DOWN in Honduras there is a town called Pueblo de Chamelecón which is
not much of a town after all. There is only one street in it, and the
houses are like big beehives that have been squared up, and the roofs
are of straw. There is no sidewalk, no roadway, and the houses are
unfenced, so that you step from the room into the sandy street and,
because of the heat, when you are inside you wish that you were out, and
when you are outside you wish that you were in. So the children of the
place spend much time down at the little river. At least they did when I
was there.
I rode there on a donkey and, the day being hot, let the animal graze,
or sleep, or think, or dream, or work out problems—or whatever it is
that a donkey does with his spare time—and I watched the children in
the water. There was one, a little baby just able to toddle around, who
crawled down to the water’s edge, rolled in and swam about like a little
dog, much as the babies of Tierra del Fuego will swim in the icy waters
of the Far South. He came out on my side of the water, as lively as a
grig, smiling every bit as friendly as any other little chap of his age,
white, brown, or yellow.
I stayed there that night because the day did not get cool and in the
evening the people sat outside of their houses and played the guitar and
sang. Now I had with me a little musical instrument like a tiny organ,
which I bought in France, and it was so compact and handy that I could
carry it everywhere as easily as I could a blanket. In fact, I used to
ride with it behind my saddle, wrapped in my bedding. Well, as the
people seemed to like their music, I brought out mine, so we had a very
jolly concert, in spite of my poor voice, which they politely pretended
not to notice. Then later, from curiosity, the children came about me
and, to amuse them as well as myself, having done so badly at the
singing, I did a few tricks with wads of rolled paper and a couple of
tin cups, and the little boy who had swum across the pond laughed as
loudly as any one there. That pleased his father mightily, so much
indeed that he brought me a cup of goat’s milk and some cassava bread
and told me that I was a fine fellow. To please me further, he sang a
very, very long song. It was all about the parrot and the wonderful
things it did, a parrot that had lived long among people and learned
their songs, and when the bird flew back to the forest, it still sang,
and so well that all the other parrots in the forest learned to sing the
song from beginning to end. But what was curious was that at the end of
every other verse, there was this line:
When the rat had a tail like a horse.
So when he had done I asked him about that, for all the rats I had seen
had tails which were far from beautiful, according to my notion.
The man listened gravely, then said: “But certainly, once the rat had a
tail like a horse.”
“When was that?” I asked.
“When the rabbit had a tail like a cat,” he said.
“But I am still puzzled,” I told him. “Was it long ago?”
“It was when the deer’s tail was plumed like the tail of a dog,” he told
me.
As we talked, a kind of polite silence was upon all the people gathered
about us; then a very, very old woman who was smoking a cigar nodded her
head and said: “But Tio Ravenna is right. It was in the days of Hunbatz,
who lived on beetles and spiders, and I heard it from my mother’s
mother, and she from the mother of her mother.” Then the old woman went
on smoking with her eyes closed, and all who were there nodded at one
another, thinking, I suppose, that the old grandmother would presently
tell the story. But of course, they who knew her well were wiser than to
ask her to tell the Tale of Three Tails, so every one waited.
Presently, a little girl gave the old grandmother a piece of sugar and
asked: “Was it two brothers, or three, who had to clear the great
forest? I am not sure.”
At that the little old lady’s eyes were bright and she threw away her
cigar and said:
“Two brothers. That I have told you before.” After a little sigh, which
was only pretending that she was weary of telling the tale, she said:
“You know that I have told it to you before, and it is wrong that I
should have to tell it so often. But you see this.”
So saying, she took from her bosom, where she had it fastened to a silk
thread, a little piece of jade and let us see it. It was broken from a
larger piece, but we could make out on it a carving which I saw to be a
deer with a tail like a sheep dog’s. We passed it about and every one
looked at it carefully, although certainly all of them must have seen it
time and time again, and when it came to the old grandmother again she
replaced it and told us the Tale of Three Tails, just as I have written
it here.
* * * * *
Once, long ago, the rat had a beautiful tail like a horse, with long
sweeping hairs, though it was before my time of life. It was in the days
of old Hunbatz, and he was a wizard who lived in the dark of the great
forest that used to be on the other side of the big river. In those days
things were not as now and animals were different; some larger, some
smaller. The deer, as you have seen on the stone I showed you, had a
tail like a dog, and the rabbit’s tail was long and furry like the tail
of a cat.
Now in that land there was a hunter with whom neither lasso nor arrow
ever failed, and he had two sons, beautiful to look at and brave of
heart, stout and quick of foot. Not only did the brothers work better
than any men had ever worked, but they could play ball and sing,
throwing the ball higher than birds could fly, and singing in a way that
brought the wild things to hear them. Nor was there living creature able
to run as swiftly as the two brothers. The birds alone could outrace
them.
The brothers being grown, their father thought that it was time for them
to make a home for themselves, so chose a place on the farther side of
the forest, and told them to clear it, which, he said, could be done in
seven days. It was no little forest, you must remember, but a vast
place, where sunlight never pierced, and the roots of trees were like
great ropes; a jungle that stretched for miles and miles and the tangle
in it was so thick that a monkey could barely get through without
squeezing. Deep in the forest there was a blackness like the blackness
of night. The trunks of the trees were so large that three men holding
hands could not circle them and where there were no trees, there were
vines and snakelike lianas and thorn-bushes and flowers so great that a
man could lie down to sleep in the shade of them.
The first day the brothers took a great space, piling the trees at one
corner, clearing the tangle and leaving all as smooth as the water of a
lake. They sang as they worked, and they sang as they rested in the heat
of the day, and the organ bird and the flute bird answered them from the
gold-green shade. So pleasant was their music that the old iguana,
though he was as big as a man, came from his resting place in the trees
to listen.
Seeing how things were going, old Hunbatz in the dark of the forest grew
very angry, fearing that his hiding place would soon dwindle and vanish.
So he went to the great gray owl, his friend, and they talked the matter
over between them. The owl told Hunbatz that he must set the father’s
heart against the brothers, telling him that the boys were lazy and
instead of working spent their time in playing with the ball and in
singing.
“Go,” said the owl, “to their father, and when he asks how the lads fare
with their work, say to him:
They sing and they play
For half of the day.
It may fall out that he will grow angry and cut off their heads, and
thus the forest will be safe for us.”
That seemed to the wizard to be good advice, and before the close of the
day’s work, old Hunbatz, who could fly by flapping his hands in a
certain way like a swimmer, cast himself into the air and flew with
great swiftness to the place where the father lived. But he took care to
dress himself like a woodman.
“Well met,” said the father, seeing Hunbatz, but thinking him no wizard
of course. “From where do you come?”
“From the other side of the forest,” was the reply.
“Then perchance you saw my two sons who are clearing the forest,” said
the father.
“I did,” said Hunbatz.
“And how are the boys doing?” asked the father.
At that old Hunbatz shook his head sadly and answered, as the owl had
told him:
“They sing and they play
For half of the day.”
That, you know, was quite untrue, for while they sang, there was no
stopping of work, and as for the play, it is true that they threw the
ball from one to the other, but so clever were they that one would throw
the ball so high that it would take hours and hours before it came down
again, and of course, while it was in the air, the brothers went on
working.
“I would cut off their heads to teach them a lesson,” said Hunbatz, “if
they were sons of mine.” Then he turned on his heel and went away, not
flying until he was out of the father’s sight, for he did not wish any
man to know that he was a wizard.
To be sure, the good man was grieved and his face clouded, when he heard
the tale of Hunbatz, but he said nothing, and, a short time after, the
brothers came home. He was much surprised when, asking the lads how much
work they had done that day, they told him that they had cleared off the
space of forest he had bidden them to. After much thought he told them
that the next day they would have to do twice as much as before. The
brothers thought the new task hard, but they went to work with a good
will and on the second day the trees fell like corn before a man with a
machete, and before night they had finished that which they had been
given to do.
Again old Hunbatz flew through the air to the father and tried to set
him against the boys, and again that night, when the boys were home,
their task was set for the next day twice as much as the day before.
It was the same the third day, and the fourth, until at last the boys
came to a point where by the mightiest working they could not move a
stick or a blade of grass more. And yet, because of old Hunbatz, the
father set them a task still greater.
On the fifth day things looked very hopeless for the boys, and their
hearts were sad as they looked at the forest and saw the task that their
father had set them to do. They went to work feeling for the first time
it would be impossible for the sun to go down on their finished task,
and the heart of old Hunbatz was glad. But the birds in the forest were
silent that morning, for they too knew that there were sad hearts in the
brothers. Even the grasshoppers and the mosquitoes and the bees were
still, and as for the boys, not a note of joy could they raise.
Then to them came the iguana, wise old lizard who knew everything that
went on in the forest, and as soon as he had heard what the brothers had
to say he smiled and called on them to listen, after making sure that
there was no living creature to hear except the birds, for of them he
had no fear, knowing that the birds tell no secrets.
“Be cheerful,” said the iguana, “and I will tell you a charm. It is
this: mark about the handles of your working tools rings of black,
white, red, and green, and before you start to work, sing:
I must do what I can,
Is the thought of a man,
and if your hearts are brave, you will see what happens.”
Having said this and smiled on the brothers, the old iguana climbed into
a tree and stretched himself along the branch of it where he could best
see, and the birds gathered in a great circle, a matchless melody going
up to the sky.
So the brothers took their axes, their spades, their hoes, and their
machetes, and painted about the handles of them rings of black and of
white and of red and of green, and their voices rang sweet and clear as
they sang, as the iguana had told them:
“I must do what I can,
Is the thought of a man.”
No sooner had the last words passed than the whole company of birds
broke out into a chorus, singing, chattering, chirping, whistling,
screaming, each according to its manner and, without hands touching
them, axes went to work cutting down trees, machetes chopped at lianas
and vines, spades cleared and dug; and trees, bushes, and weeds piled
themselves in great heaps at the edge of the clearing, so that in less
than an hour the whole task was done. Then it was that all things in the
forest were glad and the good iguana smiled broadly. The very monkeys
joined in and, catching the ball which the brothers threw, tossed it
from tree to tree until it passed through the whole jungle and back
again.
But old Hunbatz was angry beyond measure, so angry that he whirled about
on his heels three hundred times, turning so rapidly that he looked like
a storm cloud, and his long whiskers were tangled about him like a
mantle. But the faster he whirled, the more his anger boiled, and,
flapping his hands, he shot into the air, going so swiftly that his very
clothes were scorched.
“How are the boys?” asked the father, when Hunbatz stood before him.
For answer, Hunbatz screamed: “Your boys are idle fellows!
They sing and they play
For half of the day.
Had I such sons, I would cut their heads off to teach them a lesson.”
Said the father: “To-morrow I shall go to the forest, and if you have
not spoken truth, then this arrow which has never yet missed a mark
shall find one in your heart. But if it is as you say, then my sons
shall feel my anger.”
Old Hunbatz did not like that at all, for well he knew that the hunter’s
arrows were never wasted. So back he flew to the owl and the two of them
whispered together. That night there was a great gathering of the
animals: of the hare, the deer, the rat, the jaguar, the puma, the
opossum, and many others. The rat, the deer, and the rabbit led them,
and in a wonderfully short time, not only were all things restored and
the work of the day undone, but the trees and the bushes and the vines
and the lianas that had been moved on the other days were put back in
their old places, growing and blooming, so that all was as though the
brothers had never been at the forest at all.
Sad was the hour the next morning when the hunter came with his two sons
and saw the forest as though hand had never touched it. The brothers
could not believe their eyes. Grinning from the thick of a rubber tree
was the face of Hunbatz, and on his shoulder was the owl. For a moment
the father thought to cut off the heads of the lads to teach them a
lesson, but on second thought he told them that he would give them
another chance.
“What should have been done is not done,” he said. “I will grant you a
day and a night to clear all the forest as you told me it was cleared.
To-morrow morning I will come again, and see whether all is well done.”
At that he left them and went his way.
No sooner had he gone than the two brothers went to see the iguana, who
told them of the witchery of the owl and Hunbatz and bade them to act as
before. So they made the ring about the handles of their working tools
once more and sang:
“I must do what I can,
Is the thought of a man,”
and, as on the day before, axes, machetes, and spades went to work and
in a short time all was clear again. Then the iguana told the brothers
of the evil that Hunbatz had done and bade them set traps and keep watch
that night. So three traps were made and set, and when night fell, from
all parts of the forest there came animals led by the rat, the deer, and
the rabbit, and old Hunbatz and the owl watched from the dark caves of
the leaves.
No sooner had the first three animals stepped into the clearing than
they were caught fast in the traps, whereupon the rest of the animals
turned and fled. Then the brothers rushed to the traps. The rabbit gave
a great jump when he felt the jaws close upon his beautiful catlike
tail, but it was chopped off close to the body. The deer, with his tail
like a plume, fared no better. So both deer and rabbit fled to the woods
ashamed, and, as you see for yourself, have had no tails ever since. As
for the rat, he was far too wise to jump as the rabbit and deer had
done. But seeing the brothers coming, he pulled and pulled and pulled so
that all the beautiful hair was stripped, leaving him with but a bare
and ugly thing of a tail as you see to-day.
The next morning when the hunter-father came, there was the forest
cleared and all in good order as the boys had said. So he sought out old
Hunbatz, who flapped his hands and flew for very fear. But so fast he
went that his clothes were burnt off, and his skin was baked into a hard
crust by the great heat, and he fell to the earth and so became what we
call an armadillo. As for the two brothers, they lived very happily for
many, many years, and things went well with them and the land they lived
in was a land of good harvest and fruit trees.
So now you know the Tale of Three Tails and if you do not believe it,
look at the rat and the deer and the rabbit and the armadillo, and see
for yourself.
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