it was a great disappointment when he reached the temple to find it
deserted. Not a priest was there to offer incense, not an acolyte to
ring the temple bells.
“How strange it is that everything is covered with dust! There are
cobwebs spun over the altars!” he said. “It seems to me an acolyte is
needed. I shall stay at least for the night and perhaps to-morrow the
priests may return. They will commend me if I make things very clean.”
He laid down his bundle and began to clean the temple with a will, and
soon it was quite free from dirt and dust. Then he sat down and rested,
but noticing a large screen with quite a blank space upon it, he drew
out his writing box and began to draw cats as hard as he could draw.
He thought nothing of how time was passing until suddenly he noticed it
was growing quite dark, and he began to be a little afraid. He looked
about him. How huge and deserted seemed the temple hall! How small a
boy he was! Then he remembered the old priest’s parting words, “When
darkness hovers, fear great places, seek small shelters.” Surely this
was a great place! He hunted about hoping to find a small place which
might be safer, and, surely enough, there was a tiny recess in the wall
with a door which could be slid into place. He entered and found there
was just room enough for him to curl up and go to sleep, which he
did, for he was so tired that sleep came to him quickly.
[Illustration: “HE BEGAN TO DRAW CATS”]
He slept soundly, but at last was awakened by a loud noise. It seemed
as if a thousand ogres were fighting, and with the noise of the
fighting came horrid screams. Kihachi was afraid to make a peephole in
the paper partition, and so he lay very still until at last there was a
more awful scream than before and the sound of a heavy fall. Then all
was still.
Kihachi lay quite still until the morning light began to creep into his
cabinet, and then he thought, “I must get up and ring the dawn bell;
for when the priests return they will be pleased to find that I have
attended to everything.”
So he jumped up and hastened to ring the bell. Pure and clear its tones
rang out over the cool morning air, and Kihachi noticed figures in the
valley below moving rapidly, and he said, “Here come the priests. I
hope they will be pleased with what I have done.”
Then he went to look at the cats he had drawn in the great temple hall
the night before. But what a sight met his eyes! Upon the floor of
the temple was a pool of blood and beside it the body of a fierce and
terrible rat, the largest he had ever seen. It was as large as a cow,
indeed it was a monster rat goblin.
“What killed you?” he cried, “there must have been a battle royal here
in the night, for I heard sounds as if an army of cats was let loose.”
Then his heart stood still, for he saw that the mouths of all the cats
he had drawn were covered with blood!
“My cats killed the rat goblin!” he cried joyfully; and at that moment
he heard steps and turning, saw the headman of the village with several
other men entering the temple.
“What does this mean?” asked the headman. “Do you not know that this
temple is haunted by a terrible rat goblin? Surely you did not spend
the night here?”
“I spent it quite comfortably,” said Kihachi, “and I think the goblin
is dead.” Then he showed the headman the rat and his cats, and told him
what had happened in the night. The headman said, “It is well that you
obeyed the old priest’s instructions to ‘seek small shelters.’ This
goblin has haunted the temple for many months and no one who has come
here has ever returned. Your cats are very lifelike; I believe that
some day you will be a great artist. In the city yonder you will find
my brother. Go to him and tell him your story. He will help you. You
have done my village a good turn with your cats, so here is a present
to help you along;” and he gave him twenty _yen_.
Then was Kihachi very glad in his heart, and he made his thanks to the
headman and went his way.
And thereafter, when he became a great artist and taught many boys to
draw, he laughed as he told his pupils, “My first great picture was a
drawing of cats, and for it I received twenty _yen_.” And his pupils
were much astonished and called him always “The Painter of Cats.”
FOOTNOTES:
[20] Sash.
[21] Punk.
[22] Good morning, Father--Good morning, Mother.
[23] Boy.
[24] Heavenly bamboo, a tree with bright scarlet berries.
[25] Hangings or pictures.
THE COMING OF BENTEN SAMA
Long ago the river of Kashigoye flowed into the sea by the Marsh of the
Terrible Dragons. The dragons were five, and yearly they came forth and
devoured the maidens of the village and there was no way to hinder. But
the people cried loudly to Benten Sama, the goddess of mothers, the
bestower of love and beauty.
Now Benten Sama had many sons: Daikoku, who gives wealth, Ebisu, who is
the god of fishermen, Hatei, who is full of mirth, and others equally
renowned.
Of all these sons, Benten Sama loved Ebisu best, and for his sake all
fishermen were dear to her. When, therefore, O Ume San, daughter of the
headman of the village, besought the blessing of the gentle goddess
upon her lover, a fisherman, Benten Sama listened.
“Goddess of Mercy,” murmured the girl. “Send thy blessing upon him, for
my honorable father will not consent to our union. He says, ‘When the
five Dragons of the Marshlands are no more thou shalt marry this fisher
lad.’ I pray you, gentle goddess, soften the heart of my father, and
may thy son Ebisu bestow his favor upon Hakuga.”
[Illustration: BENTEN SAMA]
Benten Sama listened to the girl’s prayer and smiled. She whispered to
her son and he was kind. He filled Hakuga’s nets with fish and these
brought many _yen_. He then approached the father of O Ume San and
besought of him his daughter, his Go-between[26] saying, “Honorably
deign to listen to the prayer of Hakuga and give to him your daughter,
for he has many _yen_!” But the father replied ever the same, “When the
five Marsh Dragons are no more,” and the Go-between returned sadly to
Hakuga.
Then the maiden prayed again to Benten Sama and she said, “Kind
Goddess, hear! Send some curse upon the five Marsh Dragons, that Hatei
your son may bestow mirth upon us, for we are sad.”
Then Benten Sama thought, and that which she thought was good. It was
the time of the red maple leaf[27] and Tatsu Hima[28] ruled. Benten
Sama asked her aid, as she flaunted her banners upon the hillside, and
that night there came a fearful storm. The storm howled and shrieked,
and all the people cowered in terror. All night it raged, and the
thunder god gave five mighty roars, and at each roar a dragon lay dead.
And when the sun god lighted the world, all was still and smiling, the
Marsh of the Dragons was gone, and in its stead rose an island, green
and beautiful, and above it hovered Benten Sama, throned upon a rainbow.
Then were the people much pleased at their deliverance from the five
Dragons of the Marsh, and they made a shrine to Benten Sama at that
point where she had appeared.
And O Ume San married the fisherman and they lived happily ever after.
FOOTNOTES:
[26] A Japanese never asks for a wife himself. He always sends a
professional matchmaker who is called a “Go-between.”
[27] November.
[28] Goddess of Autumn.
THE WATERFALL WHICH FLOWED SAKÉ
Once there was a poor woodcutter who toiled early and late for a
living. He worked harder than others, because he loved his old father
and mother dearly, and wished to give them all the good things of
life. But though he was more diligent than any other woodcutter of the
village, he never seemed able to gain enough _sen_ to buy _saké_ and
tea, but only enough for rice and bread.
One day he climbed high up on the mountain to find the best wood. It
was a very steep mountain, and no one else would try to climb so high.
So he worked alone. Chop, chop, his axe broke the stillness and soon he
had a goodly pile of logs.
Stopping for a moment to rest, he saw a badger lying asleep under a
tree, and he thought to himself, “Aha, my fine little beastie! You will
make a fine morsel for my father’s supper. He and my mother have not
tasted meat for many a day.”
The longer he looked at the badger, however, the less he wanted to
kill him. He was such a little creature and it seemed mean to kill a
sleeping thing and one so much smaller than himself!
“No,” he said to himself at last, “I can not kill him! I will but work
the harder that I may earn money to buy my parents some meat!”
Now the badger seemed to understand and approve of this resolve on the
part of the young woodcutter. He opened one eye and then the other.
Then he blinked saucily at the woodcutter.
“Thank you,” he said. “That was a wise conclusion.”
The young man dropped his axe and jumped high into the air, so great
was his astonishment at hearing a badger talk.
“You couldn’t kill me if you tried,” said the badger. “Besides, I am
far more useful to you alive than dead. And now, because you have
proved yourself of a kind heart, I will show you kindness. Bring me the
flat, white stone which lies beneath yonder pine tree.”
The woodcutter turned to obey, and suddenly stopped in wonder. Spread
upon the stone was the finest feast he had ever seen. There were rice
and _saké_, fish and _dango_,[29] and other good things. He sighed as
he looked, for he wished he could take the food home to his parents.
“Sit and eat,” said the badger who answered his thoughts as if they had
been spoken. “Your father and mother shall eat the same.”
The woodcutter obeyed, but when he tried to thank his little friend, he
saw that the badger was gone and that, just where he had sat, there was
a sparkling, tinkling waterfall. It rippled over stones and crags and
sang a sweet little song, and as the woodcutter stooped to drink of it
lo! the waterfall flowed with _saké_! It was the richest he had ever
tasted and he filled his gourd with it and hurried home to share it
with his parents.
When he arrived there and had told his story, his mother smiled and
said, “Thou art a good son.”
“We have fared as well,” his father said, “for we found spread for us
just such a feast as yours, though we knew not at all whence it came.”
Next day the young man went early to his work. As he climbed the
mountain he saw, to his surprise, a troop of woodcutters following him,
and each carried a gourd. Some one had overheard him tell his father
of the waterfall which flowed _saké_, and all the woodcutters of the
village wished to taste of the wonderful drink.
When they drank, however, they were filled with rage, for to them the
waterfall flowed only water. Then they reviled the youth and cried,
“Base one, you have beguiled us here on false pretenses! You have
spoken falsely! We have toiled here for nothing! You are an evil
fellow!”
[Illustration: “THE WOODCUTTER STOOPED TO DRINK OF IT”]
But he replied calmly, “I did not ask you to come. For me the waterfall
flows _saké_ still, as sweet as yester-eve.”
They went away in great anger, and as they went the waterfall almost
seemed to laugh, so gayly did it tinkle over the stones. When the
woodcutter drank, however, the laughter turned to music and a sweet
voice crooned a gentle song,
“_Saké_ for him who is kind,
Water for those who seek self,
_Saké_ for him who is kind!”
Thereafter it was the same. Whenever the woodcutter, worn with toil,
stooped to drink from the sparkling waterfall, or at night when he
filled his gourd to bear to his father at home, the _saké_ flowed free
and clear and delicious. And ever the tinkling voice repeated, over and
over to the music of waters falling,
“_Saké_ to him who is kind.”
FOOTNOTES:
[29] A kind of dumpling.
THE BOY AND THE SPIRITS OF THINGS
There was once a little boy of the Ainu who was very wise. He seldom
played with the other boys, for the spirits of things were his
playmates. No one could see his playmates, but he talked to them and
loved them better than all the children whom he knew.
“My friends tell me strange things,” he said; and his mother asked,
“Who are your friends and what strange things do they tell you, my
child?”
“My friends are the spirits of things,” the boy made answer. “I can not
tell you what they say, but the spirit of the pine tree whispers to me
the things the spirit of the north wind tells to him; the tall bamboo
spirit bends down as the tree sways, and talks of the sun’s glowing
rays; the birds and blossoms speak to me of the earth’s beauty. Even
the common things have spirits and they tell me many things.”
The boy’s mother sighed, as she looked at him, for she thought he was
too wise.
One day the boy fell ill. He was very sick, but no one knew what was
the matter with him. He drooped from day to day and seemed not to care
for anything. And it was the winter time.
[Illustration: “THE BIRDS AND BLOSSOMS SPEAK TO ME”]
One day his mother came to him and said, “My son, the first plum
blossom is seen upon the trees. The sun is warm. Will you not go out of
doors to see it?”
“The plum blossom spirit whispered me of its coming,” he said. “I will
go and see.”
Then he crept slowly from the little thatched hut and, resting at the
door, he saw the plum blossom and smelled its delicious fragrance. He
smiled a little and then a queer look came into his eyes. He held his
chin in the palm of his hand and sat quietly nodding his head once or
twice as if saying, “Yes.”
At last his mother could bear no longer to be without his thoughts. She
feared to lose him, and she felt jealous of everything that came near
to him. “Tell me what you think, little son,” she said.
“I will tell you,” the boy answered. “Oftentimes a boy and girl come to
play with me. They are Spirit Children and we play many things. To-day
they have told me why I am ill. It is this. My grandfather had a fine
axe. With it he made many things, a tray, and a pestle to pound millet,
and others. But my father threw away the axe, forgetting how well it
had served. Now it lies rusting, and the spirit of the axe is angry.
Because the spirit of the axe is angry, it has made me ill. So, if you
do not wish me to die, you must tell my father to seek the axe and do
honor to its spirit.”
“It shall be as you say, my son,” said his mother, and she sought
his father and told him all. Then he found the axe, and polished it
carefully until it shone. He made for it a new handle of ironwood, and
carved it with care. And to it he set up a worship stick. This stick
was tall, and its feathers curled and waved in the breeze.
Then the spirit of the axe was happy, and the boy was made well, so
that joy fell upon the soul of his mother.
And when he grew to be a man, he became a great augur, for the spirits
of things came often to him and told him much that was concealed from
other beings. For the spirits of things were his friends.
THE DAUGHTER OF A SAMURAI
There was once a daughter of a Samurai who was both beautiful and good.
Her name was O Cho San. Her father was dead, and she worked very hard
to support her mother who was ill. The mother had trained her daughter
in the best of manners, therefore O Cho San had no trouble in finding
work.
There was a certain nobleman in need of a maid servant, and he
approached O Cho San and asked her to serve him.
“What would my duties be?” inquired the girl as she respectfully bowed
to the ground before him. “I must hear, and then I can tell if I can do
them.”
“They are all the common duties of a maid,” he replied--“all but one
thing, which is most strange. You will have the care of the porcelain
plates of my fathers.”
“But that is not a strange duty for a maid,” answered O Cho San. She
smiled at him, showing her pretty white teeth and a dimple in one
cheek. “I have washed china before this, and always with care.”
“Yet it is the one thing which is most hard,--to find a maid who will
attend to this,” he answered. “Know, O Cho San, that the porcelain is
priceless. There are twelve plates and each one is perfect. They are so
old that they are of the fashion of the Owari potter who learned the
secrets of Karatsu and made a flight of cranes across the blue sky.
“The porcelain is so beyond all value that my ancestor made the law
that whoever broke a plate should straightway have a finger cut off. So
you see the china must be washed with care.”
O Cho San clasped and unclasped her slender brown fingers nervously,
then she hid them quite away in the sleeves of her kimono. Her cheek
paled a little, but she said bravely, “I will take the place, most
honorable sir, and I shall try to keep my fingers.”
Then she thought to herself, “It is not the most desirable of places to
live where one loses a finger for each nick of china, but the _yen_ he
pays are many more than I can earn elsewhere, and my dear mother must
have tea and rice. Besides, it is not likely that such costly porcelain
can be often used, and when it is, I shall offer many prayers that it
be used in safety.”
So O Cho San served the nobleman faithfully.
It was easy to see that she was a favorite with all, for she had
manners of such engaging gentleness that every one loved her. At first
this pleased her. When, however, she found that even the master’s son
was in love with her, she was unhappy.
She did not care at all for him, and she knew that to marry him would
displease her master, who was kind to her. So she refused to listen to
the young man, and this made him very angry. Being bad at heart, he
resolved to be avenged upon her.
“I will ask my father to give a party at which the porcelain plates
shall be used,” he said to himself. “She will surely break one, and
then she will turn to me to save her from her punishment. If she does
not, she will lose a finger;” and on his face there was a cruel frown.
As he had said, so it was done. The master gave a supper and the
priceless dishes were used. Thanks to the kindness of the gods who
watch over little maidens, O Cho San washed them, dried them on the
softest of paper napkins, and set them carefully away all unbroken. But
alas, when the master came to look them over, the bottom one of the
pile was broken.
Great was the excitement.
O Cho San wept and proclaimed her innocence.
“Honorable Master,” she cried, “it is another hand than mine which has
broken it. But if I am to be punished, cut a piece from my face instead
of my hand. Then I may still work for my mother.”
[Illustration: “O CHO SAN PROCLAIMED HER INNOCENCE”]
“The law of my fathers required a finger for each plate broken,” said
the master sorrowfully; for although he liked the gentle little maid
and did not wish to hurt her, he feared to disobey the law.
“You shall not cut even her finger nail,” suddenly cried a rough voice.
The group around O Cho San turned in astonishment to see who dared
speak so to the master.
It was Genzaburo, a servant, very rough but honest and good.
“O Cho San may not be punished for what she has not done,” he said.
“I myself broke the plate. You ask me why? Because I love O Cho San.
She is as fair as the cherry bloom in early spring, but to me cold
and remote as the snows upon the crest of the mountains. I thought to
myself, she is a Samurai’s daughter and will never marry me. But if she
lose a finger no one else will marry her. Therefore in time she will
turn to me, and I shall win her for my wife. Then I broke the plate.”
“How did you break it?” demanded the master sternly.
“That I will show you,” said Genzaburo. “It was very simple. I was told
to mend the lid of the box in which the plate was kept. Then I thought
of the plates, and I drew forth one and _bang!_ my hammer fell upon it
just like this!” and he brought his hammer down with great force.
There was a crash terrible to hear, a scream from O Cho San, an
exclamation of rage from the master, for the hammer had descended upon
the pile of plates, and of the beautiful porcelain nothing at all
remained but fragments.
In all the confusion Genzaburo alone was calm. He stood smiling at the
ruin he had wrought, and his master cried, “The man is quite mad! Take
him away!”
“Not so, my master, I am not mad,” Genzaburo replied. “I did this
thing with reason. Take all my fingers if you wish, or even my life if
the commands of your honorable ancestors must be carried out. But I
shall have the happiness of knowing that no more little maids can be
frightened and mutilated by your cruelty.”
The nobleman gazed upon him in silence; but the son threw himself
before his father.
“I beg you, oh my father, forgive this mad fellow,” he cried. “I too am
in fault, for I persuaded you to give this entertainment in the hope
that she would break a plate and then turn to me in her trouble.”
Then O Cho San knelt before him and said, “Honorable Master, since I
am the occasion of this great trouble in your household, I beg you
to permit me to go away and be not angry with either your son or your
servant. Forgive them, and of your graciousness allow me to depart,
since my only wish is to work for the welfare of my dear mother.”
Then was the nobleman greatly touched. Mindful of Genzaburo’s long
service, he forgave him. He forgave his son, also; for since O Cho San
loved him not, he needed no further punishment. Mindful still more of O
Cho San’s pleasant services in his household, he said, “We will speak
no more of the porcelain plates of my ancestors. O Cho San will not
leave me. She shall continue to live in my service and her wages shall
be increased.”
Then he gave her a reward, and she lived many years and earned much
_yen_ for the welfare of her dear mother.
THE FISHES OF THE BOILING SPRING
Many, many years ago there lived at Atami a holy priest. Of all the
poor people of the village, he was the very poorest, for he gave away
nearly all that was given to him; and he was often hungry.
Atami was by the sea and the people lived on the sea’s bounty. When the
winter swept down from Fuji San, and the storm god roared on the waves
and frightened the fish away, then all the people hungered. The fathers
and mothers hungered greatly, for they gave nearly all there was to
the children, who were not, therefore, so much in want. But the priest
hungered most of all; for he was the father of his people, and so gave
them of his own share of food. Indeed, he gave them more than this;
for, under the camphor tree which grew beside his little temple on the
hill, he sat and prayed for his people, and the gods heard his prayers.
One day the fish were gone from the shore and the people were very
hungry. The priest of Atami sat and prayed, and lo! the camphor
tree opened, and there appeared to him a lovely goddess in a mantle
of purple. Her face was fair and kind, but her eyes gleamed with
displeasure, and she said, “Sit not here and pray for fish, oh foolish
one! Even now the fish are upon your shore; behold them!” Then the tree
closed and he saw her no more.
The priest was afraid and hastened to the shore; and there he saw a
terrible sight and smelled a terrible smell.
The whole beach was covered with fishes. There were big fishes and
little fishes, long fishes and fat fishes, and strange fishes that no
one had ever seen before. They would have fed the village for many
days, but alas! each fish was scalded as by fire and was crumbling into
bits.
The good priest wept as if his heart would break, crying aloud, “Alas,
my people, my people!”
Then he climbed high upon the hill above the village, and looked over
the sea, hoping that he might learn what had caused the fish to die.
There he prayed to the gods, “Open my eyes that I may see, and aid my
people.”
Far out at sea, and under the surface of the water, he beheld a great
turmoil. The waters boiled and bubbled as if in torment. And through
the waters, the fishes leaped, and lo! they were scalded to death.
The priest called to the watchman, who stood upon the hill to tell the
people when good fish came to the shore, “Haste! haste!” he said, “run
to the temple and bring me a branch from the holy camphor tree which
grows beside it. For thy life, haste!”
The watchman, being young, made great haste. Soon he brought back a
bough of the tree. Its leaves were like green jade and it was of more
avail than many demons.
Then the priest prayed upon the shore, while he waved his camphor
branch in the air, “Oh Kwan-on, Goddess of Mercy,” he said, “look upon
our distress and have pity upon my people. Give us fish lest we die.
And cause the turmoil in the sea to cease.”
He threw the sacred bough far from him into the sea. Then there came
a mighty rumbling, and the crest of the hill rose into a cone, and
through it the waters burst, rising toward heaven in a stream so high
that it seemed to reach the clouds.
Soon the people came with speed and made channels in the earth. The hot
water flowed into the channels, and all who bathed therein were cured
of their ailments; and the place was called the “Spring of Kindness.”