STORIES IN FULL.
THE following three stories have for so long formed a part of my
repertory that I have been requested to include them in my book, and,
in order to associate myself more completely with them, I am presenting
a translation of my own from the original Danish version.
THE NIGHTINGALE.
You must know that in China the Emperor is a Chinaman, and all those
around him are also Chinamen. It is many years since all this happened,
and for that very reason it is worth hearing, before it is forgotten.
There was no palace in the world more beautiful than the Emperor's;
it was very costly, all of fine porcelain, but it was so delicate and
brittle, that it was very difficult to touch, and you had to be very
careful in doing so. The most wonderful flowers could be seen in the
garden, and silver tinkling bells were tied on to the most beautiful
of these, for fear people should pass by without noticing them. How
well everything had been thought out in the Emperor's garden--which was
so big, that even the gardener himself did not know how big. If you
walked on and on you came to the most beautiful wood, with tall trees
and deep lakes. This wood stretched right down to the sea, which was
blue and deep; great ships could pass underneath the branches, and in
these branches a nightingale had made its home, and its singing was so
entrancing that the poor fisherman, though he had so many other things
to do, would lie still and listen when he was out at night drawing in
his nets.
“Heavens! how lovely that is!” he said: but then he was forced to think
about his own affairs, and the nightingale was forgotten; but the next
day, when it sang again, the fisherman said the same thing: “Heavens!
how lovely that is!”
Travellers from all the countries of the world came to the Emperor's
town, and expressed their admiration for the palace and the garden, but
when they heard the nightingale, they all said in one breath: “That is
the best of all!”
Now, when these travellers came home, they told of what they had seen.
The scholars wrote many books about the town, the palace and the
garden, but nobody left the nightingale out: it was always spoken of as
the most wonderful of all they had seen, and those who had the gift of
the Poet wrote the most delightful poems all about the nightingale in
the wood near the deep lake.
The books went round the world, and in course of time some of them
reached the Emperor. He sat in his golden chair, and read and read,
nodding his head every minute; for it pleased him to read the beautiful
descriptions of the town, the palace and the garden; and then he found
in the book the following words: “But the Nightingale is the best of
all.”
“What is this?” said the Emperor. “The nightingale! I know nothing
whatever about it. To think of there being such a bird in my
Kingdom--nay, in my very garden--and I have never heard it! And one has
to learn of such a thing for the first time from a book!”
Then he summoned his Lord-in-Waiting, who was such a grand creature
that if any one inferior in rank ventured to speak to him, or ask him
about anything, he merely uttered the sound “P,” which meant nothing
whatever.
“There is said to be a most wonderful bird, called the Nightingale,”
said the Emperor; “they say it is the best thing in my great Kingdom.
Why have I been told nothing about it?”
“I have never heard it mentioned before,” said the Lord-in-Waiting. “It
has certainly never been presented at court.”
“It is my good pleasure that it shall appear here to-night and sing
before me!” said the Emperor. “The whole world knows what is mine, and
I myself do not know it.”
“I have never heard it mentioned before,” said the Lord-in-Waiting. “I
will seek it, and I shall find it.”
But where was it to be found? The Lord-in-Waiting ran up and down all
the stairs, through the halls and the passages, but not one of all
those whom he met had ever heard a word about the Nightingale. The
Lord-in-Waiting ran back to the Emperor and told him that it must
certainly be a fable invented by writers of books.
“Your Majesty must not believe all that is written in books. It is pure
invention, besides something which is called the Black Art.”
“But,” said the Emperor, “the book in which I read this was sent to
me by His Majesty the Emperor of Japan, and therefore this cannot be
a falsehood. I insist on hearing the Nightingale: it must appear this
evening. It has my gracious favour, and if it fails to appear, the
court shall be trampled upon after the court has supped.”
“Tsing-pe!” said the Lord-in-Waiting, and again he ran up and down all
the stairs, through all the halls and passages, and half the court ran
with him, for they had no wish to be trampled upon. And many questions
were asked about the wonderful Nightingale of whom all had heard except
those who lived at court.
At last, they met a poor little girl in the kitchen. She said:
“Heavens! The Nightingale! I know it well! Yes, how it can sing! Every
evening I have permission to take the broken pieces from the table
to my poor sick mother who lives near the seashore, and on my way
back, when I feel tired and rest a while in the wood, then I hear the
Nightingale sing, and my eyes are filled with tears: it is just as if
my mother kissed me.”
“Little kitchen-girl,” said the Lord-in-Waiting, “I will get a
permanent position for you in the Court Kitchen and permission to see
the Emperor dine, if you can lead us to the Nightingale; for it has
received orders to appear at Court to-night.”
So they started off all together for the wood where the bird was wont
to sing: half the court went too. They were going along at a good pace
when suddenly they heard a cow lowing.
“Oh,” said a court-page. “There you have it. That is a wonderful power
for so small a creature! I have certainly heard it before.”
“No, those are the cows lowing,” said the little kitchen girl. “We are
a long way from the place yet.”
And then the frogs began to croak in the pond.
“Beautiful,” said the Court Preacher. “Now, I hear it--it is just like
little church bells.”
“No, those are the frogs,” said the little Kitchen maid. “But now I
think that we shall soon hear it.”
And then the Nightingale began to sing.
“There it is,” said the little girl. “Listen, listen--there it sits.”
And she pointed to a little grey bird in the branches.
“Is it possible!” said the Lord-in-Waiting. “I had never supposed it
would look like that. How very plain it looks! It has certainly lost
its colour from seeing so many grand folk around it.”
“Little Nightingale,” called out the little Kitchen girl, “our gracious
Emperor would be so glad if you would sing for him.”
“With the greatest pleasure,” said the Nightingale. It sang, and it was
a joy to hear it.
“Just like little glass bells,” said the Lord-in-Waiting; “and just
look at the little throat, how active it is! It is astonishing to think
we have never heard it before! It will have a real _success_ at Court.”
“Shall I sing for the Emperor again?” said the Nightingale, who thought
that the Emperor was there in person.
“Mine excellent little Nightingale,” said the Lord-in-Waiting, “I have
the great pleasure of bidding you to a Court-Festival this night, when
you will enchant His Imperial Majesty with your delightful warbling.”
“My voice sounds better among the green trees,” said the Nightingale.
But it came willingly when it knew that the Emperor wished it.
There was a great deal of furbishing up at the Palace. The walls and
ceiling, which were of porcelain, shone with a light of a thousand
golden lamps. The most beautiful flowers of the tinkling kind were
placed in the passages. There was running to and fro, and a thorough
draught. But that is just what made the bells ring: one could not
oneself. In the middle of the large hall where the Emperor sat, a
golden rod had been set up on which the Nightingale was to perch. The
whole Court was present, and the little Kitchen-maid was allowed to
stand behind the door, for she had now the actual title of a Court
Kitchen Maid. All were there in their smartest clothes, and they all
looked towards the little grey bird to which the Emperor nodded.
And the Nightingale sang so delightfully that tears sprang into the
Emperor's eyes and rolled down his cheeks; and then the Nightingale
sang even more beautifully. The song went straight to the heart, and
the Emperor was so delighted that he declared that the Nightingale
should have his golden slipper to hang round its neck. But the
Nightingale declined. It had already had its reward.
“I have seen tears in the Emperor's eyes. That to me is the richest
tribute. An Emperor's tears have a wonderful power. God knows my reward
is great enough,” and again its sweet, glorious voice was heard.
“That is the most delightful coquetting I have ever known,” said the
ladies sitting round, and they took water into their mouths, in order
to gurgle when anyone spoke to them, and they really thought they were
like the Nightingale. Even the footmen and the chambermaids sent word
that they, too, were satisfied, and that means a great deal, for these
are the people whom it is most difficult to please. There was no doubt
as to the Nightingale's success. It was sure to stay at Court, and
have its own cage, with liberty to go out twice in the daytime, and
once at night. Twelve servants went out with it, and each held a silk
ribbon which was tied to the bird's leg, and they held it very tightly.
There was not much pleasure in going out under those conditions. The
whole town was talking of the wonderful bird, and when two people met,
one said: “Nightin-” and the other said “gale,” and they sighed and
understood one another. Eleven cheese-mongers' children were called
after the bird, though none of them had a note in his voice. One day
a large parcel came for the Emperor. Outside was written the word:
“Nightingale.”
“Here we have a new book about our wonderful bird,” said the Emperor.
But it was not a book; it was a little work of art which lay in a
box--an artificial Nightingale, which was supposed to look like the
real one, but it was set in diamonds, rubies and sapphires. As soon as
you wound it up, it could sing one of the pieces which the real bird
sang, and its tail moved up and down and glittered with silver and
gold. Round its neck was a ribbon on which was written: “The Emperor of
Japan's Nightingale is miserable compared with the Emperor of China's.”
“That is delightful,” they all said, and on the messenger who had
brought the artificial bird they bestowed the title of “Imperial
Nightingale-Bringer-in-Chief.”
“Let them sing together, and _what_ a duet that will be!”
And so they had to sing, but the thing would not work, because the
real Nightingale could only sing in its own way, and the artificial
Nightingale could only play by clock-work.
“That is not its fault,” said the Band Master. “Time is its strong
point, and it has quite my method.”
Then the artificial Nightingale had to sing alone. It had just as much
success as the real bird, and then it was so much handsomer to look at:
it glittered like bracelets and breast-pins. It sang the same tune
three and thirty times, and it was still not tired: the people would
willingly have listened to the whole performance over again from the
start. But the Emperor suggested that the real Nightingale should sing
for a while. But where was it? Nobody had noticed that it had flown out
of the open window back to its green woods.
“But what is the meaning of all this?” said the Emperor. All the
courtiers upbraided the Nightingale and said that it was a most
ungrateful creature.
“We have the better of the two,” they said, and the artificial
Nightingale had to sing again, and this was the thirty-fourth time
they heard the same tune. But they did not know it properly even then,
because it was so difficult, and the bandmaster praised the wonderful
bird in the highest terms, and even asserted that it was superior to
the real bird, not only as regarded the outside, with the many lovely
diamonds, but also the inside as well.
“You see, ladies and gentlemen, and above all your Imperial Majesty,
that with the real Nightingale, you can never predict what may happen,
but with the artificial bird, everything is settled upon beforehand; so
it remains and it cannot be changed. One can account for it. One can
rip it open and show the human ingenuity, explaining how the cylinders
lie, how they work, and how one thing is the result of another.”
“That is just what we think,” they all exclaimed, and the Bandmaster
received permission to exhibit the bird to the people on the following
Sunday. The Emperor said they were to hear it sing. They listened, and
were as much delighted as if they had been drunk with tea, which is
a thoroughly Chinese habit, and they all said “Oh!” and stuck their
forefingers in the air, and nodded their heads. But the poor Fisherman
who had heard the real Nightingale, said: “It sounds quite well, and a
little like it, but there is something missing. I do not know what it
is.”
The real Nightingale was banished from the Kingdom. The artificial bird
had its place on a silken cushion close to the Emperor's bed. All the
presents it had received, the gold and precious stones, lay all round
it, and it had been honoured with the title of High Imperial Bedroom
Singer--in the first rank, on the left side, for even the Emperor
considered that side the grander on which the heart is placed, and
even an Emperor has his heart on the left side. The Bandmaster wrote
twenty-five volumes about the wonderful artificial bird. The book was
very learned and very long, filled with the most difficult words in the
Chinese language, and everybody said that he had read it and understood
it, for otherwise he would have been considered stupid, and would have
been trampled upon.
And thus a whole year passed away. The Emperor, the Court and all the
other Chinese knew every little gurgle in the artificial bird's song,
and just for this reason, they were all the better pleased with it.
They could sing it themselves--which they did. The boys in the street
sang “zizizi” and “cluck, cluck,” and even the Emperor sang it. Yes, it
was certainly beautiful. But one evening, while the bird was singing,
and the Emperor lay in bed listening to it, there was a whirring sound
inside the bird, and something whizzed; all the wheels ran round, and
the music stopped. The Emperor sprang out of bed and sent for the Court
Physician, but what could he do? Then they sent for the watch-maker,
and after much talk and examination, he patched the bird up, but he
said it must be spared as much as possible, because the hammers were
so worn out and he could not put new ones in so that the music could
be counted on. This was a great grief. The bird could only be allowed
to sing once a year, and even that was risky, but on these occasions
the Bandmaster would make a little speech, introducing difficult words,
saying the bird was as good as it ever had been: and that was true.
Five years passed away, and a great sorrow had come over the land. The
people all really cared for their Emperor: now he was ill and it was
said he could not live. A new Emperor had been chosen, and the people
stood about the streets, and questioned the Lord-in-Waiting about their
Emperor's condition.
“P!” he said, and shook his head.
The Emperor lay pale and cold on his great, gorgeous bed: the whole
Court believed that he was dead, and they all hastened to pay homage to
the new Emperor. The footmen hurried off to discuss matters, and the
chambermaids gave a great coffee party. Cloth had been laid down in
all the rooms and passages, so that not a footstep should be heard and
it was all fearfully quiet. But the Emperor was not yet dead. He lay
stiff and pale in the sumptuous bed, with its long, velvet curtains,
and the heavy gold tassels: just above was an open window, and the moon
shone in upon the Emperor and the artificial bird. The poor Emperor
could hardly breathe: it was as if something were weighing him down:
he opened his eyes and saw it was Death, sitting on his chest, wearing
his golden crown, holding in one hand the golden sword, and in the
other the splendid banner: and from the folds of the velvet curtains
strange faces peered forth, some terrible to look on, others mild and
friendly: these were the Emperor's good and bad deeds, which gazed upon
him now that Death sat upon his heart.
“Do you remember this?” whispered one after the other. “Do you remember
that?” They told him so much that the sweat poured down his face.
“I never knew that,” said the Emperor. “Play music! music! Beat the
great Chinese drum!” he called out, “so that I may not hear what they
are saying!”
But they kept on, and Death nodded his head, like a Chinaman, at
everything they said.
“Music, music,” cried the Emperor. “You little precious bird! Sing to
me, ah! sing to me! I have given you gold and costly treasures. I have
hung my golden slipper about your neck. Sing to me. Sing to me!”
But the bird stood still: there was no one to wind him up, and
therefore he could not sing. But Death went on, staring at the Emperor
with his great hollow sockets, and it was terribly still.
Then, suddenly, close to the window, came the sound of a lovely song.
It was the little live Nightingale which perched on the branches
outside. It had heard of its Emperor's plight, and had therefore flown
hither to bring him comfort and hope, and as he sang, the faces became
paler and the blood coursed more freely through the Emperor's weak
body, and Death himself listened and said: “Go on, little Nightingale.
Go on.”
“And will you give me the splendid sword, and the rich banner and the
Emperor's crown?”
And Death gave all these treasures for a song. And still the
Nightingale sang on. He sang of the quiet churchyard, where the white
roses grow, where the Elder flowers bloom, and where the grass is kept
moist by the tears of the survivors, and there came to Death such a
longing to see his garden, that he floated out of the window, in the
form of a white, cold mist.
“Thank you, thank you,” said the Emperor. “You heavenly little bird, I
know you well! I banished you from the land, and you have charmed away
the evil spirits from my bed, and you have driven Death from my heart.
How shall I reward you?”
“You have rewarded me,” said the Nightingale. “I received tears from
your eyes the first time I sang, and I never forget that. These are
jewels which touch the heart of the singer. But sleep now, that you
may wake fresh and strong. I will sing to you,” and it sang, and the
Emperor fell into a sweet sleep. The sun shone in upon him through the
window, and he woke feeling strong and healthy. None of his servants
had come back, because they thought he was dead, but the Nightingale
was still singing.
“You will always stay with me,” said the Emperor. “You shall only sing
when it pleases you, and I will break the artificial Nightingale into a
thousand pieces.”
“Do not do that,” said the Nightingale. “It has done the best it
could. Keep it with you. I cannot build my nest in a palace, but let
me come just as I please. I will sit on the branch near the window,
and sing to you that you may be joyful and thoughtful too. I will sing
to you of the happy folk, and of those that suffer; I will sing of
the evil and of the good, which is being hidden from you. The little
singing bird flies hither and thither, to the poor fisherman, to the
peasant's hut, to many who live far from you and the Court. Your heart
is dearer to me than your crown, and yet the crown has a breath of
sanctity too. I will come; I will sing to you, but one thing you must
promise.”
“All that you ask,” said the Emperor and stood there in his imperial
robes which he had put on himself, and held the heavy golden sword on
his heart.
“I beg you, let no one know that you have a little bird who tells you
everything. It will be far better thus,” and the Nightingale flew away.
The servants came to look upon their dead Emperor: they stood there and
the Emperor said “Good morning.”
(_From Hans. C. Andersen, translated from the Danish by Marie L.
Shedlock._)
THE SWINEHERD.
There was once upon a time a needy prince. He owned a Kingdom--a very
small one, but it was large enough to support a wife, and he made up
his mind to marry. Now, it was really very bold on his part to say of
the King's daughter: “Will you marry me?” But he dared to do so, for
his name was known far and wide, and there were hundreds of princesses
who would willingly have said: “Yes, with thanks.” But, whether she
would say so, was another matter. We shall hear what happened.
On the grave of the Prince's father there grew a rose-tree--such a
wonderful rose-tree! It only bloomed once in five years, and then it
only bore one rose--but what a rose! Its perfume was so sweet that
whoever smelt it forgot all his cares and sorrows. The Prince had also
a Nightingale which could sing as if all the delicious melodies in the
world were contained in its little throat. The rose and the Nightingale
were both to be given to the Princess and were therefore placed in two
silver cases and sent to her. The Emperor had them carried before him
into the great hall where the Princess was playing at “visiting” with
her ladies-in-waiting. This was their chief occupation; and when she
saw the great cases with the presents in them, she clapped her hands
with joy.
“If it were only a little pussy-cat,” she cried. But out came the
beautiful rose.
“How elegantly it is made,” said all the ladies of the Court.
“It is more than elegant,” said the Emperor; “it is nice.”
“Fie, papa,” she said, “it is not made at all; it is a natural rose.”
“Fie,” said all the ladies of the court; “it is a natural rose.”
“Let us see what the other case contains before we lose our temper,”
said the Emperor, and then out came the little Nightingale and sang so
sweetly that nobody right off could think of any bad thing to say of it.
“Superbe, charmant,” cried the ladies of the Court, for they all
chattered French, one worse than the other.
“How the bird reminds me of the late Empress' musical-box!” said an old
Lord-in-Waiting. “Ah me! The same tone, the same execution----”
“The very same,” said the Emperor, and he cried like a little child.
“I hope it is not a real bird,” said the Princess.
“Oh yes; it is a real bird,” said those who had brought it.
“Then let the bird fly away,” she said, and she would on no account
allow the Prince to come in.
But he was not to be discouraged. He smeared his face with black and
brown, drew his cap over his forehead, and knocked at the Palace door.
The Emperor opened it.
“Good day, Emperor,” he said. “Could I not get some work at the Palace?”
“There are so many who apply for positions here!” said the Emperor.
“Now let me see: I am in want of a swineherd. I have a good many pigs
to keep.”
So the Prince was appointed as Imperial Swineherd. He had a wretched
little room near the pig-sty and here he was obliged to stay. But the
whole day he sat and worked, and by the evening he had made a neat
little pipkin, and round it was a set of bells, and as soon as the pot
began to boil, the bells fell to jingling most sweetly and played the
old melody:
“Ah, my dear Augustus,
All is lost, all is lost;”
but the most wonderful thing was that when you held your finger in
the steam of the pipkin, you could immediately smell what dinner was
cooking on every hearth in the town--that was something very different
from a rose.
The Princess was walking out with her ladies-in-Waiting, and when she
heard the melody, she stopped short, and looked much rejoiced, for she
could play “Ah, my dear Augustus.” That was the only tune she knew, but
she could play it with one finger. “Why, that is what I can play,” she
said. “What a cultivated swineherd he must be. Go down and ask him how
much his instrument costs.”
So one of the Ladies-in-Waiting was obliged to go down, but she put on
pattens first.
“What do you charge for your instrument?” asked the Lady-in-Waiting.
“I will have ten kisses from the Princess,” said the Swineherd.
“Good gracious!” said the Lady-in-Waiting.
“I will not take less,” said the Swineherd.
“Well, what did he say?” asked the Princess.
“I really cannot tell you,” said the Lady-in-Waiting. “It is too
dreadful.”
“Then you can whisper it,” said the Princess.
So she whispered it.
“He is very rude,” said the Princess, and she walked away. But when she
had walked a few steps the bells sounded so sweetly:
“Ah, my dear Augustus,
All is lost, all is lost.”
“Listen,” said the Princess, “ask him whether he will have his kisses
from my Ladies-in-Waiting.”
“No, thank you,” said the Swineherd. “I will have ten kisses from the
Princess, or I will keep my pipkin.”
“How tiresome it is,” said the Princess; “but you must stand round me,
so that nobody shall see.”
So the Ladies-in-Waiting stood round her, and they spread out their
dresses. The Swineherd got the kisses, and she got the pipkin.
How delighted she was. All the evening, and the whole of the next day
that pot was made to boil. And you might have known what everybody
was cooking on every hearth in the town from the Chamberlain's to the
shoemaker's. The court ladies danced and clapped their hands.
“We know who is to have fruit, soup and pancakes. We know who is going
to have porridge, and cutlets. How very interesting it is!”
“Most, interesting, indeed,” said the first Lady-of-Honour.
“Yes, but hold your tongues, because I am the Emperor's daughter.”
“Of course we will,” they cried in one breath.
The Swineherd, or rather the Prince, though they did not know but
that he was a real swineherd, did not let the day pass without doing
something, and he made a rattle which could play all the waltzes and
the polkas and the hop-dances which had been known since the creation
of the world.
“But this is superb,” said the Princess, who was just passing: “I have
never heard more beautiful composition. Go and ask him the cost of the
instrument. But I will give no more kisses.”
“He insists on a hundred kisses from the Princess,” said the
Ladies-in-Waiting who had been down to ask.
“I think he must be quite mad,” said the Princess, and she walked away.
But when she had taken a few steps, she stopped short, and said: “One
must encourage the fine arts, and I am the Emperor's daughter. Tell him
he may have ten kisses, as before, and the rest he can take from my
Ladies-in-Waiting.”
“Yes, but we object to that,” said the Ladies-in-Waiting.
“That is nonsense,” said the Princess. “If I can kiss him, surely you
can do the same. Go down at once. Don't I pay you board and wages?”
So the Ladies-in-Waiting were obliged to go down to the Swineherd again.
“A hundred kisses from the Princess, or each keeps his own.”
“Stand round me,” she said. And all the Ladies-in-Waiting stood round
her, and the Swineherd began to kiss her.
“What can all that crowd be down by the pigsty?” said the Emperor,
stepping out on to the balcony. He rubbed his eyes and put on his
spectacles. “It is the court-ladies up to some of their tricks. I must
go down and look after them.” He pulled up his slippers (for they were
shoes which he had trodden down at the heel).
Heavens! How he hurried! As soon as he came into the garden he walked
very softly, and the Ladies-in-Waiting had so much to do counting
the kisses, so that everything should be done fairly, and that the
Swineherd should neither get too many nor too few, that they never
noticed the Emperor at all. He stood on tiptoe.
“What is this all about?” he said, when he saw the kissing that was
going on, and he hit them on the head with his slipper, just as the
Swineherd was getting the eighty-sixth kiss. “Heraus,” said the
Emperor, for he was angry, and both the Princess and the Swineherd were
turned out of his Kingdom.
The Princess wept, the Swineherd scolded, and the rain streamed down.
“Ah! wretched creature that I am,” said the Princess. “If I had only
taken the handsome Prince! Ah me, how unhappy I am!”
Then the Swineherd went behind a tree, washed the black and brown off
his face, threw off his ragged clothes, and stood forth in his royal
apparel, looking so handsome that she was obliged to curtsey.
“I have learned to despise you,” he said. “You would not have an
honourable Prince. You could not appreciate a rose or a Nightingale,
but to get a toy, you kissed the Swineherd. Now you have your reward.”
So he went into his Kingdom, shut the door and bolted it, and she had
to stand outside singing:
“Ah, you dear Augustus,
All, all is lost.”
(_From the Danish of Hans C. Andersen, translated by Marie L.
Shedlock._)
THE PRINCESS AND THE PEA.
There was once a Prince who wished to marry a Princess, but she must
be a real Princess. He travelled all over the world to find such a
one; but there was always something the matter. There were plenty of
Princesses, but whether they were real or not, he could not be quite
certain. There was always something that was not quite right. So he
came home again, feeling very sad, for he was so anxious to have a real
Princess.
One evening a terrible storm came on: it lightened, and thundered and
the rain came down in torrents. It was quite terrible. Then there
came a knocking at the town-gate, and the old King went down to open
it. There, outside, stood a Princess. But gracious! the rain and bad
weather had made her look dreadful. The water was running out of her
hair on to her clothes, into the tips of her shoes and out at the
heels, and yet she said she was a real Princess.
“We shall soon find out about that,” thought the old Queen. But
she said never a word. She went into the bedroom, took off all the
bed-clothes and put a pea on the bedstead. Then she took twenty
mattresses and laid them on the pea and twenty eider-down quilts upon
the mattresses. And the Princess was to sleep there at night.
In the morning they came to her and asked her how she had slept.
“Oh! dreadfully,” said the Princess. “I scarcely closed my eyes the
whole night long. Heaven knows what could have been in the bed. I have
lain upon something hard, so that my whole body is black and blue. It
is quite dreadful.”
So they could see now that she was a real Princess, because she had
felt the pea through twenty mattresses and twenty eider-down quilts.
Nobody but a real Princess could be so sensitive.
So the Prince married her, for now he knew that he had found a real
Princess, and the pea was sent to an Art Museum, where it can still be
seen, if nobody has taken it away.
Now, mark you: This is a true story.
(_Translated from the Danish of Hans C. Andersen by Marie L. Shedlock._)
I give the following story, quoted by Professor Ker in his Romanes
Lecture, 1906, as an encouragement to those who develop the art of
story-telling.
THE STORY OF STURLA.
Then Sturla got ready to sail away with the king, and his name was
put on the list. He went on board before many men had come; he had
a sleeping bag and a travelling chest, and took his place on the
fore-deck. A little later the king came on to the quay, and a company
of men with him. Sturla rose and bowed, and bade the king ‘hail,’
but the king answered nothing, and went aft along the ship to the
quarter-deck. They sailed that day to go south along the coast. But
in the evening when men unpacked their provisions Sturla sat still,
and no one invited him to mess. Then a servant of the king's came and
asked Sturla if he had any meat and drink. Sturla said ‘No.’ Then the
king's servant went to the king and spoke with him, out of hearing:
and then went forward to Sturla and said: “You shall go to mess with
Thorir Mouth and Erlend Maw.” They took him into their mess, but rather
stiffly. When men were turning in to sleep, a sailor of the king's
asked who should tell them stories. There was little answer. Then he
said: “Sturla the Icelander, will you tell stories?” “As you will,”
said Sturla. So he told them the story of Huld, better and fuller than
any one there had ever heard it told before. Then many men pushed
forward to the fore-deck, wanting to hear as clearly as might be, and
there was a great crowd. The queen asked: “What is that crowd on deck
there?” A man answered: “The men are listening to the story that the
Icelander tells.” “What story is that?” said she. He answers: “It is
about a great troll-wife, and it is a good story and well told.” The
king bade her pay no heed to that, and go to sleep. She says: “I think
this Icelander must be a good fellow, and less to blame than he is
reported.” The king was silent.
So the night passed, and the next morning there was no wind for them,
and the king's ship lay in the same place. Later in the day, when men
sat at their drink, the king sent dishes from his table to Sturla.
Sturla's messmates were pleased with this: “You bring better luck than
we thought, if this sort of thing goes on.” After dinner the queen sent
for Sturla and asked him to come to her and bring the troll-wife story
along with him. So Sturla went aft to the quarter-deck, and greeted
the king and queen. The king answered little, the queen well and
cheerfully. She asked him to tell the same story he had told overnight.
He did so, for a great part of the day. When he had finished, the queen
thanked him, and many others besides, and made him out in their minds
to be a learned man and sensible. But the king said nothing; only he
smiled a little. Sturla thought he saw that the king's whole frame of
mind was brighter than the day before. So he said to the king that
he had made a poem about him, and another about his father: “I would
gladly get a hearing for them.” The queen said: “Let him recite his
poem; I am told that he is the best of poets, and his poem will be
excellent.” The king bade him say on, if he would, and repeat the poem
he professed to have made about him. Sturla chanted it to the end. The
queen said: “To my mind that is a good poem.” The king said to her:
“Can you follow the poem clearly?” “I would be fain to have you think
so, Sir,” said the queen. The king said: “I have learned that Sturla
is good at verses.” Sturla took his leave of the king and queen and
went to his place. There was no sailing for the king all that day. In
the evening before he went to bed he sent for Sturla. And when he came
he greeted the king and said: “What will you have me to do, Sir?” The
king called for a silver goblet full of wine, and drank some and gave
it to Sturla and said: “A health to a friend in wine!” (_Vin skal til
vinar drekka._) Sturla said: “God be praised for it!” “Even so,” says
the king, “and now I wish you to say the poem you have made about my
father.” Sturla repeated it: and when it was finished men praised it
much, and most of all the queen. The king said: “To my thinking, you
are a better reciter than the Pope.”
_Sturlunga Saga_, vol. ii, pp. 269 _sqq._
A SAGA.
In the grey beginnings of the world, or ever the flower of justice
had rooted in the heart, there lived among the daughters of men two
children, sisters, of one house.
In childhood did they leap and climb and swim with the men children of
their race, and were nurtured on the same stories of gods and heroes.
In maidenhood they could do all that a maiden might and more--delve
could they no less than spin, hunt no less than weave, brew pottage and
helm ships, wake the harp and tell the stars, face all danger and laugh
at all pain.
Joyous in toil-time and rest-time were they as the days and years
of their youth came and went. Death had spared their house, and
unhappiness knew they none. Yet often as at falling day they sat before
sleep round the hearth of red fire, listening with the household to the
brave songs of gods and heroes, there would surely creep into their
hearts a shadow--the thought that whatever the years of their lives,
and whatever the generous deeds, there would for them, as women, be
no escape at the last from the dire mists of Hela, the fogland beyond
the grave for all such as die not in battle; no escape for them from
Hela, and no place for ever for them or for their kind among the
glory-crowned, sword-shriven heroes of echoing Valhalla.
That shadow had first fallen in their lusty childhood, had slowly
gathered darkness through the overflowing days of maidenhood, and now,
in the strong tide of full womanhood, often lay upon their future as
the moon in Odin's wrath lies upon the sun.
But stout were they to face danger and laugh at pain, and for all the
shadow upon their hope they lived brave and songful days--the one a
homekeeper and in her turn a mother of men; the other unhusbanded,
but gentle to ignorance and sickness and sorrow through the width and
length of the land.
And thus, facing life fearlessly and ever with a smile, those two women
lived even unto extreme old age, unto the one's children's children's
children, labouring truly unto the end and keeping strong hearts
against the dread day of Hela, and the fate-locked gates of Valhalla.
But at the end a wonder.
As these sisters looked their last upon the sun, the one in the
ancestral homestead under the eyes of love, the other in a distant land
among strange faces, behold the wind of Thor, and out of the deep of
heaven the white horses of Odin, All-Father, bearing Valkyrie, shining
messengers of Valhalla. And those two world-worn women, faithful in all
their lives, were caught up in death in divine arms and borne far from
the fogs of Hela to golden thrones among the battle heroes, upon which
the Nornir, sitting at the loom of life, had from all eternity graven
their names.
And from that hour have the gates of Valhalla been thrown wide to all
faithful endeavour whether of man or of women.
JOHN RUSSELL,
Headmaster of the King Alfred School.
THE LEGEND OF ST. CHRISTOPHER.
Christopher was of the lineage of the Canaaneans and he was of a right
great stature, and had a terrible and fearful cheer and countenance.
And he was twelve cubits of length. And, as it is read in some
histories, when he served and dwelled with the king of Canaaneans, it
came in his mind that he would seek the greatest prince that was in the
world and him he would serve and obey.
And so far he went that he came to a right great king, of whom the
renown generally was that he was the greatest of the world. And when
the king saw him he received him into his service and made him to dwell
in his court.
Upon a time a minstrel sang before him a song in which he named oft
the devil. And the king which was a Christian man, when he heard him
name the devil, made anon the sign of the cross in his visage. And
when Christopher saw that, he had great marvel what sign it was and
wherefore the king made it. And he demanded it of him. And because the
king would not say, he said, “If thou tell me not, I shall no longer
dwell with thee.” And then the king told to him saying, “Alway when I
hear the devil named, I fear that he should have power over me, and
I garnish me with this sign that he grieve not nor annoy me.” Then
Christopher said to him, “Thou doubtest the devil that he hurt thee
not? Then is the devil more mighty and greater than thou art. I am then
deceived of my hope and purpose; for I supposed that I had found the
most mighty and the most greatest lord of the world. But I commend thee
to God, for I will go seek him to be my lord and I his servant.”
And then he departed from this king and hasted him to seek the devil.
And as he went by a great desert he saw a great company of knights.
Of which a knight cruel and horrible came to him and demanded whither
he went. And Christopher answered to him and said, “I go to seek the
devil for to be my master.” And he said, “I am he that thou seekest.”
And then Christopher was glad and bound himself to be his servant
perpetual, and took him for his master and lord.
And as they went together by a common way, they found there a cross
erect and standing. And anon as the devil saw the cross, he was afeard
and fled, and left the right way and brought Christopher about by a
sharp desert, and after, when they were past the cross, he brought him
to the highway that they had left. And when Christopher saw that, he
marvelled and demanded whereof he doubted that he had left high and
fair way and had gone so far about by so hard desert. And the devil
would not tell to him in no wise. Then Christopher said to him, “If
thou wilt not tell me I shall anon depart from thee and shall serve
thee no more.” Therefore the devil was constrained to tell him, and
said, “There was a man called Christ which was hanged on the cross, and
when I see his sign, I am sore afeard and flee from it wheresomever
I find it.” To whom Christopher said, “Then he is greater and more
mightier than thou, when thou art afraid of his sign. And I see well
that I have laboured in vain since I have not founden the greatest lord
of all the earth. And I will serve thee no longer. Go thy way then: for
I will go seek Jesus Christ.”
And when he had long sought and demanded where he should find Christ,
at the last he came into a great desert to an hermit that dwelled
there. And this hermit preached to him of Jesus Christ and informed
him in the faith diligently. And he said to him, “This king whom thou
desirest to serve, requireth this service that thou must oft fast.” And
Christopher said to him, “Require of me some other thing and I shall
do it. For that which thou requirest I may not do.” And the hermit
said, “Thou must then wake and make many prayers.” And Christopher
said to him, “I wot not what it is. I may do no such thing.” And then
the hermit said unto him, “Knowest thou such a river in which many
be perished and lost?” To whom Christopher said, “I know it well.”
Then said the hermit, “Because thou art noble and high of stature and
strong in thy members, thou shalt be resident by that river and shalt
bear over all them that shall pass there. Which shall be a thing right
convenable to Our Lord Jesus Christ, whom thou desirest to serve, and
I hope He shall shew Himself to thee.” Then said Christopher, “Certes,
this service may I well do, and I promise to Him for to do it.”
Then went Christopher to this river, and made there his habitation
for him. And he bare a great pole in his hand instead of a staff, by
which he sustained him in the water; and bare over all manner of people
without ceasing. And there he abode, thus doing many days.
And on a time, as he slept in his lodge, he heard the voice of a
child which called him and said, “Christopher, come out and bear me
over.” Then he awoke and went out; but he found no man. And when he
was again in his house, he heard the same voice, and he ran out and
found nobody. The third time he was called, and came thither, and
found a child beside the rivage of the river: which prayed him goodly
to bear him over the water. And then Christopher lift up the child on
his shoulders and took his staff and entered into the river for to
pass. And the water of the river arose and swelled more and more. And
the child was heavy as lead. And always as he went further the water
increased and grew more, and the child more and more waxed heavy: in
so much that Christopher had great anguish and feared to be drowned.
And when he was escaped with great pain and passed the water, and set
the child aground, he said to the child, “Child, thou hast put me in
great peril. Thou weighest almost as I had had all the world upon me.
I might bear no greater burden.” And the child answered, “Christopher,
marvel thou no thing. For thou hast not only borne all the world upon
thee; but thou hast borne Him that created and made all the world upon
thy shoulders. I am Jesus Christ, the King to whom thou servest in this
work. And that thou mayest know that I say to thee truth, set thy staff
in the earth by the house, and thou shalt see to-morrow that it shall
bear flowers and fruit.” And anon he vanished from his eyes.
And then Christopher set his staff in the earth and when he arose on
the morrow, he found his staff like a palm-tree bearing flowers, leaves
and dates.
ARTHUR IN THE CAVE.
Once upon a time a Welshman was walking on London Bridge, staring
at the traffic and wondering why there were so many kites hovering
about. He had come to London, after many adventures with thieves
and highwaymen, which need not be related here, in charge of a herd
of black Welsh cattle. He had sold them with much profit, and with
jingling gold in his pocket he was going about to see the sights of the
city.
He was carrying a hazel staff in his hand, for you must know that a
good staff is as necessary to a drover as teeth are to his dogs. He
stood still to gaze at some wares in a shop (for at that time London
Bridge was shops from beginning to end), when he noticed that a man was
looking at his stick with a long fixed look. The man after a while came
to him and asked him where he came from.
“I come from my own country,” said the Welshman, rather surlily, for he
could not see what business the man had to ask such a question.
“Do not take it amiss,” said the stranger: “if you will only answer my
questions, and take my advice, it will be greater benefit to you than
you imagine. Do you remember where you cut that stick?”
The Welshman was still suspicious, and said: “What does it matter where
I cut it?”
“It matters,” said the questioner, “because there is a treasure hidden
near the spot where you cut that stick. If you can remember the place
and conduct me to it, I will put you in possession of great riches.”
The Welshman now understood he had to deal with a sorcerer, and he was
greatly perplexed as to what to do. On the one hand, he was tempted by
the prospect of wealth; on the other hand, he knew that the sorcerer
must have derived his knowledge from devils, and he feared to have
anything to do with the powers of darkness. The cunning man strove hard
to persuade him, and at length made him promise to shew the place where
he cut his hazel staff.
The Welshman and the magician journeyed together to Wales. They went
to Craig y Dinas, the Rock of the Fortress, at the head of the Neath
valley, near Pont Nedd Fechan, and the Welshman, pointing to the stock
or root of an old hazel, said: “This is where I cut my stick.”
“Let us dig,” said the sorcerer. They digged until they came to a
broad, flat stone. Prising this up, they found some steps leading
downwards. They went down the steps and along a narrow passage until
they came to a door. “Are you brave?” asked the sorcerer, “will you
come in with me?”
“I will,” said the Welshman, his curiosity getting the better of his
fear.
They opened the door, and a great cave opened out before them. There
was a faint red light in the cave, and they could see everything. The
first thing they came to was a bell.
“Do not touch that bell,” said the sorcerer, “or it will be all over
with us both.”
As they went further in, the Welshman saw that the place was not empty.
There were soldiers lying down asleep, thousands of them, as far as
ever the eye could see. Each one was clad in bright armour, the steel
helmet of each was on his head, the shining shield of each was on his
arm, the sword of each was near his hand, each had his spear stuck in
the ground near him, and each and all were asleep.
In the midst of the cave was a great round table at which sat warriors
whose noble features and richly-dight armour proclaimed that they were
not as the roll of common men.
Each of these, too, had his head bent down in sleep. On a golden throne
on the further side of the round table was a king of gigantic stature
and august presence. In his hand, held below the hilt, was a mighty
sword with scabbard and haft of gold studded with gleaming gems; on his
head was a crown set with precious stones which flashed and glinted
like so many points of fire. Sleep had set its seal on his eyelids
also.
“Are they asleep?” asked the Welshman, hardly believing his own eyes.
“Yes, each and all of them,” answered the sorcerer. “But, if you touch
yonder bell, they will all awake.”
“How long have they been asleep?”
“For over a thousand years.”
“Who are they?”
“Arthur's warriors, waiting for the time to come when they shall
destroy all the enemy of the Cymry and repossess the strand of Britain,
establishing their own king once more at Caer Lleon.”
“Who are these sitting at the round table?”
“These are Arthur's knights--Owain, the son of Urien; Cai, the son
of Cynyr; Gnalchmai, the son of Gwyar; Peredir, the son of Efrawe;
Geraint, the son of Erbin; Trystan, the son of March; Bedwyr, the son
of Bedrawd; Ciernay, the son of Celyddon; Edeyrn, the son of Nudd;
Cymri, the son of Clydno.”
“And on the golden throne?” broke in the Welshman.
“Is Arthur himself, with his sword Excalibur in his hand,” replied the
sorcerer.
Impatient by this time at the Welshman's questions, the sorcerer
hastened to a great heap of yellow gold on the floor of the cave. He
took up as much as he could carry, and bade his companion do the same.
“It is time for us to go,” he then said, and he led the way towards the
door by which they had entered.
But the Welshman was fascinated by the sight of the countless soldiers
in their glittering arms--all asleep.
“How I should like to see them all awaking!” he said to himself. “I
will touch the bell--I _must_ see them all arising from their sleep.”
When they came to the bell, he struck it until it rang through the
whole place. As soon as it rang, lo! the thousands of warriors leapt
to their feet and the ground beneath them shook with the sound of the
steel arms. And a great voice came from their midst: “Who rang the
bell? Has the day come?”
The sorcerer was so much frightened that he shook like an aspen leaf.
He shouted in answer: “No, the day has not come. Sleep on.”
The mighty host was all in motion, and the Welshman's eyes were dazzled
as he looked at the bright steel arms which illumined the cave as with
the light of myriad flames of fire.
“Arthur,” said the voice again, “awake; the bell has rung, the day is
breaking. Awake, Arthur the Great.”
“No,” shouted the sorcerer, “it is still night. Sleep on, Arthur the
Great.”
A sound came from the throne. Arthur was standing, and the jewels in
his crown shone like bright stars above the countless throng. His voice
was strong and sweet like the sound of many waters, and he said: “My
warriors, the day has not come when the Black Eagle and the Golden
Eagle shall go to war. It is only a seeker after gold who has rung the
bell. Sleep on, my warriors; the morn of Wales has not yet dawned.”
A peaceful sound like the distant sigh of the sea came over the cave,
and in a trice the soldiers were all asleep again. The sorcerer hurried
the Welshman out of the cave, moved the stone back to its place and
vanished.
Many a time did the Welshman try to find his way into the cave again,
but though he dug over every inch of the hill, he has never again found
the entrance to Arthur's Cave.
From “The Welsh Fairy Book,” by W. Jenkyn Thomas. Fisher Unwin.
HAFIZ THE STONE-CUTTER.
There was once a stone-cutter whose name was Hafiz, and all day long he
chipped, chipped, chipped at his block. And often he grew very weary
of his task and he would say to himself impatiently, “Why should I go
on chip-chip-chipping at my block? Why should I not have pleasure and
amusement as other folk have?”
One day, when the sun was very hot and when he felt specially weary, he
suddenly heard the sound of many feet, and, looking up from his work,
he saw a great procession coming his way. It was the King, mounted on
a splendid charger, all his soldiers to the right, in their shining
armour, and the servants to the left, dressed in gorgeous clothing,
ready to do his behests.
And Hafiz said: “How splendid to be a King! If only I could be a King,
if only for ten minutes, so that I might know what it feels like!” And
then, even as he spoke, he seemed to be dreaming, and in his dream he
sang this little song:
Ah me! Ah me!
If Hafiz only the King could be!
And then a voice from the air around seemed to answer him and to say:
Be thou the King.[54]
And Hafiz became the King, and he it was that sat on the splendid
charger, and they were his soldiers to the right and his servants to
the left. And Hafiz said: “I am King, and there is no one stronger in
the whole world than I.”
But soon, in spite of the golden canopy over his head, Hafiz began to
feel the terrible heat of the rays of the sun, and soon he noticed that
the soldiers and servants were weary, that his horse drooped, and that
he, Hafiz, was overcome, and he said angrily: “What! Is there something
stronger in the world than a King?” And, almost without knowing it, he
again sang his song--more boldly than the first time:
Ah me! Ah me!
If Hafiz only the Sun could be!
And the Voice answered:
Be thou the Sun.
And Hafiz became the Sun, and shone down upon the Earth, but, because
he did not know how to shine very wisely, he shone very fiercely, so
that the crops dried up, and folk grew sick and died. And then there
arose from the East a little cloud which slipped between Hafiz and the
Earth, so that he could no longer shine down upon it, and he said: “Is
there something stronger in the world than the Sun?”
Ah me! Ah me!
If Hafiz only the Cloud could be!
And the Voice said:
Be thou the cloud.
And Hafiz became the Cloud, and rained down water upon the Earth, but,
because he did not know how to do so wisely, there fell so much rain
that all the little rivulets became great rivers, and all the great
rivers overflowed their banks, and carried everything before them in
swift torrent--all except one great rock which stood unmoved. And Hafiz
said: “Is there something stronger than the Cloud?”
Ah me! Ah me!
If Hafiz only the Rock could be!
And the Voice said:
Be thou the Rock.
And Hafiz became the Rock, and the Cloud disappeared and the waters
went down.
And Hafiz the Rock saw coming towards him a man--but he could not see
his face. As the man approached he suddenly raised a hammer and struck
Hafiz, so that he felt it through all his stony body. And Hafiz said:
“Is there something stronger in the world than the Rock?”
Ah me! Ah me!
If Hafiz only that man might be!
And the Voice said:
Be thou--Thyself.
And Hafiz seized the hammer and said:
“The Sun was stronger than the King, the Cloud was stronger than the
Sun, the Rock was stronger than the Cloud, but I, Hafiz, was stronger
than all.”
_Adapted and arranged for narration by M. C. S._
FOOTNOTES:
[54] The melody to be crooned at first and to grow louder at each
incident.
TO YOUR GOOD HEALTH.
(_From the Russian._)
Long long ago there lived a King who was such a mighty monarch that
whenever he sneezed everyone in the whole country had to say, “To your
good health!” Everyone said it except the Shepherd with the bright blue
eyes, and he would not say it.
The King heard of this and was very angry, and sent for the Shepherd to
appear before him.
The Shepherd came and stood before the throne, where the King sat
looking very grand and powerful. But, however grand or powerful he
might be, the Shepherd did not feel a bit afraid of him.
“Say at once, 'To my good health!'” cried the King.
“To my good health,” replied the Shepherd.
“To mine--to _mine_, you rascal, you vagabond!” stormed the King.
“To mine, to mine, Your Majesty,” was the answer.
“But to _mine_--to my own!” roared the King, and beat on his breast in
a rage.
“Well, yes; to mine, of course, to my own,” cried the Shepherd, and
gently tapped his breast.
The King was beside himself with fury and did not know what to do, when
the Lord Chamberlain interfered:
“Say at once--say at this very moment, ‘To your health, Your Majesty,’
for if you don't say it you will lose your life,” he whispered.
“No, I won't say it till I get the Princess for my wife,” was the
Shepherd's answer.
Now the Princess was sitting on a little throne beside the King her
father, and she looked as sweet and lovely as a little golden dove.
When she heard what the Shepherd said, she could not help laughing, for
there is no denying the fact that this young shepherd with the blue
eyes pleased her very much; indeed, he pleased her better than any
king's son she had yet seen.
But the King was not as pleasant as his daughter, and he gave orders to
throw the Shepherd into the white bear's pit.
The guards led him away and thrust him into the pit with the white
bear, who had had nothing to eat for two days and was very hungry. The
door of the pit was hardly closed when the bear rushed at the Shepherd;
but when it saw his eyes it was so frightened that it was ready to eat
itself. It shrank away into a corner and gazed at him from there, and
in spite of being so famished, did not dare to touch him, but sucked
its own paws from sheer hunger. The Shepherd felt that if he once
removed his eyes off the beast he was a dead man, and in order to keep
himself awake he made songs and sang them, and so the night went by.
Next morning the Lord Chamberlain came to see the Shepherd's bones, and
was amazed to find him alive and well. He led him to the King, who fell
into a furious passion, and said:
“Well, you have learned what it is to be very near death, and now will
you say, 'To my very good health'?”
But the Shepherd answered:
“I am not afraid of ten deaths! I will only say it if I may have the
Princess for my wife.”
“Then go to your death,” cried the King, and ordered him to be thrown
into the den with the wild boars.
The wild boars had not been fed for a week, and when the Shepherd was
thrust into their den they rushed at him to tear him to pieces. But the
Shepherd took a little flute out of the sleeve of his jacket, and began
to play a merry tune, on which the wild boars first of all shrank shyly
away, and then got up on their hind legs and danced gaily. The Shepherd
would have given anything to be able to laugh, they looked so funny;
but he dared not stop playing, for he knew well enough that the moment
he stopped they would fall upon him and tear him to pieces. His eyes
were of no use to him here, for he could not have stared ten wild boars
in the face at once; so he kept on playing, and the wild boars danced
very slowly, as if in a minuet; then by degrees he played faster and
faster, till they could hardly twist and turn quickly enough, and ended
by all falling over each other in a heap, quite exhausted and out of
breath.
Then the Shepherd ventured to laugh at last; and he laughed so long
and so loud that when the Lord Chamberlain came early in the morning,
expecting to find only his bones, the tears were still running down his
cheeks from laughter.
As soon as the King was dressed the Shepherd was again brought before
him; but he was more angry than ever to think the wild boars had not
torn the man to bits, and he said:
“Well, you have learned what it feels to be near ten deaths, _now_ say
'To my good health!'”
But the Shepherd broke in with:
“I do not fear a hundred deaths; and I will only say it if I may have
the Princess for my wife.”
“Then go to a hundred deaths!” roared the King, and ordered the
Shepherd to be thrown down the deep vault of scythes.
The guards dragged him away to a dark dungeon, in the middle of which
was a deep well with sharp scythes all round it. At the bottom of the
well was a little light by which one could see, if anyone was thrown
in, whether he had fallen to the bottom.
When the Shepherd was dragged to the dungeon he begged the guards to
leave him alone a little while that he might look down into the pit of
scythes; perhaps he might after all make up his mind to say, “To your
good health” to the King.
So the guards left him alone, and he stuck up his long stick near the
wall, hung his cloak round the stick and put his hat on the top. He
also hung his knapsack up beside the cloak, so that it might seem to
have some body within it. When this was done, he called out to the
guards and said that he had considered the matter, but after all he
could not make up his mind to say what the King wished.
The guards came in, threw the hat and cloak, knapsack and stick all
down in the well together, watched to see how they put out the light at
the bottom, and came away, thinking that now there was really an end of
the Shepherd. But he had hidden in a dark corner, and was now laughing
to himself all the time.
Quite early next morning came the Lord Chamberlain with a lamp, and he
nearly fell backwards with surprise when he saw the Shepherd alive and
well. He brought him to the King, whose fury was greater than ever, but
who cried:
“Well, now you have been near a hundred deaths; will you say, 'To your
good health'?”
But the Shepherd only gave the same answer:
“I won't say it till the Princess is my wife.”
“Perhaps after all you may do it for less,” said the King, who saw that
there was no chance of making away with the Shepherd; and he ordered
the state coach to be got ready; then he made the Shepherd get in with
him and sit beside him, and ordered the coachman to drive to the silver
wood.
When they reached it, he said:
“Do you see this silver wood? Well, if you will say, ‘To your good
health,’ I will give it to you.”
The Shepherd turned hot and cold by turns, but he still persisted:
“I will not say it till the Princess is my wife.”
The King was much vexed; he drove further on till they came to a
splendid castle, all of gold, and then he said:
“Do you see this golden castle? Well, I will give you that too, the
silver wood and the golden castle, if only you will say that one thing
to me: 'To your good health.'”
The Shepherd gaped and wondered, and was quite dazzled, but he still
said:
“No, I will not say it till I have the Princess for my wife.”
This time the King was overwhelmed with grief, and gave orders to drive
on to the diamond pond, and there he tried once more:
“You shall have them all--all, if you will but say, 'To your good
health.'”
The Shepherd had to shut his staring eyes tight not to be dazzled with
the brilliant pond, but still he said:
“No, no; I will not say it till I have the Princess for my wife.”
Then the King saw that all his efforts were useless, and that he might
as well give in; so he said:
“Well, well, it is all the same to me--I will give you my daughter
to wife; but then you really and truly must say to me, 'To your good
health.'”
“Of course I'll say it; why should I not say it? It stands to reason
that I shall say it then.”
At this the King was more delighted than anyone could have believed. He
made it known to all through the country that there were going to be
great rejoicings, as the Princess was going to be married. And everyone
rejoiced to think that the Princess who had refused so many royal
suitors, should have ended by falling in love with the staring-eyed
Shepherd.
There was such a wedding as had never been seen. Everyone ate and
drank and danced. Even the sick were feasted, and quite tiny new-born
children had presents given them. But the greatest merry-making was
in the King's palace; there the best bands played and the best food
was cooked. A crowd of people sat down to table, and all was fun and
merry-making.
And when the groomsman, according to custom, brought in the great
boar's head on a big dish and placed it before the King, so that he
might carve it and give everyone a share, the savoury smell was so
strong that the King began to sneeze with all his might.
“To your very good health!” cried the Shepherd before anyone else, and
the King was so delighted that he did not regret having given him his
daughter.
In time, when the old King died, the Shepherd succeeded him. He made a
very good king, and never expected his people to wish him well against
their wills: but, all the same, everyone did wish him well, because
they loved him.
THE PROUD COCK.
There was once a cock who grew so dreadfully proud that he would have
nothing to say to anybody. He left his house, it being far beneath his
dignity to have any trammel of that sort in his life, and as for his
former acquaintances, he cut them all.
One day, whilst walking about, he came to a few little sparks of fire
which were nearly dead.
They cried out to him: “Please fan us with your wings, and we shall
come to the full vigour of life again.”
But he did not deign to answer, and as he was going away, one of the
sparks said: “Ah well! we shall die, but our big brother the Fire will
pay you out for this one day.”
On another day he was airing himself in a meadow, showing himself off
in a very superb set of clothes. A voice calling from somewhere said:
“Please be so good as to drop us into the water again.”
He looked about and saw a few drops of water: they had got separated
from their friends in the river, and were pining away with grief. “Oh!
please be so good as to drop us into the water again,” they said; but,
without any answer, he drank up the drops. He was too proud and a great
deal too big to talk to a poor little puddle of water; but the drops
said: “Our big brother the Water will one day take you in hand, you
proud and senseless creature.”
Some days afterwards, during a great storm of rain, thunder and
lightning, the cock took shelter in a little empty cottage, and shut
to the door; and he thought: “I am clever; I am in comfort. What fools
people are to stop out in a storm like this! What's that?” thought he.
“I never heard a sound like that before.”
In a little while it grew much louder, and when a few minutes had
passed, it was a perfect howl. “Oh!” thought he, “this will never do. I
must stop it somehow. But what is it I have to stop?”
He soon found it was the wind, shouting through the keyhole, so he
plugged up the keyhole with a bit of clay, and then the wind was able
to rest. He was very tired with whistling so long through the keyhole,
and he said: “Now, if ever I have at any time a chance of doing a good
turn to that princely domestic fowl, I will do it.”
Weeks afterwards, the cock looked in at a house door: he seldom went
there, because the miser to whom the house belonged almost starved
himself, and so, of course, there was nothing over for anybody else.
To his amazement the cock saw the miser bending over a pot on the fire.
At last the old fellow turned round to get a spoon with which to stir
his pot, and then the cock, walking up, looked in and saw that the
miser was making oyster-soup, for he had found some oyster-shells in an
ash-pit, and to give the mixture a colour he had put in a few halfpence
in the pot.
The miser chanced to turn quickly round, whilst the cock was peering
into the saucepan, and, chuckling to himself, he said: “I shall have
some chicken broth after all.”
He tripped up the cock into the pot and shut the lid on. The bird,
feeling warm, said: “Water, water, don't boil!” But the water only
said: “You drank up my young brothers once: don't ask a favour of _me_.”
Then he called out to the Fire: “Oh! kind Fire, don't boil the water.”
But the Fire replied: “You once let my young sisters die: you cannot
expect any mercy from me.” So he flared up and boiled the water all the
faster.
At last, when the cock got unpleasantly warm, he thought of the wind,
and called out: “Oh, Wind, come to my help!” and the Wind said: “Why,
there is that noble domestic bird in trouble. I will help him.” So he
came down the chimney, blew out the fire, blew the lid off the pot,
and blew the cock far away into the air, and at last settled him on a
steeple, where the cock has remained ever since. And people say that
the halfpence which were in the pot when it was boiling have given him
the queer brown colour he still wears.
_From the Spanish._
SNEGOURKA.
There lived once, in Russia, a peasant and his wife who would have been
as happy as the day is long, if only God had given them a little child.
One day, as they were watching the children playing in the snow, the
man said to the woman:
“Wife, shall we go out and help the children to make a snowball?”
But the wife answered, smiling:
“Nay, husband, but since God has given us no little child, let us go
and fashion one from the snow.”
And she put on her long blue cloak, and he put on his long brown coat,
and they went out onto the crisp snow, and began to fashion the little
child.
First they made the feet and the legs and the little body, and then
they took a ball of snow for the head. And at that moment a stranger in
a long cloak, with his hat well drawn over his face, passed that way,
and said: “Heaven help your undertaking!”
And the peasants crossed themselves and said: “It is well to ask help
from Heaven in all we do.”
Then they went on fashioning the little child. And they made two holes
for the eyes and formed the nose and the mouth. And then--wonder of
wonders--the little child came alive, and breath came into its nostrils
and parted lips.
And the man was afeared, and said to his wife: “What have we done?”
And the wife said: “This is the little girl child God has sent us.” And
she gathered it into her arms, and the loose snow fell away from the
little creature. Her hair became golden and her eyes were as blue as
forget-me-nots--but there was no colour in her cheeks, because there
was no blood in her veins.
In a few days she was like a child of three or four, and in a few
weeks she seemed to be the age of nine or ten, and ran about gaily and
prattled with the other children, who loved her so dearly, though she
was so different from them.
Only, happy as she was, and dearly as her parents loved her, there was
one terror in her life, and that was the sun. And during the day she
would run and hide herself in cool, damp places away from the sunshine,
and this the other children could not understand.
As the Spring advanced and the days grew longer and warmer, little
Snegourka (for this was the name by which she was known) grew paler
and thinner, and her mother would often ask her: “What ails you, my
darling?” and Snegourka would say: “Nothing Mother, but I wish the sun
were not so bright.”
One day, on St. John's Day, the children of the village came to fetch
her for a day in the woods, and they gathered flowers for her and did
all they could to make her happy, but it was only when the great red
sun went down that Snegourka drew a deep breath of relief and spread
her little hands out to the cool evening air. And the boys, glad at
her gladness, said: “Let us do something for Snegourka. Let us light a
bonfire.” And Snegourka, not knowing what a bonfire was, she clapped
her hands and was as merry and eager as they. And she helped them
gather the sticks, and then they all stood round the pile and the boys
set fire to the wood.
Snegourka stood watching the flames and listening to the crackle of
the wood; and then suddenly they heard a tiny sound--and looking at
the place where Snegourka had been standing, they saw nothing but a
little snowdrift fast melting. And they called and called, “Snegourka!
Snegourka!” thinking she had run into the forest. But there was no
answer. Snegourka had disappeared from this life as mysteriously as she
had come into it.
_From the Russian, adapted for narration by M.T.S._
THE WATER NIXIE.
The river was so clear because it was the home of a very beautiful
Water Nixie who lived in it, and who sometimes could emerge from her
home and sit in woman's form upon the bank. She had a dark green smock
upon her, the colour of the water-weed that waves as the water wills
it, deep, deep down. And in her long wet hair were the white flowers
of the water-violet, and she held a reed mace in her hand. Her face
was very sad, because she had lived a long life, and known so many
adventures, ever since she was a baby, which was nearly a hundred years
ago. For creatures of the streams and trees live a long, long time, and
when they die they lose themselves in Nature. That means that they are
forever clouds, or trees, or rivers, and never have the form of men and
women again.
All water creatures would live, if they might choose it, in the sea,
where they are born. It is in the sea they float hand-in-hand upon
the crested billows, and sink deep in the great troughs of the strong
waves, that are green as jade. They follow the foam and lose themselves
in the wide ocean:
Where great whales come sailing by,
Sail and sail with unshut eye;
And they store in the Sea King's palace
The golden phosphor of the sea.
But this Water Nixie had lost her happiness through not being good.
She had forgotten many things that had been told her, and she had
done many things that grieved others. She had stolen somebody else's
property--quite a large bundle of happiness--which belonged elsewhere
and not to her. Happiness is generally made to fit the person who owns
it, just as do your shoes, or clothes; so that when you take some one
else's it's very little good to you, for it fits badly, and you can
never forget it isn't yours.
So what with one thing and another, this Water Nixie had to be
punished, and the Queen of the Sea had banished her from the waves. The
punishment that can most affect merfolk is to restrict their freedom.
And this is how the Queen of the Sea punished the Nixie of our tale.
“You shall live for a long time in little places, where you will weary
of yourself. You will learn to know yourself so well that everything
you want will seem too good for you, and you will cease to claim it.
And so, in time, you shall get free.”
Then the Nixie had to rise up and go away, and be shut into the
fastness of a very small space, according to the words of the Queen.
And this small space was--a tear.
At first she could hardly express her misery, and by thinking so
continuously of the wideness and savour of the sea, she brought a dash
of the brine with her, that makes the saltness of our tears. She became
many times smaller than her own stature; even then, by standing upright
and spreading wide her arms, she touched with her finger-tips the walls
of her tiny crystal home. How she longed that this tear might be wept,
and the walls of her prison shattered. But the owner of this tear was
of a very proud nature, and she was so sad that tears seemed to her in
no wise to express her grief.
She was a Princess who lived in a country that was not her home. What
were tears to her? If she could have stood on the top of the very
highest hill and with both hands caught the great winds of heaven,
strong as they, and striven with them, perhaps she might have felt
as if she expressed all she knew. Or, if she could have torn down the
stars from the heavens, or cast her mantle over the sun. But tears!
Would they have helped to tell her sorrow? You cry if you soil your
copy-book, don't you? or pinch your hand? So you may imagine the
Nixie's home was a safe one, and she turned round and round in the
captivity of that tear.
For twenty years she dwelt in that strong heart, till she grew to be
accustomed to her cell. At last, in this wise came her release.
An old gipsy came one morning to the Castle and begged to see the
Princess. She must see her, she cried. And the Princess came down the
steps to meet her, and the gipsy gave her a small roll of paper in her
hand. And the roll of paper smelt like honey as she took it, and it
adhered to her palm as she opened it. There was little sign of writing
on the paper, but in the midst of the page was a picture, small as the
picture reflected in the iris of an eye. The picture shewed a hill,
with one tree on the sky-line, and a long road wound round the hill.
And suddenly in the Princess' memory a voice spoke to her. Many sounds
she heard, gathered up into one great silence, like the quiet there is
in forest spaces, when it is Summer and the green is deep:
Then the Princess gave the gipsy two golden pieces, and went up to her
chamber, and long that night she sat, looking out upon the sky.
She had no need to look upon the honeyed scroll, though she held it
closely. Clearly before her did she see that small picture: the hill,
and the tree, and the winding road, imaged as if mirrored in the iris
of an eye. And in her memory she was upon that road, and the hill rose
beside her, and the little tree was outlined every twig of it against
the sky.
And as she saw all this, an overwhelming love of the place arose in
her, a love of that certain bit of country that was so sharp and
strong, that it stung and swayed her, as she leaned on the window-sill.
And because the love of a country is one of the deepest loves you may
feel, the band of her control was loosened, and the tears came welling
to her eyes. Up they brimmed and over, in salty rush and follow,
dimming her eyes, magnifying everything, speared for a moment on her
eyelashes, then shimmering to their fall. And at last came the tear
that held the disobedient Nixie.
Splish! it fell. And she was free.
If you could have seen how pretty she looked standing there, about the
height of a grass-blade, wringing out her long wet hair. Every bit of
moisture she wrung out of it, she was so glad to be quit of that tear.
Then she raised her two arms above her in one delicious stretch, and if
you had been the size of a mustard-seed perhaps you might have heard
her laughing. Then she grew a little, and grew and grew, till she was
about the height of a bluebell, and as slender to see.
She stood looking at the splash on the window-sill that had been her
prison so long, and then, with three steps of her bare feet, she
reached the jessamine that was growing by the window, and by this she
swung herself to the ground.
Away she sped over the dew-drenched meadows till she came to the
running brook, and with all her longing in her outstretched hands,
she kneeled down by the crooked willows among all the comfrey and the
loosestrife, and the yellow irises and the reeds.
Then she slid into the wide, cool stream.
PAMELA TENNANT (Lady Glenconner).
_From “The Children and the Pictures”_
THE BLUE ROSE.
There lived once upon a time in China a wise Emperor who had one
daughter. His daughter was remarkable for her perfect beauty. Her
feet were the smallest in the world; her eyes were long and slanting
and bright as brown onyxes, and when you heard her laugh it was like
listening to a tinkling stream or to the chimes of a silver bell.
Moreover, the Emperor's daughter was as wise as she was beautiful,
and she chanted the verse of the great poets better than anyone in
the land. The Emperor was old in years; his son was married and had
begotten a son; he was, therefore, quite happy with regard to the
succession to the throne, but he wished before he died to see his
daughter wedded to someone who should be worthy of her.
Many suitors presented themselves to the palace as soon as it became
known that the Emperor desired a son-in-law, but when they reached the
palace they were met by the Lord Chamberlain, who told them that the
Emperor had decided that only the man who found and brought back the
blue rose should marry his daughter. The suitors were much puzzled by
this order. What was the blue rose and where was it to be found? In all
a hundred and fifty suitors had presented themselves, and out of these
fifty at once put away from them all thought of winning the hand of the
Emperor's daughter, since they considered the condition imposed to be
absurd.
The other hundred set about trying to find the blue rose. One of them,
whose name was Ti-Fun-Ti, was a merchant, and immensely rich: he at
once went to the largest shop in the town and said to the shopkeeper,
“I want a blue rose, the best you have.”
The shopkeeper with many apologies, explained that he did not stock
blue roses. He had red roses in profusion, white, pink, and yellow
roses, but no blue roses. There had hitherto been no demand for the
article.
“Well,” said Ti-Fun-Ti, “you must get one for me. I do not mind how
much money it costs, but I must have a blue rose.”
The shopkeeper said he would do his best, but he feared it would be an
expensive article and difficult to procure. Another of the suitors,
whose name I have forgotten, was a warrior, and extremely brave; he
mounted his horse, and taking with him a hundred archers and a thousand
horsemen, he marched into the territory of the King of the Five Rivers,
whom he knew to be the richest king in the world and the possessor of
the rarest treasures, and demanded of him the blue rose, threatening
him with a terrible doom should he be reluctant to give it up.
The King of the Five Rivers, who disliked soldiers, and had a horror
of noise, physical violence, and every kind of fuss (his bodyguard was
armed solely with fans and sunshades), rose from the cushions on which
he was lying when the demand was made, and, tinkling a small bell, said
to the servant who straightway appeared, “Fetch me the blue rose.”
The servant retired and returned presently bearing on a silken cushion
a large sapphire which was carved so as to imitate a full-blown rose
with all its petals.
“This,” said the King of the Five Rivers, “is the blue rose. You are
welcome to it.”
The warrior took it, and after making brief, soldier-like thanks, he
went straight back to the Emperor's palace, saying that he had lost
no time in finding the blue rose. He was ushered into the presence of
the Emperor, who as soon as he heard the warrior's story and saw the
blue rose which had been brought sent for his daughter and said to her:
“This intrepid warrior has brought you what he claims to be the blue
rose. Has he accomplished the quest?”
The Princess took the precious object in her hands, and after examining
it for a moment, said: “This is not a rose at all. It is a sapphire;
I have no need of precious stones.” And she returned the stone to the
warrior with many elegantly expressed thanks. And the warrior went away
in discomfiture.
The merchant, hearing of the warrior's failure, was all the more
anxious to win the prize. He sought the shopkeeper and said to him:
“Have you got me the blue rose? I trust you have; because, if not, I
shall most assuredly be the means of your death. My brother-in-law
is chief magistrate, and I am allied by marriage to all the chief
officials in the kingdom.”
The shopkeeper turned pale and said: “Sir, give me three days and I
will procure you the rose without fail.” The merchant granted him the
three days and went away. Now the shopkeeper was at his wit's end as to
what to do, for he knew well there was no such thing as a blue rose.
For two days he did nothing but moan and wring his hands, and on the
third day he went to his wife and said: “Wife, we are ruined.”
But his wife, who was a sensible woman, said: “Nonsense. If there is no
such thing as a blue rose we must make one. Go to the chemist and ask
him for a strong dye which will change a white rose into a blue one.”
So the shopkeeper went to the chemist and asked him for a dye, and the
chemist gave him a bottle of red liquid, telling him to pick a white
rose and to dip its stalk into the liquid and the rose would turn blue.
The shopkeeper did as he was told; the rose turned into a beautiful
blue and the shopkeeper took it to the merchant, who at once went with
it to the palace saying that he had found the blue rose.
He was ushered into the presence of the Emperor, who as soon as he saw
the blue rose sent for his daughter and said to her: “This wealthy
merchant has brought you what he claims to be the blue rose. Has he
accomplished the quest?”
The Princess took the flower in her hands and after examining it for
a moment said: “This is a white rose; its stalk has been dipped in a
poisonous dye and it has turned blue. Were a butterfly to settle upon
it, it would die of the potent fume. Take it back. I have no need of a
dyed rose.” And she returned it to the merchant with many elegantly
expressed thanks.
The other ninety-eight suitors all sought in various ways for the
blue rose. Some of them travelled all over the world seeking it; some
of them sought the aid of wizards and astrologers, and one did not
hesitate to invoke the help of the dwarfs that live underground; but
all of them, whether they travelled in far countries or took counsel
with wizards and demons or sat pondering in lonely places, failed to
find the blue rose.
At last they all abandoned the quest except the Lord Chief Justice,
who was the most skilful lawyer and statesman in the country. After
thinking over the matter for several months he sent for the most famous
artist in the country and said to him: “Make me a china cup. Let it be
milk-white in colour and perfect in shape, and paint on it a rose, a
blue rose.”
The artist made obeisance and withdrew, and worked for two months at
the Lord Chief Justice's cup. In two months' time it was finished, and
the world has never seen such a beautiful cup, so perfect in symmetry,
so delicate in texture, and the rose on it, the blue rose, was a living
flower, picked in fairyland and floating on the rare milky surface
of the porcelain. When the Lord Chief Justice saw it he gasped with
surprise and pleasure, for he was a great lover of porcelain, and never
in his life had he seen such a piece. He said to himself, “Without
doubt the blue rose is here on this cup and nowhere else.”
So, after handsomely rewarding the artist, he went to the Emperor's
palace and said that he had brought the blue rose. He was ushered into
the Emperor's presence, who as he saw the cup sent for his daughter and
said to her: “This eminent lawyer has brought you what he claims to be
the blue rose. Has he accomplished the quest?”
The Princess took the bowl in her hands, and after examining it for a
moment said: “This bowl is the most beautiful piece of china I have
ever seen. If you are kind enough to let me keep it I will put it aside
until I receive the blue rose. For so beautiful is it that no other
flower is worthy to be put in it except the blue rose.”
The Lord Chief Justice thanked the Princess for accepting the bowl with
many elegantly turned phrases, and he went away in discomfiture.
After this there was no one in the whole country who ventured on the
quest of the blue rose. It happened that not long after the Lord
Chief Justice's attempt a strolling minstrel visited the kingdom of
the Emperor. One evening he was playing his one-stringed instrument
outside a dark wall. It was a summer's evening, and the sun had sunk
in a glory of dusty gold, and in the violet twilight one or two stars
were twinkling like spear-heads. There was an incessant noise made by
the croaking of frogs and the chatter of grasshoppers. The minstrel
was singing a short song over and over again to a monotonous tune. The
sense of it was something like this:
I watched beside the willow trees
The river, as the evening fell,
The twilight came and brought no breeze,
Nor dew, nor water for the well.
When from the tangled banks of grass
A bird across the water flew,
And in the river's hard grey glass
I saw a flash of azure blue.
As he sang he heard a rustle on the wall, and looking up he saw a
slight figure white against the twilight, beckoning to him. He walked
along the wall until he came to a gate, and there someone was waiting
for him, and he was gently led into the shadow of a dark cedar tree.
In the dim twilight he saw two bright eyes looking at him, and he
understood their message. In the twilight a thousand meaningless
nothings were whispered in the light of the stars, and the hours fled
swiftly. When the East began to grow light, the Princess (for it was
she) said it was time to go.
“But,” said the minstrel, “to-morrow I shall come to the palace and ask
for your hand.”
“Alas!” said the Princess, “I would that were possible, but my father
has made a foolish condition that only he may wed me who finds the blue
rose.”
“That is simple,” said the minstrel. “I will find it.” And they said
good-night to each other.
The next morning the minstrel went to the palace, and on his way he
picked a common white rose from a wayside garden. He was ushered into
the Emperor's presence, who sent for his daughter and said to her:
“This penniless minstrel has brought you what he claims to be the blue
rose. Has he accomplished the quest?”
The Princess took the rose in her hands and said: “Yes, this is without
doubt the blue rose.”
But the Lord Chief Justice and all who were present respectfully
pointed out that the rose was a common white rose and not a blue one,
and the objection was with many forms and phrases conveyed to the
Princess.
“I think the rose is blue,” said the Princess. “Perhaps you are all
colour blind.”
The Emperor, with whom the decision rested, decided that if the
Princess thought the rose was blue it was blue, for it was well known
that her perception was more acute than that of any one else in the
kingdom.
So the minstrel married the Princess, and they settled on the sea coast
in a little seen house with a garden full of white roses, and they
lived happily for ever afterwards. And the Emperor, knowing that his
daughter had made a good match, died in peace.
MAURICE BARING.
THE TWO FROGS.
Once upon a time in the country of Japan there lived two frogs, one of
whom made his home in a ditch near the town of Osaka, on the sea coast,
while the other dwelt in a clear little stream which ran through the
city of Kioto. At such a great distance apart; they had never even
heard of each other; but, funnily enough, the idea came into both their
heads at once that they should like to see a little of the world, and
the frog who lived at Kioto wanted to visit Osaka, and the frog who
lived at Osaka wished to go to Kioto, where the great Mikado had his
palace.
So one fine morning, in the spring, they both set out along the road
that led from Kioto to Osaka, one from one end and the other from the
other.
The journey was more tiring than they expected, for they did not know
much about travelling, and half-way between the two towns there rose
a mountain which had to be climbed. It took them a long time and a
great many hops to reach the top, but there they were at last, and
what was the surprise of each to see another frog before him! They
looked at each other for a moment without speaking, and then fell into
conversation, and explained the cause of their meeting so far from
their homes. It was delightful to find that they both felt the same
wish--to learn a little more of their native country--and as there was
no sort of hurry they stretched themselves out in a cool, damp place,
and agreed that they would have a good rest before they parted to go
their ways.
“What a pity we are not bigger,” said the Osaka frog, “and then we
could see both towns from here and tell if it is worth our while going
on.”
“Oh, that is easily managed,” returned the Kioto frog. “We have only
got to stand up on our hind legs, and hold on to each other, and then
we can each look at the town he is travelling to.”
This idea pleased the Osaka frog so much that he at once jumped up and
put his front paws on the shoulder of his friend, who had risen also.
There they both stood, stretching themselves as high as they could, and
holding each other tightly, so that they might not fall down. The Kioto
frog turned his nose towards Osaka, and the Osaka frog turned his nose
towards Kioto; but the foolish things forgot that when they stood up
their great eyes lay in the backs of their heads, and that though their
noses might point to the places to which they wanted to go, their eyes
beheld the places from which they had come.
“Dear me!” cried the Osaka frog, “Kioto is exactly like Osaka. It is
certainly not worth such a long journey. I shall go home.”
“If I had had any idea that Osaka was only a copy of Kioto I should
never have travelled all this way,” exclaimed the frog from Kioto, and
as he spoke, he took his hands from his friend's shoulders and they
both fell down on the grass.
Then they took a polite farewell of each other, and set off for home
again, and to the end of their lives they believed that Osaka and
Kioto, which are as different to look at as two towns can be, were as
like as two peas.
THE WISE OLD SHEPHERD.
Once upon a time, a Snake went out of his hole to take an airing. He
crawled about, greatly enjoying the scenery and the fresh whiff of the
breeze, until, seeing an open door, he went in. Now this door was the
door of the palace of the King, and inside was the King himself, with
all his courtiers.
Imagine their horror at seeing a huge Snake crawling in at the door.
They all ran away except the King, who felt that his rank forbade him
to be a coward, and the King's son. The King called out for somebody to
come and kill the Snake; but this horrified them still more, because
in that country the people believed it to be wicked to kill any living
thing, even snakes and scorpions and wasps. So the courtiers did
nothing, but the young Prince obeyed his father, and killed the Snake
with his stick.
After a while the Snake's wife became anxious and set out in search of
her husband. She too saw the open door of the palace, and in she went.
O horror! there on the floor lay the body of her husband, all covered
with blood and quite dead. No one saw the Snake's Wife crawl in; she
inquired of a white ant what had happened, and when she found that the
young Prince had killed her husband, she made a vow that, as he had
made her a widow, so she would make his wife a widow.
That night, when all the world was asleep, the Snake crept into the
Prince's bedroom, and coiled round his neck. The Prince slept on,
and when he awoke in the morning, he was surprised to find his neck
encircled with the coils of a snake. He was afraid to stir, so there he
remained, until the Prince's mother became anxious and went to see what
was the matter. When she entered his room, and saw him in this plight,
she gave a loud shriek, and ran off to tell the King.
“Call the archers,” said the King.
The archers came, and the King told them to go to the Prince's room,
and shoot the Snake that was coiled about his neck. They were so
clever, that they could easily do this without hurting the Prince at
all.
In came the archers in a row, fitted the arrows to the bows, the bows
were raised and ready to shoot, when, on a sudden, from the Snake there
issued a voice which spoke as follows:
“O archers, wait, wait and hear me before you shoot. It is not fair to
carry out the sentence before you have heard the case. Is not this a
good law: an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth? Is it not so, O
King?”
“Yes,” replied the King, “that is our law.”
“Then,” said the Snake, “I plead the law. Your son has made me a widow,
so it is fair and right that I should make his wife a widow.”
“That sounds right enough,” said the King, “but right and law are not
always the same thing. We had better ask somebody who knows.”
They asked all the judges, but none of them could tell the law of the
matter. They shook their heads, and said they would look up all their
law-books, and see whether anything of the sort had ever happened
before, and if so, how it had been decided. That is the way judges used
to decide cases in that country, though I daresay it sounds to you a
very funny way. It looked as if they had not much sense in their own
heads, and perhaps that was true. The upshot of it all was that not a
judge would give an opinion; so the King sent messengers all over the
countryside, to see if they could find somebody who knew something.
One of these messengers found a party of five shepherds, who were
sitting upon a hill and trying to decide a quarrel of their own. They
gave their opinions so freely, and in language so very strong, that
the King's messenger said to himself, “Here are the men for us. Here
are five men, each with an opinion of his own, and all different.”
Post-haste he scurried back to the King, and told him that he had
found at last some one ready to judge the knotty point.
So the King and the Queen, and the Prince and Princess, and all the
courtiers, got on horseback, and away they galloped to the hill
whereupon the five shepherds were sitting, and the Snake too went with
them, coiled round the neck of the Prince.
When they got to the shepherds' hill, the shepherds were dreadfully
frightened. At first they thought that the strangers were a gang of
robbers, and when they saw it was the King their next thought was
that one of their misdeeds had been found out; and each of them began
thinking what was the last thing he had done, and wondering, was it
that?
But the King and the courtiers got off their horses, and said good day
in the most civil way. So the shepherds felt their minds set at ease
again. Then the King said:
“Worthy shepherds, we have a question to put to you, which not all the
judges in all the courts of my city have been able to solve. Here is my
son, and here, as you see, is a snake coiled round his neck. Now, the
husband of this Snake came creeping into my palace hall, and my son the
Prince killed him; so this Snake, who is the wife of the other, says
that, as my son has made her a widow, so she has a right to widow my
son's wife. What do you think about it?”
The first shepherd said: “I think she is quite right, my Lord the King.
If anyone made my wife a widow, I would pretty soon do the same to him.”
This was brave language, and the other shepherds shook their heads and
looked fierce. But the King was puzzled, and could not quite understand
it. You see, in the first place, if the man's wife were a widow,
the man would be dead; and then it is hard to see that he could do
anything. So, to make sure, the King asked the second shepherd whether
that was his opinion too.
“Yes,” said the second shepherd; “now the Prince has killed the Snake,
the Snake has a right to kill the Prince if he can.” But that was not
of much use either, as the Snake was as dead as a door-nail. So the
King passed on to the third.
“I agree with my mates,” said the third shepherd. “Because, you see, a
Prince is a Prince, but then a Snake is a Snake.” That was quite true,
they all admitted, but it did not seem to help the matter much. Then
the King asked the fourth shepherd to say what he thought.
The fourth shepherd said: “An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth;
so I think a widow should be a widow, if so be she don't marry again.”
By this time the poor King was so puzzled that he hardly knew whether
he stood on his head or his heels. But there was still the fifth
shepherd left; the oldest and wisest of them all; and the fifth
shepherd said:
“King, I should like to ask two questions.”
“Ask twenty, if you like,” said the King. He did not promise to answer
them, so he could afford to be generous.
“First, I ask the Princess how many sons she has?”
“Four,” said the Princess.
“And how many sons has Mistress Snake here?”
“Seven,” said the Snake.
“Then,” said the old shepherd, “it will be quite fair for Mistress
Snake to kill his Highness the Prince when her Highness the Princess
has had three sons more.”
“I never thought of that,” said the Snake. “Good-bye, King, and all
you good people. Send a message when the Princess has had three more
sons, and you may count upon me--I will not fail you.”
So saying, she uncoiled from the Prince's neck and slid away among the
grass.
The King and the Prince and everybody shook hands with the wise old
shepherd, and went home again. And the Princess never had any more sons
at all. She and the Prince lived happily for many years; and if they
are not dead they are living still.
_From “The Talking Thrush.”_
THE TRUE SPIRIT OF A FESTIVAL DAY.
And it came to pass that the Buddha was born a Hare and lived in a
wood; on one side was the foot of a mountain, on another a river, on
the third side a border village.
And with him lived three friends: a Monkey, a Jackal and an Otter; each
of these creatures got food on his own hunting ground. In the evening
they met together, and the Hare taught his companions many wise things:
that the moral laws should be observed, that alms should be given to
the poor, and that holy days should be kept.
One day the Buddha said: “To-morrow is a fast day. Feed any beggars
that come to you by giving food from your own table.” They all
consented.
The next day the Otter went down to the bank of the Ganges to seek
his prey. Now a fisherman had landed seven red fish and had buried
them in the sand on the river's bank while he went down the stream
catching more fish. The Otter scented the buried fish, dug up the sand
till he came upon them, and he called aloud: “Does any one own these
fish?” And not seeing the owner, he laid the fish in the jungle where
he dwelt, intending to eat them at a fitting time. Then he lay down,
thinking how virtuous he was.
The Jackal also went off in search of food, and found in the hut of a
field watcher a lizard, two spits, and a pot of milk-curd.
And, after thrice crying aloud, “To whom do these belong?” and not
finding an owner, he put on his neck the rope for lifting the pot, and
grasping the spits and lizard with his teeth, he laid them in his own
lair, thinking, “In due season I will devour them,” and then he lay
down, thinking how virtuous he had been.
The Monkey entered the clump of trees, and gathering a bunch of
mangoes, laid them up in his part of the jungle, meaning to eat them in
due season. He then lay down and thought how virtuous he had been.
But the Hare (who was the Buddha-to-be) in due time came out, thinking
to lie (in contemplation) on the Kuca grass. “It is impossible for me
to offer grass to any beggars who may chance to come by, and I have no
oil or rice or fish. If any beggar come to me, I will give him (of) my
own flesh to eat.”
Now when Sakka, the King of the Gods, heard this thing, he determined
to put the Royal Hare to the test. So he came in disguise of a Brahmin
to the Otter and said: “Wise Sir, if I could get something to eat, I
would perform all my priestly duties.”
The Otter said: “I will give you food. Seven red fish have I safely
brought to land from the sacred river of the Ganges. Eat thy fill, O
Brahmin, and stay in this wood.”
And the Brahmin said: “Let it be until to-morrow, and I will see to it
then.”
Then he went to the Jackal, who confessed that he had stolen the food,
but he begged the Brahmin to accept it and remain in the wood; but the
Brahmin said: “Let it be until the morrow, and then I will see to it.”
And he came to the Monkey, who offered him the mangoes, and the Brahmin
answered in the same way.
Then the Brahmin went to the wise Hare, and the Hare said: “Behold, I
will give you of my flesh to eat. But you must not take life on this
holy day. When you have piled up the logs I will sacrifice myself by
falling into the midst of the flames, and when my body is roasted you
shall eat my flesh and perform all your priestly duties.”
Now when Sakka heard these words he caused a heap of burning coals
to appear, and the Wisdom Being, rising from the grass, came to the
place, but before casting himself into the flames he shook himself,
lest perchance there should be any insects in his coat who might suffer
death. Then, offering his body as a free gift, he sprang up, and like
a royal swan, lighting on a bed of lotus in an ecstasy of joy, he
fell on the heap of live coals. But the flame failed even to heat the
pores or the hair on the body of the Wisdom Being, and it was as if he
had entered a region of frost. Then he addressed the Brahmin in these
words: “Brahmin, the fire that you have kindled is icy cold; it fails
to heat the pores or the hair on my body. What is the meaning of this?”
“O most wise Hare! I am Sakka, and have come to put your virtue to the
test.”
And the Buddha in a sweet voice said: “No god or man could find in me
an unwillingness to die.”
Then Sakka said: “O wise Hare, be thy virtue known to all the ages to
come.”
And seizing the mountain he squeezed out the juice and daubed on the
moon the signs of the young hare.
Then he placed him back on the grass that he might continue his Sabbath
meditation, and returned to Heaven.
And the four creatures lived together and kept the moral law.
FILIAL PIETY.
Now it came to pass that the Buddha was re-born in the shape of a
Parrot, and he greatly excelled all other parrots in his strength and
beauty. And when he was full grown his father, who had long been the
leader of the flock in their flights to other climes, said to him: “My
son, behold my strength is spent! Do thou lead the flock, for I am no
longer able.” And the Buddha said: “Behold, thou shalt rest. I will
lead the birds.” And the parrots rejoiced in the strength of their new
leader, and willingly did they follow him. Now from that day on, the
Buddha undertook to feed his parents, and would not consent that they
should do any more work. Each day he led his flock to the Himalaya
Hills, and when he had eaten his fill of the clumps of rice that grew
there, he filled his beak with food for the dear parents who were
waiting his return.
Now there was a man appointed to watch the rice-fields, and he did his
best to drive the parrots away, but there seemed to be some secret
power in the leader of this flock which the Keeper could not overcome.
He noticed that the Parrots ate their fill and then flew away, but that
the Parrot-King not only satisfied his hunger, but carried away rice in
his beak.
Now he feared there would be no rice left, and he went to his master
the Brahmin to tell him what had happened; and even as the master
listened there came to him the thought that the Parrot-King was
something higher than he seemed, and he loved him even before he saw
him. But he said nothing of this, and only warned the Keeper that he
should set a snare and catch the dangerous bird. So the man did as he
was bidden: he made a small cage and set the snare, and sat down in
his hut waiting for the birds to come. And soon he saw the Parrot-King
amidst his flock, who, because he had no greed, sought no richer spot,
but flew down to the same place in which he had fed the day before.
Now, no sooner had he touched the ground that he felt his feet caught
in the noose. Then fear crept into his bird-heart, but a stronger
feeling was there to crush it down, for he thought: “If I cry out the
Cry of the Captured, my Kinsfolk will be terrified, and they will fly
away foodless. But if I lie still, then their hunger will be satisfied,
and they may safely come to my aid.” Thus was the Parrot both brave and
prudent.
But alas! he did not know that his Kinsfolk had nought of his brave
spirit. When _they_ had eaten their fill, though they heard the
thrice-uttered cry of the captured, they flew away, nor heeded the sad
plight of their leader.
Then was the heart of the Parrot-King sore within him, and he said:
“All these my kith and kin, and not one to look back on me. Alas! what
sin have I done?”
The Watchman now heard the cry of the Parrot-King, and the sound of the
other Parrots flying through the air. “What is that?” he cried, and
leaving his hut he came to the place where he had laid the snare. There
he found the captive Parrot; he tied his feet together and brought him
to the Brahmin, his master. Now, when the Brahmin saw the Parrot-King,
he felt his strong power, and his heart was full of love to him, but he
hid his feelings, and said in a voice of anger: “Is thy greed greater
than that of all other birds? They eat their fill, but thou takest away
each day more food than thou canst eat. Doest thou this out of hatred
for me, or dost thou store up the food in some granary for selfish
greed?”