The Jewel Series
THE DIAMOND STORY BOOK. Compiled by PENRHYN W.
COUSSENS. Illustrations in color by Ethel
Green.
THE EMERALD STORY BOOK. _Stories of Spring,
Nature, and Easter._ By ADA and ELEANOR
SKINNER. Frontispiece in color by Maxfield
Parrish.
THE RUBY STORY BOOK. _Tales of Courage and
Heroism._ Retold by PENRHYN W. COUSSENS.
Frontispiece in color by Maxfield Parrish.
THE SAPPHIRE STORY BOOK. _Tales of the Sea._
Collected and retold by PENRHYN W.
COUSSENS. Frontispiece in color by
Maxfield Parrish.
THE TOPAZ STORY BOOK. _Stories and Legends of
Autumn, Hallowe’en, and Thanksgiving._
Compiled by ADA M. and ELEANOR L. SKINNER.
Frontispiece in color by Maxfield Parrish.
THE TURQUOISE STORY BOOK. _Stories and Legends
of Summer and Nature._ By ADA M. and
ELEANOR L. SKINNER. Frontispiece in color
by Maxfield Parrish.
THE PEARL STORY BOOK. _Stories and Legends of
Winter, Christmas and New Year’s Day._
Compiled by ADA M. and ELEANOR L. SKINNER.
Frontispiece in color by Maxfield Parrish.
THE GARNET STORY BOOK. _Tales of Cheer both
Old and New._ Compiled by ADA M. and
ELEANOR L. SKINNER. Frontispiece in color
by Dugald S. Walker.
THE JADE STORY BOOK. _Stories from the
Orient._ Compiled by PENRHYN W. COUSSENS.
Frontispiece in color by Dugald Stewart
Walker.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: _Drawn by Dugald Stewart Walker_]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE
JADE STORY BOOK
_Stories from the Orient_
BY
PENRHYN W. COUSSENS
_Author of “The Diamond Story Book,” “The Ruby Story Book,” “The
Sapphire Story Book.” Editor of “One Thousand Books for Children,”
“A Child’s Book of Stories,” “Poems Children Love,” etc._
FRONTISPIECE BY
DUGALD STEWART WALKER
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
DUFFIELD AND COMPANY
1922
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Copyright, 1922, by
DUFFIELD & COMPANY
Printed in the United States of America
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TO MY
DEAREST PAL
MY WIFE
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
_Arranged Alphabetically_
PAGE
PREFACE ix
ADVENTURES OF JUAN, THE _Tagalog_ 298
CRANE AND THE CRAB, THE _India_ 111
DYED JACKAL, THE _India_ 244
EMPRESS JANQWI AND THE MAGICIANS _China_ 260
FAITHFUL RAJPOOT, THE _India_ 16
FEAST OF THE LANTERNS, THE _China_ 303
FOUR FRIENDS, THE _Persia_ 292
FOX AND THE CRAFTY CRAB, THE _China_ 67
HE WISHED TO LIVE FOREVER _Japan_ 102
HOW THE BIRDS SAVED THE EMPEROR’S LIFE _China_ 3
IN UNION IS STRENGTH _China_ 323
INGRATITUDE _India_ 70
JACKAL, DEER AND THE CROW, THE _India_ 89
LION AND THE HARE, THE _India_ 116
LUMAWIG ON EARTH _Igorot_ 316
MR. SIN, THE CARP _China_ 206
MYSTERIOUS GARDEN, THE _India_ 357
PAPER BAG, THE _Japan_ 77
PESTLE AND MORTAR OF JADE, THE _China_ 338
PIGEON-KING AND MOUSE-KING _India_ 98
PRINCE AHMED _Persia_ 141
PRINCE VARNA _Persia_ 250
PRINCE ZEYN ALASNAM AND THE SULTAN OF THE GENII _Persia_ 218
PRINCESS MOONLIGHT _Japan_ 52
PUNCHKIN _India_ 30
RASALU, THE FAKIR AND THE GIANTS _India_ 365
RAJAH RASALU _India_ 271
ROSAMOND, THE SWIFT OF FOOT _Oriental_ 84
STORY OF BANTUGAN, THE _Moro_ 326
STORY OF CALIPH STORK, THE _Oriental_ 119
TALE OF TWO MERCHANTS, THE _Persia_ 23
WHY DOGS WAG THEIR TAILS _Visayan_ 247
WIDOW’S SON, THE _Mindanao_ 198
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PREFACE
“The Jade Story Book” contains tales gathered from the folklore of Far
Eastern countries—India, China, Japan, the Philippine Islands and
Persia. Most of those from India are adapted from “The Hitopadesa,”
which is also known as “The Book of Good Counsels,” and “The Criterion
of Wisdom.” It may also be called “The Father of All Fables.”
These Fables were originally compiled in Sanscrit, and later, many
centuries later, (about the year 600 A. D.), they were rendered into
Persic. About two hundred and fifty years afterwards they were
translated into the Arabic, Hebrew and Greek languages. They are perhaps
best known in India today under the title of “Anvari Suhaili.” The
translation from which these particular stories are adapted is that from
the original Sanscrit made by Sir Edwin Arnold.
The Igorot, Tagalog, Visayan, Mindanao and Moro stories are used by kind
permission of A. C. McClurg & Co., publishers of “Philippine Folk
Tales,” edited by Mabel Cook Cole.
Several of the Persian stories are taken from “The Arabian Nights” and
others, from Persia, India, China and Japan, are adapted from various
sources, not least of which is “Gesta Romanorum.” One of them, “The
Story of Caliph Stork,” is from the collection by Wilhelm Hauff.
The author has on other occasions seized the opportunity to emphasize
the fact that fairy tales and fables are really necessary to the child,
who, without them, is being defrauded of that which belongs to him. They
stimulate the youthful imagination and provide a good foundation for the
further development of the mind.
Most fairy stories not only amuse, but their unfolding shows the child
that good invariably triumphs over evil, and the moral is that one who
is kind, polite, generous, unselfish and brave wins in the end. Surely
this is worth while.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE JADE STORY BOOK
------------------------------------------------------------------------
HOW THE BIRDS SAVED THE EMPEROR’S LIFE
There was once an Emperor of China whose palace was the most wonderful
in the world, being built entirely of priceless porcelain. In the garden
were the most beautiful flowers, on some of which were little golden
bells which tinkled in the wind so that you could not help looking at
them.
It was a really wonderful garden, and so large that even the Head
Gardener himself did not know where it ended. If you should reach the
end of the garden you would come to a magnificent forest in which were
great trees and deep lakes. The banks sloped down to the water, which
was as clear as crystal. Overhanging the lakes were the boughs of some
of the trees, which were so large that ships could sail beneath them. In
one of these trees there lived a Nightingale which sang so beautifully
that a poor fisherman, who had a great deal to do, even stopped his work
to listen to the bird singing. “How beautiful it is!” he said, but he
had to attend to his duties and then forgot about the bird. But each
night it was the same; the fisherman could not resist the temptation and
he left his work to listen to the bird.
The Emperor’s palace and garden were so magnificent that many travelers
from foreign countries wrote books describing their beauty; but every
scholar who wrote said that the finest thing of all was the singing of
this Nightingale.
These books were read by many people all over the world, and at last
some of them reached the Emperor, who sat in his chair of solid jade and
read and read and read. He was very much pleased that so many people who
were scholars should write so much about his palace and garden, but he
was surprised to find that in each book the Nightingale was spoken of as
the finest and most wonderful thing of all.
“It is very strange,” said the Emperor, “I’ve never heard this
Nightingale and it does seem unusual that I should know about it for the
first time from reading books written by travellers.”
He called his First Lord to him and said, “In all of these books there
is mention of a very remarkable bird which is called ‘The Nightingale.’
The writers all say that it is the most glorious thing in my kingdom.
How is it that no one has ever told me about it?”
“Why, I don’t know anything about it myself,” said the First Lord, “but
I will go and find it.”
The First Lord didn’t know where it was, so he ran all over the palace
and asked everybody there, but none of them had ever heard of the
Nightingale. Then he returned to the Emperor and said it must be an
invention of those who had written the books.
“Your Royal Highness must know that not all that is written is true, and
that much of it is invented,” said he.
“But the last book I read,” said the Emperor, “was sent to me by the
great ruler of Japan, so that it must be true, and I insist upon your
bringing the Nightingale here this evening; if you do not, every one in
this palace shall be trampled under foot.”
“All right, your Majesty,” said the First Lord; and he ran up and down
the stairs, through halls and corridors, and as he told the people what
would happen to them if the Nightingale were not brought there that
evening they all followed him, because they had no wish to be trampled
under foot, and all were most curious to know about this wonderful
Nightingale which it seemed that everybody in the world knew about
except those who lived in the palace.
At last they met a poor little girl in the kitchen who said, “Why, I
know the Nightingale, and I have often heard her sing. Every night when
I go home to my Mother I am so tired that I sit and rest for a little
while in the wood, and then I hear the Nightingale sing, and it is so
wonderful that it always brings tears to my eyes.”
“Then,” said the First Lord, “little kitchen maid, if you can lead us to
this Nightingale you shall have leave to see the Emperor at dinner this
evening, for she is invited by His Majesty to come and sing to him.”
Then they all went into the garden where the Nightingale lived, and on
the way they heard the mooing of a cow.
“Oh, this must be the Nightingale! How wonderful that such a little bird
has such a tremendous voice!” said they.
“That is not a bird singing, that is a cow mooing,” said the little
kitchen maid. “We have a long way to go yet.”
A little farther on they heard some frogs croaking in the marsh. The
Chinese Chaplain was with them and he said, “How sublime! That is just
like the ringing of a church bell.”
“Why,” said the little kitchen maid, “those are frogs croaking, but very
soon we shall hear her.”
Just then the Nightingale began to sing.
“Hark!” cried the little girl. “Listen!” and pointing to a little bird
sitting up in the branches, said, “There she is.”
“It doesn’t seem possible that so very common looking a bird as that can
sing,” said the First Lord. “It must be that she has lost her brilliant
plumage because there are so many distinguished people here.”
Then the little kitchen maid called out, “Little Nightingale, our
gracious Emperor invites you to sing before him this evening!”
“It will give me great pleasure to do so,” said the Nightingale; and
then she began to sing so gloriously that they were all entranced. The
First Lord said, “I have never heard anything so beautiful before. His
Majesty will be delighted.”
The Nightingale, thinking the First Lord was the Emperor, said, “Shall I
sing again for your Majesty?”
“My dear little bird,” said the First Lord, “His Most Gracious Highness
has sent me to invite you to his palace this evening so that he may
listen to your charming song.”
“It’s much better out here in the forest,” replied the Nightingale, but
when she heard that the Emperor wished her to go to the palace, she
gladly offered to go with them.
At the palace everything was splendidly prepared. The many lights made
the porcelain walls and floors glitter, and the gorgeous tinkling
flowers helped to make the place look very beautiful. The people moving
back and forth caused the little golden bells to tinkle all the time. In
the center of the great hall, in which was the Emperor’s throne, was a
golden perch, put there for the Nightingale. The whole court was
present, and the little kitchen maid, who had shown the First Lord where
the bird could be found, was allowed to stand behind the door where she
could see and hear everything. All were dressed in their best clothes
and everyone looked toward the little bird, whom the Emperor requested
to commence singing.
And how the Nightingale did sing! Very soon the tears came into the
Emperor’s eyes and ran down his cheeks. At this the Nightingale sang
even more beautifully, and the heart of everyone was touched. The
Emperor was so delighted that he said she should wear the golden
necklace around her neck, but the Nightingale said that she had already
received a sufficient reward, for she had brought tears to the eyes of
the Emperor.
Even the servants, who were always most difficult to please, said that
they were greatly touched. This in itself proved how successful was the
Nightingale’s concert.
The Emperor requested her to stay at the court, and he gave her a large
golden cage and allowed her to go out twice every day. He provided her
with twelve servants, each of whom held a silken string which was
fastened to her leg, and you may be sure that she found but little
pleasure flying about, hampered in this way.
Very soon everyone in the city was talking about the wonderful bird, and
even the tradesmen’s children were all named after her, although none of
them could sing a note.
Some time after this the Emperor received a large parcel on which was
written “The Nightingale.”
“This must be another book about our famous bird,” said the Emperor.
But he was mistaken, for it was a mechanical toy, an artificial
Nightingale which looked something like a real bird but was covered with
jewels. When it was wound up it could sing the piece the real bird sang,
and moved its tail up and down. Around its neck was a collar on which
was written: “The Nightingale of the Emperor of Japan cannot be compared
with that of the Emperor of China.”
“How wonderful!” said everyone, and the man who had brought the
clock-work bird was given the title of “Bringer of the Imperial First
Nightingale.”
They sang together, but it did not sound well, for the real Nightingale
sang her own song, and the clock-work bird sang waltzes.
“It isn’t its fault!” said the bandmaster. “It keeps very good time and
is quite after my style.”
Then the artificial bird had to sing alone. It was very pleasant to
listen to, and it was also pretty to look at, as the jewels with which
it was covered sparkled so. It sang the same piece many times without
becoming tired, and then the Emperor thought that the real Nightingale
should sing again. But she was not to be found; the window was open and
without anybody seeing her go, she had flown away to her beloved forest.
The Emperor was very angry when it was discovered that the real bird had
gone away, and everyone agreed that it was a very ungracious thing for
her to have done. But they all said that the bird sent by the Japanese
ruler was the better of the two, and especially did the bandmaster
praise it. He said that one knew just what to expect from the artificial
bird, but the real one would sing the most unusual tunes. The bird they
had now could be opened, and the inside shown and explained, but if this
were done to the other it would die.
Everyone agreed that what the bandmaster said was correct, and the
Emperor commanded that all the people of the city should be allowed to
listen to the bird’s beautiful music on a certain day of the following
week.
So on the day appointed the bandmaster showed the jeweled bird to the
people, and after they had heard it sing everyone said that its music
was wonderful, that is all but the poor fisherman who had heard the real
one, and he said: “This one looks very pretty and is quite pleasant to
listen to, but its singing does not compare with that of the other.”
The Emperor banished the real bird from the kingdom, and the artificial
one was put on a golden perch by the side of his bed, and was given the
title of Imperial Nightsinger.
Several months passed away when one evening, as the Emperor lay in bed
listening to it, something inside snapped, and the music stopped. The
Royal Physician was summoned, but could do nothing. Then the Royal
Clockmaker was called, and after examining it very carefully he took out
the works, which he found to be almost worn out. It took him quite a
long time to put these back again, but at last he got it into something
like order, although he said it must not be used more than once a year,
and then only for a very short time.
Some time after this the Emperor became very ill, and as the physicians
said that he could not live for more than a few days, his successor was
chosen.
The poor Emperor lay all alone in his great bed, and as everyone
believed him to be dead the courtiers left him to pay their respects to
the new ruler. But he was only in a trance, and when he came out of this
he felt very lonely indeed, for there was no one to speak to him. He
turned his head and saw the artificial bird by his bedside. A great
longing for music came over him, and he cried: “Sing, golden bird!
Please sing!”
But there was no one to wind it up, and he was too weak to do this
himself. It was so quiet, and he felt so terribly lonely and sad that he
was sure he was going to die.
Suddenly there came through the open window the sound of such beautiful
music that new life came to the sick man. He raised his head, and saw,
sitting upon the bough of a large tree, the real bird whom he had
banished from his kingdom.
“What divine singing!” said the Emperor. “You have given me new life in
return for my unkindness in banishing you from my kingdom. What can I do
to reward you?”
“I need no more reward than the sight of the tears which came to your
eyes when I first sang to you,” said the Nightingale. “That is something
which I can never forget. But now you must sleep, and to-morrow, when
you will feel much stronger, I can promise you such music as you would
not believe possible.” The Emperor smiled happily, and fell at once into
a deep, calm sleep.
He was awakened in the morning by the sun, which was shining brightly.
So much better did he feel that he was able to get out of bed and walk
to the open window, and there his eyes beheld a wonderful sight.
Upon every bough of the tree in front of him were perched many birds,
and in the center of them sat the poor fisherman, who held to his lips a
reed instrument. On seeing the Emperor at the window he gave a sign, and
there came forth from the throats of the assembled birds such a glorious
burst of melody that tears of thankfulness flowed from the Emperor’s
eyes; he could scarcely believe that such wonderful music was possible.
No longer was he a sick man. The bird chorus had brought back to him the
health and strength which all the doctors, with their medicines, had not
been able to do. In his gratitude to the birds he gave them the tree for
their very own, and the poor fisherman he appointed bandmaster-in-chief.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE FAITHFUL RAJPOOT
One morning a soldier presented himself at King Sudraka’s palace gate,
and asked the porter to secure an audience for him.
Having gained admittance to the King’s presence, he bowed and said:
“Your Highness, I am Vira-vara, a Rajpoot, who seeks employment.”
“What pay do you ask?” inquired the King.
“Fifty pieces of gold a day,” replied the soldier.
“And what will you do in return for so much money?” said the King.
“I have two strong arms, and this sabre, which shall be devoted to your
Majesty’s service,” answered the Rajpoot.
“You ask too much,” said the King, “and I am afraid I cannot retain you,
but I will confer with my Ministers about you.”
Then the King spoke to his Ministers, who agreed that the stipend asked
was very large, but advised that he be given four days’ pay, and to see
what the soldier should do to earn it. So this was done.
The King watched very closely to see how Vira-vara spent his pay, and
found that half of it went towards the support of the Temple, a fourth
was devoted to relieving the poor, and the remaining fourth only did he
reserve for his own sustenance. This division he made at the beginning
of each day, and then he would stand on guard with his sabre at the
palace gate, from whence he would retire only upon receiving the royal
permission.
One very, very dark night King Sudraka thought he heard the sound of
someone outside the palace gate sobbing as though stricken with deepest
grief. He called for his guard, and Vira-vara at once appeared.
“Did you hear a sound of weeping?” asked the King.
“I thought I did, your Majesty,” replied the Rajpoot.
“Then go and find out the cause,” said the King.
The soldier at once departed on his mission, but as soon as he had gone
the King repented him of sending him out alone into a night so dark that
a hole might be pierced in it with a needle, so he took his scimitar,
and followed his guard beyond the city gates.
Vira-vara had not gone far when he almost stumbled over a woman who was
weeping bitterly. By the dim light of a torch, which he had hurriedly
picked up after leaving the King’s presence, he could see that she was a
very beautiful and splendidly dressed lady.
“Why do you thus lament?” asked he.
“I am the Fortune of the King Sudraka,” answered she. “For a long while
I lived happily in the shadow of his arm, but on the third day he will
die, and therefore do I shed these bitter tears.”
“Can anything be done, dear lady, that will prolong your stay here?”
asked the Rajpoot.
“Only one thing,” replied the Spirit, “but that I do not like to tell
you.”
“Tell me what it is, and I swear to do it, out of loyalty to my kind
Master,” said the faithful guard.
“Then,” said the Spirit Lady, “if you will cut off the head of your
firstborn son, who has on his body the marks of greatness, and offer his
head as a sacrifice to the all-helpful Goddess Durga, then shall I
continue to be the guardian angel of the Rajah, even though he should
live another hundred years.”
Having said this, she disappeared, and Vira-vara went to his own house
and awoke his wife and son.
These two listened attentively while he repeated to them the words of
the vision and then the son said: “I feel honored in that I may be the
means of saving the King’s life; kill me quickly, for it is well that I
can give my life to such a good cause.”
To this the Mother agreed, saying, “It is well, and worthy of our blood;
how else should we deserve the King’s pay?”
Then they went to the temple of the Goddess Durga, and having paid their
devotions and asked the favor of the deity on behalf of the King,
Vira-vara struck off the head of his son, and laid it as an offering
upon the shrine.
But the task had been too great for the Rajpoot. “Life without my boy is
something I cannot bear to think of,” said he; “my service to the King
is now ended.” Thereupon he plunged his sword into his own breast, and
fell dead.
The sight of her husband and son, both lying dead at her feet, was too
much for the grief-stricken mother, so she seized the blood-stained
weapon, and with it slew herself.
Now all this was seen and heard by King Sudraka, who was just entering
the gate of the temple, but so quickly did it happen, that he was unable
to stop it. He hastened to where the bodies lay, and exclaimed: “Woe is
me!”
Kings may come, and kings may go;
What was I to bring these low?
Souls so noble, slain for me,
Were not, and will never be!
Sorrowful indeed was he as he gazed upon the remains of his three
faithful subjects. “Having lost these,” he said, “what do I care for
myself or my kingdom.” Then he drew his scimitar, intending to take his
own life.
But at that moment there appeared to him the Goddess, who is mistress of
all men’s fortunes. She stayed his uplifted hand, and said:
“Son, forbear, do not this rash deed; think of your kingdom.”
The Rajah prostrated himself before her, and cried: “O Goddess! I am
finished with life and wealth and country! Have pity on me, and let my
death restore these faithful ones to life; I must follow in their path.”
“Your affection finds favor in my sight, and is pleasing to me, Son,”
said the Goddess. “As a reward the Rajpoot, his wife and son shall be
restored to life, and many years shall they live in your service.”
With this assurance the King returned to his palace, and very soon he
saw Vira-vara return and take up his station at the palace gate.
The Rajah sent for him and asked if he had discovered the cause of the
weeping.
Now:
He is brave whose tongue is silent on the trophies of his sword;
He is great whose quiet bearing marks his greatness well assured.
So the Rajpoot merely said: “It was a woman weeping, your Highness, and
she disappeared on my approach.”
The next day the King summoned his ministers and told them all that had
happened, and he made the faithful guard his Grand Vizir.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE TALE OF TWO MERCHANTS OF EGYPT AND BAGDAD
Once upon a time there were two wealthy merchants, one of whom lived in
Egypt and the other in Bagdad. Although they had never yet seen one
another they had transacted much business together by means of
messengers, who passed frequently between them. Both were men of honor
and good repute, and each came to think of the other as a real friend.
If anything unusual should happen in the land of Egypt, the merchant of
that country would send word of it to the other in Bagdad, who, in like
manner, would in turn send news of events in his own land. So, without
either of them having seen the other, much kindness was shown on both
sides.
One night, as the merchant of Bagdad lay upon his bed, he said to
himself: “My correspondent in Egypt has shown much friendship toward me,
and as I have never seen him I will pay him a visit.” So he hired a ship
and went to Egypt, where his friend met him, and received him with great
pleasure.
At the house of the Egyptian the merchant of Bagdad met a girl of
wondrous beauty, and so smitten was he with her charms that he fell sick
and pined away.
“My friend,” said the other, “What is the matter with you that you
neither eat nor drink?”
“There is a woman of your household upon whom my heart has fixed
itself,” returned his comrade, “and unless I may marry her, I shall
die.” Thereupon the Egyptian summoned all the household before him, save
only the girl in question, but the man from Bagdad said: “I care little
for any of these; she whom I love is not among them.” Then this girl was
brought before him, and he said that to her alone must he owe his life.
“My friend,” said the other, “I brought up this girl with the intention
of making her my wife, and through her I shall obtain much wealth. But,
so great is my friendship for you that I give her to you with all the
riches which would have fallen to my share.”
So the sick merchant, overjoyed at his good fortune, received both the
lady and her wealth, and returned with her to Bagdad.
After a while ill-fortune came to the merchant of Egypt, and he was
without home or money. Then said he: “I will go to my friend of Bagdad,
from whom I am sure to receive aid.”
So he went to Bagdad, and as he reached that city during the night, he
did not like to awaken his friend, thinking that, poorly dressed,
desolate and destitute as he was, he might not know him, so he decided
to wait until the next day. Happening to look toward a burial-ground, he
saw that the doors of the mosque there were open, so here he determined
to remain for the night.
He had not been in the mosque long before two men entered. They were
quarrelling, and soon began to fight, and in the end one killed the
other, and fled.
The alarm was spread, and went through the whole city. “Where is the
murderer?” was the general cry.
The thought came to the Egyptian that to die would bring an end to his
troubles, and so he said to the searchers: “I am he.” Then they laid
hands on him, and led him away to prison. In the morning he was taken
before the judge, who sentenced him to death.
Now among those who went to witness the execution was the merchant whom
he had befriended, and who knew him at once. He was horrified at the sad
plight of his friend.
“What!” cried he, “Shall he be done to death while I live?” Then he
raised his voice and shouted: “Hold! Do not destroy an innocent man. I
am the murderer, and not he.”
He was at once arrested, and both were taken to the place of execution.
The sentence was about to be carried out when there came another
interruption, this time from the real murderer, who happened to be
present.
Seeing these two men about to die for a crime which he had committed, he
was filled with remorse. He said to himself: “I will not permit innocent
blood to be shed; if I do, the vengeance of God will sooner or later
overtake me, and it is better to suffer a short pain in this world than
to be in everlasting torment in the next.”
So he cried out, “Slay not the guiltless, for neither of these men has
done murder. I only am the criminal; let them go.”
The people were filled with amazement, and the three men were at once
taken to the judge, who was much astonished at this unusual occurrence.
The matter was explained to him, and then, addressing the Egyptian, he
said:
“Friend, why did you confess yourself the murderer?”
“My lord,” answered he, “I will tell you the reason. In my own land I
was, until recently, a man of wealth, and had all that riches could buy,
but through no fault of mine I lost all this, and am now destitute. I
was ashamed at my condition, and saw, in this confession, an end to my
misfortunes. I am willing to die, and beseech you to order my death.”
The judge then turned to the merchant of Bagdad and said: “And you, my
friend; why did you acknowledge yourself to be the murderer?”
The merchant replied: “My lord, this man is my benefactor. I have
enjoyed his hospitality, and while at his home he bestowed upon me a
wife, whom he had educated for his own, and who possessed great wealth.
When, therefore, I saw my friend being led to his death, I proclaimed
myself the murderer, hoping thus to take his place. For his love I would
willingly perish.”
It was now the turn of the third man, who was the real criminal. The
judge asked him what he had to say for himself, and he answered:
“When I confessed, I told the truth. The burden which would have been
mine had I allowed these two innocent men to suffer death for a crime
that was my own would have been too heavy for me to bear, and I
preferred to pay the penalty.”
For some time the judge considered the stories of the three men, then he
said to the last one to speak:
“As you have declared the truth and thereby saved the lives of two
innocent men, I pardon you. Study to amend your future life, and go in
peace.”
The decision of the judge was praised by all the people, who were quick
to acknowledge the generosity of the merchant who would have given his
life to save his friend, and the honorable manner in which the guilty
person had rescued from death the two who were innocent.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PUNCHKIN
Once upon a time there was a Rajah who had seven daughters. They were
all good, beautiful and clever girls, but especially so was the
youngest, whose name was Balna. The Rajah’s wife died when they were
very little children, so these seven Princesses grew up without having a
loving mother to watch over and care for them.
As soon as they were old enough, the Rajah’s daughters took turns every
day to cook their father’s dinner, while he was busily engaged with his
ministers in directing the affairs of his country.
About this time the Prime Minister died, leaving a widow and one
daughter, and every day, when the Princesses were getting the Rajah’s
dinner ready, the widow and her daughter would come and beg for some
fire from the hearth. Balna would say to her sisters: “Let us send that
woman away; why does she want our fire, when she has her own house? If
we continue to allow her to come here, we shall some day be sorry for
it.”
But the other sisters rebuked her, and so the widow continued to take
some fire from the hearth, but while no one was looking, she would throw
some mud into the dishes which were being prepared for the Rajah’s
dinner.
One of the reasons that the daughters always prepared the food for their
father was that there should be no danger of his being poisoned by his
enemies, so when he found the mud mixed with his dinner he thought it
was because they were careless; he knew they would not do such a thing
on purpose. He loved them all very much, and hadn’t the heart to reprove
them, even though his meals were spoiled for several days.
This happened so often that it puzzled him, and so he made up his mind
one day to hide, and watch his daughters cooking; so, going into the
room next to the kitchen, he saw everything through a hole in the wall.
His daughters carefully washed the rice and prepared the curry, and when
these were ready, they put each dish on the fire. Very soon the widow
came to the door, and begged for a few sticks from the fire with which
to cook her own dinner. Balna was angry with her, as usual, and said:
“Why don’t you keep fuel in your own house, instead of coming here every
day and taking ours? Sisters, don’t give her any more wood; let her use
her own.”
But the others said: “The poor woman is doing us no harm, so let her
take a little wood and fire.” Balna replied, “Perhaps some day she will
do us harm, and then we shall all be sorry for it.”
Then the Rajah saw the Prime Minister’s widow go to the hearth, and as
she took the wood, throw some mud into each of the dishes.
This made him very angry, and he ordered that the woman be brought
before him.
This was done, but the widow spoke to him so very cleverly, saying that
she had done this thing only that she might gain an audience with him,
and so cunningly did she speak that she actually pleased him well with
her words, and instead of punishing her, the Rajah married her; so she
and her daughter came to the palace to live.
The new Ranee hated the seven poor Princesses, and wanted to get rid of
them, so that her daughter might have all their riches. She was very
unkind to them, and made them as miserable as she could, giving them
only bread to eat and water to drink, and very little of either. This
was very hard for the seven poor Princesses, who had always been used to
the best of everything, and each day they would sit by their dead
mother’s tomb, and say:
“Oh, mother, cannot you see how unhappy and miserable your poor children
are, and how our cruel stepmother is starving us?”
One day, while they were thus engaged, a beautiful pomelo tree grew up
out of the grave, covered with fresh ripe pomelos, and the children
certainly enjoyed the delicious fruit. And each day after this, instead
of eating the poor food their stepmother provided for them, they would
go to their mother’s grave and eat the pomelos which grew there on the
tree.
The stepmother was astonished that the seven girls should eat nothing
and yet be well, so she told her daughter to watch them.
Next day the Prime Minister’s daughter followed them, and saw the
Princesses gather and eat the pomelos.
Balna saw the girl watching them, and said to her sisters: “Let us drive
that girl away, or else she will tell her mother all about it, and then
we shall be worse off than ever.”
But they said: “Do not be unkind, Balna. The girl would never be so
cruel as to tell her mother. Let us instead ask her to come and have
some of the fruit.” So they called to her, and gave her some of the
pomelos.
As soon as she could, however, she left the Princesses, and went to her
mother, and told her all about the pomelo tree. She said she had eaten
some, and they were the nicest she had ever tasted.
This made the cruel Ranee very angry, and the next day she told the
Rajah that she had a very bad headache, and would have to stay in bed.
The Rajah was much upset, and asked what he could do for her.
She replied that there was only one thing that would cure her, and that
was to boil a fine pomelo tree, root and branch, that grew on his dead
wife’s grave, and to put some of the water in which it had been boiled
on her forehead. So the Raja did as the Ranee desired, and then she
declared that she was quite well.
Next day the Princesses went as usual to their mother’s grave, and when
they found that the pomelo tree had disappeared, they wept bitterly.
As they sat there crying they saw by the tomb a small tank filled with a
rich cream-like substance, which hardened into a thick white cake. They
ate some of this, and liked it. Next day the same thing happened, and so
it went on for many days.
The cruel stepmother said to her daughter: “I don’t understand this; I
have had the pomelo tree destroyed, and yet the Princesses are as well
as ever, although they never eat the dinner I give them. You must watch
them again.”
Next day, while the Princesses were eating the cream-cake, along came
their stepmother’s daughter. Balna saw her first, and said: “Here comes
that girl again. Let us sit around the edge of the tank and not allow
her to see it, for if we give her some of the cake she will go and tell
her mother, and that will be very unfortunate for us.”
But instead of following her advice the other sisters gave the girl some
of the cake, and she went straight home and told her mother all about
it.
This made the Ranee more angry than before, and she sent her servants to
pull down the tomb and fill the little tank with the ruins. The next day
she pretended to be very ill indeed, and told the rajah that she was at
the point of death.
This grieved him greatly, and he asked her if there were any remedy he
could get for her. She replied that only one thing could save her life,
but this she knew he would not do. He said that whatever it was, he
would do it.
Then she told him that if he would save her life, he must kill his seven
daughters, and put some of their blood on her forehead and on the palms
of her hands; that their death would be her life.
This made the Rajah very sad, but he had promised, and feared to break
his word, so with a heavy heart he went to seek his daughters, whom he
found crying by the ruins of their mother’s grave.
Knowing that he could not kill them he spoke kindly to them, and told
them to come out into the jungle with him. There he made a fire, and
cooked some rice, which they ate.
It was a hot afternoon and all the Princesses fell asleep, and then the
Rajah stole away and left them, saying to himself, “It is better that my
poor daughters die here rather than be killed by their stepmother.”
Then he shot a deer, and returning home, put some of its blood on the
forehead and hands of the Ranee, who thought that he had really killed
his daughters, and said she felt quite well.
When the seven Princesses awoke and found themselves all alone in the
thick jungle, they were frightened, and called out as loud as they
could, hoping to make their father hear; but he was too far away by that
time.
It so happened that this very day the seven young sons of a neighboring
Rajah chanced to be hunting in the same jungle, and as they were
returning home, after the day’s sport was over, the youngest Prince said
to his brothers: “Stop, I think I hear someone crying and calling out.
Let us go in the direction of the sound, and find out what it is.”
So the seven Princes rode through the wood until they came to the place
where the seven Princesses sat crying and wringing their hands. At the
sight of them the young Princes were very much astonished, and still
more so on learning their story. They then decided that each should take
one of the unfortunate young ladies home with him and marry her.
The eldest Prince took the eldest Princess home with him and married
her.
The second took the second; the third took the third; the fourth took
the fourth; the fifth took the fifth; the sixth took the sixth, and the
seventh, the handsomest of all the Princes, took the beautiful and
clever Balna.
There was great rejoicing throughout the kingdom when the seven young
Princes married the seven beautiful Princesses.
About a year later Balna had a little son, and his uncles and aunts were
so fond of him that he was in great danger of being spoiled. None of the
other Princesses had any children, so Balna’s son was acknowledged their
heir by all of them.
They lived very happily for some time, when one day Balna’s husband
decided to go out hunting, and away he went. They waited a long time for
his return, but he never came back.
His six brothers went in search of him, but none of them returned. And
the seven Princesses grieved greatly, for they feared that their kind
husbands had been killed.
One day, not long after this, as Balna was rocking her baby’s cradle,
and whilst her sisters were working in the room below, there came to the
palace door a man in a long black cloak, who said he was a Fakir, and
had come to beg. The servants would not let him enter the palace, saying
that the Rajah’s sons had all gone away, and they feared that they were
dead, and their widows must not be interrupted by his begging. But he
said, “I am a holy man and you must let me in.” Then the stupid servants
let him walk through the palace; they did not know that he was no Fakir,
but a wicked Magician named Punchkin.
He wandered through the palace, looking at the beautiful things there,
and at length reached the room where Balna sat singing to her little
boy. The Magician thought her more beautiful than all the other
beautiful things he had seen, and he asked her to go home with him and
to marry him. But she said: “I fear my husband is dead, but my little
boy is still very young; I will stay here and teach him to grow up to be
a clever man, and when he is old enough he shall go out into the world
and seek news of his father. Heaven forbid that I should ever leave him,
or marry you.”
This made the Magician very angry, so he turned her into a little black
dog, and led her away, saying, “Since you will not come with me of your
own free will, I will make you.” So the poor Princess was dragged away,
unable to escape or to let her sisters know what had become of her.
As Punchkin went through the palace gate the servants asked him where he
got that pretty little dog, and he replied that one of the Princesses
had given it to him, so they allowed him to depart.
Very soon the six elder Princesses heard their nephew cry, and when they
went upstairs were much surprised to find him all alone, and Balna
nowhere to be seen. They questioned the servants, and when they heard of
the Fakir and the little black dog they guessed what had happened and
sent in every direction, but neither the Fakir nor the dog was to be
found. They could do nothing, and gave up all hopes of ever seeing their
kind husbands and their sister and her husband again, and so devoted
themselves to the care and teaching of their little nephew.
Time went on, and Balna’s son was fourteen years old. Then his aunts
told him the whole story. No sooner had he heard this than he was seized
with a great desire to go in search of his father and mother and uncles,
and if he could find them alive to bring them home again. On learning
his determination his aunts were much alarmed, saying, “We have lost our
husbands and our sister and her husband and you are now our only hope;
if you go away, what shall we do?” But he replied, “Do not be
discouraged; I will soon return, and if it is possible will bring my
mother and father and uncles with me.” So he set out on his travels, but
for several months could learn nothing that would help him in his
search.
After journeying many hundreds of weary miles, and having become almost
hopeless of hearing anything further of his parents and uncles, he
reached a country that was full of rocks and stones and trees, and there
he saw a large palace with a high tower, near which was a Malee’s little
house.
As he was looking about the Malee’s wife saw him, and ran out of the
house and said: “My dear boy, who are you that dare venture to this
dangerous place?”
He answered, “I am a Rajah’s son, and I am in search of my father and
mother and my uncles, whom a wicked enchanter bewitched.”
Then said the Malee’s wife: “This country and this palace belong to a
great Magician, who is all-powerful, and if anyone displeases him he
turns them into stones and trees. All the rocks and trees you see here
were once living people, and the enchanter turned them into what they
now are. Some time ago a Rajah’s son came here, and soon afterwards came
his six brothers, and all of them were turned into stones and trees; and
these are not the only unfortunate ones, for up in that tower lives a
beautiful Princess whom the Magician has kept prisoner there for twelve
years, because she hates him and will not marry him.”
The young Prince said to himself, “At last I have found what I seek;
these must be my parents and uncles.” So he told his story to the
Malee’s wife, and begged her to help him. This she agreed to do, and
advised him to disguise himself, lest the Magician should see him and
turn him into stone. So she dressed him up in a saree, and pretended
that he was her daughter.
One day, not long after this, as the Magician was walking in his garden
he saw a little girl (as he thought) playing about, and asked her who
she was. She told him she was the Malee’s daughter, and the Magician
said, “You are a very pretty little girl, and to-morrow you shall take a
present of flowers from me to the beautiful lady who lives in the
tower.”
This delighted the young Prince, who went immediately to inform the
Malee’s wife.
Now it happened that when Balna was married her husband had given her a
small gold ring on which her name was engraved, and she had put it on
her little son’s finger when he was a baby, and later on it was
enlarged, so that he was still able to wear it. The Malee’s wife advised
him to fasten this ring to the bouquet he was to present to his mother,
and she would surely recognize it.
This the young Prince did the next day when he took the flowers to the
imprisoned Princess. Balna knew the ring at once, and believed the story
her son told her of his long search. She told him how the Magician had
kept her shut up in the tower for twelve long years because she refused
to marry him, and had kept her so closely guarded that there was no hope
of release. She begged him to advise her what to do, and at the same
time refused to allow him to endanger his own life by attempting to
rescue her.
Balna’s son was a very clever boy, and he said: “Dear mother, have no
fear; the first thing to do is to find out how far the Magician’s power
extends, in order that we may be able to free my father and uncles. You
have been angry with him for twelve long years, now speak kindly to him.
Say that you have given up all hopes of seeing your husband again, and
that you are willing to marry him. Then try to find out where his power
lies, and if it is possible to put him to death.”
So the next day Balna sent for Punchkin, and spoke to him as her son had
suggested. The Magician was overwhelmed with joy at this change, and
asked that the wedding take place as soon as possible.
But she said that before she married him she must learn to know him
better, they having been enemies for so long, and a closer acquaintance
with him was necessary in order to strengthen their friendship. “And do
tell me,” she said, “if you are quite immortal. Can death never come to
you?”
“Why do you ask?” said he.
“Because,” she replied, “if I am to be your wife, I want to know all
about you, so that if any calamity threatens you, I may help to
overcome, or perhaps avert it.”
“Certainly I am not as others,” said he. “Far, far away, thousands of
miles from here, is a desolate country covered with heavy jungles, in
the midst of which grows a circle of palm trees, in the center of which
stand six jugs full of water, piled one above the other, and below the
sixth is a cage which contains a little green parrot. On this parrot my
life depends, for if this parrot is killed I must die. But it is
impossible that the parrot should come to any harm, both because of the
inaccessibility of the country, and because I have many thousands of
genii surrounding the palm trees, who kill anyone attempting to approach
the place.”
All this Balna told her son, at the same time imploring him to make no
attempt to kill the parrot.
But the young Prince replied: “Dear Mother, if I do not find that
parrot, neither you nor my uncles can be liberated. Do not fear; I shall
return in good season. In the meantime, keep the Magician in good humor,
and put off the marriage with him in any way you can. Before he finds
out the reason for the delay I will return.” With this he went away.