The following morning the Caliph Chasid had scarcely finished his
breakfast, when the grand vizier appeared in order to accompany his
master upon his morning walk. The Caliph tucked the snuff-box
containing the magic powder into his sash, and having commanded his
attendants to remain behind, he and his vizier set out alone upon
their way.
First they passed through the royal gardens, but looked in vain for
some living creature so that they might test the power of the powder.
Then the vizier suggested they should visit a pond where he had
frequently seen a number of storks disporting themselves, their
dignified ways and hoarse cries having attracted his attention.
[Illustration: _Immediately their legs began to shrink._
(P. 14.)]
The Caliph approved of his suggestion and accordingly they went to the
pond. On their approach they noticed a stork walking gravely to and
fro, searching for frogs, and now and again uttering loud cries; at
the same time they saw, above them in the air, a second stork floating
gracefully towards them.
“I wager my beard, Sire,” said the vizier, “these two long-legs will
hold an amusing conversation together. What do you say to our
transforming ourselves into storks?”
“The very thing,” answered the Caliph, “but first let us be very
careful that we know the way to become men again. Let me see--we must
bow three times towards the East, and say ‘Mutabor,’ and immediately I
shall be the Caliph, and you my vizier. But for heaven’s sake do not
laugh, otherwise all will be lost.”
As the Caliph spoke he saw the second stork slowly drop to earth, so
he quickly drew his snuff-box from his girdle, took a pinch, offered
the box to his vizier, who likewise snuffed the powder, whilst the
pair of them cried simultaneously, ‘Mutabor!’
Immediately their legs began to shrink and to become thin and red,
their beautiful yellow slippers turned into unshapely storks’ feet,
their arms became wings, their necks shot up from between their
shoulders to the length of an ell at least, their beards disappeared,
and their bodies were covered with soft white feathers.
“You have a pretty beak, my lord vizier,” said the Caliph, as he
stared in astonishment at his companion. “By the beard of the prophet,
I have never seen such a sight in my life.”
“Many thanks,” replied the vizier bowing. “If I may be permitted to
say so, you are almost better looking as a stork than a Caliph. But
come, let us join our companions and find out if we really can
understand stork language.”
In the meantime the other stork, which had just alighted, was pluming
its feathers as it approached the first stork, so the two newly-made
birds hastened to come up to them, and to their astonishment
overheard the following extraordinary conversation.
“Good-morning, Mrs. Long-legs, how early you are up.”
“Ah, my dear Clapperbill! I just came out to get a snack; anything I
can offer you, my dear, in the shape of a bit of lizard or a tit-bit
of frog?”
“Thanks all the same, but I’ve really no appetite--I came here for
quite a different reason--I have to dance to-day before my father’s
guests, and I came here to practise a little by myself.”
With these words the young stork began to twist and turn about in the
most ridiculous attitudes imaginable. The Caliph and Mansor stared at
her in surprise, but when she stood on one foot, stretched out her
wings and struck an attitude of supposed grace, she looked so absurd
that they could no longer contain themselves, but burst out into
hearty and prolonged laughter. It was some time before they could
control themselves, but at length the Caliph stopped laughing, and
said: “Oh! what a joke that was--I would not have missed it for any
money. What a pity our laughter frightened the silly things away; they
might otherwise have sung to us also.”
But suddenly the vizier remembered that they had been forbidden to
laugh during the time of their transformation. He at once reminded the
Caliph of this. “Mecca and Medina,” cried he, “it would be a bad joke
indeed if we had to remain storks for the rest of our lives. See if
you can remember the magic word, for upon my soul, I seem to have
forgotten it.”
“We must bow three times towards the east and say ‘Mu-Mu-Mu--’”
No further could they get. They bowed and bowed until their beaks
touched the ground, but try as they would they could _not_ remember
the magic word, and the unfortunate Caliph and his vizier were doomed
to remain two storks.