit said,
"Sister, speak more gently. To-morrow the Rájá will break open the
fruits, and if the Rání finds us she will kill us. Three times has God
made us alive again, but if we die a fourth time he will bring us to
life no more." The Rájá listened and said, "I will break them open in
a little while." Then he went to sleep, and after a little he woke and
said, "A little while longer," and went to sleep again. Several times
he woke up and said, "I will break the fruits open in a little while,"
and went to sleep. At last he took a knife and began cutting the
fruits open very fast, and the little boy cried, "Gently, gently,
father; you hurt us!" So then the Rájá cut more gently, and he stopped
to ask, "Are you hurt?" and they said, "No." And then he cut again and
asked, "Are you hurt?" and they said, "No." And a third time he asked,
"Are you hurt?" and they answered, "No." Then the fruits broke open
and his two children jumped out. They rushed into their father's arms,
and he clasped them tight, and they cried softly, that the Rání might
not hear.

He shut his room up close, and fed and dressed his children, and then
went out of the room, locking the door behind him. He had a little
wooden house built that could easily catch fire, and as soon as it was
ready he went to the Rání and said, "Will you go into a little house I
have made ready for you while your room is getting repaired?" "All
right," said the Rání; so she went into the little house, and that
night a man set it on fire, and the Rání and everything in it was
burnt up. Then the Pomegranate Rájá took her bones, put them into a
tin box, and sent them as a present to her mother. "Oh," said the
mother, "my daughter has married the Pomegranate Mahárájá, and so she
sends me some delicious food." When she opened the box, to her horror
she found only bones! Then she wrote to the Mahárájá, "Of what use are
bones?" The Mahárájá wrote back, "They are your bones; they belong to
you, for they are your daughter's bones. She ill-treated and killed my
children, and so I had her burnt."

The Pomegranate Rájá and his children lived very happily for some
time, and their dead mother, the Gulíanár Rání, having a wish to see
her husband and her children, prayed to God to let her go and visit
them. God said she could go, but not in her human shape, so he changed
her into a beautiful bird, and put a pin in her head, and said, "As
soon as the pin is pulled out you will become a woman again." She flew
to the palace where the Mahárájá lived, and there were great trees
about the palace. On one of these she perched at night. The doorkeeper
was lying near it. She called out, "Doorkeeper! doorkeeper!" and he
answered, "What is it? Who is it?" And she asked, "Is the Rájá well?"
and the doorkeeper said, "Yes." "Are the children well?" and he said,
"Yes." "And all the servants, and camels, and horses?" "Yes." "Are you
well?" "Yes." "Have you had plenty of food?" "Yes." "What a great
donkey your Mahárájá is!" And then she began to cry very much, and
pearls fell from her eyes as she cried. Then she began to laugh very
much, and great big rubies fell from her beak as she laughed. The next
morning the doorkeeper got up and felt about, and said, "What is all
this?" meaning the pearls and the rubies, for he did not know what
they were. "I will keep them." So he picked them all up and put them
into a corner of his house. Every night the bird came and asked after
the Mahárájá and the children and the servants, and left a great many
pearls and rubies behind her. At last the doorkeeper had a whole heap
of pearls and rubies.

One day a Fakír came and begged, and as the doorkeeper had no pice, or
flour, or rice to give, he gave him a handful of pearls and rubies.
"Well," said the Fakír to himself, "I am sure these are pearls and
rubies." So he tied them up in his cloth. Then he went to the Rájá to
beg, and the Rájá gave him a handful of rice. "What!" said the Fakír,
"the great Mahárájá only gives me a handful of rice when his
doorkeeper gives me pearls and rubies!" and he turned to walk away.
But the Mahárájá stopped him. "What did you say?" said he, "that my
doorkeeper gave you pearls and rubies?" "Yes," said the Fakír, "your
doorkeeper gave me pearls and rubies." So the Mahárájá went to the
doorkeeper's house, and when he saw all the pearls and rubies that
were there, he thought the man had stolen them from his treasury. The
Mahárájá had not as many pearls and rubies as his doorkeeper had. Then
turning to the doorkeeper he asked him to tell him truly where and how
he had got them. "Yes, I will," said the doorkeeper. "Every night a
beautiful bird comes and asks after you, after your children, after
all your elephants, horses, and servants; and then it cries, and when
it cries pearls drop from its eyes; and then it laughs, and rubies
fall from its beak. If you come to-night I dare say you will see it."
"All right," said the Pomegranate Rájá.

So that night the Mahárájá pulled his bed out under the tree on which
the bird always perched. At night the bird came and called out,
"Doorkeeper! doorkeeper!" and the doorkeeper answered, "Yes, lord."
And the bird said, "Is your Mahárájá well?" "Yes." "Are the children
well?" "Yes." "And all his servants, horses, and camels and
elephants--are they well?" "Yes." "Are you well?" "Yes." "Have you had
plenty of food?" "Yes." "What a fool your Mahárájá is!" And then she
cried, and the pearls came tumbling down on the Mahárájá's eyes, and
the Mahárájá opened one eye and saw what a beautiful bird it was. And
then it laughed, and rubies fell from its beak on to the Mahárájá.

Next morning the Mahárájá said he would give any one who would catch
the bird as much money as he wanted. So he called a fisherman, and
asked him to bring his net and catch the bird when it came that night.
The fisherman said he would for one thousand rupees. That night the
fisherman, the Mahárájá, and the doorkeeper, all waited under the
tree. Soon the bird came, and asked after the Mahárájá, after his
children, and all his servants and elephants, and camels and horses,
and then after the doorkeeper, and then it called the Mahárájá a fool.
Then it cried, and then it laughed, and just as it laughed the
fisherman threw the net over the bird and caught it. Then they shut it
up in an iron cage, and the next morning the Mahárájá took it out and
stroked it, and said, "What a sweet little bird! what a lovely little
bird!" And the Mahárájá felt something like a pin in its head, and he
gave a pull, and out came the pin, and then his own dear wife, the
Pomegranate-flower Rání, stood before him. The Rájá was exceedingly
glad, and so were his two children. And there were great rejoicings,
and they lived happily ever after.

    Told by Dunkní at Simla, 26th July, 1876.




[Decoration]

III.

THE CAT AND THE DOG.


_Introduction._

Now all cats are aunts to the tigers, and the cat in this story was
the aunt of the tiger in this story. She was his mother's sister. When
the tiger's mother was dying, she called the cat to her, and taking
her paw she said, "When I am dead you must take care of my child." The
cat answered, "Very well," and then the tiger's mother died. The tiger
said to the cat, "Aunt, I am very hungry. Go and fetch some fire. When
I go to ask men for fire they are afraid of me, and run away from me,
and won't give me any. But you are such a little creature that men are
not afraid of you, and so they will give you fire, and then you must
bring it to me." So the cat said, "Very good," and off she started,
and went into a house where some men were eating their dinner: they
had thrown away the bones, and the cat began to eat them. This house
was very near the place where the tiger lived, and on peeping round
the corner he saw his aunt eating the bones. "Oh," said he, "I sent my
aunt to fetch fire that I might cook my dinner as I am very hungry,
and there she sits eating the bones, and never thinks of me." So the
tiger called out, "Aunt, I sent you to fetch fire, and there you sit
eating bones and leave me hungry! If ever you come near me again, I
will kill you at once." So the cat ran away screaming, "I will never
go near the tiger again, for he will kill me!" This is why all cats
are so afraid of tigers, or of anything like a tiger. And this is why,
when the cat in the story saw the tiger, her nephew, fighting with the
man, she ran away as hard as she could.


_The Story._

There were once a dog and a cat. It was a very rainy day, and some men
were eating their dinner inside their house. The cat sat inside too,
eating her dinner, and the dog sat on the door-step. The cat called
out to the dog, "I am a high-caste person, and you are a very
low-caste person." "Oh," said the dog, "not at all. I am the
high-caste person and you are of very low caste. You eat all the men's
dinner up, and snatch the food from their hands just as they are
putting it into their mouths. And you scratch them, and they beat you;
while I sit away from them, and so they don't beat me. And if they
_give_ me any dinner I'll eat it; but if they don't, I won't." "Oh,"
says the cat, "not a bit of it. I eat nice clean food; but you eat
nasty, dirty food, which the men have thrown away." "No," said the
dog, "I am high caste and you are very low caste, for if I gave you a
slap you would tumble down directly." "No, no!" said the cat. And they
went on disputing and began to fight, till the dog said, "Very well,
let us go to the wise jackal and ask him which of us is the better."
"Good," said the cat. So they went to the jackal and asked him. Said
the cat, "I am of the higher caste, and the dog is of the lower
caste." "No," said the jackal, "the dog is of the higher caste." The
cat said, "No," and the jackal said, "Yes," and they began to fight.
Then the jackal and the dog proposed to go and ask a great big beast
who lived in the jungle and was like a tiger. But the cat said, "I
cannot go near a tiger or anything like one." So then they said, "When
we come near the beast, you can remain behind, and we will go on and
speak to him." So they ran into the jungle, where there was a tiger
who had been lying on the ground with a great thorn sticking in his
foot. When his aunt, the cat, saw him, she scampered off, for she was
dreadfully frightened.

The thorn had given the tiger great pain; for a long while he could
get no one to take it out, so had lain there for days. At last he had
seen a man passing by, to whom he called and said, "Take out this
thorn, and I promise I won't eat you." But the man refused through
fear, saying, "No, I won't, for you will eat me." Three times the
tiger had promised not to eat him; so at last the man took out the
thorn. Then the tiger sprang up and said, "Now I will eat you, for I
am very hungry." "Oh, no, no!" said the man. "What a liar you are! You
promised not to eat me if I would take the thorn out of your foot, and
now that I have done so you say you will eat me." And they began to
fight, and the man said, "If you won't eat me, I will bring you a cow
and a goat." But the tiger refused, saying, "No, I won't eat them; I
will eat you."

At this moment the jackal and the dog came up. And the jackal asked,
"What is the matter? why are you fighting?" So then the man told him
why they were fighting; and the jackal said to the tiger, "I will tell
you a good way of eating the man. Go and fetch a big bag." So the
tiger went and fetched the bag, and brought it to the jackal. Then the
jackal said, "Get inside the bag, and leave its mouth open and I'll
throw the man in to you." So the tiger got inside the bag, and the
jackal, the dog and the man quickly tied it up as tight as they could.
Then they began to beat the tiger with all their might until at last
they killed him. Then the man went home, and the jackal went home, and
the dog went home.




[Decoration]

IV.

THE CAT WHICH COULD NOT BE KILLED.


There were once a dog and a cat, who were always quarrelling. The dog
used to beat the cat, but he never could hurt her. She would only
dance about and cry, "You never hurt me, you never hurt me! I _had_ a
pain in my shoulder, but now it is all gone away." So the dog went to
a _mainá_[1] and said, "What shall I do to hurt this cat? I beat her
and I bite her, and yet I can't hurt her. I am such a big dog and she
is rather a big cat, yet if I beat her I don't hurt her, but if she
beats me she hurts me so much." The _mainá_ said, "Bite her mouth
very, very hard, and then you'll hurt her." "Oh, no," said the cat,
who had just come up, laughing; "you won't hurt me at all." The dog
bit her mouth as hard as he could. "Oh, you don't hurt me," said the
cat, dancing about. So the dog went again to the _mainá_ and said,
"What shall I do?" "Bite her ears," said the _mainá_. So the dog bit
the cat's ears, but she danced about and said, "Oh, you did not hurt
me; now I can put earrings in my ears." So she put in earrings.

The dog went to the elephant. "Can you kill this cat? she worries me
so every day." "Oh, yes," said the elephant, "of course I can kill
her. She is so little and I am so big." Then the elephant came and
took her up with his trunk, and threw her a long way. Up she jumped at
once and danced about, saying, "You did not hurt me one bit. I _had_
a pain, but now I am quite well." Then the elephant got cross and
said, "I'll teach you to dance in another way than that," and he took
the cat and laid her on the ground and put his great foot on her. But
she was not hurt at all. She danced about and said, "You did not hurt
me one bit, not one bit," and she dug her claws into the elephant's
trunk. The elephant ran away screaming, and he told the dog, "You had
better beware of that cat. She belongs to the tiger tribe." The dog
felt very angry with the cat. "What shall I do," said he, "to kill
this cat?" And he bit her nose so hard that it bled. But she laughed
at him. "Now I can put a ring in my nose," said she. He got furious.
"I'll bite her tail in half," said he. So he bit her tail in half, and
yet he did not hurt her.

He then went to a leopard. "If you can kill this cat I will give you
anything you want." "Very well, I'll kill her," said the leopard. And
they went together to the cat. "Stop," said the cat to the leopard; "I
want to speak to you first. I'll give you something to eat, and then
I'll tell you what I want to say." And then she ran off ever so far,
and after she had run a mile she stopped and danced, calling out, "Oh!
I'll give you nothing to eat; you could not kill me." The leopard went
away very cross, and saying, "What a clever cat that is."

The dog next went to a man, and said, "Can you kill this cat, she
worries me so?" "Of course I can," said the man; "I'll stick this
knife into her stomach." And he stuck his knife into the cat's
stomach, but the cat jumped up, and her stomach closed, and the man
went home.

And the dog went to a bear. "Can _you_ kill this cat? I can't." "I'll
kill her," said the bear; so he stuck all his claws into the cat, but
he didn't hurt her; and she stuck her claws into the bear's nose so
deep that he died immediately.

Then the poor dog felt very unhappy, and went and threw himself into a
hole, and there he died, while the cat went away to her friends.

    Told by Dunkní at Simla, July 26th, 1876.

FOOTNOTE:

    [1] A kind of starling.

[Decoration]




[Decoration]

V.

THE JACKAL AND THE KITE.


There was once a she-jackal and a she-kite. They lived in the same
tree; the jackal at the bottom of the tree, and the kite at the top.
Neither had any children. One day the kite said to the jackal, "Let us
go and worship God, and fast, and then he will give us children." So
the jackal said, "Very good." That day the kite ate nothing, nor that
night; but the jackal at night brought a dead animal, and was sitting
eating it quietly under the tree. By-and-by the kite heard her
crunching the bones, instead of fasting. "What have you got there,"
said the kite, "that you are making such a noise?" "Nothing," said the
jackal; "it is only my own bones that rattle inside my body whenever I
move." The kite went to sleep again, and took no more notice of the
jackal. Next morning the kite ate some food in the name of God. That
night again the jackal brought a dead animal. The kite called out,
"What are you crunching there? Why are you making that noise? I am
sure you have something to eat." The jackal said, "Oh, no! It is only
my own bones rattling in my body." So the kite went to sleep again.

Some time after, the kite had seven little boys--real little boys--but
the jackal had none, because she had not fasted. A year after that the
kite went and worshipped God, asking Him to take care of her children.
One day--it was their great day--the kite set out seven plates. On one
she put cocoa-nuts, on another cucumbers, on a third rice, on a
fourth plantains, and so on. Then she gave a plate to each of her
seven sons, and told them to take the plates to their aunt the jackal.
So they took the seven plates, and carried them to their aunt, crying
out, "Aunty, aunty, look here! Mamma has sent you these things." The
jackal took the plates, and cut off the heads of the seven boys, and
their hands, and their feet, and their noses, and their ears, and took
out their eyes. Then she laid their heads in one plate, and their eyes
in another, and their noses in a third, and their ears in a fourth,
and their hands in a fifth, and their feet in a sixth, and their
trunks in the seventh, and then she covered all the plates over. Then
she took the plates to the kite, and called out, "Here! I have brought
you something in return. You sent me a present, and I bring you a
present." Now the poor kite thought the jackal had killed all her
seven children, so she cried out, "Oh, it's too dark now to see what
you have brought. Put the plates down in my tree." The jackal put the
plates down and went home. Then God made the boys alive again, and
they came running to their mother, quite well. And instead of the
heads and eyes, and noses and ears, and hands and feet, and trunks,
there were again on the plates cocoa-nuts and cucumbers, and plantains
and rice, and so on.

Now the jackal got hold of the boys again. And this time she killed
them, and cooked them and ate them; and again God brought them to
life. Well, the jackal was very much astonished to see the boys alive,
and she got angry, and said to the kite, "I will take your seven sons
and throw them into the water, and they will be drowned." "Very well,"
said the kite, "take them. I don't mind. God will take care of them."
The jackal took them and threw them into the water, and left them to
die, while the kite looked on without crying. And again God made them
alive, and the jackal was so surprised. "Why," said she, "I put these
children into the water, and left them to drown. And here they are
alive!" Then God got very angry with the jackal, and said to her, "Go
out of this village. And wherever you go, men will try to shoot you,
and you shall always be afraid of them." So the jackal had to go away;
and the kite and her children lived very happily ever afterwards.

    Told by Dunkní.

[Decoration]




[Decoration]

VI.

THE VORACIOUS FROG.


There were a rat and a frog. And the rat said to the frog, "Go and get
me some sticks, while I go and get some flour and milk." So the frog
went out far into the jungle and brought home plenty of sticks, and
the rat went out and brought home flour and milk for their dinner.
Then she cooked the dinner, and when it was cooked she said to the
frog, "Now, you sit here while I go to bathe, and take care of the
food so that no one may come and eat it up." Then the rat went to take
her bath, and as soon as she had gone the frog made haste and ate up
the dinner quickly, and went away.

When the rat came back she found no dinner, and she could not find the
frog. So she went out to look for him, calling to him as loudly as she
could, and she saw him in the distance, and overtook him. "Why have
you eaten my dinner? Why did you go away?" said the rat. Said the
frog, "Oh, dear! it was not I that ate your dinner, but a huge dog
that came; and I was only a tiny, tiny thing, and he was a great big
dog, and so he frightened me, and I ran away." "Very well," said the
rat; "go and fetch me more sticks while I go for flour and milk." So
the frog went out far into the jungle and brought back plenty of
sticks. And the rat went to fetch flour and milk. Then she lit the
fire and cooked the dinner, and told the frog to take care of the
dinner while she went to bathe. As soon as she had gone, the frog ate
up all the dinner, and went away and hid himself. When the rat came
back she saw no frog, no dinner. She went away into the jungle and
called to him, and the frog answered from behind a tree, "Here I am,
here I am." The rat went to him and said, "Why did you eat my dinner?"
"I didn't," said the frog. "It was a great big dog ate the dinner, and
he wanted to eat me too, and so I ran away." The rat said, "Very well.
Go and fetch me some more sticks, and I will go for flour and milk."
Then she cooked the dinner again and went to bathe. The frog ate up
all the dinner, and went away and hid himself. When the rat returned
she saw no dinner, no frog. So she went far into the jungle, found the
frog, and told him that it was he that had eaten the dinner. And the
frog said, "No," and the rat said, "Yes." And the frog said, "If you
say that again, I will eat you up." "All right," says the rat, "eat me
up." So he ate her up and sat behind a tree, and the baker came past.
The frog called out, "Baker, come here! come here! Give me some
bread." The baker looked about everywhere, could not see anybody,
could not think who was calling him. At last he saw the frog sitting
behind a tree. "Give me some bread," says the frog. The man said, "No,
I won't give you any bread. I am a great big man, and you are only a
little frog, and you have no money." "Yes, I have money. I will give
you some pice, and you will give me some bread." But the man said,
"No, I won't." "Well," said the frog, "if you won't give me bread, I
will eat you up first, and then I will eat up your bread." So he ate
up the man, and then ate up his bread. Presently a man with oranges
and lemons passed by. The frog called to him, "Come here! come here!"
The man was very much afraid. He didn't know who had called him. Then
he saw the frog, and the frog said, "Give me some lemons." The man
wouldn't, and said, "No." "Very well," says the frog, "if you won't,
I'll eat you up." So he ate up the man with his lemons and oranges.
Presently a horse and his groom went by. The frog says, "Please give
me a ride, and I will give you some money." "No," said the horse, "I
won't let you ride on me. You are like a monkey,--very little--I won't
let you ride on my back." The frog said, "If you won't, I'll eat you
up." Then the frog ate him up, and his groom too. Then a barber passed
by. "Come and shave me," says the frog. "Good," says the barber, "I'll
come and shave you." So he shaved him, and he thought the frog looked
_very_ fat, and so as he was shaving him he suddenly made a cut in his
stomach. Out jumped the rat with her flour and milk--the baker with
his bread--the lemon-seller with his oranges and lemons--the horse and
his groom. And the barber ran away home. And the frog died.

[Decoration]




[Decoration]

VII.

THE STORY OF FOOLISH SACHÚLÍ.


There once lived a poor old widow woman named Hungní, who had a little
idiot son called Sachúlí. She used to beg every day. One day when the
son had grown up, he said to his mother. "What makes women laugh?" "If
you throw a tiny stone at them," answered she, "they will laugh." So
one day Sachúlí went and sat by a well, and three women came to it to
fill their water-jars. "Now," said Sachúlí "I will make one of these
women laugh." Two of the women filled their water-jars and went away
home, and he threw no stones at them; but as the last, who also had on
the most jewels, passed him, he threw a great big stone at her, and
she fell down dead, with her mouth set as if she were smiling. "Oh,
look! look! how she is laughing!" said Sachúlí, and he ran off to call
his mother.

"Come, come, mother," said he, "and see how I have made this woman
laugh."

His mother came, and when she saw the woman lying dead, she was much
frightened, for the dead woman belonged to a great and very rich
family, and she wore jewels worth a thousand rupees. Hungní took off
all her jewels, and threw her body into the well.

After some days the dead woman's father and mother and all her people
sent round a crier with a drum to try and find her. "Whoever brings
back a young woman who wears a great many gold necklaces and bracelets
and rings shall get a great deal of money," cried the crier. Sachúlí
heard him. "I know where she is," said he. "My mother took off all her
jewels, and threw her into the well."

The crier said, "Can you go down into the well and bring her up?"

"If you will tie a rope round my waist and let me down the well, I
shall be able to bring her up."

So they set off towards the well, which was near Hungní's house; and
when she saw them coming, she guessed what they came for, and she ran
out and killed a sheep, threw it into the well, and took out the dead
woman and hid her.

The crier got some men to come with him, and they let Sachúlí down the
well. "Has she got eyes?" said Sachúlí. "Of course, every one has
eyes," answered the men. "Has she a nose?" asked Sachúlí. "Yes, she
has a nose," said the men. "Has she got a mouth?" asked Sachúlí.
"Yes," said the men. "Has she a long face?"

"What does he mean?" said the men, who were getting cross. "No one has
a long face; perhaps she has, though. Yes, she has a long face," cried
the men.

"Has she a tail?"

"A tail! Why no one has a tail. Perhaps, though, she has long hair. No
doubt that is what he calls a tail. Yes, she has a tail."

"Has she ears?"

"Of course, every one has ears."

"Has she four feet?"

"Four feet!" said the men. "Why, no one has four feet. Perhaps you
call her hands feet. Yes, she has four feet. Bring her up quickly."

Then Sachúlí brought up the sheep.

The men were very angry when they saw the sheep, and they beat
Sachúlí, and called him a very stupid fellow and a great liar, and
they went away feeling very cross.

Sachúlí went home to his mother, who, as soon as she saw him coming,
ran out and put the woman's body back in the well, and when he got
home she beat him. "Mother," said he, "give me some bread, and I will
go away and die." His mother cooked him some bread, and he went away.

He walked on, and on, and on, a long way.

Now, some Rájá's ten camels had been travelling along the road on
which Sachúlí went, each carrying sacks of gold mohurs and rupees, and
one of these camels broke loose from the string and strayed away, and
the camel-drivers could not find it again. But Sachúlí met it, and
caught it and took it home.

"See, mother! see what a quantity of money I have brought you!" cried
Sachúlí. Hungní rushed out, and was delighted to see so much money.
She took off the sacks at once and sent the camel away. Then she hid
the rupees and the gold with the jewels she had taken from the dead
woman. And, as she was a cunning woman, she went and bought a great
many comfits and scattered them all about her house, when Sachúlí was
out of the way. "Oh, look! look!" cried Sachúlí, "at all these
comfits." "God has rained them from heaven," said his mother. Sachúlí
began to pick them up and eat them, and he told all the people in the
village how God had rained down comfits from heaven on his mother's
house. "What nonsense!" cried they. "Yes, he has," said Sachúlí, "and
I have been eating them." "No comfits have fallen on our houses," said
they. "Yes, yes," cried he, "the day my mother got all those rupees,
God rained comfits on our house." "What lies!" cried the people; "as
if it ever rained comfits. Why did not the comfits rain down on our
houses? Why did they fall only on your house? And what's all this
about rupees?" And then they came to see if there were any rupees or
comfits in Hungní's house, and they found none at all, for Hungní had
hidden the rupees and thrown away the comfits. "There," said they to
Sachúlí, "where are your rupees? where are your comfits? What a liar
you are! as if it ever rained comfits. How can you tell such stories?"
And they beat him. "But it did rain comfits," said Sachúlí, "for I ate
them. It rained comfits the day my mother got the rupees."

Now the Rájá who had lost his camel sent round the crier with his drum
to find his camel and his money-bags. "Whoever has found a camel
carrying money-bags and brings it and the money back to the Rájá, will
get a great many rupees," cried the crier. "Oh!" says Sachúlí, "I know
where the money is. One day I went out and I found a stray camel, and
he had sacks of rupees on his back, and I took him home to my mother,
and she took the sacks off his back and sent the camel away." So the
crier went to find the rupees, and the people in the bazar went with
him. But Hungní had hidden the rupees so carefully that, though they
hunted all over her house, they could find none, and they beat
Sachúlí, and told him he was a liar. "I am not telling lies," said
Sachúlí. "My mother took the rupees the day it rained comfits on our
house." So they beat him again, and they went away. Then Hungní beat
Sachúlí, and said, "What a bad boy you are! trying to get me beaten
and put into prison, telling every one about the rupees. Go away; I
don't want you any more, such a bad boy as you are! go away and die."
He said, "Very well, mother; give me some bread, and I'll go."

Sachúlí set off and took an axe with him. "How shall I kill myself?"
said he. So he climbed up a tree and sat out on a long branch, and
began cutting off the branch between himself and the tree on which he
was sitting. "What are you doing up there?" said a man who came by.
"You'll die if you cut that branch off." "What do you say?" cries
Sachúlí, jumping down on the man, and seizing his hand. "When shall I
die?" "How can I tell? Let me go." "I won't let you go till you tell
me when I shall die." And at last the man said, "When you find a
scarlet thread on your jacket, then you will die."

Sachúlí went off to the bazar, and sat down by some tailors, and one
of the tailors, in throwing away their shreds of cloth, threw a
scarlet thread on Sachúlí's coat. "Oh," said Sachúlí, when he saw the
thread, "now I shall die!" "How do you know that?" said the tailors.
"A man told me that when I found a scarlet thread on my jacket, I
should die," said Sachúlí; and the tailors all laughed at him and made
fun of him, but he went off into the jungle and dug his grave with his
axe, and lay down in it. In the night a sepoy came by with a large jar
of ghee on his head. "How heavy this jar is," said the sepoy. "Is
there no cooly that will come and carry my ghee home for me? I would
give him four pice for his trouble." Up jumped Sachúlí out of his
grave. "I'll carry it for you," said he. "Who are you?" said the
sepoy, much frightened. "Oh, I am a man who is dead," said Sachúlí,
"and I am tired of lying here. I can't lie here any more." "Well,"
said the sepoy, very much frightened, "you may carry my ghee." So
Sachúlí put the jar on his head, and he went on, with the sepoy
following. "Now," said Sachúlí, "with these four pice I will buy a
hen, and I will sell the hen and her eggs, and with the money I get
for them I will buy a goat; and then I will sell the goat and her milk
and her hide and buy a cow, and I will sell her milk; and then I will
marry a wife, and then I shall have some children, and they will say
to me, 'Father, will you have some rice?' and I will say, 'No, I won't
have any rice.'" And as he said, "No, I won't have any rice," he shook
his head, and down came the jar of ghee, and the jar was smashed, and
the ghee spilled. "Oh, dear! what have you done?" cried the sepoy.
"Why did you shake your head?" "Because my children asked me to have
some rice, and I did not want any, so I shook my head," said Sachúlí.
"Oh," said the sepoy, "he is an utter idiot." And the sepoy went home,
and Sachúlí went back to his mother. "Why have you come back?" said
she. "I have been dead twelve years," said Sachúlí. "What lies you
tell!" said she. "You have only been away a few days. Be off! I don't
want any liars here."

Sachúlí asked her to give him two flour-cakes, which she did, and he
went off to the jungle, and it was night. Five fairies lived in this
jungle, and as Sachúlí went along, he broke his flour-cakes into five
pieces, and said, "Now I'll eat one, then the second, then the third,
then the fourth, and then the fifth." And the fairies heard him and
were afraid, and said to each other, "What shall we do? Here is this
man, and he is going to eat us all up. What shall we do to save
ourselves? We will give him something." So they went out all five, and
said to Sachúlí, "If only you won't eat us, we will give you a
present." Now Sachúlí did not know there were fairies in this jungle.
"What will you give me?" said Sachúlí. "We will give you a
cooking-pot. When you want anything to eat, all you have to do is to
ask the pot for it, and you will get it." Sachúlí took the pot and
went off to the bazar. He stopped at a cook-shop, and asked for some
pilau. "Pilau? There's no pilau here," said the shopman. "Well," said
Sachúlí, "I have a cooking-pot here, and I have only to ask it for any
dish I want, and I get it at once." "What nonsense!" said the man.
"Just see," said Sachúlí; and he said to the cooking-pot, "I want some
pilau," and immediately the pot was full of pilau, and all the people
in the shop set to work to help him to eat it up, it was so good.
"Oh," thought the cook, "I must have that pot," so he gave Sachúlí a
sleepy drink. Then Sachúlí went to sleep, and while he slept the cook
stole the fairy cooking-pot, and put a common cooking-pot in its
place. Sachúlí went home with the cook's pot, and said, "Mother, I
have brought home a cooking-pot. If you ask it for any food you want,
you will get it." "Nonsense," said Hungní; "what lies you are
telling!" "It is quite true, mother; only see," and he asked the pot
for different dishes, but none came. Hungní was furious. "Go away,"
she said. "Why do you come back to me? I want no liars here." "Give me
five flour-cakes and I will go," said her son. So she baked the bread
for him, and he set off for the jungle where he had met the five
fairies, and as he went along he said, "I will eat one, and I will eat
two, and I will eat three, and I will eat four, and I will eat five."
The five fairies heard him, and were terrified. "Here is this bad man
again," said they, "and he will eat us all five. Oh, what shall we do?
Let us give him a present." So they went to Sachúlí, and said, "Here
is a box for you. Whenever you want any clothes you have only to tell
this box, and it will give them to you; take it, and don't eat us." So
he took the box and went to the bazar, and he stopped at the cook-shop
again, and asked the cook for a red silk dress, and a pair of long
black silk trousers, and a blue silk turban, and a pair of red shoes,
and the cook laughed and asked how he should have such beautiful
things. "Well," said Sachúlí, "here is a box; when I ask it for the
dress and trousers, and turban and shoes, I shall get them." So the
cook laughed at him. "Just see," said Sachúlí, and he said, "Box, give
me a red silk dress and a pair of long black silk trousers, and a blue
silk turban, and red shoes," and there they were at once. And the cook
was delighted, and said to himself, "I will have that box," and he
gave Sachúlí a good dinner and a sleepy drink, and Sachúlí fell fast
asleep. While he slept the cook came and stole the fairy box, and put
a common box in its place. In the morning Sachúlí went home to his
mother and said, "Mother, I've brought you a box. You have only to ask
it for any clothes you may want, and you will get them." "Nonsense,"
said his mother, "don't tell me such lies." "Only see, mother; I am
telling you truth," said he. He asked the box for coats and all sorts
of things--no; he got nothing. His mother was very angry, and said,
"You liar! you naughty boy! Go away and don't come back any more." And
she broke the box to pieces, and threw the bits away. "Well, mother,
bake me some flour-cakes." So she baked him the cakes and gave them to
him, and sent him away. He went off to the fairies' jungle, and as he
went he said, "Now I'll eat one, then two, then three, then four, then
five." The five fairies were very frightened. "Here is this man come
back to eat us all five. Let us give him a present." So they went to
him and gave him a rope and stick, and said, "Only say to this rope,
'Bind that man,' and he will be tied up at once; and to this stick,
'Beat that man,' and the stick will beat him." Sachúlí was very glad
to get these things, for he guessed what had happened to his
cooking-pot and box. So he went to the bazar, and at the cook-shop he
said, "Rope, bind all these men that are here!" and the cook and every
one in the shop were tied up instantly. Then Sachúlí said, "Stick,
beat these men!" and the stick began to beat them. "Oh, stop, stop
beating us, and untie, and I'll give you your pot and your box!" cried
the cook. "No, I won't stop beating you, and I won't untie you till I
have my pot and my box." And the cook gave them both to him, and he
untied the rope. Then Sachúlí went home, and when his mother saw him,
she was very angry, but he showed her the box and the cooking-pot, and
she saw he had told her the truth. So she sent for the doctor, and he
declared Sachúlí was wise and not silly, and he and Hungní found a
wife for Sachúlí, and made a grand wedding for him, and they lived
happily ever after.

    Told by Dunkní.




[Decoration]

VIII.

BARBER HÍM AND THE TIGERS.


Once there lived a barber called Hím, who was very poor indeed. He had
a wife and twelve children, five boys and seven girls: now and then he
got a few pice. One day he went away from his home feeling very cross,
and left his wife and children to get on as best they could. "What can
I do?" said he. "I have not enough money to buy food for my family,
and they are crying for it." And so he walked on till he came to a
jungle. It was night when he got there. This jungle was called the
"tigers' jungle," because only tigers lived in it; no birds, no
insects, no other animals, and there were four hundred tigers in it
altogether. As soon as Barber Hím reached the jungle he saw a great
tiger walking about. "What shall I do?" cried he. "This tiger is sure
to eat me." And he took his razor and his razor-strap, and began to
sharpen his razor. Then he went close up to the tiger, still
sharpening his razor. The tiger was much frightened. "What shall I
do?" said the tiger; "this man will certainly gash me." "I have come,"
said the barber, "to catch twenty tigers by order of Mahárájá Káns.
You are one, and I want nineteen more." The tiger, greatly alarmed,
answered, "If you won't catch us, I will give you as much gold and as
many jewels as you can carry." For these tigers used to go out and
carry off the men and women from the villages, and some of these
people had rupees, and some had jewels, all of which the tigers used
to collect together. "Good," said Hím, "then I won't catch you." The
tiger led him to the spot where all the tigers used to eat their
dinners, and the barber took as much gold and as many jewels as he
could carry, and set off home with them.

Then he built a house, and bought his children pretty clothes and good
food, and necklaces, and they all lived very happily for some time.
But at last he wanted more rupees, so he set off to the tigers'
jungle. There he met the tiger as he did before, and he told him the
Mahárájá Káns had sent him to catch twenty tigers. The tiger was
terrified and said, "If you will only not catch us, I will give you
more gold and jewels." To this the barber agreed, and the tiger led
him to the old spot, and the barber took as many jewels and rupees as
he could carry. Then he returned home.

One day a very poor man, a fakír, said to him, "How did you manage to
become so rich? In old days you were so poor you could hardly support
your family."

"I will tell you," said Hím. And he told him all about his visits to
the tigers' jungle. "But don't you go there for gold to-night,"
continued the barber. "Let me go and listen to the tigers talking. If
you like, you can come with me. Only you must not be frightened if the
tigers roar."

"I'll not be frightened," said the fakír.

So that evening at eight o'clock they went to the tigers' jungle.
There the barber and the fakír climbed into a tall thick tree, and its
leaves came all about them and sheltered them as if they were in a
house. The tigers used to hold their councils under this tree. Very
soon all the tigers in the jungle assembled together under it, and
their Rájá--a great, huge beast, with only one eye--came too.
"Brothers," said the tiger who had given the barber the rupees and
jewels, "a man has come here twice to catch twenty of us for the
Mahárájá Káns; now we are only four hundred in number, and if twenty
of us were taken away we should be only a small number, so I gave him
each time as many rupees and jewels as he could carry and he went away
again. What shall we do if he returns?" The tigers said they would
meet again on the morrow, and then they would settle the matter. Then
the tigers went off, and the barber and the fakír came down from the
tree. They took a quantity of rupees and jewels and returned to their
homes.

"To-morrow," said they, "we will come again and hear what the tigers
say."

The next day the barber went alone to the tigers' jungle, and there he
met his tiger again. "This time," said he, "I am come to cut off the
ears of all the four hundred tigers who live in this jungle; for
Mahárájá Káns wants them to make into medicine."

The tiger was greatly frightened, much more so than at the other
times. "Don't cut off our ears; pray don't," said he, "for then we
could not hear, and it would hurt so horribly. Go and cut off all the
dogs' ears instead, and I will give you rupees and jewels as much as
two men can carry." "Good," said the barber, and he made two journeys
with the rupees and jewels from the jungle to the borders of his
village, and there he got a cooly to help him to carry them to his
house.

At night he and the fakír went again to the great tree under which the
tigers held their councils. Now the tiger who had given the barber so
many rupees and jewels had made ready a great quantity of meat, fowls,
chickens, geese, men the tigers had killed--everything he had been
able to get hold of--and he made them into a heap under the tree, for
he said that after the tigers had settled the matter they would dine.
Soon the tigers arrived with their Rájá, and the barber's tiger said,
"Brothers, what are we to do? This man came again to-day to cut off
all our ears to make medicine for Mahárájá Káns. I told him this
would be a bad business for us, and that he must go and cut off all
the dogs' ears instead; and I gave him as much money and jewels as two
men could carry. So he went home. Now what shall we do? We must leave
this jungle, and where shall we go?" The other tigers said, "We will
not leave the jungle. If this man comes again we will eat him up." So
they dined and went away, saying they would meet again to-morrow.

After the tigers had gone, the barber and fakír came down from the
tree and went off to their homes, without taking any rupees or jewels
with them. They agreed to return the next evening.

Next evening back they came and climbed into the great tree. The
tigers came too, and the barber's tiger told his story all over again.
The tiger Rájá sat up and said, fiercely, "We will not leave this
jungle. Should the man come again, I will eat him myself." When the
fakír heard this he was so frightened that he tumbled down out of the
tree into the midst of the tigers. The barber instantly cried out with
a loud voice, "Now cut off their ears! cut off their ears!" and the
tigers, terrified, ran away as fast as they could. Then the barber
took the fakír home, but the poor man was so much hurt by his fall
that he died.

The barber lived happily ever after, but he took good care never to go
to the tigers' jungle again.

    Told by Dunkní.

[Decoration]




[Decoration]

IX.

THE BULBUL AND THE COTTON-TREE.


There was once a bulbul, and one day as he was flying about, he saw a
tree on which was a little fruit. The bulbul was much pleased and
said, "I will sit here till this fruit is ripe, and then I will eat
it." So he deserted his nest and his wife, and sat there for twelve
years without eating anything, and every day he said, "To-morrow I
will eat this fruit." During these twelve years a great many birds
tried to sit on the tree, and wished to build their nests in it, but
whenever they came the bulbul sent them away, saying, "This fruit is
not good. Don't come here." One day a cuckoo came and said, "Why do
you send us away? Why should we not come and sit here too? All the
trees here are not yours." "Never mind," said the bulbul, "I am going
to sit here, and when this fruit is ripe, I shall eat it." Now the
cuckoo knew that this tree was the cotton-tree, but the bulbul did
not. First comes the bud, which the bulbul thought a fruit, then the
flower, and the flower becomes a big pod, and the pod bursts and all
the cotton flies away. The bulbul was delighted when he saw the
beautiful red flower, which he still thought a fruit, and said, "When
it is ripe, it will be a delicious fruit." The flower became a pod,
and the pod burst. "What is all this that is flying about?" said the
bulbul. "The fruit must be ripe now." So he looked into the pod, and
it was empty; all the cotton had fallen out. Then the cuckoo came and
said to the angry bulbul, "You see if you had allowed us to come and
sit on the tree, you would have had something good to eat; but as you
were selfish, and would not let any one share with you, God is angry
and has punished you by giving you a hollow fruit." Then the cuckoo
called all the other birds, and they came and mocked the bulbul. "Ah!
you see God has punished you for your selfishness," they said. The
bulbul got very angry and all the birds went away. After they had
gone, the bulbul said to the tree, "You are a bad tree. You are of use
to no one. You give food to no one." The tree said, "You are mistaken.
God made me what I am. My flower is given to sheep to eat. My cotton
makes pillows and mattresses for man."

Since that day no bulbul goes near a cotton-tree.

    Told by Dunkní.

[Decoration]




[Decoration]

X.

THE MONKEY PRINCE.


Once upon a time there was a Rájá called Jabhú Rájá, and he had a
great many wives; at least he had seven wives, but he had no children.
Although he had married seven wives, not one of them had given him a
child. At this he was greatly vexed and said, "I have married seven
wives, and not one of them has given me a child." And he got very
angry with God: he said, "Why does not God give me any children? I
will go into the jungle and die by myself." The Ránís coaxed him to
stay, but he wouldn't; he would go out into the jungle.

So he went out into the jungle very far, and God sent him an old fakír
leaning on a stick. The Rájá met him, and the fakír said, "Why do you
come into the jungle? If you go far into the jungle you will meet
plenty of tigers, and they will eat you. Tell me what you want.
Whatever you want I will give you." "No, I won't tell you," said the
Rájá. But at last the Rájá told him, "I have seven wives, and none of
them has given me any children, and so here I will die by myself."
Then the fakír said, "Take this stick, and a little way off you will
find a mango-tree with some mangoes on it. Throw the stick at the
mangoes with one hand, and catch them as they fall with the other, and
when you have caught them all, take them home and give one to each of
your seven wives." So the Rájá went and knocked the mangoes off the
tree and caught them as the fakír had told him. Then he looked about
for the fakír, but he could not find him, for he had gone away into
another part of the jungle. So he went home and gave the seven mangoes
to his wives. But the fruit was so good that six of the wives ate it
up, and would not give the youngest wife any. She cried very much, and
went into the compound and picked up one of the mango stones which one
of the six wives had thrown away, and ate it. By and by each of the
six wives had a son; but the one who had eaten the stone had a monkey,
who was called in consequence Bandarsábásá, or Prince Monkey. He was
really a boy, but no one knew it, for he had a monkey-skin covering
him. His six brothers hated him. They went to school every day; and
the monkey went under the ground, and was taught by the fairies. His
mother did not know this; she thought, as he was a monkey, he went to
the jungle and swung in the trees. He was the best and the cleverest
of all the boys.

Now, in a kingdom a three months' journey off by land from Jabhú
Rájá's country, there lived a king called King Jamársá. He had a very
beautiful daughter whose name was Princess Jahúran, and as her father
wanted a very strong son-in-law, he had a large heavy iron ball made,
and he sent letters to all the Rájás and Rájás' sons far and near to
say that whoever wished to marry his daughter, the Princess Jahúran,
must be able to throw this heavy ball at her and hit her. So many
Rájás went to try, but none of them could even lift the ball. Now, one
of these letters had come to Jabhú Rájá, and his six elder sons
determined they would go to King Jamársá's country, for each of them
was sure he could throw the ball, and win the princess.

Prince Monkey laughed softly and said to himself, "I will go and try
too. I know I shall succeed."

Off, therefore, the six brothers set on their long journey, and the
monkey followed them; but before he did so, he went into the jungle
and took off his monkey-skin, and God sent him a beautiful horse and
beautiful clothes. Then he followed his brothers and overtook them,
and gave them betel-leaf and lovely flowers. "What a beautiful boy!"
they said. "Who is it owns such a beautiful boy? He must be some
Rájá's son." Then he galloped quickly away, took off his grand clothes
and put them on his horse, and the horse rose into the air. He put on
his monkey-skin and followed his brothers.

When they reached King Jamársá's palace they pitched their tents in
his compound, which was very big. Every evening the princess used to
stand in her verandah and let down her long golden hair so that it
fell all round her, and then the Rájás who wished to marry her had to
try to hit her with the great heavy ball that lay on the ground just
in front of where she stood.

King Jamársá's house had more than one storey, and you had to go
upstairs to get to the Princess Jahúran's rooms which led into the
verandah in which she used to stand.

Well, Prince Monkey's six elder brothers all got ready to go up to the
palace and throw the ball. They were quite sure they would throw it
without any trouble. Before they went they told their monkey brother
to take care of their tents, and to have a good dinner ready for them
when they returned. "If the dinner is not ready, we will beat you."

As soon as they were gone, Prince Monkey took some gold mohurs he had,
and he went to a traveller's resting-house, which was a little way
outside King Jamársá's compound, and gave them to the man who owned
it, and bade him give him a grand dinner for his six brothers. Then he
took the dinner to the tents, went into the jungle, and took off his
monkey-skin. And God sent him a grand horse from heaven, and splendid
clothes. These he put on, mounted his horse, and rode to King
Jamársá's compound. There he took no notice of either the king, or
his daughter, or of the ball, or of the Rájás who were there to try
and lift it. He spoke only to his brothers, and gave them lovely
flowers and betel-leaf. Meanwhile, everybody was looking at him and
talking about him. "Who can he be? Did you ever see any one so lovely?
Where does he come from? Just look at his clothes! In our countries we
cannot get any like them!" As for the Princess Jahúran she thought to
herself, "That Rájá shall be my husband, whether he lifts the ball or
not." When he had given his brothers the flowers and betel-leaf,
Prince Monkey rode straight to the jungle, took off his clothes, laid
them on his horse (which instantly went up to heaven), put on his
monkey-skin, went back to the tents, and lay down to sleep.

When his brothers came home they were talking eagerly about the
unknown beautiful Rájá. All the time they were eating their dinner
they could speak of nothing else.

Well, every evening for about ten evenings it was just the same story.
Only every evening Prince Monkey appeared in a different dress. The
princess always thought, "That is the man I will marry, whether he can
throw the ball or not." Then about the eleventh evening, after he had
given his brothers the flowers and betel-leaf, he said to all the
Rájás who were standing there, and to King Jamársá and to all the
servants, "Now every one of you go and stand far away, for I am going
to throw the ball." "No, no!" they all cried, "we will stand here and
see you." "You must go far away. You can look on at a distance," said
the Monkey Prince; "the ball might fall back among you and hurt you."
So they all went off and stood round him at a distance.

"Now," said Prince Monkey to himself, "I won't hit the princess this
time; but I will hit the verandah railing." Then he took up the ball
with one hand, just as if it were quite light, and threw it on the
verandah railing, and then he rode off fast to the jungle.

The next evening it was the same thing over again, only this time he
threw the ball into the Princess Jahúran's clothes.

The next evening the ball fell on one of her feet, and hurt her little
toe-nail. Now, Princess Jahúran was very angry that this unknown
beautiful prince should have thrown the ball three times, and hit her
twice, and hurt her the third time, and yet had never spoken to her
father, or let any one know who he was, and had always, on the
contrary, ridden away as hard as he could, no one knew where. She was
very much in love with him, and was very anxious to find this Rájá who
had hit her twice, so she ordered a bow and arrow to be brought to
her, and said she would shoot the Rájá the next time he hit her. She
would not kill him; she would only shoot the arrow at him. Well, the
next evening Prince Monkey threw the ball, and it fell on her other
foot and hurt her great toe-nail. When he saw she was hurt, he was
very sorry in his heart, and said, "Did I hurt you?" "Yes," she said,
"very much." "Oh, I am so sorry," said the prince. "I would not have
thrown the ball so hard had I thought it would hurt you." Then she
shot the arrow, and hit him in the leg, and a great deal of blood came
out of the wound; but he rode hard away to the jungle all the same,
only this time he did not take off his fine clothes, but he drew the
monkey-skin over them, and his horse went up to heaven, and he went
back to the tents. Then the princess sent a servant into the town, and
said, whoever or whatever he should hear crying with pain, he should
bring to her--were it a man, or a jackal, or a dog, or a wild beast.
So the servant went round the town. The six brothers had gone to
sleep, but the poor monkey brother could not sleep, but sat up crying
from pain. He could not help it, do what he would, and the servant, as
he went round the town, heard him crying. So he took him and brought
him to the princess, and the princess said she would marry him.

"What!" cried her father, "marry that monkey? Never! Who ever heard
of any one marrying a monkey, a nasty monkey?" But in spite of all the
king said, the princess declared marry that monkey she would. "I like
that monkey very, very much," she said. "I will marry him. It is my
pleasure to marry him." "Well," said the Rájá at last, "if it is your
pleasure to marry him, you must marry him; but who ever heard of any
one marrying a nasty monkey?"

So they were married at once; and the Monkey Prince wore his
monkey-skin for a wedding garment.

That night when they went to bed, the young prince drew off his skin
and lay down by Jahúran, and when she saw her beautiful husband she
was so glad, so glad. "Why do you wear a monkey-skin?" she asked. He
answered, "I wear it as a protection, because my brothers are naughty,
and would kill me if they knew what I really am."

They lived very happily with King Jamársá for six months, and the six
elder brothers went on living there too, and hating him more and more
for having such a beautiful wife.

But one night Prince Monkey thought of his mother, and he said to his
wife, "My mother perhaps is crying for me. Let us go to my father's
kingdom, and see her." Princess Jahúran agreed; so next morning they
spoke to King Jamársá, who said they might go.

The six brothers at once said, "We will go with you;" and they also
said, "Let us get two big boats, one for you and the princess, and one
for ourselves, and let us go by water, and not by land." Now by water
it took only six days to get to Jabhú Rájá's kingdom, by land it took
three months. The Monkey Prince agreed to all his brothers said.

Princess Jahúran heard them planning to throw the monkey into the
water on the journey, and then to take her home to their father as the
wife of one of them; so as she was very wise she went to her father
and begged him to have six large beautiful mattresses, well stuffed
with cotton, made for her.

"What can you want with six mattresses?" said the king. "I want my
bed to be very comfortable on board the boat," said his daughter. Her
father loved her dearly, so he had her mattresses made, beautiful
mattresses and well stuffed with cotton. The princess had them all
carried to her boat.

When everything was ready they went on board the boats with the
monkey's six brothers. Now, the princess had warned her husband of his
brothers' wicked plans, and she said to him, "Never go near your
brothers; never speak to your brothers; for they want to kill you."
The first day the six brothers said to the monkey, "Please bring us a
little salt." But the monkey said, "No; my wife will take you some."
"No," said the brothers, "your wife cannot bring us any. She is a
princess. Do you bring us some." So they threw a rope from one boat to
another, and the monkey went on the rope, and the brothers untied it,
and the monkey fell into the water. Then the princess cried out, "My
husband will be drowned! My husband will be drowned!" And she threw
out one of the mattresses; the monkey sat on it; it floated back to
his boat, and the crew drew him up.

The next day the six brothers begged Prince Monkey to bring them
water, and they threw a plank from their boat to his for him to cross
on. The prince set off with the water, in spite of all his wife's
entreaties, and his brothers tilted the plank into the water. The
prince would have been drowned had not the Princess Jahúran thrown him
a mattress. And the same thing happened during the next four days. The
brothers wanted something to eat or drink, and their monkey-brother
brought it them across a rope or plank, which they cut or dropped into
the water, and he would have died but for the mattresses which his
wife threw to him one by one.

When they reached Jabhú Rájá's kingdom, the eldest son went on shore
up to his father's palace. Each of the Rájá's seven wives had a house
to herself in his compound. He went to his mother's house and said,
"Give me your palanquin, mother, for I have brought home a most lovely
wife, and want to bring her to the palace."

At this news his mother was delighted, and she told it to the other
Ránís, and said, "My son has brought home such a lovely wife! I am so
glad! oh, I am so glad!" The youngest Rání began to cry bitterly. "My
son," she said, "is nothing but a monkey; he will never be married; he
will never have a wife at all."

Then the palanquin was got ready, and the seven Ránís and the prince
went with it to the boat. The Princess Jahúran came on land with her
monkey, and when the Ránís saw her, they all cried, "How lovely she
is! how beautiful!" And the eldest Rání was gladder than ever, and the
youngest cried still more. The princess got into the palanquin with
her monkey. "What are you doing with that horrid monkey?" said the
eldest prince. "Put him out of the palanquin directly." "Indeed I will
not," said the princess. "He is my husband, and I love him." "What!"
cried all the Ránís, "are you married to that monkey?" "Yes," said the
princess. "Then get out of my palanquin at once," said the eldest
Rání. "You shall not ride in my palanquin with that nasty monkey." The
youngest Rání was very glad her son had such a beautiful wife. So the
princess got out, and took her monkey in her arms and walked with him
to the youngest Rání's house, and there they all lived for some time.
Now the little Rání did not know her son was really a beautiful man,
for the princess never told her, as her husband had forbidden her to
tell any one.

One evening Jabhú Rájá's servants had a grand nautch in the Rájá's
compound, and the Rájá and his sons and the neighbouring Rájás all
came to see it. Prince Monkey said to his wife, "I, too, will go and
see this nautch." So he took off his monkey-skin, folded it up and
laid it under her pillow. Then he put on the clothes God had sent him
from heaven the last time he threw the ball, and which he had not
laid on his horse's back when he put his monkey-skin on again, and
when he came among all the Rájás and people who were looking on at the
nautch, they all exclaimed, "Who is that? Who can it be?" He was very
handsome, and he had beautiful hair all gold. When he had stayed some
time, Prince Monkey went quickly back to his wife, and in the morning
he put on his monkey-skin again.

Now the little Rání, his mother, though she was very glad her monkey
son had such a wife, could never understand how it was that her
daughter-in-law was so happy with him. "How could you marry him?" she
used to say to her. "Because it pleased me to marry him," the princess
used to answer. "How can you be so happy with him?" said the mother.
"I love him," said the princess; and the poor Rání used to wonder at
this more and more.

Well, one day there was another nautch, and Prince Monkey went to it;
but he left his skin under his wife's pillow. As soon as he had gone,
she called the little Rání, and said, "See, you think my husband is a
monkey; he is no monkey, but a very handsome man. There is no one like
him, he is so beautiful." The Rání did not believe her. Then the
princess took the skin from under her pillow. "See," she said, "when
your son puts this on, then he is a monkey; when he takes it off he is
a beautiful man. And now, I think I will burn this skin, and then he
must always be a man. What do you say?" "Are you sure it won't hurt
him if you burn his skin?" said his mother. "Perhaps he may die if it
is burnt." "Oh, no, he won't die," said the princess. "Shall I burn
it?" "Burn it," said the little Rání. Then the princess threw the skin
on the fire and burnt it quite up.

Prince Monkey was sitting looking on at the nautch when suddenly his
heart told him his wife had burnt his skin. He jumped up directly and
went home, and when he found his heart had told him true, he was so
angry with his wife, that he would say nothing to her but "Why did you
burn my skin?" and he was in such a rage that he went straight to bed
and went to sleep.

In the morning, while he slept, the princess went to the little Rání,
and said, "Come and see your beautiful son." "I am ashamed to do so,"
said the Rání. "Ashamed to look at your own son? What nonsense! Come
directly," said Princess Jahúran. Then the little Rání went with her,
and when she saw her beautiful son she was indeed glad, and the prince
opened his eyes and saw her, and then he kissed her, and they were
very happy.

The news spread through the compound, and Jabhú Rájá and his sons and
everybody came at once to see if it were true. When they saw the
beautiful young prince, with his hair all gold, they could not stand,
but fell down. Prince Monkey lifted his father and loved him, and put
his arms round him, and said, "I am your son, your own son; you must
not fall down before me." "Why did you wear that monkey-skin?" asked
his father. "Because," he said, "my mother ate the mango stone instead
of eating the mango, and so I was born with this skin, and God ordered
me to wear it till I had found a wife." His brothers said, "Who could
have guessed there was such a beautiful man inside that monkey-skin?
God's decrees are good!" And they left off hating their brother,
Prince Monkey.

There were great rejoicings and feasts now, and all were very happy.
The six elder brothers lived always with their father and Prince
Monkey, but none of them ever married.

    Told by Dunkní.

[Decoration]




[Decoration]

XI.

BRAVE HÍRÁLÁLBÁSÁ.


Once there was a Rájá called Mánikbásá Rájá, or the Ruby King, who had
seven wives and seven children. One day he told his wives he would go
out hunting, and he rode on and on, a long, long way from his palace.
A Rakshas was sitting by the wayside, who, seeing the Rájá coming,
quickly turned herself into a beautiful Rání, and sat there crying.
The Rájá asked her, "Why do you cry?" And the Rakshas answered, "My
husband has gone away. He has been away many days, and I think he will
never come back again. If some Rájá will take me to his house and
marry me, I shall be very glad." So the Rájá said, "Will you come with
me?" And the Rakshas answered, "Very well, I will come." And then the
Rájá took the pretended Rání home with him and married her. He gave
her a room to live in. Every night at twelve o'clock the Rakshas got
up and devoured an elephant, or a horse, or some other animal. The
Rájá said, "What can become of my elephants and horses? Every day
either an elephant or a horse disappears. Who can take them away?" The
Rakshas-Rání said to him, "Your seven Ránís are Rakshases, and every
night at twelve o'clock they devour a horse, or an elephant, or some
other creature."

So the Rájá believed her, and had a great hole dug just outside his
kingdom, into which he put the seven Ránís with their children, and
then he sent a sepoy to them and bade him take out all the Ránís'
eyes, and bring them to him. This the sepoy did. After a time the
poor Ránís grew so hungry that six of them ate their children, but the
seventh Rání, who was the youngest of them all, declared she would
never eat her child though she might die of hunger, "for," she said,
"I love him a great deal too much." God was very pleased with the
seventh Rání for this, and so every day he sent her a little food,
which she divided with the other Ránís. And every day her little boy
grew bigger, and bigger, and bigger, until he had become a strong lad,
when, as he thought it was very dark in the hole, he climbed out of it
and looked all about. Then he came back to his mothers (for he called
all the seven Ránís "Mother" now), who told him he was not to clamber
up out of the hole any more, for if he did, some one might kill him.
"Still, if you will go," they added, "do not go to your father's
kingdom, but stay near this place." The boy said, "Very well," and
every day he climbed out of the hole and only went where his seven
mothers told him he might go, and he used to beg the people about to
give him a little rice, and flour and bread, which they did.

One day he said to his mothers, "If you let me go now to my father's
kingdom, I will go." "Well, you may go," they said; "but come back
again soon." This he promised to do, and he went to his father's
kingdom. For some time he stood daily at the door of his father's
palace and then returned to the hole. One day the Rakshas-Rání was
standing in the verandah, and she thought, "I am sure that is the
Rájá's son." The servants every day asked the boy, "Why do you always
stand at the door of the palace?" "I want service with the Rájá," he
would reply. "If the Rájá has any place he can give me, I will take
it."

The Rakshas-Rání said to the Rájá, "The boy standing out there wants
service. May I take him into mine?" The Rájá answered, "Very well,
send for him." So all the servants ran and fetched the boy. The
Rakshas-Rání asked him, "Are you willing to do anything I tell you?"
The boy said, "Yes." "Then you shall be my servant," she said, and
first she told him he must go to the Rakshas country to fetch some
rose-water for her. "I will give you a letter," she said, "so that no
harm may happen to you." The lad answered, "Very well, only you must
give me three shields full of money." She gave him the three shields
full of money, and he took them and went home to his mothers. Then he
got two servants for them, one to take care of them, and one to go to
the bazar. His mothers gave him food for the journey, and he left them
the remainder of his money, telling them to take great care of it. He
then returned to the Rakshas-Rání for his letter. She told the Rájá
she was feeling ill, and would not be quite well until she got some
rose-water from the Rakshas country. The Rájá said, "Then you had
better send this boy for it." So she gave him a letter, in which she
had written, "When this boy arrives among you, kill him and eat him
instantly," and he set out at once.

He went on and on till he came to a great river in which lived a huge
water-snake. When the water-snake saw him it began to weep very much,
and cried out to the boy, "If you go to the Rakshas country you will
be eaten up." The lad, whose name was Hírálálbásá, said, "I cannot
help it; I am the Rání's servant, so I must do what she tells me."
"Well," said the water-snake, "get on my back, and I will take you
across this river." So he got on the water-snake's back, and it took
him over the river. Then Hírálálbásá went on and on until he came to a
house in which a Rakshas lived. A Rání lived there too that the
Rakshas had carried off from her father and mother when she was a
little girl. She was playing in her father the Sondarbásá Rájá's
garden, which was full of delicious fruits, which the Rakshas came to
eat, and when he saw Sonahrí Rání he seized her in his mouth and ran
off with her. Only she was so beautiful he could never find it in his
heart to eat her, but brought her up as his own child. Her name was
Sonahrí Rání, that is, the Golden Rání, because her teeth and her hair
were made of gold. Now the Rakshas who had carried her off, and whom
she called Papa, had a great thick stick, and when he laid this stick
at her feet she could not stir, but when he laid it at her head, she
could move again.

When the Rájá's son came up, Sonahrí Rání was lying on her bed with
the thick stick at her feet, and as soon as she saw the Rájá's son she
began to cry very much. "Oh, why have you come here? You will surely
be killed," she said. The Rájá's son answered, "I cannot help that. I
am the Rání's servant, so I must do what she tells me." "Of course,"
said Sonahrí Rání; "but put this stick at my head, and then I shall be
able to move." The Rájá's son laid the stick at her head, and she got
up and gave him some food, and then asked him if he had a letter.
"Yes," he answered. "Let me see it," said the Sonahrí Rání. So he gave
her the letter, and when she had read it she cried, "Oh, this is a
very wicked letter. It will bring you no good; for if the Rakshases
see it, they will kill you." "Indeed," said Hírálálbásá. And the
Sonahrí Rání tore up the letter and wrote another in which she said,
"Make much of this boy. Send him home quickly, and give him a jug of
rose-water to bring back with him, and see that he gets no hurt." Then
the Rájá's son set out again for the Rakshas-Rání's mother's house. He
had not gone very far when he met a very big Rakshas, and he cried out
to him, "Uncle." "Who is this boy," said the Rakshas, "who calls me
uncle?" And he was just going to kill him when Hírálálbásá showed his
letter, and the Rakshas let him pass on. He went a little further
until he met another Rakshas, bigger than the first, and the Rakshas
screamed at him and was just going to fall on him and kill him, but
the Rájá's son showed the letter, and the Rakshas let him pass
unhurt. When Hírálálbásá came to the Rakshas-Rání's mother he showed
her the letter, and she gave him the rose-water at once and sent him
off. All the Rakshases were very good to him, and some carried him
part of the way home. When he came to Sonahrí Rání's house she was
lying on her bed with the stick at her feet, and as soon as she saw
Hírálálbásá she laughed and said, "Oh, you have come back again? Put
this stick at my head." "Yes," said the Rájá's son, "I've come back
again, but I was dreadfully frightened very often." Then he put the
stick at her head, and she gave him some food to eat. After he had
eaten it he went on again, and when he came to the river the
water-snake carried him across to the other side, and he travelled to
his father's kingdom. There he went to the Rakshas-Rání and gave her
the rose-water. She was very angry at seeing him, and said, "I'm sure
my father and my mother, my brothers and my sisters, don't love me one
bit."

And she said to Hírálálbásá, "You must go to-morrow to the Rakshas
kingdom to fetch me flowers." "I will go," said Hírálál, "but this
time I must have four shields full of rupees." The Rakshas-Rání gave
him the four shields full of rupees; and the Rájá's son went to his
mother's hole and bought a quantity of food for them, enough to last
them all the time he should be away, and he hired two servants for
them, and said good-bye to his seven mothers and returned to
Mánikbásá's palace for his letter. This the Rakshas-Rání gave him, and
in it she wrote, "Kill him and eat him at once. If you do not, and you
send him back to me, I will never see your faces again." Hírálál took
his letters and went on his way. When he reached the river the
water-snake took him across to the other side, and he walked on till
he came to Sonahrí Rání's house. She was lying on the bed with the
stick at her feet. "Oh, why have you come here again?" she said. "How
can I help coming?" said the Rájá's son. "I must do what my mistress
bids me." "So you must," said the Sonahrí Rání; "but put this stick at
my head." This he did, and she got up and gave him food, and asked him
to let her see his letter, and when she had read it she cried, "This
is a very wicked letter. If you take it with you, you will surely
die." Then she tore up the letter and burnt it, and wrote another in
which she said, "You must all be very good to this boy. Show him all
the gardens and see that he is not hurt in any way." She gave it to
Hírálál, and he begged her to ask the Rakshas, her father, where he
kept his soul. Sonahrí Rání promised she would. She then turned
Hírálál into a little fly, and put him into a tiny box, and put the
box under her pillow. When the Rakshas came home he began sniffing
about and said, "Surely there is a man here." "Oh, no," said Sonahrí
Rání; "no one is here but me." The Rakshas was satisfied. When Sonahrí
Rání and her father were in bed she asked, "Papa, where is your soul?"
"Why do you want to know?" said the Rakshas. "I will tell you another
day."

The next day at nine in the morning the Rakshas went away, and Sonahrí
Rání took Hírálál and restored him to his human shape, and gave him
some food, and he travelled on till he reached the Rakshas-Rání's
mother, whom he called Grannie. She welcomed him very kindly and
showed him the garden, which was very large. The Rájá's son noticed a
number of jugs and water-jars. So he said, "Grannie, what is there in
all these jars and jugs?" She answered, showing them to him one by
one, "In this is such and such a thing," and so on, telling him the
contents of each, till she came to the water-jar in which were his
mothers' eyes. "In this jar," said the Rakshas, "are your seven
mothers' eyes." "Oh, grannie dear!" said Hírálál, "give me my mothers'
eyes." "Very well, dear boy," said the old Rakshas, "you shall have
them." She gave him, too, some ointment, and told him to rub the eyes
with it when he put them into his mothers' heads, and that then they
would see quite well; and he took the eyes and tied them up in a
corner of his cloth. His grannie gave him the flowers, and he went
back to Sonahrí Rání. She was lying on her bed with the stick at her
feet, and when she saw him she laughed and said, "Oh, so you have come
back again?" "Yes, I have," said Hírálál; "and I have got the flowers,
and my seven mothers' eyes too." "Have you indeed?" said Sonahrí Rání.
"Put this stick at my head." He did so, and she got up and gave him
some food, and he told her to ask her father the Rakshas where his
soul was. She promised she would, and she changed him into a little
fly, and shut him up in a tiny box, and put the tiny box under her
pillow. By and by home came the Rakshas, and began to sniff about
crying, "A man is here!" "Oh, no," said Sonahrí Rání; and she gave him
some dinner, and when they were in bed she asked him, "Papa, where is
your soul?" "I'll tell you another day," said the Rakshas. The next
day, when he had gone out to find food, Sonahrí Rání took the little
fly, Hírálál, and restored him to his human shape, and gave him some
food and sent him on his way. When he reached the river, the
water-snake took him over to the other side, and he journeyed on till
he came to his father's kingdom. First he went to his mothers' hole
and gave them their fourteen eyes, and he put them into their heads
with the ointment which the Rakshas-grannie had given him. Then he
went to Mánikbásá Rájá's palace, and when the Rakshas-Rání saw him she
was furious. "I am sure my father and my mother, my sisters and my
brothers, do not love me one bit. I will never see their faces again.
But I'll send him to them once more."

This is what she thought, but she took the flowers and said, "You must
go a third time to the Rakshas country."

"I will," said the boy: "only I'll not go till the fourth day from
to-day, for I am very tired. And you must give me four shields full of
rupees." "Good," said the Rakshas-Rání. "This time you must get me a
sárí."[2] And she gave him the four shields full of money. Then he
went to his mothers, and bought them a house and got food for them,
and stayed with them four days.

At the end of the four days he went to the Rakshas-Rání, who gave him
a letter in which she had written, "If you do not kill and eat this
boy as soon as he arrives, I will never see your faces again." The
Rájá's son took the letter and set out on his journey.

When he came to the river, the water-snake took him across; and when
he arrived at Sonahrí Rání's house, there she was lying on her bed
with the thick stick at her feet. She said, "Oh, you have come here
again, have you?" "Yes," he said, "I have come for the last time."
"Put the stick at my head," said she. So he laid the stick at her
head. Then she gave him some food, and just before the Rakshas came
home, he bade her ask him where he kept his soul. When she saw him
coming, Sonahrí Rání turned Hírálálbásá into a little fly, put him in
a tiny box, and put the box under her pillow. As soon as she and the
Rakshas had gone to bed, she asked him, "Papa, where do you keep your
soul?" "Sixteen miles away from this place," said he, "is a tree.
Round the tree are tigers, and bears, and scorpions, and snakes; on
the top of the tree is a very great fat snake; on his head is a little
cage; in the cage is a bird; and my soul is in that bird." The little
fly listened all the time. The next morning, when the Rakshas had
gone, Sonahrí Rání took the fly and gave him back his human form, gave
him some food, and then asked to see his letter. When she had read it
she screamed and said, "Oh! if you go with this letter you will
surely die." So she tore it up into little bits and threw it into the
fire. And she wrote another in which she said, "Make a great deal of
this boy; see that he gets no hurt; give him the sárí for me; show him
the garden; and be very kind to him." She then gave Hírálál the
letter, and he journeyed on in safety till he reached his
Rakshas-grannie's house.

The Rakshas-grannie was very good to him; showed him the garden, and
gave him the sárí; and he then said his mother, the Rakshas-Rání, was
in great trouble about her soul, and wanted very much to have it. So
the Rakshas-grannie gave him a bird in which was the Rakshas-Rání's
soul, charging him to take the greatest care of it. Then he said, "My
mother, the Rakshas-Rání, also wants a stone such that, if you lay it
on the ground, or if you put it in your clothes, it will become gold,
and also your long heavy gold necklace that hangs down to the waist."
Both these things the Rakshas-grannie gave to Hírálál. Then he
returned to Sonahrí Rání's house, where he found her lying on her bed
with the thick stick at her feet. "Oh, there you are," said Sonahrí
Rání, laughing. "Yes," he said, "I have come." And he put the stick at
her head, and she got up and gave him some food.

He told her he was going to fetch her Rakshas-father's soul, but that
he did not quite know how to pass through the tigers and bears, and
scorpions and snakes, that guarded it. So she gave him a feather, and
said, "As long as you hold this feather straight, you can come to no
harm, for you will be invisible. You will see everything, but nothing
will see you."

He carried the feather straight as she had bidden him and reached the
tree in safety. Then he climbed up it, took the little cage, and came
down again. Though the Rakshas was far off, he knew at once something
had happened to his bird. Hírálál pulled off the bird's right leg, and
the Rakshas' right leg fell off, but on he hopped on one leg. Then
the Rájá's son pulled off the bird's left leg, and off fell the
Rakshas' left leg, but still he went on towards his house on his
hands. Then Hírálál pulled off the bird's wings, and the Rakshas' two
arms fell off. And then, just as the Rakshas reached the door of his
house, Hírálál wrung the bird's neck, and the Rakshas fell dead.
Sonahrí Rání was greatly frightened when she heard such a heavy thing
fall thump on the ground so close to the house, but she could not
move, for the thick stick lay at her feet. Hírálál ran as fast as he
could to Sonahrí Rání. When he arrived at the door of her house he saw
the Rakshas lying dead, and he went in and told Sonahrí Rání that her
Rakshas-father was killed. "Nonsense," she said. "It is true," said
Hírálál; "come and see." So he put the stick at her head. "I am sure
you are telling a lie," said Sonahrí Rání. "I should be very glad if
he were dead, for I do not like living with him, I am so afraid of
him." "Indeed he's dead. Do come and see," said Hírálál. Then they
went outside, and when Sonahrí Rání saw her Rakshas-father lying there
dead, she was exceedingly happy, and said to Hírálál, "I will go home
with you, and be your wife." So they were married, and then they went
into Sonahrí Rání's Rakshas-father's house and took all the money and
jewels they could find. And Hírálál gave the sárí, the stone, and the
necklace to Sonahrí Rání, and he took some flowers for the
Rakshas-Rání.

When they came to the river, the water-snake carried them across to
the other side, and they travelled on till they came to Mánikbásá
Rájá's kingdom. There Hírálál went first of all to his mothers, and
when they saw Sonahrí Rání they wondered who the beautiful woman could
be that their son had brought home. He said to them, "This is Sonahrí
Rání, my wife. But for her I should have died." Then he bought a grand
house for Sonahrí Rání and his seven mothers to live in, and he got
four servants for Sonahrí Rání, two to cook, and two to wait on her.
The seven mothers and Sonahrí used all to sit on a beautiful, clean
quilted cushion, as big as a carpet, Sonahrí Rání in the middle and
the seven mothers round her, while they sewed, or wrote, and talked.
Hírálál then went to the Rakshas-Rání and said, "I could not get the
sárí you sent me for, so I brought you these flowers instead." When
she saw the flowers she was frantic. She said, "My father, my mother,
my sisters, my brothers, don't care for me, not one bit! not one
scrap! I will never see their faces again--never! never! I will send
some other messenger to them."

One day the Rájá's son came to Mánikbásá and said, "Would you like to
see a grand sight?" Mánikbásá Rájá said, "What sight?" Hírálál said,
"If you would like to see a really grand sight you must do what I tell
you." "Good," answered Mánikbásá, "I will do whatever you tell me."
"Well, then," said his son, "you must build a very strong iron house,
and round it you must lay heaps of wood. In that house you must put
your present Rání." So Mánikbásá Rájá had a very strong iron house
built, round which he set walls of wood. Then he went to his
Rakshas-Rání and said, "Will you go inside that iron house, and see
what it is like?" "Yes, I will," answered she. The Rájá had had great
venetians made for the house, and only one door. As soon as the
Rakshas-Rání had gone in, he locked the door. Then Hírálál took the
little bird, a cockatoo, in which was the Rakshas-Rání's soul, and
showed it to the Rakshas-Rání from afar off. When she saw it she
turned herself into a huge Rakshas as big as a house. She could not
turn in the iron house because she was so huge. Mánikbásá was
dreadfully frightened when he saw his Rání was a horrible Rakshas.
Then Hírálál pulled off the bird's legs, and as the Rakshas was
breaking through the iron house to seize Hírálál, he wrung the
cockatoo's neck, and the Rakshas died instantly. They set fire to the
walls of wood, and the body of the wicked Rakshas was burnt to fine
ashes.

The Rájá's Wazír turned to the Rájá and said, "What a fool you were to
marry this Rakshas, and at her bidding to send your seven wives and
your seven sons away into the jungle, taking out your seven wives'
eyes, and being altogether so cruel to them! You are a great, great
fool!" The poor Rájá wept, and then the Wazír, pointing to Hírálál,
said, "This is your seventh and youngest Rání's son." The Rájá then
embraced Hírálálbásá and asked his forgiveness. And Hírálál told him
his story, how he and his mothers had lived a long, long time in the
hole; how six of the Ránís had eaten their children; how his mother
had not had the heart to eat him; how he had got his seven mothers'
eyes from the Rakshas-grannie; and lastly, how he had married Sonahrí
Rání. Then the Rájá ordered seven litters for his seven Ránís, and a
beautiful litter with rich cloth for Sonahrí Rání. The Rájá and his
Wazír and his attendants, and his son, all went with the litters to
Hírálál's house; and when the Rájá saw Sonahrí Rání he fell flat on
his face, he was so struck by her beauty. For she had a fair, fair
skin, rosy cheeks, blue eyes, rosy lips, golden eyelashes, and golden
eyebrows, and golden hair. When she combed her hair, she used to put
the hair she combed out in paper and to lay the paper on the river,
and it floated down to where the poor people caught it, and sold it,
and got heaps of money for it. Her sárí was of gold, her shoes were of
gold, for God loved her dearly. Then the Rájá rose and embraced all
his wives and Sonahrí Rání, and the seven Ránís walked into the seven
litters; but Sonahrí Rání was carried to hers, for fear she should
soil her feet, or get hurt. Then Mánikbásá Rájá gave Hírálál's house
to his Wazír, while his seven Ránís and Hírálál and Sonahrí Rání lived
with him in his palace. And they lived happily for ever after.

    Told by Dunkní at Simla, 26th July and 1st August, 1876.

FOOTNOTE:

    [2] A long piece of stuff which Hindú women wind round the body
    as a petticoat, passing one end over the head, like a veil.




[Decoration]

XII.

THE MAN WHO WENT TO SEEK HIS FATE.


Once there was a very poor man who had a wife and twelve children, and
not a single rupee. The poor children used to cry with hunger, and the
man and his wife did not know what to do. At last he got furious with
God and said, "How wicked God is! He gives me a great many children,
but no money." So he set out to find his fate. In the jungle he met a
camel with two heavy sacks of gold on its back. This camel belonged to
a Rájá, and once it was travelling with other camels and with the
Rájá's servants to another country, and carrying the sacks of gold.
Every night they encamped and started again early in the morning; but
one morning the servants forgot to take this camel with them, and the
camel forgot the road home, and the sacks were too tightly strapped
for it to get rid of them. So it wandered about the jungle with the
sacks on its back for twelve years. The camel asked the poor man where
he was going. "I am going to seek my fate, to ask it why I am so
poor," he answered. The camel said, "Ask it, too, why for twelve years
I have had to carry these two sacks of gold. All this time I have not
been able to lie down, or to eat, or to drink." "Very well," said the
man, and he went on.

Then he came to a river in which he saw an alligator. The alligator
took him across, and when he got to the other side it asked him where
he was going. The man said, "I am going to seek my fate, to ask it
why I am so poor." "Then," said the alligator, "ask it also why for
twelve years I have a great burning in my stomach." "I will," said the
man.

Then he went on and on till he came to a tiger, who was lying on the
ground with a great thorn sticking in his foot. This tiger had gone
out one day to hunt for food, and not looking where he was going, he
put his foot on the thorn, and the thorn ran into his foot. And so God
grew very angry and said, "Because you are such a careless, stupid
fellow, and don't look where you are going, for twelve years this
thorn shall remain in your foot." "Where are you going?" the tiger
asked the man. "I am going to seek my fate, to ask it why I am so
poor. Some one told me that my fate was far, far away, a twelve years'
journey from my own country, and that it was lying down, and that I
must take a thick stick and beat it with all my might." "Ask it, too,"
said the tiger, "why for twelve years I have had this thorn in my foot
and cannot get it out, though I have tried hard to do so." "Yes, I
will," said the man.

Then he came to the place where every one's fate lives. The fates are
stones, some standing and others lying on the ground. "This must be
mine," he said; "it is lying on the ground, that's why I am so poor."
So he took the thick stick he had in his hand, and beat it, and beat
it, and beat it, but still it would not stir. As night was approaching
he left off beating it, and God sent a soul into the poor man's fate,
and it became a man, who stood looking at the poor man and said, "Why
have you beaten me so much?" "Because you were lying down, and I am
very poor, and at home my wife and my children are starving." "Oh,
things will go well with you now," said the fate, and the man was
satisfied. He said to his fate, "While coming here I met a camel who
for twelve years has had to wander about with two heavy sacks of gold
on its back, and it wants to know why it must carry them." "Oh," said
the fate, "just take the sacks off its back and then it will be free."
"I will," said the poor man. "Then I met an alligator who for twelve
years has had a great burning in its stomach." The fate said, "In its
stomach is a very large ruby, as big as your hand. If the alligator
will only throw up the ruby, it will be quite well." "Next I met a
tiger who has had for twelve years a great thorn in his foot which he
cannot take out." "Pull it out with your teeth," said the fate; and
then God withdrew the soul, and the fate became a stone again which
stood up on the ground.

Then the man set out on his journey home, and he came to the tiger.
"What did your fate say?" said the tiger. "Give me your foot and I
will take out the thorn," said the poor man. The tiger stretched out
the foot with the thorn in it, and the man pulled out the thorn with
his teeth. It was a very large thorn, as big as the man's hand. The
tiger felt grateful to the poor man, and as he was very rich, for he
had eaten a great many Rájás and people, and had all their money, he
said to the man, "I will give you some gold in return for your
kindness." "You have no money," said the man. "I have," said the
tiger, and he went into his den, and the poor man followed. "Give me
your cloth," said the tiger. The man laid it on the ground. Then the
tiger took quantities of gold and jewels and filled the cloth with
them. And the poor man took up his cloth, thanked the tiger, and went
his way. Then he met the alligator who took him across the river. The
alligator said, "Did you ask your fate why there is such burning in my
stomach?" "I did," said the man. "It is because you have a very large
ruby in your stomach. If you will only throw it up, you will be quite
well." Then the alligator threw the ruby up out of its mouth, and that
very instant the burning in its stomach ceased. "Ah," said the
alligator, looking at the ruby, "I swallowed that one day when I was
drinking." And he gave the ruby to the man, saying, "In return for
your kindness I will give you this ruby. It is a very precious stone."
(In old days every Rájá possessed such a ruby; now very few Rájás, if
any, have one.) The poor man thanked the alligator, put the ruby into
his cloth, and went on his way till he came to the camel, who said,
"Did you ask your fate why I have to carry these two sacks of gold?"
"I did," said the man, and he took the sacks off the camel's back. How
happy and grateful the camel felt! "How kind of you," he said to the
man, "to take the sacks off. Now I can eat, now I can drink, and now I
can lie down. Because you have been so kind to me, I give you the two
sacks of gold, and I will carry them and your bundle home to your
house for you, and then I will come back and live here in the jungle."
Then the poor man put the two sacks of gold and his bundle on the
camel, who carried them to his house. When he got there, he took the
sacks and his bundle off the camel, who thanked him again for his
kindness and went back to his jungle, feeling very glad at having got
rid of his heavy burthen.

When the poor man's wife and children saw the gold and jewels and the
ruby, they cried, "Where did you get these?" And the man told them his
whole story. And he bought food for his wife and children, and gave
them a beautiful house, and got them clothes, for now he was very
rich.

Another poor man who was not quite, but nearly, as poor as this man
had been, asked him where he had got his riches. "I got them out of a
river," answered the man. "I drew the water with a bucket, and in
every bucketful there was gold." The other man started off to the
river and began drawing up water in a bucket. "Stop, stop!" cried an
alligator, who was the king of the fishes; "you are taking all the
water out of the river and my fishes will die." "I want money," said
the man, "and I can find none, so I am taking the water out of the
river in order to get some." "You shall have some in a minute," said
the alligator, "only do stop drawing the water." Then a great wave of
water dashed on to the land and dashed back into the river, leaving
behind it a great heap of gold, which the man picked up joyfully. The
next day he came again, and night and day he drew water out of the
river. At last the alligator got very angry, and said, "My fishes will
all die for want of water. Once I gave the man a heap of gold, and yet
he wants more. I won't give him any," and the alligator thrust up his
head out of the river, and swallowed the man whole. For four days and
four nights the man lived in the alligator's stomach. At the end of
the fourth night the king of the fishes said to him, "I will let you
get out of my stomach on condition that you tell no man what has
happened to you. If you do, you will die instantly." The man jumped
out of the alligator's mouth and walked towards his house. On his way
he met some men and told them what had happened to him, and as soon as
he got home he told his wife and children, and the moment he had done
so he became mad and dumb and blood came out of his mouth, and he fell
down dead.

    Told by Dunkní.

[Decoration]




[Decoration]

XIII.

THE UPRIGHT KING.


There was a great Mahárájá whose name was Harchand Rájá, and he had an
only son called Mánikchand. He was very rich and had a great deal of
money, and he also had a very large garden full of lovely flowers and
fruits which he prized greatly. Every morning before he bathed he used
to give some poor fakír two pounds and a half of gold. Now Harchand
Mahárájá used to pray a great deal to God, and God was very fond of
him, so he said one day, "To see if Harchand Mahárájá really loves me,
I will make him very poor for twelve years." And at night God came
down in the shape of a great boar, and ate up everything that was in
Harchand Mahárájá's garden. The boar then ran away into the jungle.
Next morning the gardener got up and looked out into the garden, and
what was his astonishment when he saw it was all spoilt. Nothing was
left in it; it was not a garden any more. He went quickly to the
Mahárájá and said, "Oh, master! oh, Mahárájá! your garden is quite
spoilt. Last night a boar came and ate up everything in it."
"Nonsense," said the Mahárájá, who would not believe him. "It is quite
true," said the gardener; "you can come and see for yourself." So the
Rájá got up at once and put on his clothes, and went into the garden,
and found it all empty. He went back to the house very melancholy.
Then as usual he gave a fakír his two pounds and a half of gold. After
breakfast he went out hunting. The boar which had run away into the
wood changed himself into a very old fakír, who shook from old age. As
Harchand Mahárájá passed, the old fakír held out his hand, saying,
"Please give me a few pice, I am so poor and hungry." The Mahárájá
said, "Come to my palace and I will give you two pounds and a half of
gold." "Oh, no," said the fakír, "surely you would never give me so
much as that." "Yes, I will," said the Mahárájá. "Every morning before
I bathe I give a fakír two pounds and a half of gold." "Nonsense,"
said the fakír, "you don't give away your money in that way." "Really,
I do," said the Mahárájá, "and I promise to give you two pounds and a
half of gold." So the fakír followed Harchand Mahárájá home, and when
they reached the palace, the Mahárájá told his treasurer to give the
old fakír two pounds and a half of gold. The treasurer went into the
treasury, but all the Mahárájá's gold and silver and jewels had become
charcoal! The treasurer came out again to the Mahárájá saying, "Oh,
Mahárájá, all your gold and silver and jewels are turned into
charcoal!" "Oh, nonsense," said the Mahárájá. "Come and see,
Mahárájá," said the treasurer, who was in a great fright. The Mahárájá
went into his treasury, and was quite sad at the sight of the
charcoal. "Alas!" he said, "God has made me very poor, but still I
must give this fakír his money." So he went to the fakír and said,
"All my gold and silver and jewels are turned into charcoal; but I
will sell my wife, and my boy, and myself, and then I will give you
the money I promised you." And he went and fetched his wife and son,
and left his palace, his houses, servants, and possessions.

He then went to a merchant, who bought from him his Mahárání, who was
called Hírálí, that is, the diamond lady, for she was very beautiful,
and her face shone like a diamond. Her hands were very small, and so
were her feet. The merchant gave the Mahárájá a pound of gold for the
Mahárání. Next, Harchand Mahárájá went to a cowherd and sold him his
son Mánikchand. The cowherd gave him for the boy half a pound of gold.
Then he went to a dom, that is, a man of a very low caste, who kept a
tank into which it was his business to throw the bodies of those who
died. If it was a dead man or woman, the dom took one rupee, if it was
a dead child he was only paid eight annas. To this dom Harchand sold
himself for a pound of gold, and he gave the two pounds and a half of
gold to the fakír, who then went home. The dom said, "Will you stay by
the tank for a few days while I go home and do my other work, which is
weaving baskets? If any one brings you a dead body you must throw it
into the water. If it is the body of a man or woman, take one rupee in
payment; if it is a dead child, take eight annas; and if the bearers
have got no money, take a bit of cloth. Don't forget." And the dom
went away, leaving Harchand sitting by the tank.

Well, Harchand Mahárájá sat for some days by the tank, and when any
one brought him dead bodies he threw them into it. For a dead man or
woman he took one rupee, for a dead child eight annas, and if the
bearers had no money to give him, he took some cloth. Some time had
passed, and Mánikchand, the Mahárájá's son, died; so Hírálí Rání went
to the cowherd to ask him for her dead child. The cowherd gave him to
her, and she took him to the tank. Harchand Mahárájá was sitting by
the tank, and when Hírálí Mahárání saw him she said, "I know that man
is my husband, so he will not take any money for throwing his child
into the water." So she went up to him and said, "Will you throw this
child into the tank for me?" "Yes, I will," said Harchand Mahárájá;
"only first give me eight annas." "You surely won't take any money for
throwing your own son into the tank?" said the Mahárání. "You must pay
me," said Harchand Mahárájá, "for I must obey the dom's orders. If you
have no money, give me a piece of cloth." So the Mahárání tore off a
great piece of her sárí and gave it him, and the Mahárájá took his son
and threw him into the tank. As he threw him in he cried out to the
king of the fishes, who was an alligator, "Take great care of this
body." The king of fishes said, "I will." Then the Mahárání went back
to the merchant.

And the Mahárájá caught a fish, and cooked it, and laid it by the
tank, saying, "I will go and bathe and then I will eat it." So he took
off his clothes and went into the tank to bathe, and when he had
bathed he put on fresh clothes, and as he took hold of his fish to eat
it, it slipped back alive into the water, although it had been dead
and cooked. The Mahárájá sat down by the tank again, very sad. He
said, "For twelve years I have found it hard to get anything to eat;
how long will God keep me without food?" God was very pleased with
Harchand for being so patient, for he had never complained.

Some days later God came down to earth in the shape of a man, and with
him he took an angel to be his Wazír. The Wazír said to God, "Come
this way and let us see who it is sitting by the tank." "No," said
God, "I am too tired, I can go no further." "Do come," said the Wazír;
"I want so much to go." God said, "Well, let us go." Then they walked
on till they came to the place where Harchand Mahárájá was sitting,
and God said to him, "Would you like to have your wife, and your son,
and your kingdom back again?" "Yes, I should," said the Mahárájá; "but
how can I get them?" "Tell me truly," said God, "would you like to
have your kingdom back again?" "Indeed I should," said the Mahárájá.
Then Mánikchand's body, which had never sunk to the bottom of the tank
like the other bodies, but had always floated on the water, rose up
out of the water, and Mánikchand was alive once more. The father and
son embraced each other. "Now," said God, "let us go to the dom."
Harchand Mahárájá agreed, and they went to the dom and asked him how
much he would take for Harchand Mahárájá. The dom said, "I gave one
pound of gold for him, and I will take two pounds." So they paid down
the two pounds of gold. Then they went to the merchant and said to
him, "How much will you take for Hírálí Rání?" The merchant said, "I
gave a pound of gold for her; I will take four pounds." So they paid
down the four pounds of gold, took Hírálí Rání, and went to the
cowherd. "How much will you take for Mánikchand?" said they to him. "I
gave half a pound of gold for him," answered the cowherd; "I will take
one pound." So they paid down the pound of gold, and Harchand Mahárájá
went home to his palace, taking with him Hírálí Rání and Mánikchand,
after thanking the strange man for his goodness to them. When they
reached the palace, the garden was in splendid beauty; the charcoal
was turned back into gold, and silver, and jewels; the servants were
in waiting as usual, and they went into the palace and lived happily
for evermore.

    Told by Dunkní.

[Decoration]




[Decoration]

XIV.

LOVING LAILÍ.


Once there was a king called King Dantál, who had a great many rupees
and soldiers and horses. He had also an only son called Prince Majnún,
who was a handsome boy with white teeth, red lips, blue eyes, red
cheeks, red hair, and a white skin. This boy was very fond of playing
with the Wazír's son, Husain Mahámat, in King Dantál's garden, which
was very large and full of delicious fruits, and flowers, and trees.
They used to take their little knives there and cut the fruits and eat
them. King Dantál had a teacher for them to teach them to read and
write.

One day, when they were grown two fine young men, Prince Majnún said
to his father, "Husain Mahámat and I should like to go and hunt." His
father said they might go, so they got ready their horses and all else
they wanted for their hunting, and went to the Phaláná country,
hunting all the way, but they only found jackals and birds.

The Rájá of the Phaláná country was called Múnsúk Rájá, and he had a
daughter named Lailí, who was very beautiful; she had brown eyes and
black hair.

One night, some time before Prince Majnún came to her father's
kingdom, as she slept, God sent to her an angel in the form of a man
who told her that she should marry Prince Majnún and no one else, and
that this was God's command to her. When Lailí woke she told her
father of the angel's visit to her as she slept; but her father paid
no attention to her story. From that time she began repeating,
"Majnún, Majnún; I want Majnún," and would say nothing else. Even as
she sat and ate her food she kept saying, "Majnún, Majnún; I want
Majnún." Her father used to get quite vexed with her. "Who is this
Majnún? who ever heard of this Majnún?" he would say. "He is the man I
am to marry," said Lailí. "God has ordered me to marry no one but
Majnún." And she was half mad. Meanwhile, Majnún and Husain Mahámat
came to hunt in the Phaláná country; and as they were riding about,
Lailí came out on her horse to eat the air, and rode behind them. All
the time she kept saying, "Majnún, Majnún; I want Majnún." The prince
heard her, and turned round. "Who is calling me?" he asked. At this
Lailí looked at him, and the moment she saw him she fell deeply in
love with him, and she said to herself, "I am sure that is the Prince
Majnún that God says I am to marry." And she went home to her father
and said, "Father, I wish to marry the prince who has come to your
kingdom; for I know he is the Prince Majnún I am to marry." "Very
well, you shall have him for your husband," said Múnsúk Rájá. "We will
ask him to-morrow." Lailí consented to wait, although she was very
impatient. As it happened, the prince left the Phaláná kingdom that
night, and when Lailí heard he was gone, she went quite mad. She would
not listen to a word her father, or her mother, or her servants said
to her, but went off into the jungle, and wandered from jungle to
jungle, till she got farther and farther away from her own country.
All the time she kept saying, "Majnún, Majnún; I want Majnún;" and so
she wandered about for twelve years.

At the end of the twelve years she met a fakír--he was really an
angel, but she did not know this--who asked her, "Why do you always
say, 'Majnún, Majnún; I want Majnún'?" She answered, "I am the
daughter of the king of the Phaláná country, and I want to find Prince
Majnún; tell me where his kingdom is." "I think you will never get
there," said the fakír, "for it is very far from hence, and you have
to cross many rivers to reach it." But Lailí said she did not care;
she must see Prince Majnún. "Well," said the fakír, "when you come to
the Bhágírathí river you will see a big fish, a Rohú; and you must get
him to carry you to Prince Majnún's country, or you will never reach
it."

She went on and on, and at last she came to the Bhágírathí river.
There there was a great big fish called the Rohú fish. It was yawning
just as she got up to it, and she instantly jumped down its throat
into its stomach. All the time she kept saying, "Majnún, Majnún." At
this the Rohú fish was greatly alarmed and swam down the river as fast
as he could. By degrees he got tired and went slower, and a crow came
and perched on his back, and said, "Caw, caw." "Oh, Mr. Crow," said
the poor fish, "do see what is in my stomach that makes such a noise."
"Very well," said the crow, "open your mouth wide, and I'll fly down
and see." So the Rohú opened his jaws and the crow flew down, but he
came up again very quickly. "You have a Rakshas in your stomach," said
the crow, and he flew away. This news did not comfort the poor Rohú,
and he swam on and on till he came to Prince Majnún's country. There
he stopped. And a jackal came down to the river to drink. "Oh,
jackal," said the Rohú, "do tell me what I have inside me." "How can I
tell?" said the jackal. "I cannot see unless I go inside you." So the
Rohú opened his mouth wide, and the jackal jumped down his throat; but
he came up very quickly, looking much frightened and saying, "You have
a Rakshas in your stomach, and if I don't run away quickly, I am
afraid it will eat me." So off he ran. After the jackal came an
enormous snake. "Oh," says the fish, "do tell me what I have in my
stomach, for it rattles about so, and keeps saying, 'Majnún, Majnún; I
want Majnún.'" The snake said, "Open your mouth wide, and I'll go
down and see what it is." The snake went down: when he returned he
said, "You have a Rakshas in your stomach; but if you will let me cut
you open, it will come out of you." "If you do that, I shall die,"
said the Rohú. "Oh, no," said the snake, "you will not, for I will
give you a medicine that will make you quite well again." So the fish
agreed, and the snake got a knife and cut him open, and out jumped
Lailí.

She was now very old. Twelve years she had wandered about the jungle,
and for twelve years she had lived inside her Rohú; and she was no
longer beautiful, and had lost her teeth. The snake took her on his
back and carried her into the country, and there he put her down, and
she wandered on and on till she got to Majnún's court-house, where
King Majnún was sitting. There some men heard her crying, "Majnún,
Majnún; I want Majnún," and they asked her what she wanted. "I want
King Majnún," she said. So they went in and said to Prince Majnún, "An
old woman outside says she wants you." "I cannot leave this place,"
said he; "send her in here." They brought her in and the prince asked
her what she wanted. "I want to marry you," she answered. "Twenty-four
years ago you came to my father the Phaláná Rájá's country, and I
wanted to marry you then; but you went away without marrying me. Then
I went mad, and I have wandered about all these years looking for
you." Prince Majnún said, "Very good." "Pray to God," said Lailí, "to
make us both young again, and then we shall be married." So the prince
prayed to God, and God said to him, "Touch Lailí's clothes and they
will catch fire, and when they are on fire, she and you will become
young again." When he touched Lailí's clothes they caught fire, and
she and he became young again. And there were great feasts, and they
were married, and travelled to the Phaláná country to see her father
and mother.

Now Lailí's father and mother had wept so much for their daughter
that they had become quite blind, and her father kept always
repeating, "Lailí, Lailí, Lailí." When Lailí saw their blindness, she
prayed to God to restore their sight to them, which he did. As soon as
the father and mother saw Lailí, they hugged her and kissed her, and
then they had the wedding all over again amid great rejoicings. Prince
Majnún and Lailí stayed with Múnsúk Rájá and his wife for three years,
and then they returned to King Dantál, and lived happily for some time
with him.

They used to go out hunting, and they often went from country to
country to eat the air and amuse themselves.

One day Prince Majnún said to Lailí, "Let us go through this jungle."
"No, no," said Lailí; "if we go through this jungle, some harm will
happen to me." But Prince Majnún laughed, and went into the jungle.
And as they were going through it, God thought, "I should like to know
how much Prince Majnún loves his wife. Would he be very sorry if she
died? And would he marry another wife? I will see." So he sent one of
his angels in the form of a fakír into the jungle; and the angel went
up to Lailí, and threw some powder in her face, and instantly she fell
to the ground a heap of ashes.

Prince Majnún was in great sorrow and grief when he saw his dear Lailí
turn into a little heap of ashes; and he went straight home to his
father, and for a long, long time he would not be comforted. After a
great many years he grew more cheerful and happy, and began to go
again into his father's beautiful garden with Husain Mahámat. King
Dantál wished his son to marry again. "I will only have Lailí for my
wife; I will not marry any other woman," said Prince Majnún. "How can
you marry Lailí? Lailí is dead. She will never come back to you," said
the father. "Then I'll not have any wife at all," said Prince Majnún.

Meanwhile Lailí was living in the jungle where her husband had left
her a little heap of ashes. As soon as Majnún had gone, the fakír had
taken her ashes and made them quite clean, and then he had mixed clay
and water with the ashes, and made the figure of a woman with them,
and so Lailí regained her human form, and God sent life into it. But
Lailí had become once more a hideous old woman, with a long, long
nose, and teeth like tusks; just such an old woman, excepting her
teeth, as she had been when she came out of the Rohú fish; and she
lived in the jungle, and neither ate nor drank, and she kept on
saying, "Majnún, Majnún; I want Majnún."

At last the angel who had come as a fakír and thrown the powder at
her, said to God, "Of what use is it that this woman should sit in the
jungle crying, crying for ever, 'Majnún, Majnún; I want Majnún,' and
eating and drinking nothing? Let me take her to Prince Majnún."
"Well," said God, "you may do so; but tell her that she must not speak
to Majnún if he is afraid of her when he sees her; and that if he is
afraid when he sees her, she will become a little white dog the next
day. Then she must go to the palace, and she will only regain her
human shape when Prince Majnún loves her, feeds her with his own food,
and lets her sleep in his bed." So the angel came to Lailí again as a
fakír and carried her to King Dantál's garden. "Now," he said, "it is
God's command that you stay here till Prince Majnún comes to walk in
the garden, and then you may show yourself to him. But you must not
speak to him, if he is afraid of you; and should he be afraid of you,
you will the next day become a little white dog." He then told her
what she must do as a little dog to regain her human form.

Lailí stayed in the garden, hidden in the tall grass, till Prince
Majnún and Husain Mahámat came to walk in the garden. King Dantál was
now a very old man, and Husain Mahámat, though he was really only as
old as Prince Majnún, looked a great deal older than the prince, who
had been made quite young again when he married Lailí.

As Prince Majnún and the Wazír's son walked in the garden, they
gathered the fruit as they had done as little children, only they bit
the fruit with their teeth; they did not cut it. While Majnún was busy
eating a fruit in this way, and was talking to Husain Mahámat, he
turned towards him and saw Lailí walking behind the Wazír's son. "Oh,
look, look!" he cried, "see what is following you; it is a Rakshas or
a demon, and I am sure it is going to eat us." Lailí looked at him
beseechingly with all her eyes, and trembled with age and eagerness;
but this only frightened Majnún the more. "It is a Rakshas, a
Rakshas!" he cried, and he ran quickly to the palace with the Wazír's
son; and as they ran away, Lailí disappeared into the jungle. They ran
to King Dantál, and Majnún told him there was a Rakshas or a demon in
the garden that had come to eat them. "What nonsense," said his
father. "Fancy two grown men being so frightened by an old ayah or a
fakír! And if it had been a Rakshas, it would not have eaten you."
Indeed King Dantál did not believe Majnún had seen anything at all,
till Husain Mahámat said the prince was speaking the exact truth. They
had the garden searched for the terrible old woman, but found nothing,
and King Dantál told his son he was very silly to be so much
frightened. However, Prince Majnún would not walk in the garden any
more.

The next day Lailí turned into a pretty little dog; and in this shape
she came into the palace, where Prince Majnún soon became very fond of
her. She followed him everywhere, went with him when he was out
hunting, and helped him to catch his game, and Prince Majnún fed her
with milk, or bread, or anything else he was eating, and at night the
little dog slept in his bed.

But one night the little dog disappeared, and in its stead there lay
the little old woman who had frightened him so much in the garden; and
now Prince Majnún was quite sure she was a Rakshas, or a demon, or
some such horrible thing come to eat him; and in his terror he cried
out, "What do you want? Oh, do not eat me; do not eat me!" Poor Lailí
answered, "Don't you know me? I am your wife Lailí, and I want to
marry you. Don't you remember how you would go through that jungle,
though I begged and begged you not to go, for I told you that harm
would happen to me, and then a fakír came and threw powder in my face,
and I became a heap of ashes. But God gave me my life again, and
brought me here, after I had stayed a long, long while in the jungle
crying for you, and now I am obliged to be a little dog; but if you
will marry me, I shall not be a little dog any more." Majnún, however,
said "How can I marry an old woman like you? how can you be Lailí? I
am sure you are a Rakshas or a demon come to eat me," and he was in
great terror.

In the morning the old woman had turned into the little dog, and the
prince went to his father and told him all that had happened. "An old
woman! an old woman! always an old woman!" said his father. "You do
nothing but think of old women. How can a strong man like you be so
easily frightened?" However, when he saw that his son was really in
great terror, and that he really believed the old woman would come
back at night, he advised him to say to her, "I will marry you if you
can make yourself a young girl again. How can I marry such an old
woman as you are?"

That night as he lay trembling in bed the little old woman lay there
in place of the dog, crying, "Majnún, Majnún, I want to marry you. I
have loved you all these long, long years. When I was in my father's
kingdom a young girl, I knew of you, though you knew nothing of me,
and we should have been married then if you had not gone away so
suddenly, and for long, long years I followed you." "Well," said
Majnún, "if you can make yourself a young girl again, I will marry
you."

Lailí said, "Oh, that is quite easy. God will make me a young girl
again. In two days' time you must go into the garden, and there you
will see a beautiful fruit. You must gather it and bring it into your
room and cut it open yourself very gently, and you must not open it
when your father or anybody else is with you, but when you are quite
alone; for I shall be in the fruit quite naked, without any clothes at
all on." In the morning Lailí took her little dog's form, and
disappeared in the garden.

Prince Majnún told all this to his father, who told him to do all the
old woman had bidden him. In two days' time he and the Wazír's son
walked in the garden, and there they saw a large, lovely red fruit.
"Oh!" said the Prince, "I wonder shall I find my wife in that fruit."
Husain Mahámat wanted him to gather it and see, but he would not till
he had told his father, who said, "That must be the fruit; go and
gather it." So Majnún went back and broke the fruit off its stalk; and
he said to his father, "Come with me to my room while I open it; I am
afraid to open it alone, for perhaps I shall find a Rakshas in it that
will eat me." "No," said King Dantál; "remember, Lailí will be naked;
you must go alone, and do not be afraid if, after all, a Rakshas is in
the fruit, for I will stay outside the door, and you have only to call
me with a loud voice, and I will come to you, so the Rakshas will not
be able to eat you."

Then Majnún took the fruit and began to cut it open tremblingly, for
he shook with fear; and when he had cut it, out stepped Lailí, young
and far more beautiful than she had ever been. At the sight of her
extreme beauty, Majnún fell backwards fainting on the floor.

Lailí took off his turban and wound it all round herself like a sárí
(for she had no clothes at all on), and then she called King Dantál,
and said to him sadly, "Why has Majnún fallen down like this? Why will
he not speak to me? He never used to be afraid of me; and he has seen
me so many, many times." King Dantál answered, "It is because you are
so beautiful. You are far, far more beautiful than you ever were. But
he will be very happy directly." Then the King got some water, and
they bathed Majnún's face and gave him some to drink, and he sat up
again. Then Lailí said, "Why did you faint? Did you not see I am
Lailí?" "Oh!" said Prince Majnún, "I see you are Lailí come back to
me, but your eyes have grown so wonderfully beautiful, that I fainted
when I saw them." Then they were all very happy, and King Dantál had
all the drums in the place beaten, and had all the musical instruments
played on, and they made a grand wedding-feast, and gave presents to
the servants, and rice and quantities of rupees to the fakírs.

After some time had passed very happily, Prince Majnún and his wife
went out to eat the air. They rode on the same horse, and had only a
groom with them. They came to another kingdom, to a beautiful garden.
"We must go into that garden and see it," said Majnún. "No, no," said
Lailí; "it belongs to a bad Rájá, Chumman Básá, a very wicked man."
But Majnún insisted on going in, and in spite of all Lailí could say,
he got off the horse to look at the flowers. Now, as he was looking at
the flowers, Lailí saw Chumman Básá coming towards them, and she read
in his eyes that he meant to kill her husband and seize her. So she
said to Majnún, "Come, come, let us go; do not go near that bad man. I
see in his eyes, and I feel in my heart, that he will kill you to
seize me." "What nonsense," said Majnún. "I believe he is a very good
Rájá. Anyhow, I am so near to him that I could not get away." "Well,"
said Lailí, "it is better that you should be killed than I, for if I
were to be killed a second time, God would not give me my life again;
but I can bring you to life if you are killed." Now Chumman Básá had
come quite near, and seemed very pleasant, so thought Prince Majnún;
but when he was speaking to Majnún, he drew his scimitar and cut off
the prince's head at one blow.

Lailí sat quite still on her horse, and as the Rájá came towards her
she said, "Why did you kill my husband?" "Because I want to take you,"
he answered. "You cannot," said Lailí. "Yes, I can," said the Rájá.
"Take me, then," said Lailí to Chumman Básá; so he came quite close
and put out his hand to take hers to lift her off her horse. But she
put her hand in her pocket and pulled out a tiny knife, only as long
as her hand was broad, and this knife unfolded itself in one instant
till it was such a length! and then Lailí made a great sweep with her
arm and her long, long knife, and off came Chumman Básá's head at one
touch.

Then Lailí slipped down off her horse, and she went to Majnún's dead
body, and she cut her little finger inside her hand straight down from
the top of her nail to her palm, and out of this gushed blood like
healing medicine. Then she put Majnún's head on his shoulders, and
smeared her healing blood all over the wound, and Majnún woke up and
said, "What a delightful sleep I have had! Why, I feel as if I had
slept for years!" Then he got up and saw the Rájá's dead body by
Lailí's horse. "What's that?" said Majnún. "That is the wicked Rájá
who killed you to seize me, just as I said he would." "Who killed
him?" asked Majnún. "I did," answered Lailí, "and it was I who brought
you to life." "Do bring the poor man to life if you know how to do
so," said Majnún. "No," said Lailí, "for he is a wicked man, and will
try to do you harm." But Majnún asked her for such a long time, and so
earnestly to bring the wicked Rájá to life, that at last she said,
"Jump up on the horse, then, and go far away with the groom." "What
will you do," said Majnún, "if I leave you? I cannot leave you." "I
will take care of myself," said Lailí; "but this man is so wicked, he
may kill you again if you are near him." So Majnún got up on the
horse, and he and the groom went a long way off and waited for Lailí.
Then she set the wicked Rájá's head straight on his shoulders, and she
squeezed the wound in her finger till a little blood-medicine came out
of it. Then she smeared this over the place where her knife had
passed, and just as she saw the Rájá opening his eyes, she began to
run, and she ran, and ran so fast, that she outran the Rájá, who tried
to catch her; and she sprang up on the horse behind her husband, and
they rode so fast, so fast, till they reached King Dantál's palace.

There Prince Majnún told everything to his father, who was horrified
and angry. "How lucky for you that you have such a wife," he said.
"Why did you not do what she told you? But for her, you would be now
dead." Then he made a great feast out of gratitude for his son's
safety, and gave many, many rupees to the fakírs. And he made so much
of Lailí. He loved her dearly; he could not do enough for her. Then he
built a splendid palace for her and his son, with a great deal of
ground about it, and lovely gardens, and gave them great wealth, and
heaps of servants to wait on them. But he would not allow any but
their servants to enter their gardens and palace, and he would not
allow Majnún to go out of them, nor Lailí; "for," said King Dantál,
"Lailí is so beautiful, that perhaps some one may kill my son to take
her away."

    Told by Dunkní.




[Decoration]

XV.

HOW KING BURTAL BECAME A FAKÍR.


Once there was a great king called Burtal, and he had a hundred and
sixty wives, but he had no children, which made him sad. One day he
said to his wives, "I am going to a very distant jungle which is full
of antelopes, to hunt them." "Very well," they answered, "go." So he
went. In that jungle lived neither tigers nor men, but only antelopes.
When King Burtal reached the jungle, some of the antelopes came to him
and said, "Pray don't kill the black antelope, for he is our Rájá, and
we have no other antelope like him among us; but try to kill any of
the others--the brown or the yellow antelopes--that you choose." Now,
the king was not a kind man, and he said, "I will kill your black
antelope, and no other." So he shot him dead. When the other antelopes
saw this they began to scream and cry with sorrow. But the dead
antelope's wife said to them, "There is a holy man, a fakír, in the
jungle. Let us take the dead body to him and ask him to bring our Rájá
to life." And King Burtal laughed at them and said, "How can any man
bring a dead antelope to life?" But the antelopes took the body of
their dead Rájá on their backs, and the dead antelope's wife went at
their head; and King Burtal went too; and they carried it to the
fakír, who was called Goraknáth, and who was resting in the jungle,
and they said to him, "Bring our Rájá to life again, for what can we
do without a Rájá? and he has left no son to succeed him." And the
queen antelope said, "I have no other husband. I had only this one
husband. Do bring him to life for me." King Burtal laughed and mocked
them, and said to the fakír, "I never heard of any man being able to
bring a dead antelope to life. I don't believe you can do it." At this
Goraknáth got angry, and he knelt down and asked God to bring the
antelope to life; and God told him to take a wand and beat the dead
antelope with it, and then the antelope would be alive again. So
Goraknáth took a wand and beat the dead antelope, and it was alive
once more, and then it instantly sprang up into heaven. The antelopes
were delighted to see their Rájá alive again, and they said, "We do
not mind his going up to heaven, for he will come down again to us."

King Burtal had stood by all the time, and he said to Goraknáth, "Make
me a fakír like yourself," for he thought it would be fine to do such
wonderful things. But Goraknáth would not, and King Burtal stayed in
the jungle with Goraknáth for twelve years, and all that time he never
ceased begging and praying to be made a fakír, till at last Goraknáth
said, "I cannot make you a fakír unless you go home and address your
wives as 'Mamma,' and ask them to give you money and food." Now, it is
a very shameful thing to call one's wife 'Mamma,' for if a wife is
called 'Mamma' she has to leave her husband. Then Goraknáth took off
the king's clothes, and dressed him only in a cloth and a tiger's
skin; and the king went to his palace and began begging for rice and
food, and he would not take any from the palace servants: he said he
must and would see the Ránís, and that they themselves should give him
food. The servants told the Ránís about this fakír who said he must
and would see them himself, and that they should give him food and
rice with their own hands, and one of their ayahs, who had recognized
King Burtal, told them the fakír was their husband who had been away
twelve years. The Ránís cried out, "Do not talk nonsense. That fakír
can never be our husband." "Go and see for yourselves," answered the
ayah. They went, and the fakír said to them, "Mamma, give me rice."
"Why do you call us 'Mamma'?" they said. "We have no sons. You are not
our son." But at last they saw he was indeed their husband, and they
wrung their hands and wept bitterly, and threw themselves on the
ground before him and said, "Why have you called us 'Mamma'? Why do
you ask for bread? We must now leave you." "Don't go away," said the
king. "Take my kingdom, my money, my houses, and stay here till I
return. I am going to be a fakír." His wives gave him some rice and
some money, and he went back to Goraknáth.

In old days men who intended to become fakírs had to do three tasks
set them by one who was already a fakír; so Goraknáth said to the
king, "Now you must go to a jungle that I will show you, and stay
there for twelve years." Then King Burtal took the flat pan and the
rolling-pin which he used in making his flour cakes, and was quite
ready to start for the jungle, but the fakír stopped him. "You must
leave your pan and your rolling-pin behind," he said; "and all these
twelve years you must neither eat nor drink, or you can never be a
fakír. You must sit quite still on the same spot and never move." "I
shall die if I don't eat," said the king; "but I don't care if I do
die, so I will do all you tell me." Then the fakír took him to a
jungle, and made him sit down on the grass, and instantly all the
grass round him grew up so tall and thick that King Burtal was quite
hidden by it, and no one could see him. Here he lived for twelve
years, and never moved, and he ate nothing, and drank nothing, and
nobody knew he was there.

At the end of that time Goraknáth came and took him away and said,
"Now go home to your wives." "Why should I go to my wives? I do not
wish to see my wives, for they have given me no children," said King
Burtal. But Goraknáth said, "Go and see them." So King Burtal went;
and he begged for rice from them; and they entreated him to stay with
them, but he would not. "I will return to the fakír Goraknáth," he
said. "Why should I stay with you? You have never given me a child.
What use is all my wealth to me? I have no son to take it when I am
dead. I will become a fakír." And they threw themselves on the ground
and wrung their hands, and said, "Oh, why will you leave us?" He
answered, "Because it pleases me to do so." And he called them all
"Mamma," and told them to stay in his palace and take all he possessed
for their own use. Then he returned to Goraknáth.

"Now," said Goraknáth, "you must learn to be sweeper to all the beasts
of the jungle, and you must serve them for twelve years." So for
twelve years King Burtal cleared the grass and kept the jungle clean
for all the creatures in it--cows, sheep, goats, tigers, cats, bears.
Sometimes he stayed in one part of the jungle, and sometimes in
another.

When the twelve years were over he went to Goraknáth, who said to him,
"Good; you have learnt to serve the wild beasts; now you must learn to
serve men." Then the fakír took the king to a village, and bade him
sweep it and keep it clean for twelve years. Here King Burtal stayed
for another twelve years, and all that time he was the village-sweeper
and kept the village clean, and he swept all the dust and dirt into a
great heap till the heap was as high and as big as a hut.

When the twelve years were over he returned to Goraknáth and stood
before him, and as he stood there came a man who was an angel sent by
God, and he threw some dirt on King Burtal's head; but the king never
moved nor spoke. "Now," cried Goraknáth, "I see you are a true fakír:
go and cleanse yourself by bathing in the river."

The river in which he was sent to bathe was the Jamná. In this river
lived water-nymphs, and the nymph Gangá was playing in it when her
sister Jamná[3] came to her and said, "Come quickly; our father is
dying and wants to see you;" and off Jamná went to her father. Gangá
was hurrying after her when King Burtal saw her, and stopped her, and
asked her where she was going so fast. "To my father, who is very ill
and dying," said Gangá; "let me go." "I will not let you go," said
King Burtal. Then Gangá began to run, and said, "You cannot keep me,
you cannot catch me; no man can catch me, no man can keep me." This
provoked King Burtal, and he said, "I can catch you, and I can keep
you." "No, no," she answered; "no one can catch me, no one can hold
me." Then King Burtal got quite vexed, and he ran till he caught her,
and then he said, "Now, I will not let you go; I will keep you." Then
he held her in his hands and rubbed her between his palms, and when he
opened his hands she had turned into a little round ball. He tried to
hide the ball in his hair, but could not, for his hair was too short,
and he found he could not hold Gangá, as she was too strong for him;
so he thought he would take her to Mahádeo,[4] who had long thick
hair, and make him keep her, for King Burtal was dreadfully frightened
and did not dare let the ball go, for fear Gangá, who he knew was very
angry, should take her own form and bring a great flood to drown him.
So he went quickly to Mahádeo, and gave the ball to him. Mahádeo said,
"Why not keep her yourself?" "I cannot," said King Burtal, "for my
hair is too short to tie her into; and I cannot hold her, for she is
too strong for me; but your hair is long, and so you can hide her in
it." Then Mahádeo had a round box made of bamboo, and in this box was
a hole into which he dropped the ball. And he let down his long hair,
and it reached to the ground, and was thick--so thick; he put the box
in his hair on the top of his head, and rolled his long hair all round
his head and over the box just like a turban.

Jamná finding her sister did not follow her, came up from the bottom
of the river to look for her, and she asked whether any one had seen
her, and at last some one said, "King Burtal has taken her away."
Jamná set off to King Burtal and said, "Give me my sister Gangá, for
our father is dying and wants to see her." "It is true that I took her
away," said King Burtal, "but I have not got her now; she is with
Mahádeo." So Jamná went to Mahádeo,--"Give me my sister quickly, for
our father is dying and wants to see her." (Now Gangá was in a great
passion inside her box.) "I cannot give you Gangá," said Mahádeo, "for
she is so angry that if I let her loose she will flood the country
with water." "No, she will not; indeed, she will not," said Jamná. "If
I give her to you, you will not be able to keep her," said Mahádeo.
"Yes, yes, I shall," said Jamná. "I do not think you will," said
Mahádeo; "but here is the box in which said is. Hold it tight, and be
careful that neither you nor any one else mentions her name on the
journey." Jamná said she would be very careful, and took the box; but
she had to pass through a jungle in which were a number of cowherds
and holy men, one of whom was called Gangá. Just as Jamná passed by,
one of these men called to this man by his name, Gangá, and instantly
Gangá burst the box and flooded the country with water. The holy men
and the cowherd called to her to have pity on them, and so did Jamná;
but Gangá was too angry to listen to them or speak to them, so she
drowned all the holy men and the cowherds, and when she got to her
father's house and found he was dead, she was in such a rage that she
declared she would send a still greater flood to ruin the country; and
so she did.

After this, King Burtal went to Goraknáth and stayed with him some
years, till Goraknáth said, "Now go to your own kingdom." But King
Burtal refused, saying, "I wish to stay with you; my wives have never
given me a child. I have no son. I do not care to return to my
kingdom." However, Goraknáth would not allow him to stay. "Go to your
own kingdom," he said again; "but first tell me how many wives you
have." "A hundred and sixty," answered the King. "Here are a hundred
and sixty líchí fruits for you," said the fakír. "Give one to each of
your wives to eat, and they will each have a son, and I will go with
you." So King Burtal obeyed, and Goraknáth went with him.

Seventy years had passed since King Burtal had left his kingdom. When
he and Goraknáth reached it, they went to an open plain and made a
fire and sat down beside it. Everybody who passed them said, "Who are
these fakírs?" Some servants of King Burtal's Ránís passed too, and
when they got home they told the Ránís that their husband had returned
to his kingdom. But the Ránís said, "What nonsense you talk! King
Burtal went away with the fakír Goraknáth." The servants answered, "We
are quite sure that King Burtal is here, for Goraknáth is here, and
with him is another man, and we are sure this man is King Burtal." So
all the Ránís went to see for themselves, and when they saw the fakír
that was with Goraknáth they knew he was their husband. Then the first
Rání, who was very angry with him for having left them, said a spell
over him: "God is very angry with you for leaving us, and he will send
you a bad illness." But King Burtal answered, "Do not be angry with
me. I am your husband, and have come back to you after an absence of
seventy years." At this the youngest Rání was very glad, and she
ordered drums to be beaten and she beat a drum herself, and they sang
songs, and all went to the palace together, and Goraknáth with them.

Then Goraknáth said he must now go away, but first he asked King
Burtal to show him a grand feat as a proof of his skill. So King
Burtal sent to the smith for a great iron chain. Then he lit a big
fire. This alarmed the palace servants, who wondered if he were going
to burn his palace and his wives. King Burtal next sent for some ghee.
"What is he going to do with the ghee?" said the palace servants. Then
he drove a nail into the wall, rubbed his hands with the ghee, put the
iron chain into the fire and drew it out red-hot; flames came from the
iron. Then King Burtal hung it on the nail and pulled and pulled at
the chain till he drew it off the nail, and his hands were not in the
least burnt. The Ránís and palace servants were greatly astonished and
Goraknáth much pleased. "You know how to do your work well," said he
to the king. Then Goraknáth bade him good bye, telling him to look
after his kingdom and his wives; but they all said he must not leave
them, and they built him a grand house in the compound, and gave him a
great many servants to wait on him, and plenty of money; so Goraknáth
agreed to live in this house; only, as he was a fakír, he often went
away by himself to spend some time in his jungle, always returning to
his house in King Burtal's compound. Meanwhile King Burtal gave each
of his wives a líchí to eat, and after a little while each wife had a
little son. They were all such beautiful children; but the biggest and
handsomest of all was the eldest Rání's little son. His name was
Sazádá, and his father and mother loved him dearly.

When Prince Sazádá was about six or seven years old, the fakír
Goraknáth came to King Burtal and said, "Now you must give me your
son Sazádá, for I want to take him away with me for some years." The
Rání, his mother, refused to let him go, but at last she had to do so,
and then she became mad and very sick for grief.

Goraknáth took the little prince to Indrásan to be taught by the
fairies, and on arriving he married him to Jahúr Rání, who was the
daughter of the greatest of the fairy queens. Goraknáth made a grand
wedding for the little prince, and all the fairies were delighted that
he should be the little Jahúr Rání's husband, for he was such a
beautiful child they all fell in love with him the moment they saw
him, and they taught him to play on all kinds of instruments, and to
sing beautifully, and to read and write, and he grew handsomer and
handsomer every day in the fairy kingdom. Goraknáth came often to see
him, and the fairies took great care of him.

When Prince Sazádá had grown a fine strong young man, Goraknáth took
him and his wife, the Jahúr Rání, and brought them in great state to
King Burtal's kingdom. First he took the young prince and presented
him to his father and said, "See, here is your son. Now he can read
and write, sing and play on all kinds of instruments, for I have had
him taught all these things." But they, when they saw him, fell on
their faces, for they could not look at him on account of his great
beauty. He had grown so handsome in Indrásan, and his cheeks were red.
"How can this beautiful boy be our son?" they said, and they did not
recognize him. "Stand up," said Goraknáth. "This is your son Sazádá;
do not fall down before your son." So they stood up, and the fakír
said, "I have married your son to the fairy princess Jahúr Rání, and I
will bring her to you." So then he brought the little Rání, and when
they saw her they fell down again, for they could not look at her
beauty. Her hair was like red gold, her eyes were dark, and her
eyelashes black. But Goraknáth made them stand up; and when they
really understood it was their son and his wife that he had brought
them, they took Prince Sazádá into their arms, and kissed him and
loved him, and his Rání too. Goraknáth made a grand wedding-feast for
them all, and they were all very happy.

    Told by Dunkní.

FOOTNOTES:

    [3] Yamuná.

    [4] Mahadeva, _i.e._ Siva.

[Decoration]




[Decoration]

XVI.

SOME OF THE DOINGS OF SHEKH FARÍD.


Once there was a Rájá called Hámánsá Rájá. He had a son, named Gursan
Rájá, who married Kheláparí Rání, the daughter of Gulábsá Rájá. After
the wedding Gursan Rájá brought her home to his father's house.

One day Gursan Rájá came home from hunting, very very tired and
thirsty. It was about twelve or one o'clock in the day. He asked
Kheláparí Rání to fetch him some water, and while she went for it he
fell asleep. When she came back she found him still sleeping, and
because he was so tired he slept all the afternoon and all night, and
never woke till the next morning. His wife stood by him all the time
holding the water in a brass cup. When he woke and found she had stood
there all the afternoon and all night he was very sorry, and asked God
to forgive him, and to give his wife whatever she wished for, no
matter what it might be. So Kheláparí wished that whatever happened in
any country, she might know of it at once of herself without any one
telling her, no matter how far away the country might be.

One day Kheláparí Rání went to draw water from the tank, and by the
tank sat an old man, the fakír Shekh Faríd. He said to the Rání, "Give
me a little water to drink." "I will," she said, "only drink it
quickly, for my father's house is on fire, and I am going to put it
out." "How far off is your father's country?" asked Shekh Faríd.
"About twenty miles," answered Kheláparí. "Then how can you know his
house is on fire!" said Shekh Faríd; "I have been a fakír for twelve
years, and for twelve years neither ate nor drank, and yet I do not
know what happens twenty miles away." "But I know," she answered.
"Leave your water-jar here," he said, "and go and see if the house
really is on fire, and I will not drink till you return to me."

So off went Kheláparí Rání to her father's country, and when she got
there his house was burning, and she stayed till the fire was put out,
and then returned to the tank where she left the fakír. "Is it true,"
he asked, "that your father's house was on fire?" "Quite true," she
answered. The fakír wondered. "How could she know it when the fire was
twenty miles off?" he said to himself, and he determined to go to
Gulábsá Rájá's country to see if the Rání had told him the truth.

He went by a roundabout road, as he did not know the way, so it took
him three or four days to get there. When he did, he asked some
villagers if there had been a fire at their Rájá's house. "Yes, a few
days ago there was," they answered. So the fakír, still more
astonished, decided he would go back to Hámánsá Rájá's palace and ask
Kheláparí Rání how it came to pass that she was wiser than Shekh
Faríd.

As he was returning, he met a bullock-cart laden with bags of sugar,
and he asked the driver what the bags contained. The driver was put
out because his bullocks would not go on quickly, and he was tired
with beating and goading them, so he said crossly, "It's ashes."
"Good," said Shekh Faríd, "let it be ashes." When the cartman got to
the bazar, and went to make over the sugar to the merchant who had
sent him for it, he found all his bags full of ashes, nothing but
ashes. He was in a great state of mind, for a good deal of money had
been paid for the sugar, and he was a poor man. So he went back to
Shekh Faríd and fell down at his feet, saying, "I am a poor, poor
man. My sugar is turned to ashes. Do make the ashes sugar again."
"Good," said the fakír; "go home, and you will find sugar, and next
time you are asked what you have in your cart, tell the truth and not
lies." The cartman went home, and when he saw his sugar was sugar once
more, and no longer ashes, he was very, very glad.

One of his brother-villagers thought, "How pleasant it would be to
become a fakír and do such things myself! I will go to this fakír and
learn from him to be a fakír too." So he went after Shekh Faríd and
found him walking along the road, and he followed him. Now Shekh Faríd
knew at once what this man wanted, so as they passed a heap of clay
bricks, he said, "O God, let it be thy pleasure to give me power to
turn these clay bricks into gold." Instantly they became gold, and
Shekh Faríd walked on; but the villager took up two of the bricks and
put one under each arm, and then followed the fakír. Suddenly Shekh
Faríd turned round, and said to him, "You have two clay bricks under
your arms." The man looked, saw it was true, and threw them away. Then
Shekh Faríd said to him, "You steal bricks, and yet wish to be a
fakír?" The man was ashamed, and went back to his village.

Shekh Faríd continued his journey and got to Hámánsá Rájá's country;
but when he got there he found Kheláparí had gone to another country
for a little while, so he never saw her, nor found out how it was that
she knew what happened twenty miles off.

In a jungle in Hámánsá Rájá's country he met a man, called
Fakír-achand, and his wife, who were very poor. They were going to
bury their only son, and were crying bitterly. Shekh Faríd asked them,
"Would you like your son to be alive again?" "Yes," they said. "Will
you give him to me, and I will bring him to life, and then he shall
return to you?" said Shekh Faríd. "Yes," they answered, and gave him
their dead son, and went to their home.

The fakír carried the dead boy, who was called Mohandás, a little
further on, and then laid him on the ground, and struck him with a
long thin bamboo wand he carried in his hand. The boy stood up. Shekh
Faríd asked him, "Would you like to go home to your father and mother,
or to stay with me?" "To stay with you," said Mohandás. (Had he wished
to go home, the fakír would have been very angry.) "Then," said Shekh
Faríd, "I will call your mother here." He did so, and when she came,
he said to her, "See, here is your son alive. Will you give him to me
for twelve years?" The woman said, "Yes," and went home. The fakír
gave her and her husband a quantity of rupees and built them a
beautiful house. Then he and Mohandás set out on their travels, and
wandered about the jungles for one whole year, till they came to a
country full of large splendid gardens belonging to a very rich Rájá,
called Dumkás Rájá.

This Rájá had a beautiful daughter, Champákálí Rání. She had lovely
golden hair, golden eyebrows, golden eyelashes, blue eyes, and her
skin was transparent. In Dumkás Rájá's country they had never seen a
fakír, so when Shekh Faríd and Mohandás arrived, the Rájá sent to
them, and asked Shekh Faríd to come to talk to him. "No," said the
fakír, "I will not go to the Rájá: if the Rájá wants me, he must come
to me."

Dumkás Rájá was very angry when his messengers returned with this
answer, and he ordered Shekh Faríd to leave his country immediately;
but the fakír said he would not go until he had married his adopted
son, Mohandás, to Champákálí Rání. The people all laughed at him for
saying this, and declared such a marriage would never take place.
However, the fakír and Mohandás walked about and saw the town, and
looked at everything, and everybody stared at them. Then they went to
live on the border of Dumkás Rájá's country, and lived there for some
time.

One day Shekh Faríd bought Mohandás a beautiful horse and fine clothes
such as Rájás wear, and told the boy to ride about the fields and high
roads. He also told him not to speak to any one unless they spoke to
him. Mohandás promised to do as he was bid. As he was riding along, he
met the Princess Champákálí, who was also riding. She asked him who he
was. "A Rájá's son," he said. "What Rájá?" asked Champákálí. "Never
mind what Rájá," said Mohandás. The princess then went home, and so
did Mohandás; but every day after this they met and talked together,
and the princess fell very much in love with Mohandás.

At last she said to her father, "I wish to marry a young man who rides
about on the border-land every day, and is very handsome." The Rájá
consented, for it was time his daughter was married, and now no Rájá
from another country would come to marry her, as the demons who
guarded the princess swallowed all her suitors at one gulp, and had
already swallowed many Rájás who had come on this errand.

Shekh Faríd said to Mohandás, "Now go up to the palace, and claim the
princess for your wife." "If I do," said Mohandás, "the demons will
swallow me." "I will not let them swallow you," said Shekh Faríd. So
Mohandás consented and set off for the palace, Shekh Faríd following
him. When Mohandás came to the demons, they were going to swallow him;
but the fakír, who had his sword in his hand, killed them all, and as
he did so, the Rájás and princes who had come as suitors to the
Princess Champákálí, and had therefore been swallowed by the demons,
all came jumping out of the demons' stomachs and ran off in all
directions as hard as they could, from fear not knowing where they
went.

Mohandás was greatly frightened at all this; but Shekh Faríd explained
everything to him, so he went on to the palace, and the fakír went
too. There Mohandás asked Dumkás Rájá to give him his daughter as his
wife, and the Rájá consented. So he was married to Champákálí Rání,
and her father gave them a great many elephants, and horses, and
camels, and a great deal of money and many jewels. And Mohandás and
his wife set off with the fakír to his father Fakír-achand's house,
and they took all the elephants, camels, horses, money and jewels with
them. On the way Mohandás told Champákálí Rání that he was not a great
Rájá's son, but the son of poor people. Champákálí's heart was very
sad at this; however, she was not angry, only sorry.

When they reached Hámánsá Rájá's country, and had come to
Fakír-achand's house, the fakír said to Mohandás's mother, "See, you
lent me one child, and I have brought you back two children. Does this
please you?" "Indeed it does please me," she answered; "I am very
happy."

They built a beautiful palace and all lived in it together. The mother
begged Shekh Faríd to stay with them, saying, "Only stay with us; I
will give you a bungalow, and you shall have everything you want." But
Shekh Faríd said, "I am a fakír, and so cannot stay with you, as I may
never stay in one place, and must, instead, wander from country to
country and from jungle to jungle." So he said good-bye to them and
went on his wanderings, and never returned to them.

Mohandás, his wife, and his father and mother, all lived happily
together.

    Told by Dunkní.




[Decoration]

XVII.

THE MOUSE.


There was a mouse who wanted something to eat; so he went to a garden,
where many kinds of grain, and fruit, and cabbages, and other
vegetables were growing. All round the garden the people to whom it
belonged had planted a hedge of thorns, that nothing might get in. The
mouse scrambled through the hedge, but great thorns pierced his tail,
and he began to cry. He came out of the garden again through the
hedge, and on his way home he met a barber.

"You must take out these thorns," said he to the barber.

"I cannot," said the barber, "without cutting off your tail with my
razor."

"Never mind cutting off my tail," said the mouse.

The barber cut off the mouse's tail. But the mouse was in a rage. He
seized the razor and ran away with it. At this the poor barber was
very unhappy and began to cry, for he had no pice wherewith to buy
another.

The mouse ran on and on until at last he came to another country, in
which there were no knives or sickles to cut the grass with. There the
mouse saw a man pulling the grass out of the ground with his hands.

"You will cut your hands," said the mouse.

"There are no knives here," said the man, "so I must pull up the grass
in this way."

"You must take my razor then," said the mouse.

"Suppose your razor should break? I could not buy you another," said
the man.

"Never mind if it does break," said the mouse, "I give it to you as a
present."

So the man took the razor and began cutting the grass, and as he was
cutting, the razor broke.

"Oh, why have you broken my razor?" exclaimed the mouse.

"Did not I tell you it would break?" answered the man.

The mouse snatched up the man's blanket and ran off with it. The
grass-cutter began to cry. "What shall I do?" said he. "The mouse has
carried away my blanket, and I have not money wherewith to buy
another." And he went home very sad.

Meanwhile the mouse ran on and on until he arrived at another country,
where he saw a grain merchant chopping up sugar-canes; only as he had
no blanket or cloth to lay the canes on, he chopped them up on the
ground, and so they got dirty.

"Why do you chop up your canes on the ground?" said the mouse; "they
all get dirty."

"What can I do?" answered the man. "I have no pice wherewith to buy a
blanket to chop them on."

"Then why don't you take mine?" said the mouse.

"If I took yours it would get cut, and I have no money to buy you
another," said the grain merchant.

"Never mind; I don't want another," said the mouse.

So the man took the blanket, and of course he cut it. When he had
finished chopping up his sugar-canes, he gave it back to the mouse.

When the mouse saw the blanket was full of holes, he was very angry
indeed with the man, and seizing all the sugar-canes he ran away with
them as fast as he could. The grain merchant began to cry. "What shall
I do?" said he; "I have no more sugar-canes." And he went home very
sorrowful.

Then the mouse ran on and on till he came to another country, where he
stopped at a sweetmeat-seller's shop. Now in this country there was no
salt and no sugar. And the sweetmeat-seller made his sweetmeats of
flour and ghee without either sugar or salt, so that they were very
nasty.

"Will you give me some sweetmeats for a pice?" said the mouse to the
sweetmeat-seller. "Yes," answered the man, and he gave one. The mouse
began to eat it and thought it very nasty indeed.

"Why, there is no sugar in it!" exclaimed the mouse.

"No," said the man; "we have no sugar in this country. The few
sugar-canes we have are so dear, that poor people like myself cannot
buy them."

"Then take my sugar-canes," cried the mouse.

"No," said the man. "Where should I find the money to pay you for
them? They would be all used in making sweetmeats."

"Take them," said the mouse; "I give them to you."

The sweetmeat-seller took them and began making sweetmeats of all
kinds, so that he used all the sugar-canes.

"Why have you used all my sugar-canes?" cried the mouse.

"Did not I tell you I should do so?" said the man.

"You are a thief!" cried the mouse, and he knocked down the
sweetmeat-seller, seized all his sweetmeats, and ran off with them.

"What shall I do now?" cried the sweetmeat-seller. "I have no money to
buy flour and ghee to make more sweetmeats with; and if I quarrel with
the mouse, he will doubtless kill me."

Meanwhile the mouse ran on and on till he reached a country, the Rájá
of which had a great many cows--hundreds of cows. The mouse stopped at
the pasture-ground of these cows. Now, the cowherds were so poor they
could not buy bread every day, and sometimes they ate bread which was
twelve days old. When the mouse arrived, the cowherds were eating
their bread, and it was very stale and mouldy.

"Why do you eat that stale bread?" said the mouse.

"Because we have no money to buy any other with," answered the
cowherds.

"Look at all these sweetmeats," said the mouse. "Take them and eat
them instead of that stale bread."

"But if we eat them, we must pay you for them, and where shall we get
the money?" said the cowherds.

"Oh, never mind the money," said the mouse.

So the cowherds took the sweetmeats and ate them all up. At this the
mouse was furious. He stuck a pole into the ground, and ran and
fetched ropes, and tied the cowherds hand and foot to the pole. Then
he took all the cows and ran off with them.

He ran on and on till he got to a country where there were no fowls,
no cows, no buffaloes, no meat of any kind; and the people in it did
not even know what milk and meat were. The day the mouse arrived was
the day the Rájá's daughter was to be married, and a great many people
were assembled together. The Rájá's cooks were cooking, but they had
neither meat nor ghee.

"Why are all these people assembled together?" said the mouse.

"To-day is our Rájá's daughter's wedding-day, and we are cooking the
dinner," answered the cooks.

"But you have no meat," said the mouse.

"No," said the cooks. "There is no meat of any kind in our country."

"Take my cows," said the mouse.

"No," said the cooks; "our Rájá could not pay for them; he is too
poor." (He was only a petty Rájá.)

"It does not matter," said the mouse. "I don't want money."

So the cooks took the cows and the sheep and killed them, and dressed
their flesh in different ways; made pilaus and curries; they roasted
some and boiled some, and gave it to the people to eat. In this way
they made an end of all the cows.

"Why have you made an end of all my cows?" cried the mouse.

"Did not we tell you we should make use of them all?" said the cooks.

"Give me my cows," said the mouse.

"We can't. The people have eaten them all up," said the cooks.

The mouse was in a great rage. He ran off to the bridegroom, who was
walking near the kitchen, saying to himself, "Now I will go and fetch
my bride."

"Give me the money for my cows," cried the mouse to him. "Your people
have eaten them all up, and your cooks won't pay me, so you must."

"What have I to do with your cows?" said the bridegroom. "I won't pay
you for them."

"Then if you won't pay me, your wife's father must," said the mouse.

"Oh, _he_ is too poor to pay for your cows," said the bridegroom, "and
I won't."

"Then if I am not paid, I will take away your bride," said the mouse;
and he ran off and carried away the bride.

The Rájá was very angry at this; but the mouse ran on and on with his
wife (so he called the Rájá's daughter) till he came to another
country.

Now, on the day he arrived in it there were going to be grand sights
and fun to please its Rájá. Some jugglers and rope-dancers were going
to perform.

"Take my wife and let her walk on the rope; she is young, and your
wives are old," said the mouse to the rope-dancers.

"No," they answered, "for she does not know how to walk on a rope and
carry at the same time a wooden plate on her head. She would fall and
break her neck."

"But you must take my wife," said the mouse. "She won't fall; she is
young, and your wives are old. You really must take her."

So the rope-dancers took her, much against their will, and when she
began to walk on the rope with the wooden plate on her head, she fell
and died.

"Oh, why have you killed my wife?" cried the mouse.

"Did we not tell you she would fall and kill herself?" answered the
rope-dancers.

The mouse seized all the jugglers' and rope-dancers' wives, and the
things they used in dancing and juggling, and ran off with them. Then
the rope-dancers and jugglers began to cry, and said, "What shall we
do? Our wives and our property are all gone!"

Meanwhile the mouse ran on and on until he came to another country,
where he got a house to live in. And he ate a great deal, and grew so
fat that he could not get through the door of his house.

"Send for a carpenter," said he to the rope-dancers' and jugglers'
wives, "and tell him to cut off some of my flesh. Then I shall be able
to get into my house."

The women sent for a carpenter, and when he came the mouse said to
him, "cut off some of my flesh, then I shall be able to go into my
house."

"If I do," said the carpenter, "you will die."

"No, I shan't die," said the mouse. "Do as I bid you."

So the carpenter took his knife, and cut off some of the mouse's
flesh.

"Oh, dear! oh, dear!" cried the mouse; "how it does hurt! What can I
do to make it stop paining me?"

"You must go to a certain place, where a particular kind of grain
grows, and rub the grain on your wounds. Then they will get quite
well," said the carpenter.

So the mouse ran off to the place to which the carpenter had told him
to go, and rubbed his wounds with the grain. This gave him such pain
that he fell down and died.

The rope-dancers' and jugglers' wives went home to their husbands with
all the things the mouse had carried away, and they all lived happily
ever after.

    Told by Karím.

[Decoration]




[Decoration]

XVIII.

A WONDERFUL STORY.


Once there lived two wrestlers, who were both very very strong. The
stronger of the two had a daughter called Ajít; the other had no
daughter at all. These wrestlers did not live in the same country, but
their two villages were not far apart.

One day the wrestler that had no daughter heard of the wrestler that
had a daughter, and he determined to go and find him and wrestle with
him, to see who was the stronger. He went therefore to Ajít's father's
country, and when he arrived at his house, he knocked at the door and
said, "Is any one here?" Ajít answered, "Yes, I am here;" and she came
out. "Where is the wrestler who lives in this house?" he asked. "My
father," answered Ajít, "has taken three hundred carts to the jungle,
and he is drawing them himself, as he could not get enough bullocks
and horses to pull them along. He is gone to get wood." This
astonished the wrestler very much. "Your father must indeed be very
strong," he said.

Then he set off to the jungle, and in the jungle he found two dead
elephants. He tied them to the two ends of a pole, took the pole on
his shoulder, and returned to Ajít's house. There he knocked at the
door, crying, "Is any one here?" "Yes, I am here," said Ajít. "Has
your father come back?" asked the wrestler. "Not yet," said Ajít, who
was busy sweeping the room. Now, her father had twelve elephants.
Eleven were in the stables, but one was lying dead in the room Ajít
was sweeping; and as she swept, she swept the dead elephant without
any trouble out of the door. This frightened the wrestler. "What a
strong girl this is!" he said to himself. When Ajít had swept all the
dust out of the room, she came and gathered it and the dead elephant
up, and threw dust and elephant away. The wrestler was more and more
astonished.

He set off again to find Ajít's father, and met him pulling the three
hundred carts along. At this he was still more alarmed, but he said to
him, "Will you wrestle with me now?" "No," said Ajít's father, "I
won't; for here there is no one to see us." The other again begged him
to wrestle at once, and at that moment an old woman bent with age came
by. She was carrying bread to her son, who had taken his mother's
three or four thousand camels to browse.

The first wrestler called to her at once, "Come and see us wrestle."
"No," said the old woman, "for I must take my son his dinner. He is
very hungry." "No, no; you must stay and see us wrestle," cried both
the wrestlers. "I cannot stay," she said; "but do one of you stand on
one of my hands, and the other on the other, and then you can wrestle
as we go along." "You carry us!" cried the men. "You are so old, you
will never be able to carry us." "Indeed I shall," said the old woman.
So they got up on her hands, and she rested her hands, with the
wrestlers standing on them, on her shoulders; and her son's
flour-cakes she put on her head. Thus they went on their way, and the
men wrestled as they went.

Now the old woman had told her son that if he did not do his work
well, she would bring men to kill him; so he was dreadfully frightened
when he saw his mother coming with the wrestlers. "Here is my mother
coming to kill me," he said: and he tied up the three or four
thousand camels in his cloth, put them all on his head, and ran off
with them as fast as he could. "Stop, stop!" cried his mother, when
she saw him running away. But he only ran on still faster, and the old
woman and the wrestlers ran after him.

Just then a kite was flying about, and the kite said to itself, "There
must be some meat in that man's cloth," so it swept down and carried
off the bundle of camels. The old woman's son at this sat down and
cried.

The wrestlers soon came up to him and said, "What are you crying for?"
"Oh," answered the boy, "my mother said that if I did not do my work,
she would bring men to kill me. So, when I saw you coming with her, I
tied all the camels up in my cloth, put them on my head, and ran off.
A kite came down and carried them all away. That is why I am crying."
The wrestlers were much astonished at the boy's strength and at the
kite's strength, and they all three set off in the direction in which
the kite had flown.

Meanwhile the kite had flown on and on till it had reached another
country, and the daughter of the Rájá of this country was sitting on
the roof of the palace, combing her long black hair. The princess
looked up at the kite and the bundle, and said, "There must be meat in
that bundle." At that moment the kite let the bundle of camels fall,
and it fell into the princess's eye, and went deep into it; but her
eye was so large that it did not hurt her much. "Oh, mother! mother!"
she cried, "something has fallen into my eye! come and take it out."
Her mother rushed up, took the bundle of camels out of the princess's
eye, and shoved the bundle into her pocket.

The wrestlers and the old woman's son now came up, having seen all
that had happened. "Where is the bundle of camels?" said they, "and
why do you cry?" they asked the princess. "Oh," said her mother, "she
is crying because something fell into her eye." "It was the bundle of
camels that fell into her eye, and the bundle is in your pocket," said
the old woman's son to the Rání: and he put his hand into her pocket
and pulled out the bundle. Then he and the wrestlers went back to
Ajít's father's house, and on the way they met his old mother, who
went with them.

They invited a great many people to dinner, and Ajít took a large
quantity of flour and made it into flat cakes. Then she handed a cake
to the wrestler who had come to see her father, and gave one to
everybody else. "I can't eat such a big cake as this," said the
wrestler. "Can't you?" said Ajít. "I can't indeed," he answered; "it
is much too big." "Then I will eat it myself," said Ajít, and taking
it and all the other cakes she popped them into her mouth together.
"That is not half enough for me," she said. Then she offered him a can
of water. "I cannot drink all that water," he said. "Can't you?" said
Ajít; "I can drink much more than that." So she filled a large tub
with water, lifted it to her mouth, and drank it all up at a draught.

The wrestler was very much astonished, and said to her, "Will you come
to my house? I will give you a dinner." "You will never be able to
give me enough to eat and drink," said Ajít. "Yes, I shall," he said.
"You will not be able to give me enough, I am sure," said Ajít; "I
cannot come." "Do come," he said. "Very well," she answered, "I will
come; but I know you will never be able to give me enough food."

So they set off to his house. But when they had gone a little way, she
said, "I must have my house with me." "I cannot carry your house,"
said the wrestler. "You must," said Ajít, "if you don't, I cannot go
with you." "But I cannot carry your house," said the wrestler. "Well,
then," said Ajít, "I will carry it myself." So she went back, dug up
her house, and hoisted it on her head. This frightened the wrestler.
"What a strong woman she must be!" he thought. "I will not wrestle
with her father; for if I do, he will kill me."

Then they all went on till they came to his house. When they got to
it, Ajít set her house down on the ground, and the wrestler went to
get the dinner he had promised her. He brought quantities of
things--all sorts of things--everything he could think of. Three kinds
of flour, milk, dhall, rice, curries, and meat. Then he showed them
all to Ajít. "That is not enough for my dinner," she said. "Why, that
would be hardly enough for my mice!"

The wrestler wondered very much at this, and asked, "Are your mice so
very big?" "Yes, they are very big," she answered; "come and see." So
he took up all the food he had brought, and laid it on the floor of
Ajít's house. Then at once all the mice came and ate it up every bit.
The wrestler was greatly surprised; and Ajít said, "Did I not tell you
true? and did I not tell you, you would never be able to get me enough
to eat?" "Come to the Nabha Rájá's country," said the wrestler. "There
you will surely get enough to eat."

To this she agreed; so she, her father, and the wrestler went off to
the Nabha Rájá's country. "I have brought a very strong girl," said
the wrestler to the Nabha Rájá. "I will try her strength," said the
Rájá. "Give me three elephants," said Ajít, "and I will carry them for
you." Then the Rájá sent for three elephants, and said to her, "Now,
carry these." "Give me a rope," said Ajít. So they gave her a rope,
and she tied the three elephants together, and flung them over her
shoulder. "Now, where shall I throw them?" she said to the astonished
Rájá. "Shall I throw them on to the roof of your palace? or on to the
ground? or away out there?" "I don't know," said the Rájá. "Throw them
upon my roof." She threw the elephants up on to the roof with such
force that it broke, and the elephants fell through into the palace.

"What have you done?" cried the Rájá. "It is not my fault," answered
Ajít. "You told me to throw the elephants on to your roof, and so I
did." Then the Rájá sent for a great many men and bullocks and horses
to pull the elephants out of his palace. But they could not the first
time they pulled; then they tried a second time and succeeded, and
they threw the elephants away.

Then Ajít went home. "What shall I do with this dreadful woman?" said
the Nabha Rájá. "She is sure to kill me, and take all my country. I
will try to kill her." So he got his sepoys and guns into order, and
went out to kill Ajít. She was looking out of her window, and saw them
coming. "Oh," she said, "here is the Nabha Rájá coming to kill me."
Then she went out of her house and asked him why he had come. "To kill
you," said the Rájá. "Is that what you want to do?" she said; and with
one hand she took up the Rájá, his guns, and his sepoys, and put them
all under her arm: and she carried them all off to the Nabha Rájá's
country. There she put the Rájá into prison, and made herself Rání of
his kingdom. She was very much pleased at being Rání of the Nabha
country; for it was a rich country, and there were quantities of
fruits and of corn in it. And she lived happily for a long, long time.

    Told by Karím, 13th January, 1877.

[Decoration]




[Decoration]

XIX.

THE FAKÍR NÁNAKSÁ SAVES THE MERCHANT'S LIFE.


In a country there was a grain merchant who was a very good man. Now a
fakír named Nánaksá, who was also a very good man, came constantly to
talk with him.

One day he came as usual, and the merchant and his wife were very glad
to see him. As they were all sitting together, they saw a goat led
away to be killed. The goat escaped from the man who was leading him
and hid behind the merchant, but he was caught and marched off to
death.

At this the merchant said nothing, but the fakír laughed.

A little later they saw an old woman who had done something wrong,
and, therefore, the king had ordered her to be taken to the jungle and
there put to death. The old woman escaped from the men who were
leading her and took refuge behind the merchant, but she was seized
and led away to die.

The merchant said nothing; the fakír laughed, and the merchant's wife
saw him laugh.

At this moment the merchant's little daughter woke and began to
scream. Her mother took her in her arms; the child was cross and
pulled her mother's clothes all awry.

The fakír laughed.

The mother put her dress straight and held her child in her arms and
stopped her crying. She then took a knife and went up to the fakír,
saying, "Why did you laugh three times? Tell me the truth. What made
you laugh three times?" Nánaksá answered, "What does it signify
whether I cry or laugh? Ask me no questions, for I am a fakír, and it
does not matter in the least whether I laugh or cry." However, the
merchant's wife insisted on knowing why he laughed, and she said, "If
you do not tell me, I will kill you with my knife." "Good," said
Nánaksá; "if you really do wish to know, I will tell you." "I really
do wish to know," she answered.

"Well," said Nánaksá, "you remember the goat took refuge behind your
husband? That goat in his former life was your husband's father, and
your husband would have saved him from death had he given the man who
was taking him to be killed four rupees, for the man would then have
gone away contentedly without the goat."

"Good," said the woman. "Why did you laugh the second time?"

"Well," said Nánaksá, "that old woman who hid herself behind your
husband was his grandmother in her former life. Had your husband given
the men who were taking her to the jungle twenty rupees, they would
have given her up to him, and he would have saved her from death.
Should a wild beast or a man ever take refuge behind us, it is our
duty to save his life."

"Well," said the merchant's wife, "you have told me why you laughed
the first two times. Now tell me why you laughed the third time."

"Listen," said Nánaksá. "You remember your husband's sister whom you
tormented so much? She died, but then God caused her to be born again
as your daughter, that she might torment you and punish you for having
been so unkind to her in her former life when she was your
sister-in-law."

"Is that true?" said the woman.

"Quite true," answered the fakír, "and that is why I laughed the third
time. But now would you like to hear something I wish to tell you? If
you promise not to cry, I will tell it you."

"I promise not to cry, so tell me," she said.

"Then listen," said Nánaksá. "God has decreed that your husband shall
die to-morrow morning at ten o'clock. He will send four angels to
fetch him."

At this the poor woman began to cry bitterly.

"Do not cry," said the fakír. "I will tell you something more. Listen
to me. To-morrow morning at four o'clock you must get up, and make
your house quite clean and neat. Then buy new dishes and make all the
nicest and most delicious sweetmeats you can."

"I will do so," she answered.

When it was yet night she rose, and did all the fakír had bidden her.
Then she went to him and said, "The sweetmeats are ready." "Now," said
Nánaksá, "go and get a fine, clean cloth; take it and the sweetmeats
with you, and set out and walk on and on till you come to a plain
which is a long way from this. But you must go on till you reach it,
and on it you will see a tank and a tree. By the tank and the tree you
must spread your cloth and lay out your sweetmeats on it. At nine
o'clock you will see four men, who will come and bathe in the tank.
When they have bathed they will come towards you, and you must say to
them, 'See! you are four angels, therefore you must eat some of my
sweetmeats.'"

The woman set out for the plain and did all Nánaksá had told her to
do; and everything happened as he had foretold. When the four men had
bathed, they came towards the woman, and she said to them, "See! you
are four angels, and therefore you must eat some of my sweetmeats."
The chief of the four angels, who was called Jabrá'íl, and the three
other angels answered, "We have no money, wherewith to buy your
sweetmeats, so how can we eat any of them?" "Never mind the money,"
said the woman; "you can pay me another day. Come now and eat some."
So the four angels sat down and ate a great many of her sweetmeats.

When they had finished they stood up and said to each other, "Now we
must go to the village and fetch the merchant." Then the woman made
them a great many salaams and said, "That merchant is my husband.
Still, if it is your pleasure to take him away, take him away."

At this the angels were sad, and said to her, "How can we take your
husband's life now that we have eaten your food? But stay under this
tree till we return, and then we will pay you for your sweetmeats."

So the angels left her, and the wife waited under the tree. She was
very sad; and after some time she thought, "Now I will go home:
perhaps these angels are gone to take his life;" and then she cried
bitterly and remained under the tree.

Meanwhile the four angels had gone back to God, who asked them, "Have
you brought the merchant?" They were sorry not to have brought him,
and told God all that had happened. And God was very angry; but he
said to them. "Never mind. I know the fakír Nánaksá is with the
merchant and his wife just now, and it is he who has played you this
trick."

Then God wrote a letter in which he promised the merchant twenty years
more life, only at the end of the twenty years he was really to die
and not to be allowed to live any longer. This letter he gave to the
angels, and bade them take it to the merchant's wife and tell her to
have a silver box made, into which she was to put the letter, and
then hang it round her husband's neck, so that he should live for
twenty years more.

The four angels came down to earth again, and went to the tree under
which they had left the woman. They found her waiting for them, and
gave her the letter saying, "You must get a silver box made and put
this letter in it; then hang it round your husband's neck, so that he
may live for twenty years more."

The woman thanked them, and was very happy. She took the letter and
went home. There she found her husband quite well, and with him was
Nánaksá. She gave Nánaksá the letter and told him what the angels had
bidden her do with it. Nánaksá read the letter, and was very much
pleased. Then he said to her, "Call a silversmith here, and let him
make you the silver box. Then you must get a great dinner ready, and
ask all your friends, rich and poor, to come and eat it."

All this she did, and when the dinner was ready and all their friends
had come, the fakír said, "None who are here, men, women, or children,
must eat, till they have put their hands before their faces and
worshipped God." Everybody hid his face in his hands at once and
worshipped God: while they did this the fakír stole away from them, so
when they uncovered their faces he was nowhere to be seen. No one knew
where he had gone, and no one had seen him go. Some of the men went to
look for him, but they could not find him, and none of them ever saw
him again.

But the merchant and his wife lived happily together.

    Told by Múniyá.

[Decoration]




[Decoration]

XX.

THE BOY WHO HAD A MOON ON HIS FOREHEAD AND A STAR ON HIS CHIN.


In a country were seven daughters of poor parents, who used to come
daily to play under the shady trees in the King's garden with the
gardener's daughter; and daily she used to say to them, "When I am
married I shall have a son. Such a beautiful boy as he will be has
never been seen. He will have a moon on his forehead, and a star on
his chin." Then her playfellows used to laugh at her and mock her.

But one day the King heard her telling them about the beautiful boy
she would have when she was married, and he said to himself he should
like very much to have such a son; the more so that though he had
already four wives he had no child. He went, therefore, to the
gardener and told him he wished to marry his daughter. This delighted
the gardener and his wife, who thought it would indeed be grand for
their daughter to become a princess. So they said "Yes" to the King,
and invited all their friends to the wedding. The King invited all
his, and he gave the gardener as much money as he wanted. Then the
wedding was held with great feasting and rejoicing.

A year later the day drew near on which the gardener's daughter was to
have her son; and the King's four other wives came constantly to see
her. One day they said to her, "The King hunts every day; and the time
is soon coming when you will have your child. Suppose you fell ill
whilst he was out hunting and could therefore know nothing of your
illness, what would you do then?"

When the King came home that evening, the gardener's daughter said to
him, "Every day you go out hunting. Should I ever be in trouble or
sick while you are away, how could I send for you?" The King gave her
a kettle-drum which he placed near the door for her, and he said to
her, "Whenever you want me, beat this kettle-drum. No matter how far
away I may be, I shall hear it, and will come at once to you."

Next morning, when the King had gone out to hunt, his four other wives
came to see the gardener's daughter. She told them all about her
kettle-drum. "Oh," they said, "do drum on it just to see if the King
really will come to you." "No, I will not," she said; "for why should
I call him from his hunting when I do not want him?" "Don't mind
interrupting his hunting," they answered. "Do try if he really will
come to you when you beat your kettle-drum." So at last, just to
please them, she beat it, and the King stood before her.

"Why have you called me?" he said. "See, I have left my hunting to
come to you." "I want nothing," she answered; "I only wished to know
if you really would come to me when I beat my drum." "Very well,"
answered the King; "but do not call me again unless you really need
me." Then he returned to his hunting.

The next day, when the King had gone out hunting as usual, the four
wives again came to see the gardener's daughter. They begged and
begged her to beat her drum once more, "just to see if the King will
really come to see you this time." At first she refused, but at last
she consented. So she beat her drum, and the King came to her. But
when he found she was neither ill nor in trouble, he was angry, and
said to her, "Twice I have left my hunting and lost my game to come
to you when you did not need me. Now you may call me as much as you
like, but I will not come to you," and then he went away in a rage.

The third day the gardener's daughter fell ill, and she beat and beat
her kettle-drum; but the King never came. He heard her kettle-drum,
but he thought, "She does not really want me; she is only trying to
see if I will go to her."

Meanwhile the four other wives came to her, and they said, "Here it is
the custom before a child is born to bind its mother's eyes with a
handkerchief that she may not see it just at first. So let us bind
your eyes." She answered, "Very well, bind my eyes." The four wives
then tied a handkerchief over them.

Soon after, the gardener's daughter had a beautiful little son, with a
moon on his forehead and a star on his chin; and before the poor
mother had seen him, the four wicked wives took the boy to the nurse
and said to her, "Now you must not let this child make the least sound
for fear his mother should hear him; and in the night you must either
kill him, or else take him away, so that his mother may never see him.
If you obey our orders, we will give you a great many rupees." All
this they did out of spite. The nurse took the little child and put
him into a box, and the four wives went back to the gardener's
daughter.

First they put a stone into her boy's little bed, and then they took
the handkerchief off her eyes and showed it her, saying, "Look! this
is your son!" The poor girl cried bitterly, and thought, "What will
the King say when he finds no child?" But she could do nothing.

When the King came home, he was furious at hearing his youngest wife,
the gardener's daughter, had given him a stone instead of the
beautiful little son she had promised him. He made her one of the
palace servants, and never spoke to her.

In the middle of the night the nurse took the box in which was the
beautiful little prince, and went out to a broad plain in the jungle.
There she dug a hole, made the fastenings of the box sure, and put the
box into the hole, although the child in it was still alive. The
King's dog, whose name was Shankar, had followed her to see what she
did with the box. As soon as she had gone back to the four wives (who
gave her a great many rupees), the dog went to the hole in which she
had put the box, took the box out, and opened it. When he saw the
beautiful little boy, he was very much delighted and said, "If it
pleases God that this child should live, I will not hurt him; I will
not eat him, but I will swallow him whole and hide him in my stomach."
This he did.

After six months had passed, the dog went by night to the jungle, and
thought, "I wonder whether the boy is alive or dead." Then he brought
the child out of his stomach and rejoiced over his beauty. The boy was
now six months old. When Shankar had caressed and loved him, he
swallowed him again for another six months. At the end of that time he
went once more by night to the broad jungle-plain. There he brought up
the child out of his stomach (the child was now a year old), and
caressed and petted him a great deal, and was made very happy by his
great beauty.

But this time the dog's keeper had followed and watched the dog; and
he saw all that Shankar did, and the beautiful little child, so he ran
to the four wives and said to them, "Inside the King's dog there is a
child! the loveliest child! He has a moon on his forehead and a star
on his chin. Such a child has never been seen!" At this the four wives
were very much frightened, and as soon as the King came home from
hunting they said to him, "While you were away your dog came to our
rooms, and tore our clothes and knocked about all our things. We are
afraid he will kill us." "Do not be afraid," said the King. "Eat your
dinner and be happy. I will have the dog shot to-morrow morning."

Then he ordered his servants to shoot the dog at dawn, but the dog
heard him, and said to himself, "What shall I do? The King intends to
kill me. I don't care about that, but what will become of the child if
I am killed? He will die. But I will see if I cannot save him."

So when it was night, the dog ran to the King's cow, who was called
Surí, and said to her, "Surí, I want to give you something, for the
King has ordered me to be shot to-morrow. Will you take great care of
whatever I give you?" "Let me see what it is," said Surí; "I will take
care of it if I can." Then they both went together to the wide plain,
and there the dog brought up the boy. Surí was enchanted with him. "I
never saw such a beautiful child in this country," she said. "See, he
has a moon on his forehead and a star on his chin. I will take the
greatest care of him." So saying she swallowed the little prince. The
dog made her a great many salaams, and said, "To-morrow I shall die;"
and the cow then went back to her stable.

Next morning at dawn the dog was taken to the jungle and shot.

The child now lived in Surí's stomach; and when one whole year had
passed, and he was two years old, the cow went out to the plain, and
said to herself, "I do not know whether the child is alive or dead.
But I have never hurt it, so I will see." Then she brought up the boy;
and he played about, and Surí was delighted; she loved him and
caressed him, and talked to him. Then she swallowed him, and returned
to her stable.

At the end of another year she went again to the plain and brought up
the child. He played and ran about for an hour to her great delight,
and she talked to him and caressed him. His great beauty made her very
happy. Then she swallowed him once more and returned to her stable.
The child was now three years old.

But this time the cowherd had followed Surí, and had seen the
wonderful child and all she did to it. So he ran and told the four
wives, "The King's cow has a beautiful boy inside her. He has a moon
on his forehead and a star on his chin. Such a child has never been
seen before!"

At this the wives were terrified. They tore their clothes and their
hair and cried. When the King came home at evening, he asked them why
they were so agitated. "Oh," they said, "your cow came and tried to
kill us; but we ran away. She tore our hair and our clothes." "Never
mind," said the King. "Eat your dinner and be happy. The cow shall be
killed to-morrow morning."

Now Surí heard the King give this order to the servants, so she said
to herself, "What shall I do to save the child?" When it was midnight,
she went to the King's horse called Katar, who was very wicked, and
quite untameable. No one had ever been able to ride him; indeed no one
could go near him with safety, he was so savage. Surí said to this
horse, "Katar, will you take care of something that I want to give
you, because the King has ordered me to be killed to-morrow?" "Good,"
said Katar; "show me what it is." Then Surí brought up the child, and
the horse was delighted with him. "Yes," he said, "I will take the
greatest care of him. Till now no one has been able to ride me, but
this child shall ride me." Then he swallowed the boy, and when he had
done so, the cow made him many salaams, saying, "It is for this boy's
sake that I am to die." The next morning she was taken to the jungle
and there killed.

The beautiful boy now lived in the horse's stomach, and he stayed in
it for one whole year. At the end of that time the horse thought, "I
will see if this child is alive or dead." So he brought him up; and
then he loved him, and petted him, and the little prince played all
about the stable, out of which the horse was never allowed to go.
Katar was very glad to see the child, who was now four years old.
After he had played for some time, the horse swallowed him again. At
the end of another year, when the boy was five years old, Katar
brought him up again, caressed him, loved him, and let him play about
the stable as he had done a year before. Then the horse swallowed him
again.

But this time the groom had seen all that happened, and when it was
morning, and the King had gone away to his hunting, he went to the
four wicked wives, and told them all he had seen, and all about the
wonderful, beautiful child that lived inside the King's horse Katar.
On hearing the groom's story the four wives cried, and tore their hair
and clothes, and refused to eat. When the King returned at evening and
asked them why they were so miserable, they said, "Your horse Katar
came and tore our clothes, and upset all our things, and we ran away
for fear he should kill us." "Never mind," said the King. "Only eat
your dinner and be happy. I will have Katar shot to-morrow." Then he
thought that two men unaided could not kill such a wicked horse, so he
ordered his servants to bid his troop of sepoys shoot him.

So the next day the King placed his sepoys all round the stable, and
he took up his stand with them; and he said he would himself shoot any
one who let his horse escape.

Meanwhile the horse had overheard all these orders. So he brought up
the child and said to him, "Go into that little room that leads out of
the stable, and you will find in it a saddle and bridle which you must
put on me. Then you will find in the room some beautiful clothes such
as princes wear; these you must put on yourself; and you must take the
sword and gun you will find there too. Then you must mount on my
back." Now Katar was a fairy-horse, and came from the fairies'
country, so he could get anything he wanted; but neither the King nor
any of his people knew this. When all was ready, Katar burst out of
his stable, with the prince on his back, rushed past the King himself
before the King had time to shoot him, galloped away to the great
jungle-plain, and galloped about all over it. The King saw his horse
had a boy on his back, though he could not see the boy distinctly. The
sepoys tried in vain to shoot the horse; he galloped much too fast;
and at last they were all scattered over the plain. Then the King had
to give it up and go home; and his sepoys went to their homes. The
King could not shoot any of his sepoys for letting his horse escape,
for he himself had let him do so.

Then Katar galloped away, on, and on, and on; and when night came they
stayed under a tree, he and the King's son. The horse ate grass, and
the boy wild fruits which he found in the jungle. Next morning they
started afresh, and went far, and far, till they came to a jungle in
another country, which did not belong to the little prince's father,
but to another king. Here Katar said to the boy, "Now get off my
back." Off jumped the prince. "Unsaddle me and take off my bridle;
take off your beautiful clothes and tie them all up in a bundle with
your sword and gun." This the boy did. Then the horse gave him some
poor, common clothes, which he told him to put on. As soon as he was
dressed in them the horse said, "Hide your bundle in this grass, and I
will take care of it for you. I will always stay in this jungle-plain,
so that when you want me you will always find me. You must now go away
and find service with some one in this country." This made the boy
very sad. "I know nothing about anything," he said. "What shall I do
all alone in this country?" "Do not be afraid," answered Katar. "You
will find service, and I will always stay here to help you when you
want me. So go, only before you go, twist my right ear." The boy did
so, and his horse instantly became a donkey. "Now twist your right
ear," said Katar. And when the boy had twisted it, he was no longer a
handsome prince, but a poor, common-looking, ugly man; and his moon
and star were hidden.

Then he went away further into the country, until he came to a grain
merchant of the country, who asked him who he was. "I am a poor man,"
answered the boy, "and I want service." "Good," said the grain
merchant, "you shall be my servant."

Now the grain merchant lived near the King's palace, and one night at
twelve o'clock the boy was very hot; so he went out into the King's
cool garden, and began to sing a lovely song. The seventh and youngest
daughter of the King heard him, and she wondered who it was who could
sing so deliciously. Then she put on her clothes, rolled up her hair,
and came down to where the seemingly poor common man was lying
singing. "Who are you? where do you come from?" she asked. But he
answered nothing. "Who is this man who does not answer when I speak to
him?" thought the little princess, and she went away. On the second
night the same thing happened, and on the third night too. But on the
third night, when she found she could not make him answer her, she
said to him, "What a strange man you are not to answer me when I speak
to you." But still he remained silent, so she went away.

The next day when he had finished his work, the young prince went to
the jungle to see his horse, who asked him, "Are you quite well and
happy?" "Yes, I am," answered the boy. "I am servant to a grain
merchant. The last three nights I have gone into the King's garden and
sung a song. And each night the youngest princess has come to me and
asked me who I am, and whence I came, and I have answered nothing.
What shall I do now?" The horse said, "Next time she asks you who you
are, tell her you are a very poor man, and came from your own country
to find service here."

The boy then went home to the grain merchant, and at night, when
every one had gone to bed, he went to the King's garden and sang his
sweet song again. The youngest princess heard him, got up, dressed,
and came to him. "Who are you? Whence do you come?" she asked. "I am a
very poor man," he answered. "I came from my own country to seek
service here, and I am now one of the grain merchant's servants." Then
she went away. For three more nights the boy sang in the King's
garden, and each night the princess came and asked him the same
questions as before, and the boy gave her the same answers.

Then she went to her father, and said to him, "Father, I wish to be
married; but I must choose my husband myself." Her father consented to
this, and he wrote and invited all the Kings and Rájás in the land,
saying, "My youngest daughter wishes to be married, but she insists on
choosing her husband herself. As I do not know who it is she wishes to
marry, I beg you will all come on a certain day, for her to see you
and make her choice."

A great many Kings, Rájás, and their sons accepted this invitation and
came. When they had all arrived, the little princess's father said to
them, "To-morrow morning you must all sit together in my garden" (the
King's garden was very large), "for then my youngest daughter will
come and see you all, and choose her husband. I do not know whom she
will choose."

The youngest princess ordered a grand elephant to be ready for her the
next morning, and when the morning came, and all was ready, she
dressed herself in the most lovely clothes, and put on her beautiful
jewels; then she mounted her elephant, which was painted blue. In her
hand she took a gold necklace.

Then she went into the garden where the Kings, Rájás, and their sons
were seated. The boy, the grain merchant's servant, was also in the
garden: not as a suitor, but looking on with the other servants.

The princess rode all round the garden, and looked at all the Kings
and Rájás and princes, and then she hung the gold necklace round the
neck of the boy, the grain merchant's servant. At this everybody
laughed, and the Kings were greatly astonished. But then they and the
Rájás said, "What fooling is this?" and they pushed the pretended poor
man away, and took the necklace off his neck, and said to him, "Get
out of the way, you poor, dirty man. Your clothes are far too dirty
for you to come near us!" The boy went far away from them, and stood a
long way off to see what would happen.

Then the King's youngest daughter went all round the garden again,
holding her gold necklace in her hand, and once more she hung it round
the boy's neck. Every one laughed at her and said, "How can the King's
daughter think of marrying this poor, common man!" and the Kings and
the Rájás, who had come as suitors, all wanted to turn him out of the
garden. But the princess said, "Take care! take care! You must not
turn him out. Leave him alone." Then she put him on her elephant, and
took him to the palace.

The Kings and Rájás and their sons were very much astonished, and
said, "What does this mean? The princess does not care to marry one of
us, but chooses that very poor man!" Her father then stood up, and
said to them all, "I promised my daughter she should marry any one she
pleased, and as she has twice chosen that poor, common man, she shall
marry him." And so the princess and the boy were married with great
pomp and splendour: her father and mother were quite content with her
choice; and the Kings, the Rájás and their sons, all returned to their
homes.

Now the princess's six sisters had all married rich princes--and they
laughed at her for choosing such a poor ugly husband as hers seemed
to be, and said to each other, mockingly, "See! our sister has married
this poor, common man!" Their six husbands used to go out hunting
every day, and every evening they brought home quantities of all kinds
of game to their wives, and the game was cooked for their dinner and
for the King's; but the husband of the youngest princess always stayed
at home in the palace, and never went out hunting at all. This made
her very sad, and she said to herself, "My sisters' husbands hunt
every day, but my husband never hunts at all."

At last she said to him, "Why do you never go out hunting as my
sisters' husbands do every day, and every day they bring home
quantities of all kinds of game? Why do you always stay at home,
instead of doing as they do?"

One day he said to her, "I am going out to-day to eat the air." "Very
good," she answered; "go, and take one of the horses." "No," said the
young prince, "I will not ride, I will walk." Then he went to the
jungle-plain where he had left Katar, who all this time had seemed to
be a donkey, and he told Katar everything. "Listen," he said; "I have
married the youngest princess; and when we were married everybody
laughed at her for choosing me, and said, 'What a very poor, common
man our princess has chosen for her husband!' Besides, my wife is very
sad, for her six sisters' husbands all hunt every day, and bring home
quantities of game, and their wives therefore are very proud of them.
But I stay at home all day, and never hunt. To-day I should like to
hunt very much."

"Well," said Katar, "then twist my left ear;" and as soon as the boy
had twisted it, Katar was a horse again, and not a donkey any longer.
"Now," said Katar, "twist your left ear, and you will see what a
beautiful young prince you will become." So the boy twisted his own
left ear, and there he stood no longer a poor, common, ugly man, but
a grand young prince with a moon on his forehead and a star on his
chin. Then he put on his splendid clothes, saddled and bridled Katar,
got on his back with his sword and gun, and rode off to hunt.

He rode very far, and shot a great many birds and a quantity of deer.
That day his six brothers-in-law could find no game, for the beautiful
young prince had shot it all. Nearly all the day long these six
princes wandered about looking in vain for game; till at last they
grew hungry and thirsty, and could find no water, and they had no food
with them. Meanwhile the beautiful young prince had sat down under a
tree, to dine and rest, and there his six brothers-in-law found him.
By his side was some delicious water, and also some roast meat.

When they saw him the six princes said to each other, "Look at that
handsome prince. He has a moon on his forehead and a star on his chin.
We have never seen such a prince in this jungle before; he must come
from another country." Then they came up to him, and made him many
salaams, and begged him to give them some food and water. "Who are
you?" said the young prince. "We are the husbands of the six elder
daughters of the King of this country," they answered; "and we have
hunted all day, and are very hungry and thirsty." They did not
recognize their brother-in-law in the least.

"Well," said the young prince, "I will give you something to eat and
drink if you will do as I bid you." "We will do all you tell us to
do," they answered, "for if we do not get water to drink, we shall
die." "Very good," said the young prince. "Now you must let me put a
red-hot pice on the back of each of you, and then I will give you food
and water. Do you agree to this?" The six princes consented, for they
thought, "No one will ever see the mark of the pice, as it will be
covered by our clothes; and we shall die if we have no water to
drink." Then the young prince took six pice, and made them red-hot in
the fire; he laid one on the back of each of the six princes, and gave
them good food and water. They ate and drank; and when they had
finished they made him many salaams and went home.

The young prince stayed under the tree till it was evening; then he
mounted his horse and rode off to the King's palace. All the people
looked at him as he came riding along, saying, "What a splendid young
prince that is! He has a moon on his forehead and a star on his chin."
But no one recognized him. When he came near the King's palace, all
the King's servants asked him who he was; and as none of them knew
him, the gate-keepers would not let him pass in. They all wondered who
he could be, and all thought him the most beautiful prince that had
ever been seen.

At last they asked him who he was. "I am the husband of your youngest
princess," he answered. "No, no, indeed you are not," they said; "for
he is a poor, common-looking, and ugly man." "But I am he," answered
the prince; only no one would believe him. "Tell us the truth," said
the servants; "who are you?" "Perhaps you cannot recognize me," said
the young prince, "but call the youngest princess here. I wish to
speak to her." The servants called her, and she came. "That man is not
my husband," she said at once. "My husband is not nearly as handsome
as that man. This must be a prince from another country."

Then she said to him, "Who are you? Why do you say you are my
husband?" "Because I am your husband. I am telling you the truth,"
answered the young prince. "No you are not, you are not telling me the
truth," said the little princess. "My husband is not a handsome man
like you. I married a very poor, common-looking man." "That is true,"
he answered, "but nevertheless I am your husband. I was the grain
merchant's servant; and one hot night I went into your father's garden
and sang, and you heard me, and came and asked me who I was and where
I came from, and I would not answer you. And the same thing happened
the next night, and the next, and on the fourth I told you I was a
very poor man, and had come from my country to seek service in yours,
and that I was the grain merchant's servant. Then you told your father
you wished to marry, but must choose your own husband; and when all
the Kings and Rájás were seated in your father's garden, you sat on an
elephant and went round and looked at them all; and then twice hung
your gold necklace round my neck, and chose me. See, here is your
necklace, and here are the ring and the handkerchief you gave me on
our wedding day."

Then she believed him, and was very glad that her husband was such a
beautiful young prince. "What a strange man you are!" she said to him.
"Till now you have been poor, and ugly, and common-looking. Now you
are beautiful and look like a prince; I never saw such a handsome man
as you are before; and yet I know you must be my husband." Then she
worshipped God and thanked him for letting her have such a husband. "I
have," she said, "a beautiful husband. There is no one like him in
this country. He has a moon on his forehead and a star on his chin."
Then she took him into the palace, and showed him to her father and
mother and to every one. They all said they had never seen any one
like him, and were all very happy. And the young prince lived as
before in the King's palace with his wife, and Katar lived in the
King's stables.

One day, when the King and his seven sons-in-law were in his
court-house, and it was full of people, the young prince said to him,
"There are six thieves here in your court-house." "Six thieves!" said
the King. "Where are they? Show them to me." "There they are," said
the young prince, pointing to his six brothers-in-law. The King and
every one else in the court-house were very much astonished, and would
not believe the young prince. "Take off their coats," he said, "and
then you will see for yourselves that each of them has the mark of a
thief on his back." So their coats were taken off the six princes, and
the King and everybody in the court-house saw the marks of the red-hot
pice. The six princes were very much ashamed, but the young prince was
very glad. He had not forgotten how his brothers-in-law had laughed at
him and mocked him when he seemed a poor, common man.

Now when Katar was still in the jungle, before the prince was married,
he had told the boy the whole story of his birth, and all that had
happened to him and his mother. "When you are married," he said to
him, "I will take you back to your father's country." So two months
after the young prince had revenged himself on his brothers-in-law,
Katar said to him, "It is time for you to return to your father. Get
the King to let you go to your own country, and I will tell you what
to do when we get there."

The prince always did what his horse told him to do; so he went to his
wife and said to her, "I wish very much to go to my own country to see
my father and mother." "Very well," said his wife; "I will tell my
father and mother, and ask them to let us go." Then she went to them,
and told them, and they consented to let her and her husband leave
them. The King gave his daughter and the young prince a great many
horses, and elephants, and all sorts of presents, and also a great
many sepoys to guard them. In this grand state they travelled to the
prince's country, which was not a great many miles off. When they
reached it they pitched their tents on the same plain in which the
prince had been left in his box by the nurse, where Shankar and Surí
had swallowed him so often.

When the King, his father, the gardener's daughter's husband, saw the
prince's camp, he was very much alarmed, and thought a great King had
come to make war on him. He sent one of his servants, therefore, to
ask whose camp it was. The young prince then wrote him a letter, in
which he said, "You are a great King. Do not fear me. I am not come to
make war on you. I am as if I were your son. I am a prince who has
come to see your country and to speak with you. I wish to give you a
grand feast, to which everyone in your country must come--men and
women, old and young, rich and poor, of all castes; all the children,
fakírs, and sepoys. You must bring them all here to me for a week, and
I will feast them all."

The King was delighted with this letter, and ordered all the men,
women, and children of all castes, fakírs and sepoys, in his country
to go to the prince's camp to a grand feast the prince would give
them. So they all came, and the King brought his four wives too. All
came, at least all but the gardener's daughter. No one had told her to
go to the feast, for no one had thought of her.

When all the people were assembled, the prince saw his mother was not
there, and he asked the King, "Has every one in your country come to
my feast?" "Yes, everyone," said the King. "Are you sure of that?"
asked the prince.

"Quite sure," answered the King. "I am sure one woman has not come,"
said the prince. "She is your gardener's daughter, who was once your
wife and is now a servant in your palace." "True," said the King, "I
had forgotten her." Then the prince told his servants to take his
finest palanquin and to fetch the gardener's daughter. They were to
bathe her, dress her in beautiful clothes and handsome jewels, and
then bring her to him in the palanquin.

While the servants were bringing the gardener's daughter, the King
thought how handsome the young prince was; and he noticed
particularly the moon on his forehead and the star on his chin, and he
wondered in what country the young prince was born.

And now the palanquin arrived bringing the gardener's daughter, and
the young prince went himself and took her out of it, and brought her
into the tent. He made her a great many salaams. The four wicked wives
looked on and were very much surprised and very angry. They remembered
that, when they arrived, the prince had made them no salaams, and
since then had not taken the least notice of them; whereas he could
not do enough for the gardener's daughter, and seemed very glad to see
her.

When they were all at dinner, the prince again made the gardener's
daughter a great many salaams, and gave her food from all the nicest
dishes. She wondered at his kindness to her, and thought, "Who is this
handsome prince, with a moon on his forehead and a star on his chin? I
never saw any one so beautiful. What country does he come from?"

Two or three days were thus passed in feasting, and all that time the
King and his people were talking about the prince's beauty, and
wondering who he was.

One day the prince asked the King if he had any children. "None," he
answered. "Do you know who I am?" asked the prince. "No," said the
King. "Tell me who you are." "I am your son," answered the prince,
"and the gardener's daughter is my mother." The King shook his head
sadly. "How can you be my son," he said, "when I have never had any
children?" "But I am your son," answered the prince. "Your four wicked
wives told you the gardener's daughter had given you a stone and not a
son; but it was they who put the stone in my little bed, and then they
tried to kill me." The King did not believe him. "I wish you were my
son," he said; "but as I never had a child, you cannot be my son."
"Do you remember your dog Shankar, and how you had him killed? And do
you remember your cow Surí, and how you had her killed too? Your wives
made you kill them because of me. And," he said, taking the King to
Katar, "do you know whose horse that is?"

The King looked at Katar, and then said, "That is my horse Katar."
"Yes," said the Prince. "Do you not remember how he rushed past you
out of his stable with me on his back?" Then Katar told the King the
prince was really his son, and told him all the story of his birth,
and of his life up to that moment; and when the King found the
beautiful prince was indeed his son, he was so glad, so glad. He put
his arms round him and kissed him and cried for joy.

"Now," said the King, "you must come with me to my palace, and live
with me always." "No," said the prince, "that I cannot do. I cannot go
to your palace. I only came here to fetch my mother; and now that I
have found her, I will take her with me to my father-in-law's palace.
I have married a King's daughter, and we live with her father." "But
now that I have found you, I cannot let you go," said his father. "You
and your wife must come and live with your mother and me in my
palace." "That we will never do," said the prince, "unless you will
kill your four wicked wives with your own hand. If you will do that,
we will come and live with you."

So the King killed his wives, and then he and his wife, the gardener's
daughter, and the prince and his wife, all went to live in the King's
palace, and lived there happily together for ever after; and the King
thanked God for giving him such a beautiful son, and for ridding him
of his four wicked wives.

Katar did not return to the fairies' country, but stayed always with
the young prince, and never left him.

    Told by Múniyá.




[Decoration]

XXI.

THE BÉL-PRINCESS.


In a country lived a King who had seven sons. Six of these sons
married, but the seventh and youngest son would not marry; and,
moreover, he disliked his six sisters-in-law, and could not bear to
take food from their hands. One day, they got very angry with him for
disliking them, and they said to him, taunting him, "We think that you
will marry a Bél-Princess."

"A Bél-Princess," said the young prince to himself. "What is a
Bél-Princess? and where is one to be found? I will go and look for
one." But the next day he thought, "How can I find a Bél-Princess? I
don't know where to seek for her."

At last one day he saddled and bridled one of his father's beautiful
horses. Then he put on his grand clothes, took his sword and gun, and
said good-bye to his father and mother, and set out on his search.
They cried very much at parting with him.

He rode from his father's country for a long, long way. At length,
when he had journeyed for six months, he found himself in a great
jungle, through which he went for many nights and days, until he at
last came to where a fakír lay sleeping. The young prince thought, "I
will watch by this fakír till he wakes. Perhaps he can help me." So he
stayed with the fakír for one whole month; and all that time he took
care of him and watched by him, and kept his hut clean.

This fakír used to sleep for six whole months at a time, and then he
would remain awake for six months.

When the prince had watched over him for one month the fakír woke, for
his six months' sleep had come to an end; and when he saw what care
the young prince had taken of him, and how clean his hut was, he was
very much pleased with the King's son, and said to him, "How have you
been able to reach this jungle, to which no man can come? and who are
you? and whence do you come?"

"I am a King's son," answered the prince. "My father's country is a
six months' journey away from this; and I am come to look for a
Bél-Princess. I hear there is a Bél-Princess, and I want to find her.
Can you tell me where she is?"

"It is true that there is one," answered the fakír, "and I know where
she is. She is in the fairies' country, whither no man can go."

This made the young prince very sad. "What shall I do?" he said. "I
have left my father and mother, and have travelled a long, long way to
find the Bél-Princess. And now you tell me I cannot go where she
lives."

"I will help you," said the fakír, "and if you do exactly what I tell
you, you will find her. But, first, stay here with me for a little
while."

So the King's son stayed for another month with the fakír, and took
care of him, and did everything for him, as he did for his own father.

At the end of the month, the fakír gave him his stick, and said to
him, "Now you must go to the fairies' country. It is one week's
journey distant from this jungle. When you get there, you will see a
number of demons and fairies who live in it." Then the fakír took a
little earth from the ground, and put it in the prince's hand. "When
you have come to the fairies' country, in order that they and the
demons may not see you, you must blow all this earth away from the
palm of your hand, and then you will be invisible. You must ride on
till you come to a great plain in the middle of their garden, and on
this plain you will see a large bél-tree and on it one big bél-fruit.
In this fruit is the Bél-Princess. You must throw my stick at it, and
it will fall; but you must take care to catch the fruit in your shawl,
and not let it fall to the ground. Then ride quickly back to me, for
as soon as the fruit falls you will cease to be invisible, and the
fairies and demons who guard the fruit will all come running after
you, and they will all call to you. But take care, take care not to
look behind you when they call you. Ride straight on to me with the
fruit, and do not look behind you. If you do, you will become stone,
and your horse too, and they will take the bél-fruit back to its
tree."

The prince promised to do all the fakír bade him. He rode for a week,
and then he came to the fairies' country. He blew the earth the fakír
had given him away from his palm all along his fingers, just as he had
been told, and then he became invisible. He rode through the great
garden to the plain. There he saw the bél-tree, and the one fruit
hanging all alone. He threw the fakír's stick at it, and caught it in
a corner of his shawl as it fell, but then he was no longer invisible.
All the fairies and demons could see him, and they came running after
him as he rode quickly away, and called to him. He looked behind at
them, and instantly he and his horse became stone; and the bél-fruit
went back to its tree and hung itself up.

For one week the fakír sat in his jungle, waiting for the King's son.
But the moment he was turned into stone, the fakír knew of it, and he
set off at once for the fairies' country. He walked all through it,
but neither the fairies nor demons could touch him. He went straight
to the great plain, and there he saw the King's son sitting on his
horse, and both he and the horse were stone.

This made the fakír very sad; and he said to God, "What will the
father and mother do, now that their son is changed into a stone?" And
he prayed to God and said, "If it be God's pleasure, may this King's
son be alive once more." Then he cut his little finger on the inside
from the tip to the palm, and smeared the prince's forehead with the
blood that came from it. He rubbed some blood on the horse too, all
the time praying to God to give the prince his life again. The King's
son and his horse were alive once more. The fakír took the prince back
to his jungle, and said to him, "Listen. I told you not to look behind
you, and you disobeyed me and so were turned to stone. Had I not come
to save you, you would always have remained stone."

The fakír kept the prince with him in the jungle for one whole week.
Then he gave him his stick and some earth he picked up from the ground
on which they were standing, and said, "Now you must go to the
fairies' country again, and throw my stick at the bél-fruit, and catch
it in a corner of your shawl as you did before. But mind, mind you do
not look behind you this time. If you do you will be turned to stone,
and you will for ever remain stone. Ride straight back to me with the
fruit, and take care never to look behind you once till you get to
me."

So the King's son went again to the fairies' country, and all happened
as before, till he had caught the fruit in his shawl. But then he rode
straight back to the fakír without looking behind him, although the
fairies and demons ran after him and called to him the whole way.

He rode so fast they could not catch him, and when he came to the
fakír, the fakír turned him into a fly and thus hid him. Up came all
the fairies and demons and said to the fakír, "There is a thief in
your hut." "A thief! Where is the thief?" said the fakír. "Look
everywhere for him, and take him away if you can find him." Then they
searched and searched everywhere, but could not find the prince; so at
last they went away.

When they had all gone, the fakír took the little fly and turned it
back into a King's son. A few days afterwards he said to the prince,
"Now you have found what you wanted; you have the Bél-Princess you
came to seek. So go back to your father and mother." "Very well," said
the prince. Then he got his horse all ready for the journey, took the
bél-fruit, and made many salaams to the fakír, who said to him, "Now,
listen. Take care not to open the fruit on the road. Wait till you are
in your father's house with your father and mother, and then open it.
If you do not do exactly as I tell you, evil will happen to you; so
mind you only open the fruit in your father's house. Out of it will
come the Bél-Princess."

The prince set out on his journey, and rode on and on for six months
till he came to his father's country, and then to his father's garden.
There he sat down to rest by a well under a clump of great trees. He
said to himself, "Now that I am in my father's country, and in my
father's garden, I will sit and rest in this cool shade; and when I am
rested I will go up to the palace." He bathed his face and his hands
in the well, and drank some of its water. Then he thought, "Surely,
now that I am in my father's country and in his garden, I need not
wait till I get to his palace to open my bél-fruit. What harm can
happen if I do open it here?"

So he broke it open, in spite of all the fakír had told him, and out
of it came such a beautiful girl. She was more beautiful than any
princess that ever was seen--so beautiful that the King's son fainted
when he saw her. The princess fanned him, and poured water on his
face, and presently he recovered, and said to her, "Princess, I should
like to sleep for a little while, for I have travelled for six months,
and am very tired. After I have slept we will go together to my
father's palace." So he went to sleep, and the princess sat by him.

Presently a woman came to the well for water, and she said to herself,
"See, here is the King's youngest son. What a lovely princess that is
sitting by him! What fine clothes and jewels she has on!" And the
wicked woman determined to kill the princess and to take her place.
Then she came up to the beautiful girl, and sat down beside her, and
talked to her. "Listen to me, princess," she said at last. "Let us
change clothes with each other. Give me yours, and I will give you
mine." The princess, thinking no harm, did as the woman suggested.
"And now," said the woman, "let me put on your beautiful jewels." The
princess gave them to her, and then the wicked, wicked woman, said to
her, "Let us walk about this pretty garden, and look at the flowers,
and amuse ourselves." By and by she said, "Princess, let us go and
look at ourselves in the well, and see what we look like, you in my
clothes, and I in yours." The young girl consented, and they went to
the well. As they bent over the side to look in, the wicked woman gave
the princess a push, and pushed her straight over the edge into the
water.

Then she went and sat down by the sleeping prince, just as the
princess had done. When he awoke and saw this ugly, wicked woman,
instead of his Bél-Princess, he was very much surprised, and said to
himself, "A little while ago I had a beautiful girl by me, and now
there is such an ugly woman. It is true she has on the clothes and
jewels my Bél-Princess wore; but she is so ugly, and there is
something wrong with one of her eyes. What has happened to her?" Then
he said to this wicked woman, whom he took for his Bél-Princess,
"What is the matter with you? Has anything happened to you? Why have
you become so ugly?" She answered, "Till now I have always lived in a
bél-fruit. It is the bad air of your country that has made me ugly,
and hurt one of my eyes."

The prince was ashamed of her, and very, very sorry. "How shall I take
her to my father's palace now?" he thought. "My mother and all my
brothers' wives will see her, and what will they say? However, never
mind; I must take her to my house, and marry her. I cannot think what
can have happened to her." Then he got a palanquin, and took her up to
the palace.

His father and mother were very glad that their youngest son had come
back to them; but when they saw the wicked woman, and heard she was
his Bél-Princess, they, and every one else in the palace, said, "Can
she be a Bél-Princess? She is not at all pretty, and she is not at all
pleasant." "She was lovely when she came out of the fruit," said the
prince. "No one ever saw such a beautiful girl before. I cannot think
what has happened to her. It must be the bad air of this country that
has made her so ugly." Then he told them all about his journey to the
jungle where he had met the fakír, and how, with the fakír's help, he
had found his Bél-Princess, and how he had opened the fruit in his
father's garden, and then fallen asleep.

The King made a great wedding-feast for his son, and he and the wicked
woman were married, and all the time the King's youngest son thought
he was marrying the Bél-Princess.

Meanwhile, the beautiful girl had not been drowned in the well, but
had changed into a most lovely pink lotus-flower. This flower was
first seen by a man from the village who came to the well for water.
"What a lovely lotus-flower!" said the man; "I must gather it." But
when he tried to reach it the flower floated away from him. Then he
went and told all the people in the village of the beautiful flower,
and then the palace servants heard of it. They all tried to gather it,
but could not, for the flower always went just out of their reach.
Then the King and his six elder sons heard of it, and they came to the
well; but the King tried in vain to gather it, and his six sons too.
The lotus-flower always floated away from them.

Last of all, the youngest prince heard of the lotus, and he grew very
curious to see it, and said, "I will try if I cannot gather this
wonderful flower that no one can touch." So he, too, came to the well,
and stooped, and stretched out his hand, and the minute he did so the
flower floated of itself into his hand.

Then he was very happy and proud, and he took the flower up to his
wife and showed it to her. "Just see," he said, "every one in the
village and the palace were talking of this lotus-flower; and every
one tried to gather it; and no one could, for the flower would not let
any one touch it. My father tried, and my brothers all tried, and
they, too, could not gather it; but as soon as I stretched out my hand
the flower floated into it of itself."

When his wicked wife saw the flower, she said nothing; but her heart
told her it was the beautiful girl she had pushed into the well. The
prince laid the flower on his pillow, and was very glad and happy. As
soon as he had gone out, his wife seized the lotus-flower, tore it to
bits, and threw them far away into the garden.

In a few days a bél-tree was growing on the spot where she had thrown
the pieces of the lotus-flower. On it grew one big bél-fruit, and it
was so fine and large that every one in the village and the palace
tried to gather it; but no one could touch it, for the fruit always
went just out of reach. The King and his six elder sons also tried,
but they could not touch it. The youngest prince heard of this fruit,
so he said to his wife, "I will go and see if I can gather this
bél-fruit that no one can even touch." The wicked woman's heart said
to her, "In the bél-fruit is the Bél-Princess;" but she said nothing.

The prince went to the bél-tree; the bél-fruit came into his hand, and
he broke it off the tree, and brought it home to his wife. "See," he
said, "here is the bél-fruit; it let me gather it at once." And he was
very proud and happy. Then he laid the fruit on a table in his room.

When he had gone out the wicked wife came, and took the fruit, and
flung it away in the garden. In the night the fruit burst in two, and
in it lay a lovely, tiny girl baby. The gardener, as he went round the
garden early in the morning, found the little baby; and he wondered
who had thrown away the beautiful fruit, and who the lovely baby girl
could be. She was so tiny and so pretty, and the gardener was
delighted when he saw her, for he had no children, and thought God had
sent him a little child at last.

He took her in his arms and carried her to his wife.

"See," he said, "we have never had any children, and now God has sent
us this beautiful little girl." His wife looked at the child, and she
was as delighted with her as her husband was. "Yes," she said, "God
has sent us this child, and she is certainly most beautiful. I am very
happy. But I have no milk for her; if only I had milk for her, I could
nurse her and she would live." And the gardener's wife was very sad to
think she had no milk in her breasts for the little child.

Then her husband said, "Let us ask God to send you milk for her." So
they prayed to God and worshipped him. And God was pleased with them
both, and sent the gardener's wife a great deal of milk.

The little girl now lived in the gardener's house, and he and his wife
took the greatest care of her, and were very happy to think they had
now a child. She grew very fast, and became lovelier every day. She
was more beautiful than any girl that had ever been seen, and all the
people in the King's country used to say, "How lovely the gardener's
daughter is! She is more beautiful than any princess."

The King's youngest son's wicked wife heard of the child, and her
heart told her, "She is the Bél-Princess." She said nothing, but she
often thought of how she could contrive to have her killed.

One day, when the gardener's daughter was seven years old, she was out
in her father's garden, making a little garden of her own near the
house-door. While she was busy over her flowers, the wicked woman's
cow strayed into the garden and began eating the plants in it. The
little girl would not let it make its dinner off her father's flowers
and grass, but pushed it out of the garden.

The wicked woman was told how the gardener's daughter had treated her
cow; so she cried all day long, and pretended to be ill. When her
husband asked her what was the matter, she answered, "I am sick
because the gardener's daughter has ill-treated my cow. She beat it,
and turned it out of her father's garden, and said many wicked things.
If you will have the girl killed, I shall live; but if you do not kill
her, I shall die." The prince at once ordered his servants to take the
gardener's daughter the next morning to the jungle, and there kill
her.

So the next morning early the servants went to the gardener's house to
take away his daughter. He and his wife cried bitterly, and begged the
servants to leave the girl with them. They offered them a great many
rupees, saying, "Take these rupees, and leave us our daughter." "How
can we leave you your daughter," said the servants, "when the King's
youngest son has ordered us to take her to the jungle and kill her,
that his wife may get well?"

So they led the girl away; and as they went to the jungle, they said
to each other, "How beautiful this girl is!" They found her so
beautiful that they grew very sorrowful at the thought of killing her.

They took the girl to a great plain, which was about ten miles distant
from the King's country; but when they got there they said they could
not kill her. She was so beautiful that they really could not kill
her. She said to them, "You were ordered to kill me, so kill me."
"No," they answered, "we cannot kill you, we cannot kill you."

Then the girl took the knife in her own hand and cut out her two eyes;
and one eye became a parrot, and the other a _mainá_. Then she cut out
her heart and it became a great tank. Her body became a splendid
palace and garden--a far grander palace than was the King's palace;
her arms and legs became the pillars that supported the verandah roof;
and her head the dome on the top of the palace.

The prince's servants looked on all the time these changes were taking
place, and they were so frightened by them, that when they got home
they would not tell the prince or any one else what they had seen. No
one lived in this wonderful house. It stood empty in its garden by its
tank, and the parrot and _mainá_ lived in the garden trees.

Some time afterwards the youngest prince went out hunting, and towards
evening he found himself on the great plain where stood the wonderful
palace. He rode up to it and said to himself, "I never saw any house
here before. I wonder who lives here?" He went through the great gate
into the garden, and then he saw the large tank, and how beautiful the
garden was. He went all through the garden and was delighted with it,
and he saw that it was beautifully kept, and was in perfect order.
Then he went into the palace, and went through all the rooms, and
wondered more and more to whom this beautiful house could belong. He
was very much surprised, too, at finding no one in the palace, though
the rooms were all splendidly furnished, and very clean and neat.

"My father is a great king," he said to himself, "and yet he has not
got a palace like this." It was now deep night, so the prince knew he
could not go home till the next day. "Never mind," he said, "I will
sleep in the verandah. I am not afraid, though I shall be quite
alone."

So he lay down to sleep in the verandah, and while he lay there, the
parrot and _mainá_ flew in, and they perched near him, for they knew
he was there, and they wanted him to hear what they said to each
other. Then they began chattering together; and the parrot told the
_mainá_ how the prince's father was king of the neighbouring country,
and how he had seven sons, and how six of the sons had married six
princesses, "but this prince, who was the youngest son, would not
marry; and what is more, he did not like his brother's wives at all."
Then the birds stopped talking and did not chatter any more that
night. The prince was very much surprised at the birds knowing who he
was, and all about his dislike to his brothers' wives.

The next morning he rode home; and there he stayed all day, and would
not talk. His wife asked him, "What is the matter with you? Why are
you so silent?" "My head aches," he answered: "I am ill." But towards
evening he felt he must go back to the empty palace on the great
plain, so he said to his wife, "I am going out to eat the air for a
little while." Then he got on his horse and rode off to the palace.

As soon as he had laid himself down in the verandah, the parrot and
the _mainá_ perched near him; and the parrot told the _mainá_ how the
prince had heard of the Bél-Princess; and all about his long journey
in search of her, and how he found the bél-fruit, and how he was
turned to stone. Then he stopped chattering, and the birds said
nothing more to each other that night.

In the morning the King's son rode home, and was as silent and grave
as he had been before. He told his wife his head ached when she asked
him whether he was ill.

That night he again slept in the verandah of the strange palace, and
heard a little more of his story from the birds.

The next day he was still silent and grave, and his wife was very
uneasy. "I am sure the Bél-Princess is alive," she said to herself,
"and that he goes every night to see her." Then she asked him, "Why do
you go out every evening? Why do you not stay at home?" "I am not
well," he answered, "so I go to my mother's house" (the prince had a
little house of his own in his father's compound). "I will not sleep
at home again till I am well."

That night he lay down to sleep again in the verandah of the great
empty palace, and heard the parrot tell the _mainá_ all that happened
to the prince up to the time that he fell asleep in his father's
garden with the beautiful Bél-Princess sitting beside him.

On the fifth night the prince lay down to sleep again in the verandah
of the palace on the great plain, and watched eagerly for the little
birds to begin their talk. This night the parrot told how the wicked
woman had come and taken the Bél-Princess's clothes, and thrown her
down the well; how the princess became a lotus-flower which the wicked
wife broke to bits; how the bits of the lotus-flower turned into a
bél-fruit which she threw away; how out of the fruit came a tiny
girl-baby that the gardener adopted; how the wicked woman persuaded
the prince to have this girl killed when she was seven years old; how
he and the _mainá_ had once been this girl's eyes; how the tank was
once her heart, and how her body had changed into this palace and
garden, while her head became the dome on the top of the palace.

Then the _mainá_ asked the parrot where the Bél-Princess was. "Cannot
she be found?" said the _mainá_. "Yes," said the parrot, "she can be
found; but the King's youngest son alone can find her, and he is so
foolish! He believes that his ugly, wicked wife is the beautiful
Bél-Princess!" "And where is the princess?" asked the _mainá_. "She is
here," said the parrot. "If the prince would come one day and go
through all the rooms of this palace till he came to the centre room,
he would see a trap-door in the middle of that room. If he lifted the
trap-door he would see a staircase which leads to an underground
palace, and in this palace is the Bél-princess." "And can no one but
the prince lift the trap-door?" asked the _mainá_. "No one," answered
the parrot. "It is God's order that only the King's youngest son can
lift the trap-door and find the Bél-Princess."

The next day the young prince went through all the rooms of the
palace, instead of going home. When he came to the centre room, he
looked for the trap-door, and when he had lifted it he saw the
staircase. He went down it, and found himself in the under-ground
palace, which was far more beautiful than the one above-ground. It was
full of servants; and in one room a grand dinner was standing ready.
In another room he saw a gold bed, all covered with pearls and
diamonds, and on the bed lay the Bél-Princess.

Day and night she prayed to God and read a holy book. She did nothing
else.

When the prince went into her room and she saw him, she was very sad,
not happy, for she thought, "He is so foolish; he knows nothing of
what has happened to me." Then she said to him, "Why did you come
here? Go home again to your father's palace."

The prince burst out crying. "See, princess," he said, "I knew nothing
of your palace. I only found it by chance five nights ago. I have
slept here in the verandah for the last five nights, and only last
night did I learn what had happened to you, and how to find you." "I
know it is true," she said, "that you knew nothing of what happened to
me. But now that you have found me, what will you do?"

"I will go home to my father's palace," he answered, "and make
everything ready for you, and then I will come and marry you and take
you home."

So it was all settled, and he ate some food, and returned to his
father. He told his father and mother all that had happened to the
Bél-Princess, and how her body had turned into the beautiful garden
and palace that stood on the big plain; and of the little birds; and
of the underground palace in which she now lived. So his father said
that he and the prince's mother, and his six brothers and their wives,
would all take him in great state to the palace and marry him to the
beautiful Bél-Princess; and that then they would all return to their
own palace, and all live together. "But first the wicked woman must be
killed," said the King.

So he ordered his servants to take her to the jungle and kill her, and
throw her body away. So they took her away at four o'clock in the
afternoon and killed her.

One morning two or three days later, the prince and his father and
mother, and brothers and sisters-in-law, went to the great palace on
the wide plain; and there, in the evening, the king's youngest son was
married to the Bél-Princess. And when his father and mother and
brothers, and his brothers' wives, saw her, they all said, "It is
quite true. She is indeed a Bél-Princess!"

After the wedding they all returned to the King's palace, and there
they lived together. But the King and his sons used often to go to the
palace on the great plain to eat the air; and they used to lend it
sometimes to other rájás and kings.

    Told by Múniyá.




[Decoration]

XXII.

HOW THE RÁJÁ'S SON WON THE PRINCESS LABÁM.


In a country there was a Rájá who had an only son who every day went
out to hunt. One day the Rání, his mother, said to him, "You can hunt
wherever you like on these three sides; but you must never go to the
fourth side." This she said because she knew if he went on the fourth
side he would hear of the beautiful Princess Labám, and that then he
would leave his father and mother and seek for the princess.

The young prince listened to his mother, and obeyed her for some time;
but one day, when he was hunting on the three sides where he was
allowed to go, he remembered what she had said to him about the fourth
side, and he determined to go and see why she had forbidden him to
hunt on that side. When he got there, he found himself in a jungle,
and nothing in the jungle but a quantity of parrots, who lived in it.
The young Rájá shot at some of them, and at once they all flew away up
to the sky. All, that is, but one, and this was their Rájá, who was
called Híráman parrot.

When Híráman parrot found himself left alone, he called out to the
other parrots, "Don't fly away and leave me alone when the Rájá's son
shoots. If you desert me like this, I will tell the Princess Labám."

Then the parrots all flew back to their Rájá, chattering. The prince
was greatly surprised, and said, "Why, these birds can talk!" Then he
said to the parrots, "Who is the Princess Labám? Where does she live?"
But the parrots would not tell him where she lived. "You can never
get to the Princess Labám's country." That is all they would say.

The prince grew very sad when they would not tell him anything more;
and he threw his gun away, and went home. When he got home, he would
not speak or eat, but lay on his bed for four or five days, and seemed
very ill.

At last he told his father and mother that he wanted to go and see the
Princess Labám. "I must go," he said; "I must see what she is like.
Tell me where her country is." "We do not know where it is," answered
his father and mother. "Then I must go and look for it," said the
prince. "No, no," they said, "you must not leave us. You are our only
son. Stay with us. You will never find the Princess Labám." "I must
try and find her," said the prince. "Perhaps God will show me the way.
If I live and I find her, I will come back to you; but perhaps I shall
die, and then I shall never see you again. Still I must go."

So they had to let him go, though they cried very much at parting with
him. His father gave him fine clothes to wear, and a fine horse. And
he took his gun, and his bow and arrows, and a great many other
weapons, "for," he said, "I may want them." His father, too, gave him
plenty of rupees.

Then he himself got his horse all ready for the journey, and he said
good-bye to his father and mother; and his mother took her
handkerchief and wrapped some sweetmeats in it, and gave it to her
son. "My child," she said to him, "when you are hungry eat some of
these sweetmeats."

He then set out on his journey, and rode on and on till he came to a
jungle in which were a tank and shady trees. He bathed himself and his
horse in the tank, and then sat down under a tree. "Now," he said to
himself, "I will eat some of the sweetmeats my mother gave me, and I
will drink some water, and then I will continue my journey." He
opened his handkerchief, and took out a sweetmeat. He found an ant in
it. He took out another. There was an ant in that one too. So he laid
the two sweetmeats on the ground, and he took out another, and
another, and another, until he had taken them all out; but in each he
found an ant. "Never mind," he said, "I won't eat the sweetmeats; the
ants shall eat them." Then the Ant-Rájá came and stood before him and
said, "You have been good to us. If ever you are in trouble, think of
me and we will come to you."

The Rájá's son thanked him, mounted his horse and continued his
journey. He rode on and on till he came to another jungle, and there
he saw a tiger who had a thorn in his foot, and was roaring loudly
from the pain.

"Why do you roar like that?" said the young Rájá. "What is the matter
with you?" "I have had a thorn in my foot for twelve years," answered
the tiger, "and it hurts me so; that is why I roar." "Well," said the
Rájá's son, "I will take it out for you. But, perhaps, as you are a
tiger, when I have made you well, you will eat me?" "Oh, no," said the
tiger, "I won't eat you. Do make me well."

Then the prince took a little knife from his pocket, and cut the thorn
out of the tiger's foot; but when he cut, the tiger roared louder than
ever, so loud that his wife heard him in the next jungle, and came
bounding along to see what was the matter. The tiger saw her coming,
and hid the prince in the jungle, so that she should not see him.

"What man hurt you that you roared so loud?" said the wife. "No one
hurt me," answered her husband; "but a Rájá's son came and took the
thorn out of my foot." "Where is he? Show him to me," said his wife.
"If you promise not to kill him, I will call him," said the tiger. "I
won't kill him; only let me see him," answered his wife.

Then the tiger called the Rájá's son, and when he came the tiger and
his wife made him a great many salaams. Then they gave him a good
dinner, and he stayed with them for three days. Every day he looked at
the tiger's foot, and the third day it was quite healed. Then he said
good-bye to the tigers, and the tiger said to him, "If ever you are in
trouble, think of me, and we will come to you."

The Rájá's son rode on and on till he came to a third jungle. Here he
found four fakírs whose teacher and master had died, and had left four
things,--a bed, which carried whoever sat on it whithersoever he
wished to go; a bag, that gave its owner whatever he wanted, jewels,
food, or clothes; a stone bowl that gave its owner as much water as he
wanted, no matter how far he might be from a tank; and a stick and
rope, to which its owner had only to say, if any one came to make war
on him, "Stick, beat as many men and soldiers as are here," and the
stick would beat them and the rope would tie them up.

The four fakírs were quarrelling over these four things. One said, "I
want this;" another said, "You cannot have it, for I want it;" and so
on.

The Rájá's son said to them, "Do not quarrel for these things. I will
shoot four arrows in four different directions. Whichever of you gets
to my first arrow, shall have the first thing--the bed. Whosoever gets
to the second arrow, shall have the second thing--the bag. He who gets
to the third arrow, shall have the third thing--the bowl. And he who
gets to the fourth arrow, shall have the last things--the stick and
rope." To this they agreed, and the prince shot off his first arrow.
Away raced the fakírs to get it. When they brought it back to him he
shot off the second, and when they had found and brought it to him he
shot off his third, and when they had brought him the third he shot
off the fourth.

While they were away looking for the fourth arrow, the Rájá's son let
his horse loose in the jungle, and sat on the bed, taking the bowl,
the stick and rope, and the bag with him. Then he said, "Bed, I wish
to go to the Princess Labám's country." The little bed instantly rose
up into the air and began to fly, and it flew and flew till it came to
the Princess Labám's country, where it settled on the ground. The
Rájá's son asked some men he saw, "Whose country is this?" "The
Princess Labám's country," they answered. Then the prince went on till
he came to a house where he saw an old woman. "Who are you?" she said.
"Where do you come from?" "I come from a far country," he said; "do
let me stay with you to-night." "No," she answered, "I cannot let you
stay with me; for our king has ordered that men from other countries
may not stay in his country. You cannot stay in my house." "You are my
aunty," said the prince; "let me remain with you for this one night.
You see it is evening, and if I go into the jungle, then the wild
beasts will eat me." "Well," said the old woman, "you may stay here
to-night; but to-morrow morning you must go away, for if the king
hears you have passed the night in my house, he will have me seized
and put into prison."

Then she took him into her house, and the Rájá's son was very glad.
The old woman began preparing dinner, but he stopped her. "Aunty," he
said, "I will give you food." He put his hand into his bag, saying,
"Bag, I want some dinner," and the bag gave him instantly a delicious
dinner, served upon two gold plates. The old woman and the Rájá's son
then dined together.

When they had finished eating, the old woman said, "Now I will fetch
some water." "Don't go," said the prince. "You shall have plenty of
water directly." So he took his bowl and said to it, "Bowl, I want
some water," and then it filled with water. When it was full, the
prince cried out, "Stop, bowl," and the bowl stopped filling. "See,
aunty," he said, "with this bowl I can always get as much water as I
want."

By this time night had come. "Aunty," said the Rájá's son, "why don't
you light a lamp?" "There is no need," she said. "Our king has
forbidden the people in his country to light any lamps; for, as soon
as it is dark, his daughter, the Princess Labám, comes and sits on her
roof, and she shines so, that she lights up all the country and our
houses, and we can see to do our work as if it were day."

When it was quite black night, the princess got up. She dressed
herself in her rich clothes and jewels, and rolled up her hair, and
across her head she put a band of diamonds and pearls. Then she shone
like the moon, and her beauty made night day. She came out of her
room, and sat on the roof of her palace. In the daytime she never came
out of her house; she only came out at night. All the people in her
father's country then went about their work and finished it.

The Rájá's son watched the princess quietly, and was very happy. He
said to himself, "How lovely she is!"

At midnight, when everybody had gone to bed, the princess came down
from her roof, and went to her room; and when she was in bed and
asleep, the Rájá's son got up softly, and sat on his bed. "Bed," he
said to it, "I want to go to the Princess Labám's bed-room." So the
little bed carried him to the room where she lay fast asleep.

The young Rájá took his bag and said, "I want a great deal of
betel-leaf," and it at once gave him quantities of betel-leaf. This he
laid near the princess's bed, and then his little bed carried him back
to the old woman's house.

Next morning all the princess's servants found the betel-leaf, and
began to eat it. "Where did you get all that betel-leaf?" asked the
princess. "We found it near your bed," answered the servants. Nobody
knew the prince had come in the night and put it all there.

In the morning the old woman came to the Rájá's son. "Now it is
morning," she said, "and you must go; for if the king finds out all I
have done for you, he will seize me." "I am ill to-day, dear aunty,"
said the prince; "do let me stay till to-morrow morning." "Good," said
the old woman. So he stayed, and they took their dinner out of the
bag, and the bowl gave them water.

When night came the princess got up and sat on her roof, and at twelve
o'clock, when every one was in bed, she went to her bed-room, and was
soon fast asleep. Then the Rájá's son sat on his bed, and it carried
him to the princess. He took his bag and said, "Bag, I want a most
lovely shawl." It gave him a splendid shawl, and he spread it over the
princess as she lay asleep. Then he went back to the old woman's house
and slept till morning.

In the morning, when the princess saw the shawl, she was delighted.
"See, mother," she said; "God must have given me this shawl, it is so
beautiful." Her mother was very glad too. "Yes, my child," she said;
"God must have given you this splendid shawl."

When it was morning the old woman said to the Rájá's son, "Now you
must really go." "Aunty," he answered, "I am not well enough yet. Let
me stay a few days longer. I will remain hidden in your house, so that
no one may see me." So the old woman let him stay.

When it was black night, the princess put on her lovely clothes and
jewels, and sat on her roof. At midnight she went to her room and went
to sleep. Then the Rájá's son sat on his bed and flew to her bed-room.
There he said to his bag, "Bag, I want a very, very beautiful ring."
The bag gave him a glorious ring. Then he took the Princess Labám's
hand gently to put on the ring, and she started up very much
frightened.

"Who are you?" she said to the prince. "Where do you come from? Why do
you come to my room?" "Do not be afraid, princess," he said; "I am no
thief. I am a great Rájá's son. Híráman parrot, who lives in the
jungle where I went to hunt, told me your name, and then I left my
father and mother, and came to see you."

"Well," said the princess, "as you are the son of such a great Rájá, I
will not have you killed, and I will tell my father and mother that I
wish to marry you."

The prince then returned to the old woman's house; and when morning
came, the princess said to her mother, "The son of a great Rájá has
come to this country, and I wish to marry him." Her mother told this
to the king. "Good," said the king; "but if this Rájá's son wishes to
marry my daughter, he must first do whatever I bid him. If he fails I
will kill him. I will give him eighty pounds weight of mustard seed,
and out of this he must crush the oil in one day. If he cannot do this
he shall die."

In the morning the Rájá's son told the old woman that he intended to
marry the princess. "Oh," said the old woman, "go away from this
country, and do not think of marrying her. A great many Rájás and
Rájás' sons have come here to marry her, and her father has had them
all killed. He says whoever wishes to marry his daughter must first do
whatever he bids him. If he can, then he shall marry the princess; if
he cannot, the king will have him killed. But no one can do the things
the king tells him to do; so all the Rájás and Rájás' sons who have
tried have been put to death. You will be killed too, if you try. Do
go away." But the prince would not listen to anything she said.

The king sent for the prince to the old woman's house, and his
servants brought the Rájá's son to the king's court-house to the king.
There the king gave him eighty pounds of mustard seed, and told him to
crush all the oil out of it that day, and bring it next morning to him
to the court-house. "Whoever wishes to marry my daughter," he said to
the prince, "must first do all I tell him. If he cannot, then I have
him killed. So if you cannot crush all the oil out of this mustard
seed, you will die."

The prince was very sorry when he heard this. "How can I crush the oil
out of all this mustard seed in one day?" he said to himself; "and if
I do not, the king will kill me." He took the mustard seed to the old
woman's house, and did not know what to do. At last he remembered the
Ant-Rájá, and the moment he did so, the Ant-Rájá and his ants came to
him. "Why do you look so sad?" said the Ant-Rájá. The prince showed
him the mustard seed, and said to him, "How can I crush the oil out of
all this mustard seed in one day? And if I do not take the oil to the
king to-morrow morning, he will kill me." "Be happy," said the
Ant-Rájá; "lie down and sleep: we will crush all the oil out for you
during the day, and to-morrow morning you shall take it to the king."
The Rájá's son lay down and slept, and the ants crushed out the oil
for him. The prince was very glad when he saw the oil.

The next morning he took it to the court-house to the king. But the
king said, "You cannot yet marry my daughter. If you wish to do so,
you must first fight with my two demons and kill them." The king a
long time ago had caught two demons, and then, as he did not know what
to do with them, he had shut them up in a cage. He was afraid to let
them loose for fear they would eat up all the people in his country;
and he did not know how to kill them. So all the kings and kings' sons
who wanted to marry the Princess Labám had to fight with these demons;
"for," said the king to himself, "perhaps the demons may be killed,
and then I shall be rid of them."

When he heard of the demons the Rájá's son was very sad. "What can I
do?" he said to himself. "How can I fight with these two demons?" Then
he thought of his tiger: and the tiger and his wife came to him and
said, "Why are you so sad?" The Rájá's son answered, "The king has
ordered me to fight with his two demons and kill them. How can I do
this?" "Do not be frightened," said the tiger. "Be happy. I and my
wife will fight with them for you."

Then the Rájá's son took out of his bag two splendid coats. They were
all gold and silver, and covered with pearls and diamonds. These he
put on the tigers to make them beautiful, and he took them to the
king, and said to him, "May these tigers fight your demons for me?"
"Yes," said the king, who did not care in the least who killed his
demons, provided they were killed. "Then call your demons," said the
Rájá's son, "and these tigers will fight them." The king did so, and
the tigers and the demons fought and fought until the tigers had
killed the demons.

"That is good," said the king. "But you must do something else before
I give you my daughter. Up in the sky I have a kettle-drum. You must
go and beat it. If you cannot do this, I will kill you."

The Rájá's son thought of his little bed; so he went to the old
woman's house and sat on his bed. "Little bed," he said, "up in the
sky is the king's kettle-drum. I want to go to it." The bed flew up
with him, and the Rájá's son beat the drum, and the king heard him.
Still, when he came down, the king would not give him his daughter.
"You have," he said to the prince, "done the three things I told you
to do; but you must do one thing more." "If I can, I will," said the
Rájá's son.

Then the king showed him the trunk of a tree that was lying near his
court-house. It was a very, very thick trunk. He gave the prince a wax
hatchet, and said, "To-morrow morning you must cut this trunk in two
with this wax hatchet."

The Rájá's son went back to the old woman's house. He was very sad,
and thought that now the Rájá would certainly kill him. "I had his
oil crushed out by the ants," he said to himself. "I had his demons
killed by the tigers. My bed helped me to beat his kettle-drum. But
now what can I do? How can I cut that thick tree trunk in two with a
wax hatchet?"

At night he went on his bed to see the princess. "To-morrow," he said
to her, "your father will kill me." "Why?" asked the princess.

"He has told me to cut a thick tree-trunk in two with a wax hatchet.
How can I ever do that?" said the Rájá's son. "Do not be afraid," said
the princess; "do as I bid you, and you will cut it in two quite
easily."

Then she pulled out a hair from her head, and gave it to the prince.
"To-morrow," she said, "when no one is near you, you must say to the
tree-trunk, 'The Princess Labám commands you to let yourself be cut in
two by this hair.' Then stretch the hair down the edge of the wax
hatchet's blade."

The prince next day did exactly as the princess had told him; and the
minute the hair that was stretched down the edge of the hatchet-blade
touched the tree-trunk, it split into two pieces.

The king said, "Now you can marry my daughter." Then the wedding took
place. All the Rájás and kings of the countries round were asked to
come to it, and there were great rejoicings. After a few days the
prince's son said to his wife, "Let us go to my father's country." The
Princess Labám's father gave them a quantity of camels and horses and
rupees and servants; and they travelled in great state to the prince's
country, where they lived happily.

The prince always kept his bag, bowl, bed, and stick; only as no one
ever came to make war on him, he never needed to use the stick.

    Told by Múniyá.




[Decoration]

XXIII.

THE PRINCESS WHO LOVED HER FATHER LIKE SALT.


In a country there lived a king who had seven daughters. One day he
called them all to him and said to them, "My daughters, how much do
you love me?" The six eldest answered, "Father, we love you as much as
sweetmeats and sugar;" but the seventh and youngest daughter said,
"Father, I love you as much as salt." The king was much pleased with
his six eldest daughters, but very angry with his youngest daughter.
"What is this?" he said; "my daughter only loves me as much as she
does salt!" Then he called some of his servants, and said to them,
"Get a palanquin ready, and carry my youngest daughter away to the
jungle."

The servants did as they were bid; and when they got to the jungle,
they put the palanquin down under a tree and went away. The princess
called to them, "Where are you going? Stay here; my father did not
tell you to leave me alone in the jungle." "We will come back," said
the servants; "we are only going to drink some water." But they
returned to her father's palace.

The princess waited in the palanquin under the tree, and it was now
evening, and the servants had not come back. She was very much
frightened and cried bitterly. "The tigers and wild beasts will eat
me," she said to herself. At last she went to sleep, and slept for a
little while. When she awoke she found in her palanquin some food on a
plate, and a little water, that God had sent her while she slept. She
ate the food and drank the water, and then she felt happier, for she
thought, "God must have sent me this food and water." She decided that
as it was now night she had better stay in her palanquin, and go to
sleep. "Perhaps the tigers and wild beasts will come and eat me," she
thought; "but if they don't, I will try to-morrow to get out of this
jungle, and go to another country."

The next morning she left her palanquin and set out. She walked on,
till, deep in the jungle, she came to a beautiful palace, which did
not belong to her father, but to another king. The gate was shut, but
she opened it, and went in. She looked all about, and thought, "What a
beautiful house this is, and what a pretty garden and tank!"

Everything was beautiful, only there were no servants nor anybody else
to be seen. She went into the house, and through all the rooms. In one
room she saw a dinner ready to be eaten, but there was no one to eat
it. At last she came to a room in which was a splendid bed, and on it
lay a king's son covered with a shawl. She took the shawl off, and
then she saw he was very beautiful, and that he was dead. His body was
stuck full of needles.

She sat down on the bed, and there she sat for one week, without
eating, or drinking, or sleeping, pulling out the needles. Then a man
came by who said to her, "I have here a girl I wish to sell." "I have
no rupees," said the princess; "but if you will sell her to me for my
gold bangles, I will buy her." The man took the bangles, and left the
girl with the princess, who was very glad to have her. "Now," she
thought, "I shall be no longer alone."

All day and all night long the princess sat and pulled out the
needles, while the girl went about the palace doing other work. At
the end of other two weeks the princess had pulled out all the needles
from the king's body, except those in his eyes.

Then the king's daughter said to her servant-girl, "For three weeks I
have not bathed. Get a bath ready for me, and while I am bathing sit
by the king, but do not take the needles out of his eyes. I will pull
them out myself." The servant-girl promised not to pull out the
needles. Then she got the bath ready; but when the king's daughter had
gone to bathe, she sat down on the bed, and pulled the needles out of
the king's eyes.

As soon as she had done so, he opened his eyes, and sat up. He thanked
God for bringing him to life again. Then he looked about, and saw the
servant-girl, and said to her, "Who has made me well and pulled all
the needles out of my body?" "I have," she answered. Then he thanked
her and said she should be his wife.

When the princess came from her bath, she found the king alive, and
sitting on his bed talking to her servant. When she saw this she was
very sad, but she said nothing. The king said to the servant-maid,
"Who is this girl?" She answered, "She is one of my servants." And
from that moment the princess became a servant-girl, and her
servant-girl married the king. Every day the king said, "Can this
lovely girl be really a servant? She is far more beautiful than my
wife."

One day the king thought, "I will go to another country to eat the
air." So he called the pretended princess, his wife, and told her he
was going to eat the air in another country. "What would you like me
to bring you when I come back?" She answered, "I should like beautiful
sárís and clothes, and gold and silver jewels." Then the king said,
"Call the servant-girl, and ask her what she would like me to bring
her." The real princess came, and the king said to her, "See, I am
going to another country to eat the air. What would you like me to
bring for you when I return?"

"King," she answered, "if you can bring me what I want I will tell you
what it is; but if you cannot get it, I will not tell you." "Tell me
what it is," said the king. "Whatever it may be I will bring it you."
"Good," said the princess. "I want a sun-jewel box." Now the princess
knew all about the sun-jewel boxes, and that only fairies had such
boxes. And she knew, too, what would be in hers if the king could get
one for her, although these boxes contain sometimes one thing and
sometimes another.

The king had never heard of such a box, and did not know what it was
like; so he went to every country asking all the people he met what
sort of box was a sun-jewel box, and where he could get it. At last
one day, after a fruitless search, he was very sad, for he thought, "I
have promised the servant to bring her a sun-jewel box, and now I
cannot get one for her; what shall I do?"

Then he went to sleep, and had a dream. In it he saw a jungle, and in
the jungle a fakír who, when he slept, slept for twelve years, and
then was awake for twelve years. The king felt sure this man could
give him what he wanted, so when he woke he said to his sepoys and
servants, "Stay here in this spot till I return to you; then we will
go back to my country."

He mounted his horse and set out for the jungle he had seen in his
dream. He went on and on till he came to it, and there he saw the
fakír lying asleep. He had been asleep for twelve years all but two
weeks: over him were a quantity of leaves, and grass, and a great deal
of mud. The king began taking off all the grass, and leaves, and mud,
and every day for a fortnight when he got up he cleared them all away
from off the fakír. When the fakír awoke at the end of the two weeks,
and saw that no mud, or grass, or leaves were upon him, but that he
was quite clean, he was very much pleased, and said to the king, "I
have slept for twelve years, and yet I am as clean as I was when I
went to sleep. When I awoke after my last sleep, I was all covered
with dirt and mud, grass and leaves; but this time I am quite clean."

The king stayed with the fakír for a week, and waited on him and did
everything for him. The fakír was very much pleased with the king, and
he told this to him: "You are a very good man." He added, "Why did you
come to this jungle? You are such a great king, what can you want from
me?" "I want a sun-jewel box," answered the king. "You are such a good
man," said the fakír, "that I will give you one."

Then the fakír went to a beautiful well, down which he went right to
the bottom. There, there was a house in which lived the red fairy. She
was called the red fairy not because her skin was red, for it was
quite white, but because everything about her was red--her house, her
clothes, and her country. She was very glad to see the fakír, and
asked him why he had come to see her. "I want you to give me a
sun-jewel box," he answered. "Very good," said the fairy, and she
brought him one in which were seven small dolls and a little flute.
"No one but she who wants this box must open it," said the fairy to
the fakír. "She must open it when she is quite alone and at night."
Then she told him what was in the box.

The fakír thanked her, and took the box to the king, who was delighted
and made many salaams to the fakír. The fakír told him none but the
person who wished for the box was to open it; but he did not tell him
what more the fairy had said.

The king set off on his journey now, and when he came to his servants
and sepoys, he said to them he would now return to his country, as he
had found the box he wanted. When he reached his palace he called the
false princess, his wife, and gave her her silks and shawls, and sárís,
and gold and silver jewels. Then he called the servant-girl--the true
princess--and gave her her sun-jewel box. She took it, and was
delighted to have it. She made him many salaams and went away with her
box, but did not open it then, for she knew what was in it, and that
she must open it at night and alone.

That night she took her box and went out all by herself to a wide
plain in the jungle, and there opened it. She took the little flute,
put it to her lips, and began to play, and instantly out flew the
seven little dolls, who were all little fairies, and they took chairs
and carpets from the box, and arranged them all in a large tent which
appeared at that moment. Then the fairies bathed her, combed and
rolled up her hair, put on her grand clothes and lovely slippers. But
all the time the princess did nothing but cry. They brought a chair
and placed it before the tent, and made her sit in it. One of them
took the flute and played on it, and all the others danced before the
princess, and they sang songs for her. Still she cried and cried. At
last, at four o'clock in the morning, one of the fairies said,
"Princess, why do you cry?" "I took all the needles out of the king,
all but those in his eyes," said the princess, "and while I was
bathing, my servant-girl, whom I had bought with my gold bangles,
pulled these out. She told the king it was she who had pulled out all
the other needles and brought him to life, and that I was her servant,
and she has taken my place and is treated as the princess, and the
king has married her, while I am made to do a servant's work and
treated as the servant." "Do not cry," said the fairies. "Everything
will be well for you by and by."

When it was close on morning, the princess played on the flute, and
all the chairs, sofas, and fairies became quite tiny, and went into
the box, and the tent disappeared. She shut it up, and took it back to
the king's palace. The next night she again went out to the
jungle-plain, and all happened as on the night before.

A wood-cutter was coming home late from his work, and had to pass by
the plain. He wondered when he saw the tent. "I went by some time
ago," he said to himself, "and I saw no tent here." He climbed up a
big tree to see what was going on, and saw the fairies dancing before
the princess, who sat outside the tent, and he saw how she cried
though the fairies did all they could to amuse her. Then he heard the
fairies say, "Princess, why do you cry?" And he heard her tell them
how she had cured the king, and how her servant-girl had taken her
place and made her a servant. "Never mind, don't cry," said the
fairies. "All will be well by and by." Near morning the princess
played on her flute, and the fairies went into the box, and the tent
disappeared, and the princess went back to the palace.

The third night passed as the other two had done. The wood-cutter came
to look on, and climbed into the tree to see the fairies and the
princess. Again the fairies asked her why she cried, and she gave the
same answer.

The next day the wood-cutter went to the king. "Last night and the
night before," he said, "as I came home from work, I saw a large tent
in the jungle, and before the tent there sat a princess who did
nothing but cry, while seven fairies danced before her, or played on
different instruments, and sang songs to her." The king was very much
astonished, and said to the wood-cutter, "To-night I will go with you,
and see the tent, and the princess, and the fairies."

When it was night the princess went out softly and opened her box on
the plain. The wood-cutter fetched the king, and the two men climbed
into a tree, and watched the fairies as they danced and sang. The king
saw that the princess who sat and cried was his own servant-girl. He
heard her tell the fairies all she had done for him, and all that had
happened to her; so he came suddenly down from the tree, and went up
to her, and took her hand. "I always thought you were a princess, and
no servant-girl," he said. "Will you marry me?"

She left off crying, and said, "Yes, I will marry you." She played on
her flute, and the tent disappeared, and all the fairies, and sofas,
and chairs went into the box. She put her flute in it, as she always
did before shutting down the lid, and went home with the king.

The servant-girl was very vexed and angry when she found the king knew
all that had happened. However, the princess was most good to her, and
never treated her unkindly.

The princess then sent a letter to her mother, in which she wrote, "I
am going to be married to a great king. You and my father must come to
my wedding, and must bring my sisters with you."

They all came, and her father and mother liked the king very much, and
were glad their daughter should marry him. The wedding took place, and
they stayed with her for some time. For a whole week she gave their
servants and sepoys nice food cooked with salt, but to her father and
mother and sisters she only gave food cooked with sugar. At last they
got so tired of this sweet food that they could eat it no longer. At
the end of the week she gave them a dinner cooked with salt. Then her
father said, "My daughter is wise though she is so young, and is the
youngest of my daughters. I know now how much she loved me when she
said she loved me like salt. People cannot eat their food without
salt. If their food is cooked with sugar one day, it must be cooked
with salt the next, or they cannot eat it."

After this her father and mother and sisters went home, but they
often came to see their little daughter and her husband.

The princess, the king, and the servant-maid all lived happily
together.

    Told by Múniyá.

[Decoration]




[Decoration]

XXIV.

THE DEMON IS AT LAST CONQUERED BY THE KING'S SON.


In a country there were seven men, no two of whom belonged to the same
family, or were of the same trade. One was a grain merchant's son, one
a baker's, and so on; each had a different trade.

These seven men determined they would go to seek for service in
another country. They said good-bye to their fathers and mothers, and
set off.

They travelled every day, and walked through many jungles. At last, a
long way from their homes, they came to a wide plain in the midst of a
jungle, and on it they saw a goat which seemed to be a very good
milch-goat. The seven men said to each other, "If this goat belonged
to any one, it would not be left all alone in the jungle. Let us take
it with us." They did so, and no one they met asked them any questions
about the goat.

In the evening they arrived at a village where they stayed for the
night. They cooked and ate their dinners, and gave the goat grass and
grain. At midnight, when they were all asleep, the goat became a great
she-demon, with a great mouth, and swallowed one of the seven men.
Then she became a goat again, and went back to the place where she had
been stabled.

The men got up in the morning, and were very much surprised to find
they were only six, not seven. "Where is the seventh gone?" they
said. "Well, when he returns we will all go on together." They sat
waiting and waiting for him, till, as it was getting late and he had
not come, they all thought they had better start without him. So they
continued their journey, taking the goat with them. Before they went
they said to the villagers, "If our seventh man comes back to you,
send him after us."

At evening they came to another village, where they stayed for the
night. They cooked and ate their dinners, and gave grain and grass to
the goat. At midnight, when they were fast asleep, the goat became a
demon and swallowed another man, and then took her goat's shape again.

In this way she ate five men. The two that were left were very sad at
finding themselves alone. "We were seven men," they said, "now we are
but two." The grain merchant's son was one of the two, and he was very
quick and sharp. He determined he would not say anything to his
companion, but that he would watch by him that night, and find out, if
he could, what had happened to his other friends. To keep himself
awake he cut a piece out of his finger, and rubbed a little salt into
the wound, so that when his companion went to sleep, he should not be
able to sleep because of the pain. At midnight the goat came and
turned into a huge demon. She went quickly up to the sleeping man to
swallow him; but the merchant's son rushed at her, beat her, and
snatched his companion from her mouth. The demon turned instantly into
a goat, and went back to the place where it had been stabled.

The two men next morning set out from the village where they had
passed the night. They would have killed the goat had they been able.
As they could not do so, they took it with them till they came to a
plain in the jungle, where they tied it up to a tree, and left it.
Then they continued their journey, and were very sorry they had not
known how wicked the goat was before it had swallowed their five
companions.

The goat meanwhile turned itself into a most beautiful young girl,
dressed in grand clothes and rich jewels, and she sat down in the
jungle and began to cry. Just then the king of another country was
hunting in this jungle; and when he heard the noise of the crying, he
called his servants and told them to go and see who was crying. The
servants looked about until they saw the beautiful girl. They asked
her a great many questions, but she only cried, and would not answer.
The servants returned to the king, and told him it was a most
beautiful young girl who was crying; but she would do nothing but cry,
and would not speak.

The king left his hunting and went himself to the girl, and asked her
why she cried. "My husband married me," she said, "and was taking me
to his home. He went to get some water to drink, and left me here. He
has never come back, and I don't know where he is; perhaps some tiger
has killed him, and now I am all alone, and do not know where to go.
This is why I cry." The king was so delighted with her beauty, that he
asked her to go with him. He sent his servants for a fine palanquin,
and when it came he put the girl into it, and took her to his palace,
and there she stayed.

At midnight she turned into a demon, and went to the place where the
king's sheep and goats were kept. She tore open all their stomachs,
and ate all their hearts. Then she dipped seven knives in their blood,
and laid the knives on the beds of the seven queens.

Next morning the king heard that all his sheep and goats were lying
dead; and when his seven wives woke, they saw that their clothes were
all bloody, and that bloody knives lay on their beds. They wondered
who had done this wicked thing to them.

The next night at twelve o'clock the beautiful girl turned into a
demon again, and went to the cow-house. There she tore open the cows
and ate their hearts. Then she smeared the queens' clothes, and laid
knives dipped in blood on their beds; but she washed her own hands and
clothes, so that no blood should show on them. For a long time the
same thing happened every night, till she had eaten all the elephants,
horses, camels,--every animal, indeed, belonging to the king. The king
wondered very much at his animals all being killed in this way, and he
could not understand either why every morning his wives' clothes were
bloody, and bloody knives found on their beds.

When she had eaten all the animals, the demon said to the king, "I am
afraid your wives are very wicked women. They must have killed all
your cows and sheep, goats, horses, elephants, and camels. I am afraid
one day they will eat me up." "I have been married to them for many
years," answered the king, "and anything like this has never happened
before." "I am very much afraid of them," said the demon, who all this
time looked a most beautiful girl. "I am very much afraid; but if you
cut out their eyes, then they cannot kill me."

The king called his servants and said to them, "Get ready seven
palanquins, and carry my seven wives into the jungle. There you must
leave them; only first take out their eyes, which you must bring to
me." The servants took the queens to a jungle a long way from the
king's country. There they took out their eyes, and left them, and
brought the eyes to the king, who gave them into the demon's hands.
She pounded them to bits with a stone, and threw the bits away.

The seven queens in the jungle did not know which way to go; so they
walked straight on, and fell into a dry well which lay just before
them. In this well they stayed; and the day when they thought they
must die of hunger and thirst was drawing near. But before it came the
eldest queen had a little son. She and the five next wives were so
hungry, that they agreed to kill the child, and divide it into seven
pieces. They each ate a piece, and gave one to the seventh and
youngest wife. She said nothing, and hid the piece. These five wives
each had a son one after the other, and they killed and divided their
children as the eldest wife had done with hers. But the youngest wife
hid all the six pieces that were given her, and would eat none. Her
son was born last of all. Then the six eldest wives said, "Let us kill
and divide your child." "No," she said, "I will never kill or divide
my boy; I would rather die of hunger. Here are the six pieces you gave
me. I would not eat them. Take them and eat them, but you must not
touch my son." God was so pleased with her for not killing her child,
that he made the boy grow bigger and bigger every day; and the little
queen was very happy.

They all lived in the dry well without any food till the little prince
was five years old. By that time he was very quick and clever. One day
he said to his mother, "Why have we lived all this while in the well?"
His mother and all the other wives told him about the wicked demon who
lived in his father's palace, and how the king believed her to be a
beautiful girl and had married her, and of all the evil things that
she had done to them, and how she had made the king send them to the
jungle and have their eyes cut out and given to her, and how from not
being able to see they had fallen into this well, and how they had
eaten all his brothers, because they were so very hungry they thought
they should die--all but his mother at least, for she would not eat
the other wives' children and would not kill her own little son. "Let
me climb out of this well," said the boy, who determined in his heart
that he would kill this wicked demon one day. His mother said, "No,
stay here; you are too young to leave the well."

The boy did not listen to her, but scrambled out. Then he saw they
were in a wide plain in the jungle. He ran after a few birds, caught
and killed them. Then he roasted the birds and brought them with some
water to his seven mothers in the well. When they had eaten them and
drunk the water, they were happy and worshipped God. The six mothers
who had eaten their children were full of sorrow, and said, "If our
six sons were now living, how good it would be for us: how happy we
should be." The young prince went out hunting for little birds every
day, and in the evening he cooked those he caught and brought them,
with water, to his mothers.

Now the demon, because she was a demon and was therefore wiser than
men and women, knew that the seven queens lived in the well, and that
the son of the youngest queen was still alive. She determined to kill
him; so she pretended her eyes hurt her, and began crying, and making
a great to-do. The king asked her, "What is the matter?" "See, king,
see my eyes," she said. "They ache and hurt me so much." "What
medicine will make them well again?" said the king. "If I could only
bathe them with a tigress's milk, they would be well," she answered.

The king called two of his servants and said to them, "Can either of
you get me a tigress's milk? Here are two thousand rupees for
whichever of you brings me the milk." Then he gave them the rupees,
and told them to get it at once.

The servants took the rupees, and said nothing to the king, but they
said to each other, "How can we get a tigress's milk?" And they were
very sad. They left the king's country, and wandered on till they came
to the jungle-plain, where lived the young prince and his mothers.
There they saw him sitting by a dry well and roasting birds. "Do you
live in this jungle?" they said to him. "Yes," answered the boy. Then
the servants talked together. "See," they said, "this boy lives in the
jungle, so he will surely be able to get us the milk. Let us tell him
to get it, and give him the two thousand rupees."

So they came back to the boy, who asked them where they were going.
"Our queen is very ill with pain in her eyes, and our king has sent us
for some tigress's milk for her to bathe them with, that they may get
well. He has given us two thousand rupees, for whichever of us to keep
who gets the milk. But we do not know where or how to get it."

"Good," said the boy; "give me the two thousand rupees and I will get
it for you. Come here for it in a week's time."

The king's servants were very much pleased at not having to try and
get it themselves, so they gave him the rupees and went home. The
demon knew quite well when she asked for the milk that none of the
king's servants would dare to go for it, but that his son would be
brave enough to go. This is why she asked for it, for she meant the
tigers to kill him.

The little prince now took his seven mothers out of the well, and they
all went together to his father's country. There he got a small house
for them, and good clothes and food. He got a servant, too, for them,
to cook their dinner and take care of them. "Be very tender to them,"
he said to the servant, "for they cannot see." For himself he bought a
little horse, and good clothes, and a gun, and a sword. Then he made
his mothers many salaams, and told them he was going to get a
tigress's milk. They all cried and begged him not to go.

But he set off and rode for three or four days through the jungles.
Then he came to a large jungle which was in a great blaze, and two
tiger-cubs were running about in the jungle trying to get out of the
fire. He jumped off his horse, and took them in his hands; then he
mounted his horse again and rode out of the jungle. He rode on till
he came to another which was not on fire. He let the cubs loose in it
that they might run away; but they placed themselves in front of his
horse, and said, "We will not let you go till you have seen our father
and mother."

Meanwhile the tiger and tigress saw the boy coming with their cubs,
and they came running to meet them. Till then they had thought their
cubs were burned in the jungle-fire. Now they knew at once this boy
had saved them. The cubs said to their father and mother, "We should
have died had it not been for this boy. Give him food; and when he has
eaten some food, we will drink milk." The tigers were very happy at
having their children safe. They went to a garden and got food and
good water for the boy, who ate and drank. Then the little cubs drank
their mother's milk.

The tiger said to the prince, "You are such a little child, how is it
your mother let you come alone to this jungle?"

"My mother's eyes are sore and pain her; and the doctor says that if
she bathes them in a tigress's milk they will get well. So I came to
see if I could get a little for her."

"I will give you some," said the tigress, and she gave him a little
jar full of her milk. The cubs said, "One of us will go with you, and
the other will stay with our father and mother." "No," said the little
prince, "do you both stay with your father and mother. I will not take
either of you away. What should I do with you?" "No," said one of the
cubs; "I will go with you. I will do all you tell me. Wherever you bid
me stay, there I will stay; and I will eat any food you give me."
"Take him with you," said the old tiger; "one day you will find him of
use." So the boy took the cub and the milk, and made his salaam to the
old tigers and went home. His mothers were delighted at his return,
though, as they had no eyes, they could not see him.

He tied up the tiger's cub and fed him. Then he took a little of the
milk, and went to the dry well in the jungle and sat down by it. The
king's servants came when the week had passed, and the boy gave them
the milk. The servants took it to the king, who gave it to the demon.
She was very angry when she found the tigers had not eaten the boy;
but she bathed her eyes with the milk, and said nothing.

At the end of another week she would not eat or drink, and did nothing
but cry. "What is the matter?" said the king. "See how my eyes pain
me," she answered. "If I could only get an eagle's feather to lay on
them they would be well. Oh, how they hurt me!"

The king called his servants and gave them four thousand rupees. "Go
and get me an eagle's feather," he said, "and he who gets it is to
take the four thousand rupees." "Let us go to the jungle well," they
said, "and find the boy who got us the tigress's milk. We could never
get an eagle's feather, but this child certainly can get one for us."

So they went to the well where they found the boy. The little prince
was very wise, though he was such a little child; and he knew the
demon would try to send him on some other errand that she might get
rid of him. He was quite willing to go on her errands, for he thought
he might thus learn how to kill her. He was not a bit afraid of being
killed himself, for he knew that God loved him, and that no one but
God could kill him.

He at once asked the king's servants, "What do you want now?" "Our
king has sent us for an eagle's feather to lay on the queen's eyes,
which pain her again. Here are four thousand rupees for you if you
will get it for us." "Give me the rupees," said the king's son. "Come
here in two weeks, and I will give you the feather."

He took the rupees to his mothers, and told them he was going to fetch
an eagle's feather. "Where will you find one?" they said. "I don't
know," he answered, "but I am going to look for one." He hired some
more servants, and told them to take care of his mothers and the
tiger-cub.

He rode straight on for two or three days, and at last came to a very
dense jungle, through which he rode for another three or four days.
When he got out of it he found himself on a beautiful smooth plain in
which was a tank. There, too, was a large fig-tree, and under the tree
cool shade, and cool, thick grass. He was very much pleased when he
saw the tank and the tree. He got off his horse, bathed in the tank,
and sat down under the fig-tree, thinking, "Here I will sleep a little
while before I go further."

While he lay asleep in the grass, a great snake crawled up the tree,
at the top of which were two young eagles. They began screaming very
loud. Their cries awakened the little prince. He looked about and saw
the great snake in the tree. Then he took his gun and fired at it, and
the snake fell dead to the ground. He cut it into five pieces, and hid
them in the long grass. Then he lay down again and went to sleep.

The baby eagles were alone in the tree, as their father and mother had
gone to another country. But now the old birds came home, and found
the king's son sleeping in the grass. "See," they said, "here is the
thief who every year robs us of our children! But now he cannot get
away. We will kill him." However, they thought it better to go and
look first at their children, to see if they were safe or not. They
flew up to the top of the tree, and when they found their children
safe, they wished to give them food. All the time they kept saying,
"Eat; then we will kill the thief who steals away our children every
year." The young eagles thought, "Oh, if God would only give us the
power to speak, then we would tell our father and mother that this
boy is no thief." Then God gave them the power to speak, and they said
to the old eagles, "Listen; if that boy had not been here, we should
have died, for he killed a huge snake that was going to swallow us:
only go and look, and you will see it dead and cut into pieces." And
the eaglets refused to eat till the boy had been fed.

The big eagles flew down and found the bits of the snake: so they flew
away to a beautiful garden, where they got delicious fruits and water.
These they brought to the boy, and awoke him and fed him. Then they
said to him, "It is indeed good to find our children alive. Hitherto
our children have always been eaten by that snake. How are your father
and mother? Why did they let you come to this jungle? What have you
come here for?" The little prince said, "My mother's eyes are very
sore; but they would be cured if she could have an eagle's feather to
lay on them. So I came to look for one." Then the mother gave him one
of her feathers.

When the boy was going home, the eaglets said they would go with him.
"No," he said, "I will not take you with me." But the old birds said,
"Take one of them, it will help you one day." The little prince made
his salaam to the big eagles, and took one of their young ones,
mounted his horse, and rode off. The eaglet flew over his head to
shade him from the sun.

When he got home to his seven mothers, he took the feather and went
and sat by the dry well. The king's servants came there to him, and he
gave them the feather, and said, "Take it to your king." This they
did, and the king gave it to the demon, who flew into a great rage.
She said to herself, "The tigers did not kill him, and now the eagles
have not killed him."

At the end of two weeks she began to cry and would not eat. The king
asked her, "What is the matter with you? what has happened to you?"
"My eyes pain me so much," she said. "What will cure them?" said the
king. "If I had only some night-growing rice," she said, "I would boil
it, and make rice-water, which I would drink. Then I should get well."
Now this night-growing rice was a wonderful rice that no men, and only
one demon, possessed. This was the demon-queen's brother. He used to
put a grain of this rice into his huge cavern of a mouth at night when
he went to sleep, and when he woke in the morning this grain would
have become a tree. Then the demon used to take the rice-tree out of
his mouth.

The demon, who seemed such a lovely girl, now wrote a letter to her
brother, in which she said, "The bearer of this letter goes to you for
some night-growing rice. You must kill him at once; you must not let
him live." The king gave this letter to his servants, with six
thousand rupees. "Take this letter," he said, "and fetch some of the
night-growing rice. Here are six thousand rupees for whichever of you
finds it." The king had no idea that it was not these men who had gone
for the tigress's milk and the eagle's feather.

The servants said, "Let us go to the well, to the boy who has helped
us before. We don't know where to get this night-growing rice, but
that boy is sure to know."

The boy was sitting by the well, and asked what they wanted. They
answered, "See, the king has given us six thousand rupees and a
letter, and told us to fetch him some night-growing rice." "Very
good," said the king's son. "Come here in three weeks' time, and I
will give you some." The servants gave him the rupees and returned
home.

He took the rupees to his mothers, and told them he was going on a
fresh errand, and they were to keep the money. Then he made them
salaams, took his letter, and rode off. The eaglet went too, and flew
above his head. The tiger's cub he left at home.

He rode on and on through a very large jungle, and he rode a long,
long way: at last in a jungle he saw a fakír, who was living in it. He
made him salaams, and the fakír was delighted to see him, "because,"
he said, "for many years I have been in this country, and all that
time have never seen any man." The prince sat down by the fakír, and
the fakír was very much pleased. He asked the boy who had sent him to
the jungle, and why he had come to it. "My mother has sore eyes," he
answered, "and wants some night-growing rice. She has given me a
letter to the man who owns it."

The fakír took and read the letter, and was very sorry. He tore it up
and threw it away. Then he wrote another, in which he said, "Your
sister is very ill, and her son has come for some night-growing rice
for her." This he gave to the boy, and told him to continue his
journey. He also told him that the man who had the rice was a huge
demon, and that he lived in the country by the great sea. Then he told
him the way.

The boy rode on and on, and after a week's journeying he came to the
demon's country. There he saw the huge demon sitting on the ground,
with his great, big mouth, that was just like a cavern. As soon as the
demon saw him he stood up and said, "It is many days since a man came
here. Now I will eat this one." He went towards the prince to seize
him, and a great rushing wind came blowing from the demon, as it
always did when he was angry. But the boy, who had begun to walk
towards him when he stood up, threw the letter to him with all his
might, so that it fell on him; at the same time he made many salaams.
The demon read the letter, and found his sister was very ill, and this
was her son; so he stopped the wind, and came up to the boy, who he
thought was his sister's son. "You have come for the rice for my
sister who is ill," he said to him; "you shall have it."

The demon had a splendid house full of beautiful things, and a great
many servants. He took the little prince home with him, and told his
servants to get water ready and gave the child a bath. They were also
to cook a good dinner for him. Then the demon showed the boy all his
gardens, and all his beautiful things, and took him through all the
rooms of his house. One room he did not show to the prince. He told
him he was never to go into it, though he might go everywhere else
that he liked. In this room lived the demon's daughter, who was very
beautiful, just like a fairy. She was ten years old. Every day before
her father went out, he used to make the girl lie on her bed, and
cover her with a sheet, and he placed a thick stick at her head, and
another at her feet; then she died till he came home in the evening
and changed the sticks, putting the one at her head at her feet, and
the one at her feet at her head. This brought her to life again.

The next day, when the demon had gone out, the boy went to this room,
and opened the door, for he wanted to see what was in it. He went in,
and saw the beautiful girl lying on the bed. "How lovely she is!" he
said; "but she is dead." Then he saw the sticks, and, to amuse
himself, he put the one at her head at her feet, and the one at her
feet at her head, just as the demon did every evening. The girl at
once came to life, and opened her eyes and got up. "Who is this?" she
said to herself, when she saw the king's son. "This is not my father."
She asked him, "Who are you? Why do you come here? If my father sees
you he will eat you." "No, he won't," said the prince, "for I am your
aunt's son, and your father himself brought me to his house. But why
is it that you are dead all day, and alive all night?" The girl had
told him that her father brought her to life every evening, and made
her dead every morning. "Such is my father's pleasure," she answered.

So they talked together all day, and he said to her, "Suppose one day
your father made you dead as usual, and that he was killed before he
had brought you to life, what would you do? You would always be dead
then." "Listen," she said; "no one can kill my father." "Why not?"
said the boy. "Listen," she answered; "on the other side of the sea
there is a great tree, in that tree is a nest, in the nest is a
_mainá_. If any one kills that _mainá_, then only will my father die.
And if, when the _mainá_ is killed, its blood falls to the ground, a
hundred demons would be born from the blood. This is why my father
cannot be killed."

At evening, before the demon came home, the prince made the girl dead.
Then he went softly into another room.

The fakír had said to the boy, when they were in the jungle together,
"If ever you are in trouble, come to me and I will help you. It will
take you now one week to ride to the demon's country; but if ever you
need me, you shall be able to come to me here in this jungle, and to
return to the demon's house in one day." The fakír was such a holy man
that everything he said should happen did happen. So now the prince
determined he would go to the fakír and ask him what he should do to
kill this _mainá_. In the morning, therefore, as soon as the demon had
gone out, he set off for the fakír's jungle, and, thanks to the holy
man's power, he got there very quickly. He told him everything, and
the fakír made a paper boat which he gave him. "This boat will take
you over the sea," he said to the prince. "This paper boat!" said the
boy. "How can a paper boat go over the sea? It will get soaked and
sink." "No, it will not," said the fakír. "Launch it on the sea, and
get into it. The boat will of itself carry you to the tree where the
_mainá's_ nest is."

The prince took the boat, and went back to the demon's house. He got
there before the demon came home, so that he did not know the boy had
been to the fakír. When the demon returned that evening, the king's
son said, "To-morrow I will go home, as my mother is very ill. Will
you give me the rice?" "Good," said the demon, "you shall have it
to-morrow." Next morning he gave the rice, and went off to the jungle.

Then the boy took his paper boat down to the sea, launched it, and got
into it; and of itself the boat went straight over the sea to the
opposite shore. The eaglet flew above his head; but he left his horse
on land. When he got to the other side, he saw the great tree, with
the nest and the _mainá_. He climbed the tree, and took down the nest,
and the demon, who was far away, knew it at once, and said to himself,
"Some one has come to catch and kill me." He set out at once for the
tree. The prince saw him coming, so he wrapped the _mainá_ up in his
handkerchief, that no blood should fall to the ground. Then he broke
off one of its legs, and one of the demon's legs fell off. Still the
demon came on. Then he broke off the other leg, but the demon walked
on his hands. The boy saw him coming nearer and nearer, so he wrung
the bird's head off, and the demon fell dead.

The prince jumped into his paper boat, and of itself the boat went
straight back to the other shore, to the demon's country. Then he went
up to the demon's house, and made his daughter alive.

She was frightened, and said to him, "Oh, take care. If my father
comes back, and finds us together, he will eat us both." "He will not
come back," said the prince. "I have killed him."

Then he dressed her in boy's clothes, that no one might know she was a
girl, and he found a horse, and had it made ready for her. Her father
had collected a quantity of rupees. Some of these the prince gave to
the servants as a present, and said to them, "Stay here and be happy;
do not be afraid, for there is no demon now to come and eat you."

Then he took the rice and mounted his horse, and made the girl mount
also, and went off to the fakír. The paper boat he left, as he did not
want it any more. He and the demon's daughter made the fakír many
salaams, and they stayed with him for a day before they rode to the
prince's country. Here they went to his seven mothers, who were very,
very glad to see them, and thanked God that their son had come back
safe.

He took a little of the rice, and went and sat by the well till the
king's two servants came. Then he gave them the rice for their king,
and the king gave it to the demon. She said nothing while the king was
with her; but when she was alone she cried, for she knew the boy must
have killed her brother, as he had brought her the rice.

She waited a week, and then she began to cry again, and would not eat.
The king was very sorry, and thought, "What can I do to make her well
and happy?" Then he said, "What will cure your eyes?" "See, king," she
answered, "if I could only bathe my eyes with water from the
Glittering Well, they would not pain me any more." This well was in
the fairies' country, and was guarded by the demon's sister, whose
name was Jangkatar. She lived in the well; and when any one came to
draw water from it, she used to drag him down and eat him.

The king called his servants, gave them eight thousand rupees, and
said, "Go and fetch me water from the Glittering Well." The servants
went at once to the dry well in the jungle. There they found the
prince, who asked them what they wanted. "Here are eight thousand
rupees," they said; "and the king has ordered us to bring him water
from the Glittering Well." "Come in three weeks, and I will give it
to you," said the king's son. He took to his mothers the eight
thousand rupees which the servants had given him, and said to them,
"Take care of these rupees, for I am going away for a little while."
Then he got his horse ready and mounted it, and made many salaams to
his mothers. The tiger-cub said to him, "Take me with you this time.
Last time you only took the eagle. Now we will both go with you."

So he rode off; and the eaglet flew above his head and the young tiger
ran by his side. It took him a week to get to the fairies' country,
and then he came to a beautiful smooth plain, in which was a garden,
but no house. In the middle of this garden was the Glittering Well. It
was a deep well, and the water sprang up out of it like a fountain,
and then fell back into the well, and the water shone and sparkled as
if it were gold, and silver, and diamonds. This is why it was called
the Glittering Well.

The prince dipped his jar in the well, and Jangkatar put up her hand
and caught him. She dragged him into the water and swallowed him
whole. Then the young eagle flew down into the well, seized Jangkatar
in his talons, and took her out and threw her on the ground. The
tiger-cub rushed at her instantly, tore her open, and pulled the
king's son out of her. But he was half dead. The cub and the eaglet
lay down on him to warm him, and when they had warmed him, he was
better.

"We have saved you," they said to him. "But for us you would have
died." The young prince thanked them and caressed them. "It is quite
true," he said; "without you I should have died." Then he filled his
jar with water, and mounted his horse and rode home. He made salaams
to his seven mothers, with whom all this time the demon's daughter had
stayed. He bathed his mothers' eyes with the water from the Glittering
Well, and then they saw perfectly once more.

He took a little of the water, and went to wait for the king's
servants by the dry jungle well, and he was very happy thinking that
now his mothers could see. He gave the water to the king's servants,
who took it to the king, and the king gave it to his demon-wife, and
she was very sad and angry, for she knew the boy must have killed her
sister, the guardian of the Glittering Well.

When a whole month had passed, and he had not been sent on any more
errands, the king's son said to himself, "Good; now nothing more is
going to happen to me. I am not to be sent anywhere else." So he
bought a fine horse and grand clothes, and rode to the king's
court-house. He went in, and seated himself at the king's right hand;
but he made no salaam to the king, and spoke to no one. This he did
every day for three days. Everybody was wondering who this boy was,
and why he never made any salaam to the king.

On the fourth day, as he sat at the king's right hand, the king asked
him, "Whose child are you? Where do you come from? Where are you
going?" The young prince answered, "See, king, I am a merchant's son;
my ship has been wrecked, and I want to find service with some one."
"What can you do?" asked the king. "I don't know any trade," said his
son; "but I can tell you a story." "What wages do you want?" said the
king. "One thousand rupees a day," answered the boy. "I shall only
stay a short time in your country." "Good," said the king; "I will
give you one thousand rupees a day, and a servant to wait on you
besides. So come every day to my court-house, and tell me your story."

The prince told the king his own story. He began from where the king
found the beautiful demon-girl crying in the jungle, and ended it
where his demon-wife cried and cried for her sister Jangkatar. It took
him three weeks to tell the story; and when he had finished it, the
king knew that he himself was the king in the story, and that this boy
was his own son. "How can I find my seven queens again?" he said. "If
you will kill this wicked demon-woman they will come back to you,"
said his son. The king was very sad, and thought, "My seven wives and
my boy must have suffered very much." Then he loved his son, and was
very happy that he had found him. He ordered his servants to dig a
deep pit in the jungle, so deep that should his demon-wife take her
demon form when put into it, only her head would be above it. He
thought that if her body were buried in the ground she would not be
able to do them much harm while they were shooting her. Then he, and
his son, and his servants took their guns and bows and arrows, and
took the demon with them to the deep pit. She went quite quietly,
though she knew they were going to kill her. Since Jangkatar's death
she had been very quiet and sad. And now she thought, "That boy will
most certainly kill me as he has killed my sister and brother. He is
stronger than I am. I have no one else to send him to; and if I had,
he could not be killed. What is the use of my trying to save myself?"
So she went along quite quietly, looking like a beautiful girl. She
let them put her into the pit, and shoot her to death with their guns
and bows and arrows. Then they filled the pit up with earth.

The king went to his seven wives, and begged them to forgive him. He
brought them, his son, and the demon's daughter home to his palace.
Later the king married his son to the demon's daughter, and every one
was glad.

But the king grieved that his six other sons were dead.

    Told by Múniyá.




[Decoration]

XXV.

THE FAN PRINCE.


In a country there lived a king who had a wife and seven daughters.
One day he called all his daughters to him, and said to them, "My
children, who gives you food? and by whose permission do you eat it?"
Six of them answered, "Father, you give us food; and by your
permission we eat it." But the seventh and youngest said, "Father, God
gives me my food; and by my own permission I eat it." This answer made
her father and mother very angry with their youngest daughter. They
said, "We will not let our youngest child stay with us any longer."
And her father called some servants and said to them, "Get a palanquin
ready, and put my youngest daughter into it; then carry her away to
the jungle, and there leave her."

The servants got the palanquin ready, put the youngest princess into
it, and carried her into the jungle. There they put the palanquin down
and said to her, "We are going to drink some water." "Go home now,"
said the girl, "as my father ordered you to do." They left her,
therefore, in the jungle alone, and went back to the king's palace.

The girl prayed to God and worshipped him; then she went to sleep for
a little while in her palanquin. When she awoke, it was evening, and
she found in her palanquin a jar of water and some food on a plate
which God had sent her while she slept. She knew that God had sent her
this nice dinner, and thanked him and worshipped him. Then she bathed
her face and hands in a little of the water, and ate and drank, and
went to sleep quietly in her palanquin as night had come.

This little princess had always been a very gentle girl, and had
always done what was right, and been very good, so God loved her
dearly. While she slept, therefore, he made a beautiful palace for her
on the jungle-plain where she was lying in her palanquin. God made a
garden and tank for her, too. When the princess woke in the morning,
and got out of her palanquin, she saw the palace standing by its tank
in a beautiful garden. "I never saw that palace before," she said. "It
was not here last night." She went into the garden, and servants met
her and made her salaams. The palace was far finer than her father's;
and when she went into it she found it full of servants. "To whom does
this palace belong?" she asked. "To you," they answered. "God made all
this for you last night, and he sent us to wait on you and be your
servants." (Now, they were all men, not angels, that God had sent to
take care of her.) The princess thanked God, and worshipped him.

A few days later, her father heard that in the jungle to which he had
sent her a beautiful palace and garden and tank had suddenly appeared,
and that in this palace she was living; and he said, "Yes; my daughter
told me the truth: it is God who gives us everything. I know it is he
who gave her this beautiful house." So some time passed, and the
princess lived in her palace in the jungle; but her father did not go
to see her.

One day he said to himself, "To-day I will go and eat the air in
another country, and I will go by water." So he ordered a boat to be
got ready, and he went to his six daughters, and told them he was
going away for a little while. "What would you like me to bring you
from this other country?" he said. "I will bring you anything you
would like to have." Some of them wanted jewels, a necklace, a pair of
earrings, and so on; and some wanted silk stuffs for sárís and other
clothes. Then the king remembered his youngest child, and thought, "I
must send to her, and see what she would like." He called one of his
servants, and told him to go to the jungle to his youngest daughter
and say, "Your father is going to eat the air of another country. He
wishes to know what you would like him to bring back for you."

The servant found the little princess reading her prayer-book. He gave
her the king's message. She said, "Sabr" (that is _wait_), for she
meant him to wait for her answer till she had finished reading her
prayers. The servant, however, did not understand, but went away at
once to the king and told him, "Your daughter wants you to bring her
Sabr." "Sabr?" said the king; "what is Sabr? Never, mind, I will see
if I can find any Sabr; and if I do, I will bring it for her."

The king then went in his boat to another country. There he stayed for
a little while and bought the jewels and silks for his six elder
daughters. When he thought he should like to go home again, he went
down to his boat and got into it. But the boat would not move, because
he had forgotten one thing; the thing his youngest daughter had asked
for.

Suddenly he remembered he had not got any Sabr. So he gave one of his
servants four thousand rupees, and told him to go on shore, and go
through the bazar, and try and find the Sabr, and he was to give the
four thousand rupees for it.

The man went to the bazar and asked every one if they had Sabr to
sell. Then he asked if they could tell him what it was. "No," they
said, "but our king's son is called Sabr; you had better speak to
him."

The servant went to Prince Sabr. "Our king's youngest daughter," he
said, "has asked her father to bring her Sabr, and the king has given
me four thousand rupees to buy it for her; but I cannot get any, and
no one knows what it is." The prince said, "Very good. Give this
little box to your king, and tell him to give it to his youngest
daughter. But it is only the princess who has asked for Sabr who is to
open the box." Then he told the man to keep the four thousand rupees
as a present from him.

The servant went back to the boat to the king and gave him the box,
saying, "In this is the Sabr," and he told him Prince Sabr said no one
but the youngest princess was to open it. And now the boat moved quite
easily, and the king journeyed home safely.

He gave his six eldest daughters the presents he had brought for them,
and sent the little box to his youngest daughter. She said, "My father
has sent me this. I will look at it by and by." Then she put it away
and forgot it. At the end of a month she found the little box, and
thought, "I will see what my father has sent me," and opened the box.
In it was a most lovely little fan. She was very much pleased, and
fanned herself with it, and at once a beautiful prince stood before
her.

The princess was delighted. "Who are you? Where did you come from?"
she said. "My name is Prince Sabr," he answered. "Your father came to
my father's country, and he said you had asked him to bring you Sabr,
so I gave him this little fan for you. I am obliged to come to whoever
uses this little fan with the right side turned outwards. And when you
want me to go away, you must turn the right side of the fan towards
you and then fan yourself with it." The little princess said, "Very
good. And so your name is Prince Sabr?" They talked together for some
time. Then she turned her fan, so that the wrong side was outside,
and fanned herself with it, and the prince disappeared.

This went on for a month. The princess used to fan herself with the
right side turned outwards, and then Prince Sabr came to her. When she
turned her fan wrong side outwards and fanned herself, then he
vanished.

One day the prince said to her, "I should like to marry you. Will you
marry me?" "Yes," she answered. Then she wrote a letter to her father
and mother and six sisters, in which she said, "Come to my wedding. I
am going to marry Prince Sabr." They all came. Her father was very
glad that she married Prince Sabr, and said, "I see it is true that
God loves my youngest daughter."

The day of the wedding her six sisters said to her, "To-day we will
not let the servants make your bed. We will make it ourselves for
you." "I have plenty of servants to make it," she said; "but you can
do so if you like." Her sisters went to make the bed. They took a
glass bottle and ground it into a powder, and they spread the powder
all over the side where Prince Sabr was to lie. This they did because
they were angry at their youngest sister being married, while they,
who were older, were not married, and they thought, being her elders,
they should have married first, especially as they had lived in their
father's palace, and been cared for, while she was cast out in the
jungle.

When the wedding was over, and Prince Sabr and his wife had gone to
bed, the prince became very ill, from the glass powder going into his
flesh. "Turn your fan the wrong way and fan yourself quickly, that I
may go home to my father's country," he said to her, "for I am very
ill, and dare not remain here." So she fanned herself at once with the
fan turned the wrong way. Then he went home to his father, and was
very ill for a long while. The poor princess knew nothing of the glass
powder.

Her father and mother and sisters went home after the wedding, and
left the princess alone in her palace. Every day she turned her fan
the right side outwards and fanned and fanned herself; but Prince Sabr
never came. He was far too ill. One day she cried a great deal, and
was very, very sad. "Why does my prince not come to me?" she said. "I
don't know where he is, or what has become of him." That night she had
a dream, and in her dream she saw Prince Sabr lying very ill on his
bed.

When she got up in the morning she thought she must go and try to find
her prince. So she took off all her beautiful clothes and jewels, and
put on a yogí's dress. Then she mounted a horse and set out in the
jungle. No one knew she was a woman, or that she was a king's
daughter; every one thought she was a man.

She rode on till night, and then she had come to another jungle. Here
she got off her horse, and took it under a tree. She lay down under
the tree and went to sleep. At midnight she was awakened by the
chattering of a parrot and a _mainá_, who came and sat on the tree
knowing she was lying underneath.

The _mainá_ said to the parrot, "Parrot, tell me something." The
parrot said, "Prince Sabr is very, very ill in his own country. The
day he was married, the bride's six sisters took a glass bottle and
ground it to powder. Then they spread the powder all over the prince's
bed, so that when he lay down it got into his flesh. The glass powder
has made him very ill." "What will make him well?" said the _mainá_;
"what will cure him?" "No doctors can cure him," said the parrot; "no
medicine will do him any good: but if any one slept under this tree,
and took some of the earth from under it, and mixed it with cold
water, and rubbed it all over Prince Sabr, he would get well."

All this the princess heard. She got up and longed for morning to
come. When it was day she took some of the earth, mounted her horse,
and rode off. She went on till she came to Prince Sabr's country. Then
she asked to whom the country belonged; she was told it was Prince
Sabr's father's country, "but Prince Sabr is very ill."

"I am a yogí," said the princess, "and I can cure him." This was told
to the king, Prince Sabr's father. "That is very good," he said. "Send
the yogí to me." So the little princess went to the king, who said to
her, "My son is very, very ill; make him well." "Yes," she said, "I
will make him well. Bring me some cold water."

They brought her the cold water, and she mixed it with the earth she
had got from under the tree. This she rubbed all over the prince. For
three days and nights she rubbed him with it. After that he got
better, and in a week he was quite well. He was able to talk, and
could walk about as usual.

Then the yogí said, "Now I will go back to my own country." But the
king said to her, "First you must let me give you a present. You shall
have anything that you like. As many horses, or sepoys, or rupees as
you want you shall have; for you have made my son well." "I want
nothing at all," said the princess, "but Prince Sabr's ring, and the
handkerchief he has with his name worked on it." She had given him
both these things on their wedding day. Prince Sabr's father and
mother went to their son and begged him to give the handkerchief and
ring to the yogí; and he did so quite willingly. "For," he thought,
"were it not for that yogí, I should never see my dear princess
again."

The yogí took the ring and handkerchief and went home. When she got
there, she took off her yogí's dress and put on her own beautiful
clothes. Then she turned her fan right side outwards, and fanned
herself with it, and immediately her Prince Sabr stood by her. "Why
did you not come to me before?" she said. "I have been fanning and
fanning myself." "I was very ill, and could not come," said Prince
Sabr. "At last a yogí came and made me well, and as a reward I gave
him my ring and handkerchief." "It was no yogí," said the princess.
"It was I who came to you and made you well." "You!" said the prince.
"Oh, no; it was a yogí. You were sitting here in your palace while the
yogí came and cured me." "No, indeed," she said; "I was the yogí. See,
is not this your ring? is not this your handkerchief with your name
worked on it?" Then he believed her, and she told him of her dream,
and her journey in the yogí's dress, and the birds' talk, and all that
had happened.

And Prince Sabr was very happy that his wife had done so much for him,
and they lived happily together.

    Told by Múniyá.

[Decoration]




[Decoration]

XXVI.

THE BED.


In a country there was a grain merchant's son, whose father and mother
loved him so dearly that they did not let him do anything but play and
amuse himself while they worked for him. They never taught him any
trade, or anything at all; for they never reflected that they might
die, and that then he would have to work for himself. When he was old
enough to be married, they found a wife for him, and married him to
her. Then they all lived happily together for some years till the
father and mother both died.

Their son and his wife lived for a while on the pice his father and
mother had left him. But the wife grew sadder and sadder every day,
for the pice grew fewer and fewer. She thought, "What shall we do when
they are all gone? My husband knows no trade, and can do no work." One
day when she was looking very sorrowful, her husband asked her, "What
is the matter? Why are you so unhappy?" "We have hardly any pice
left," she answered, "and what shall we do when we have eaten the few
we have? You know no trade, and can do no work." "Never mind," said
her husband, "I can do some work."

So one day when there were hardly any pice left, he took an axe, and
said to his wife, "I am going out to-day to work. Give me my dinner to
take with me, and I will eat it out of doors." She gave him some
food, wondering what work he had; but she did not ask him.

He went to a jungle, where he stayed all day, and where he ate his
dinner. All day long he wandered from tree to tree, saying to each,
"May I cut you down?" But not a tree in the jungle gave him any
answer: so he cut none down, and went home in the evening. His wife
did not ask where he had been, or what he had done, and he said
nothing to her.

The next day he again asked her for food to take with him to eat out
of doors, "for," he said, "I am going to work all day." She did not
like to ask him any questions, but gave him the food. And he took his
axe, and went out to a jungle which was on a different side to the one
he had been to yesterday. In this jungle also he went to every tree,
and said to it, "May I cut you down?" No tree answered him; so he ate
his dinner and came home.

The next day he went to a third jungle on the third side. There, too,
he asked each tree, "May I cut you down?" But none gave him any
answer. He came home therefore very sorrowful.

On the fourth day he went to a jungle on the fourth side. All day long
he went from tree to tree, asking each, "May I cut you down?" None
answered. At last, towards evening, he went and stood under a
mango-tree. "May I cut you down?" he said to it. "Yes, cut me down,"
answered the tree. God loved the merchant's son and wished him to grow
a great man, so he ordered the mango-tree to let itself be cut down.

Now the grain merchant's son was happy, for he was quite sure he could
make a bed, if he only had some wood; so he hewed down the mango-tree,
put it on his head, and carried it home. His wife saw him coming, and
said to herself, "He is bringing home a tree! What can he be going to
do with a tree?"

Next morning he took the tree into one of the rooms of his house. He
told his wife to put food and water to last him for a week in this
room, and to make a fire in it. Then he went up to the room, and said
to her, "You are not to come in here for a whole week. You are not to
come near me till I call you." Then he went into the room and shut the
door. The whole week long his wife wondered what he could be doing all
alone in that room. "I cannot see into it," she said to herself, "and
I dare not open the door. I wonder what he is about."

By the end of the week the grain merchant's son had carved a most
beautiful bed out of the mango-tree. Such a beautiful bed had never
been seen. Then he called his wife, and when she came he told her to
open the door, and when she opened it he said, "See what a beautiful
bed I have made." "Did _you_ make that bed?" she said. "Oh, what a
beautiful bed it is! I never saw such a lovely bed!"

He rested that day, and on the day following he took the bed to the
king's palace, and sat down with it before the palace gate. The king's
servants all came to look at the bed. "What a bed it is!" they said.
"Did any one ever see such a bed! It is a beautiful bed. Is it yours?"
they asked the merchant's son. "Is it for sale? Who made it? Did you
make it?" But he said, "I will not answer any of your questions. I
will not speak to any of you. I will only speak to the king." So the
servants went to the king and said to him, "There is a man at your
gate with a most beautiful bed. But he will not speak to any of us,
and says he will only speak to you." "Very good," said the king;
"bring him to me."

When the grain merchant's son came before the king with his bed, the
king asked him, "Is your bed for sale?" "Yes," he said. "What a
beautiful bed it is!" said the king. "Who made it?" "I did," he said.
"I made it myself." "How much do you want for it?" said the king.
"One thousand rupees," answered the merchant's son. "That is a great
deal for the bed," said the king. "I will not take less," said the
merchant's son. "Good," said the king, "I will give you the thousand
rupees." So he took the bed, and the merchant's son said to him, "The
first night you pass on it, do not go to sleep. Take care to keep
awake, and you will hear and see something." Then he took the rupees
home to his wife, who was frightened when she saw them. "Are those
your rupees?" she said. "Where did you find such a quantity of
rupees?" "The king gave them to me for my bed," he said. "I am not a
thief; I did not steal them." Then she was happy.

That night the king lay down on his bed, and at ten o'clock he heard
one of the bed's legs say to the other legs, "Listen, you three. I am
going out to see the king's country. Do you all stand firm while I am
away, and take care not to let the king fall." "Good," the three legs
answered; "go and eat the air, and we will all stand fast, so that the
king does not fall while you are away."

Then the king saw the leg leave the bed, and go out of his room door.
The leg went out to a great plain, and there it saw two snakes
quarrelling together. One snake said, "I will bite the king." The
other said, "I will bite him." The first said, "No, you won't; I will
climb on to his bed and bite him." "That you will never do," said the
second. "You cannot climb on to his bed; but I will get into his shoe,
and then when he puts it on to-morrow morning, I will bite his foot."

The bed-leg came back and told the other legs what it had seen and
heard. "If the king will shake his shoe before he puts it on to-morrow
morning," it said, "he will see a snake drop out of it." The king
heard all that was said.

"Now," said the second bed-leg, "I will go out and eat the air of the
king's country. Do you all stand firm while I am away." "Go," the
others answered; "we will take care the king does not fall." The
second bed-leg then went out, and went to another plain on which stood
a very old palace belonging to the king, and the wind told it the
palace was so ruinous that it would fall and kill the king the first
time he went into it: the king had never once had it repaired. So it
came back and told the three other legs all about the palace and what
the wind had said. "If I were the king," said the second bed-leg, "I
would have that palace pulled down. It is quite ready to fall; and the
first time the king goes into it, it will fall on him and kill him."
The king lay, and listened to everything. As it happened, he had
forgotten all about his old palace, and had not gone near it for a
long time.

Then the third bed-leg said, "Now I will go out and see all the fun I
can. Stand firm, you three, while I am away." He went to a
jungle-plain on which lived a yogí. Now there was a sarai[5] not far
off in which lived a woman, the wife of a sepoy, whose husband had
gone a year ago to another country, leaving her in the sarai. She was
so fond of the yogí, that she used to come and talk to him every
night. That very day her husband came back to her, and therefore it
was later than usual when she got to the yogí; so he was very vexed
with her. "How late you are to-night," he said. "It is not my fault,"
she answered. "My husband came home to-day after having been away a
year, and he kept me." "Which of us do you love best?" asked the yogí;
"your husband or me?" "I love you best," said the woman. "Then," said
the yogí, "go home and cut off your husband's head, and bring it here
for me to see." The sepoy's wife went straight to the sarai, cut off
her husband's head, and brought it to the yogí. "What a wicked woman
you are to do such a thing at my bidding!" he said. "Go away at once.
You are a wicked woman, and I do not want to see you." She took the
head home, set it again on the body and began to cry. All the people
in the sarai came to see what was the matter. "Thieves have been
here," she said, "and have killed my husband, and cut off his head,"
and then she cried again. The third bed-leg now went back to the
palace, and told the others all it had seen and heard. The king lay
still and listened.

The fourth bed-leg next went out to see all it could, and it came to a
plain on which were seven thieves, who had just been into the king's
palace, and had carried off his daughter on her bed fast asleep; and
there she lay still sleeping. They had, too, been into the king's
treasury and had taken all his rupees. The fourth bed-leg came quickly
back to the palace, and said to the other three legs, "Now, if the
king were wise he would get up instantly and go to the plain. For some
thieves are there with his daughter and all his rupees which they have
just stolen out of his palace. If he only made haste and went at once,
he would get them again."

The king got up that minute, and called his servants and some sepoys,
and set off to the plain. He shook his shoe before he put it on, and
out tumbled the snake (the other had quietly gone into the jungle, and
not come to the palace); so he saw that the first bed-leg had spoken
the truth.

When he reached the plain he found his daughter and his rupees, and
brought them back to his palace. The princess slept all the time, and
did not know what had happened to her. The king saw the fourth leg had
told the truth. The thieves he could not catch, for they all ran away
when they saw him coming with his sepoys.

The king sent men to the old palace to pull it down. They found it
was just going to fall, and would have fallen on any one who had
entered it, and crushed him. So the second bed-leg had told the truth.

When the king was sitting in his court-house he heard how during the
night thieves had gone into the sarai and killed a sepoy there and cut
off his head. Then he sent for the sepoy's wife, and asked her who had
killed her husband. "Thieves," she said. The king was very angry, for
he was sure the third bed-leg had told the truth as the other three
legs had done. So he ordered the man to be buried; and bade his
servants make a great wooden pile on the plain, and take the woman and
burn her on it. They were not to leave her as long as she was alive,
but to wait till she was dead.

He next sent for the grain merchant's son, and said to him, "Had it
not been for your bed, I should this morning have been bitten by a
snake; and, perhaps, killed by my old palace falling on me, as I did
not know it was ready to fall, and so might have gone into it. My
daughter would certainly have been stolen from me; and a wicked woman
been still alive. So now, to-morrow, bring as many carts as you like,
and I will give you as a present as many rupees as you can take away
on them in half a day."

Early the next morning the merchant's son brought his cart and took
away on them as many rupees as he could in half a day. His wife was
delighted when she saw the money, and said, "My husband only worked
for one week, and yet he earned all these rupees!" And they lived
always happily.

    Told by Múniyá, February 23rd, 1879.

FOOTNOTE:

    [5] That is, a resting-place for travellers, composed of a number
    of small houses in a walled enclosure.

[Decoration]




[Decoration]

XXVII.

PÁNWPATTÍ RÁNÍ.


In a country a big fair was held, to which came a great many people
and Rájás from all the countries round. Among them was a Rájá who
brought his daughter with him. Opposite their tent another tent was
pitched, in which lived a Rájá's son. He was very beautiful; so was
the little Rání, the other Rájá's daughter.

Now, the Rájá's son and the Rájá's daughter did not even know each
other's names, but they looked at each other a great deal, and each
thought the other very beautiful. "How lovely the Rájá's daughter is!"
thought the prince. "How beautiful the Rájá's son is!" thought the
princess.

They lived opposite each other for a whole month, and all that time
they never spoke to each other nor did they speak of each other to any
one. But they thought of each other a great deal.

When the month was over, the little Rání's father said he would go
back to his own country. The Rájá's son sat in his tent and watched
the servants getting ready the little Rání's palanquin. As soon as the
princess herself was dressed and ready for the journey, she came out
of her tent, and took a rose in her hand. She first put the rose to
her teeth; then she stuck it behind her ear; and lastly, she laid it
at her feet. All this time the Rájá's son sat in his tent and looked
at her. Then she got into her palanquin and was carried away.

The Rájá's son was now very sad. "How lovely the princess is!" he
thought. "And I do not know her name, or her father's name, or the
name of her country. So how can I ever find her? I shall never see her
again." He was very sorrowful, and determined he would go home to his
country. When he got home he laid himself down on his bed, and night
and day he lay there. He would not eat, or drink, or bathe, or change
his clothes. This made his father and mother very unhappy. They went
to him often, and asked him, "What is the matter with you? Are you
ill?" "I want nothing," he would answer. "I don't want any doctor, or
any medicine." Not one word did he say to them, or to any one else,
about the lovely little Rání.

The son of the Rájá's kotwál[6] was the prince's great friend. The two
had always gone to school together, and had there read in the same
book; they had always bathed, eaten, and played together. So when the
prince had been at home for two days, and yet had not been to school
or seen his friend, the kotwál's son grew very anxious. "Why does the
prince not come to school?" he said to himself. "He has been here for
two days, and yet I have not seen him. I will go and find out if
anything is the matter. Perhaps he is ill."

He went, therefore, to see the prince, who was lying very miserable on
his bed. "Why do you not come to school? Are you ill?" asked his
friend. "Oh, it is nothing," said the prince. "Tell me what is the
matter," said the kotwál's son; but the Rájá's son would not answer.
"Have you told any one what is the matter with you?" said the kotwál's
son. "No," answered the prince. "Then tell me," said his friend; "tell
me the truth: what is it that troubles you?"

"Well," said the prince, "at the fair there was a Rájá who had a most
beautiful daughter. They lived in a tent opposite mine, and I used to
see her every day. She is so beautiful! But I do not know her name, or
her father's name, or her country's name; so how can I ever find her?"
"I will take you to her," said his friend; "only get up and bathe, and
eat." "How can you take me to her?" said the prince. "You do not even
know where she is; so how can you take me to her?" "Did she never
speak to you?" said the kotwál's son. "Never," said the prince. "But
when she was going away, just before she got into her palanquin, she
took a rose in her hand; and first she put this rose to her teeth;
then she stuck it behind her ear; and then she laid it at her feet."
"Now I know all about her," said his friend. "When she put the rose to
her teeth, she meant to tell you her father's name was Rájá Dánt [Rájá
Tooth]; when she put it behind her ear she meant you to know her
country's name was Karnátak [on the ear]; and when she laid the rose
at her feet, she meant that her name was Pánwpattí [Foot-leaf]. Get
up; bathe and dress, eat and drink, and we will go and find her."

The prince got up directly, and told his father and mother he was
going for a few days to eat the air of another country. At first they
forbad his going; but then they reflected that he had been very ill,
and that perhaps the air of another country might make him well; so at
last they consented. The prince and his friend had two horses saddled
and bridled, and set off together.

At the end of a month they arrived in a country where they asked (as
they had asked in every other country through which they had ridden),
"What is the name of this country?" "Karnátak" [the Carnatic]. "What
is your Rájá's name?" "Rájá Dánt." Then the two friends were glad.
They stopped at an old woman's house, and said to her, "Let us stay
with you for a few days. We are men from another country and do not
know where to go in this place." The old woman said, "You may stay
with me if you like. I live all alone, and there is plenty of room for
you."

After two or three days the kotwál's son said to the old woman, "Has
your Rájá a daughter?" "Yes," she answered; "he has a daughter; her
name is Pánwpattí Rání." "Can you go to see her?" asked the kotwál's
son. "Yes," she said, "I can go to see her. I was her nurse, and she
drank my milk. It is the Rájá who gives me my house, and my food, and
clothes--everything that I have." "Then go and see her," said the
kotwál's son, "and tell her that the prince whom she called to her at
the fair has come."

The old woman went up to the palace, and saw the princess. After they
had talked together for some time, she said to the little Rání, "The
prince you called to you at the fair is come." "Good," she said; "tell
him to come to see me to-night at twelve o'clock. He is not to come in
through the door, but through the window." (This she said because she
did not want her father to know that the prince had come, until she
had made up her mind whether she would marry him.)

The old woman went home and told the kotwál's son what the Princess
Pánwpattí said. That night the prince went to see her, and every night
for three or four nights he went to talk with her for an hour. Then
she told her mother she wished to be married, and her mother told her
father. Her father asked whom she wished to marry, and she said, "The
Rájá's son who lives in my nurse's house." Her father said she might
marry him if she liked; so the wedding was held. The kotwál's son went
to the wedding, and then returned to the old woman's house; but the
prince lived in the Rájá's palace.

Here he stayed for a month, and all that time he never saw his friend.
At last he began to fret for him, and was very unhappy. "What makes
you so sad?" said Pánwpattí Rání. "I am sad because I have not seen
my friend for a whole month," answered her husband. "I must go and see
him." "Yes, go and see him," said his wife. The Rájá's son went to the
old woman's house, and there he stayed a week, for he was so glad to
see the kotwál's son. Then he returned to his wife. Now she thought he
would only have been away a day, and was very angry at his having
stayed so long from her. "How could you leave me for a whole week?"
she said to him. "I had not seen my friend for a month," he answered.
Pánwpattí Rání did not let her husband see how angry she was; but in
her heart she thought, "I am sure he loves his friend best."

The prince remained with her for a month. Then he said, "I must go and
see my friend." This made her very angry indeed. However, she said,
"Good; go and see your friend, and I will make you some delicious
sweetmeats to take him from me." She set to work, and made the most
tempting sweetmeats she could; only in each she put a strong poison.
Then she wrapped them in a beautiful handkerchief, and her husband
took them to the kotwál's son. "My Rání has made you these herself,"
he said to his friend, "and she sends you a great many salaams." The
Rájá's son knew nothing of the poison.

The kotwál's son put the sweetmeats on one side, and said, "Let us
talk, and I will eat them by and by." So they sat and talked for a
long time. Then the kotwál's son said, "Your Rání herself made these
sweetmeats for me?" "Yes," said the Rájá's son. His friend was very
wise, and he thought, "Pánwpattí Rání does not like me. Of that I am
sure." So he took some of the sweetmeats, and broke them into bits and
threw them to the crows. The crows came flying down, and all the crows
who ate the sweetmeats died instantly. Then the kotwál's son threw a
sweetmeat to a dog that was passing. The dog devoured it and fell
dead. This put the Rájá's son into great rage. "I will never see my
Rání again!" he exclaimed. "What a wicked woman she is to try and
poison my friend--my friend whom I love so dearly; but for whom I
should never have married her!" He would not go back to his wife, and
stayed in the old woman's house. The kotwál's son often told him he
ought to return to his wife, but the prince would not do so. "No," he
said, "she is a wicked woman. You never did her any evil or hurt; yet
she has tried to poison you. I will never see her again."

When a month had passed, the kotwál's son said to the prince, "You
really must go back to Pánwpattí Rání; she is your wife, and you must
go to her, and take her away to your own country." Still the Rájá's
son declared he would never see her again. "If you would like to see
something that will please you," said his friend, "go back to your
wife for one day; and to-night 'when she is asleep' you must take off
all her jewels, and tie them up in a handkerchief, and bring them to
me. But before you leave her you must wound her in the leg with this
trident." So saying, he gave him a small iron trident.

The prince went back to the palace. His wife was very angry with him,
though she did not show her anger. At night 'when she was fast asleep'
he took off all her jewels and tied them in a handkerchief, and he
gave her a thrust in the leg with his trident. Then he went quickly
back to his friend. The princess awoke and found herself badly hurt
and alone; and she saw that her jewels were all gone. In the morning
she told her father and mother that her jewels had been stolen; but
she said nothing about the wound in her leg. The king called his
servants, and told them a thief had come in the night and stolen his
daughter's jewels, and he sent them to look for the thief and seize
him.

That morning the kotwál's son got up and dressed himself like a yogí.
He made the prince put on common clothes such as every one wears, so
that he could not be recognized, and sent him to the bazar to sell his
wife's jewels. He told him, too, all he was to say. The pretended yogí
went to the river and sat down by it, and the Rájá's son went through
the bazar and tried to sell the jewels. The Rájá's servants seized him
immediately. "You thief!" they said to him, "what made you steal our
Rájá's daughter's jewels?" "I know nothing about the jewels," said the
prince. "I am no thief; I did not steal them. The holy man, who is my
teacher, gave them to me to sell in the bazar for him. If you want to
know anything more about them, you must ask him." "Where is this holy
man?" said the servants. "He is sitting by the river," said the Rájá's
son. "Let us go to him. I will show you where he is."

They all went down to the river, and there sat the yogí. "What is all
this?" said the servants to him. "Are you a yogí, and yet a thief? Why
did you steal the little Rání's jewels?" "Are those the little Rání's
jewels?" said the yogí. "I did not steal them; I did not know to whom
they belonged. Listen, and I will tell you. Last night at twelve
o'clock I was sitting by this river when a woman came down to it--a
woman I did not know. She took a dead body out of the river, and began
to eat it. This made me so angry, that I took all her jewels from her,
and she ran away. I ran after her and wounded her in the leg with my
trident. I don't know if she were your Rájá's daughter, or who she
was; but whoever she may be, she has the mark of the trident's teeth
in her leg."

The servants took the jewels up to the palace, and told the Rájá all
the yogí had said. The Rájá asked his wife whether the Princess
Pánwpattí had any hurt in her leg, and told her all the yogí's story.
The Rání went to see her daughter, and found her lying on her bed and
unable to get up from the pain she was in, and when she looked at her
leg she saw the wound. She returned to the Rájá and said to him, "Our
daughter has the mark of the trident's teeth in her leg."

The Rájá got very angry, and called his servants and said to them,
"Bring a palanquin, and take my daughter at once to the jungle, and
there leave her. She is a wicked woman, who goes to the river at night
to eat dead people. I will not have her in my house any more. Cast her
out in the jungle." The servants did as they were bid, and left
Pánwpattí Rání, crying and sobbing in the jungle, partly from the pain
in her leg, and partly because she did not know where to go, and had
no food or water.

Meanwhile her husband and the kotwál's son heard of her being sent
into the jungle, so they returned to the old woman's house and put on
their own clothes. Then they went to the jungle to find her. She was
still crying, and her husband asked her why she cried. She told him,
and he said, "Why did you try to poison my friend? You were very
wicked to do so." "Yes," said the kotwál's son; "Why did you try to
kill me? I have never done you any wrong or hurt you. It was I who
told your husband what you meant by putting the rose to your teeth,
behind your ear, and at your feet. Without me he would never have
found you, never have married you." Then she knew at once who had
brought all this trouble to her, and she was very sorry she had tried
to kill her husband's friend.

They all three now went home to her husband's country; and his father
and mother were very glad indeed that their son had married a Rájá's
daughter, and the Rájá gave the kotwál's son a very grand present.

The young Rájá and his wife lived with his father and mother, and were
always very happy together.

    Told by Múniyá, February, 1879.

FOOTNOTE:

    [6] The chief police officer in a town.




[Decoration]

XXVIII.

THE CLEVER WIFE.


In a country there was a merchant who traded in all kinds of
merchandise, and used to make journeys from country to country in his
boat to buy and sell his goods. He one day said to his wife, "I cannot
stay at home any more, for I must go on a year's journey to carry on
my business." And he added, laughing, "When I return I expect to find
you have built me a grand well; and also, as you are such a clever
wife, to see a little son." Then he got into his boat and went away.

When he was gone his wife set to work, and she spun four hanks of
beautiful thread with her own hands. Then she dressed herself in her
prettiest clothes, and put on her finest jewels. "I am going to the
bazar," she said to her ayahs, "to sell this thread." "That is not
right," said one of the ayahs. "You must not sell your thread
yourself, but let me sell it for you. What will your husband say if he
hears you have been selling thread in the bazar?" "I will sell my
thread myself," answered the merchant's wife. "You could never sell it
for me."

So off she set to the bazar, and every one in it said, "What a
beautiful woman that is!" At last the kotwál saw her, and came to her
at once.

"What beautiful thread!" he said. "Is it for sale?" "Yes," she said.
"How much a hank?" said the kotwál. "Fifty rupees," she answered.
"Fifty rupees! Who will ever give you fifty rupees for it?" "I will
not sell it for less," said the woman. "I shall get fifty rupees for
it." "Well," said the kotwál, "I will give you the fifty rupees. Can I
dine with you at your house?" "Yes," she answered, "to-night at ten
o'clock." Then he took the thread and gave her fifty rupees.

Then she went away to another bazar, and there the king's wazír saw
her trying to sell her thread. "What lovely thread! Is it for sale?"
he said. "Yes, at one hundred rupees the hank," she answered. "Well, I
will give you one hundred rupees. Can I dine with you at your house?"
said the wazír. "Yes," she answered, "to-night at eleven o'clock."
"Good," said the wazír; "here are the hundred rupees." And he took the
thread and went away.

The merchant's wife now went to a third bazar, and there the king's
kází saw her. "Is that beautiful thread for sale?" he asked. "Yes,"
she answered, "for one hundred and fifty rupees." "I will give you the
hundred and fifty rupees. Can I dine with you at your house?" "Yes,"
she said, "to-night at twelve o'clock." "I will come," said the kází.
"Here are one hundred and fifty rupees." So she took the rupees and
gave him the thread.

She set off with the fourth hank to the fourth bazar, and in this
bazar was the king's palace. The king saw her, and asked if the thread
was for sale. "Yes," she said, "for five hundred rupees." "Give me the
thread," said the king; "here are your five hundred rupees. Can I dine
with you at your house?" "Yes," she said, "to-night at two o'clock."

Then she went home and sent one of her servants to the bazar to buy
her four large chests; and she told her other servants that they were
to get ready four very good dinners for her. Each dinner was to be
served in a different room; and one was to be ready at ten o'clock
that night, one at eleven, one at twelve, and one at two in the
morning. The servant brought her four large chests, and she had them
placed in four different rooms.

At ten o'clock the kotwál arrived. The merchant's wife greeted him
graciously, and they sat down and dined. After dinner she said to him,
"Can you play at cards?" "Yes," he answered. She brought some cards,
and they sat and played till the clock struck eleven, when the
doorkeeper came in to say, "The wazír is here, and wishes to see you."
The kotwál was in a dreadful fright. "Do hide me somewhere," he said
to her. "I have no place where you can hide in this room," she
answered; "but in another room I have a big chest. I will shut you up
in that if you like, and when the wazír is gone, I will let you out of
it." So she took him into the next room, and he got into one of the
four big chests, and she shut down the lid and locked it.

Then she bade the doorkeeper bring in the wazír, and they dined
together. After dinner she said, "Can you play at cards?" "Yes," said
the wazír. She took out the cards, and they played till twelve
o'clock, when the doorkeeper came to say the kází had come to see her.
"Oh, hide me! hide me!" cried the wazír in a great fright. "If you
come to another room," she said, "I will hide you in a big chest I
have. I can let you out when he is gone." So she locked the wazír up
in the second chest.

She and the kází now dined. Then she said, "Can you play at cards?"
"Yes," said the kází. So they sat playing at cards till two o'clock,
when the doorkeeper said the king had come to see her. "Oh, what shall
I do?" said the kází, terribly frightened. "Do hide me. Do not let me
be seen by the king." "You can hide in a big chest I have in another
room, if you like," she answered, "till he is gone." And she locked up
the kází in her third chest.

The king now came in, and they dined. "Will you play a little game at
cards?" she asked. "Yes," said the king. So they played till three
o'clock, when the doorkeeper came running in (just as she had told him
to do) to say, "My master's boat has arrived, and he is coming up to
the house. He will be here directly." "Now what shall I do?" said the
king, who was as frightened as the others had been. "Here is your
husband. He must not see me. You must hide me somewhere." "I have no
place to hide you in," she said, "but a big chest. You can get into
that if you like, and I will let you out to-morrow morning." So she
shut the lid of the fourth chest down on the king and locked him up.
Then she went to bed, and to sleep, and slept till morning.

The next day, after she had bathed and dressed, and eaten her
breakfast, and done all her household work, she said to her servants,
"I want four coolies." So the servants went for the coolies; and when
they came she showed them the four chests, and said, "Each of you must
take one of these chests on your head and come with me." Then they set
out with her, each carrying a chest.

Meanwhile the kotwál's son, the wazír's son, the kází's son, and the
king's son, had been roaming about looking everywhere for their
fathers, and asking every one if they had seen them, but no one knew
anything about them.

The merchant's wife went first to the kotwál's house, and there she
saw the kotwál's son. She had the kotwál's chest set down on the
ground before his door. "Will you buy this chest?" she said to his
son. "What is in it?" he asked. "A most precious thing," she answered.
"How much do you want for it?" said his son. "One thousand rupees,"
she said; "and when you open the chest, you will see the contents are
worth two thousand. But you must not open it till you are in your
father's house." "Well," said the kotwál's son, "here are a thousand
rupees." The woman and the other three chests went on their way, while
he took his into the house. "What a heavy chest!" he said. "What can
be inside?" Then he lifted the lid. "Why, there's my father!" he
cried. "Father, how came you to be in this chest?" The kotwál was very
much ashamed of himself. "I never thought she was the woman to play me
such a trick," he said; and then he had to tell his son the whole
story.

The merchant's wife next stopped at the wazír's house, and there she
saw the wazír's son. The wazír's chest was put down before his door,
and she said to his son, "Will you buy this chest?" "What is inside of
it?" he asked. "A most precious thing," she answered. "Will you buy
it?" "How much do you want for it?" asked the son. "Only two thousand
rupees, and it is worth three thousand." So the wazír's son bought his
father, without knowing it, for two thousand rupees. "You must not
open the chest till you are in the house," said the merchant's wife.
The wazír's son opened the chest in the house at once, wondering what
could be in it; and the wazír's wife stood by all the time. When they
saw the wazír himself, looking very much ashamed, they were greatly
astonished. "How came you there?" they cried. "Where have you been?"
said his wife. "Oh," said the wazír, "I never thought she was a woman
to treat me like this;" and he, too, had to tell all his story.

Now the merchant's wife stopped at the kází's door, and there stood
the kází's son. "Will you buy this chest?" she said to him, and had
the kází's chest put on the ground. "What is in it?" said the kází's
son. "Silver and gold," she answered. "You shall have it for three
thousand rupees. The contents are worth four." "Well, I will take it,"
said the son. "Don't open it till you are in your house," she said,
and took her three thousand rupees and went away. Great was the
excitement when the kází stepped out of the chest. "Oh!" he groaned,
"I never thought she could behave like this to me."

The merchant's wife now went to the palace, and set the king's chest
down at the palace gates. There she saw the king's son. "Will you buy
this chest?" she said. "What is in it?" asked the prince. "Diamonds,
pearls, and all kinds of precious stones," said the merchant's wife.
"You shall have the chest for five thousand rupees, but its contents
are worth a great deal more." "Well," said the king's son, "here are
your five thousand rupees; give me the chest." "Don't open it out
here," she said. "Take it into the palace and open it there." And away
she went home.

The king's son opened the chest, and there was his father. "What's all
this?" cried the prince. "How came _you_ to be in the chest?" The king
was very much ashamed, and did not tell much about his adventure; but
when he was sitting in his court-house, he had the merchant's wife
brought to him, and gave her a quantity of rupees, saying, "You are a
wise and clever woman."

Now the kotwál knew the wazír had gone to see the merchant's wife; and
the wazír knew the kází had gone; and the kází, that the king had
gone; but this was all that any of them knew.

The merchant's wife had now plenty of rupees, so she had a most
beautiful well built and roofed over. Then she locked the door of the
well, and told the servants no one was to drink any of its water, or
bathe in it, till her husband came home: he was to be the first to
drink its water, and bathe in the well.

Then she sent her ayah to the bazar to buy her clothes and ornaments
such as cowherd's wives and daughter's wear; and when the ayah had
brought her these, she packed them up in a box. Then she dressed
herself in men's clothes, so that no one could tell she was a woman,
and ordered a horse to be got ready for her. "I am going to eat the
air of another country for a little while," she said. "You must all
take great care of the house while I am away." The servants did not
like her going away at all; they were afraid her husband might return
during her absence, and that he would be angry with them for having
let her go. "Don't be afraid," she said. "There is nothing to be
frightened about. I shall come back all right."

So she set out, taking the key of the well, the box with the clothes
her ayah had bought for her in the bazar, and plenty of rupees. She
also took two of her servants. She travelled a long, long way, asking
everywhere for her husband's boat. At last at the end of a month she
came to where it was. Here she hired a little house, and dressed
herself like a cowherd's daughter. Then she got some very good milk,
and went down to the banks of the river to sell it. Everybody said,
"Do look what a beautiful woman that is selling milk!" She sold her
milk very quickly, it was so good. This she did for several days, till
her husband, the merchant, saw her. He thought her so beautiful, that
he asked her to bring him some milk to his boat. So every day for a
little while she sold him milk. One day he said to her, "Will you
marry me?" "How can I marry you?" she said. "You are a merchant, and I
am a cowherd's daughter. Soon you will be leaving this country, and
will travel to another in your boat; you will want me to go with you.
Then I shall have to leave my father and mother, and who will take
care of them?" "Let us be married," said the merchant. "I am going to
stay here for three months. When I go, you shall return to your father
and mother, and later I will come back to you." To this she agreed,
and they were married, and she went to live in the boat. At the end
of three months, the merchant said to her, "My business here is done,
and I must go to another country. Would you like to go home to your
father and mother while I am away?" "Yes," she said. "Here are some
rupees for you to live on in my absence," he said. "I do not want any
rupees," said his wife. "I only want you to give me two things: your
old cap, and your picture." These he gave her, and then he went to his
boat, and she went back to her own home.

Some time afterwards she had a little son. The servants were greatly
frightened, for they thought their master would not be pleased when he
came home; and he was not pleased when he did come two months later.
He was so cross that he would not look at the baby-boy, and he would
hardly look at his beautiful well.

One night he lay awake thinking, and he thought he would kill his wife
and her little son. But the next day she came to him: "Tell me the
truth," she said; "you are angry with me? Don't be angry, for I want
to show you a picture I like very much--the picture of my boy's
father." Then she showed him his own picture, and the old cap he had
given her on board his boat; and she told him how she had been the
cowherd's daughter; and also how she had gained the money to build his
well. "You see," she said, "I have done all you bade me. Here is your
well, and here is your son." Then the merchant was very happy. He
kissed and loved his little son, and thought his well was beautiful;
and he said to his wife, "What a clever woman you are!"

    Told by Múniyá, Calcutta, March 3rd, 1879.

[Decoration]




[Decoration]

XXIX.

RÁJÁ HARICHAND'S PUNISHMENT.


There was once a great Rájá, Rájá Harichand, who every morning before
he bathed and breakfasted used to give away one hundred pounds weight
of gold to the fakírs, his poor ryots, and other poor people. This he
did in the name of God, "For," he said, "God loves me and gives me
everything that I have; so daily I will give him this gold."

Now God heard what a good man Rájá Harichand was, and how much the
Rájá loved him, and he thought he would go and see for himself if all
that was said of the Rájá were true. He therefore went as a fakír to
Rájá Harichand's palace and stood at his gate. The Rájá had already
given away his hundred pounds' weight of gold, and gone into his
palace and bathed and breakfasted; so when his servants came to tell
him that another fakír stood at his gate, the Rájá said, "Bid him come
to-morrow, for I have bathed, and have eaten my breakfast, and
therefore cannot attend to him now." The servants returned to the
fakír, and told him, "The Rájá says you must come to-morrow, for he
cannot see you now, as he has bathed and breakfasted." God went away,
and the next day he again came, after all the fakírs and poor people
had received their gold and the Rájá had gone into his palace. So the
Rájá told his servants, "Bid the fakír come to-morrow. He has again
come too late for me to see him now."

On the third day God was once more too late, for the Rájá had gone
into his palace. The Rájá was vexed with him for being a third time
too late, and said to his servants, "What sort of a fakír is this that
he always comes too late? Go and ask him what he wants." So the
servants went to the fakír and said, "Rájá Harichand says, 'What do
you want from him?'" "I want no rupees," answered God, "nor anything
else; but I want him to give me his wife." The servants told this to
the Rájá, and it made him very angry. He went to his wife, the Rání
Báhan, and said to her, "There is a fakír at the gate who asks me to
give you to him! As if I should ever do such a thing! Fancy my giving
him my wife!"

The Rání was very wise and clever, for she had a book, which she read
continually, called the kop shástra; and this book told her
everything. So she knew that the fakír at the gate was no fakír, but
God himself. (In old days about two people in a thousand, though not
more, could read this book; now-a-days hardly any one can read it, for
it is far too difficult.) So the Rání said to the Rájá, "Go to this
fakír, and say to him, 'You shall have my wife.' You need not really
give me to him; only give me to him in your thoughts." "I will do no
such thing," said the Rájá in a rage; and in spite of all her
entreaties, he would not say to the fakír, "I will give you my wife."
He ordered his servants to beat the fakír, and send him away; and so
they did.

God returned to his place, and called to him two angels. "Take the
form of men," he said to them, "and go to Rájá Harichand. Say to him,
'God has sent us to you. He says, Which will you have--a twelve years'
famine throughout your land during which no rain will fall? or a great
rain for twelve hours?'"

The angels came to the Rájá and said as God had bidden them. The Rájá
thought for a long while which he should choose. "If a great rain
pours down for twelve hours," he said to himself, "my whole country
will be washed away. But I have a great quantity of gold. I have
enough to send to other countries and buy food for myself and my ryots
during the twelve years' famine." So he said to the angels, "I will
choose the famine." Then the angels came into his palace; and the
moment they entered it, all the Rájá's servants that were in the
palace, and all his cows, horses, elephants, and other animals became
stone. So did every single thing in the palace, excepting his gold and
silver, and these turned to charcoal. The Rájá and Rání did not become
stone.

The angels said to them, "For three weeks you will not be able to eat
anything; you will not be able to eat any food you may find or may
have given you. But you will not die, you will live." Then the angels
went away.

The Rájá was very sad when he looked round his palace and saw
everything in it, and all the people in it, stone, and saw all his
gold and silver turned to charcoal. He said to his wife, "I cannot
stay here. I must go to some other country. I was a great Rájá; how
can I ask my ryots to give me food? We will dress ourselves like
fakírs, and go to another country."

They put on fakírs' clothes and went out of their palace. They
wandered in the jungle till they saw a plum-tree covered with fruit.
"Do gather some of those plums for me," said the Rání, who was very
hungry. The Rájá went to the tree and put out his hand to gather the
plums; but when he did this, they at once all left the tree and went a
little way up into the air. When he drew back his hand, the plums
returned to the tree. The Rájá tried three times to gather the plums,
but never could do so.

He and the Rání then went on till they came to a plain in another
country, where was a large tank in which men were fishing. The Rání
said to her husband, "Go and ask those men to give us a little of
their fish, for I am very hungry." The Rájá went to the men and said,
"I am a fakír, and have no pice. Will you give me some of your fish,
for I have not eaten for four days and am hungry?" The men gave him
some fish, and he and his wife carried it to a tank on another plain.
The Rání cleaned and prepared the fish for cooking, and said to her
husband, "I have nothing in which to cook this fish. Go up to the town
(there was a town close by) and ask some one to give you an earthen
pot with a lid, and some salt."

The Rájá went up to the town, and some one in the bazar gave him the
earthen pot, and a grain merchant put a little salt into it. Then he
returned to the Rání, and they made a fire under a tree, put the fish
into the pot, and set the pot on the fire. "I have not bathed for some
days," said the Rájá. "I will go and bathe while you cook the fish,
and when I come back we will eat it." So he went to bathe, and the
Rání sat watching the fish. Presently she thought, "If I leave the lid
on the pot, the fish will dry up and burn." Then she took off the lid,
and the fish instantly jumped out of the pot into the tank and swam
away. This made the Rání sad; but she sat there quiet and silent. When
the Rájá had bathed, he returned to his wife, and said, "Now we will
eat our fish." The Rání answered, "I had not eaten for four days, and
was very hungry, so I ate all the fish." "Never mind," said the Rájá,
"it does not matter."

They wandered on, and the next day came to another jungle where they
saw two pigeons. The Rájá took some grass and sticks, and made a bow
and arrow. He shot the pigeons with these, and the Rání plucked and
cleaned them. Her husband and she made a little fire, put the pigeons
in their pot, and set them on it. There was a tank near. "Now I will
go and bathe," said the Rání; "I have not bathed for some days. When I
come back, we will eat the pigeons." So she went to bathe, and the
Rájá sat down to watch the pigeons. Presently he thought, "If I leave
the pot shut, the birds will dry up and burn." So he took off the lid,
and instantly away flew the pigeons out of the pot. He guessed at once
what the fish had done yesterday, and sat still and silent till the
Rání came back. "I have eaten the pigeons in the same way that you ate
the fish yesterday," he said to her. The Rání understood what had
happened, and saw the Rájá knew how the fish had escaped.

So they wandered on; and as they went the Rání remembered an oil
merchant, called Gangá Télí, a friend of theirs, and a great man, just
like a Rájá. "Let us go to Gangá Télí, if we can walk as far as his
house," she said. "He will be good to us." He lived a long way off.
When they got to him, Gangá Télí knew them at once. "What has
happened?" he said. "You were a great Rájá; why are you and the Rání
so poor and dressed like fakírs?" "It is God's will," they answered.
Gangá Télí did not think it worth while to notice them much now they
were poor; so, though he did not send them away, he gave them a
wretched room to live in, a wretched bed to lie on, and such bad food
to eat that, hungry as they were, they could not touch it. "When we
were rich," they said to each other, "and came to stay with Gangá
Télí, he received us like friends; he gave us beautiful rooms to live
in, beautiful beds to lie on, and delicious food to eat. We cannot
stay here."

So they went away very sorrowful, and wandered for a whole week, and
all the time they had no food, till they came to another country whose
Rájá, Rájá Bhoj, was one of their friends. Rájá Bhoj received them
very kindly. "What has brought you to this state? How is it you are so
poor?" he said. "What has happened to you?" "It is God's will," they
answered. Rájá Bhoj gave them a beautiful room to live in, and told
his servants to cook for them the very nicest dinner they could. This
the servants did, and they brought the dinner into Rájá Harichand's
room, and set it before him and left him. Then he and the Rání put
some of the food on their plates; but before they could eat anything,
the food both in the dishes and on their plates became full of
maggots. So they could not eat it. They felt greatly humbled. However,
they said nothing, but worshipped God; and they buried all the food in
a hole they dug in the floor of their room.

Now the daughter of Rájá Bhoj had left her gold necklace hanging on
the wall of the room in which were Rájá Harichand and the Rání Báhan.
At night when Rájá Harichand was asleep, the Rání saw a crack come in
the wall and the necklace go of itself into the crack; then the wall
joined together as before. She at once woke her husband, and told him
what she had seen. "We had better go away quickly," she said. "The
necklace will not be found to-morrow, and Rájá Bhoj will think we are
thieves. It will be useless breaking the wall open to find it." The
Rájá got up at once, and they set out again. Rájá Bhoj, when the
necklace was not found, thought Rájá Harichand and the Rání Báhan had
stolen it.

They wandered on till they came to a country belonging to another
friend, called Rájá Nal, but they were ashamed to go to his palace.
The three weeks were now nearly over, only two more days were left. So
the Rání said, "In two days we shall be able to eat. Go into the
jungle and cut grass, and sell it in the bazar. We shall thus get a
few pice and be able to buy a little food." The Rájá went out to the
jungle, but he had to break and pull up the grass with his hands. He
worked half the day, and then sold the grass in the bazar for a few
pice. They were able to buy food, and worshipped God and cooked it;
and as the three weeks were now over they were allowed to eat it.

They stayed in Rájá Nal's country, and lived in a little house they
hired in the bazar. Rájá Harichand went out every day to the jungle
for grass, which he pulled up or broke off with his hands, and then
sold in the bazar for a few pice. The Rání saved a pice or two
whenever she could, and at the end of two years they were rich enough
to buy a hook such as grass-cutters use. The Rájá could now cut more
grass, and soon the Rání was able to buy some pretty-coloured silks in
the bazar.

Her husband went daily to cut grass, and she sat at home making
head-collars with the silks for horses. Four years after they had
bought the hook, she had four of these head-collars ready, and she
took them up to Rájá Nal's palace to sell. It was the first time she
had gone there, for she and her husband were ashamed to see Rájá Nal.
Their fakírs' dresses had become rags, and they had only been able to
get wretched common clothes in their place, for they were miserably
poor.

"What beautiful head-collars these are!" said Rájá Nal's coachmen and
grooms; and they took them to show to their Rájá. As soon as he saw
them he said, "Where did you get these head-collars? Who is it that
wishes to sell them?" for he knew that only one woman could make such
head-collars, and that woman was the Rání Báhan. "A very poor woman
brought them here just now," they answered. "Bring her to me," said
Rájá Nal. So the servants brought him Rání Báhan, and when she saw the
Rájá she burst into tears. "What has brought you to this state? Why
are you so poor?" said Rájá Nal. "It is God's will," she answered.
"Where is your husband?" he asked. "He is cutting grass in the
jungle," she said. Rájá Nal called his servants and said, "Go into the
jungle, and there you will see a man cutting grass. Bring him to me."
When Rájá Harichand saw Rájá Nal's servants coming to him, he was very
much frightened; but the servants took him and brought him to the
palace. As soon as Rájá Nal saw his old friend, he seized his hands,
and burst out crying. "Rájá," he said, "what has brought you to this
state?" "It is God's will," said Rájá Harichand.

Rájá Nal was very good to them. He gave them a palace to live in, and
servants to wait on them; beautiful clothes to wear, and good food to
eat. He went with them to the palace to see that everything was as it
should be for them. "To-day," he said to the Rání, "I shall dine with
your husband, and you must give me a dinner cooked just as you used to
cook one for me when I went to see you in your own country." "Good, I
will give it you," said the Rání; but she was quite frightened, for
she thought, "The Rájá is so kind, and everything is so comfortable
for us, that I am sure something dreadful will happen." However, she
prepared the dinner, and told the servants how to cook it and serve
it; but first she worshipped God, and entreated him to have mercy on
her and her husband. The dinner was very good, and nothing evil
happened to any one. They lived in the palace Rájá Nal gave them for
four and a half years.

Meanwhile the farmers in Rájá Harichand's country had all these years
gone on ploughing and turning up the land, although not a drop of rain
had fallen all that time, and the earth was hard and dry. Now just
when the Rájá and Rání had lived in Rájá Nal's palace for four and a
half years Mahádeo was walking through Rájá Harichand's country. He
saw the farmers digging up the ground, and said, "What is the good of
your digging and turning up the ground? Not a drop of rain is going to
fall." "No," said the farmers, "but if we did not go on ploughing and
digging, we should forget how to do our work." They did not know they
were talking to Mahádeo, for he looked like a man. "That is true,"
said Mahádeo, and he thought, "The farmers speak the truth; and if I
go on neglecting to blow on my horn, I shall forget how to blow on it
at all." So he took his deer's horn, which was just like those some
yogís use, and blew on it. Now when Rájá Harichand had chosen the
twelve years' famine, God had said, "Rain shall not fall on Rájá
Harichand's country till Mahádeo blows his horn in it." Mahádeo had
quite forgotten this decree; so he blew on his horn, although only ten
and a half years' famine had gone by. The moment he blew, down came
the rain, and the whole country at once became as it had been before
the famine began; and moreover, the moment it rained, everything in
Rájá Harichand's palace became what it was before the angels entered
it. All the men and women came to life again; so did all the animals;
and the gold and silver were no longer charcoal, but once more gold
and silver. God was not angry with Mahádeo for forgetting that he said
the famine should last for twelve years, and that the rain should fall
when Mahádeo blew on his horn in Rájá Harichand's country. "If it
pleased Mahádeo to blow on his horn," said God, "it does not matter
that eighteen months of famine were still to last." As soon as they
heard the rain had fallen, all the ryots who had gone to other
countries on account of the famine returned to Rájá Harichand's
country.

Among the Rájá's servants was the kotwál, and very anxious he was,
when he came to life again, to find the Rájá and Rání; only he did not
know how to do so, and wondered where he had best seek for them.

Meanwhile the Rání Báhan had a dream that God sent her, in which an
angel said to her, "It is good that you and your husband should return
to your country." She told this dream to her husband; and Rájá Nal
gave them horses, elephants, and camels, that they might travel like
Rájás to their home, and he went with them. They found everything in
order in their own palace and all through their country, and after
this lived very happily in it. But the Rání said to Rájá Harichand,
"If you had only done what I told you, and said you would give me to
the fakír, all this misery would not have come on us."

Later they went to stay again with Rájá Bhoj, and slept in the same
room as they had had when they came to him poor and wretched. In the
night they saw the wall open, and the necklace came out of the crack
and hung itself up as before, and the wall closed again. The next day
they showed the necklace to Rájá Bhoj, saying, "It was on account of
this necklace that we ran away from you the last time we were here,"
and they told him all that had happened to it.

As for Gangá Télí, they never went near him again.

    Told by Múniyá, March 4th, 1879.

[Decoration]




[Decoration]

XXX.

THE KING'S SON AND THE WAZÍR'S DAUGHTER.


In a country there was a great king who had a wazír. One day he
thought he should like to play at cards with this wazír, and he told
him to go and get some for him, and then play a game with him. So the
wazír brought the cards, and he and the king sat down to play. Now
neither the king nor the wazír had any children; and as they were
playing, the king said, "Wazír, if I have a son and you have a
daughter, or if I have a daughter and you have a son, let us marry our
children to each other." To this the wazír agreed. A year after the
king had a son; and when the boy was two years old, the wazír had a
daughter. Some years passed, and the king's son was twelve years old,
and the wazír's daughter ten. Then the king said to the wazír, "Do you
remember how one day, when we were playing at cards, we agreed to
marry our children to each other?" "I remember," said the wazír. "Let
us marry them now," said the king. So they held the wedding feast; but
the wazír's little daughter remained in her father's house because she
was still so young.

As the king's son grew older he became very wicked, and took to
gambling and drinking till his father and mother died of grief. After
their death he went on in the same way, gambling and drinking, until
he had no money left, and had to leave the palace, and live anywhere
he could in the town, wandering from house to house in a fakír's
dress, begging his bread, and sleeping wherever he found a spot on
which to lie down.

Meanwhile the wazír's daughter was living alone, for her husband had
never come to fetch her as he should have done when she was old
enough. Her father and mother were dead too. She had given half of the
money they left her to the poor, and she lived on the other half. She
spent her days in praying to God, and in reading in a holy book; and
though she was so young, she was very wise and good.

One day, as the prince was roaming about in his fakír's rags, not
knowing where to find food or shelter, he remembered his wife, and
thought he would go and see her. She ordered her servants to give him
good food, a bath, and good clothes; "for," she said, "we were married
when we were children, though he never fetched me to his palace." The
servants did as she bade them. The prince bathed and dressed, and ate
food, and he wished to stay with his wife. But she said, "No; before
you stay with me you must see four sights. Go out in the jungle and
walk for a whole week. Then you will come to a plain where you will
see them." So the next day he set out for the plain, and reached it in
one week.

There he saw a large tank. At one corner of the tank he saw a man and
a woman who had good clothes, good food, good beds, and servants to
wait on them, and seemed very happy. At the second corner he saw a
wretchedly poor man and his wife, who did nothing but cry and sob
because they had no food to eat, no water to drink, no bed to lie on,
no one to take care of them. At the third corner he saw two little
fishes that were always going up and down in the air. They would shoot
down close to the water, but they could not go into it or stay in it;
then they would make a salaam to God, and would shoot up again into
the air, but before they got very high, they had to drop down again.
At the fourth corner he saw a huge demon who was heating sand in an
enormous iron pot, under which he kept up a big fire.

The prince returned to his wife, and told her all he had seen. "Do you
know who the happy man and woman are?" she said. "No," he answered.
"They are my father and mother," she said. "When they were alive, I
was good to them, and since their death I gave half their money to the
poor; and on the other half I have lived quietly, and tried to be
good. So God is pleased with them, and makes them happy." "Is that
true?" said her husband. "Quite true," she said. "And the miserable
man and woman who did nothing but cry, do you know who they are?"
"No," said the prince. "They are your father and mother. When they
were alive, you gambled and drank; and they died of grief. Then you
went on gambling and drinking till you had spent all their money. So
now God is angry with them, and will not make them happy." "Is that
true?" said the prince. "Quite true," she said. "And the fishes you
saw were the two little children we should have had if you had taken
me to your home as your wife. Now they cannot be born, for they can
find no bodies in which to be born; so God has ordered them to rise
and sink in the air in these fishes' forms." "Is that true?" asked the
prince. "Quite true," she answered. "And by God's order the demon you
saw is heating that sand in the big iron pot for you, because you are
such a wicked man."

The moment she had told all this to her husband, she died. But he did
not get any better. He gambled and drank all her money away, and lived
a wretched life, wandering about like a fakír till his death.

    Told by Múniyá, March 8th, 1879.




[Decoration]

NOTES.


INTRODUCTORY.

In these stories the word translated God, is _Khudá_. Excepting in
"How king Burtal became a Fakír" (p. 85), and in "Rájá Harichand's
Punishment" (p. 224), in which Mahádeo plays a part, the tellers of
these tales would never specify by name the god they spoke of. He was
always _Khudá_, "the great _Khudá_ who lives up there in the sky." In
this they differed from the narrator of the _Old Deccan Days_ stories,
who almost always gives her gods and goddesses their Hindú
names--probably because, from being a Christian, she had no religious
scruples to deter her from so doing.

When the heroes of these stories are called Rájás, the word Rájá has
been kept: when they are called Bádsháhs, we have called them kings.
The Ayahs say, "A Bádsháh is a much greater man than a Rájá." When
_bádsháh_ (the Persian _pádisháh_) in its corrupted form of _básá_ is
tacked on to a proper name, such as _Anár_ (_Anárbásá_), _Hírálál_
(_Hírálálbásá_), the _básá_ has been preserved, because, Dunkní says,
in these cases _básá_ is no longer a title, but part of the proper
name.

Old Múniyá tells her stories with the solemn, authoritative air of a
professor. She sits quite still on the floor, and uses no gestures.
Dunkní gets thoroughly excited over her tales, marches up and down the
room, acting her stories, as it were. For instance, in describing the
thickness of Mahádeo's hair in King Burtal's story, she put her two
thumbs to her ears, and spread out all her fingers from her head
saying, "His hair stood out like this," and in "Loving Lailí," after
moving her hand as if she were pulling the magic knife from her pocket
and unfolding it, she swung her arm out at full length with great
energy, and then she said, "Lailí made one 'touch'" (here she brought
back the edge of her hand to her own throat), "and the head fell off."
Dunkní sometimes used an English word, such as the "touch" in the
present case.

All these stories were read back in Hindústání by my little girl to
the tellers at the time of telling, and nearly all a second time by me
this winter before printing. I never saw people more anxious to have
their tales retold exactly than are Dunkní and Múniyá. Not till each
tale was pronounced by them to be _thík_ (exact) was it sent to the
press.

It is strange in these Indian tales to meet golden-haired,
fair-complexioned heroes and heroines. Mr. Thornton tells me that in
the Panjáb when one native speaks of another with contempt, he says,
"he is a black man," _ek kálá ádmí hai_. Sir Neville Chamberlain tells
me that if you wish to praise a native for his valour and brave
conduct, you say to him, "Your countenance is red," or "your cheeks
are red," and that nothing is worse than to tell him his "face is
black." And this is what Mr. Boxwell says about the expression "kálá
ádmí" and our fairy tales:--

    "The stories are of the Aryan conquerors from beyond the
    Indus; distinguished by their fair skin from the dark
    aborigines of India. In Vedic times Varṇa, 'colour,'
    is used for stock or blood, as the Latins used Nomen. It
    is in India 'Yas Dásam varṇam adharam guhákar.' 'Who
    sank in darkness the Barbarian colour.' R. V. II. 4.

    "Indra, again, 'Hatvé Dasyún pra Áryam varṇam ávat.'
    'Having slain the Barbarians, helped the Aryan colour.'
    R. V. III. 34.

    "Again, in K. V. I. 104. They pray--

    "'Te nas ávaksa suvitáya varṇam.' 'May they bring our
    colour to success.'

    "In later times 'varṇa' is the regular word for
    caste; and the Brahmins and the rest of the twice-born
    who still represent the Aryan varṇa are much fairer
    than the Çúdras and Hill people.

    "In the Ikhwán ussafa the black skin is one of the
    results of the Fall to Adam and Hawa.

    "'Áftáb ki garmí se rang mutaghaiyar aur siáh ho gayá.'
    'From the heat of the sun their colour became changed
    and black.'"

But I think the fact that the conquering races that invaded India from
the north were fair and ruddier than the aborigines, and that their
descendants, the high-caste natives, are to this day fairer than the
aborigines, though it explains the phrases, "he is only a black man,"
and "your cheeks are red," does not account for the golden hair and
fair skin of so many of our princes and princesses. I believe that
they all owe their characteristics to the fact that such are the
characteristics of the solar hero, although they cannot all lay claim
to a solar origin for themselves. For this golden hair and white skin,
at first the property of the shining sun-hero alone, would naturally
in the course of time be given to other Indian folk-lore heroes on
whose beauty and brightness it was necessary to lay a stress. Prince
Majnún, for instance, certainly has nothing solar about him, yet his
hair is described as red. Dunkní, in answer to a half incredulous,
half inquiring exclamation of mine when I heard this, asserted, "Red!
yes, it was red: red like gold."

The black-haired Maoris give their sea-nymphs yellow hair (_Old New
Zealand_, p. 19); and Sir George Grey in his _Polynesian Mythology_,
p. 295, writes thus of the Maori fairies: "Their appearance is that of
human beings, nearly resembling an European's; their hair being very
fair, and so is their skin. They are very different from the Maoris,
and do not resemble them at all." But as the Maoris do not seem to
have any myths of golden-haired solar heroes, these peculiarities of
hair and complexion cannot be referred to the same cause as those of
my little daughter's Indian princes and princesses.


I.--PHÚLMATI RÁNÍ.

1. Phúlmati is a garden rose, not a wild rose. It must be a local name
for the flower. I can find it in no dictionary. Dunkní says her
heroine was named after a pink rose.

2. She has hair of pure gold. Compare in this book: Princess Jahúran,
p. 43, the Monkey Prince, p. 50, Sonahrí Rání, p. 54, Jahúr Rání, p.
93, Prince Dímá-ahmad and Princess Atása, Notes, p. 253. Also, Híra
Bai, the cobra's daughter in _Old Deccan Days_, p. 35. So many
princely heroes and heroines in European fairy tales are noteworthy
for their dazzling golden hair that I will only mention one of them,
Princess Golden-Hair, one of whose hairs rings if it falls to the
ground--see Naake's _Slavonic Fairy Tales_, p. 100. And devils being
fallen heroes or angels, the following references may be made to them.
In Haltrich's _Siebenbuergische Maerchen_, p. 171, in "Die beiden
Fleischhauer in der Hoelle," the devil's grandmother gives the good
brother a hair that had fallen from the devil's head while he slept.
The man carries it home and the hair suddenly becomes as big as a
"Heubaum" and is "of pure gold." Also in one of Grimm's stories the
hero is sent to fetch three golden hairs from the devil's head--see
_Kinder und Hausmaerchen_, vol. I. p. 175, "Der Teufel mit den drei
goldenen Haaren."

3. Her beauty lights up a dark room. In this shining quality she
resembles many Asiatic and European fairy-tale heroes and heroines.
See in this book Hírálí, whose face shone like a diamond, p. 69; and
the Princess Labám, who shone like the moon, and her beauty made night
day, p. 158. In _Old Deccan Days_, p. 156, the prince's dead body on
the hedge of spears dazzles those who look at it till they can hardly
see. Pánch Phúl Rání, p. 140, shines in the dark jungle like a star.
So does the princess in Chundun Rájá's dark tomb, p. 229. In a
Dinájpur story published by Mr. G. H. Damant in the _Indian Antiquary_
for February 1875, vol. IV. p. 54, the dream-nymph, Tillottama,
whenever she appears, lights up the whole place with her beauty. "At
every breath she drew when she slept, a flame like a flower issued
from her nostril, and when she drew in her breath the flower of flame
was again withdrawn." Her beauty lit up her house "as if by
lightning." See Appendix _A_. In Naake's _Slavonic Fairy Tales_, p.
96, is the Bohemian tale quoted above of Princess Golden-Hair. "Every
morning at break of day she [the princess] combs her golden locks; its
brightness is reflected in the sea, and up among the clouds," p. 102.
When she let it down "it was bright as the rising sun," and almost
blinded Irik with its radiance, p. 107. The golden children (Schott's
_Wallachische Maerchen_, p. 125) shine in the darkened room "like the
morning sun in May." Gubernatis in the 2nd vol. of his _Zoological
Mythology_, mentions at p. 31 a golden boy who figures in one of
Afanassieff's stories; when this child's body is uncovered on his
restoration to his father, "all the room shines with light." And at p.
57 of the same volume he quotes another of Afanassieff's stories, in
which the persecuted princess has three sons "who light up whatever is
near them with their splendour." Of Gerd in Jötunheim, the beautiful
giant maiden with the bright shining arms, Thorpe says (_Northern
Mythology_, vol. I. p. 47), when she raised "her arms to open the
door, both air and water gave such a reflection that the whole world
was illumined." The boar Trwyth (who was once a king, but because of
his sons was turned into a boar) after his fall preserves some of his
old kingly splendour; for "his bristles were like silver wire, and
whether he went through the wood or through the plain he was to be
traced by the glittering of his bristles" (_Mabinogion_, vol. II. p.
310). In the same work (vol. III. p. 279), in "The Dream of Maxen
Wledig," is a maiden, of whom it is told: "Not more easy than to gaze
upon the sun when brightest was it to look upon her by reason of her
beauty." And in "Goldhaar" (Haltrich's _Siebenbuergische Maerchen_,
p. 61) when the hero's cap fell off he stood there "in all splendour
and his golden locks fell round his head, and he shone like the sun."

In a Santhali tale published by the Rev. F. T. Cole in the _Indian
Antiquary_ for January 1875, p. 10, called "Toria the Goatherd and the
Daughter of the Sun," a beggar's eyes are as dazzled by the Sun's
daughter's beauty "as if he had stared at the sun."

4. Phúlmati Rání has on her head the sun, on her hands moons, and her
face is covered with stars. Compare in these stories "The Indrásan
Rájá," p. 1, "The boy who had a moon on his forehead and a star on his
chin," p. 119, and "Prince Dímá-ahmad and Princess Atása," Notes, p.
253. In Fräulein Gonzenbach's _Sicilian Fairy Tales_, No. 5 (vol. I.
p. 21), the king's son's children are born, the boy with a golden
apple in his hand, the girl with a star on her forehead. In the Notes
to this story (vol. II. p. 207) Herr Köhler mentions a Tyrolean fairy
tale, "Zingerle, II. p. 112," where the king's son's daughter has a
golden apple in her hand, and her brother a golden star on his
forehead. In Milenowsky's _Bohemian Fairy Tales_, p. 1, is the story
"Von den Sternprinzen" in which the king's son by the queen has a gold
star on his forehead, and his son by the old woman has a silver star,
p. 2. These princes' children also are born with gold and silver stars
on their foreheads, p. 30. In a Hungarian tale, "Die verwandelten
Kinder," the old man's youngest daughter promises, and keeps her
promise, to give the king, if he marries her, twin sons, who will be
most beautiful, will have golden hair, and each a golden ring on his
arm; further, one is to have a planet, the other a sun on his
forehead--Stier's _Ungarische Volksmaerchen_, p. 57. Also in the same
author's _Ungarische Sagen und Maerchen_ in "Die beiden juengsten
Koenigskinder," the hero wins a bride (p. 77) who has a sun on her
forehead, a moon on her right, and three stars on her left, breast. In
"Eisenlaci" in the same collection the snake-king's daughter has a
star on her forehead (p. 109). Gubernatis (_Zoological Mythology_,
vol. I. p. 412) says, "In the seventh story of the third book of
Afanassieff, the queen bears two sons; one has a moon on his forehead
and the other a star on the nape of his neck. Her wicked sister
buries them; a golden and a silver sprout spring up which a sheep eats
and then has two lambs, one with a moon on its head, the other with a
star on its neck. The wicked sister who has married the king orders
them to be torn in pieces, and their intestines to be thrown into the
road. The good, lawful queen eats them and again gives birth to her
sons." Gubernatis in the 2nd volume of the same work, p. 31, quotes
another of Afanassieff's stories, the thirteenth of the third book, in
which a merchant's wife has a son "whose body is all of gold, effigies
of stars, moon, and sun covered it." This is the gold boy mentioned in
the preceding paragraph as lighting up the room when his body was
uncovered. In "Das Schwarze Lamm," the empress bears a son with a
golden star on his forehead (Karadschitsch, _Volksmaerchen der
Serben_, p. 177).

5. Phúlmati Rání weighs but one flower: compare Pánch Phúl Rání in
_Old Deccan Days_, p. 133.

6. Indrásan (= Indra + Ásana, Indra's throne or home), says Dunkní, is
the name of the underground fairy country. Its inhabitants, the
fairies (parí) are called the Indrásan people; they delight in all
lovely things; everything about them is beautiful; they play
exquisitely on all kinds of musical instruments; they dance and sing a
great deal; they have wings and can fly. They taught the little Monkey
Prince (p. 42), and King Burtal's eldest son was taken to them as a
pupil by the fakír Goraknáth, p. 93. In Indrásan grows a tree of which
no man can ever see the flowers or fruit, as the fairies gather them
in the night and take them away. The Irish "good people" who live in
clefts of rocks, caves, and mounds, and the Irish fairies who live in
the beautiful land of youth under the sea, have many points in common
with the Indian fairies. They, too, dance beautifully, are wonderful
musicians, and have everything about them lovely and splendid. The
"good people" also sometimes impart their knowledge to mortals. See
pp. x, xii, and xviii of the Introduction to the _Irische
Elfenmaerchen_ translated into German by the brothers Grimm. Some of
the Cornish fairies, the Small People, like the Indrásan people, live
underground (Hunt's _Romances and Drolls of the West of England_, pp.
116, 118, 125), aid those to whom they take a fancy and are very
playful among themselves (_ib._ p. 81); they have the most ravishing
music (_ib._ pp. 86, 98); their singing is clear and delicate as
silver bells (_ib._ p. 100); everything about them is joyous and
beautiful (_ib._ pp. 86, 99, 100); they are a tiny race (_ib._ p. 81),
but can at pleasure take the size of human beings (_ib._ pp. 115, 122,
123); and their queen has hair "like gold threads" (_ib._ p. 102). The
fair-haired New Zealand fairies are, too, a kindly happy race. See
Grey's _Polynesian Mythology_, pp. 287 to 295. Nothing is said about
their dancing, but they are described as "merry, cheerful, and always
singing like a cricket" (_ib._ p. 295), and from one of their
fishing-nets left on the sea shore, when its fairy owners were
surprised by the rising of the sun, the Maoris learnt the stitch for
netting a net. Like the Indian fairies they appear to be as big as
human beings.

7. Phúlmati Rání is drowned in a tank and becomes a flower; she is
killed and brought to life several times: compare in this collection
the story of the "Pomegranate Children" and note to that story. In one
of Ralston's _Russian Folk-Tales_, "The Fiend," p. 15, the heroine is
killed through witchcraft: from her grave springs a flower which is
herself transformed: she afterwards regains her human shape.

8. With Phúlmati's last transformation compare the last that the
Bél-Princess goes through (p. 148 of this collection), and that of a
woman, who figures in a Dinájpur story published by Mr. G. H. Damant
in the _Indian Antiquary_ of April 5th, 1872, vol. I. p. 115. She,
though living in the Rakshas country, is not a Rakshas, but does not
appear to be an ordinary mortal, and when cut to bits by a certain
magic knife becomes a tree. "Her feet became a silver stem, her two
hands golden branches, her head ornaments were diamond leaves, all her
bracelets and bangles were pearly fruits, and her head was a peacock
dancing and playing in the branches." As soon as the magic knife is
thrown to the ground she regains her human form.

Eisenlaci in Stier's _Ungarische Sagen und Maerchen_ (pp. 107-109)
comes in the form of a horse to the twelve-headed dragon's house. He
is killed; the first two drops of his blood are thrown into the garden
and from them springs a tree with golden apples: the tree is cut
down, but the first two chips (which are flung into the pond) become a
gold fish: the gold fish turns into Eisenlaci himself in human form.

9. Winning a wife by seizing her dress while she bathes is an incident
common to fairy tales of many countries.


II.--THE POMEGRANATE KING.

1. Such is the story as told by Dunkní in 1876; at that time, when it
was read over to her, she said it was correct. On my asking her in
1878, when the story was going through the press, to explain some
points in it, such as why the children said they had been brought to
life _three_ times, the boy having only died twice, and the girl once,
she told me the following variation: After the attempt to get rid of
the boy by making him into a curry had failed, the Rání Sunkásí sent
for a sepoy and bade him carry the two children to the jungle and
there kill them; and as a proof of their death he was to bring her
their livers. Once in the jungle with the children, the sepoy had not
the heart to kill them; so he left them in it, and brought the livers
of two goats to Sunkásí Rání. She buried the livers in the garden and
was content; but some months later as she was walking (literally
"eating the air") in the jungle she saw her step-children playing
about; she returned to the palace, sent for the sepoy, and asked him
why he had not killed the children. "I did kill them," said the sepoy,
"and brought you their livers." "Those livers were not the children's
livers," answered the Rání; "I have just seen the children alive and
playing in the jungle." "They must have been other people's children
that you saw," said the sepoy, "yours I killed." "Do not tell me
lies," said the Rání. "Now you must at once go to the jungle, kill the
children, and bring me their eyes." The sepoy went to find the
children, but when he found them he could not kill them, so he took
them to some people who lived in a hut, and said to these people,
"Take great care of the two children. Be very kind to them." He then
killed two goats and took their eyes to the Rání, who was now
satisfied for some time. But one day another of the Pomegranate
Rájá's sepoys passed near the hut, and saw the children playing about.
So he went to Sunkásí Rání and told her the children were alive and
well. At this the Rání was very angry, and she thought, "It is of no
use my sending the first sepoy again to kill them. I will send this
man." She said, therefore, to the second sepoy, "If you will kill
these children for me, you shall have a great reward." The sepoy
agreed, went to the little hut, and seized the children. The poor
people who took care of the children begged and prayed him to have
pity on them; but the sepoy said, "No." He had the Rání's orders to
kill them, and they must and should be killed. And so he killed them
and brought their livers to the Rání as she had bidden him. Sunkásí
Rání was very happy when she saw the livers, and she buried them close
to a large tank that was in her garden.

Some three months later her servants came to her and told her a
beautiful large bél-fruit was floating on the water of the tank.
Sunkásí Rání went at once with them to the tank, and when she saw the
fruit she was seized with a great longing to have it. So she sent all
her servants, one after the other, into the tank to fetch it; but all
to no purpose, for as soon as any one of them got close to the fruit
it floated away from him. Then the Rání herself went into the tank.
She, however, was not a whit more able to get it: when she thought she
had only to put out her hand to take it, the fruit rose up into the
air, and fell into the water again as soon as she had come up out of
the tank. She went to the Mahárájá and told him of this lovely
bél-fruit, and then went to her room while he came down to the tank.
He said, "I should like to catch the fruit: I wonder if I can do so.
What a lovely fruit!" As soon as he put his hand into the water the
fruit came floating towards him, and floated into it. "I think this
fruit is quite ripe," said the Mahárájá. "Quite ripe," said the
servants, and they struck it with a stone to break it open. "Oh, you
hurt us! you hurt us!" cried little voices from inside the bél-fruit.
"Gently, gently; don't hurt us." The Mahárájá and all the servants
were greatly surprised, and the Mahárájá went to Sunkásí Rání, and
told her all about the little voices. She at once guessed her
step-children were in the fruit, so she said to the Mahárájá, "You
had better take the fruit to the jungle and there break it open with a
big stone, so that anything inside it may be crushed to bits." "I will
not do that," said the Mahárájá. Then he went back to his servants and
made them cut the fruit's rind very carefully cross-ways and the fruit
broke into halves: in one half sat his little son, in the other his
little daughter. As soon as the halves were laid on the ground the
children stepped out, and at once grew to their natural size. Their
father was very angry when he saw them. "Why, I thought you were at
school," said he. "The Mahárání told me you were at school. Why are
you not there? What funny (Dunkní's own word) children you are to get
into this bél-fruit! What made you like to live in a fruit?" But to
all his questionings and scoldings the children said not one word. At
last he sent them up to the palace, and there they stayed with him for
some three months. But the Mahárání said to him, "These are not your
children. Yours are at school." "They _are_ my children," he answered.

All this time the Mahárání hated them more and more, and at last she
went to them and said, "Now I really will kill you." "Just as you
please," answered the children; "we don't mind being killed. You may
kill us three times, four times, as often as you like: it does not
matter in the least; for God will always bring us to life again."

At this Sunkásí Rání flew into a rage and she called her servants and
said, "Kill these children, cut them into mince-meat and throw them to
the crows and kites. When the crows and kites have eaten them, they
cannot come to life any more." So the servants killed the children,
and chopped them up very fine and fed the crows and kites with their
flesh; and now the Mahárání was very happy.

Some months later, as she was walking in her garden, she saw two
beautiful flower-buds on a large bél-tree that grew in it. She showed
them to the gardener, and asked if he had seen them before. "Never,"
said the man. "On this tree there have never been either flowers or
fruit till now." "Gather the flowers for me," said the Rání, "I do so
wish to have them." The gardener said to her, "Wait till the buds are
fully blown and then I will gather them for you." At the end of three
or four days the Rání Sunkásí asked if the buds had grown into large
flowers, and the gardener said, "Yes, to-day I will gather them for
you." He got a long, long bamboo cane, and tied a piece of wood
cross-ways on one of its ends so as to make a sort of hook wherewith
to catch hold of and break off the flowers. He tried and tried to get
them, but all in vain. Then he made all the servants try. It was of no
use, no one could make the hook touch the flowers. They always bent
themselves just out of its reach. Then Sunkásí Rání tried, but with no
better success. She told the Mahárájá, who said, "I will try to-morrow
to gather these wonderful flowers."

That night as the Rání lay in her bed she suddenly thought, "Those
children are in the flowers," and she determined to be with her
husband when he gathered them, to get them into her own hands some way
or other.

The next morning Anárbásá Mahárájá and his wife went to the bél-tree,
and as soon as he held out his hand towards the flowers, they dropped
into it. "What lovely flowers! What beautiful flowers! Do give them to
me," said Sunkásí Rání. "No," said the Mahárájá, "I will keep them
myself." Then he carried them to his room and laid them on the table
while he shut the door and the venetians. Then he came and sat down
before them: he took them in his hand, and looked at them and laid
them again on the table; then he took them and smelt them, and they
smelt, oh! so sweet. This he did many times. At last he held them to
his ears, for the adventure of the bél-fruit had made him wise
(_hushyár_), and he heard little tiny voices, saying, "Papa" (Dunkní's
own word), "we want to stay with you; we should like to be with you."
The Mahárájá looked very carefully at the flowers, and at last, in one
of them he saw a little splinter of wood like a thorn sticking: he
pulled this out, and his own little son stood before him. Then he
looked at the other flower, and in that, too, was a little splinter of
wood sticking. When he pulled it out his little girl stood there.

The Mahárájá was vexed with his children, and asked them why they were
so naughty, and why they liked to live in fruits and flowers instead
of staying in the palace or going to school. The children answered,
"We go to school sometimes, and then we come back and live in our
flowers, and then we return to school, and then we come back to our
flower-homes again." "This is a lie you are telling me," said their
father. "You know quite well you have not been at school at all." The
Mahárání came in to hear what all this talking meant, and when she saw
the children she said to Anárbásá Mahárájá, "These are not your
children, yours are at school." "They are my children," he answered,
"and they have never been at school at all, and they are very
naughty." He then sent them away to play, and the Rání returned to her
room. But he sat alone in his room, for he was angry and cross. As he
sat there one of his chaprásís came to him and said, "Maháráj, you do
not know how ill the Mahárání treats your children, or you would not
be angry with them. She has killed them several times, and sent them
away into the jungle; and after they came out of the bél-fruit she
killed them and chopped them into small pieces, and fed the kites and
crows with their flesh." When the Mahárájá heard all this, he said to
the chaprásí, "You must have a beautiful little house built for me;
you must take care that it is chiefly made of wood; the flooring must
be very thin and of wood; and the hollow place under the flooring must
be filled with dry wood. Then you must put plenty of flowers inside
the house, and plenty outside so as to make it very pretty."

As soon as the house was ready the Mahárájá went to his wife and asked
her if she would go out with him to eat the air. "I should like to
show you a new house I have had built for you," he said. So she went
with him and thought her new house lovely. While she was inside
looking at the pretty flowers in the rooms, the Mahárájá slipped out,
and bolted the door so that she could not escape, and he told his
servants to set fire to the wood under the flooring. When the flames
began to rise the Rání got very frightened. She rushed to the window
and called to the Mahárájá and his servants, who were standing there
looking on, to save her. No one said anything to her. "Save me," she
cried, "or I shall be burnt to death." "If you are burnt, what does it
matter?" said the Mahárájá. "You ill-treated my children; you killed
them; so, now burn."

As soon as she was burnt to death the Mahárájá had all her bones
collected and put into four dishes, and he gave them to one of his
servants to take to Sunkásí Rání's mother. When her mother uncovered
dish after dish and found nothing but bones, she asked the servant,
"Of what use are bones?" "These are your daughter's bones," said he:
"therefore Anárbásá Mahárájá sent them to you. Sunkásí Rání
ill-treated and killed his children, and so he burnt her."

The rest of the story she pronounced exact (_thík_).

2. The bél-tree is the _Ægle Marmelos_ of botanists.

3. With the different deaths and transformations of the children
compare in this book: Phúlmati Rání, pp. 3 and 4: the Kite's Children,
p. 22: the Bél-Princess, pp. 144, 145, 148: and in _Old Deccan Days_
Surya Bai, pp. 85, 86. In "Die goldenen Kinder" (Schott's
_Wallachische Maerchen_) the golden children are killed and buried (p.
122). From their hearts spring two apple-trees having golden leaves
and apples. The trees are destroyed; but a sheep has eaten an apple
and then has two golden lambs. The step-mother kills them at once and
sends the maid to wash the entrails in the stream, intending to cook
them for her husband to eat (compare the curry in the "Pomegranate
King," p. 8; the broth (_Suhr_) in Grimm's "von dem Machandelboom,"
_Kinder und Hausmaerchen_, vol. I. p. 271; and the stew in the
Devonshire story, "The Rose-Tree," told in Henderson's _Folk-lore of
the Northern Counties of England_, p. 314). A piece of the entrail
escapes, and as it floats away it swells and swells. On reaching the
opposite bank it bursts, and out of it step the golden children. In a
Hungarian story the children, one with a planet and one with a sun on
his forehead, and each with a ring on his arm, are killed by a wicked
woman who wants her daughter to take their mother's place as queen.
They turn first into two golden pear-trees. These are destroyed by
fire, but one glowing coal from the fire is eaten by an old she-goat.
The old goat then has two little golden-fleeced kids. They are killed,
an old crow swallows a piece of the entrails as they are being washed
in the brook; she flies to the seventy-seventh island in the ocean,
builds a nest and lays two golden eggs. Out of the eggs come the
golden-haired children with their planet, sun and golden rings. The
old crow sends them for seven years to school to a hermit (here is the
holy man again, see p. 283 of these notes), and then flies home with
them to their father. The pillar of salt, into which their mother was
changed, answers all the king's questions. It is not said that she
regained her human form ("Die verwandelten Kinder," Stier's
_Ungarische Volksmaerchen_, p. 58). In a Siebenburg story, "Die beiden
goldenen Kinder," the children are killed by an envious woman who
becomes queen in their mother's place. From their remains spring two
golden pine-trees which are burnt; a sheep eats two of the sparks and
has two golden lambs that are killed; from two pieces of the entrails
step forth the golden-haired children (Haltrich's _Siebenbuergische
Maerchen_, pp. 2, 3). In this tale the children are restored to their
father, the king, by the intervention of God himself (p. 4), who in
these _Siebenbuergische Maerchen_ plays a part just as often as
"Khudá" does in the Indian tales, taking for the purpose the form of a
"good old man," and often wearing a grey mantle that reminds one of
Odin. In the Netherlandish story of "The knight with the swan"
(Thorpe's _Northern Mythology_, vol. III. p. 302), King Oriant's
mother persuades the king his wife gave him seven puppies instead of
seven children (each born with a silver chain round its neck in "proof
of their mother's nobility"). She sends the children to the forest to
be destroyed. They are left there alive, and are fostered by an old
man. When the queen-mother learns this, she sends servants to kill
them. These are content with depriving six of the children of their
silver chains, on which the children instantly become swans. (The
seventh child is absent and so is saved.) A goldsmith makes two
beakers out of one of the chains, and keeps the others intact. When
the chains are hung again round the five swans' necks, and the beaker
shown to the sixth, they regain their human forms. See also paragraph
8 of the notes to Phúlmati Rání.

4. With the children in the fruit and flowers compare in these
stories, Phúlmati Rání, p. 3: Loving Lailí, p. 81: the Bél-Princess,
p. 146, and paragraph 5 of the notes to that story, p. 283: and in
_Old Deccan Days_, "Surya Bai," p. 86: and "Anár Rání and her two
maids," p. 95. With these may be compared the Polish Madey (Naake's
_Slavonic Fairy Tales_, p. 220). Madey is a robber who commits fearful
crimes; he repents, and sticks his "murderous club" upright in the
ground, swearing to kneel before it till the boy who has caused his
repentance returns as a bishop. Years go by: the boy, now a bishop,
passes through Madey's forest. The club has become an apple-tree full
of apples and he discovers Madey through their sweet odour. At Madey's
request the bishop confesses him; and as Madey confesses his crimes,
the apples on the tree, one after another, become white doves and fly
to heaven. They were the souls of those he had murdered.

In an unpublished story told by Dunkní, the incidents of the children
being in the fruit, and the fruit not letting itself be gathered by
any but the rightful owner of its contents (as is the case also with
the Bél-Princess), again occur. In this story there is a prince called
Aisab, who, as he wished very much to have children, married. At the
same time he took an oath that if his child, when he had one, cried,
he would kill it, and then if his wife cried he would kill her too.
His first wife gave him a child who died; she cried and was killed by
her husband. The same thing happened to the second wife. He then
married a third wife, called Gulíanár. She had a little son,
Dímá-ahmad, and two or three years later another son, called Karámat.
The first boy died, but Gulíanár did not cry--she only grieved for him
in her heart. Karámat was unhappy from seeing other children playing
with their brothers and sisters, and asked his mother "why he had no
brother or sister to play with?" She said, "Once you had a little
brother and he died." Then Karámat began to cry, and his father killed
him immediately with his sword because of his oath, though he loved
Karámat dearly. The "mother was still sadder than before, but she
never wept." Then God took pity on her and sent down into Prince
Aisab's garden a big bél-tree, and on this bél-tree was a fruit. Every
one tried to gather this fruit, even Prince Aisab tried, but each time
their hands approached it the fruit rose into the air and returned
again when the hands were withdrawn. Then Gulíanár stretched out her
hand "and the fruit fell into it." She took it into the house and
tried to break it open with a stone, and a voice called out, "Mother,
mother, not so hard; you hurt us." She was very much frightened,
thinking a Rakshas or a demon was in the fruit. Prince Aisab was
equally alarmed, but his wazír, Mamatsa, broke the fruit open gently
in obedience to the little voice that called out, "Don't knock so
hard, Mamatsa; you hurt us;" and out of it stepped the two little
children Dímá-ahmad and Karámat. Dímá-ahmad was very beautiful. On his
head was the sun, on his face the moon, and on his hands stars, and he
had long golden hair. He married a princess, Atása, who also had the
sun on her head, the moon on her face, stars on her hands, and "her
hair was of pure gold and reached down to the ground." The idea that
none but the rightful owner can catch the child is found too in Grey's
_Polynesian Mythology_ at pp. 116, 117, in the story of Whakatau, who
was fashioned in the sea from his mother Apakura's apron by the god
Rongota-kawiu. This child lived at the bottom of the sea; but one day
he came on shore after his kite, and all who saw him tried in vain to
catch him. Then said Whakatau, "You had better go and bring Apakura
here; she is the only person who can catch me and hold me fast." His
mother then comes and catches him.

5. Sunkásí's bones are sent to her mother. In the _Sicilianische
Maerchen_ collected by Laura Gonzenbach, it is a common practice for
husbands to punish their second wives' treachery with death, and then
to send their remains to their mothers, who feast on them, thinking
they are eating tunny-fish, and die of grief on learning what they
have really swallowed.

6. With Gulíanár's change into a bird compare Laura Gonzenbach's 13th
_Sicilianische Maerchen_, vol. I. p. 82, where the real bride is
transformed into a dove by a black-headed pin being driven into her
head, and regains her human form when the pin is pulled out. Schott
has a similar incident in his _Wallachische Maerchen_, p. 251. So has
Gubernatis (_Zoological Mythology_, vol. II. p. 242) in a story from
near Leghorn, where the woman is changed into a swallow (in all these
stories it is the husband who pulls out the pin); and he says similar
stories with a transformation into a dove are told in Piedmont, in
other parts of Tuscany, in Calabria, and are to be found in the
_Tutiname_. Ralston's Princess Mariya (_Russian Folk Tales_, p. 183),
and Thorpe's second story of "The Princess that came out of the water"
(_Yule Tide Stories_, p. 41), may also be compared.

7. The golden bird in the Siebenburg story drops pearls from its beak
whenever it sings ("Der goldne Vogel," Haltrich's _Siebenbuergische
Maerchen_, pp. 31, 35). The princess, its mistress, wears (p. 39) a
golden mantle "adorned with _carbuncles_ and pearls from the golden
bird."


III.--THE CAT AND THE DOG.

1. The Tiger promises not to eat the man who helps him and then tries
to break his promise. Compare "The Brahman, the Tiger, and the six
Judges," _Old Deccan Days_, p. 159; and "Ananzi and the Lion" in
Dasent's _Ananzi Stories_, p. 490.

2. In a Slavonic story mentioned by Gubernatis (_Zoological
Mythology_, vol. II. p. 111), a bear is about to kill a peasant in
revenge. A fox appears, "shakes its tail and says to the peasant,
'Man, thou hast ingenuity in thy head and a stick in thy hand.' The
peasant immediately understands the stratagem," and persuades the bear
to get into a sack he has with him that he may carry the bear three
times round the field instead of doing penance, after which the bear
is to do what he likes with him. The bear gets into the sack, the man
"binds it strongly" together, and then beats the bear to death with
his stick. Gubernatis at p. 132 of the same volume tells a similar
story from Russia in which a wolf plays the part of the bear and of
our tiger.


IV.--THE CAT THAT COULD NOT BE KILLED.

1. In an unpublished story told us by Gangiyá, a hill-man from near
Simla, a cat saves herself from being eaten by a jackal very much in
the same way that this cat saved herself from the leopard. The jackal
(in Gangiyá's story) ate anything it came across, whether it were dead
or alive. One day he met a tiger and said to him, "I will eat you. I
will not let you go." "Very good," said the tiger, "eat me." So the
jackal ate him up. He went a little further and met a leopard; he said
to the leopard, "I will eat you." "Very good," said the leopard. So he
ate the leopard. He went a little further and met a tiny mouse.
"Mouse," he said, "I have eaten a tiger and a leopard, and now I will
eat you." "Very good," said the mouse. He ate the mouse. He went a
little further and met a cat. "I will eat you," said the jackal. The
cat answered, "What will it profit you to eat me, who am so small? A
little further on you will see a dead buffalo: eat that." So the
jackal left the cat and went to eat the buffalo. He walked on and on,
but could find no buffalo; and the cat, meanwhile ran away. The jackal
was very angry, and set off to seek the cat, but could not find her.
He was furious.


VI.--THE RAT AND THE FROG.

Compare the Bohemian "Long-desired child," Naake's _Slavonic Fairy
Tales_, p. 226. This child is carved out of a tree-root by a woodman,
who brings him home to his wife. They delight in having a child at
last. The child eats all the food in the house; his father and mother;
a girl with a wheelbarrow full of clover; a peasant, his hay-laden
cart, and his cart-horses; a man and his pigs; a shepherd, his flock
and dog; lastly, cabbages belonging to an old woman who cuts him in
two with her mattock just as he tries to eat her. Out of him jump
unhurt every thing and every one he has swallowed. In a story from the
south of Siberia (Gubernatis' _Zoological Mythology_, vol. I. p. 140)
the hero vanquishes a demon, who tells him that in his stomach he will
find a silver casket. He cuts the monster open and out of him come
"innumerable animals, men, treasures, and other objects. Some of the
men say, 'What noble youth has delivered us from the black night?'"
In two of the caskets the hero finds the eyes of an old woman who has
befriended him, and money, "and from the last casket came forth more
men, animals, and valuables of every kind." In a Russian story quoted
by Gubernatis (_Zoological Mythology_, vol. I. pp. 406, 407) the wolf
eats the kids all but one. The mother goat persuades him to jump over
a fire. The fire splits his belly open, out tumble all the little
kids, lively as ever. There is a very similar story with fox, goat,
and kid for actors in Campbell's _Popular Tales of the West
Highlands_, vol. III. p. 93; and Grimm has one also, "Der Wolf und die
sieben jungen Geislein," in his _Kinder und Hausmaerchen_, vol. I. p.
29. In the notes to this story, vol. III. p. 15, Grimm says, "In
Pomerania this is told of a child who when his mother had gone out was
swallowed by the child-spectre, resembling the varlet Ruprecht. But
the stones which he swallows with the child make the spectre so heavy
that he falls to the earth, and the child unhurt springs out of him."
See, too, the demons at p. 99 of these stories, who swallow the
Princess Champákálí's suitors.

       *       *       *       *       *

Tylor in his _Primitive Culture_, vol. I. p. 341, classes Little Red
Riding Hood among these Day and Night myths. It is, he says,
"mutilated in the English Nursery version, but known more perfectly by
old wives in Germany, who can tell that the lovely little maid in her
shining red satin cloak was swallowed with her grandmother by the
wolf, but they both came out safe and sound when the hunter cut open
the sleeping beast." He also quotes among these myths (_ib._ p. 338) a
story of the Ojibwas in which the hero is swallowed by a great fish
and cut out again by his sister; and another belonging to the Basutos
in which all mankind save the hero and his mother were devoured by a
monster. The hero "attacked the creature and was swallowed whole, but
cutting his way out he set free all the inhabitants of the world." At
the same page is the story of the Zulu Princess Untombinde who was
carried off by a dreadful beast. "The king gathered his army and
attacked it, but it swallowed up men, and dogs, and cattle, all but
one warrior; he slew the monster, and there came out cattle, and
horses, and men, and last of all the princess herself." Mr. Tylor
quotes, too (_ib._ p. 336), in connexion with this class of myths, the
story of the death of the New Zealand sun-hero, Maui, which he tells
more fully than does Sir George Grey in his _Polynesian Mythology_;
and he goes on at pp. 338, 339, 340, to connect these myths with those
of Perseus and Andromeda; Heracles and Hesione; the story of Jonah and
his fish; the Greenland angakok swallowed by bear and walrus and
thrown up again; and the legend of Hades.

Besides the angakok mentioned by Mr. Tylor, Dr. Rink, in his _Tales
and Traditions of the Eskimo_, has two other stories of escapes from
the stomach of a dead animal when it is cut open. In the first, at p.
260, the boy is devoured by a gull; his sister kills the bird, takes
her brother's bones from its pouch and carries them home: on the way
the boy comes to life again. The other tale, p. 438, tells how
Nakasungnak jumped out of the hole his friends had made in the dead
"ice-covered" bear's side; but his hair as well as the skin of his
face had come off, and he shivered from cold and ague. And in
Ralston's _Songs of the Russian People_, p. 177, is a story of a snake
who steals "the luminaries of the night. A hero cuts off his head, and
out of the slain monster issue the Bright Moon and the Morning Star."


VII.--FOOLISH SACHÚLÍ.

1. Foolish Sachúlí lives in many lands. In his Russian dress he
figures in "The Fool and the Birch-tree," Ralston's _Russian Folk
Tales_, p. 52. In the Sicilian "Giufá" we find him again (Gonzenbach's
_Sicilianische Maerchen_, vol. I. p. 249). In England he appears in an
out-of-the-way village in the south (see _Pall Mall Budget_, July 12,
1878, p. 11, _Wild Life in a Southern Country_, No. XIV.) with, to use
his mother's words, "no more sense than God had given him." She
wishing to have his testimony discredited when he bears witness
against her, as she knows he will, goes upstairs and rains raisins on
him from the window. So when asked to specify the time he speaks of,
he says, "When it rained raisins," and is of course disbelieved.

Note by Mr. J. F. Campbell: "This story of a stupid boy has a parallel
in a Gaelic tale in my collection, where the boy dated an event which
was true by a fall of pancakes or something of the kind which was not
true, and was not believed though he told the truth." [At p. 385, vol.
II. of the _Tales of the West Highlands_ a "half booby" is inveigled
by his mother into dating his theft of some planks by a "shower of
milk-porridge."]

2. The magic gifts given by the fairies are a common incident in fairy
tales: so is the adventure with the jar of ghee.


VIII.--BARBER HÍM AND THE TIGERS.

1. Forbes in his Hindústání Dictionary says _Kans_ or _Kansa_ was the
name of a wicked tyrant whom Krishṇa was born to destroy, and that
the word now means a wicked tyrant. But Rájá Káns is an historical
character. All that is known of him is told by the late Professor
Blochmann in the Bengal Asiatic Society's Journal for 1873, Pt. I. p.
264.

2. In the note (p. 380) to the XIXth Tale in the _Sagas from the Far
East_, is a story in which Barber Hím's part is played by a he-goat,
and that of his tigers by a lion. See, too, "How the three clever men
outwitted the demons" in _Old Deccan Days_, pp. 273-278. In a Santálí
tale, "Kanran and Guja," sent by the Rev. F. T. Cole to the _Indian
Antiquary_, vol. IV. September 1875, p. 257, two brothers, Kanran and
Guja, climb into a tál tree. Here they are discovered by a tiger whom
they have deprived of his tail, and who has brought a number of his
friends to help him revenge himself on the brothers. The tailless
tiger proposes they shall all stand one the top of the other, to reach
the men in the tree. His friends agree provided he takes his stand at
the bottom, and they climb as proposed till they almost reach the
brothers. Then Kanran calls out to Guja, "Give me your axe. I will
kill the tailless tiger." The tigers in terror all tumble to the
ground, crushing their tailless friend in their fall, and flee to
their homes. In "The Leopard and the Ram" (Bleek's _Hottentot Fables
and Tales_, p. 24) the ram and the leopard play the parts of the
barber and his tigers. See, too, "The Lion and the Bushman," p. 59 of
the same collection.

Note by Mr. J. F. Campbell: "Compare the Irish story of two hunchbacks
in Keightley. A version is in Mitford's Japanese book; and far better
versions are common in Japan."


IX.--THE BULBUL AND THE COTTON-TREE.

1. Cotton-tree, in Hindústání _Semal_.

2. Koel, Indian cuckoo.


X.--THE MONKEY PRINCE.

1. Bandarsá means like a monkey; Dunkní in telling this husk-story
just as often called the monkey-skin a husk (_chhilka_) as she called
it a skin (_chamrá_).

2. Princess Jahúran throws mattresses to her drowning husband. In a
Manípúrí tale published by Mr. G. H. Damant in the _Indian Antiquary_,
vol. IV. September 1875, p. 260, Basanta's wife throws him a pillow
that he may save himself when the envious merchant, on board whose
boat they are, pitches the prince into the river that he may secure
the princess for himself.


XI.--BRAVE HÍRÁLÁLBÁSÁ.

1. With this story all through compare "The Demon is at last conquered
by the King's Son," p. 173 of this collection.

2. Rakshas means protector, and is, probably, an euphemistic term. The
chapter on Mystic Animals in Swedish traditions (Thorpe's _Northern
Mythology_, vol. II. p. 83) gives a list of certain creatures that are
not to be mentioned by their own but by euphemistic names for fear of
incurring their wrath. This belief, Thorpe in the same chapter, p. 84,
says, extends to certain inanimate things: water used for brewing, for
instance, must not be called _vatn_ (water) or the beer will not be so
good; and fire occasionally is to be spoken of as _hetta_ (heat). The
girl in an Esthonian tale quoted by Gubernatis at p. 151 of the 1st
vol. of his _Zoological Mythology_ addresses a crow whose help she
needs as "Bird of light." Fiske says (_Myths and Mythmakers_, p. 223),
"A Dayak will not allude by name to the small-pox, but will call it
'The chief' or 'Jungle leaves;' the Laplander speaks of the bear as
'the old man with the fur coat;' in Annam the tiger is called
'Grandfather,' or 'Lord.' The Finnish hunters called the bear 'the
Apple of the Forest, the beautiful Honey-claw, the Pride of the
thicket'" ("The Mythology of Finnland," _Fraser's Magazine_, May
1857). The Furies, as every one knows, were called the Eumenides, or
the gracious ones.

The Rakshases are a kind of huge demons who delight in devouring men
and beasts. They can take any shape they please. The female Rakshas
often assumes that of a beautiful woman. Compare the demon Mara as
described by Fiske at p. 93 of his book above quoted.

The Rakshases do not travel in the way mortals do. See a Dinájpur
story told by Mr. G. H. Damant in the _Indian Antiquary_ (February
1875, vol. IV. p. 54), where the hero, who has married both the
Rakshas-king's daughter and his niece, asks his father-in-law's leave
to return home with his Rakshas-wives. The King consents (p. 58), but
says, "We Rakshases do not travel in pálkís (palanquins), but in the
air." Accordingly the prince, his two Rakshas wives and his mortal
wife, all travel towards his father's country through the air "along
the sky." One kind of jinn travel in the same way (Lane's _Arabian
Nights_, vol. I., "Notes to Introduction," p. 29). So do the drakes
and kobolds in Northern Germany. The drake is as big as a cauldron, "a
person may sit in him," and travel with him to any spot he pleases.
Both drakes and kobolds look like fiery stripes. The kobolds appear
sometimes as a blue, sometimes as a red, stripe passing through the
air (Thorpe's _Northern Mythology_, vol. III. pp. 155, 156).

3. Dunkní says, "All Rakshases keep their souls in birds." Those that
do so resemble in this respect some of the Indian demons, and the
giants, trolls, and such like noxious actors in the Norse, Scotch, and
other popular tales.

Tylor (_Primitive Culture_, vol. II. pp. 152, 153) mentions the Tatar
story of the giant who could not be killed till the twelve-headed
snake in which he kept his soul was destroyed. This tale, he says,
"illustrates the idea of soul-embodiment," and "very likely" indicates
the sense of the myths where giants, &c., keep their souls out of
their own bodies. The civilized notion of soul-embodiment, he adds
(quoting from "Grose's bantering description of the art of laying
ghosts in the last century,") is that of conjuring ghosts into
different objects: "one of the many good instances of articles of
savage belief serving as jests among civilized men." Possibly these
giants, trolls, rakshases, demons, once belonged to that class of
spirits who could, in popular belief, enter at pleasure into stocks
and stones and other objects of idolatrous veneration.

But all Rakshases do not keep their souls in birds. Some have their
souls in bees (see a Dinájpur tale published by Mr. G. H. Damant in
the _Indian Antiquary_ for April 6, 1872, p. 115): and in another
Dinájpur story printed by Mr. Damant in the _Indian Antiquary_ for
June 7, 1872, p. 120, a whole tribe of Rakshases dwelling in Ceylon
kept theirs in one and the same lemon.

4. In the first quoted of these stories collected by Mr. Damant, that
where the Rakshases keep their life in bees, the hero is a prince who
starts in search of the wonderful tree mentioned in paragraph 8 of the
note to Phúlmati Rání (p. 244). In his wanderings he finds himself in
the Rakshas country. There he meets with the woman who when cut up
turns into the tree he seeks. When he first sees her she lies dead on
a bed with a golden wand on one side of her, and a silver wand on the
other. He accidentally touches her with the golden wand and she
wakes. She tells him the Rakshases, every morning when they go out in
search of food, make her dead by touching her with the silver wand,
and wake her with the golden wand when they return at night. Mr.
Damant has another story in the _Indian Antiquary_ (July 5, 1872, vol.
I. p. 219), from Dinájpur, in which there is a prince Dalim who dies
and is laid in a tomb above ground, not buried. Daily the Apsarases,
the dancing-girls in the court of Indra, wake him from death by
touching his face with a golden wand, and make him dead again by
touching him with a silver wand. These wands they always leave lying
beside him. His wife comes one day to mourn over him and accidentally
discovers the secret of bringing him to life. He is, finally, restored
to her by the Apsarases.

5. According to Gubernatis, "three and seven are sacred numbers in
Aryan faith" (_Zoological Mythology_, vol. I. p. 6).

6. Hírálálbásá addresses the Rakshas as "uncle." The two brothers
Kanran and Guja (in a Santálí fairy tale bearing their name printed by
the Rev. F. T. Cole in the _Indian Antiquary_, September 1875, vol.
IV. p. 257), address a tiger by the same propitiatory title. The tiger
in return addresses them as nephews, and gives them the fire they
want.

"Uncle" and "aunt" are used in a propitiatory sense over a great part
of the world. Hunt at p. 6 of his introduction to the _Romances and
Drolls of the West of England_ says, "Uncle is a term of respect,
which was very commonly applied to aged men by their juniors in
Cornwall. Aunt ... was used in the same manner when addressing aged
women." "Mon oncle" and "ma tante" are sometimes used in the same way
in France. Fiske in his _Myths and Mythmakers_, pp. 166, 167, tells
how the Zulu solar hero Uthlakanyana outwits a cannibal: in this story
the hero addresses the cannibal as "uncle," and the cannibal in return
calls him "child of my sister." Fiske, quoting from Dr. Callaway, at
p. 166, says, "It is perfectly clear that the cannibals of the Zulu
legends are not common men; they are magnified into giants and
magicians; they are remarkably swift and enduring; fierce and terrible
warriors." In the Hottentot story of the "Lion who took a woman's
shape," the lion and the woman address each other as "my aunt," and
"my uncle" (Bleek's _Hottentot Fables and Tales_, pp. 51, 52). In
Siberia the Yakuts worship the bear under the name of their "beloved
uncle" (Tylor's _Primitive Culture_, vol. II. p. 231); and when the
Russian peasant calls on the dreaded Lyeshy to appear he cries, "Uncle
Lyeshy" (Ralston's _Songs of the Russian people_, p. 159).

"Grannie" is the word used by Dunkní herself.

7. The Rakshas queen is tricked to her death in the same way as the
wicked step-mother in the "Pomegranate King," p. 12 of this
collection.


XII.--THE MAN WHO WENT TO SEEK HIS FATE.

1. Compare a Servian story, "Das Schicksal" (Karadschitsch,
_Volksmaerchen der Serben_, p. 106), in which a man sets out to seek
his fate, and on the road is commissioned by a rich householder to ask
the fate why, though he gives abundance of food to his servants, he
can never satisfy their hunger, and why his aged, miserable father and
mother do not die: by another man, to ask why his cattle diminish
instead of thriving: and, thirdly, by a river whose waters bear him
safely across it, to ask why no living thing lives in it. His fate
answers all these questions, and instructs him how to thrive himself.
In Fräulein Gonzenbach's _Sicilian Fairy Tales_, "Die Geschichte von
Caterina und ihrem Schicksal," vol. I. p. 130, Caterina is persecuted
by her fate, who wears the form of a lovely woman. At last she begs
her mistress's fate, to whom she daily carries a propitiatory
offering, to intercede for her with her own fate. She is told in
answer that her own fate is wrapped in seven veils and so cannot hear
her prayer. Finally her mistress's fate leads her to her own. In the
same collection, in "Feledico und Epomata" (vol. I. p. 350),
Feledico's fate plays a personal part.

This Indian story looks like a relic of stock and stone worship (see
Tylor's _Primitive Culture_, vol. II. chapters XIV. and XV.). Compare
the man's beating his fate-stone with the treatment the Ostyak gives
his puppet. If it is good to him he clothes and feeds it with broth;
"if it brings him no sport he will try the effect of a good thrashing
on it, after which he will clothe and feed it again" (_ib._ p. 170).
Other examples are given at the same page. These spirits and gods, for
whose dwelling-place stocks and stones and other objects had been
supplied, were not supposed always to inhabit these abodes; but they
did so at pleasure. Compare Elijah's address to the priests of Baal,
"Cry aloud: for he is a god; either he is talking, or he is pursuing,
or he is in a journey, or peradventure he sleepeth" (1 Kings xviii.
27), with Caterina's seven-veiled fate, and the prostrate fate-stone
in our story whose spirit-owner was evidently absent on some
expedition. These fates may be compared with the patron or guardian
spirits of whom Mr. Tylor speaks at pp. 199-203 of the same volume. He
says (p. 202), "The Egyptian astrologer warned Antonius to keep far
from the young Octavius, 'for thy demon,' said he, 'is in fear of
his.'" If one man's demon or genius were at enmity with that of
another man, it would probably be friendly to that of a third man, and
would therefore be acquainted with its secrets and with its motives of
behaviour to the man it guarded. Hence the advice given by her
mistress to Caterina to inquire of her own fate from her mistress's
fate, and the questions to be put to their fates when found given to
the men in the Indian and Servian stories. These questions remind one
of those entrusted to the youths in European tales as they journey to
the dragon or devil to whom they are sent for destruction. Like the
fates in the Indian and Servian stories, these dragons and devils live
at the end of a long and difficult journey. Caterina has to climb a
mountain to visit her mistress's fate.

2. Gubernatis (_Zoological Mythology_, vol. I. p. 22), speaking of the
three _Ribhavas_, says, "During the twelve days (the twelve hours of
the night or the twelve months in the year) in which they are the
guests of Agohyas," &c. So possibly the twelve years in this and other
stories in this collection may be the twelve hours of the night. In an
unpublished story told by Dunkní, "Prince Húsainsá's journey," the
prince journeys for twelve years. When he returns home he finds his
parents as he had left them--fast asleep in bed. To them the twelve
years had only been as one night.


XIII.--THE UPRIGHT KING.

1. The Boar is an avatár of Vishṇu.

2. A ḍom (the d is lingual) is a Hindú of a very low caste.

3. Possibly this king is the same as the king Harichand in the last
story but one in the collection, p. 224, and he may also be the
Hariçchandra of the following letter from Mr. C. H. Tawney:--

"I have been looking up the story of 'Hariçchandra.' It is to be found
in Muir, vol. I. He gives a summary of it from the _Markaṇḍeya
Puráṇa_. It is also found in the 'Chanda Kauçikam,' and in Mutu
Coomara Swamy's 'Martyr of Truth.' The following is Muir's summary
summarized. Hariçchandra was a king who lived in the Tretá age, and
was renowned for his virtue, and for the universal prosperity, moral
and physical, which prevailed during his reign. One day he heard a
sound of female lamentation which proceeded from the Sciences who were
becoming mastered by the austere Sage, Viçvamitra, in a way they had
never been before. He rushed to their assistance as a Kshatriya bound
to succour the oppressed. By a haughty speech he provoked Viçvamitra,
and in consequence of his wrath the Sciences instantly perished. (In
the 'Chanda Kauçikam,' as far as I remember, we are told that the
anger of Viçvamitra interfered with the success of his austerity.) The
king says he had only done his duty as a king, which involves the
bestowal of gifts on Bráhmans and the succour of the weak. Viçvamitra
thereupon demands from the king as a gift the whole earth, everything
but himself, his son, and his wife. The king gives it him. Then
Viçvamitra demands his sacrificial fee; the king goes to Benares,
followed by the relentless Sage, the ruler of Çiva, and is compelled
to sell his wife. She is bought by a rich old Bráhman. The son cries
and the Bráhman buys him too. But Hariçchandra has not enough, even
now, to satisfy Viçvamitra, so he sells himself to a Cháṇḍála,
who is really Dharma, the god of righteousness. The Cháṇḍála
(man of the lowest caste), carries off the king, bound, beaten, and
confused. The Cháṇḍála sends him to steal clothes in a cemetery.
There he lives twelve months. His wife comes to the cemetery to
perform the obsequies of her son, who had died from the bite of a
serpent. The two determine to burn themselves with the corpse of their
son. When Hariçchandra, after placing his son on the funeral pyre, is
meditating on the Supreme Spirit, the lord Hari Náráyaṇa
Krishṇa, all the gods arrive headed by Dharma (righteousness) and
accompanied by Viçvamitra. Dharma entreats the king to desist from his
rash enterprise, and Indra announces to him that he, his wife, and his
son have gained heaven by their good works. Ambrosia and flowers are
rained by the god from the sky, and the king's son is restored to the
bloom of youth. The king, adorned with celestial clothing and
garments, and the queen, embrace their son. Hariçchandra, however,
declares that he cannot go to heaven till he has received his master
the Cháṇḍála's permission, and paid him a ransom. Dharma, the
god of righteousness, then says that he had miraculously assumed the
form of a Cháṇḍála. The king requests that his subjects may
accompany him to heaven, at least for one day. This request is granted
by Indra; and after Viçvamitra has inaugurated the king's son,
Rohitaçva, as his successor, Hariçchandra, his friends and followers,
all ascend to heaven."


XIV.--LOVING LAILÍ.

1. Majnún is a celebrated lover, whose love for Lailí or Lailá is the
subject of many Eastern poems. In this story he does not play a
brilliant part.

2. Lailí's knife is like the sun-hero's weapon (the sun's ray), which
lengthens at its owner's pleasure (Gubernatis, _Zoological Mythology_,
vol. II. p. 147).

3. She cuts her little finger. See "the Bél Princess," p. 141, and
paragraph 2 of the note to "Shekh Faríd." "The little finger, though
the smallest, is the most privileged of the five. It is the one that
knows everything." A Piedmontese mother says, "My little finger tells
me everything" (Gubernatis, _Zoological Mythology_, vol. I. p. 166).
We have a somewhat similar saying in England. In a Russian story
quoted by the same author in the same work (vol. II. p. 151), an old
woman while baking a cake, cuts off her little finger and throws it
into the fire. From the little finger in the fire is born a strong
dwarf who afterwards does many wonderful things. In the tale of the
five fingers ("Die Maehr von den fuenf Fingern," Haltrich's
_Siebenbuergische Maerchen_, p. 325), where each finger decides what
it will do, the little one says, "I will help with wise counsel." In
consequence of this assistance, to this day, "when any one has a wise
idea (Einfall), he says 'that his little finger told him that'" (p.
327). In Finnish mythology we again find the little finger. "The Para,
also originated in the Swedish Bjaeren or Bare, a magical three-legged
being, manufactured in various ways, and which, says Castrén, attained
life and motion when its possessor, cutting the little finger of his
left hand, let three drops of blood fall on it, at the same time
pronouncing the proper spell." ("The Mythology of Finnland," _Fraser's
Magazine_ for May 1857, p. 532.)

In Rink's _Tales and Traditions of the Eskimo_, p. 441, there is an
account of Kanak's visit to the man of the moon, where he meets a
woman who, he is warned, will take out his entrails if she can only
make him laugh. He follows the moon-man's advice, which is to rub his
leg with the nail of his little finger when he can no longer keep from
smiling, and so saves himself from the old hag. Rishya Śriñga (to
return to the land of our fairy tales) threw a drop of water from the
nail of his little finger on a Rakshas who, in the form of a tiger,
was rushing to devour him. The demon instantly quitted the tiger's
body, and asked the Rishi what he should do. He followed the holy
man's instructions and obtained môksha (salvation)--see _Indian
Antiquary_ for May 1873, p. 142, "The Legend of Rishya Śriñga,"
told by V. N. Narasimmiyengar of Bangalor.


XV.--HOW KING BURTAL BECAME A FAKÍR.

1. The Fakír strikes the dead antelope with his wand (_chábuk_), as in
"Shekh Faríd," p. 98. In both cases Dunkní says the wand used was a
long, slender piece of bamboo. I do not know whether the bamboo is a
lightning-plant. Possibly it is, being a grass (some grasses are
lightning-plants, see Fiske's _Myths and Mythmakers_, pp. 56, 61), and
also because its long slender stems are lance-shaped. If it does
belong to this class, naturally a blow from a bamboo (or lightning)
wand would give life, for, says Fiske (_ib._ p. 60), "the association
of the thunder-storm with the approach of summer has produced many
myths in which the lightning is symbolized as the life-renewing wand
of the victorious sun-god."

2. The king tries to hide the ball in his hair. The wonderful power
and strength of hair appears in tales from all lands: Signor de
Gubernatis suggests that, in the case of solar heroes, their hair is
the sun's rays (_Zoological Mythology_, vol. I. p. 117, vol. II. p.
154); and it seems to me possible that, just as the _colour_ of the
solar hero's hair has been appropriated by Indian fairy-tale princes
who are not solar, the _qualities_ of his hair may have been
attributed to that of folk-lore heroes who are not solar, and may also
have been the origin of some of the strange superstitions prevalent
about human hair. This theory, if correct, would account for most of
the strange things that I have hitherto met about hair. It must be
remembered that the sun's rays are also his weapons; they turn to
thunderbolts when the sun is hidden in the rain-clouds (Gubernatis,
_ib._ vol. I. pp. 9, 17), and also to lightning (see _ib._ vol. II. p.
10, where the sun under the form of a bull is spoken of as the fire
which sends forth lightning).

First there is Samson, whose name, according to Gesenius, means
"solar," "like the sun." Of the hero Firud, it is told "that a single
hair of his head has more strength in it than many warriors"
(Gubernatis, _Zoological Mythology_, vol. I. p. 117). Conan was the
weakest man of the Féinn, because they used to keep him cropped. "He
had but the strength of a man; but if the hair should get leave to
grow, there was the strength of a man in him for every hair that was
in his head; but he was so cross that if the hair should grow he would
kill them all" (Campbell's _Popular Tales of the West Highlands_, vol.
III. p. 396). At p. 91 of Schmidt's _Griechische Maerchen, Sagen und
Volkslieder_, is the story of a king, "Der Capitän Dreizehn," who is
"the strongest of his time," and who has three long hairs, so long
that they could be twisted twice round the hand on his breast. When
these are cut off he becomes the weakest of men. When these grow again
he regains his strength. The sun's rays have most power when they are
longest, _i.e._ when the sun is in apogee.

Possibly from this old forgotten myth about the solar hero's hair came
some superstition to which was due the Merovingian decree that only
princes of the blood-royal should wear their hair long; cutting their
long hair made them incapable of becoming kings. Their slaves were
shaved. The barbarians ruled that only their free men should wear long
hair, and that the slaves should be shaved. Professor Monier Williams,
in the _Contemporary Review_ for January 1879, p. 265, says that
Govind, the 10th Guru and founder of the Sikh nationality, ordered the
Sikhs to wear their hair long to distinguish themselves from other
nations.

In the Slavonic story, "Leben, Abenteuer und Schwaenke des kleinen
Kerza," is a dwarf magician with a long white beard. With a hair from
this beard Kerza binds the magician's wicked wife, who has taken the
form of a wooden pillar the better to carry out her evil ends. From
that moment it was impossible for her to take again her own shape or
to use her former magic powers (Vogl's _Volksmaerchen_, p. 227). One
of the tasks set by Yspaddaden Penkawr to Kilhwch before he will give
him his daughter Olwen to wife, is to get him "a leash made from the
beard of Dissull Varvawc, for that is the only one that can hold the
two cubs. And the leash will be of no avail unless it be plucked from
his beard while he is alive, and twitched out with wooden tweezers ...
and the leash will be of no use should he be dead because it will be
brittle,"--that is, when the sun is set (dead) his rays have no power
(_Mabinogion_, vol. II. p. 288). The same idea lies at the bottom of
the English superstition that "if a person's hair burn brightly when
thrown into the fire, it is a sign of longevity; the brighter the
flame, the longer the life. On the other hand, if it smoulder away,
and refuse to burn, it is a sign of approaching death" (Henderson's
_Folk-lore of the Northern Counties of England_, p. 84).

The Malays have a story of a woman, called Utahigi, in whose head grew
a single white hair endowed with magic power. When her husband pulled
it out a great storm arose and Utahigi went up to heaven. She was a
bird (or cloud) maiden, and this hair must have been the lightning
drawn from the cloud. The Servian Atalanta, when nearly overtaken by
her lover, takes a hair from the top of her head and throws it behind
her. It becomes a mighty wood (clouds are the forests and mountains of
the sky, Gubernatis, _Zoological Mythology_, vol. I. p. 11),
Karadschitsch, _Volksmaerchen der Serben_, p. 25, in the story "von
dem Maedchen das behender als das Pferd ist." In Schmidt's
_Griechische Maerchen, Sagen und Volkslieder_, p. 79, the king's
daughter as she flies with her lover from the Lamnissa throws some of
her own hairs behind her, and they become a great lake (thunderbolts
and lightning bring rain). At p. 98 of the same work is the story "Der
Riese vom Berge." When this giant wishes to enter his great high
mountain, he takes a hair from his head and touches the mountain with
it. The mountain at once splits in two (p. 101). The king's daughter
in her encounter with the Efreet, "plucked a hair from her head and
muttered with her lips, whereupon the hair became converted into a
piercing sword with which she struck the lion [the Efreet], and he was
cleft in twain by her blow; but his head became changed into a
scorpion" (Lane's _Arabian Nights_, vol. I. p. 156). A Baba Yaga, in
Ralston's _Russian Folk Tales_, p. 147, plucks one of her hairs, ties
three knots in it, and blows, and thus petrifies her victims. She is a
personification of the spirit of the storm, _ib._ p. 164. In _Old
Deccan Days_, at p. 62, the old Rakshas says to Ramchundra, "You must
not touch my hair;" "the least fragment of my hair thrown in the
direction of the jungle would instantly set it in a blaze." Ramchundra
steals two or three of the hairs, and when escaping from the Rakshas,
flings them to the winds and fires the jungle. Chandra (p. 266 of the
same book) avenges the death of her husband by tearing her hair, which
burns and instantly sets fire to the land; all the people in it but
herself and a few who had been kind to her and are therefore saved,
were burnt in this great fire.

In these tales a single hair from the head of the Princess Labám (the
lunar ray can pierce the cloud as well as a solar ray) cuts a thick
tree-trunk in two, p. 163.

Hair has another property; it can tell things to its owners. See the
three hairs the Queen gives Coachman Toms, saying, "They will always
tell you the truth when you question them." (Stier's _Ungarische
Volksmaerchen_, p. 176), and which, later in the story (p. 186)
adjudge the king worthy of death. (See Grimm's story _Kinder und
Hausmaerchen_, vol. II. p. 174, "The clear sun brings day.") Also "Das
wunderbare Haar" (Karadschitsch _Volksmaerchen der Serben_, p. 180),
which is blood-red, and in which when split open were found written a
multitude of noteworthy events from the beginning of the world. (The
sun's rays have existed since the early ages of the world.) The girl
from whose head the hair is taken threads a needle with the sun's rays
and embroiders a net made of the hair of heroes.

See, too, the Eskimo account of the removal of Disco Island in Rink's
_Tales and Traditions of the Eskimo_, p. 464, where one old man vainly
tries to keep back the island by means of a seal-skin thong which
snaps, while two other old men haul it away triumphantly by the hair
from the head of a little child, chanting their spells all the time.
Their success was, perhaps, due to the spells, not to the hair. In the
notes to Der Capitän Dreizehn in Schmidt's _Griechische Maerchen,
Sagen und Volkslieder_, there are some instances of the strength given
by hair to those on whom it grows.

2. The líchí is Nephelium Litchi.

3. King Burtal's eldest son's name _Sazádá_ is perhaps the boy's title
Shahzádá (born of a king), prince. Dunkní says it is his name.


XVI.--SOME OF THE DOINGS OF SHEKH FARÍD.

1. Kheláparí means "playful fairy:" Gulábsá, "like a rose."

2. In another version told to me this year by Dunkní, when Gursan Rájá
wakes and learns how long his wife has stood by him, he is horrified,
and refuses the water, saying he does not want it. He tells her that
as a reward for her patience and goodness, she shall know of herself
everything that happens in other countries--floods, fires, and other
troubles; that she shall be able to bring help; and should any one die
from having his throat cut she shall be able to restore him to life,
by smearing the wound with some blood taken from an incision in her
little finger. Kheláparí's acquaintance with Shekh Faríd begins in
this version as follows:--She was standing at the door of her house
looking down the road, when she saw coming towards her Shekh Faríd,
the cartman, and the bullock-cart laden with what once was sugar, but
now, thanks to the fakír, is ashes. Through her gift Kheláparí knows
all that has happened, though the miracle was not performed in her
sight; and Shekh Faríd being a fakír, though his all-knowing talent
does not equal hers, knows that she knows. The cartman is in despair
when he discovers the ashes, and implores Shekh Faríd to help him. The
fakír sends him to Kheláparí, saying he must appeal to her as her
power of doing good excels his (the fakír's); that though he could
turn sugar to ashes, he could not turn the ashes to sugar. Kheláparí
at the cartman's prayer performs this miracle. Their next encounter is
by a tank in the jungle by which the holy man is resting. She is
hurrying along to put out the fire at her father's palace. The Shekh
cannot understand how it is possible for any woman to know of herself
what is happening twenty miles off, when he, a fakír, can only know
what passes at a short distance, so he follows the Rání to test her
truthfulness, and arrives in time to see her helping to put out the
fire. The rest of the story is the same as the version printed in this
collection.

3. This Shekh Faríd was a famous Súfí saint. He was a contemporary of
Nának, and many of his sayings are embodied in the Granth. In Central
India, there is a holy hill of his called Girur. The Gazetteer of the
Central Provinces edited by C. Grant, 2nd edition, Nágpur, 1870, says
that articles of merchandise belonging to two travelling traders who
mocked the saint passed before him, on which he turned the whole
stock-in-trade into stones as a punishment. They implored his pardon,
and he created a fresh stock for them from dry leaves, on which they
were so struck by his power that they attached themselves permanently
to his service, and two graves on the hill are said to be theirs. In
the _Pioneer_ for 5th August 1878, Pekin has a poem on a similar
legend about the saint. Standing on his holy hill, one day Shekh Faríd
saw a packman pass and he begged for alms. The packman mocked him.
Then the saint asked what his sacks contained. "Stones," was the
answer. The Shekh said, "Sooth--they are but worthless stones."
Whereupon all the sacks burst, and the contents, at one time different
kinds of spices, fell stones to the ground. The owner implored the
saint's mercy. Shekh Faríd told him to fill his sacks with leaves from
the trees, which was done, and then the leaves became gold mohurs. The
packman turned saint too and left his bones on Girur. A similar
miracle is told of the Irish Saint, Brigit. "Once upon a time Brigit
beheld a man with salt on his back. 'What is that on thy back?' saith
Brigit; 'Stones,' saith the man. 'They shall be stones then,' saith
Brigit, and of the salt stones were made. The same man again cometh to
(or past) Brigit. 'What is that on thy back?' saith Brigit. 'Salt,'
saith the man. 'It shall be salt then,' saith Brigit. Salt was made
again thereof through Brigit's word." (_Three Middle Irish Homilies_,
p. 81.)

4. Fakírchand means the moon of fakírs. Mohandás, the servant of the
Mohan (Krishṇa). Champákálí is a necklace made in imitation of the
closed buds of the champa or champak flowers.

5. The demons, in Hindústání _dew_ (pronounced deo), god, are
something like the Rakshases. They have wings, and have exceedingly
long lips, one of which sticks up in the air, while the other hangs
down. One of King Arthur's warriors, "Gwevyl, the son of Gwestad, on
the day that he was sad, he would let one of his lips drop below his
waist while he turned up the other like a cap upon his head"
(_Mabinogion_, vol. II. p. 266, "Kilhwch and Olwen").


XVII.--THE MOUSE.

1. Unluckily, when Karím was with us, I neglected to write down the
name of the grain that kills the mouse, and all the wonderful things
he told us of the properties of this grain. His explanations were a
kind of note given after he had finished the story.

2. The only parallel I can find to this story is one in Bleek's
_Hottentot Fables and Tales_, p. 90, called "The unreasonable child to
whom the dog gave its deserts; or a receipt for putting any one to
sleep," in which the child indulges in the uncalled for generosity and
unreasonable rage of the mouse.


XVIII.--A WONDERFUL STORY.

1. Ajít means unsubdued, invincible.

2. The wrestler's mode of announcing his arrival at Ajít's house is,
probably, the solitary result of many efforts to induce Karím himself
to knock at the nursery door before he marched into the nursery. I
never heard of natives knocking at each other's house-doors.

3. With these wrestlers compare Grimm's "Der junge Riese," _Kinder und
Hausmaerchen_, vol. II. p. 23, and "Eisenhans" in Haltrich's
_Siebenbuergische Maerchen_, p. 77.

4. Ajít carries her house. Note by Mr. J. F. Campbell: "Compare an
Irish story about Fionn and a giant who was told that the hero turned
the house when the wind blew open the door." [See, too, Campbell's
_Tales of the Western Highlands_, vol. III. p. 184]

5. When Karím was here I forgot to ask him how big were Ajít's cakes,
can, and mice. Mr. Campbell of Islay, who read this story in
manuscript, wrote in the margin where the mice were mentioned: "The
fleas in the island of Java are so big that they come out from under
the bed and steal potatoes. They do many such things. Compare [with
Ajít's can] a Gaelic story about a man who found the Fenians in an
island, and was offered a drink in a can so large that he could not
move it."

6. Mr. G. H. Damant, in the _Indian Antiquary_ for September 1873,
vol. II. p. 271, has a Dinájpur story called "Two gánja-eaters" which
is very like our Wonderful Story. In it a gánja-eater who can eat six
maunds of gánja[7] hears of another gánja-eater who can eat nine
maunds; so he takes his six maunds of gánja, and sets off for his
rival's country with the intention of fighting him. On the road he is
thirsty and drinks a whole pond dry, but this fails to quench his
thirst. Arrived at the nine-maund gánja-eater's house, he learns from
the wife that her husband has gone to cut sugar-cane, and decides to
go and meet him. He finds him in the jungle, and wishes to fight there
and then; but his rival does not agree to this, saying he has eaten
nothing for seven days. The other answers he has eaten nothing for
nine; whereupon the nine-maund gánja-eater suggests they shall wait
till they get back to his country, as in the jungle they will have no
spectators. The six-maund gánja-eater consents. So the nine-maund
gánja-eater takes up all the sugar-cane he has cut during the last
seven days and sets off for his country with his rival. On the way
they meet a fish-wife, and call her to stop and see them fight; she
answers she must carry her fish without delay to market, being already
late, and proposes they should stand on her arm and fight, and that
then she could see them as they go along. While they are fighting on
her arm, down sweeps a kite which carries off "the gánja-eaters; fish
and all." They are thrown by a storm in front of a Rájá's daughter,
who has them swept away thinking they are bits of straw.

FOOTNOTE:

    [7] An intoxicating preparation of the hemp-plant (_Cannabis
    sativa_ or _C. indica_).


XIX.--THE FAKÍR NÁNAKSÁ SAVES THE MERCHANT'S LIFE.

1. Nánaksá, _i.e._ Nának Sháh, is doubtless the first guru of the
Sikhs (about A.D. 1460-1530).

2. With the transmigration of the souls of the merchant's father,
grandmother, and sister into the goat, the old woman and his little
daughter, compare a Dinájpur story published by Mr. G. H. Damant in the
_Indian Antiquary_ for June 7, 1872, vol. I. p. 172, in which a king
threatens to kill a Bráhman if he does not explain what he means by
saying to the king every day, "As thy liberality, so thy virtue." By
his new-born daughter's advice the Bráhman tells the king this child
would explain it to him. Accordingly the king comes to the Bráhman's
house and is received smilingly "by the two-and-a-half-days-old
daughter. She sends the king for the desired information to a certain
red ox, who in his turn" sends him to a clump of Shahara (_Trophis
aspera_) trees. The trees tell him he has been made king in this state
of existence, because in a former state of existence he was liberal and
full of charity; that in this former state the child just born as the
Bráhman's daughter was his wife: that the red ox was then his son, and
that this son's wife, as a punishment for her hardness and
uncharitableness, had "become the genius of this grove of trees."

3. Jabrá'íl is the Archangel Gabriel.


XX.--THE BOY WHO HAD A MOON ON HIS FOREHEAD AND A STAR ON HIS CHIN.

1. For these marks see paragraph 4 of the notes to Phúlmati Rání. I
think the silver chains with which King Oriant's children are born
(see the Netherlandish story, the Knight of the Swan, quoted in
paragraph 3 of the notes to the Pomegranate King) are identical with
the suns, moons, and stars that the hero in this and in many other
tales possesses. They are his princely insignia and proofs of his
royalty. When the boy in this tale twists his right ear his insignia
are hidden, and so long as they remain concealed no one can guess he
is a king's son, unless he chooses to reveal himself, as he does,
partially, through his sweet singing to the youngest princess. With
this partial revelation compare the Sicilian "Stupid Peppe" revealing
himself in part by means of the ring he gave to his youngest princess.
This ring has the property of flashing brightly whenever he is near.
(See the story "Von dem muthigen Königssohn, der viele Abenteuer
erlebte" quoted in paragraph 6 of the notes to this story, p. 280.)
The shape of the insignia may have been destroyed, as in the case of
the sixth swan's chain, in the Netherlandish story, but its substance
remains, and as soon as it reappears the hero clothes himself with his
own royal form. Chundun Rájá's necklace (_Old Deccan Days_, p. 230)
and Sodewa Bai's necklace (_ib._ p. 236), in which lay their life,
belong, perhaps, to these insignia. Their princely owners' existence
depends on their keeping these proofs of their royalty in their own
possession, and is suspended whenever the proofs pass into the hands
of others.

2. The gardener's daughter promises to bear her husband a son with the
moon on his forehead and a star on his chin. Compare "Die verstossene
Königin und ihre beiden ausgesetzten Kinder," Gonzenbach's
_Sicilianische Maerchen_, vol. I. p. 19, where the girl (p. 21)
promises to give the king, if he marries her, a son with a golden
apple in his hand, and a daughter with a silver star on her forehead.
Also compare with our story "Truth's Triumph" in _Old Deccan Days_, p.
50. In Indian stories, as in European tales, the gardener and his
family often play an important part, the hero being frequently the son
of the gardener's daughter, or else protected by the gardener and his
wife.

3. With the kettle-drum compare the golden bell given by the Rájá to
Guzra Bai in "Truth's Triumph" (_Old Deccan Days_, p. 53); and the
flute given by the nymph Tillottama to her husband in the "Finding of
the Dream," a Dinájpur story published by Mr. G. H. Damant in the
_Indian Antiquary_, February 1875, vol. IV. p. 54. See also paragraph
7, p. 287, of notes to "How the Rájá's son won the Princess Labám."

4. _Kaṭar_ (the _t_ is lingual) means cruel, relentless. With this
fairy-horse compare the Russian hero-horses in Dietrich's collection
of Russian tales, who remain shut up behind twelve iron doors, and
often loaded with chains as well, till the advent of heroes great
enough to ride them. They generally speak with human voices, are their
masters' devoted servants, fight for him, often slaughtering more of
his enemies than he does himself, and when turned loose in the free
fields, as Kaṭar was in his jungle, till they are needed, always
staying in them and coming at once to their master when he calls. See
in the collection by Dietrich (_Russische Volksmaerchen_) No. 1, "Von
Ljubim Zarewitch," &c., p. 3; No. 2, "Von der selbstspielenden Harfe,"
p. 17; No. 4, "Von Ritter Iwan, dem Bauersohne," p. 43; No. 10, "Von
Bulat dem braven Burschen," p. 133; Jeruslan Lasarewitsch in the story
that bears his name (No. 17, p. 208) catches and tames a wonderful
horse near which even lions and eagles do not dare to go, p. 214. And
the Hungarian fairy horses (Zauberpferde) who, like the Servian
hero-horses, become ugly and lame at pleasure, and speak with human
voice, must also be compared to Kaṭar. One in particular plays a
leading part in the story of "Weissnittle" (Stier's _Ungarische
Volksmaerchen_, p. 61). He saves the king's son twice from death and
then flies with him to another land. He speaks with human voice,
advises him in all his doings, and marries him to a king's daughter;
Weissnittle obeying his horse as implicitly as our hero does Kaṭar.
The heroes' horses in Haltrich's _Siebenbuergische Maerchen_ also
speak with human voice and give their masters good counsel. See p. 35
of "Der goldne Vogel;" p. 49 of "Der Zauberross;" p. 101 of "Der Knabe
und der Schlange." These last two horses have more than four legs:
like Odin's Sleipnir, they each have eight. See, too, the dragon's
horse and this horse's brother in "Der goldne Apfelbaum und die neun
Pfauinnen" (Karadschitsch, _Volksmaerchen der Serben_, pp. 33-40). The
"steed" in the "Rider of Grianaig," pp. 14 and 15 of vol. III. of
Campbell's _Tales of the Western Highlands_, and the "Shaggy dun
filly" in "The young king of Easaidh Ruadh," at p. 4 of vol. I. of the
same work, may also be compared; and, lastly, in a list of hero-horses
Cúchulainn's Gray of Macha deserves a place. On the morning of the day
which was to see his last fight, Cúchulainn ordered his charioteer,
Loeg, to harness the Gray to his chariot. "'I swear to God what my
people swears,' said Loeg, 'though the men of Conchobar's fifth
(Ulster) were around the Gray of Macha, they could not bring him to
the chariot.... If thou wilt, come thou, and speak with the Gray
himself.' Cúchulainn went to him. And thrice did the horse turn his
left side to his master.... Then Cúchulainn reproached his horse,
saying that he was not wont to deal thus with his master. Thereat the
Gray of Macha came and let his big round tears of blood fall on
Cúchulainn's feet." The hero then leaps into his chariot, and goes to
battle. At last the Gray is sore wounded, and he and Cúchulainn bid
each other farewell. The Gray leaves his master; but when Cúchulainn,
wounded to death, has tied himself to a stone pillar to die standing,
"then came the Gray of Macha to Cúchulainn to protect him so long as
his soul abode in him, and the 'hero's light' out of his forehead
remained. Then the Gray of Macha wrought the three red routs all
around him. And fifty fell by his teeth and thirty by each of his
hooves. This is what he slew of the host. And hence is (the saying)
'Not keener were the victorious courses of the Gray of Macha after
Cúchulainn's slaughter.'" Then Lugaid and his men cut off the hero's
head and right hand and set off, driving the Gray before them. They
met Conall the Victorious, who knew what had happened when he saw his
friend's horse. "And he and the Gray of Macha sought Cúchulainn's
body. They saw Cúchulainn at the pillar-stone. Then went the Gray of
Macha and laid his head on Cúchulainn's breast. And Conall said, 'A
heavy care to the Gray of Macha is that corpse.'" Conall himself, in
the fight he has with Lugaid, to avenge his friend's slaughter, is
helped by his own horse, the Dewy-Red. "When Conall found that he
prevailed not, he saw his steed, the Dewy-Red, by Lugaid. And the
steed came to Lugaid and tore a piece out of his side." ("Cúchulainn's
Death, abridged from the Book of Leinster," _Revue celtique_, Juin
1877, pp. 175, 176, 180, 182, 183, 185.)

5. The prince makes his escape at five years old. Jeruslan
Jeruslanowitsch at the same age sets out in search of his father,
Jeruslan Lasarewitsch, equipped as a knight, at p. 250 of the 17th
Russian Maerchen in the collection by Dietrich quoted above. He meets
and fights bravely with his father, proving himself worthy of him (p.
251). Sohrab, Rustam's famous son, gives proof of a lion's courage at
five, and at ten years old vanquishes all his companions (Gubernatis,
_Zoological Mythology_, vol. I. p. 115).

6. The princess chooses the ugly common-looking man. In _Old Deccan
Days_, p. 119, so does the Princess Buccoulee. In the episode of Nala
and Damayantí we have the assemblage of suitors, and the public choice
of a husband by a princess (_svayamvara_). Damayantí recognizes the
mortal Nala among the gods, (each of whom has made himself resemble
Nala) from the fact that the flowers of which Nala's garlands were
composed had faded while the garlands of the gods were blooming
freshly. In a story from Manípúrí told by Mr. G. H. Damant in the
_Indian Antiquary_, September 1875, vol. IV. p. 260, Prince Basanta,
effectually disguised by misery, and travel-stained, arrives with the
merchant at a certain place where the king's daughter that day is to
choose her husband. The merchant takes his seat among the princely
suitors; Basanta a little way off. There is a general storm of
scoffings when the princess hangs her garland of flowers round
Basanta's neck. In one of Laura Gonzenbach's Sicilian stories, "Von
einem muthigen Königssohn, der viele Abenteuer erlebte," vol. II. p.
21, we have three kings' sons (brothers) and three princesses
(sisters.) The two elder brothers marry the two elder sisters. At a
tournament held on purpose that she may choose her husband, the
youngest sister, to the general disgust, chooses the youngest prince
(disguised as the dirty, ill-dressed servant of the court tailor), and
who is not even present as a suitor. Her suitors, princes, have passed
before her for three days. After the marriage the prince keeps up the
disguise. His brothers by way of amusing themselves at his expense
take "Stupid Peppe," as they call him, to the wood to shoot birds; he
shoots a great number, while they run here and there and cannot find
one. They agree to let him brand them with black spots on their
shoulders, on condition he gives them his birds. In the notes to this
story, vol. II. p. 240. Herr Köhler gives Spanish, Russian, South
Siberian, and others parallels. And in Stier's _Ungarische
Volksmaerchen_, p. 61, in the story of "Weissnittle," we have not only
the hero-horse mentioned in paragraph 4 of these notes, but also the
assemblage of suitors for the princess to choose her husband: her
choice of a seemingly stupid gardener's boy, who has partially
revealed himself to her; the prince retaining his disguise, after his
marriage, towards every one, even his wife: two brothers-in-law, who
are kings' sons and the wife's elder sisters' husbands; their hunting
on three different days, each time meeting a handsome prince in whom
they do not recognize their despised brother-in-law, Weissnittle, who
sells them his game the first day for their wedding-rings, the second
for leave to brand them with these rings on their foreheads, the third
for permission to brand them with a gallows on their backs: lastly, we
have Weissnittle, as a splendid young prince, publicly shaming his
brothers-in-law by exposing their branding marks. In India this
branding with red-hot pice was the punishment for stealing. Compare in
Taylor's _Confessions of a Thug_, p. 411, Amír Ali's horror at being
so branded by the Rájá of Jhalone. It was, he says years later, a
punishment worse than death, as the world would think him a thief, and
he would carry to his grave "a mark only set on the vile and the
outcasts from society."

7. Múniyá tells me that, in a variation of this story, the dog, cow,
and horse each swallow the child three times, but for shorter periods,
as he is only five years old when he escapes on Kaṭar. Then when
the princess chooses her husband she rides three times round the
assemblage of Rájá's, who all sit on a great plain, and each time she
chooses the pretended _old_ man; for in this version the boy loses his
youth as well as his good looks. Instead of taking service with the
grain merchant, the boy is told by his horse to go boldly to the
king's palace and ask for service there. The shaming of the
brothers-in-law happens thus. The boy invites these princes, the king,
all the king's servants, and all the people in the king's country, to
a grand entertainment in the king's court-house. When they are all
assembled he has the six princes stripped and every one mocks at the
pice-marks on their backs. These are the only variations in the other
version.

Sir George Grey, in his _Polynesian Mythology_, p. 73, tells how the
hero Tawhaki when he climbed into heaven in search of his lost wife
"disguised himself, and changed his handsome and noble appearance, and
assumed the likeness of a very ugly old man." If fact, he looks such a
thoroughly common old man that in the heavens he is taken for a slave
instead of a great chief, and treated as such.


XXI.--THE BÉL-PRINCESS.

1. Múniyá says that telling the prince he would marry a Bél-Princess
was equivalent to saying he would not marry at all, for these
brothers' wives knew she lived in the fairy-country, and that it would
be very difficult, if not impossible, for the prince to find her, and
take her from it.

2. With the fakír's sleep compare that of the dragon who sleeps for a
year at a time in the Transylvanian story "Das Rosenmaerchen"
(_Siebenbuergische Maerchen_, pp. 124, 126).

3. In a Greek story, "Das Schloss des Helios" (Schmidt's _Griechische
Maerchen, Sagen und Volkslieder_, p. 106), the heroine is warned by a
monk that as she approaches the magic castle voices like her brothers'
voices will call her; but if, consequently, she looks behind she will
become stone. Her two elder brothers go to seek her, and, as they meet
no monk to warn them, they become stone. The third brother meets the
monk, obeys his warning, and thus, like his sister, escapes the evil
fate. To save him from Helios, the sister turns him into a thimble
till she has Helios's promise to do him no harm. (Compare the Tiger
and Tigress, p. 155 of this collection.) Helios gives him some water
in a flask with which he sprinkles the stone brothers, whereupon they
and all the other stone princes come to life. In these Indian tales
the healing blood from the little finger plays the part of the waters
of life and death, found in so many Russian and other European
stories.

When reading of the fate of all these princes, it is impossible not
to think of Lot's wife.

The danger of looking back, when engaged on any dealings with
supernatural powers, is insisted on in the tales and practices of the
Russians, Eskimos, Zulus, and the Khonds of Orissa. In Russia the
watcher for the golden fern-flower must seize it the instant it
blossoms and run home, taking care not to look behind him: whether
through fear of giving the demons, who also watch for it, power over
him, or whether through a dread of the flower losing its magic powers
if this precaution is neglected, Mr. Ralston does not say (_Songs of
the Russian People_, p. 99). When "the Revived who came to the
under-world people" (Dr. Rink tells us in his _Tales and Traditions of
the Eskimo_, p. 299) took the old couple to visit the ingnersuit
(supernatural beings "who have their abodes beneath the surface of the
earth, in the cliffs along the sea-shore, where the ordinarily
invisible entrances to them are found" _ib._ p. 46), he warned "them
not to look back when they approached the rock which enclosed the
abode of the ingnersuit, lest the entrance should remain shut for
them.... When they had reached the cliff, and were rowing up to it, it
forthwith opened; and inside was seen a beautiful country, with many
houses, and a beach covered with pebbles and large heaps of fish and
matak (edible skin). Perceiving this the old people for joy forgot the
warning and turned round, and instantly all disappeared: the prow of
the boat knocked right against the steep rock and was smashed in, so
that they all were thrown down by the shock. The son [the revived]
said, 'Now we must remain apart for ever.'" Mr. Tylor, in the 2nd
volume of his _Primitive Culture_, at p. 147 mentions a Zulu remedy
for preventing a dead man from tormenting his widow in her dreams; the
sorcerer goes with her to lay the ghost, and when this is done
"charges her not to look back till she gets home:" and he says the
Khonds of Orissa, when offering human sacrifices to the earth-goddess
bury their portions of the offering in holes in the ground behind
their backs without looking round (_ib._ p. 377).

4. In most of the stories of this kind the command is to open the
fruit or casket only near water, for if the beautiful maiden inside
cannot get water immediately she dies. Such is the case in the "Drei
Pomeranzen" (Stier's _Ungarische Maerchen und Sagen_, p. 83), in "Die
Schoene mit dem sieben Schleier" (_Sicilianische Maerchen_, vol. I. p.
73), and in "Die drei Citronen" (Schmidt's _Griechische Maerchen,
Sagen und Volkslieder_, p. 71). "Die Ungeborene Niegesehene" (Schott's
_Wallachische Maerchen_, p. 248) must be compared with these, though
the beautiful maiden does not come out of the golden fairy-apple. She
appears suddenly and the prince must give her water to drink and the
apple to eat, before he can take her and keep her. In all these
stories the hero has a long journey, and encounters many dangers, in
seeking his bride. In the Sicilian story he is helped by hermits; in
the Greek story, by a monk--monks in Greek and hermits in Sicilian and
Servian stories playing the part of the fakírs in these Indian tales.
In all these stories, too, the maiden is killed or transformed by a
wicked woman who takes her place. In the Wallachian and Sicilian fairy
tales the rightful bride becomes a dove only. But in the Hungarian
tale she is drowned in a well and becomes a gold fish; the wicked
gipsy has no rest till she has eaten the fish's liver: from one of its
scales springs a tree; she has the tree cut down and burnt. The
wood-cutter who hews down the tree makes a cover for his wife's
milk-pot from a piece of the wood, and they find their house kept in
beautiful order from this moment. So to discover the secret, they peep
through the keyhole one day and see a lovely fairy come out of the
milk-jar. Then they enter their house suddenly and the girl tells her
story: the wood-cutter's wife burns the wooden lid to force her to
keep her own form, and goes to the king's son to tell him where he
will find his Pomegranate-bride again. In the Greek story a Lamnissa
eats the citron-girl, but a tiny bone falls unnoticed into the water
and becomes a gold-fish. The prince not only takes the Lamnissa home
with him, but he takes the gold-fish too, and keeps it in his room,
"for he loved it dearly." The Lamnissa never rests till he gives her
the fish to eat. Its bones are thrown into a garden and from them
springs a rose bush on which blooms a rose which the king's old
washerwoman wishes to break off to sell it at the castle. From out of
the bush springs the beautiful citron-maiden, and tells the old woman
her story. She also gives her the rose for the king's son, and in the
basket with the rose she lays a ring he had given her, but charges the
old woman to say nothing about her to him. The next day he comes to
the old woman's cottage and finds his real bride.

5. The youngest prince alone can gather the lotus-flower and
bél-fruit. Compare the Pomegranate-king, pp. 10 and 11, and paragraphs
1 and 4, pp. 245, 252, of the notes to that story. In his _Northern
Mythology_, vol. I., in the footnotes at p. 290, Thorpe mentions a
maiden's grave from which spring "three lilies which no one save her
lover may gather." I think he must quote from a Danish ballad.

6. The princess after drowning is first in a lotus-flower; then in a
bél-fruit again; and, lastly, her body is changed to a garden and
palace. Signor de Gubernatis at p. 152 of the 1st volume of his
_Zoological Mythology_ mentions an Esthonian story where a girl (she
who addressed the crow as "bird of light"--see paragraph 2, p. 259 of
the notes to "Brave Hírálálbásá") while fleeing with her lover is
thrown into the water by a magic ball sent after them by the old
witch, and there becomes "a pond-rose (lotus-flower)." Her lover eats
hogs'-flesh and thus learns the language of birds, and then sends
swallows to a magician in Finnland to ask what he must do to free his
bride. The answer is brought by an eagle; and the prince following the
magician's instructions helps the girl to recover her human form. And
just as Surya Bai is born again in her mango (_Old Deccan Days_, p.
87) and the Bél-Princess in her bél-fruit, so is the girl in the
Hottentot tale of "The Lion who took a woman's shape" born from her
heart in the calabash full of milk in which her mother has put it. The
lion had eaten the girl; but her mother burns the lion and persuades
the fire in which she burns him to give her her daughter's heart
(Bleek's _Hottentot Fables and Tales_, pp. 55 and 56). With the change
into the garden and palace compare the Russian story of a maiden whose
servant-girl blinds her and takes her place as the king's wife. After
some time the false queen learns her mistress is still living; so she
has her murdered and cut to pieces. "Where the maiden is buried a
garden arises, and a boy shows himself. The boy goes to the palace and
runs after the queen, making such a din that she is obliged, in order
to silence him, to give him the girl's heart which she had kept
hidden. The boy then runs off contented, the king follows him, and
finds himself before the resuscitated maiden" (Gubernatis, _Zoological
Mythology_, vol. I. pp. 218, 219). See paragraphs 7 and 8 of the notes
to "Phúlmati Rání," p. 244, and 1, 3 and 4, pp. 245, 250, 252, of
those to "The Pomegranate-king."

7. The commonplace fate of the wonderful palace is deplorable.


XXII.--HOW THE RÁJÁ'S SON WON THE PRINCESS LABÁM.

1. The "four sides" in this story (p. 153), the "four directions" (p.
156) which ought to have been translated four sides and the four sides
in "The Bed," p. 202, are the four points of the compass. They appear
in a Dinájpur story told by Mr. G. H. Damant in the _Indian
Antiquary_, 5th April 1872, p. 115. In the first Russian fairy tale
published by Dietrich, the hero's parents give their elder sons
permission "to go on the four sides" when they start on their journeys
(_Russische Volksmaerchen_, p. 1). In another fairy tale in the same
collection (No. 11, p. 144) the Prince Malandrach, when he has lost
his way flying in the air and is over the sea, raises himself by a
last effort and looks on all the "four sides" in search of a
resting-place for his foot, p. 147. Of course, too, like orthodox
Russians, the Russian heroes generally bow to all the "four sides,"
before attempting their journeys and adventures.

2. Híráman is the name of a kind of parroquet. Irik in the Bohemian
tale "Princess Golden-Hair" (Naake's _Slavonic Fairy Tales_, p. 99)
first hears of the princess's existence from the chattering of birds.

3. "Aunty" was the word used in English by old Múniyá.

4. With the stone bowl compare the pot in Grimm's "Der suesse Brei,"
_Kinder und Hausmaerchen_, vol. II. p. 104.

5. With the tigers' coats compare the robes of honour wherewith the
knights in the Mabinogion clothe themselves when they go to combat.
"And he (Gwalchmai) went forth to meet the knight (Owain), having over
himself and his horse a satin robe of honour sent him by the daughter
of the Earl of Rhangyw; and in this dress he was not known by any of
the host" ("The Lady of the Fountain," _Mabinogion_, vol. I. p. 67).
Peredur wears "a bright scarlet robe of honour over his armour" given
him by the king's daughter (_ib._ p. 363 of "Peredur the son of
Evrawc"). And in "The Dream of Rhonabwy" a knight and his horse wear a
robe of honour (_ib._ vol. II. p. 413).

6. With the tigers' fight with the demons compare the combat of the
grateful lion with the giant, in which the lion bears the brunt of the
battle. On the giant's saying, "Truly, I should find no difficulty in
fighting with thee were it not for the animal that is with thee,"
Owain shuts the lion up in the castle. "The lion in the castle roared
very loud, for he heard that it went hard with Owain," so he climbed
to the top of the castle, sprang down and "joined Owain. And the lion
gave the giant a stroke with his paw, which tore him from his shoulder
to his hip, and his heart was laid bare. And the giant fell down dead"
("The Lady of the Fountain," _Mabinogion_, vol. I. pp. 79, 80).

7. Gubernatis in vol. I. p. 160, of his _Zoological Mythology_, says,
"The drum or kettle-drum thunder is a familiar image in Hindu poetry,
and the gandharvas, the musician warriors of the Hindu Olympus, have
no other instrument than the thunder." "The magic flute is a variation
of the same celestial instrument," _ib._ p. 161.

8. For the hair, see note to "How King Burtal became a Fakír,"
paragraph 2, p. 268.


XXIII.--THE PRINCESS WHO LOVED HER FATHER LIKE SALT.

1. With the task of pulling out the needles, the purchase of the
maid-servant, the sleep of the princess, the usurping of her place by
the maid who makes the prince believe the princess is her
servant-girl, compare "Der böse Schulmeister und die wandernde
Königstochter," in Laura Gonzenbach's _Sicilianische Maerchen_, vol.
I. p. 59. Here, too, the princess is driven forth from her home; she
finds a prince lying dead with a tablet by him on which is written,
"If a maiden will rub me seven years, seven months and seven days long
with grass from Mount Calvary, I shall return to life, and she shall
become my wife" (p. 61).

2. Sun-jewel box. The word thus translated is Rav-ratan-ke-pitárá.
_Raví_, sun; _ratan_, jewel; _pitárá_, a kind of box.

3. In one of Grimm's stories, "Die Gänsehirtin am Brunnen," _Kinder
und Hausmaerchen_, vol. II. p. 419, a king asks his three daughters
how much they love him (p. 425). The eldest loves him as much as the
"sweetest sugar," the second as much as her "finest dress," and the
third as much as salt. So her father in a rage has a sack of salt
bound on her back, and makes two of his servants take her away to the
forest. See also Auerbach's _Barfüssele_, Stuttgart, 1873, ss. 236,
237.


XXIV.--THE DEMON IS AT LAST CONQUERED BY THE KING'S SON.

1. The leading idea of this story is the same as that in "Brave
Hírálálbásá."

2. With this demon as a goat, compare the Rakshas in the Pig's Head
Soothsayer in _Sagas from the Far East_, p. 63, and the Rakshas in a
Bengáli story printed by Mr. G. H. Damant in the _Indian Antiquary_,
7th June, 1872, p. 120. This last story opens with seven labourers,
brothers, six of whom go down to the water to drink and never return.
The seventh goes to see what has happened to them, and finds, instead
of his brothers, a goat which is really a Rakshas. This goat then
turns into a beautiful woman who marries the king, first making him
give into her hands the eyes of his queen, who is sent blind into the
forest, where she bears a little son. The Rakshas wife learns this,
and when the boy later takes service with the king she sends him three
times to her people in Ceylon, with orders to them to kill him. He has
to bring her foam from the sea, a wonderful rice which is sown,
ripens, and can be boiled in one day, and a singular cow. With the
help of a Sannyásí (a Bráhman of the fourth order, a religious
mendicant), he does these errands safely. The Rakshases in Ceylon
receive him as their sister's son, show him his own mother's eyes and
the clay with which they can be set again in any human sockets, a
lemon which contains the life of the tribe, and a bird in which is
that of the Rakshas-queen. The boy cuts up the lemon, and thereby
kills them all, carries her eyes to his mother, and kills the
Rakshas-queen by killing the bird. In this story, as in "Brave
Hírálálbásá," the Rakshas-queen takes her own fearful form on seeing
her danger.

3. The _Bargat_, fig-tree, is the _Ficus Bengalensis_ of Linnæus.

4. Múniyá sends her hero for a _Garpank's_ feather; _Garpank_ I can
find in no dictionary, but have ventured to translate it by eagle, as
she says it is like a kite, only very much bigger; she sent us to see
a statue of a garpank that stood over a gateway in a street in
Calcutta, which might be that of an eagle or of a huge hawk. She said
such birds did not exist in Bengal, and that it was not the Garuḍa
(the sovran of the feathered race and vehicle of Vishṇu, Benfey).
Gubernatis, in the 2nd volume of his _Zoological Mythology_, p. 189,
tells a story from Monferrat where a king is blind, and can only be
cured by "bathing his eyes in oil with a feather" of a griffin that
lives on a high mountain. His third and youngest son catches and
brings him one of the griffins and the king regains his sight.

5. Winning the gratitude of a bird by killing the snake or dragon that
year after year devours its young birds is such a common incident in
fairy tales, that I will only mention two instances. One occurs in a
Dinájpur tale published by Mr. G. H. Damant in the _Indian Antiquary_
for 5th April, 1872, p. 145, where the hero saves the young birds from
the snake. They tell the old birds. He lies under the tree and listens
to the old birds relating how he will find the tree with the silver
stem and golden branches he has come to seek. The other occurs at pp.
119, 110, of a story collected by Vogl (_Volksmaerchen_ [Slavonic], p.
79) called Schön-Jela. In this tale the hero is sheltered in the
dreadful underground wilderness by a hermit. Here there is the
gigantic bird, Einja, who every third year has a brood of four young
birds which a dragon as regularly devours. The hero, Prince Milan,
watches by the nest for the dragon and kills him. The young birds,
overjoyed, fly out of the nest and cover the hero with their wings
till the old bird on her return asks who has saved them. Then they
unfold their wings and she sees Prince Milan. In return she carries
him to the upper world.

6. The word translated "night-growing rice" is Rát-vashá-ke-dhán; and
the ayah's description of this rice is given in the story. In this
description she spoke of it as cháwal, the common word for uncooked
rice, and said the Rakshas wished to drink its kánjí-pání
(rice-water). As it is a fairy plant I am afraid it is hopeless trying
to find its botanical name. Unluckily, Dr. George King says _vashá_ is
not rice at all. This is what he wrote to me on the subject: "_Vashá_
is, I suppose, the same as _vasaka_, and in that case is _Justitia
Adhatoda_, a straggling shrub common over the whole of India [very
unlike the Rát-vashá-ke-dhán] and which was in the Sanscrit as it is
in the native pharmacopœias. It is not a kind of rice, but belongs
to the natural order of Acanthaceæ (the family to which Acanthus and
Thunbergia belong)." This night-growing rice may be compared to the
day-growing rice in paragraph 2, p. 288, of the notes to this story.

7. Compare with the paper boat the rolled-up burdock leaf given to the
hero by the dwarf in the seventh Esthonian tale quoted by Gubernatis
(_Zoological Mythology_, vol. I. p. 155): whenever this hero wishes to
cross water he unrolls his burdock-leaf. Gubernatis compares this leaf
to the lotus-leaf on which the Hindús represented their god as
floating in the midst of the waters (_ibid._).

8. With the great wind that comes from the demon, compare the
following Swedish account of a giant in Thorpe's _Northern Mythology_,
vol. II. p. 85. He asks his road of a lad, who directs him: then "he
went off as in a whirlwind, and the lad now discovered, to his no
small astonishment, that his forefinger with which he had pointed out
the way had followed along with the giant." In the old Scandinavian
belief the Giant Hræsvelgr sat at the end of heaven in an eagle's garb
(arna ham). From the motion of his wings came the wind which passed
over men (_ib._ vol. I. p. 8). It must be mentioned also that "in the
German popular tales the devil is frequently made to step into the
place of the giants" (_ib._ vol. I. p. 234), and that Stöpke or Stepke
is in Lower Saxony an appellation of the devil or of the whirlwind,
from which proceed the fogs which spread over the land (_ib._ p. 235).
The devil sits in the whirlwind and rushes howling and raging through
the air (Mark Sagen, _ib._ p. 377). The whirlwind is also ascribed to
witches. If a knife be cast into it, the witch will be wounded and
become visible (Schreiber's Taschenbuch, 1839, p. 323; _ib._ vol. I.
p. 235). Mr. Ralston, in his _Songs of the Russian People_, p. 382,
says the Russian peasant attributes whirlwinds to the mad dances in
which the devil celebrates his marriage with a witch, and at p. 155 of
the same book tells us how the malicious demon Lyeshy not only makes
use of the whirlwind as a travelling conveyance for himself and a
means of turning intruders out of quarters he had selected for his own
refuge, but sends home in it people to whom he is grateful. In Ireland
we find a wind blowing from hell. King Loegaire tells Patrick, "I
perceived the wind cold, icy, like a two-ridged spear, which almost
took our hair from our heads and passed through us to the ground. I
questioned Benén as to this wind. Said Benén to me, 'This is the wind
of hell which has opened before Cúchulainn.'" _Lebar na huidre_, p.
113 a. This "wind of hell" makes one think of the sweet-scented wind
from the mid-day regions, and the evil-scented wind from the north,
which in old Persian religious belief blew to meet pure and wicked
souls after death (Tylor's _Primitive Culture_, vol. II. pp. 98, 99).
Mr. Tylor mentions also the Fanti negroes' belief that the men and
animals they sacrifice to the local fetish are carried away in a
whirlwind imperceptibly to the worshippers (_ib._ p. 378).

8. Ábjhamjham-ke pání is what has been translated by "water from the
glittering well."

9. The king had a great pit dug in the jungle. This is how Kai and
Bedwyr plucked out the beard of Dillus Varvawc, which had to be
plucked out during life. They made him eat meat till he slept. "Then
Kai made a pit under his feet, the largest in the world, and he struck
him a violent blow, and squeezed him into the pit. And there they
twitched out his beard completely with the wooden tweezers; and after
that they slew him altogether" ("Kilhwch and Olwen," _Mabinogion_,
vol. II. p. 304).


XXV.--THE FAN PRINCE.

1. The boat would not move because the king had forgotten to get the
thing his youngest daughter had asked him to bring her. Signor de
Gubernatis (_Zoological Mythology_, vol. II. p. 382) mentions an
unpublished story from near Leghorn in which a sailor promises to
bring his youngest daughter a rose. The eldest daughter is to have a
shawl, and the second a hat. "When the voyage is over, he is about to
return, but having forgotten the rose, the ship refuses to move; he is
compelled to go back to look for a rose in a garden; a magician hands
the rose with a little box to the father to give it to one of his
daughters, whom the magician is to marry. At midnight, the father,
having returned home, relates to his third daughter all that had
happened. The little box is opened; it carries off the third daughter
to the magician, who happens to be King Pietraverde, and is now a
handsome young man."

2. The princess's ring recalls Portia and Nerissa.

3. A yogí is a Hindú religious mendicant.


XXVI.--THE BED.

The merchant's son possibly was afraid of incurring the wrath either
of an original spirit residing in the tree, or of some human soul who
had been born again as its genius (see paragraph 1, p. 276, of note
to "The fakír Nánaksá saves the merchant's life"). Múniyá could give
no reason for his asking each tree's permission to cut it down.


XXVII.--PÁNWPATTÍ RÁNÍ.

See another version of this tale in the Baital Pachísi, No. 1. There
the heroine is called Padmávatí, and her father King Dantavát.


XXVIII.--THE CLEVER WIFE.

1. The merchant's wife tricks the four men into chests. Upakosá makes
the like appointments, and plays a similar trick: compare her story
translated from the Kathápítha by Dr. G. Bühler in the _Indian
Antiquary_ for 4th October, 1872, pp. 305, 306: and in "The
Touchstone," a Dinájpur legend told by Mr. G. H. Damant at p. 337 of
the _Indian Antiquary_ for December, 1873, the hero-prince's second
wife, Pránnásiní, in order to regain the touchstone for her husband
(like Upakosá and the Clever Wife) makes appointments with, and then
tricks, the kotwál, the king's councillor, the prime minister, and
lastly the king himself.

2. She plays cards (_tás_). Forbes in his Hindústání and English
Dictionary p. 543, says _tás_ is the word used for _Indian_ playing
cards. The Indian pack, he says, contains eight suits, each suit
consisting of a king, wazír, and ten cards having various figures
represented on them from one to ten in number.

[A close parallel to this tale is _Adi's Wife_, a Bengáli legend from
Dinagepore, told by the late Mr. Damant in the _Indian Antiquary_ for
January, 1880, p. 2.]


XXIX.--RÁJÁ HARICHAND'S PUNISHMENT.

1. This king is probably the same as "The Upright King," Harchand
Rájá, p. 68 of this collection.

2. The Kop Shástra. Múniyá says _kop_ is a Hindústání, not a Bengáli
word, and has nothing whatever to do with demons. This is what Mr.
Tawney writes on the subject: "It might mean _kapi_, or _kapila_ if
the woman is a Bengáli. _Kapi_ is a name of Vishṇu, possibly it
might be the Rámáyana as treating of monkeys, but I really do not
know. I see Monier Williams says that there are certain demons called
_kapa_. But of course _kópa_ is anger. I suppose you know that the
natives of Bengal pronounce the short _a_ as _o_ in the English word
_hop_." Múniyá pronounces _kop_ like the English word _cope_. This
Shástra seems as hopelessly mythical as the _Rát-vashá-ke-dhán_.


XXX.--THE KING'S SON AND THE WAZÍR'S DAUGHTER.

In a Servian story, "Des Vaters letzter Wille," pp. 134, 135, 136, of
the _Volksmaerchen der Serben_ collected by Karadschitsch, the
youngest brother has to take his brother-in-law's horse over a bridge
under which he sees an immense kettle full of boiling water in which
men's heads are cooking while eagles peck at them. He then passes
through a village where all is song and joyfulness because, so the
inhabitants tell him, each year is fruitful with them and they live,
therefore, in the midst of plenty. Then he sees two dogs quarrelling
which he cannot succeed in separating. He next passes through a
village where all is sorrow and tears because each year comes hail, so
the inhabitants "have nothing." Next he sees two boars fighting
together and cannot separate them any more than he could part the
dogs. Lastly, he reaches a beautiful meadow. In the evening his
brother-in-law expounds the meaning of all he has seen. The heads in
the boiling vessel represent the everlasting torment in the next
world. The happy villagers are good, charitable men, with whom God is
well pleased. The dogs are his elder brothers' wives. The sorrowing
villagers are men who know neither righteousness, concord, nor God.
The boars are his two wicked elder brothers. The meadow is paradise.




[Decoration]

GLOSSARY.


Bél, a fruit; _Ægle marmelos_.

Bulbul, a kind of nightingale.

Chaprásí, a messenger wearing a badge (_chaprás_).

Cooly (Tamil _kúli_), a labourer in the fields; also a porter.

Dál, a kind of pulse; _Phaseolus aureus_, according to Wilson;
_Paspalum frumentaceum_, according to Forbes.

Dom (the d is lingual), a low-caste Hindú.

Fakír, a Muhammadan religious mendicant.

Ghee (_ghí_), butter boiled and then set to cool.

Kází, a Muhammadan Judge.

Kotwál, the chief police officer in a town.

Líchí, a fruit; _Scytalia litchi_, Roxb.

Mahárájá (properly Maháráj), literally great king.

Mahárání, literally great queen.

Mainá, a kind of starling.

Maund (_man_), a measure of weight, about 87 lb.

Mohur (_muhar_), a gold coin worth 16 rupees.

Nautch (_nátya_), a union of song, dance, and instrumental music.

Pálkí, a palanquin.

Pice (_paisa_), a small copper coin.

Pilau, a dish made of either chicken or mutton, and rice.

Rájá, a king.

Rakshas, a kind of demon that eats men and beasts.

Rání, a queen.

Rohú, a kind of big fish.

Rupee (_rúpíya_), a silver coin, now worth about twenty pence.

Ryot (_ràíyat_), a cultivator.

Sarai, a walled enclosure containing small houses for the use of
travellers.

Sárí, a long piece of stuff which Hindú women wind round the body as a
petticoat, passing one end over the head.

Sepoy (_sipáhí_), a soldier.

Wazír, prime minister.

Yogí, a Hindú religious mendicant.

[Decoration]




[Decoration]

LIST OF BOOKS REFERRED TO.


Bleek. _Hottentot Fables and Tales_, London, 1864.

Campbell, J. F. _Popular Tales of the West Highlands_, 4 vols.
    Edinburgh, 1860.

Dasent, G. _Norse Tales_, Edinburgh, 1859.

Dietrich, Anton. _Russische Volksmaerchen_, Leipzig, 1831.

Fiske. _Myth and Mythmakers_, London, 1873.

Frere, Miss. _Old Deccan Days_, 2nd edition, London, 1870.

Gonzenbach, Laura. _Sicilianische Maerchen_, Leipzig, 1870.

Grant, C. _Gazetteer of India for the Central Provinces_, edited by,
    2nd edition, Nágpur, 1870.

Grey. _Polynesian Mythology_, London, 1855.

Grimm. _Kinder und Hausmaerchen_, 3 vols., Gœttingen, first 2 vols.
    1850, 3rd vol. 1856.

Grimm. _Irische Elfenmaerchen, uebersetzt von den Bruedern Grimm_,
    Leipzig, 1826.

Gubernatis, Angelo de. _Zoological Mythology_, 2 vols., London, 1870.

Guest, Lady Charlotte. _The Mabinogion_, translated by, 3 vols.
    Llandovery, 1849.

Haltrich, Joseph. _Deutsche Volksmaerchen aus dem Sachsenlande in
    Siebenbuergen_, Berlin, 1856.

Henderson. _Folklore of the Northern Counties of England and the
    Border_, London, 1866.

Hunt. _Romances and Drolls of the West of England_, 2nd edition,
    London, 1871.

_Indian Antiquary_, vols. I. (1872), II. (1873), and IV. (1875),
    Bombay.

Karadschitsch, W. S. _Volksmaerchen der Serben_, Berlin, 1854.

Lane. _Arabian Nights_, 3 vols., London, 1859.

_Lebar na Huidre._ Lithographic facsimile, Dublin, 1870.

Milenowsky. _Maerchen aus Boehmen_, Breslau, 1853.

Naake. _Slavonic Fairy Tales_, London, 1874.

_Old New Zealand_, 1876.

Ralston. _Songs of the Russian People_, London, 1872. _Russian Folk
    Tales_, London, 1873.

Rink. _Tales and Traditions of the Eskimo_, Edinburgh and London,
    1875.

_Sagas from the Far East_, London, 1873.

Schmidt, G. _Griechische Volksmaerchen, Sagen und Volkslieder_,
    Leipzig, 1877.

Schott. _Wallachische Maerchen_, Stuttgart und Tuebingen, 1845.

Stier, G. _Ungarische Maerchen und Sagen_, Berlin, 1850. _Ungarische
    Volksmaerchen_, Pesth (preface is dated 1857).

Taylor, Meadows. _Confessions of a Thug_, London, 1873.

Thorpe. _Yule Tide Stories_, London, 1853.

_Three Middle Irish Homilies_, Calcutta, 1877.

Tylor. _Primitive Culture_, 2nd edition, London, 1873.

Vogl, Johann, N. _Volksmaerchen_ [Slavonic], Wien, 1837.

[Decoration]




[Decoration]

INDEX.


    Adam and Eve, blackened after the Fall, 239

    Alligator, 63
      King of the Fishes, 66, 71

    Angels, 77, 88, 116, 225

    Antelopes, 85

    Ants, grateful, 155, 161

    Apsarases, 262

    Ashes, Lailí becomes, 77
      sugar turned into, 96

    "Aunt," used to propitiate, 157, 262

    Avatár, 265


    Bádsháh, 237

    Bag, magic, 156

    Bamboo wand, 86, 98, 268

    Barber outwits tigers, 35

    Bear, 254
      tries to kill cat, 19

    Beauty, effects of, 62, 93, 142
      radiance of, 1, 240, 241, 242

    Bed, 201
      magic, 156

    Bees, Rakshases keeping their souls in, 261

    Bél Princess, 138, 282

    Bhágírathí river, 75

    Birds, souls in, 58, 59, 61, 261
      conversing, 149, 150, 198

    Birth-marks, 1, 119, 242, 243, 253, 276

    Blindness cured, 77

    Blood of little finger, 83, 84, 141, 272

    Boar, God in shape of, 68

    Boar Trwyth, the, 241

    Boat refusing to move, 195, 292

    Body, star on, 243
      sun on, 243

    Bones of daughter sent to mother, 12, 250, 253

    Bowl, magic, 156

    Branch, cutting, 30

    Branding, 131, 134, 281

    Bricks turned into gold, 97

    Bulbul, 39

    Burning alive, 12, 61, 207, 249, 250


    Camel, strayed, 29, 63

    Card-playing, 218, 219, 234

    Cards, 293

    Cat, 255
      aunt to tiger, 15
      cheats jackal, 19
      leopard, 19
      which could not be killed, 18

    Cháṇḍála, 266

    Charcoal, gold and silver turned into, 69, 226

    Chests, concealment in, 218

    Child, all-devouring, 255

    Children eaten, 52, 177

    Chin, star on, 119

    Clothes-box, magic, 33

    Cloud-myth, 257

    Cockatoo, Rakshas Rání's soul in, 61

    Colour, 93

    Comfits, rain of, 29

    Cooking-pot, magic, 32

    Cotton-tree, 39

    Cow swallows child alive, 123

    Crow, 75

    Cuckoo, 39


    Daughter, _see Former life_.

    Day and night Myths, 256, 257

    Dead sheep mistaken for woman, 28

    Deer's horn, Mahádeo's, 232

    Demon, 173
      as a goat, 173, 288
      heating sand, 236
      swallowing suitors, 99
      tigers fighting with, 162

    _Dew_ (Demon), 273

    Dharma, 265

    Diamond, face shining like, 69

    Dog disputes with cat, 16
      Lailí becomes, 78, 79
      swallows child alive, 122

    Dolls, 168, 169

    Dom, 70

    Doves, eyes changed into, 5

    Dream, 232

    Dresses, seizure of, 6


    Eagle's feather, 181

    Eaglets, speaking, 183

    Earth blown away, 140
      cure with, 198, 199

    Ear, twisting, 130

    Elephant tries to kill cat, 18, 19

    Errands, 53, 55, 58, 179, 181, 184, 189, 288

    Euphemisms, 259

    Eve, _see Adam_.

    Eyes become birds, 5, 148
      pounded to bits, 176
      torn out of Rání's head 51, 176, 289


    Face, star on, 1, 242, _see Powder_.

    Fainting at beauty, 82

    Fairies in jungle, 32
      teach monkey prince, 42
      and Prince Sazádá, 93
      Indian, 243
      Irish and Cornish, 243
      of Maoris, 239, 244

    Fairy Rájás, 1
      red, 168

    Fakír's feats, 92
      gifts to, 68, 224
      God in form of, 224
      helpful, 41, 185
      sleep of, 139, 167
      tasks to be performed by intending, 87

    Fan, 196, 197

    Fan Prince, 193

    Faríd, Shekh, 272

    Fasting, _see Jackal_, _Kite_.

    Fate, 263
      seeking one's, 63

    Feather, causing invisibility, 59

    Feats of Fakírs, 92

    Figure of clay, water and ashes 78

    Fish, cooked, becomes alive, 71, 227, _see Rohú_.

    Fishes, king of, 66, 71
      souls of unborn children in, 235, 236

    Fire, _see Rejuvenescence_.

    Flower, children in, 10, 247, 248, 252
      hero weighing, 2
      heroine weighing, 1

    Flowers, life in, 4, 10, 144, 244, 247, 248, 252, 284
      on ears, 3

    Flute, 168, 169, 171, 287

    Fly, change into, 56, 57, 141

    Fools, 257

    Former life, 115, 276

    Four sides, 153, 156, 285, 286

    Fox, 254

    Frog, the voracious, 24
      slit open, 26

    Fruits, children, born from eating, 42, 91
      children in, 11, 246, 247, 252
      heroine in, 81, 142, 146, 246


    Gambling, 234

    Gangá, 89, 90

    Gardener, 277

    Garpank, 289

    Gesture language, 208, 210

    Glass powder, 197

    Glittering well, 189, 190

    Goat, demon in form of, 173, 288, _see Former life_.

    Gold, stones becoming, 59
      bricks turned into, 97
      in river, 66

    Golden wand, 262

    Grateful animals, 155, 161, 162


    Hair, power of, 268, 271
      of Mahádeo, 89, 90
      of gold, 1, 49, 62, 238, 240
      tree split with, 163

    Hand, star on, 253

    Handkerchief, 199

    Harchand Rájá, 68

    Harichand Rájá, 224

    Hariçchandra, 265, 266

    Head, sun on, 1, 242, 253
      becomes a dome, 148
        a house, 5
        a peacock, 244

    Head-collars, 230

    Heart becomes tank, 148

    Horse, hero's, 124, 125, 126, 277, 278
      swallows child alive, 124, 125

    House, arm or leg changed into, 5

    Husband, public choice of, 128, 280

    Husk story, 259


    Ikhwán Ussafa cited, 239

    Indrásan, 93, 243

    Invisibility caused by feather, 59
      by blowing earth from palm, 140


    Jackal, 75, 255
      arbitrates, 16
      cheats the tiger, 17
      its fear of men, 23
      kills kite's sons, 22
      will not fast, 21

    Jamná, 89, 90


    Kettle-drum, 120, 121, 162, 287

    Khudá, 237

    Kite worships and fasts, 21

    Knife, magic, 83, 266
      dipped in blood, 175, 176

    Knowledge of far-off events, 95, 272

    Kop Shástra, 225


    Lailí, 73

    Lamnissa, 284

    Leg becomes pillar, 148

    Lemon, Rakshases keeping their souls in, 261

    Leopard tries to kill cat, 19

    Líchí, 91

    Life, restoration to, 4, 5, 6, 8, 9, 12, 22, 26, 71, 78, 83, 84,
        86, 98, 141, 146, 151, 166, 227, 228, 232, 245, 247, 248, 250,
        251, 253, 255, 256, 257, 282, 284, 285

    Life, former, 115, 276

    Lips of demons long, 273

    Little finger, 83, 141, 266, 267, 272

    Livers, standing on, 10

    Looking back, prohibited, 141
      danger of, 282

    Lotus-flower, heroine changed into, 144, 285


    Magic gifts, 32, 33, 34

    Mahádeo, 89, 90, 231, 232

    Mainá, 148
      advises dog, 18
      demon's soul in, 187, 188

    Majnún, 73, 266

    Mangoes, 41
      mango-tree, 202
      mango-stone, consequence of eating, 50

    Mattresses thrown to save drowning prince, 47

    Milk sent by God, 146
      of tigress, 178

    Monkey, 42

    Moon on hand, 1
      on forehead, 119, 242
      princess shines like, 158

    Mothers eating sons, 52, 177

    Mouth, demon's, 185

    Mouse, 101

    Music, 93, 243, 287

    Mustard-seed, oil crushed out of, 160


    Nabha, 113

    Nának, 276

    Neck, star on, 242

    Necklace disappears into wall, 229
      reappears, 233

    Needles, body stuck full of, 165, 287

    Numbers, sacred, 262


    Ointment restoring sight, 56

    Old woman, _see Former life_.


    Paper boat, 187, 188, 290

    Parrot, 148, 153

    Peacock, head becomes, 244

    Pearls drop from bird's eyes, 12
      from bird's beak, 254

    Phaláná country, 73, 74

    Phúlmati, 240

    Pigeons, cooked, come to life, 228

    Pin, in bird's head, 12, 14
      transformation caused by, 254

    Pit dug for demon's execution, 192
      for Dillus Varvawc, 292

    Poison, 212

    Portrait, 223

    Powder flung in face, 77


    Rakshas, 5, 260
      as a goat, 288
      turned into Rání, 51

    Rat and frog, 24

    Red cheeks, 93

    Rejuvenescence by fire, 76

    Revival of murdered heroines, 244, _see Life_.

    Rice, 289
      night-growing, 184

    Rig Veda cited, 238, 239

    Ring, 199, 292

    Robes of honour, 287

    Rohú fish, 75

    Rope and stick-magic, 34, 156

    Ruby, 65, 66
      falling from beak, 13, 14


    Salt, 171, 288
      Princess who loved her father like, 164

    Sárí, 58

    Seven children, 51
      queens, 175
      small dolls, 168
      sons, 177
      wives, 41, 51

    Shahzádá, 271

    Shekh Faríd, 95, 268, 272

    Shield full of money, 53, 55, 58

    Sight restored, 57, 190, 289

    Silver, _see Charcoal_, _Wand_.

    Singing, hero, 127, 128

    Skin of monkey, 42
      burnt, 49

    Sleep, fakír's, 139, 167
      dragon's, 282

    Snake, 75
      conversing, 204

    Son-in-law how chosen, 42

    Soul embodiment 261, _see Birds_, _Cockatoo_, _Lemon_, _Mainá_.

    Soul or life of Rakshas, 56, 57, 261

    Spell, 91

    Star on body, 243
      on chin, 119
      on face, 1, 242
      on hands, 253
      on neck, 242

    Stepmother, 7

    Stick and rope, magic, 156

    Stick suspends and restores life, 54, 56, 57, 58, 59, 60, 186

    Stones becoming gold, 59
      fates are, 64
      transformation into, 140, 226, 282
      substituted for baby, 121

    Strength, feats of, 108

    Strong woman, 108

    Sugar, _see Ashes_.

    Summer and winter myth, 257

    Sun on head, 1, 242, 253
      on body, 243

    Sun jewel-box, 167

    Sun's rays, 266, 268, 271

    Svayamvara 280

    Sweeper, 88


    Tank, heart becomes, 148

    Thorn in tiger's foot, 17, 64, 155

    Three, 87

    Tiger, 254, 258
      grateful, 65, 155, 162, 180
      outwitted by barber, 35
      nephew of cat, 15
      stores of, 35, 36, 65, _see Thorn_.

    Transformations, 244, 250, 251, 284, 285

    Transmigration of souls, 276

    Tree split with hair, 163

    Trees, 292

    Twelve hours, 225
      twelve years, 32, 63, 64, 87, 88, 98, 167, 225, 264


    "Uncle" used to propitiate, 54, 262

    Underground palace, 151


    Varṇa, 238

    Viçvamitra, 265

    Vishṇu, 265


    Wand, bamboo, 86, 98, 268
      golden, reviving by, 261
      silver, death caused by touching with, 261

    Water, opening fruit or casket containing maiden near, 284

    Water-nymphs, 89

    Water-snake, 53

    Wax hatchet, 162

    Weight of heroine, 243

    Well, fairy living at bottom of, 168
      glittering, 189, 190

    Wind blowing from demon, 185, 290
      foretelling fall of palace, 205

    Wishes, 95

    Wives called Mamma, 86, 87

    Worship, _see Kite_.

    Wrestlers, 108


    Yogí, personating, 198, 214



                LONDON:
    GILBERT AND RIVINGTON, PRINTERS,
           ST. JOHN'S SQUARE.




Transcriber's Note

Printer errors (for example, omitted or transposed characters) have
been repaired, as have punctuation errors.

Variable spelling, hyphenation and use of accents are preserved as
printed in quoted material, but have otherwise been made consistent
where there was a clear prevalence of one form over the other.

Some of the spelling of Hindi words vary from modern spelling, and
these have been preserved as printed. There is also some variation
within the text--for example, dhall is used in the text while the
glossary shows Dál. These are also preserved as printed.

There are some discrepancies between the title of stories as given in
the index and main text, and in the notes at the end. These have been
preserved as printed.

Errors in page references in the index have been repaired.