"Allah preserve you, neighbour!" said he. "May your health be better

than that of our departed friend, who will return to you no more. The

big pan is dead."

"Nonsense, Khoja Effendi!" said the neighbour, "You know well enough

that a pan cannot die."

"You were quite willing to believe that it had had a child," said the

Khoja; "it seems odd you cannot believe that it is dead."

_Tale_ 21.--The Day of the Month.

One day Khoja Effendi walked into the bazaar. As he went about among the

buyers and sellers, a man came up to him and said, "Is it the third or

fourth day of the month to-day?"

"How should I know?" replied the Khoja. "I don't deal in the moon."

_Tale_ 22.--The Khoja's Dream.

One night when he was asleep the Khoja dreamed that he found nine pieces

of money.

"Bountiful heaven!" said he, "let me have been mistaken. I will count

them afresh. Let there be ten!" And when he counted them there were ten.

Then he said, "Let there be nineteen!" And vehemently contending for

nineteen he awoke. But when he was awake and found that there was

nothing in his hands, he shut his eyes again, and stretching his hands

out said, "Make it nine pieces, I'll not say another word."

_Tale_ 23.--The Old Moon.

One day some of the neighbours said, "Let us ask this Khoja something

that will puzzle him, and see what he will say." So they came to the

Khoja and said, "The moon is on the wane, Khoja Effendi, and we shall

soon have a new one; what will be done with the old moon?"

"They will break it up and make stars of it," said the Khoja.

_Tale_ 24.--The Short Piece of Muslin.

One day Nasr-ed-Deen Effendi was tying a new piece of muslin for his

turban, when to his annoyance he discovered that it was too short. He

tried a second time, but still it was not long enough, and he spoiled

his turban, and lost his temper. Much vexed with the muslin, the Khoja

took it to the bazaar, and gave it in to be sold by auction.

By and by the sale began, and after a time the muslin was put up, and a

man came forward and began to bid. Another man bid against him, and the

first man continued to raise his price.

The Khoja was standing near, and at last he could bear it no longer.

"That rascal of a muslin has cheated me and put me to infinite

inconvenience," said he; "it played me false; and am I bound to conceal

its deficiencies?"

Then he came softly up to the highest bidder, and whispered, "Take care

what you are about, brother, in buying that muslin. It's a short

length."

_Tale_ 25.--The Khoja Peeps Into Futurity.

Having need of a stout piece of wood, the Khoja one day decided to cut

off a certain branch from a tree that belonged to him, as he perceived

that it would serve his purpose.

Taking, therefore, his axe in his hand, and tucking his skirts into his

girdle, he climbed the tree, and the branch he desired being firm and

convenient, he seated himself upon it, and then began to hack and hew.

As he sat and chopped a man passed by below him, who called out and

said, "O stupid man! What are you doing? When the branch is cut through

you will certainly fall to the ground."

"Are the decrees of the future less veiled from this man than from me,

who am a Khoja?" said Nasr-ed-Deen Effendi to himself, and he made the

man no reply, but chopped on.

In a few moments the branch gave way, and the Khoja fell to the ground.

When he recovered himself he jumped up, and ran after the man who had

warned him.

[Illustration: THE KHOJA FALLS.]

"O you fellow!" cried he. "It has happened to me even as you foretold.

At the moment when the branch was cut through I fell to the ground. Now,

therefore, since the future is open to thee, I beseech thee to tell me

the day of my death."

"This madness is greater than the other," replied the man. "The day of

death is among the hidden counsels of the Most High."

But the Khoja held him by the gown and continued to urge him, saying,

"You told me when I should fall from the tree, and it came to pass to

the moment. Tell me now how long I have to live." And as he would not

release him, but kept crying, "How much time have I left?" the man lost

patience, and said, "O fool! there is no more time left to thee. The

days of the years of thy life are numbered."

"Then I am dead, lo I am dead!" said the Khoja, and he lay down, and

stiffened himself, and did not move.

By and by his neighbours came and stood at his head, and having observed

him, they brought a bier and laid him on it, saying, "Let us take him to

his own house."

Now in the way thither there was in the road a boggy place, which it was

difficult to pass, and the bearers of the bier stood still and

consulted, saying, "Which way shall we go?"

And they hesitated so long that the Khoja, becoming impatient, raised

his head from the bier, and said, "_That's_ the way I used to go myself,

when I was alive."

_Tale_ 26.--The Two Moons.

On a certain day when the Khoja went to Sur-Hissar he saw a group of

persons looking at the new moon.

"What extraordinary people the men of this place must be!" said he, "In

our country the moon may be seen as large as a plate, and no one

troubles his head about it, and here people stare at it when it is only

a quarter the size."

_Tale_ 27.--The Khoja Preaching.

One of the Khoja's duties--as a religious teacher--was to preach to the

people. But once upon a time he became very lazy about this, and was

always seeking an excuse to shorten or omit his sermons.

On a certain day about this time he mounted into the pulpit, and looking

down on the congregation assembled to listen to him, he stretched forth

his hands and cried, "Ah, Believers! what shall I say to you?"

And the men beat upon their breasts, and replied with one voice, "We do

not know, most holy Khoja! we do not know."

"Oh, if you don't know--" said the Khoja indignantly, and gathering his

robe about him, he quitted the pulpit without another word.

The men looked at each other in dismay, for the Khoja was a very

popular preacher.

[Illustration: THE KHOJA PREACHES.]

"We have done wrong," said they, "though we know not how; without doubt

our ignorance is an offence to his learning. Wherefore, if he comes

again, whatever he says to us we will seem as if we knew all about it."

The following week the Khoja got again into the pulpit, from which he

could see a larger assembly than before.

"O ye Muslims!" he began, "what am I to say--"

But before the words were fairly out of his mouth the congregation cried

out with one voice, "_We_ know, good Khoja! We know!"

"Oh, if you _know_--" said the Khoja sarcastically, and shrugging his

shoulders, and lifting his eyebrows, he left the place as one who feels

that he can be of no further use.

"This is worse than before," said the Muslims in despair. But after a

while they took counsel, and said, "Let him come once more, and we will

not lose our sermon this time. If he asks the same question we will

reply that some of us know, but that some of us do not know."

So when the Khoja next appeared before the congregation, and after he

had cried as before, "O Brethren! do ye know what I am about to say?"

they answered, "Some of us know, but some of us do not know."

"How nice!" said the Khoja, smiling benevolently upon the crowd beneath

him, as he prepared to take his departure. "Then those of you who know

can explain it all to those who do not know."

_Tale_ 28.--The Khoja and the Horsemen.

One day when Khoja Effendi was crossing a certain desert plain a troop

of horsemen suddenly appeared riding towards him.

"No doubt these are Bedawee robbers," thought the Khoja, "who will kill

me without remorse for the sake of the Cadi's ferejeh which I wear." And

in much alarm he hastened towards a cemetery which he had perceived to

be near. Here he quickly stripped off his clothes, and, having hidden

them, crept naked into an empty tomb and lay down.

But the horsemen pursued after him, and by and by they came into the

cemetery, and one of them peeped into the tomb and saw the Khoja.

"Here is the man we saw!" cried the horseman; and he said to the Khoja,

"What are you lying there for, and where are your clothes?"

"The dead have no possessions, O Bedawee!" replied the Khoja. "I am

buried here. If you saw me on the plain as I used to appear in life,

without doubt you are one of those who can see ghosts and apparitions."

_Tale_ 29.--The Ox Trespassing.

One day Khoja Effendi, repairing to a piece of ground which belonged to

him, found that a strange ox had got into the enclosure. The Khoja took

a thick stick to beat it with, but the beast, seeing him coming, ran

away and escaped.

Next week the Khoja met a Turk driving the ox, which was harnessed to a

waggon.

Thereupon the Khoja took a stick in his hand, and, running after the ox,

belaboured it soundly. "O man!" cried the Turk, "what are you beating my

beast for?"

"Hold your tongue, you fool," said the Khoja, "and don't meddle with

what doesn't concern you. _The ox knows well enough._"

_Tale_ 30.--The Khoja's Camel.

The next time Khoja Effendi was obliged to take a journey he resolved to

accompany a caravan for protection.

Now the Khoja had lately become possessed of a valuable camel, and he

said to himself, "I will ride my camel instead of going on foot; the

journey will then be a pleasure, and I shall not be fatigued." So he

mounted the camel and set forth.

But as he was riding with the caravan the camel stumbled, and the Khoja

was thrown off and severely hurt. The people of the caravan coming to

his assistance found that he was stunned, but after a while they

succeeded in restoring him.

When the Khoja came to his senses he tore his clothes, and cried in

great rage and indignation, "O Muslims! you do not know what care I have

taken of this camel, and this is how I am rewarded! Will no one kill it

for me? It has done its best to kill me."

But his friends said, "Be appeased, most worthy Effendi, we could not

kill your valuable camel."

"O benefactors!" replied the Khoja, "since you desire the brute's life

it must be spared. But it shall have no home with me. I am about to

drive it into the desert, where it may stumble to its heart's content."

So the Khoja drove the camel away; but before he did so he tore the

furniture and trappings furiously from its back, crying, "I won't leave

you a rag, you ungrateful beast!"

And he pursued his journey on foot, carrying the camel's furniture as

best as he might.

_Tale_ 31.--An Open Question.

The Khoja wanted vegetables for cooking, so he took a sack and slipped

into a neighbouring garden, which was abundantly supplied. He picked

some herbs, and pulled up some turnips, and got a little of everything

he could find to fill his bag. Both hands were full, when the gardener

suddenly appeared and seized him.

"What are you doing here?" said the gardener.

The Khoja was confounded, and not being able to find a good excuse, he

said, "A very strong wind blew during the night. Having driven me a long

way, it blew me here."

"Oh," said the gardener; "but who plucked these herbs which I see in

your hands?"

"The wind was so very strong," answered the Khoja, "that when it blew me

into this place I clutched with both hands at the first things I could

lay hold of, lest it should drive me further. And so they remain in my

grasp."

"Oh," said the gardener; "but who put these into the sack, I wonder?"

"That is just what puzzles me," the Khoja replied; "I was thinking about

it when you came in."

_Tale_ 32.--The Spurting Fountain.

One summer's day the Khoja had come a long way, and was very hot and

thirsty. By and by he perceived a fountain, of which the pipe was

stopped up with a piece of wood.

"Now I shall quench my thirst," said the Khoja, and he pulled out the

stopper, on which the water rushed out with vehement force over the

Khoja's head, and drenched him in a moment.

"Ah!" cried the Khoja angrily, "it's because of your running so madly

that they have stuck that stick into you, I suppose."

_Tale_ 33.--Well-meant Soup.

One day as the Khoja was returning home he met a party of students

walking together.

"Good-evening, Effendis!" said he. "Pray come home with me, and we will

have some soup."

The students did not think twice about accepting the invitation, and

they followed the Khoja home to his house.

"Pray be seated," said the Khoja, and when they had seated themselves he

went to the upper room. "Wife," said he, "I have brought home some

guests. Let us give them a good bowl of soup."

"O Effendi!" cried the wife, "is there any butter in the house? Is there

any rice? Have you brought anything home for me to make it of, that you

ask for soup?"

"Give me the soup-bowl," said the Khoja. Then taking the empty bowl in

his hand he returned to the students.

"O Effendis!" said he, "be good enough, I beseech you, to take the will

for the deed. You are indeed most welcome, and if there had been butter

or rice, or anything else in our house, you would have had excellent

soup out of this very bowl."

_Tale_ 34.--The Khoja and the Ten Blind Men.

Once upon a time Khoja Nasr-ed-Deen, wandering by the banks of a river,

came to a certain ford near which he seated himself to rest.

By and by came ten blind men, who were desirous of crossing the river,

and they agreed with the Khoja that he should help them across for the

payment of one penny each.

The Khoja accordingly exerted himself to the utmost of his power, and he

got nine of the blind men safely across; but as he was helping the

tenth, the man lost his footing, and in spite of the Khoja's efforts the

river overpowered him, and bore him away.

Thereupon the nine blind men on the opposite shore set up a lamentable

wail, crying, "What has happened, O Khoja?"

"One penny less to pay than you expected," said the Khoja.

_Tale_ 35.--The End of the World.

Now Khoja Nasr-ed-Deen Effendi had a lamb which he brought up and

fattened with much care.

[Illustration: THE KHOJA RECOMPENSES HIS FRIENDS.]

Some of his friends were very desirous to get hold of this lamb and make

a feast of it. So they came to the Khoja and begged him earnestly to

give up the lamb for a feast, but the Khoja would not consent.

At last one day came one of them and said, "O Khoja! to-morrow is the

end of the world. What will you do with this lamb on the last day? We

may as well eat it this evening."

"If it be so, let us do as you say," replied the Khoja, for he thought

that the man was in earnest. So they lighted the fire and roasted the

lamb, and had an excellent feast. But the Khoja perceived that they had

played a trick upon him.

By and by his friends went to some little distance to play games

together, but the Khoja would not accompany them, so they left their

upper garments in his charge and departed to their amusements.

When they were gone the Khoja took the clothes and put them on to the

fire where the lamb had been roasted, and burnt them all.

After a while the friends returned and found their robes burnt to ashes.

"O Khoja!" they cried, "who has burnt our clothes? Alas, alas! what

shall we do?"

"Never mind," said the Khoja, "to-morrow the world comes to an end, you

know. You would not have wanted them for long."

_Tale_ 36.--The Dog on the Tomb.

One day the Khoja was wandering among the tombs. As he strolled along he

perceived a dog lying upon a grave-stone.

Indignant at this profanation of a tomb, the Khoja took a stout stick

and made up his mind to chastise the intruder. But the dog, who saw what

was coming, got up and prepared to fly at him.

The Khoja never ran any unnecessary risk. When he perceived that the dog

was about to attack him, and that he would have the worst of it, he

lowered his stick.

"Pray don't disturb yourself," said he; "I give in."

_Tale_ 37.--The Khoja and the Mullas.

Once upon a time the Khoja, riding on his donkey, was proceeding to a

certain place to give public instruction, when he was followed by

several law-students, who walked behind him.

Perceiving this, the Khoja dismounted, and got up again with his face to

the donkey's tail.

"O Khoja!" cried the Mullas, "why do you ride backwards?"

"It is the only way in which we can show each other proper civility,"

replied the Khoja; "for when I ride in the usual fashion, if you walk

behind me I turn my back on you, and if you walk before me you turn your

backs on me."

_Tale_ 38.--The Students and the Khoja's Wife.

Khoja Nasr-ed-Deen Effendi met a party of students who were walking

together.

"Allow me to join you, worthy Effendis," said he, "and if it is

agreeable to you we will proceed to my house."

"With the greatest possible pleasure," replied all the students, and the

Khoja, beguiling the way with smart sayings and agreeable compliments,

led them to the door of his dwelling.

"Be good enough to wait an instant," said the Khoja, and the students

waited whilst the Khoja entered his house, where--being in a mischievous

mood--he said to his wife, "O wife, go down and send those men away who

are hanging about the door. If they want me, say that I have not come

home."

So the woman went down and said, "The Khoja has not come home,

gentlemen."

"What are you talking about?" cried the students; "he came home with

us."

"He's not at home, I tell you," said the Khoja's wife.

"We know that he is," said the students.

"He's not," repeated the woman.

"He is," reiterated the students.

[Illustration: THE KHOJA IS NOT AT HOME.]

And so they contradicted each other and bandied words, till the Khoja,

who was listening from above, put his head out of the window and cried,

"Neither you nor my wife have any sense in your heads. Don't you see

there are two doors to the place? If he did come in by one he may have

gone out again through the other."

_Tale_ 39.--The Khoja and His Guest.

One day a man came to the Khoja and became his guest for the night.

When they had had supper they lay down to sleep.

After a while the light went out; but the Khoja was lazy, and pretended

not to observe it, for he did not want to get up.

"Khoja! Khoja!" cried the guest.

"What's the matter?" said the Khoja.

"Don't you see that the light's gone out?" said the guest.

"I see nothing," said the Khoja.

"It's pitch dark," complained the guest: "do get up and see if you have

a candle in the house."

"You must be mad," replied the Khoja; "am I a cat? If it is really as

dark as you say how can I possibly see whether I have got any or not?"

_Tale_ 40.--The Wise Donkey.

Once upon a time the Khoja was smoking in his garden, when a certain man

came to borrow his donkey.

Now this man was cruel to animals, therefore the Khoja did not like to

lend him his beast; but as he was also a man of some consideration, the

Khoja hesitated to refuse point blank.

"O Effendi!" said he, "I will gladly lend you my donkey, but he is a

very wise animal, and knows what is about to befall him. If he foresees

good luck for this journey all will be well, and you could not have a

better beast. But if he foresees evil he will be of no use, and I should

be ashamed to offer him to you."

"Be good enough to inquire of him," said the borrower.

Thereupon the Khoja departed on pretence of taking counsel with his

donkey. But he only smoked another pipe in his garden, and then returned

to the man, who was anxiously awaiting him, and whom he saluted with all

possible politeness, saying--

"May it be far from you, most worthy Effendi, ever to experience such

misfortune as my wise donkey foresees on this occasion!"

"What does he foresee?" inquired the borrower.

[Illustration: THE KHOJA AND HIS DONKEY.]

"Broken knees, sore ribs, aching bones, long marches, and short meals,"

said the Khoja.

Then the man looked foolish, and sneaked away without reply.

But the Khoja went back to his pipe.

_Tale_ 41.--The Khoja's Horse.

Once upon a time the Khoja was travelling in company with a caravan,

when they halted for the night at a certain place, and all the horses

were tied up together.

Next morning the Khoja could not for the life of him remember which was

his own horse, and he was much afraid of being cheated if he confessed

this to the rest.

So, as they were all coming out, he seized his bow and arrow, and aimed

among the horses at random.

"Don't shoot!" cried the men; "what is the matter?"

"I am desperate," replied the Khoja; "I am determined to kill somebody's

horse, so let every one look to his own."

Laughing at the Khoja's folly, each man untied his own horse as quickly

as possible, and took it away.

Then the Khoja knew that the one left was his own.

He at once proceeded to mount, but putting his right foot into the

stirrup, he came round with his face to the tail.

"What makes you get up backwards, Khoja?" said his friends.

"It is not I who am in the wrong," said the Khoja, "but the horse that

is left-handed."

_Tale_ 42.--The Khoja on the Bey's Horse.

On a certain occasion Khoja Nasr-ed-Deen went to see the Bey, and the

Bey invited him to go out hunting.

The Khoja agreed, but when they were about to start he found that he had

been mounted on a horse which would not move out of a snail's pace. He

said nothing, however, for it is not well to be too quick in seeing

affronts.

By and by it began to rain heavily. The Bey and the rest of the party

galloped off with all speed towards shelter, and the Khoja was left in

the lurch.

When they were all out of sight the Khoja got down and took off all his

clothes and folded them neatly together, and put them on the saddle.

Then he got up again and sat on his clothes, to keep them dry.

By and by the rain ceased, and the Khoja dressed himself and went

leisurely home. When he reached the Bey's palace all the guests were

assembled, and presently the Bey perceived him and cried out, "Why, here

is the worthy Khoja! And--how extraordinary!--his clothes are not as wet

as ours."

"Why do you not praise the horse on which you mounted me?" answered the

Khoja; "it carried me through the storm without a single thread of my

clothes being wet."

"They must have made a mistake about the horses," thought the Bey to

himself, and he invited the Khoja to go hunting on the following day.

The Khoja accepted, and when the time came he was mounted on the horse

which the Bey had ridden the day before, and the Bey seated himself on

that which had carried the Khoja with dry clothes through the shower.

By and by it began to rain; every one rode off as usual, and this time

the Khoja among them.

The Bey, however, could not induce his horse to stir out of a foot's

pace, and when he arrived at his palace he was drenched to the skin.

"Wretched man!" he cried to the Khoja, "is it not through you that I

was induced to ride this useless horse?"

"Most eminent Bey," replied the Khoja, "the beast has treated you no

worse than he served me. But perhaps your Eminence did not think of

taking off your clothes and sitting on them?"

_Tale_ 43.--The Khoja's Donkey brays to Good Purpose.

One day the Khoja dismounted at the door of a shop, and threw his

woollen pelisse on the donkey's back till he should return. He then went

in to buy sweetmeats.

In a few minutes there passed a man, who snatched the woollen pelisse

from the donkey's back, and went off with it. At this moment the donkey

began to bray.

"O bawl away!" cried the Khoja, who had come out just in time to see his

pelisse disappear; "much good that will do."

But as it happened, when the man heard the noise he was afraid of being

caught, and, throwing the pelisse back on to the donkey, he ran away as

hard as he could.

[Illustration: THE KHOJA PRAYS.]

_Tale_ 44.--The Khoja's Left Leg.

During one very hot season there was a scarcity of water in the city.

One day, the Khoja was performing his religious ablutions: he washed

himself all over with the exception of his left leg, but before that

could be washed the water was all used up.

When the Khoja began to recite the customary prayers he stood on one leg

like a goose.

"O Khoja Effendi!" cried the people, "why do you pray standing on your

right leg?"

"I could not pray on my left leg," said the Khoja; "it has not performed

the appointed ablutions."

_Tale_ 45.--"Figs Would Be More Acceptable."

Nasr-ed-Deen Effendi had some plums, of which he resolved to make a

present to the Bey. He therefore took three of them, and putting them on

a fine tray, he carried them into the royal presence, and duly offered

them for the Bey's acceptance.

Being in a good humour, the Bey took the present in good part, and gave

the Khoja several pence in return.

After some days the Khoja thought he would take something else to the

Bey, and having some fine large beetroots, he set off as before.

On his way to the palace he met a man, who saluted him.

"What are you doing with all those beetroots?" said he.

"I am about to present them to the Bey," replied the Khoja.

"Figs would be more acceptable, I should think," said the man.

The Khoja pursued his journey, but as he went the man's words troubled

him--"Figs would be more acceptable."

At last he perceived a fig-tree by the roadside, so, throwing away all

the beetroots, he put two or three figs in their place, and having

arrived at the palace, he presented them to the Bey.

But this time the Bey was not in a good humour.

"What madman is this," he cried, "who mocks me by the gift of a few

worthless figs? Throw them at his head and drive him away!"

So they pelted the Khoja with his figs, and drove him out. But as he

ran, instead of cursing his ill luck, the Khoja gave thanks for his good

fortune.

"This is indeed madness," cried the servants of the Bey; "for what, O

Khoja, do you return thanks, after this ignominious treatment?"

"O ignorant time-servers," replied the Khoja, "I have good reason to

give thanks. For I was bringing beetroots to the Bey--large beetroots,

and many of them--and I met a man who persuaded me, saying, "Figs would

be more acceptable," so I brought figs; and you have cast them at my

head. But there were few of them, and they are soft, and I am none the

worse. If, however, I had not by good luck thrown away the beetroots,

which are hard, my skull would certainly have been cracked."

_Tale_ 46.--Timur and the One-legged Geese.

One day the Khoja caused a goose to be cooked. He was about to present

it to the King.

When it was nicely done he set off with it, but on the road he became

very hungry. If the smell of it were to be trusted it was a most

delicious bird! At last the Khoja could resist no longer, and he tore

off a leg and ate it with much relish.

On arriving in the royal presence he placed the goose before Timur the

King, who, when he had examined the Khoja's gift, was exceedingly

annoyed.

"This Khoja is deriding me!" said he. And then in a voice of thunder he

demanded, "_Where is the other leg?_"

"The geese of our country are one-legged," replied Nasr-ed-Deen, with

much gravity. "If your Majesty does not believe me, be good enough to

let your eyes be informed of the truth of what I say by looking at the

geese at yonder spring."

As it happened there were a number of geese at the fountain, and they

were all standing on one leg.

The King could not help laughing, but he called to his drummers and

said, "March towards yonder fountain, and lay your drumsticks well about

your drums."

The drummers forthwith began to drum, and they rattled away so heartily

that all the geese put down their legs and ran off in alarm.

"O Khoja!" cried Timur, "how is this? All your geese have become

two-legged!"

"It is the effect of your Majesty's wonderful drumsticks," replied the

Khoja. "If you were to eat one of them, you yourself would undoubtedly

become four-legged."

_Tale_ 47.--The Khoja Rewards the Frogs.

Khoja Nasr-ed-Deen Effendi had been riding his donkey for some miles. It

was very hot, and the Khoja dismounted to ease his beast. At this moment

they came within sight of a pond, and the donkey smelling the water set

off towards it as hard as he could canter.

The side of the pond was very steep, and in its haste the donkey would

probably have fallen in, but that the frogs set up such a terrific

croaking at its approach that the beast, in alarm, turned sharply round,

and was caught by its master.

The Khoja was not wanting in grateful and liberal feelings.

"Well done, my little pond-birds!" said he, throwing a handful of coins

into the water. "Divide that among you to buy sweetmeats with."

_Tale_ 48.--The Khoja reproaches his Cock.

Once upon a time the Khoja was carrying his fowls in a cage to the city

for sale.

As he went along he began to feel sorry for them.

"O my soul!" said he, "these poor fowls are sadly imprisoned. I will let

them go a little." So he opened the cage, and the birds scrambled out.

One ran one way, and another another; but the Khoja contrived to keep up

with the cock, which he drove before him with his stick, the poor bird

waddling hither and thither, and fluttering from side to side with

distress and indecision pitiable to behold.

On seeing this the Khoja began to reproach him. "You never thought it

would come to this, my fine bird, did you?" said he. "And yet what a

wiseacre you are! You know when it's day better than the sun himself,

and can crow loud enough for all the world to hear your wisdom."

The poor cock made no reply, but waddled on with hoarse cries and

flapping wings.

"You're a poor prophet!" said the Khoja. "You know that it is morning in

the middle of the night: how is it you could not foresee that you were

to be driven to market? Thus--and thus!" And turning him at every corner

by which he would escape, the Khoja drove the distracted cock into the

city.

_Tale_ 49.--Hare-soup.

One day there came a man from the village who made the Khoja a present

of a hare.

The Khoja brought him in, treating him with all honour and hospitality,

and gave him some rich and excellent soup.

In a week's time the man called again; but the Khoja had forgotten him,

and said, "Who are you?"

"I am the man who brought the hare," he replied. The Khoja entertained

him as before, though the soup was not quite so rich.

After a few days came some men who desired to be guests to the Khoja.

"Who are you?" said he.

"We are neighbours of the man who brought the hare," said they.

This time the soup was certainly thin, but that did not hinder the

arrival of some fresh guests in a very few days.

"Who are you?" said the Khoja.

"We are neighbours of the neighbours of the man who brought the hare,"

was the reply.

"You are welcome," said their host; and he set a bowl of clear water

before them.

"What is this, O Khoja?" cried the men.

"It is soup of soup of soup of the hare-soup," answered the Khoja.

_Tale_ 50.--The Khoja out Fishing.

One day the Khoja accompanied some men who were going a-fishing, and he

became much excited in watching the sport.

Suddenly, as they cast the net into the sea, the Khoja threw himself

into it.

"What can you be thinking of, Effendi?" cried the fishermen.

"I forgot," said the Khoja; "I was thinking I was a fish."

_Tale_ 51.--A Desire Satisfied.

Nasr-ed-Deen Effendi had an old cow with horns so exceedingly broad that

one could certainly sit between them if he had a mind to do so.

"I should very much like to try," the Khoja kept thinking; "I should

exceedingly like to sit for once between those horns."

The notion haunted him, and he kept saying to himself, "I certainly

should like it, just for once."

One day the cow came before the house, and after a while lay down.

"The opportunity has arrived," cried the Khoja, and running out, he

seated himself between the cow's horns. "It is just as I thought," said

he; but as he spoke the cow got up, and tossed the Khoja violently to

the ground.

The Khoja was stunned, and when his wife hastened to the spot she found

him lying senseless. After some time he opened his eyes, and perceived

his wife weeping near him.

"O wife!" said the Khoja, "weep not; I am not less fortunate than other

men. I have suffered for it, but I have had my desire."

_Tale_ 52.--The Khoja and the Incompetent Barber.

On one occasion the Khoja was shaved by a most incompetent barber. At

every stroke the man cut his head with the razor, and kept sticking on

bits of cotton to stop the bleeding.

At last the Khoja lost patience.

"That will do," said he, jumping up: "you've sown cotton on half my

head, I'll keep the other half for flax;" and he ran out of the shop

with his head half shaved.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 3: A _Khoja_ is a religious teacher, and sometimes a

school-master also.]

THE SNARLING PRINCESS.

(_Freely adapted from the German._)

[Illustration]

Ever so long ago there lived a certain king, at whose court great

rejoicings were held for the birth of a child. But this joy was soon

turned to sorrow, when the young queen died, and left her infant

daughter motherless. As the body of the young queen lay in state,

wrapped in a shroud of gold all embroidered with flowers, and with so

sweet a smile upon her face that she looked like one who dreams happy

dreams in sleep, the sorrowing king took the child in his arms, and

kneeling by the bier vowed never to marry again, but to make his wife's

only child the heir of his crown and kingdom. This promise he faithfully

fulfilled, and remaining a widower, he devoted his life to the

upbringing of his daughter.

It is true that the young princess had a fairy godmother--a distant

cousin of the deceased queen--but the king could not endure that any one

but himself should have a voice in the management of his child, and the

fairy godmother, who was accustomed to the utmost deference to her

opinions, very soon quitted the court in a huff, and left the king as

supreme in the nursery as he was in the council-chamber.

[Illustration]

When the precious baby was washed, this was done with no common care.

The bath itself was made of gold, and the two chief physicians of the

kingdom assisted the king by their counsels. When hot water of crystal

clearness had been poured into the bath, the more celebrated of the two

physicians dipped the tip of his little finger in, and looking

inquiringly at his colleague, said "_Hum_." On which the physician of

lesser degree dipped in his little finger and said "_Hem_." And after

this the water always proved to be of the right temperature, and did the

young princess no harm whatever. The king himself on these occasions

always dropped--with much state--a few drops of exquisite scent into the

bath, from a golden flask studded with diamonds. The chief

lady-in-waiting brought the baby, wrapped in gorgeous robes, and put it

into the bath. The court doctors laid their fingers on their noses, and

looked very important, whilst the king--who was short-sighted--put on

his spectacles to enjoy the sight of the little princess, who gambolled

in the water like a fish. The rest of her toilette was carried out with

no less formality, and as the same scrupulous care watched over every

incident of her daily life, the child grew every day more healthy and

beautiful.

Time passed on without lessening the king's devotion to his daughter.

Her beauty was the standing theme of conversation in every corner of the

palace where the king was likely to overhear it, and the courtiers

rivalled each other in trying to read the wishes of the little princess

in her blue eyes, and in endeavouring to forestall them.

No wonder the little lady grew up exceedingly self-willed, and with no

thought of any one's pleasure but her own.

The king hired governesses, it is true, but he strictly forbade them

ever to say a harsh word to his darling; and one who had so far

transgressed this order as to reprove the princess for some fault, was

dismissed in disgrace. Thus it came about that the child grew daily more

and more wilful and capricious. Do what every one would, it was

impossible to please her, and as she was allowed to fly into a rage

about the most trifling matters, and as she sulked and scolded, and

growled and grumbled for the smallest annoyances, her voice gradually

acquired a peculiar snarling tone, which was as painful to listen to as

it was unbecoming in a young and pretty princess.

The whole court suffered from the depressing effects of the young

lady's ill-temper. Behind the king's back, the courtiers complained

pretty freely, but before his face no one dared show his annoyance, and

two old court ladies, whose nerves were not so strong as they had been,

and who feared to betray themselves, were obliged to employ a celebrated

professor of cosmetics to paint smiles on their faces that could not be

disturbed by the snarling and grumbling of the princess; but the Lord

Chamberlain concealed his feelings by a free use of his gold snuff-box,

and snuffed away his annoyance pretty successfully.

As his daughter grew up, the king was not without his share of suffering

from her ill-temper. But he bore it all very patiently,--"She will be a

queen," said he to himself, "and it is fit that she should have a will

of her own." The king himself was of an imperious temper, but such was

his love for his only child, that he bent it completely to her caprices.

In private, the courtiers were by no means so indulgent in their views,

and the future queen was known amongst them, behind her back, as the

Snarling Princess.

In spite of her ill-temper and unpleasing voice, however, she was so

beautiful, that--being also heir to the throne of a large kingdom--many

princes sought her hand in marriage. But the Snarling Princess was

resolved to reign alone, and she refused every suitor who appeared.

The princess's rooms were, of course, the most beautiful in the palace.

One of these, which looked out on to the forest, was her favourite

chamber, but it was also the source of her greatest vexation.

Never did she look out of the window towards the wood without snarling

in her harshest tone, "Hateful! Intolerable!"

The source of her annoyance was this:

On the edge of the forest, clearly to be seen from her window, there

stood a tiny cottage, in which lived an aged woman who was known amongst

the poor folks of the neighbourhood as the "Three-legged Wood-wife."

This was because of a wooden staff on which she leaned to eke out the

failing strength of her own limbs. The wood-wife was both feared and

hated by the people, amongst whom she bore the character of a very

malicious witch. The king's daughter hated not only her, but her

tumble-down house, and had sent again and again, with large offers of

gold, to try and purchase the cottage. But the wood-wife laughed

spitefully at the messengers, and only replied that the cottage suited

her, and that for no money would she quit it whilst she lived.

The poor have their rights, however, as well as the rich, and even the

Snarling Princess was obliged to submit to the disappointment at which

she could only grumble.

At one time she resolved never to go into her favourite room again. But

she could not keep her resolution. Back she went, and some irresistible

power always seemed to draw her to the window to irritate herself by the

sight of the wretched hovel which belonged to the Three-legged Witch.

At last, however, by constantly snarling and complaining to the king,

she induced him to turn the old woman by force out of her cottage. The

king, who was just and upright, did so very unwillingly, and he built

her a new and much better cottage elsewhere.

The wood-wife could not resist, but she never put her foot across the

threshold of the new house. Meanwhile the old hovel was swept away as

fast as possible, and by the princess's wish a pretty summer-house was

built on the spot where it had stood, and there she and her court ladies

were wont to amuse themselves on warm summer evenings to their hearts'

content.

One evening the princess strolled out by herself into the forest. She

had been in several distinct rages; first with her court ladies,

secondly with her dressmaker, thirdly with the sky, which, in spite of

her wishes for fine weather, had become overcast with clouds.

[Illustration]

In this ill-humour nothing in all the beautiful green forest gave her

any satisfaction. She snarled at the birds because they sang so merrily.

The rustling of the green fir-tops in the evening breeze annoyed her:

"Why should pine-trees have needles instead of leaves?" she asked

angrily; and then she grumbled because there were no roses on the

juniper bushes. Still snarling, she wandered on, till she came to a spot

where she stood still and silent in sheer amazement.

In an open space there was a circle of grotesque-looking stones,

strangely linked together by creeping plants and ferns of curious

growth. And as the Snarling Princess looked at them, it seemed to her

that the stones took dwarf-like shapes, and glared about them with weird

elfin faces. The princess seemed rooted to the spot. An invisible power

appeared to draw her towards the group, and to attract her by a

beautiful flower, whose calyx opened at her approach. Unable to resist

the impulse, she stepped into the circle and plucked the flower.

No sooner had she done so than her feet took deep root in the earth, her

hair stiffened into fir-needles, and her arms became branches. She was

now firmly fixed in the centre of the group of stones, a slender,

swaying pine-tree, which creaked and croaked, and snapped and snarled

with every gust of wind, as the princess had hardly ever done in her

most ill-tempered moments. And as her limbs stiffened under their

magical transformation, the hideous figure of the wood-wife might have

been seen hovering round the charmed circle, her arms half changed into

bird's wings, and her hands into claws. And as the king's daughter

fairly turned into a pine-tree, the wood-wife took the form of an owl,

and for a moment rested triumphantly on her branches. Then with a shrill

"Tu-whit! tu-whoo!" it vanished into the forest.

When the princess did not return to the palace, and all search after her

proved utterly vain, the poor old king fell into a state of the deepest

melancholy, and spent most of his time in the summer-house, bewailing

the mysterious loss of his only child.

One day, many months afterwards, he wandered into the forest. A storm

was raging, of which he took no heed. But suddenly he stopped beneath a

pine-tree, and looked up--"How like my poor dear daughter's voice!" said

he; "especially when she was the least bit in the world--" He did not

like to finish the sentence, but sat down under the tree and wept

bitterly. And for every tear he shed, the pine-tree dropped a shower of

needles. For the Snarling Princess recognized her father, and heartily

lamented the pain he suffered now, and had so often suffered before on

her account.

"Tu-whit! tu-whoo!" said a voice, from a hole beneath the pine-tree.

"Who speaks?" said the king.

"It is I, cousin," said the owl, hopping into the daylight, and

gradually assuming the form and features of the fairy godmother. "You

did not know me as the Three-legged Wood-wife, whom you so unjustly

sacrificed to your daughter's caprices. But I have had a hand in her

education after all! For twelve months has she croaked and creaked,

snapped and snarled, beneath the summer heat, the winter snow, and the

storms of spring and autumn. Her punishment--and yours--is over."

As the fairy godmother spoke, the pine-tree became a princess once more,

and fell into her father's arms.

But the wood-wife took again the shape of an owl, and the enchanted

stones became bats, and they all disappeared into the shadows of the

forest.

And as the princess shortly afterwards married a very charming prince,

she no doubt changed her name.

Certainly she was never more known as the Snarling Princess.

THE LITTLE PARSNIP-MAN.

(_Freely adapted from the German._)

WHAT PETER FOUND IN THE PAN--AN UGLY SMILE--THE WIDOW'S RECKONINGS--REST

BY RUSHLIGHT.

[Illustration]

On a cold winter's evening it is very cosy to sit by a warm hearth,

where the fire crackles pleasantly, and the old saucepan, which Mother

has set on the fire, sings monotonously to itself between-whiles.

On such a night the wind howled in the street without, beat upon the

window-panes, and rustled through the trees, which stood, tall and

leafless, in the big garden over the way.

Little Peter did not trouble his head on the subject. He sat indoors on

a little footstool, near the fire, and close also to his mother, who was

busy cutting up parsnips for next day's dinner.

Peter paid great attention as his mother took a well-boiled parsnip out

of the saucepan, scraped it, cut it, and laid the pieces on a clean

white dish.

His mother's thoughts were elsewhere. She looked sad and pensive. Only

from time to time she nodded across the dish towards her little Peter,

and when he got up and came and laid his head in her lap, she gently

smoothed his fair hair from his brow, and then she smiled too.

[Illustration]

Peter had no idea that his mother was sad. He had got another parsnip

out of the pan, and wanted to scrape it all by himself; but he was not

very skilful, and he worked so slowly that in the end his mother had to

finish it for him.

The next thing he did was to upset the saucepan; the parsnips fell out,

and Peter began to count them.

All at once he gave a cry that made his mother jump. He had found a

parsnip-root that looked exactly like a little man. It had a regular

head of its own, with a long nose, its body was short, and it had two

shrivelled stringy little legs; arms it had none.

"That's a little Parsnip-man," said his mother, when Peter showed it to

her.

"A Parsnip-man?" muttered Peter below his breath, and he gazed

doubtfully at the odd-looking root in his hand.

It seemed to him that the little man was smiling at him; but with a very

ugly kind of smile.

Suddenly the stove gave such a loud crack, that Peter let the parsnip

fall out of his hands with a start.

"What's the matter?" asked his mother, as Peter buried his face in her

arms; for he began to feel frightened.

"The little Parsnip-man grinned so nastily at me, and such a loud noise

came out of the stove--and I let him fall!" His mother laughed at him.

"You've been dreaming," said she. "The little man could not smile if he

tried. The Parsnip-mannikins are only roots in the day-time, you know.

It is at midnight, when you have long, long been asleep, and the church

clock strikes twelve, that they come to life. Then away they all go to

the great cave where the queen dwells in state, and here they hold high

festival. There they dance, sing, play, and eat out of golden dishes.

But as soon as the clock strikes one, all is over, and the Parsnip-men

are only roots once more.

"But you've fallen asleep," she added. "Come, my child, and I'll put you

to bed. You are tired, are you not?"

"Yes, I'll go to bed," said little Peter, rubbing his drowsy eyes. So

his mother took him into the bedroom and lighted the rushlight. Then she

undressed him and put him to bed. And Peter had hardly touched the

pillow before he was fast asleep.

But the mother went back to the kitchen-table, and seated herself once

more by the light of the dimly-burning lamp. The parsnips were all cut

up long ago. She put the dish aside and began to sew. Now and then she

paused in her work to lean back in her chair, and tears welled up in her

eyes. Perhaps she remembered that the rent was due, or she may have been

reflecting that Peter's jacket was past further patching. In either case

she began to count over in her mind a certain small stock of savings

which she had laid by in a money-box, and to puzzle her poor head what

she should turn her hand to next to earn the wherewithal to buy the boy

some decent clothes. Nothing likely suggested itself, however, and with

a heavy sigh she bent once more over her work and stitched away faster

than ever. For the work she was doing had to be taken home next morning;

and there was a great deal yet to do if she hoped to get it finished in

time, and to pay her rent with the price of it.

After sitting like this for a while, she got up. Her eyes ached, and it

was getting late. The big kitchen clock was on the stroke of twelve. She

put her sewing away in her work-basket, and carried the saucepan and the

dish of parsnips into the scullery. Then she swept up the spare roots

into a corner of the hearth, and put the little stool tidily away under

the table.

But she could not see anything of the parsnip which Peter had let fall.

Possibly it had rolled behind the stove.

"I shall be sure to find it in the morning, when I light the fire," she

thought.

She put out the lamp, and stepped softly into the chamber where the

rushlight burned dimly. Then with one passing glance at the sleeping

boy, she undressed herself and prepared for bed.

In a few moments more all her cares and troubles had vanished in

slumber.

THE LITTLE MAN IN THE YELLOW COAT--A MOUSE-RIDE AT MIDNIGHT--THE HOLE

IN THE WALL--AMONG THE PARSNIP-MEN--QUEEN MARY--THE BLUE DRESS--A

CAKE-FEAST--ONE!

Little Peter had been asleep for a long time, when all at once he found

himself suddenly twitched by the arm. He rolled over, rubbed his eyes,

and then, to his amazement, saw the little Parsnip-man sitting by him on

the quilt.

He did not look a bit like a parsnip now. He had on a long yellow coat,

and a little green hat on his head; and he nodded in quite a friendly

way to Peter.

"Come along! Be quick!" he said. "We must be off. But wrap up well, for

it's cold outside."

"Where are we going to?" asked little Peter. "Into the cave? And is

Mamma going too?"

"No," said the little man. "She's stopping at home. But do be quick, for

the feast has begun."

And with that he gave such a jump on to the floor that the boards fairly

creaked again, and little Peter, slipped out of bed after him. The

little Parsnip-man helped him on with his shoes and stockings, and Peter

put on the rest of his clothes himself.

Then the Mannikin pulled out a little whistle and blew on it.

Immediately there was a rustling under the bed, and then two mice peeped

out.

In a moment the Parsnip-man caught one, and vaulted on to its back.

"You get on the other," he said to Peter.

"But it isn't big enough to carry me," said Peter doubtfully.

"Get up, I tell you!" said the little man, laughing.

Peter did as he was told. Doubtless he had been growing smaller, for

when he was fairly astride he sat the mouse as if it had been made for

him. As to the mouse, it kept perfectly still for Peter to mount.

"Now, sit fast!" cried the Mannikin; and Peter had hardly seized the

ears of the mouse (for want of reins), when his new steed ran away with

him under the bed.

Then all of a sudden it became quite dark.

"Where are we?" cried Peter, for the mouse galloped on, and Peter was

getting frightened.

"We are in the cellar," the voice of the Parsnip-man replied at his

side. "Don't be frightened; it will be light again in a minute or two."

Accordingly, in a few moments, Peter could see all around him. They had

emerged from the cellar, and were now in the street. The wind had

fallen, and there was a dead calm. The street-lamps were burning with a

somewhat dim light, however.

Peter could now plainly see the form of the little Parsnip-man riding

beside him. The mice scampered on and on.

[Illustration]

A watchman was standing in the doorway of a house. His halberd reposed

against the wall beside him. Probably the watchman himself was reposing,

for he never moved when the mice and their riders went by. They rode to

the end of the street, and there, before an old deserted house which

Peter had often shuddered to look at in the daytime, the mice stopped.

"Here we are!" said the Parsnip-man, jumping down from his mouse.

Peter dismounted more leisurely, and the two mice ran off.

It was almost pitch dark by the old house. Only one distant lamp gave a

feeble glimmer. The Parsnip-man whistled as before. By and by Peter

heard a sound like "Bst! bst!"

He looked all round, but could see nothing. At this moment the Mannikin

caught him by the arm and pointed upwards to a hole in the wall of the

old house. Peter then perceived that something was moving higher up, and

very shortly he heard a rustling noise as if a ladder of ropes were

being let down from above.

"Come quickly!" said a shrill, slender voice. "The chimes have sounded

once since the hour. The Queen is waiting."

"Climb on to my shoulders, Peter," said the Parsnip-man, stooping as he

spoke. Peter did so, and held fast by the little man's neck, who climbed

nimbly up the rope-ladder to the opening in the wall above; and there

Peter got down.

Here there stood another Parsnip-man with a little lantern in his hand,

which he turned on Peter's face, and then nodded to him in a friendly

way. After which he unhooked the rope-ladder and drew it up.

The two Parsnip-men now took Peter between them, each holding a hand.

They went through long dark passages, and then they began to go

down-stairs. Peter counted a hundred steps, but still they went down,

down, and he could count no more.

All at once he heard music, which sounded as if it came from a distance.

They were now at the bottom of the steps, and walking on level ground.

The further they went the louder grew the music, and at last the

Parsnip-men came to a standstill.

The one who held the lantern threw its light upon the wall till it

disclosed a knob, on which he pressed. Then he put out his lantern, and

all was dark. But the music sounded louder than before.

Suddenly the wall parted and moved aside, and Peter could hardly

restrain his cries of astonishment, for what he now saw was like nothing

he had ever seen before. He was looking into a great big hall. It was as

light as day. Dazzling lustres of crystal, with thousands and thousands

of wax tapers, whose flames were reflected from the mirrors suspended

round the room, hung from the roof. Strange music shook the walls, and

to the time of this music hundreds and hundreds of little Parsnip-men

twirled and danced. All of them were dressed in yellow coats and green

hats, and many of them wore long white beards. And oh, how they chirped

and smirked, and laughed and jumped about, as if they were mad!

For a long time Peter stood bewildered. At last the little Parsnip-men

who had brought him so far led him right into the room, and the wall

closed behind them.

"Now for the Queen!" whispered one of them. "Come along."

They went down the side of the room, against the wall of which were

ranged chairs with grand purple coverings and gilded arms. Once or twice

Peter nearly slipped, so polished was the floor. From time to time some

little Parsnip-man in the company nodded to him; otherwise no one paid

much attention to him.

In this way they reached the farther end of the hall, where there was a

throne, raised on a dais and covered by a canopy hung with purple. It

was something like the throne Peter once saw when his aunt took him with

her to the palace. A few steps led up to the throne, with a wonderfully

elaborate balustrade made of gold.

The little mannikins seized his hands and led him up the steps between

them. Then they drew back the purple curtains, and displayed a grand

throne on which was seated a little girl in a snow-white dress. On her

head she wore a little gold crown, from which hung a long transparent

veil. She was resting her head on her hand, and did not look up till

Peter and the Parsnip-men were quite close to her. Then she gave a cry

of joy.

"So you've come at last, Peter!" she cried, her eyes brightening with

delight; and as she took his hand, he saw that she was no other than his

favourite playfellow and neighbour, little Mary.

There was a second seat beside her, and to this she drew Peter. Then she

beckoned to the Parsnip-men, and said, "You have got everything ready,

have you not?" The Parsnip-men bowed low, and hurried away.

In a minute or two they returned, followed by about thirty mannikins

like themselves, who bore a magnificent dress which they deposited

before Peter. There was a coat of blue silk, turned up with fur, and

trimmed with precious stones. Besides this there were knee-breeches of

the same material, slashed with white and fringed with gold, white silk

stockings, and smart shoes with gold buckles. To complete the whole,

there lay on the top a cap, with a heron's plume fastened by an aigrette

of gold.

But Peter's attention all this time had been fixed upon Mary. He fancied

she looked bigger than usual and unfamiliar in some way.

"Take the clothes into that room," said she to the little men; "and you,

Peter," she added, "go with them and dress. Then we will go to supper."

"But--er--does your mamma know you're here?" asked Peter. He could not

get over his amazement at the style and tone in which little Mary

issued her orders in this strange place.

"I should think not!" laughed the little girl. "But never mind, Peter:

we shall soon be at home again. What you've got to do just now is to put

on your things."

As if in a dream, Peter went into the room into which the clothes had

been taken, and where the little men helped him to take off his things

and dress himself in his new-finery. Some of them then brought a long

mirror, in which Peter could see himself from head to foot, and he

fairly laughed with delight at his fine appearance in his new clothes.

Then the little men led him back to the Queen, who looked him well over,

and she also smiled complacently.

"Did you bring your doll, Mary?" said Peter presently.

"That's not very likely," replied she. "It would not do for a queen to

play at dolls."

"Have you been a queen very long?" Peter inquired.

"For several years," said Mary.

"But you and I were playing together only yesterday," said poor Peter,

in puzzled tones.

But Mary had turned her back to him, and was pulling a bell at the back

of her throne.

Although the music was still going on, the clear tone of the bell which

the Queen had rung was heard above every other sound.

The music and the dancing stopped at once.

"Come, Peter, give me your arm," said Mary. "We're going into the

supper-room."

They stepped down into the hall, where all the Parsnip-men had now

ranged themselves in two long rows, down the centre of which the Queen

and her companion now passed, and then the Parsnip-men closed in and

formed a long procession behind them.

In this way they came to the other end of the hall. The large

folding-doors swung open, and Peter fancied he was looking into a large

garden. But it was only another hall in which tall foreign-looking trees

were planted, whilst many-tinted flowers of gorgeous colours and strange

shapes hung from the walls, and hither and thither among them flitted

curious birds of many hues. As in the first hall, crystal lustres with

wax tapers descended from the roof, and in the middle of the room, to

which they now advanced, was a long table covered with a white

table-cloth, and laid out with gold and silver plate of all sorts. There

were golden vases with handles, golden tankards, golden dessert-dishes

filled with splendid fruits; silver plates and goblets and

drinking-cups, and beside them stood crystal flasks. Hundreds of chairs

were placed round the table, and in every place was a little silver

knife and a plate.

Peter could not gaze long enough. He wanted to stop every moment, but

Mary only laughed, and dragged him on.

[Illustration]

About the middle of the long table there was a dais raised above the

level on which the other chairs and table stood. It was covered by a

canopy of yellow silk, and under this was a table more richly laid out

than the big one, and two seats of pure gold. To this Mary led Peter,

and then said emphatically--"These are _our_ seats."

Up they climbed, and then Mary dropped Peter's arm and sat down on one

of the seats, and he seated himself beside her on the other.

From his present elevation Peter was well able to observe the

Parsnip-men as they passed by in procession, and took their places on

the chairs.

When all were seated the music recommenced. Then out of a side door came

about fifty mannikins carrying large cakes on silver dishes, which they

set down on the long table, and having cut them up handed them round to

the guests. Others poured red or golden wine from the vases into the

goblets. Everybody ate and drank, and chatted and laughed

between-whiles.

Among the golden dishes on the golden table where Peter and Mary sat,

was one which held a cake which had a particularly inviting smell. Mary

cut a piece off and put it on to Peter's golden plate. Then, from a

beautiful golden goblet, she poured ruby-coloured wine into their

crystal glasses.

Peter ate and drank with great relish, and soon disposed of the cake and

wine.

[Illustration]

"I should like to have some of that beautiful fruit, too, if I may,"

said he. And as he spoke Mary filled his plate with grapes, apples, and

pears.

"Eat away, Peter!" said she, laughing till her white teeth shone through

her lips. "Don't be afraid of emptying the dish. There is plenty more

fruit if we want it."

"I should like to take some home to Mamma," said Peter, biting into an

apple. "May I, Mary?"

Mary nodded kindly, and handed him a golden dish full of sweetmeats,

saying, "Put as many of these into your pocket as you like." And he

filled his pockets accordingly.

Peter felt as happy as a king. His head was quite turned. He shouted

aloud for joy, and swung his legs backwards and forwards as he sat on

his golden chair.

"But I say, Mary," said he, laughing, "we shall go on playing together

the same as ever, sha'n't we? I shall bring my leaden soldiers, and

you'll bring your dolls again, won't you?"

But at this moment Mary seized his arm, and whispered in a frightened

voice--"Hush, Peter, hush! Don't you hear?"

The music had suddenly ceased, and with it all the talking and laughing

at the long table, and in the silence the sound of the church clock

could be distinctly heard. _It struck one._

At one stroke--the lights went out, a blast of wind blew through the

banqueting-room, and then all was as still as death.

* * * * *

LEFT ALONE IN THE DARK--MOTHER--THE PARSNIP-MAN BY DAYLIGHT--THREE

POUNDS.

Peter sat in his chair, as if petrified with terror, Mary still holding

fast by his arm.

"Quick, quick!" she cried, breathlessly. "We must get away from here."

Then she let his arm go, and hurried away from him.

"Wait, wait!" he cried, anxiously; "I don't know where I am. Take me

with you, Mary! I can't see my way. Mary! Mary! Mary!"

Nobody replied.

Peter slid down from his chair and groped his way forward till he

knocked against the corner of the table. Terror fairly overcame him, and

he cried--"Mother! Mother! Mother!"

"What's the matter, dear?" said his mother's gentle voice.

"I am here, Mother," cried Peter; "but I am so frightened! Mary has run

away and left me all alone in the dark hall."

"Come, Peter, come; collect yourself," said his mother, who was

standing by the bed where poor Peter was sitting straight up with an

anxious face, down which big tears were running.

"You're here, Peter, you know; in your own little bed," said his mother,

putting her arms round him.

Peter began to take heart a little, and looked round him with big

wide-open eyes.

"But how did I get here?" he asked, still stupefied with sleep.

"You've never been anywhere else, you know," said his mother.

"But I know the Parsnip-man took me away, and I rode on the mouse, too,"

said little Peter.

"Nonsense, nonsense; you're still dreaming. There, get up and put on

your clothes."

"But I want the other clothes, the beautiful blue dress. These things

are so dreadfully patched and darned," said Peter, in a lamentable tone.

"And I have brought something nice for you too, Mother dear. It's in the

pockets of the blue coat."

"You haven't got a blue coat, child," said his mother. "Come, come. Put

on your clothes and come into the warm kitchen." And she carried Peter

out into the arm-chair by the breakfast-table, and began to pour out

some coffee for him. And she put the Parsnip-man (who had been lying all

night behind the stove) into his hand. "See," she continued, "here's

your Parsnip-man, about whom you have been dreaming all this fine

nonsense."

Peter examined it with eager eyes. It looked exactly the same as it had

done the night before.

"But Mary was there too," he said, still doubtfully. "She is the Queen

of the Parsnip-men, you know. And she gave me cake and wine and fruit."

"Well, we'll ask her about it next time she comes," said his mother,

laughing.

Just then there was a knock at the door. The mother hastened to open it,

and found a messenger waiting with a letter in his hand which had

several seals on it. It was addressed to herself, and beside the address

was written, "_Three pounds enclosed._" Having given a small sum to the

messenger for his trouble, the widow broke the seals of the letter with

trembling fingers. The three pounds were duly enclosed, but no letter

accompanied the welcome money.

Overcome with joy, the widow seized Peter, who had crept curiously to

her side, in her arms and exclaimed with delight, "Ah! you shall have a

nice blue dress, after all, my child."

But when the boy asked, "Who has sent us all this money, Mother?" all

she could say was, "I wish I knew, my dear. But you see there is no

letter with it."

Then Peter smiled expressively, but said nothing, for he

thought--"Mother won't believe me, I know. But who can the money have

come from, except from the little Parsnip-man?"

A CHILD'S WISHES.

(_From the German of R. Reinick._)

A certain old knight had a little daughter called Gertrude; and when his

brother died, leaving an only son, he took the boy into his castle, and

treated him as his own son. The boy's name was Walter. The two children

lived together like brother and sister; they only played where they

could play together, and were of one heart and of one soul. But one day,

when Gertrude had gone out alone to pick flowers beyond the castle gate,

some gipsies came along the high-road, who stole the child and took her

away. No one knew what had become of her; the poor old father died of

grief, and Walter wept long days and nights for his Gertrude.

At last there came a warm spring day, when the trees began to bud, and

Walter went out into the wood. There, in a beautiful green spot, a brook

bubbled under the trees, where he had often sat with Gertrude, floating

little boats of nutshells on the stream. He sat down there now, cut

himself a hazel stick for a hobby-horse, and as he did so he said to

himself--

"Ah! if I were but a grown-up knight, as tall and stately as those who

used to come to my uncle's castle, I would ride out into the wide world

and look for Gertrude!"

Meanwhile, he heard something screaming near him, and when he looked up

he saw a raven, which was stuck so fast between two branches of a tree

that it could not move, whilst a snake was gliding towards it to devour

it. Walter hastily seized his stick, beat the snake to death, and set

the raven free.

"A thousand thanks, my dear child!" said the raven, who had flown up

into a tree, from which he spoke--"a thousand thanks! And now, since you

have saved my life, wish for whatever you like, and it shall be granted

immediately. A year hence we will speak of this again."

When Walter heard this, he saw at once that the raven was an enchanted

bird, and exclaimed with joy--

"I should like to be a noble knight with a helmet and a shield, a

charger and a sword!"

All happened just as he wished. In an instant he was a tall, stately

knight; his shield stood near him, and his hobby-horse became a proud

charger, which, to show that it was no ghost, but a real horse of flesh

and blood, began then and there to drink out of the stream.

At first, Walter could not think what had happened to him, but stood as

if he were in a dream. Soon, however, a new life seemed to wake within

him; he swung himself on to his horse with all the energy of youth, and

rode far out into the land to look for little Gertrude.

Like other knights, he met with many adventures on his way. There was

always something to contend with, either wild beasts or else knights,

who, like himself, roved about the country delighting to find any one

with whom they could do battle. On every occasion, however, Walter came

off conqueror, for he was far more valiant than any of his opponents.

At last, one day he came within sight of a mountain, on which stood a

high castle belonging to a certain queen. As he reached the summit, he

saw from afar a little maiden, who sat playing with her doll before the

castle gate, and when he drew nearer he found that it was his little

Gertrude. Then he put spurs to his horse and shouted joyfully--

"Good-day, dear Gertrude!" But the child knew him not. As he drew

nearer, he called again: "It is I indeed!--it is Cousin Walter!" but the

child believed him not. And when he sprang from his horse to kiss her,

and his armour, sword, and spurs rattled and clashed as he did so, the

child was afraid that this strange man would hurt her, and she ran away

back into the castle.

Poor Walter was very much troubled. He went in, however, and presented

himself to the queen, who received him very graciously. He told her all

that had happened, and learnt from her that she had bought Gertrude from

the gipsies. But when he begged that she would let him take his dear

little cousin away with him, she consented only on condition that the

child herself should be willing, for Gertrude had become very dear to

the old queen. So she called the little maid in, and said--

"Now look here, my child: this really is your Cousin Walter. Do you no

longer love him, and will you not go away with him?"

The child looked at the knight from head to foot, and then said in a

troubled voice--

"Since you both declare that it is Walter, I suppose I must believe it.

Ah! if only he were still as little as he was a year ago, I would go

into the wide world with him, wherever he wanted; but now, I never can.

It would be no good, whilst he is like that. If I wanted to play

hide-and-seek, as we used to do, his armour would shine, and his spurs

rattle, and I should know where he was directly. If I wanted to go to

school with him, he could not sit by me on the little benches at the

little tables. Then what could a poor child like me do for such a

stately knight? If I tried to work for him, I should burn my little

hands; if I tried to make his clothes, I should prick my little fingers;

and if I ran races with him, I should hurt my little feet. If I were a

grown-up princess, indeed, it would be a different thing."

Walter could not but feel that what Gertrude said was true. So he took

leave of them both, mounted his horse, and rode away; but the queen and

Gertrude watched him from the battlements of the castle.

He had not ridden many steps when a voice from a tree called "Walter!

Walter!" and when he looked up, there was the raven, who said--

"A year has passed since you wished to be a knight. If you have another

wish, speak, and it shall be granted; but observe, what you wished

before will then be at an end."

To these last words Walter paid no attention. The raven had no sooner

said that he might have another wish than he interrupted it, exclaiming:

"Then I wish Gertrude to be a grown-up princess!"

But even as he spoke he himself became a child again, and his horse a

hobby-horse, just as they had been a year ago. But when he looked up to

the battlements, there stood by the queen a wonderfully beautiful

princess, tall and slim and stately; and this was--his Gertrude! Then

the boy, taking his hobby-horse, went back up to the castle steps, and

wept bitterly. But the queen was sorry for him, took him in, and tried

to comfort him.

And now there was another trouble. Dearly as the Princess Gertrude and

the boy Walter loved each other, they were not so happy as they should

have been. If Walter said to her, "Come, Gertrude, and we'll run races,

and jump over the ditches," she would answer, "Oh! that would never do

for a princess; what would people say?"

If Walter said, "Come and play hide-and-seek," Gertrude would answer

again, "Oh! but that would never do for a princess; I should leave my

train hanging on the thorns, and my coronet would be tumbling off my

head."

Then if Gertrude asked Walter to bring in some venison for the table,

the boy would bring her a mouse instead; and if a bull or a mad dog came

after them, Gertrude must snatch Walter up in her arms, and run off with

him, for she was so much bigger than he, and could run a great deal

quicker. Meanwhile he remained in the castle, and the boy became very

dear to the old queen.

Another year passed by, and one morning Gertrude sat under a tree in the

garden with her embroidery, whilst Walter played at her feet. Then, as

before, a voice called out of the tree, "Walter! Walter!" And when the

boy looked up, the raven was sitting on a branch, who said: "Now once

more you may wish, and it shall be granted; but this is the last time,

therefore think it well over."

But Walter did not think long before he answered: "Ah! let us both be

children all our lives long."

And as he wished so it happened. They both became children as before,

played together more happily than ever, and were of one heart and of one

soul.

But when another year had passed by, and the children sat plucking

flowers and singing together in the garden, an angel flew down from

heaven, who took them both in his arms and carried them away--away to

the celestial gardens of Paradise, where they are yet together,

gathering the flowers that never fade, and singing songs so wondrously

beautiful, that even the blessed angels hear with joy.

WAR AND THE DEAD.

A DRAMATIC DIALOGUE.

(_From the French of Jean Macé._)

Dramatis Personæ.

Peace.

War.

A French Grenadier.

A German Hussar.

A Scotch Highlander.

A Cossack.

A Russian Peasant Woman.

A French Peasant Woman.

A German Peasant Woman.

An English Peasant Woman.

Soldiers _are lying on the ground._ Peace _is seated

at the back, leaning her elbow on one knee, her head resting on her

hand_.

_Enter_ War.

War. To-day is the 18th of June, the anniversary of the battle

of Waterloo, the day of a wrath which still mutters, and of a hatred yet

unappeased. Let us employ it in re-animating this torpid century, which

succumbs to the coward sweetness of an inglorious peace. After forty

years of forced repose brighter days seemed at last to have returned to

me. Twice did I unfurl the old colours in the breeze; twice I made

hearts beat as of old at the magic din of battles; and twice that

hateful Peace, rising suddenly before me, snatched the yet rusty sword

from my hands.

Up! up! O heroes of great battles! you whom twenty-five years of warfare

did not satiate: rise from your graves and shame your degenerate

successors. Up! up! Bid some remember that they have a revenge to take,

and tell others that they are not yet enough avenged.

Peace _rises_.

Peace. What do you want here, relentless War? Dispute the world

of the living with me if you will, but at least respect the peace of the

grave.

War. I have a right to summon the Dead when it is in the name

of their country.

Peace. The Dead are with God; they have but one

country among them.

War. You may dispense with set speeches, most eloquent Peace,

for I pay no attention to them. I go forward, and leave talk to

chatterers. The world belongs to the brave.

Peace. The world belongs to those who are in the right. Since,

however, you will not listen to me, you shall hear the Dead themselves,

and see if they agree with you. (_Turns to the_ Dead.) Arise,

my children; come and confound those who wish to fight with the bones of

the departed.

_The_ Dead _rise_.

Grenadier. I have slept a long time since Austerlitz. Who are

you, comrades?

Hussar. I come from the battle-field of Leipsic, where the

great German race broke the yoke which your Emperor had laid upon it.

Grenadier. You were left upon the field?

Hussar. I am proud to say so.

Grenadier. And you are right, old fellow; every man owes

himself to his country. We others have done just the same. If you had

let us alone in '92 we should not have come to you.

Cossack. I was killed under the walls of Paris, where great

Russia went to return the insult she had received at Moscow.

Highlander. I fell at Waterloo, avenging the great English

people for the threats of the camp at Boulogne. I drowned in my blood

the last effort of your Imperial Eagle.

Grenadier. Well! we are well matched. My blood reddened the

plain of Austerlitz, where the great French nation was avenged on

Brunswick and Souwaroff. We have all perished, buried in a triumph. We

can shake hands upon it.

Cossack. Brave men are equals, in whatever dress. Let us shake

hands.

Hussar. We have all died for our country. Let us be brothers.

Highlander. Let us be brothers. The hatreds of earth do not

extend beyond the grave.

[_They join hands._

Grenadier. And now Peace is proclaimed, let us tell each other

what we used to do before we became warriors.

Cossack. I cultivated a piece of ground in the steppes and took

care of my old mother.

Highlander. I brought up my daughter by farming a piece of

ground which I had cleared on my native heath.

Hussar. I lived with my wife on the piece of land which we

cultivated.

Grenadier. I tilled a piece of ground also, and supported my

sister. It seems that we were all four of the same way of life. How did

we come to kill one another?

Cossack. The Czar spoke, and I marched.

Highlander. Parliament voted for war, and I marched.

Hussar. Our princes cried, "To arms!" and I marched.

Grenadier. As for me, my comrades cried, "To arms!" and I put

on my best sabots. But after all, what have we against each other? Where

was the quarrel between our respective ploughshares? (_To the_

Hussar.) You, for instance, who began, what did you come into

my country for?

Hussar. We came to destroy brigands.

Grenadier. Brigands! That is to say, my unfortunate self, and

other labourers like you and me. After this, well might we be made to

sing about

"Vile blood soaking our furrows!"

I see now this "vile blood" was yours, my friend, and that of brave men

like you. Cursed be those who forced us to fight together!

Hussar. Cursed be the contrivers of War!

War (_advancing_). Shame on you, degraded warriors! Your very

wives would disown you. (_The_ Dead _gaze fixedly._) You are

silent! What have you to answer?

Peace. The Dead do not reply. (_Points with her hand to the

stage entrance._) These shall answer for them.

_Enter_ Four Veiled Women.

[_One of the_ Veiled Women _slowly advances. When in front of

the stage she lifts her veil, and is seen by the audience. The others

afterwards do the same._

First Woman. Oh, my brother! where are you now? If you are ill,

who nurses you? If you are wounded, who watches over you? If you are a

prisoner, who comforts you? If you are dead--Alas! every night I go to

rest weeping, because I have had no news of you; and every morning I

awake dreading to receive it. We were so happy! We lived so comfortably

together! and now I sit at our little table, with your empty place

before me, and cannot eat for looking at it. Yet I made you promise to

come back when we said good-bye. Ah! unkind! Why are you so long in

fulfilling your promise?

[_She closes her veil and crosses to one side of the stage. The others

afterwards do the same._

Grenadier. It is my sister, friends. She is repeating the words

of our last adieu.

Second Woman. Oh, my father! why have you left your child?

Alas! when you went away I played--poor fool!--with your brilliant

uniform. (Dark livery of death, would that I had never seen thee!) I

said I should be proud of you when you came back to me, having killed a

great many of your enemies. Child that I was to speak of killing, not

knowing what it meant! And now, when will you return? What have they

done with you, dear Father? What has become of that revered head, which

my lips never approached but with respect? Perhaps at this very moment

it is dragged, all stained and livid, through the dust or in the mud.

Oh, God! if my prayers may still avail for him, withdraw him

speedily from those frightful conflicts, where every blow falls upon a

father, a son, a brother, or a husband. Pity the many tears that flow

for every drop of blood!

Highlander. It is my daughter! I yet hear the last farewell

her innocent mouth sent after me.

Third Woman. Oh, my beloved! where can I go to look for you?

Little did we think, when we vowed before God never in this

life to forsake each other, that War would come and carry you away as a

leaf is driven before the wind. Perhaps at this moment you are stretched

upon an armful of bloody straw, and other hands than mine dress your

glorious wounds. Ah, miserable me! of what does my tender jealousy

complain? Who knows if you are not by this time safe from wounds for

ever? Oh, my God! if Thou hast taken him, take me also. I

promised to follow him when I received his parting kiss.

Hussar. It is my wife beyond a doubt! I recognize the words her

sweet voice murmured that very day in my ear.

Fourth Woman. I said, "Go, and bear yourself like a man." He

went, and he has not returned. Ah, merciless tigers! we rear our

children with fear and weeping. We pass whole nights bent over their

little cradles, and when we have made men of them you come and take them

away from us that you may send them to death. And we, miserable women!

must encourage them to die if we would not have them dishonoured. Poor

dear boy! so strong! so handsome! so good to his mother! Ah! if there be

a God of vengeance, surely the cries of desolate mothers will

allow no sleep to those who provoke such massacres. They will haunt them

to the grave, and rise behind them to the foot of that throne where the

great Judge of all awaits them.

[_She buries her face in her hands._

Cossack. It is my mother! I recognize her last words. (_He

springs towards her_.) It is I, Mother, it is I! (_She raises her

head_.) What do I see? A stranger! and it is an Englishwoman!

Highlander (_raising the daughter's veil_). Good heavens! She

is a German.

Hussar (_raising the wife's veil_). It is not she! It is a

Frenchwoman.

Grenadier (_raising the sister's veil_). She is a Russian! It

is not for us that they are weeping; perhaps it is for some of those

whom we have killed. How could we be so deceived?

Peace (_advancing_). There are sisters, wives, daughters, and

mothers everywhere, my children, and Nature has but one language in all

countries. (_To WAR_.) As for you, go and sound your trumpet in

barracks and drinking-houses, but invoke the Dead no more, and do not

reckon upon women.

Note.--The battle of Austerlitz was fought December 2, 1805.

The battle of Leipsic, August 16-19, 1813. The Allies took Paris March

30, 1814.

_Richard Clay & Sons, Limited, London & Bungay._

_The present Series of Mrs. Ewing's Works is the only authorised,

complete, and uniform Edition published._

_It will consist of 18 volumes, Small Crown 8vo, at 2s. 6d. per vol.,

issued, as far as possible, in chronological order, and these will

appear at the rate of two volumes every two months, so that the Series

will be completed within 18 months. The device of the cover was

specially designed by a Friend of Mrs. Ewing._

_The following is a list of the books included in the Series--_

1. MELCHIOR'S DREAM, AND OTHER TALES.

2. MRS. OVERTHEWAY'S REMEMBRANCES.

3. OLD-FASHIONED FAIRY TALES.

4. A FLAT IRON FOR A FARTHING.

5. THE BROWNIES, AND OTHER TALES.

6. SIX TO SIXTEEN.

7. LOB LIE-BY-THE-FIRE, AND OTHER TALES.

8. JAN OF THE WINDMILL.

9. VERSES FOR CHILDREN, AND SONGS.

10. THE PEACE EGG--A CHRISTMAS MUMMING PLAY--HINTS FOR PRIVATE

THEATRICALS, &c.

11. A GREAT EMERGENCY, AND OTHER TALES.

12. BROTHERS OF PITY, AND OTHER TALES OF BEASTS AND MEN.

13. WE AND THE WORLD, Part I.

14. WE AND THE WORLD, Part II.

15. JACKANAPES--DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOTE--THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

16. MARY'S MEADOW, AND OTHER TALES OF FIELDS AND FLOWERS.

17. MISCELLANEA, including The Mystery of the Bloody Hand--Wonder

Stories--Tales of the Khoja, and other translations.

18. JULIANA HORATIA EWING AND HER BOOKS, with a selection from

Mrs. Ewing's Letters.

S.P.C.K., Northumberland Avenue, London, W.C.