seized the razor and ran away with it. At this the poor barber was
very unhappy and began to cry, for he had no pice wherewith to buy
another.
The mouse ran on and on until at last he came to another country, in
which there were no knives or sickles to cut the grass with. There the
mouse saw a man pulling the grass out of the ground with his hands.
"You will cut your hands," said the mouse.
"There are no knives here," said the man, "so I must pull up the grass
in this way."
"You must take my razor then," said the mouse.
"Suppose your razor should break? I could not buy you another," said
the man.
"Never mind if it does break," said the mouse, "I give it to you as a
present."
So the man took the razor and began cutting the grass, and as he was
cutting, the razor broke.
"Oh, why have you broken my razor?" exclaimed the mouse.
"Did not I tell you it would break?" answered the man.
The mouse snatched up the man's blanket and ran off with it. The
grass-cutter began to cry. "What shall I do?" said he. "The mouse has
carried away my blanket, and I have not money wherewith to buy
another." And he went home very sad.
Meanwhile the mouse ran on and on until he arrived at another country,
where he saw a grain merchant chopping up sugar-canes; only as he had
no blanket or cloth to lay the canes on, he chopped them up on the
ground, and so they got dirty.
"Why do you chop up your canes on the ground?" said the mouse; "they
all get dirty."
"What can I do?" answered the man. "I have no pice wherewith to buy a
blanket to chop them on."
"Then why don't you take mine?" said the mouse.
"If I took yours it would get cut, and I have no money to buy you
another," said the grain merchant.
"Never mind; I don't want another," said the mouse.
So the man took the blanket, and of course he cut it. When he had
finished chopping up his sugar-canes, he gave it back to the mouse.
When the mouse saw the blanket was full of holes, he was very angry
indeed with the man, and seizing all the sugar-canes he ran away with
them as fast as he could. The grain merchant began to cry. "What shall
I do?" said he; "I have no more sugar-canes." And he went home very
sorrowful.
Then the mouse ran on and on till he came to another country, where he
stopped at a sweetmeat-seller's shop. Now in this country there was no
salt and no sugar. And the sweetmeat-seller made his sweetmeats of
flour and ghee without either sugar or salt, so that they were very
nasty.
"Will you give me some sweetmeats for a pice?" said the mouse to the
sweetmeat-seller. "Yes," answered the man, and he gave one. The mouse
began to eat it and thought it very nasty indeed.
"Why, there is no sugar in it!" exclaimed the mouse.
"No," said the man; "we have no sugar in this country. The few
sugar-canes we have are so dear, that poor people like myself cannot
buy them."
"Then take my sugar-canes," cried the mouse.
"No," said the man. "Where should I find the money to pay you for
them? They would be all used in making sweetmeats."
"Take them," said the mouse; "I give them to you."
The sweetmeat-seller took them and began making sweetmeats of all
kinds, so that he used all the sugar-canes.
"Why have you used all my sugar-canes?" cried the mouse.
"Did not I tell you I should do so?" said the man.
"You are a thief!" cried the mouse, and he knocked down the
sweetmeat-seller, seized all his sweetmeats, and ran off with them.
"What shall I do now?" cried the sweetmeat-seller. "I have no money to
buy flour and ghee to make more sweetmeats with; and if I quarrel with
the mouse, he will doubtless kill me."
Meanwhile the mouse ran on and on till he reached a country, the Rájá
of which had a great many cows--hundreds of cows. The mouse stopped at
the pasture-ground of these cows. Now, the cowherds were so poor they
could not buy bread every day, and sometimes they ate bread which was
twelve days old. When the mouse arrived, the cowherds were eating
their bread, and it was very stale and mouldy.
"Why do you eat that stale bread?" said the mouse.
"Because we have no money to buy any other with," answered the
cowherds.
"Look at all these sweetmeats," said the mouse. "Take them and eat
them instead of that stale bread."
"But if we eat them, we must pay you for them, and where shall we get
the money?" said the cowherds.
"Oh, never mind the money," said the mouse.
So the cowherds took the sweetmeats and ate them all up. At this the
mouse was furious. He stuck a pole into the ground, and ran and
fetched ropes, and tied the cowherds hand and foot to the pole. Then
he took all the cows and ran off with them.
He ran on and on till he got to a country where there were no fowls,
no cows, no buffaloes, no meat of any kind; and the people in it did
not even know what milk and meat were. The day the mouse arrived was
the day the Rájá's daughter was to be married, and a great many people
were assembled together. The Rájá's cooks were cooking, but they had
neither meat nor ghee.
"Why are all these people assembled together?" said the mouse.
"To-day is our Rájá's daughter's wedding-day, and we are cooking the
dinner," answered the cooks.
"But you have no meat," said the mouse.
"No," said the cooks. "There is no meat of any kind in our country."
"Take my cows," said the mouse.
"No," said the cooks; "our Rájá could not pay for them; he is too
poor." (He was only a petty Rájá.)
"It does not matter," said the mouse. "I don't want money."
So the cooks took the cows and the sheep and killed them, and dressed
their flesh in different ways; made pilaus and curries; they roasted
some and boiled some, and gave it to the people to eat. In this way
they made an end of all the cows.
"Why have you made an end of all my cows?" cried the mouse.
"Did not we tell you we should make use of them all?" said the cooks.
"Give me my cows," said the mouse.
"We can't. The people have eaten them all up," said the cooks.
The mouse was in a great rage. He ran off to the bridegroom, who was
walking near the kitchen, saying to himself, "Now I will go and fetch
my bride."
"Give me the money for my cows," cried the mouse to him. "Your people
have eaten them all up, and your cooks won't pay me, so you must."
"What have I to do with your cows?" said the bridegroom. "I won't pay
you for them."
"Then if you won't pay me, your wife's father must," said the mouse.
"Oh, _he_ is too poor to pay for your cows," said the bridegroom, "and
I won't."
"Then if I am not paid, I will take away your bride," said the mouse;
and he ran off and carried away the bride.
The Rájá was very angry at this; but the mouse ran on and on with his
wife (so he called the Rájá's daughter) till he came to another
country.
Now, on the day he arrived in it there were going to be grand sights
and fun to please its Rájá. Some jugglers and rope-dancers were going
to perform.
"Take my wife and let her walk on the rope; she is young, and your
wives are old," said the mouse to the rope-dancers.
"No," they answered, "for she does not know how to walk on a rope and
carry at the same time a wooden plate on her head. She would fall and
break her neck."
"But you must take my wife," said the mouse. "She won't fall; she is
young, and your wives are old. You really must take her."
So the rope-dancers took her, much against their will, and when she
began to walk on the rope with the wooden plate on her head, she fell
and died.
"Oh, why have you killed my wife?" cried the mouse.
"Did we not tell you she would fall and kill herself?" answered the
rope-dancers.
The mouse seized all the jugglers' and rope-dancers' wives, and the
things they used in dancing and juggling, and ran off with them. Then
the rope-dancers and jugglers began to cry, and said, "What shall we
do? Our wives and our property are all gone!"
Meanwhile the mouse ran on and on until he came to another country,
where he got a house to live in. And he ate a great deal, and grew so
fat that he could not get through the door of his house.
"Send for a carpenter," said he to the rope-dancers' and jugglers'
wives, "and tell him to cut off some of my flesh. Then I shall be able
to get into my house."
The women sent for a carpenter, and when he came the mouse said to
him, "cut off some of my flesh, then I shall be able to go into my
house."
"If I do," said the carpenter, "you will die."
"No, I shan't die," said the mouse. "Do as I bid you."
So the carpenter took his knife, and cut off some of the mouse's
flesh.
"Oh, dear! oh, dear!" cried the mouse; "how it does hurt! What can I
do to make it stop paining me?"
"You must go to a certain place, where a particular kind of grain
grows, and rub the grain on your wounds. Then they will get quite
well," said the carpenter.
So the mouse ran off to the place to which the carpenter had told him
to go, and rubbed his wounds with the grain. This gave him such pain
that he fell down and died.
The rope-dancers' and jugglers' wives went home to their husbands with
all the things the mouse had carried away, and they all lived happily
ever after.
Told by Karím.
[Decoration]
[Decoration]
XVIII.
A WONDERFUL STORY.
Once there lived two wrestlers, who were both very very strong. The
stronger of the two had a daughter called Ajít; the other had no
daughter at all. These wrestlers did not live in the same country, but
their two villages were not far apart.
One day the wrestler that had no daughter heard of the wrestler that
had a daughter, and he determined to go and find him and wrestle with
him, to see who was the stronger. He went therefore to Ajít's father's
country, and when he arrived at his house, he knocked at the door and
said, "Is any one here?" Ajít answered, "Yes, I am here;" and she came
out. "Where is the wrestler who lives in this house?" he asked. "My
father," answered Ajít, "has taken three hundred carts to the jungle,
and he is drawing them himself, as he could not get enough bullocks
and horses to pull them along. He is gone to get wood." This
astonished the wrestler very much. "Your father must indeed be very
strong," he said.
Then he set off to the jungle, and in the jungle he found two dead
elephants. He tied them to the two ends of a pole, took the pole on
his shoulder, and returned to Ajít's house. There he knocked at the
door, crying, "Is any one here?" "Yes, I am here," said Ajít. "Has
your father come back?" asked the wrestler. "Not yet," said Ajít, who
was busy sweeping the room. Now, her father had twelve elephants.
Eleven were in the stables, but one was lying dead in the room Ajít
was sweeping; and as she swept, she swept the dead elephant without
any trouble out of the door. This frightened the wrestler. "What a
strong girl this is!" he said to himself. When Ajít had swept all the
dust out of the room, she came and gathered it and the dead elephant
up, and threw dust and elephant away. The wrestler was more and more
astonished.
He set off again to find Ajít's father, and met him pulling the three
hundred carts along. At this he was still more alarmed, but he said to
him, "Will you wrestle with me now?" "No," said Ajít's father, "I
won't; for here there is no one to see us." The other again begged him
to wrestle at once, and at that moment an old woman bent with age came
by. She was carrying bread to her son, who had taken his mother's
three or four thousand camels to browse.
The first wrestler called to her at once, "Come and see us wrestle."
"No," said the old woman, "for I must take my son his dinner. He is
very hungry." "No, no; you must stay and see us wrestle," cried both
the wrestlers. "I cannot stay," she said; "but do one of you stand on
one of my hands, and the other on the other, and then you can wrestle
as we go along." "You carry us!" cried the men. "You are so old, you
will never be able to carry us." "Indeed I shall," said the old woman.
So they got up on her hands, and she rested her hands, with the
wrestlers standing on them, on her shoulders; and her son's
flour-cakes she put on her head. Thus they went on their way, and the
men wrestled as they went.
Now the old woman had told her son that if he did not do his work
well, she would bring men to kill him; so he was dreadfully frightened
when he saw his mother coming with the wrestlers. "Here is my mother
coming to kill me," he said: and he tied up the three or four
thousand camels in his cloth, put them all on his head, and ran off
with them as fast as he could. "Stop, stop!" cried his mother, when
she saw him running away. But he only ran on still faster, and the old
woman and the wrestlers ran after him.
Just then a kite was flying about, and the kite said to itself, "There
must be some meat in that man's cloth," so it swept down and carried
off the bundle of camels. The old woman's son at this sat down and
cried.
The wrestlers soon came up to him and said, "What are you crying for?"
"Oh," answered the boy, "my mother said that if I did not do my work,
she would bring men to kill me. So, when I saw you coming with her, I
tied all the camels up in my cloth, put them on my head, and ran off.
A kite came down and carried them all away. That is why I am crying."
The wrestlers were much astonished at the boy's strength and at the
kite's strength, and they all three set off in the direction in which
the kite had flown.
Meanwhile the kite had flown on and on till it had reached another
country, and the daughter of the Rájá of this country was sitting on
the roof of the palace, combing her long black hair. The princess
looked up at the kite and the bundle, and said, "There must be meat in
that bundle." At that moment the kite let the bundle of camels fall,
and it fell into the princess's eye, and went deep into it; but her
eye was so large that it did not hurt her much. "Oh, mother! mother!"
she cried, "something has fallen into my eye! come and take it out."
Her mother rushed up, took the bundle of camels out of the princess's
eye, and shoved the bundle into her pocket.
The wrestlers and the old woman's son now came up, having seen all
that had happened. "Where is the bundle of camels?" said they, "and
why do you cry?" they asked the princess. "Oh," said her mother, "she
is crying because something fell into her eye." "It was the bundle of
camels that fell into her eye, and the bundle is in your pocket," said
the old woman's son to the Rání: and he put his hand into her pocket
and pulled out the bundle. Then he and the wrestlers went back to
Ajít's father's house, and on the way they met his old mother, who
went with them.
They invited a great many people to dinner, and Ajít took a large
quantity of flour and made it into flat cakes. Then she handed a cake
to the wrestler who had come to see her father, and gave one to
everybody else. "I can't eat such a big cake as this," said the
wrestler. "Can't you?" said Ajít. "I can't indeed," he answered; "it
is much too big." "Then I will eat it myself," said Ajít, and taking
it and all the other cakes she popped them into her mouth together.
"That is not half enough for me," she said. Then she offered him a can
of water. "I cannot drink all that water," he said. "Can't you?" said
Ajít; "I can drink much more than that." So she filled a large tub
with water, lifted it to her mouth, and drank it all up at a draught.
The wrestler was very much astonished, and said to her, "Will you come
to my house? I will give you a dinner." "You will never be able to
give me enough to eat and drink," said Ajít. "Yes, I shall," he said.
"You will not be able to give me enough, I am sure," said Ajít; "I
cannot come." "Do come," he said. "Very well," she answered, "I will
come; but I know you will never be able to give me enough food."
So they set off to his house. But when they had gone a little way, she
said, "I must have my house with me." "I cannot carry your house,"
said the wrestler. "You must," said Ajít, "if you don't, I cannot go
with you." "But I cannot carry your house," said the wrestler. "Well,
then," said Ajít, "I will carry it myself." So she went back, dug up
her house, and hoisted it on her head. This frightened the wrestler.
"What a strong woman she must be!" he thought. "I will not wrestle
with her father; for if I do, he will kill me."
Then they all went on till they came to his house. When they got to
it, Ajít set her house down on the ground, and the wrestler went to
get the dinner he had promised her. He brought quantities of
things--all sorts of things--everything he could think of. Three kinds
of flour, milk, dhall, rice, curries, and meat. Then he showed them
all to Ajít. "That is not enough for my dinner," she said. "Why, that
would be hardly enough for my mice!"
The wrestler wondered very much at this, and asked, "Are your mice so
very big?" "Yes, they are very big," she answered; "come and see." So
he took up all the food he had brought, and laid it on the floor of
Ajít's house. Then at once all the mice came and ate it up every bit.
The wrestler was greatly surprised; and Ajít said, "Did I not tell you
true? and did I not tell you, you would never be able to get me enough
to eat?" "Come to the Nabha Rájá's country," said the wrestler. "There
you will surely get enough to eat."
To this she agreed; so she, her father, and the wrestler went off to
the Nabha Rájá's country. "I have brought a very strong girl," said
the wrestler to the Nabha Rájá. "I will try her strength," said the
Rájá. "Give me three elephants," said Ajít, "and I will carry them for
you." Then the Rájá sent for three elephants, and said to her, "Now,
carry these." "Give me a rope," said Ajít. So they gave her a rope,
and she tied the three elephants together, and flung them over her
shoulder. "Now, where shall I throw them?" she said to the astonished
Rájá. "Shall I throw them on to the roof of your palace? or on to the
ground? or away out there?" "I don't know," said the Rájá. "Throw them
upon my roof." She threw the elephants up on to the roof with such
force that it broke, and the elephants fell through into the palace.
"What have you done?" cried the Rájá. "It is not my fault," answered
Ajít. "You told me to throw the elephants on to your roof, and so I
did." Then the Rájá sent for a great many men and bullocks and horses
to pull the elephants out of his palace. But they could not the first
time they pulled; then they tried a second time and succeeded, and
they threw the elephants away.
Then Ajít went home. "What shall I do with this dreadful woman?" said
the Nabha Rájá. "She is sure to kill me, and take all my country. I
will try to kill her." So he got his sepoys and guns into order, and
went out to kill Ajít. She was looking out of her window, and saw them
coming. "Oh," she said, "here is the Nabha Rájá coming to kill me."
Then she went out of her house and asked him why he had come. "To kill
you," said the Rájá. "Is that what you want to do?" she said; and with
one hand she took up the Rájá, his guns, and his sepoys, and put them
all under her arm: and she carried them all off to the Nabha Rájá's
country. There she put the Rájá into prison, and made herself Rání of
his kingdom. She was very much pleased at being Rání of the Nabha
country; for it was a rich country, and there were quantities of
fruits and of corn in it. And she lived happily for a long, long time.
Told by Karím, 13th January, 1877.
[Decoration]
[Decoration]
XIX.
THE FAKÍR NÁNAKSÁ SAVES THE MERCHANT'S LIFE.
In a country there was a grain merchant who was a very good man. Now a
fakír named Nánaksá, who was also a very good man, came constantly to
talk with him.
One day he came as usual, and the merchant and his wife were very glad
to see him. As they were all sitting together, they saw a goat led
away to be killed. The goat escaped from the man who was leading him
and hid behind the merchant, but he was caught and marched off to
death.
At this the merchant said nothing, but the fakír laughed.
A little later they saw an old woman who had done something wrong,
and, therefore, the king had ordered her to be taken to the jungle and
there put to death. The old woman escaped from the men who were
leading her and took refuge behind the merchant, but she was seized
and led away to die.
The merchant said nothing; the fakír laughed, and the merchant's wife
saw him laugh.
At this moment the merchant's little daughter woke and began to
scream. Her mother took her in her arms; the child was cross and
pulled her mother's clothes all awry.
The fakír laughed.
The mother put her dress straight and held her child in her arms and
stopped her crying. She then took a knife and went up to the fakír,
saying, "Why did you laugh three times? Tell me the truth. What made
you laugh three times?" Nánaksá answered, "What does it signify
whether I cry or laugh? Ask me no questions, for I am a fakír, and it
does not matter in the least whether I laugh or cry." However, the
merchant's wife insisted on knowing why he laughed, and she said, "If
you do not tell me, I will kill you with my knife." "Good," said
Nánaksá; "if you really do wish to know, I will tell you." "I really
do wish to know," she answered.
"Well," said Nánaksá, "you remember the goat took refuge behind your
husband? That goat in his former life was your husband's father, and
your husband would have saved him from death had he given the man who
was taking him to be killed four rupees, for the man would then have
gone away contentedly without the goat."
"Good," said the woman. "Why did you laugh the second time?"
"Well," said Nánaksá, "that old woman who hid herself behind your
husband was his grandmother in her former life. Had your husband given
the men who were taking her to the jungle twenty rupees, they would
have given her up to him, and he would have saved her from death.
Should a wild beast or a man ever take refuge behind us, it is our
duty to save his life."
"Well," said the merchant's wife, "you have told me why you laughed
the first two times. Now tell me why you laughed the third time."
"Listen," said Nánaksá. "You remember your husband's sister whom you
tormented so much? She died, but then God caused her to be born again
as your daughter, that she might torment you and punish you for having
been so unkind to her in her former life when she was your
sister-in-law."
"Is that true?" said the woman.
"Quite true," answered the fakír, "and that is why I laughed the third
time. But now would you like to hear something I wish to tell you? If
you promise not to cry, I will tell it you."
"I promise not to cry, so tell me," she said.
"Then listen," said Nánaksá. "God has decreed that your husband shall
die to-morrow morning at ten o'clock. He will send four angels to
fetch him."
At this the poor woman began to cry bitterly.
"Do not cry," said the fakír. "I will tell you something more. Listen
to me. To-morrow morning at four o'clock you must get up, and make
your house quite clean and neat. Then buy new dishes and make all the
nicest and most delicious sweetmeats you can."
"I will do so," she answered.
When it was yet night she rose, and did all the fakír had bidden her.
Then she went to him and said, "The sweetmeats are ready." "Now," said
Nánaksá, "go and get a fine, clean cloth; take it and the sweetmeats
with you, and set out and walk on and on till you come to a plain
which is a long way from this. But you must go on till you reach it,
and on it you will see a tank and a tree. By the tank and the tree you
must spread your cloth and lay out your sweetmeats on it. At nine
o'clock you will see four men, who will come and bathe in the tank.
When they have bathed they will come towards you, and you must say to
them, 'See! you are four angels, therefore you must eat some of my
sweetmeats.'"
The woman set out for the plain and did all Nánaksá had told her to
do; and everything happened as he had foretold. When the four men had
bathed, they came towards the woman, and she said to them, "See! you
are four angels, and therefore you must eat some of my sweetmeats."
The chief of the four angels, who was called Jabrá'íl, and the three
other angels answered, "We have no money, wherewith to buy your
sweetmeats, so how can we eat any of them?" "Never mind the money,"
said the woman; "you can pay me another day. Come now and eat some."
So the four angels sat down and ate a great many of her sweetmeats.
When they had finished they stood up and said to each other, "Now we
must go to the village and fetch the merchant." Then the woman made
them a great many salaams and said, "That merchant is my husband.
Still, if it is your pleasure to take him away, take him away."
At this the angels were sad, and said to her, "How can we take your
husband's life now that we have eaten your food? But stay under this
tree till we return, and then we will pay you for your sweetmeats."