CHAPTER II

ROUMANIAN-GYPSY STORIES

NO. 5.—THE VAMPIRE

There was an old woman in a village. And grown-up maidens met and span,

and made a ‘bee.’ [40] And the young sparks came and laid hold of the

girls, and pulled them about and kissed them. But one girl had no

sweetheart to lay hold of her and kiss her. And she was a strapping

lass, the daughter of wealthy peasants; but three whole days no one

came near her. And she looked at the big girls, her comrades. And no

one troubled himself with her. Yet she was a pretty girl, a prettier

was not to be found. Then came a fine young spark, and took her in his

arms and kissed her, and stayed with her until cock-crow. And when the

cock crowed at dawn he departed. The old woman saw he had cock’s feet.

[41] And she kept looking at the lad’s feet, and she said, ‘Nita, my

lass, did you see anything?’

‘I didn’t notice.’

‘Then didn’t I see he had cock’s feet?’

‘Let be, mother, I didn’t see it.’

And the girl went home and slept; and she arose and went off to the

spinning, where many more girls were holding a ‘bee.’ And the young

sparks came, and took each one his sweetheart. And they kissed them,

and stayed a while, and went home. And the girl’s handsome young spark

came and took her in his arms and kissed her and pulled her about, and

stayed with her till midnight. And the cock began to crow. The young

spark heard the cock crowing, and departed. What said the old woman who

was in the hut, ‘Nita, did you notice that he had horse’s hoofs?’

‘And if he had, I didn’t see.’

Then the girl departed to her home. And she slept and arose in the

morning, and did her work that she had to do. And night came, and she

took her spindle and went to the old woman in the hut. And the other

girls came, and the young sparks came, and each laid hold of his

sweetheart. But the pretty girl looks at them. Then the young sparks

gave over and departed home. And only the girl remained neither a long

time nor a short time. Then came the girl’s young spark. Then what will

the girl do? She took heed, and stuck a needle and thread in his back.

And he departed when the cock crew, and she knew not where he had gone

to. Then the girl arose in the morning and took the thread, and

followed up the thread, and saw him in a grave where he was sitting.

Then the girl trembled and went back home. At night the young spark

that was in the grave came to the old woman’s house and saw that the

girl was not there. He asked the old woman, ‘Where’s Nita?’

‘She has not come.’

Then he went to Nita’s house, where she lived, and called, ‘Nita, are

you at home?’

Nita answered, [‘I am’].

‘Tell me what you saw when you came to the church. For if you don’t

tell me I will kill your father.’

‘I didn’t see anything.’

Then he looked, [42] and he killed her father, and departed to his

grave.

Next night he came back. ‘Nita, tell me what you saw.’

‘I didn’t see anything.’

‘Tell me, or I will kill your mother, as I killed your father. Tell me

what you saw.’

‘I didn’t see anything.’

Then he killed her mother, and departed to his grave.

Then the girl arose in the morning. And she had twelve servants. And

she said to them, ‘See, I have much money and many oxen and many sheep;

and they shall come to the twelve of you as a gift, for I shall die

to-night. And it will fare ill with you if you bury me not in the

forest at the foot of an apple-tree.’

At night came the young spark from the grave and asked, ‘Nita, are you

at home?’

‘I am.’

‘Tell me, Nita, what you saw three days ago, or I will kill you, as I

killed your parents.’

‘I have nothing to tell you.’

Then he took and killed her. Then, casting a look, he departed to his

grave.

So the servants, when they arose in the morning, found Nita dead. The

servants took her and laid her out decently. They sat and made a hole

in the wall and passed her through the hole, and carried her, as she

had bidden, and buried her in the forest by the apple-tree.

And half a year passed by, and a prince went to go and course hares

with greyhounds and other dogs. And he went to hunt, and the hounds

ranged the forest and came to the maiden’s grave. And a flower grew out

of it, the like of which for beauty there was not in the whole kingdom.

[43] So the hounds came on her monument, where she was buried, and they

began to bark and scratched at the maiden’s grave. Then the prince took

and called the dogs with his horn, and the dogs came not. The prince

said, ‘Go quickly thither.’

Four huntsmen arose and came and saw the flower burning like a candle.

They returned to the prince, and he asked them, ‘What is it?’

‘It is a flower, the like was never seen.’

Then the lad heard, and came to the maiden’s grave, and saw the flower

and plucked it. And he came home and showed it to his father and

mother. Then he took and put it in a vase at his bed-head where he

slept. Then the flower arose from the vase and turned a somersault,

[44] and became a full-grown maiden. And she took the lad and kissed

him, and bit him and pulled him about, and slept with him in her arms,

and put her hand under his head. And he knew it not. When the dawn came

she became a flower again.

In the morning the lad rose up sick, and complained to his father and

mother, ‘Mammy, my shoulders hurt me, and my head hurts me.’

His mother went and brought a wise woman and tended him. He asked for

something to eat and drink. And he waited a bit, and then went to his

business that he had to do. And he went home again at night. And he ate

and drank and lay down on his couch, and sleep seized him. Then the

flower arose and again became a full-grown maiden. And she took him

again in her arms, and slept with him, and sat with him in her arms.

And he slept. And she went back to the vase. And he arose, and his

bones hurt him, and he told his mother and his father. Then his father

said to his wife, ‘It began with the coming of the flower. Something

must be the matter, for the boy is quite ill. Let us watch to-night,

and post ourselves on one side, and see who comes to our son.’

Night came, and the prince laid himself in his bed to sleep. Then the

maiden arose from the vase, and became there was never anything more

fair—as burns the flame of a candle. And his mother and his father, the

king, saw the maiden, and laid hands on her. Then the prince arose out

of his sleep, and saw the maiden that she was fair. Then he took her in

his arms and kissed her, and lay down in his bed, slept till day.

And they made a marriage and ate and drank. The folk marvelled, for a

being so fair as that maiden was not to be found in all the realm. And

he dwelt with her half a year, and she bore a golden boy, two apples in

his hand. [45] And it pleased the prince well.

Then her old sweetheart heard it, the vampire who had made love to her,

and had killed her. He arose and came to her and asked her, ‘Nita, tell

me, what did you see me doing?’

‘I didn’t see anything.’

‘Tell me truly, or I will kill your child, your little boy, as I killed

your father and mother. Tell me truly.’

‘I have nothing to tell you.’

And he killed her boy. And she arose and carried him to the church and

buried him.

At night the vampire came again and asked her, ‘Tell me, Nita, what you

saw.’

‘I didn’t see anything.’

‘Tell me, or I will kill the lord whom you have wedded.’

Then Nita arose and said, ‘It shall not happen that you kill my lord.

God send you burst.’ [46]

The vampire heard what Nita said, and burst. Ay, he died, and burst for

very rage. In the morning Nita arose and saw the floor swimming two

hand’s-breadth deep in blood. Then Nita bade her father-in-law take out

the vampire’s heart with all speed. Her father-in-law, the king,

hearkened, and opened him and took out his heart, and gave it into

Nita’s hand. And she went to the grave of her boy and dug the boy up,

applied the heart, and the boy arose. And Nita went to her father and

to her mother, and anointed them with the blood, and they arose. Then,

looking on them, Nita told all the troubles she had borne, and what she

had suffered at the hands of the vampire.

The word cĭohanó, which throughout I have rendered ‘vampire,’ is of

course identical with Paspati’s Turkish-Romani tchovekhano, a

‘revenant’ or spectre, which, according to Miklosich, is an

Armenian loan-word, and in other Gypsy dialects of Europe means

‘wizard, witch.’ This vampire story is a connecting link between

the two meanings [47]; but whether the story itself is of Gypsy or

of non-Gypsy origin is a difficult question. We have four versions

of it—two of them Gypsy, viz., this from Roumania, and one in

Friedrich Müller’s Beiträge; and two non-Gypsy, viz., Ralston’s

‘The Fiend’ (Russian Folk-tales, pp. 10–17), and one from Croatia

(Krauss’s Sagen und Märchen der Südslaven, i. 293). Hahn’s

‘Lemonitza’ (ii. 27) also offers analogies. Krauss’s and Müller’s

are both much inferior to Ralston’s and our Roumanian-Gypsy one;

and of them, although Ralston’s opens best, yet its close is

immeasurably inferior. For in it, as in the Hungarian-Gypsy

variant, the flower transforms itself merely to eat and drink. But

Ralston’s story, it will probably be urged, is a typical Russian

story, so must needs be of Russian origin. To which I answer,

Irish-wise, with the question, How then did it travel to Croatia,

to the Gypsies of Hungary and Roumania? That the Gypsies, with

never a church, should make church bells might seem unlikely, did

we not know that at Edzell, in Forfarshire, there is a church bell

that was cast by Gypsies in 1726. So Gypsy story-tellers may well

have devised some domestic narratives for their auditors, not for

themselves. And this story is possibly theirs who tell it best.

The merest glance at Ralston or Krauss will suffice to show that

the Gypsy and Gentile stories are identical, that the likeness

between them is no chance one, but that there has been

transmission—either the Gypsies have borrowed from the Gentiles, or

the Gentiles have borrowed from the Gypsies. Ralston and Krauss are

readily accessible to the general folklorist; of Friedrich Müller’s

version I append this brief résumé. It is compounded of the first

half of his No. 4, which drifts off into quite another story about

a dove and a soldier, and of the second half of his number No. 2,

which opens with a variant of Grimm’s ‘Robber Bridegroom’ (cf.

infra, No. 47, notes):—

The Holy Maid will not marry. The devil creeps in at window. ‘“Now,

thou fair maiden, wilt thou come to me or no?” “No”—this said the

maiden—“to a dead one say I it, but to a living one No.”’ Devil

kills first her father, next her mother; lastly threatens herself.

She tells the gravedigger, ‘Bear me not over the door [this

supplies a lacuna in the Roumanian-Gypsy version], but bury me in a

grave under the threshold, and take me not out from there.’ The

girl then dies and is buried. Flower grows out of grave. King sees

it and sends coachman to pluck it. He cannot [supplies lacuna], but

king does, and takes it home. At night the flower turns into a girl

and eats. Servant sees and tells. King watches next night. The girl

bids him pluck the flower with a clean white cloth with the left

hand, [48] then she will never change back into a rose, but remain

a maiden [supplies lacuna]. King does so, and she marries him on

condition he will never force her to go to church [supplies

lacuna]. He rues his promise when he sees the other kings going to

church with their wives. She consents: ‘But now, as thou wilt, I

go. Thy God shall be also my God.’ When she comes into church,

there are the twelve robbers [story reverts here to the first half

of No. 2]. The robber cuts her throat and she dies. ‘If she is not

dead, she is still alive.’

It will be seen that, rude and corrupt as these two fragments are,

they supply some details wanting in the Roumanian-Gypsy version.

They cannot, then, be borrowed from it, but it and they are clearly

alike derived from some older, more perfect original.

NO. 6.—GOD’S GODSON

There was a queen. From youth to old age that queen never bore but one

son. That son was a hero. So soon as he was born, he said to his

father, ‘Father, have you no sword or club?’

‘No, my child, but I will order one to be made for you.’

The son said, ‘Don’t order one, father: I will go just as I am.’

So the son took and departed, and journeyed a long while, and took no

heed, till he came into a great forest. So in that forest he stretched

himself beneath a tree to rest a bit, for he was weary. And he sat

there a while. Then the holy God and St. Peter came on the lad; and he

was unbaptized. So the holy God asked him, ‘Where are you going, my

lad?’

‘I am going in quest of heroic achievements, old fellow.’

Then the holy God thought and thought, and made a church. And he caused

sleep to fall on that lad, and bade St. Peter lift him, and went with

him to the church, and gave him the name Handak. And the holy God said

to him, ‘Godson, a hero like you there shall never be any other; and do

you take my god-daughter.’

For there was a maiden equally heroic, and equally baptized by God. And

she was his god-daughter, and he told his godson to take her. And he

gave him a wand of good fortune and a sword. And he endowed him with

strength, and set him down. And his godfather departed to heaven, like

the holy God that he was.

And Handak perceived that God had endowed him with strength, and he set

out in quest of heroic achievements, and journeyed a long while, and

took no heed. So he came into a great forest. And there was a dragon

three hundred years old. And his eyelashes reached down to the ground,

and likewise his hair. And the lad went to him and said, ‘All hail.’

‘You are welcome.’

Soon as that hero [the dragon] heard his voice, he knew that it was

God’s godson.

And the lad, Handak, asked him, ‘Does God’s god-daughter dwell far

hence?’

‘She dwells not far; it is but a three days’ journey.’

And the lad took and departed, and journeyed three days until he came

to the maiden’s. Soon as the maiden saw him, she recognised him for her

godfather’s godson. And she let him into her house, and served up food

to him, and ate with him and asked him, ‘What seek you here, Handak?’

He said, ‘I have come on purpose to marry you.’

‘With whom?’

‘With myself an you will.’

She said, ‘I will not have it so without a fight.’

And the lad said, ‘Come let us fight.’

And they fell to fighting, and fought three days; and the lad

vanquished her. And he took her, and went to their godfather. And he

crowned them and made a marriage. And they became rulers over all

lands. And I came away, and told the story.

This story, though poor as a story, is yet sufficiently curious.

Tweedledum and Tweedledee, in Alice in Wonderland, are suggested by

the ‘not without a fight’; but I can offer no real variant or

analogue of ‘God’s Godson.’ It is noteworthy, however, that the

holy God and St. Peter occur in another of Barbu Constantinescu’s

Roumanian-Gypsy stories, ‘The Apples of Pregnancy,’ No. 16, and

baptize another boy in Miklosich’s Gypsy story from the Bukowina,

No. 9, ‘The Mother’s Chastisement’; whilst we get Christ and St.

Peter in a Catalonian-Gypsy story (cited under No. 60). For the

nuptial crown in the last line but two, cf. Ralston’s Songs of the

Russian People, pp. 198, 270, 306. See also the Roumanian-Gypsy

story of ‘The Prince and the Wizard,’ No. 15, for an heroic hero,

nought-heeding, who sets out in quest of heroic achievements.

NO. 7.—THE SNAKE WHO BECAME THE KING’S SON-IN-LAW

There were an old man and an old woman. From their youth up to their

old age they had never had any children (lit. ‘made any children of

their bones’). So the old woman was always scolding with the old

man—what can they do, for there they are old, old people? The old woman

said, ‘Who will look after us when we grow older still?’

‘Well, what am I to do, old woman?’

‘Go you, old man, and find a son for us.’

So the old man arose in the morning, and took his axe in his hand, and

departed and journeyed till mid-day, and came into a forest, and sought

three days and found nothing. Then the old man could do no more for

hunger. He set out to return home. So as he was coming back, he found a

little snake and put it in a handkerchief, and carried it home. And he

brought up the snake on sweet milk. The snake grew a week and two days,

and he put it in a jar. The time came when the snake grew as big as the

jar. The snake talked with his father, ‘My time has come to marry me.

Go, father, to the king, and ask his daughter for me.’

When the old man heard that the snake wants the king’s daughter, he

smote himself with his hands. ‘Woe is me, darling! How can I go to the

king? For the king will kill me.’

What said he? ‘Go, father, and fear not. For what he wants of you, that

will I give him.’

The old man went to the king. ‘All hail, O king!’

‘Thank you, old man.’

‘King, I am come to form an alliance by marriage.’

‘An alliance by marriage!’ said the king. ‘You are a peasant, and I am

a king.’

‘That matters not, O king. If you will give me your daughter, I will

give you whatever you want.’

What said the king? ‘Old man, if that be so, see this great forest.

Fell it all, and make it a level field; and plough it for me, and break

up all the earth; and sow it with millet by to-morrow. And mark well

what I tell you: you must bring me a cake made with sweet milk. Then

will I give you the maiden.’

Said the old man, ‘All right, O king.’

The old man went weeping to the snake. When the snake saw his father

weeping he said, ‘Why weepest thou, father?’

‘How should I not weep, darling? For see what the king said, that I

must fell this great forest, and sow millet; and it must grow up by

to-morrow, and be ripe. And I must make a cake with sweet milk and give

it him. Then he will give me his daughter.’

What said the snake? ‘Father, don’t fear for that, for I will do what

you have told me.’

The old man: ‘All right, darling, if you can manage it.’

The old man went off to bed.

What did the snake? He arose and made the forest a level plain, and

sowed millet, and thought and thought, and it was grown up by daybreak.

When the old man got up, he finds a sack of millet, and he made a cake

with sweet milk. The old man took the cake and went to the king.

‘Here, O king, I have done your bidding.’

When the king saw that, he marvelled. ‘My old fellow, hearken to me. I

have one thing more for you to do. Make me a golden bridge from my

palace to your house, and let golden apple-trees and pear-trees grow on

the side of this bridge. Then will I give you my daughter.’

When the old man heard that, he began to weep, and went home.

What said the snake? ‘Why weepest thou, father?’

The old man said, ‘I am weeping, darling, for the miseries which God

sends me. The king wants a golden bridge from his palace to our house,

and apple and pear-trees on the side of this bridge.’

The snake said, ‘Fear not, father, for I will do as the king said.’

Then the snake thought and thought, and the golden bridge was made as

the king had said. The snake did that in the night-time. The king arose

at midnight; he thought the sun was at meat [i.e. it was noon]. He

scolded the servants for not having called him in the morning.

The servants said, ‘King, it is night, not day’; and, seeing that, the

king marvelled.

In the morning the old man came. ‘Good-day, father-in-law.’

‘Thank you, father-in-law. Go, father-in-law, and bring your son, that

we may hold the wedding.’

He, when he went, said, ‘Hearken, what says the king? You are to go

there for the king to see you.’

What said the snake? ‘My father, if that be so, fetch the cart, and put

in the horses, and I will get into it to go to the king.’

No sooner said, no sooner done. He got into the cart and drove to the

king. When the king saw him, he trembled with all his lords. One lord

older than the rest, said, ‘Fly not, O king, it were not well of you.

For he did what you told him; and shall not you do what you promised?

He will kill us all. Give him your daughter, and hold the marriage as

you promised.’

What said the king? ‘My old man, here is the maiden whom you demand.

Take her to you.’

And he gave him also a house by itself for her to live in with her

husband. She, the bride, trembled at him.

The snake said, ‘Fear not, my wife, for I am no snake as you see me.

Behold me as I am.’

He turned a somersault, and became a golden youth, in armour clad; he

had but to wish to get anything. The maiden, when she saw that, took

him in her arms and kissed him, and said, ‘Live, my king, many years. I

thought you would eat me.’

The king sent a man to see how it fares with his daughter. When the

king’s servant came, what does he see? The maiden fairer, lovelier than

before. He went back to the king. ‘O king, your daughter is safe and

sound.’

‘As God wills with her,’ said the king. Then he called many people and

held the marriage; and they kept it up three days and three nights, and

the marriage was consummated. And I came away and told the story.

Cf. Hahn’s No. 31, ‘Schlangenkind’ (i. 212) and notes, but the

stories are not identical; and his No. 100, especially the note

(ii. 313) for Indian version. Wratislaw’s Croatian story, No. 54,

‘The Wonder-3working Lock,’ p. 284 (see under No. 54), offers

striking analogies. Cf. too for cobra palace, Mary Frere’s Old

Deccan Days, p. 21.

NO. 8.—THE BAD MOTHER

There was an emperor. He had been married ten years, but had no

children. And God granted that his empress conceived and bore a son.

Now that son was heroic; there was none other found like him. And the

father lived half a year longer, and died. Then what is the lad to do?

He took and departed in quest of heroic achievements. And he journeyed

a long while, and took no heed, and came into a great forest. In that

forest there was a certain house, and in that house were twelve

dragons. Then the lad went straight thither, and saw that there was no

one. He opened the door and went in, and he saw a sabre on a nail and

took it, and posted himself behind the door, and waited for the coming

of the dragons. They, when they came, did not go in all at once, but

went in one by one. The lad waited, sabre in hand; and as each one went

in, he cut off his head, flung it on the floor. So the lad killed

eleven dragons, and the youngest dragon remained. And the lad went out

to him, and took and fought with him, and fought half a day. And the

lad vanquished the dragon, and took him and put him in a jar, and

fastened it securely.

And the lad went to walk, and came on another house, where there was

only a maiden. And when he saw the maiden, how did she please his

heart. As for the maiden, the lad pleased her just as well. And the

maiden was yet more heroic than the lad. And they formed a strong love.

And the lad told the maiden how he had killed eleven dragons, and one

he had left alive and put in a jar.

The maiden said, ‘You did ill not to kill it; but now let it be.’

And the lad said to the maiden, ‘I will go and fetch my mother, for she

is alone at home.’

Then the maiden said, ‘Fetch her, but you will rue it. But go and fetch

her, and dwell with her.’

So the lad departed to fetch his mother. He took his mother, and

brought her into the house of the dragons whom he had slain. And he

said to his mother, ‘Go into every room; only into this chamber do not

go.’

His mother said, ‘I will not, darling.’

And the lad departed into the forest to hunt.

And his mother went into the room where he had told her not to go. And

when she opened the door, the dragon saw her and said to her, ‘Empress,

give me a little water, and I will do you much good.’

She went and gave him water and he said to her, ‘Dost love me, then

will I take thee, and thou shalt be mine empress.’

‘I love thee,’ she said.

Then the dragon said to her, ‘What will you do, to get rid of your son,

that we may be left to ourselves? Make yourself ill, [49] and say you

have seen a dream, that he must bring you a porker of the sow in the

other world; that, if he does not bring it you, you will die; but that,

if he brings it you, you will recover.’

Then she went into the house, and tied up her head, and made herself

ill. And when the lad came home and saw her head tied up, he asked her,

‘What’s the matter, mother?’

She said, ‘I am ill, darling. I shall die. But I have seen a dream, to

eat a porker of the sow in the other world.’

Then the lad began to weep, for his mother will die. And he took [50]

and departed. Then he went to his sweetheart, and told her. ‘Maiden, my

mother will die. And she has seen a dream, that I must bring her a

porker from the other world.’

The maiden said, ‘Go, and be prudent; and come to me as you return.

Take my horse with the twelve wings, and mind the sow does not seize

you, else she’ll eat both you and the horse.’

So the lad took the horse and departed. He came there, and when the sun

was midway in his course he went to the little pigs, and took one, and

fled. Then the sow heard him, and hurried after him to devour him. And

at the very brink (of the other world), just as he was leaping out, the

sow bit off half of the horse’s tail. So the lad went to the maiden.

And the maiden came out, and took the little pig, and hid it, and put

another in its stead. Then he went home to his mother, and gave her

that little pig, and she dressed it and ate, and said that she was

well.

Three or four days later she made herself ill again, as the dragon had

shown her.

When the lad came, he asked her, ‘What’s the matter now, mother?’

‘I am ill again, darling, and I have seen a dream that you must bring

me an apple from the golden apple-tree in the other world.’

So the lad took and departed to the maiden; and when the maiden saw him

so troubled, she asked him, ‘What’s the matter, lad?’

‘What’s the matter! my mother is ill again. And she has seen a dream

that I am to bring her an apple from the apple-tree in the other

world.’

Then the maiden knew that his mother was compassing his destruction

(lit. ‘was walking to eat his head’), and she said to the lad, ‘Take my

horse and go, but be careful the apple-tree does not seize you there.

Come to me, as you return.’

And the lad took and departed, and came to the brink of the world. And

he let himself in, and went to the apple-tree at mid-day when the

apples were resting. And he took an apple and ran away. Then the leaves

perceived it and began to scream; and the apple-tree took itself after

him to lay its hand on him and kill him. And the lad came out from the

brink, and arrived in our world, and went to the maiden. Then the

maiden took the apple, stole it from him, and hid it, and put another

in its stead. And the lad stayed a little longer with her, and departed

to his mother. Then his mother, when she saw him, asked him, ‘Have you

brought it, darling?’

‘I’ve brought it, mother.’

So she took the apple and ate, and said there was nothing more the

matter with her.

In a week’s time the dragon told her to make herself ill again, and to

ask for water from the great mountains. So she made herself ill.

When the lad saw her ill, he began to weep and said, ‘My mother will

die, God. She’s always ill.’ Then he went to her and asked her, ‘What’s

the matter, mother?’

‘I am like to die, darling. But I shall recover if you will bring me

water from the great mountains.’

Then the lad tarried no longer. He went to the maiden and said to her,

‘My mother is ill again; and she has seen a dream that I must fetch her

water from the great mountains.’

The maiden said, ‘Go, lad; but I fear the clouds will catch you, and

the mountains there, and will kill you. But do you take my horse with

twenty-and-four wings; and when you get there, wait afar off till

mid-day, for at mid-day the mountains and the clouds set themselves at

table and eat. Then do you go with the pitcher, and draw water quickly,

and fly.’

Then the lad took the pitcher, and departed thither to the mountains,

and waited till the sun had reached the middle of his course. And he

went and drew water and fled. And the clouds and the mountains

perceived him, and took themselves after him, but they could not catch

him. And the lad came to the maiden. Then the maiden went and took the

pitcher with the water, and put another in its stead without his

knowing it. And the lad arose and went home, and gave water to his

mother, and she recovered.

Then the lad departed into the forest to hunt. His mother went to the

dragon and told him, ‘He has brought me the water. What am I to do now

with him?’

‘What are you to do! why, take and play cards with him. You must say,

“For a wager, as I used to play with your father.”’

So the lad came home and found his mother merry: it pleased him well.

And she said to him at table, as they were eating, ‘Darling, when your

father was alive, what did we do? When we had eaten and risen up, we

took and played cards for a wager.’

Then the lad: ‘If you like, play with me, mother.’

So they took and played cards; and his mother beat him. And she took

silken cords, and bound his two hands so tight that the cord cut into

his hands.

And the lad began to weep, and said to his mother, ‘Mother, release me

or I die.’

She said, ‘That is just what I was wanting to do to you.’ And she

called the dragon, ‘Come forth, dragon, come and kill him.’

Then the dragon came forth, and took him, and cut him in pieces, and

put him in the saddle-bags, and placed him on his horse, and let him

go, and said to the horse, ‘Carry him, horse, dead, whence thou didst

carry him alive.’

Then the horse hurried to the lad’s sweetheart, and went straight to

her there. Then, when the maiden saw him, she began to weep, and she

took him and put piece to piece; where one was missing, she cut the

porker, and supplied flesh from the porker. So she put all the pieces

of him in their place. And she took the water and poured it on him, and

he became whole. And she squeezed the apple in his mouth, and brought

him to life.

So when the lad arose, he went home to his mother, and drove a stake

into the earth, and placed both her and the dragon on one great pile of

straw. And he set it alight, and they were consumed. And he departed

thence, and took the maiden, and made a marriage, and kept up the

marriage three months day and night. And I came away and told the

story.

Of this Roumanian-Gypsy story Miklosich furnishes a Gypsy variant

from the Bukowina, which I will give in full at the risk of seeming

repetition, italicising such words and phrases as show the most

marked correspondence:—

NO. 9.—THE MOTHER’S CHASTISEMENT

There was an emperor’s son, and he went to hunt. And he departed from

the hunters by himself. And by a certain stack there was a maiden. He

passed near the stack, and heard her lamenting. He took that maiden,

and brought her home.

‘See, mother, what I’ve found.’

His mother took her to the kitchen to the cook to bring her up. She

brought her up twelve years. The empress dressed her nicely, and put

her in the palace to lay the table. The prince loved her, for she was

so fair that in all the world there was none so fair as she. The prince

loved her three years, and the empress knew it not.

Once he said, ‘I will take a wife, mother.’

‘From what imperial family?’

‘I wish to marry her who lays the table.’

‘Not her, mother’s darling!’

‘If I don’t take her, I shall die.’

‘Take her.’

And he took her; he married her. And an order came for him to go to

battle. He left her big with child.

The empress called two servants. ‘Take her into the forest and kill

her, and bring me her heart and little finger.’

They put her in the carriage, and drove her into the forest; after them

ran a whelp. And they brought her into the forest, and were going to

kill her, and she said, ‘Kill me not, for I have used you well.’

‘How are we to take her the heart, then?’

‘Kill the whelp, for its heart is just like a human one, and cut off my

little finger.’

They killed the whelp, and cut off her little finger, and took out the

whelp’s heart.

And she cried, ‘Gather wood for me, and make me a fire; and strip off

bark for me, and build me a hut.’

They built her a hut, and made her a fire, and went away home, bringing

the heart and the little finger.

She brought forth a son. God and St. Peter came and baptized him; [51]

and God gave him a gun that he should become a hunter. Whatever he saw

he would kill with the gun. And God gave him the name Silvester. And

God made a house of the hut, and the fire no longer died. And God gave

them a certain loaf; they were always eating, and it was never

finished.

The boy grew big, and he took his gun in his hand, and went into the

forest. And what he saw he killed, carried to his mother, and they ate.

Walking in the forest, he came upon the dragons’ palace, and sat before

the door. At mid-day the dragons were coming home. He saw them from

afar, eleven (sic) in number; and eleven he shot with his gun, and one

he merely stunned. And he took them, and carried them into the palace,

and shut them up in a room; and he went to his mother, and said, ‘Come

with me, mother.’

‘Where am I to go to, mother’s darling?’

‘Come with me, where I take you to.’

He went with her to the palace. ‘Take to thee, mother, twelve keys. Go

into any room you choose, but into this room do not go.’

He went into the forest to hunt.

She said, ‘Why did my son tell me not to go in here? But I will go to

see what is there.’

She opened the door.

The dragon asked her, ‘If thou art a virgin, be my sister; but if thou

art a wife, be my wife.’

‘I am a wife.’

‘Then be my wife.’

‘I will; but will you do the right thing by me?’

‘I will.’

‘Swear, then.’

‘I swear.’

The dragon swore. The dragon said to her, ‘Swear also thou.’

She also swore. They kissed one another on the mouth. She brought him

to her into the house; they drank and ate, and loved one another.

Her son came from the forest. She saw him. She said, ‘My son is coming;

go back into the room.’

He went back, and she shut him in.

In the morning her son went again into the forest to hunt. She admitted

the dragon again to her. They drank and ate. He said to her, ‘How shall

we kill your son? Then we’ll live finely. Make yourself ill, and say

that you have seen a dream, that he must bring milk from the she-bear

for you to drink. Then you’ll have nothing to trouble you, for the

she-bear will devour him.’

He came home from the forest. ‘What’s the matter with you, mother?’

‘I shall die, but I saw a dream. Bring me milk from the she-bear.’

‘I’ll bring it you, mother.’

He went into the forest, and found the she-bear. He was going to shoot

her.

She cried, ‘Stop, man. What do you want?’

‘You to give me milk.’

She said, ‘I will give it you. Have you a pail?’

‘I have.’

‘Come and milk.’

He milked her, and brought it to his mother.

‘Here, mother.’

She pretended to drink, but poured it forth.

In the morning he went again into the forest, and met the Moon. ‘Who

art thou?’

‘I am the Moon.’

‘Be a sister to me.’

‘But who art thou?’

‘I am Silvester.’

‘Then thou art God’s godson, for God takes care of thee. I also am

God’s.’

‘Be a sister to me.’

‘I will be a sister to thee.’

He went further; he met Friday. ‘Who art thou?’

‘I am Friday, but who art thou?’

‘I am Silvester.’

‘Thou art God’s godson; I also am God’s.’

‘Be a sister to me.’

He went home. His mother saw him. ‘My son is coming.’

‘Send him to the wild sow to bring thee milk, for she will devour him.’

‘Always sick, mother?’

‘I am. I have seen a dream. Bring me milk from the wild sow.’

‘I know not whether or no I shall bring it, but I will try.’

He went; he found the sow; he was going to shoot her with his gun. She

cried, ‘Don’t, don’t shoot me. What do you want?’

‘Give me milk.’

‘Have you a pail? come and milk.’

He brought it to his mother. She pretended to drink, but poured it

forth. He went again into the forest.

She admitted the dragon to her. ‘In vain, for the sow has not devoured

him.’

‘Then send him to the Mountains of Blood, that butt at one another like

rams, to bring thee water, the water of life and the water of healing.

If he does not die there, he never will.’

‘I have seen a dream, that you bring me water from the Mountains of

Blood, which butt at one another like rams, for then there will be

nothing the matter with me.’

He went to the Moon.

‘Whither away, brother?’

‘I am going to the mountains to fetch water for my mother.’

‘Don’t go, brother; you will die there.’

‘Bah! I will go there.’

‘Take thee my horse when thou goest, for my horse will carry thee

thither. And take thee a watch, for they butt at one another from

morning till noon, and at noon they rest for two hours. So when you

come there at the twelfth hour, draw water in two pails from the two

wells.’

He came thither at mid-day, and dismounted, and drew water in two

pails, the water of life and the water of healing. And he came back to

the Moon; and the Moon said, ‘Lie down and sleep, and rest, for you are

worn out.’

She hid that water, and poured in other.

He arose. ‘Come, sister, I will depart home.’

‘Take my horse, and go riding. Take the saddle-bags.’

He went home to his mother. His mother saw him coming on horseback, and

said to the dragon, ‘My son is coming on horseback.’

‘Tell him that you have seen a dream, that you bind his fingers behind

his back with a silken cord; and that if he can burst it he will become

a hero, and you will grow strong.’

‘Bind away, mother.’

She made a thick silken cord, and bound his fingers behind his back. He

tugged, and grew red in the face; he tugged again, he grew blue; he

tugged the third time, he grew black.

And she cried, ‘Come, dragon, and cut his throat.’

The dragon came to him. ‘Well, what shall I do to you now?’

‘Cut me all in bits, and put me in the saddle-bags, and place me on my

horse. Thither, whence he carried me living, let him carry me dead.’

He cut him in pieces, put him in the saddle-bags, and placed him on the

horse. ‘Go, whence thou didst carry him living, carry him dead.’

The horse went straight to the Moon. The Moon came out, and saw him,

and took him in, and called Wednesday, and called Friday; and they laid

him in a big trough, and washed him brawly, and placed him on a table,

and put him all together, bit by bit; and they took the water of

healing, and sprinkled him, and he became whole; and they took the

water of life, and sprinkled him, and he came to life.

‘Ah! I was sleeping soundly.’ [52]

‘You would have slept for ever if I had not come.’

‘I will go, sister, to my mother.’

‘Go not, brother.’

‘Bah! I will.’

‘Well, go, and God be with thee. Take thee my sword.’

He went to his mother. His mother was singing and dancing with the

dragon. He went in to the dragon. ‘Good day to you both.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Come, what shall I do to you, dragon?’

‘Cut me in little pieces, and put me in the saddle-bags, and place me

on my horse. Whence he carried me living, let him carry me also dead.’

He cut him in little pieces, put him in the saddle-bags, placed him on

his horse, and dug out the horse’s eyes. ‘Go whither thou wilt.’

Away went the horse, and kept knocking his head against the trees; and

the pieces of flesh kept falling from the saddle-bags. The crows kept

eating the flesh.

Silvester shot a hare, and skinned it, and spitted it, and roasted it

at the fire. And he said to his mother, ‘Mother, look straight at me.’

His mother looked at him. He struck her in the eyes, and her eyes leapt

out of her head. And he took her by the hand, led her to a jar, said to

her, ‘Mother, when thou hast filled this jar with tears, then God

pardon thee; and when thou hast eaten a bundle of hay, and filled the

jar with tears, then God pardon thee, and restore thee thine eyes.’

And he bound her there, and departed, and left her three years. In

three years she came back to his recollection. ‘I will go to my mother,

and see what she is doing.’

Now she has filled the jar, and eaten the bundle of hay.

‘Now may God pardon thee; now I also pardon thee. Depart, and God be

with thee.’

A third Gypsy version, from Hungary, the first half of Friedrich

Müller’s No. 5, may be summarised thus:—Two children, driven from

home by mother, wander thirty-five years, and come to a forest so

dense the birds cannot fly through it. They come to a castle so

high they cannot see the top of it. Twelve robbers dwell here. Lad

kills eleven as they come home, but only wounds the twelfth. He

goes forth to hunt, spares lives of twelve wild animals, and brings

them home. The sister meanwhile has restored the twelve robbers to

life. She suggests that her brother shall have a warm bath (cf. De

Gubernatis’ Zool. Myth. i. 213), saying that thereby their father

had been so healthy. In the bath she binds his hands and feet. She

summons twelve robbers. They permit him to play his father’s air on

his pipe; it calls up the twelve animals. They rend the robbers,

and loose the lad, who packs his sister into the great empty jar

(here first mentioned), and leaves her to die of hunger.

This last is a poorly-told story; still, not without its features

of interest. It will be noticed that in it, as in many non-Gypsy

variants, the dragons are rationalised into robbers (sometimes

blackamoors). Of the Roumanian and the Bukowina-Gypsy versions the

former seems to me the better on the whole. The opening of the

Bukowina version cannot properly belong to the story, for it

arouses an interest in the mother, who yet turns out a bad lot.

[53] Its close, however, is decidedly superior. What a picture is

that of the mother and the dragon singing and dancing, and what a

one that of the blinded horse and the crows! In both versions there

is the same omission—the inquiry into the seat of the hero’s

strength; and in the Bukowina one no use is made of the milk from

the she-bear and the wild sow, nor are we told of the hero’s first

meeting with Wednesday. Plainly the Roumanian version is not

derived from the Bukowina one, nor the Bukowina one from the

Roumanian; but they point to an unknown, more perfect original.

Even as they stand, however, both are better than any of the

non-Gypsy variants known to me. These include five from Hahn’s

Greek collection (i. 176, 215; ii. 234, 279, 283); one in Roumanian

Fairy Tales, by E. B. M. (Lond. 1884, pp. 81–89), resembling the

Hungarian-Gypsy version; three German and one Lithuanian, cited by

Hahn (ii. 236); one Russian, summarised by Ralston (p. 235); the

well-known ‘Blue Belt’ in Dasent’s Tales from the Norse (p. 178);

and Laura Gonzenbach’s No. 26, ‘Vom tapfern Königssohn’ (Sicil.

Mär, i. 158–167), where the hero is cut in pieces by his supposed

stepfather, the robber-chieftain, packed into a saddle-bag, and

carried by his ass to a hermit, who revives him, after which the

story drifts off into our No. 45.

I have annotated the Gypsy stories very fully; my notes cover

several pages. Here, however, it must suffice to indicate some of

the more striking parallels from non-Gypsy sources. In Hahn, i.

267, God gives a house to a woman abandoned in a forest (cf. also

i. 73; ii. 26). For the heart and little finger, a very common

incident, compare the English-Gypsy story of ‘Bobby Rag’ (No. 51),

and Hahn, i. 258 and ii. 231. In Grimm, No. 111, a hunter gives the

hero a gun which never misses. For the formula, ‘If thou art a

virgin,’ etc., cf. Ralston, pp. 75–76. For the mountains that butt

together, cf. Ralston, p. 236; Tylor’s Primitive Culture, pp.

313–316; Hahn, ii. 46–47; and Grimm, No. 97. For the water of

healing and the water of life, cf. Ralston, pp. 17, 91, 230, 255.

For ‘Ah! I was sleeping soundly,’ cf. Ralston, pp. 91–92; Hahn, ii.

274; and our No. 29. In Campbell’s Santal Folk-tales, p. 92, a

father, restored to life, says, ‘O my son, what a lengthened sleep

I have had!’ For the sow biting off half of the horse’s tail, cf.

Hahn, i. 312; Krauss, ii. 94; Ralston, p. 235; and Burns’s ‘Tam o’

Shanter.’ For the leaves beginning to scream, cf. Hahn, i. 270 and

ii. 171. In a variant from Afanasief, vi. 52, cited by De

Gubernatis (Z.M., i. 215), the sister for punishment is placed near

some hay and some water, and a vessel which she is to fill with her

tears. It is just worth noting that Silvester is a common

English-Gypsy name.

NO. 10.—THE THREE PRINCESSES AND THE UNCLEAN SPIRIT

There was a king; and from youth to old age he had no son. In his old

age three daughters were born to him. And the very morning of their

birth the Unclean Spirit came and took them, the three maidens. And he

fought to win a woman, the Serpent-Maiden; and half his moustache

turned white, and half all the hair on his head, for the sake of the

Serpent-Maiden. Time passed by, and he had no son; and his daughters

the Unclean Spirit had carried away.

Then he took and thought. ‘What am I to do, wife? I will go for three

years (sic); and, when I return, let me find a son born of you. If in a

year’s time I find not one, I will kill you.’

He went and journeyed a year and a day. His wife took and thought. As

she was a-thinking, a man went by with apples: whoso eats one of his

apples shall conceive. Then she went, and took an apple, and ate the

apple, and she conceived. The time came that she should bring forth.

And she brought forth a son, and called his name Cosmas. So her king

came that night, and sent a messenger to ask his wife.

She said, ‘Your bidding is fulfilled.’

Then he went in, and, when he saw the lad, his heart was full.

And the time came when the lad grew big, and he looked the very picture

of his father. The time came that his father died. By that time he felt

himself a man, and he put forth his little finger, and lifted the

palace up. Then he came back from hunting, and he lifted the foundation

of the palace, and told his mother to place her breast beneath it. Then

his mother placed her breast beneath the foundation, and he left it

pressing upon her. Then she cried aloud.

The lad said to her, ‘Mother, tell me, why was my father’s moustache

half white?’

Then she said to him, ‘Why, darling, your father fought nine years to

win the Serpent-Maiden, and never won her.’

Then he asked, ‘And have I no brother?’

‘No,’ she said; ‘but you have three sisters, and the Unclean Spirit

carried them away.’

And he asked, ‘Whither did he carry them?’

Then she said he had carried them to the Land of the Setting Sun.

Then he took his father’s saddle and his bridle and likewise his

father’s colt, and set out in quest of his sisters, and arrived at his

sister’s house, and hurled his mace, and smashed the plum-trees.

Then his sister came out and said to him, ‘Why have you smashed the

plum-trees? For the Unclean Spirit will come and kill you.’

Then he said, ‘I would not have you think ill of me; but kindly come

and give me a draught of wine and a morsel of bread.’

Then she brought bread and wine. As she was handing him the bread and

wine, she noticed her father’s colt, and recognised it. Then she said,

‘This must be my father’s horse.’

‘Take notice then that I also am his.’

Then she fell on his neck, and he on hers.

Then she said to him, ‘My brother, the Unclean Spirit will come from

the Twelfth Region. And he will come and destroy you.’

Then the Unclean Spirit came, and hurled his mace; and it opened twelve

doors, and hung itself on its peg. Then Cosmas took it, and hurled it

twelve regions away from him. Then the Unclean Spirit took it, and came

home with it in his hand, and asked, ‘Wife, I smell mortal man?’

(Meanwhile she had turned her brother into an ear-ring, and put him in

her ear.)

Then she said, ‘You’re for ever eating corpses, and are meaning to eat

me, too, for I also am mortal.’

Then he said to her, ‘Don’t tell lies; my brother-in-law has come.’

‘Well, then, and if your brother-in-law has come, will you eat him?’

Then he said, ‘I will not.’

‘Swear it on your sword that you will not eat him.’

Then she took him out of her ear, and set him at table. He ate at table

with the Unclean Spirit.

Then the lad went outside, [54] and creeps into the fetlock of his

colt, and hid himself there. Then the Unclean Spirit arose, and hunted

everywhere, and failed to light on him. And he set his bugle to his

mouth, and blew a blast, and summoned all the birds upon the horse, and

they searched every hair of the horse. And just as he was coming to the

fetlock, then the cocks crowed, and he fell.

Cosmas came forth, and went to him. ‘Good day, brother-in-law.’

Then he asked him, ‘Where were you?’

‘Why, I was in the hay, before the horse.’

Then Cosmas took leave of them, and went to his other sisters, and did

with them just as with this one.

Then his little sister asked him, ‘Where are you going, my brother?’

‘I am going to tend the white mare, and get one of her colts, and I am

going to win the Serpent-Maiden.’

Then she said to him, ‘Go, my brother, and if you get the colt, come to

me.’

He went.

Now some peasants were hunting a wolf to slay it. The wolf said,

‘Cosmas, don’t abandon me. Send the peasants the wrong way, that they

may not kill me; and take one of my hairs, [55] and put it in your

pocket. And whenever you think of me, there I am, wherever you may be.’

Going further, he came on a crow that had broken its wing, and it said,

‘Don’t pass me by, Cosmas; bind my wing up; and I will give you a

feather to put in your pocket, and whenever you are in any difficulty,

I’ll be with you.’

Going still further, he came on a fish, which said, ‘Cosmas, don’t pass

me by. Tie me to your horse’s tail, and put me in the water, for I will

do you much good.’

He did so, and put it in the water.

Then he came to the old woman who owned the white mare; and she sat

before her door; and he said to her, ‘Will you give me a colt of the

white mare, old one?’

The old wife said, ‘If you can find her three days running, one of her

colts is yours. But if you can’t find her, I will cut off your head,

and stick it on yonder stake.’

‘I’ll find her,’ he said.

And she gave him the white mare, and away he went with her to try and

find her. So the mare ran in among the sheep, and took and hid herself

in the earth. And the lad arose and searched for the mare, and failed

to light on her. And the wolf came into his mind; and he thought of

him.

And the wolf came and asked him, ‘What’s the matter, lad?’

He said, ‘I can’t find the white mare.’

The wolf said, ‘Do you see this one, the biggest of the sheep? that is

she. Go, and give her a taste of the stick.’

So the lad took and called her, and she became a horse. And he went

with her to the old woman.

And the old woman said, ‘You have two more days.’

‘All right, old lady,’ said the lad.

So next day also he took and went off with the mare, to try and find

her. (The old woman had thrashed the mare for not hiding herself

properly, so that he could not have found her. And the white mare had

said, ‘Forgive me, old woman. This time I will hide in the clouds, and

he never will find me.’)

So the lad went off with her, to try and find her; and she went into

the clouds. So the lad set to work, and searched from morning till

noon. And the crow came into his mind; and, as he thought of it, the

crow came and asked him, ‘What’s the matter, lad?’

‘Why, I have lost the white mare, and cannot light on her.’

So the crow summoned all the crows, and they searched upon every side,

till they lighted on her. So they took her in their beaks, and brought

her to the lad. So the lad took her, and led her to the old woman.

‘You have one day more,’ said the old woman.

So the day came when the lad had to find the mare once more. (That

night the old woman had thrashed the white mare and pretty nigh killed

it. And the mare had said to the old woman, ‘If he lights on me this

time, old woman, you may know I have burst, for I will go right into

the sea.’)

So when the lad departed with her, she went into the sea. And the lad

searched for her, and it wanted but little of night. And the fish came

into his mind. So the fish emerged before him and said, ‘What’s the

matter, lad?’

‘I don’t know where the white mare has gone to.’

And the fish went and summoned all the fishes; and they gave up the

white mare with her colt behind her. And the lad took her. He went with

her to the old wife, and she said to him, ‘Take, deary, whichever

pleases you.’

The lad chose the youngest colt.

And the old wife said, ‘Don’t take that one, my lad; it isn’t a good

one. Take a handsomer.’

And the lad said, ‘Let be.’

And the lad went further; and the colt turned a somersault, [56] and

became golden, with twenty-and-four wings. And the Serpent had none

like his. And he went to his sisters, and took the three of them, and

took too the Serpent-Maiden, and went with them home. Neither the

Unclean Spirit nor the dragon could catch him. And he went home. So he

made a marriage; and they ate and drank. And I left them there, and

came and told my tale to your lordships.

A valuable story, but confused and imperfect. Who the dragon was is

left to conjecture; and the serpent-maiden—she must have been a

real old (serpent) maid—is barely mentioned. In no collection can I

find any exact parallel to this story; but it offers many

analogies, e.g. to ‘Childe Rowland’ (J. Jacobs’ English Fairy

Tales, i. 117–124, 238–245); and to Von Sowa’s Bohemian-Gypsy story

of ‘The Three Dragons’ (infra. No. 44). The ‘Apples of Pregnancy’

form the theme of another Roumanian-Gypsy story (No. 16). The

hurling the mace occurs in Miklosich’s Bukowina-Gypsy story,

‘Pretty-face’ (No. 29), and in ‘Sir Peppercorn’ (Denton’s Serbian

Folklore, p. 124). For ‘the cocks crowed, and he fell,’ cf.

Ralston, p. 316; and for blowing a blast and summoning all the

birds, the Welsh-Gypsy story of ‘The Green Man of Noman’s Land’

(No. 62). For the latter part of the story reference should be made

to Ralston, pp. 92, 98, 103–4; Krauss, i. 362; and especially the

close of the Bulgarian story of ‘The Golden Apples and the Nine

Peahens’ (Wratislaw’s Sixty Slavonic Folk-tales, pp. 193–198),

where we get the watching of a mare for three successive days, and

the finding of her by the help of a grateful fish, fox, and crow.

Cf. too, Wratislaw’s Croatian story, ‘The Daughter of the King of

the Vilas’ (No. 53, pp. 278–283).

NO. 11.—THE TWO THIEVES

There was a time when there was. There were two thieves. One was a

country thief, and one a town thief. So the time came that the two met,

and they asked one another whence they are and what they are.

Then the country thief said to the town one, ‘Well, if you’re such a

clever thief as to be able to steal the eggs from under a crow, then I

shall know that you are a thief.’

He said, ‘See me, how I’ll steal them.’

And he climbed lightly up the tree, and put his hand under the crow,

and stole the eggs from her, and the crow never felt it. Whilst he is

stealing the crow’s eggs, the country thief stole his breeches, and the

town thief never felt him. And when he came down and saw that he was

naked, he said, ‘Brother, I never felt you stealing my breeches; let’s

become brothers.’

So they became brothers.

Then what are they to do? They went into the city, and took one wife

between them. And the town thief said, ‘Brother, it is a sin for two

brothers to have one wife. It were better for her to be yours.’

He said, ‘Mine be she.’

‘But, come now, where I shall take you, that we may get money.’

‘Come on, brother, since you know.’

So they took and departed. Then they came to the king’s, and considered

how to get into his palace. And what did they devise?

Said the town thief, ‘Come, brother, and let us break into the palace,

and let ourselves down one after the other.’

‘Come on.’

So they got on the palace, and broke through the roof; and the country

thief lowered himself, and took two hundred purses of money, and came

out. And they went home.

Then the king arose in the morning, and looked at his money, and saw

that two hundred purses of money were missing. Straightway he arose and

went to the prison, where was an old thief. And when he came to him, he

asked him, ‘Old thief, I know not who has come into my palace, and

stolen from me two hundred purses of money. And I know not where they

went out by, for there is no hole anywhere in the palace.’

The old thief said, ‘There must be one, O king, only you don’t see it.

But go and make a fire in the palace, and come out and watch the

palace; and where you see smoke issuing, that was where the thieves

entered. And do you put a cask of molasses just there at that hole, for

the thief will come again who stole the money.’

Then the king went and made a fire, and saw the hole where the smoke

issues in the roof of the palace. And he went and got a cask of

molasses, and put it there at the hole. Then the thieves came again

there at night to that hole. And the thief from the country let himself

down again; and as he did so he fell into the cask of molasses. And he

said to his brother, ‘Brother, it is all over with me. But, not to do

the king’s pleasure, come and cut off my head, for I am as good as

dead.’

So his comrade lowered himself down, and cut off his head, and went and

buried it in a wood.

So, when the king arose, he arose early, and went there, where the

thief had fallen, and sees the thief there in the cask of molasses, and

with no head. Then what is he to do? He took and went to the old thief,

and told him, ‘Look you, old thief, I caught the thief, and he has no

head.’

Then the old thief said, ‘There! O king, this is a cunning thief. But

what are you to do? Why, take the corpse, and hang it up outside at the

city gate. And he who stole his head will come to steal him too. And do

you set soldiers to watch him.’

So the king went and took the corpse, and hung it up, and set soldiers

to watch it.

Then the thief took and bought a white mare and a cart, and took a jar

of twenty measures of wine. And he put it in the cart, and drove

straight to the place where his comrade was hanging. He made himself

very old, and pretended the cart had broken down, and the jar had

fallen out. And he began to weep and tear his hair, and he made himself

to cry aloud, that he was a poor man, and his master would kill him.

The soldiers guarding the corpse said one to another, ‘Let’s help to

put this old fellow’s jar in the cart, mates, for it’s a pity to hear

him.’

So they went to help him, and said to him, ‘Hullo! old chap, we’ll put

your jar in the cart; will you give us a drop to drink?’

‘That I will, deary.’

So they went and put the jar in the cart. And the old fellow took and

said to them, ‘Take a pull, deary, for I have nothing to give it you

in.’

So the soldiers took and drank till they could drink no more. And the

old fellow made himself to ask, ‘And who is this?’

The soldiers said, ‘That is a thief.’

Then the old man said, ‘Hullo! deary, I shan’t spend the night here,

else that thief will steal my mare.’

Then the soldiers said, ‘What a silly you are, old fellow! How will he

come and steal your mare?’

‘He will, though, deary. Isn’t he a thief?’

‘Shut up, old fellow. He won’t steal your mare; and if he does, we’ll

pay you for her.’

‘He will steal her, deary; he’s a thief.’

‘Why, old boy, he’s dead. We’ll give you our written word that if he

steals your mare we will pay you three hundred groats for her.’

Then the old man said, ‘All right, deary, if that’s the case.’

So he stayed there. He placed himself near the fire, and a drowsy fit

took him, and he pretended to sleep. The soldiers kept going to the jar

of wine, and drank every drop of the wine, and got drunk. And where

they fell there they slept, and took no thought. The old chap, the

thief, who pretended to sleep, arose and stole the corpse from the

gallows, and put it on his mare, and carried it into the forest and

buried it. And he left his mare there and went back to the fire, and

pretended to sleep.

And when the soldiers arose, and saw that neither the corpse was there

nor the old man’s mare, they marvelled, and said, ‘There! my comrades,

the old man said rightly the thief would steal his mare. Let’s make it

up to him.’

So by the time the old man arose they gave him four hundred groats, and

begged him to say no more about it.

Then when the king arose, and saw there was no thief on the gallows, he

went to the old thief in the prison, and said to him, ‘There! they have

stolen the thief from the gallows, old thief. What am I to do?’

‘Did not I tell you, O king, that this is a cunning thief? But do you

go and buy up all the joints of meat in the city. And charge a ducat

the two pounds, so that no one will care to buy any, unless he has come

into a lot of money. But that thief won’t be able to hold out three

days.’

Then the king went and bought up all the joints, and left one joint;

and that one he priced at a ducat the pound. So nobody came to buy that

day. Next day the thief would stay no longer. He took a cart and put a

horse in it, and drove to the meat-market. And he pretended he had

damaged his cart, and lamented he had not an axe to repair it with.

Then a butcher said to him, ‘Here, take my axe, and mend your cart.’

The axe was close to the meat. As he passed to take the axe, he picked

up a big piece of meat, and stuck it under his coat. And he handed the

axe back to the butcher, and departed home.

The same day comes the king, and asks the butchers, ‘Have you sold any

meat to any one?’ They said, ‘We have not sold to any one.’

So the king weighed the meat, and found it twenty pounds short. And he

went to the old thief in prison, and said to him, ‘He has stolen twenty

pounds of meat, and no one saw him.’

‘Didn’t I tell you, O king, that this is a cunning thief?’

‘Well, what am I to do, old thief?’

‘What are you to do? Why, make a proclamation, and offer in it all the

money you possess, and say he shall become king in your stead, merely

to tell who he is.’

Then the king went and wrote the proclamation, just as the old thief

had told him. And he posted it outside by the gate. And the thief comes

and reads it, and thought how he should act. And he took his heart in

his teeth and went to the king, and said, ‘O king, I am the thief.’

‘You are?’

‘I am.’

Then the king said, ‘If you it be, that I may believe you are really

the man, do you see this peasant coming? Well, you must steal the ox

from under the yoke without his seeing you.’

Then the thief said, ‘I’ll steal it, O king; watch me.’ And he went

before the peasant, and began to cry aloud, ‘Comedy of Comedies!’

Then the peasant said, ‘See there, God! Many a time have I been in the

city, and have often heard “Comedy of Comedies,” and have never gone to

see what it is like.’

And he left his cart, and went off to the other end of the city; and

the thief kept crying out till he had got the peasant some distance

from the oxen. Then the thief returns, and takes the ox, and cuts off

its tail, and sticks it in the mouth of the other ox, and came away

with the first ox to the king. Then the king laughed fit to kill

himself. The peasant, when he came back, began to weep; and the king

called him and asked, ‘What are you weeping for, my man?’

‘Why, O king, whilst I was away to see the play, one of the oxen has

gone and eaten up the other.’

When the king heard that, he laughed fit to kill himself, and he told

his servant to give him two good oxen. And he gave him also his own ox,

and asked him, ‘Do you recognise your ox, my man?’

‘I do, O king.’

‘Well, away you go home.’

And he went to the thief. ‘Well, my fine fellow, I will give you my

daughter, and you shall become king in my stead, if you will steal the

priest for me out of the church.’

Then the thief went into the town, and got three hundred crabs and

three hundred candles, and went to the church, and stood up on the

pavement. And as the priest chanted, the thief let out the crabs one by

one, each with a candle fastened to its claw; he let it out.

And the priest said, ‘So righteous am I in the sight of God that He

sends His saints for me.’

The thief let out all the crabs, each with a candle fastened to its

claw, and he said, ‘Come, O priest, for God calls thee by His

messengers to Himself, for thou art righteous.’

The priest said, ‘And how am I to go?’

‘Get into this sack.’

And he let down the sack; and the priest got in; and he lifted him up,

and dragged him down the steps. And the priest’s head went tronk,

tronk. And he took him on his back, and carried him to the king, and

tumbled him down. And the king burst out laughing. And straightway he

gave his daughter to the thief, and made him king in his stead.

Good as this version is, the last episode is much better told in

the Slovak-Gypsy variant from Dr. Rudolf von Sowa’s Mundart der

Slovakischen Zigeuner (Gött. 1887), No. 8, p. 174:—

NO. 12.—THE GYPSY AND THE PRIEST

There was a very poor Gypsy, and he had many little children. And his

wife went to the town, begged herself a few potatoes and a little

flour. And she had no fat.

‘All right,’ she thought; ‘wait a bit. The priest has killed a pig;

I’ll go and beg myself a bit of fat.’

When she got there, the priest came out, took his whip, thrashed her

soundly. She came home, said to her husband, ‘O my God, I did just get

a thrashing!’

And the Gypsy is at work. Straightway the hammer fell from his hand.

‘Now, wait a bit till I show him a trick, and teach him a lesson.’

The Gypsy went to the church, and took a look at the door, how to make

the key to the tower. He came home, sat down at his anvil, set to work

at once on the key. When he had made it, he went back to try to open

the door. It opened it as though it had been made for it.

‘Wait a bit, now,’ he thinks to himself; ‘what shall I need next?’

He went straight off to the shop, and bought himself some fine paper,

just like the fine clothes the priests wear for high mass. When he had

bought it, he went to the tailor, told him to make him clothes like an

angel’s; he looked in them just like a priest. He came home, told his

son (he was twenty years old), ‘Hark’ee, mate, come along with me, and

bring the pot. Catch about a hundred crabs. Ha! they shall see what

I’ll do this night; the priest won’t escape with his life.’

All right!

Midnight came. The Gypsy went to the church, lit all the lights that

were in the church. The cook goes to look out. ‘My God! what’s the

matter? the whole church is lighted up.’

She goes to the priest, wakes him up. ‘Get up! Let’s go and see what it

is. The whole church is blazing inside. What ever is it?’

The priest was in a great fright. He pulled on his vestment, and went

to the church to see. The Gypsy chants like a priest performing service

in the great church where the greatest folks go to service. ‘Oh!’ the

Gypsy was chanting, ‘O God, he who is a sinful man, for him am I come;

him who takes so much money with him will I fetch to Paradise, and

there it shall be well with him.’

When the gentleman heard that, he went home, and got all the money he

had in the house.

All right!

The priest came back to the church. The Gypsy chants to him to make

haste, for sooner or later the end of all things approaches.

Straightway the Gypsy opened the sack, and the priest got into it. The

Gypsy took all the priest’s money, and hid it in his pocket.

‘Good! now you are mine.’

When he closed the sack, the priest was in a great fright. ‘My God!

what will become of me? I know not what sort of a being that is,

whether God Himself or an angel.’

The Gypsy straightway drags the priest down the steps. The priest cries

that it hurts him, that he should go gently with him, for he is all

broken already; that half an hour of that will kill him, for his bones

are all broken already.

Well, he dragged him along the nave of the church, and pitched him down

before the door; and he put a lot of thorns there to run into the

priest’s flesh. He dragged him backwards and forwards through the

thorns, and the thorns stuck into him. When the Gypsy saw that the

priest was more dead than alive, he opened the sack, and left him

there.

The Gypsy went home, and threw off his disguise, and put it on the

fire, that no one might say he had done the deed. The Gypsy had more

than eight hundred silver pieces. So he and his wife and his children

were glad that they had such a lot of money; and if the Gypsy has not

died with his wife and his children, perhaps he is living still.

In the morning when the sexton comes to ring the bell, he sees a sack

in front of the church. The priest was quite dead. When he opened it

and saw the priest, he was in a great fright. ‘What on earth took our

priest in there?’ He runs into the town, made a great outcry, that so

and so has happened. The poor folks came and the gentry to see what was

up: all the candles in the church were burning. So they buried the

parson decently. If he is not rotten he is whole. May the devils still

be eating him. I was there, and heard everything that happened.

The briefest epitome will serve of our third Gypsy version, from

Hungary, Dr. Friedrich Müller’s No. 1, which is very coarse and

very disconnected:—‘Somewhere was, somewhere was not, lucky, Golden

God! somewhere was, somewhere was not, a poor Gypsy.’ An old woman

tells him, ‘Go into yonder castle, and there is the lady; and take

from her the ring, and put it on thine own hand, and turn it

thrice, then so much meal and bread will be to thee that thou wilt

not know what to do with it.’... He wins twenty-four wagon-loads of

money for seducing the nobleman’s wife, which he achieves by luring

away the nobleman with a corpse. The Gypsy then kills his children

and his wife; cheats an old woman of her money; cures and marries

the king’s daughter; leaves her, because she will not go and sell

the nails he manufactures; and finally marries a Gypsy girl, who

pleases him much better.

Our next version, ‘Jack the Robber,’ is from South Wales, told to

Mr. Sampson by Cornelius Price. It is as good as the last one is

bad, but like it somewhat Rabelaisian. The following is a summary

of the first half, the latter (our No. 68) being a variant of

Dasent’s ‘Big Peter and Little Peter’:—A poor widow has a son,

Jack, who ‘took to smoking when he was twelve, and got to robbing

the master’s plough-socks to take ’em to the blacksmith’s to sell

’em to rise bacca.’ So the farmer makes the mother send Jack away

from home; and Jack comes to a big gentleman’s hall. This gentleman

is the head of eleven robbers, and Jack, after cunningly relieving

one of them of £11, joins the band, and in six months ‘got a

cleverer robber than what the master hisself was.’ So, with the

money he has made, he sets off for his mother’s, meets the farmer,

tells him he has been prentice to a robber, and, to test his skill,

is set to steal two sheep in succession. He does so by the familiar

expedients of, first, a boot here and a boot there, and, next,

baaing like a lost sheep. Then Jack is set to take the middlemost

sheet from underneath the farmer and his missus, and achieves it by

‘loosing a dead body down the chimley,’ which the farmer shoots

dead, as he fancies, and goes off to bury.

The fifth and last version, ‘The Great Thief,’ is from North Wales,

told by Matthew Wood, and is thus summarised by Mr. Sampson:—‘Hard

by a parson lived a thief. The parson told the thief, “To-morrow my

man goes to the butcher with a sheep. Steal it, and you shall have

such and such money.” Thief gets a pair of new boots, and places

one on one stile, the other on another further on. Man sees first

boot and leaves it, finds other, ties up sheep, and goes back for

the first. Thief steals sheep. The parson says again, “I want you

to steal my wife’s ring from her finger and the sheet from under

her. If you can’t, I shall behead you.” Thief makes dummy man, and

props it against wall. Parson shoots it, comes out, and buries it

in well. Meanwhile thief visits wife, pretending to be parson, and

takes her ring and sheet for safety. Parson returns and discovers

the trick.’

Though not, at least but very conjecturally, a Gypsy version, the

following version is still worth citing. It is from Henry Mayhew’s

London Labour and the London Poor, vol. iii. (1861), pp.

388–390:—‘An intelligent-looking boy, aged 16, a native of Wisbech

in Cambridgeshire; at 13 apprenticed to a tailor; in three months’

time ran away; went home again for seven months, then ran away

again, and since a vagrant. Had read Windsor Castle, Tower of

London, etc. He gives account of amusements in casual wards:—

‘“We told stories sometimes, romantic tales some; others blackguard

kind of tales, about bad women; and others about thieving and

roguery; not so much about what they’d done themselves, as about

some big thief that was very clever and could trick anybody. Not

stories such as Dick Turpin or Jack Sheppard, or things that’s in

history, but inventions. I used to say when I was telling a

story—for I’ve told one story that I invented till I learnt it. [I

give this story to show what are the objects of admiration with

these vagrants [57]]:—

‘“You see, mates, it was once upon a time, and a very good time it

was, a young man, and he runned away, and got along with a gang of

thieves, and he went to a gentleman’s house, and got in because one

of his mates sweethearted the servant, and got her away, and she

left the door open. And the door being left open, the young man got

in, and robbed the house of a lot of money, £1000, and he took it

to their gang at the cave. Next day there was a reward out to find

the robber. Nobody found him. So the gentleman put two men and a

horse in a field, and the men were hidden in the field, and the

gentleman put out a notice that anybody that could catch the horse

should have him for his cleverness, and a reward as well; for he

thought the man that got the £1000 was sure to try to catch that

there horse, because he was so bold and clever, and then the two

men hid would nab him. This here Jack (that’s the young man) was

watching, and he saw the two men, and he went and caught two live

hares. Then he hid himself behind a hedge, and let one hare go, and

one man said to the other, ‘There goes a hare,’ and they both ran

after it, not thinking Jack’s there. And while they were running he

let go t’other one, and they said, ‘There’s another hare,’ and they

ran different ways, and so Jack went and got the horse, and took it

to the man that offered the reward, and got the reward; it was

£100; and the gentleman said, ‘D—— it, Jack’s done me this time.’

The gentleman then wanted to serve out the parson, and he said to

Jack, ‘I’ll give you another £100 if you’ll do something to the

parson as bad as you’ve done to me.’ Jack said, ‘Well, I will’; and

Jack went to the church and lighted up the lamps and rang the

bells, and the parson he got up to see what was up. Jack was

standing in one of the pews like an angel; when the parson got to

the church, Jack said, ‘Go and put your plate in a bag; I’m an

angel come to take you up to heaven.’ And the parson did so, and it

was as much as he could drag to church from his house in a bag; for

he was very rich. And when he got to church Jack put the parson in

one bag, and the money stayed in the other; and he tied them both

together, and put them across his horse, and took them up hill and

through water to the gentleman’s, and then he took the parson out

of the bag, and the parson was wringing wet. Jack fetched the

gentleman, and the gentleman gave the parson a horsewhipping, and

the parson cut away, and Jack got all the parson’s money and the

second £100, and gave it all to the poor. And the parson brought an

action against the gentleman for horsewhipping him, and they were

both ruined. That’s the end of it. That’s the sort of story that’s

liked best, sir.”’

Dasent, ‘The Master Thief’ (Tales from the Norse, p. 255). He takes

service with robbers. Steals three oxen, the first one by a shoe

here and a shoe there, the third by imitating lost ox. He steals

the squire’s roast, first catching three hares alive. He steals

Father Laurence in a sack, but not out of church, posing as an

angel, and bidding him lay out all his gold and silver. N.B. No

crabs, no lighting of candles.

Grimm, No. 192, ‘The Master Thief’ (ii. 324). He steals horse from

under rider. Steals sheet from under count’s wife, first luring

count away by means of corpse. Disguised like monk, he steals

parson and clerk out of church in sack, bumping them against steps,

and dragging them through puddles—‘mountains’ and ‘clouds.’ No

mention of plate or money. Neither of these two versions can be the

original of Mayhew’s English vagrant one.

Straparola (Venice, 1550), No. 2, ‘The Knave.’ First, he steals

from the provost the bed on which he is lying; next, horse on which

stable-boy is sitting; and thirdly, an ecclesiastical personage in

sack.

De Gubernatis (Zool. Myth., i. 204) alludes to the famous robber

Klimka, in Afanasief, v. 6, who, by means of a drum (in Indian

tales a trumpet) terrifies his accomplices, the robbers, and then

steals from a gentleman his horse, his jewel-casket, even his wife.

‘Les Deux Voleurs’ (Dozon’s Contes Albanais, p. 169) has two

thieves with the same mistress, as in Barbu Constantinescu. One of

them, posing as the angel Gabriel, steals the cadi in a chest at

the instigation of a pasha whom the cadi has ridiculed.

Much more striking are the analogies offered by ‘Voleur par Nature’

(Legrand’s Contes Grecs, p. 205) from Cyprus. Here we get the

stealing of two sheep, first by a boot here and a boot there, and

next by baaing like a lost sheep. Then we have the stealing of one

of a yoke of oxen, the robbery of the king’s treasure-house, the

consulting a robber in prison, a caldron of pitch, the headless

robber, the exposure of his corpse, and, lastly, the marriage of

the surviving thief and the princess.

For heroic form of ‘The Master Thief’ see Hahn’s No. 3, ‘Von dem

Schönen und vom Drakos.’ Hero has to steal winged horse of the

dragon, coverlet of dragon’s bed, and the dragon himself. He steals

him in a box, and marries the king’s daughter. In Laura

Gonzenbach’s most curious Sicilian story, No. 83, ‘Die Geschichte

von Caruseddu’ (ii. 142–145), the hero steals the horse of the

‘dragu’ (? dragon, rather than cannibal), next his bed-cover, and

lastly the ‘dragu’ himself; with which compare the Bukowina-Gypsy

story, ‘Tropsyn,’ No. 27. In Hahn, ii. p. 182, we have mention of

sack, in variant 4 of ring of the dragon. Cf. infra, p. 109.

Finally, three little points connecting the Gypsies and the ‘Master

Thief’ may be noted. Mrs. Carlyle’s ‘mother’s mother was a

grand-niece of Matthew Baillie,’ a famous Scottish Gypsy, who, as

she said, ‘could steal a horse from under the owner, if he liked,

but left always the saddle and bridle.’ John MacDonald, travelling

tinker, ‘knew the story of the “Shifty Lad,” though not well enough

to repeat it’ (Campbell’s Tales of the West Highlands, i. 142,

356). An English Gypsy once said to me, ‘The folks hereabouts are a

lot of rátfalo heathens; they all think they’re going to heaven in

a sack.’

Dr. Barbu Constantinescu’s ‘Two Thieves’ is so curious a

combination of the ‘Rhampsinitus’ story in Herodotus and of Grimm’s

‘Master Thief,’ that I am more than inclined to regard it as the

lost original which, according to Campbell of Islay, ‘it were vain

to look for in any modern work or in any modern age.’ The

‘Rhampsinitus’ story and the ‘Master Thief’ have both been made

special subjects of study—the former by Reinhold Köhler in Orient

und Occident, 1864, pp. 303–316, by Clouston in his Popular Tales

and Fictions (1887, ii. 115–165), and by Sir George Cox in Fraser’s

Magazine (July 1880, pp. 96–111); the latter by M. Cosquin in

Contes Populaires de Lorraine (1887; ii. 271–281, 364–5). With

their help and that of the above jottings, we can analyse the Gypsy

story of the ‘Two Thieves’ detail by detail, and see in how many

and how widely-separated non-Gypsy versions some of those details

have to be sought:—

(1) A town thief meets a country thief, and is challenged by him to

steal the eggs of a magpie without her noticing it.—Grimm, No. 129,

and Kashmir and Kabyle versions. (2) Whilst doing so, he is himself

robbed unawares of his breeches by the country thief. The stealing

of the labourer’s paijámas in Kashmir version is analogous. (3)

They enter into partnership, and have one wife.—Albanian version.

(4) They go to the king’s palace, and, making a hole in the roof,

descend and steal money. The king, discovering his loss, takes

counsel with an old robber in prison.—So in Dolopathos, modern

Greek, and Cypriote versions. (5) By his advice the king finds out

hole by lighting a fire in the treasure-house, and noticing where

the smoke escapes.—Dolopathos, Pecorone, old French, Breton, old

Dutch, Danish, Kabyle. (6) Under the hole he sets a cask of

molasses.—Snare in ‘Rhampsinitus,’ Tyrolese, Kabyle; pitch in old

English, modern Greek, Cypriote, old French, Gaelic, old Dutch,

Danish. (7) The country thief is caught, and his comrade cuts off

his head.—‘Rhampsinitus,’ Pecorone, old English, old French,

Breton, Gaelic, Tyrolese, Danish, Kabyle, Tibetan, Cinghalese. (8)

The headless trunk is exposed, and the comrade steals it by

intoxicating the guards.—‘Rhampsinitus,’ Sicilian, Breton, Gaelic,

old Dutch, Russian. (9) He further cheats them of 400 groats as

payment for his horse, which he pretends the dead thief has

stolen.—Wanting elsewhere. (10) The king then puts a prohibitive

price on all the meat in the city, thinking the thief will betray

himself by alone being able to pay it; but the thief steals a

joint.—Italian (Pecorone, 1378, ix. 1; and Prof. Crane’s Italian

Popular Tales, p. 166). (11) The king finally makes a proclamation,

offering his daughter to the thief, who plucks up courage and

reveals himself.—‘Rhampsinitus,’ Pecorone, Sicilian, modern Greek,

Tyrolese, Kabyle. (12) To exhibit his skill, he steals one of a

yoke of oxen.—Russian (De Gubernatis, Zoological Mythology, i. 186,

from Afanasief). (13) As a further test he steals the priest out of

the church in a sack, out of which he has just let 300 crabs, each

with a lighted taper fastened to its claw. According to Cosquin,

the complete crab episode occurs only in Grimm (he of course knows

nothing of our Gypsy version). But herein he for once is wrong,

since we find it also in Krauss’s Croatian version of the ‘Master

Thief’ (No. 55), which bears the title of ‘The Lad who was up to

Gypsy Tricks’; its hero, indeed, is generally styled ‘the Gypsy.’

He is a Gypsy in Dr. Friedrich Müller’s Gypsy variant, and in Dr.

von Sowa’s. In the latter version, as in several non-Gypsy ones,

the hero, it will be noticed, catches crabs, but makes no use

whatever of them afterwards.

NO. 13.—THE WATCHMAKER

There was once a poor lad. He took the road, went to find himself a

master. He met a priest on the road.

‘Where are you going, my lad?’

‘I am going to find myself a master.’

‘Mine’s the very place for you, my lad, for I’ve another lad like you,

and I have six oxen and a plough. Do you enter my service and plough

all this field.’

The lad arose, and took the plough and the oxen, and went into the

fields and ploughed two days. Luck [58] and the Ogre came to him. And

the Ogre said to Luck, ‘Go for him.’ Luck didn’t want to go for him;

only the Ogre went. When the Ogre went for him, he laid himself down on

his back, and unlaced his boots, and took to flight across the plain.

The other lad shouted after him, ‘Don’t go, brother; don’t go,

brother.’

‘Bah! God blast your plough and you as well.’

Then he came to a city of the size of Bucharest. Presently he arrived

at a watchmaker’s shop. And he leaned his elbows on the shop-board and

watched the prentices at their work. Then one of them asked him, ‘Why

do you sit there hungry?’

He said, ‘Because I like to watch you working.’

Then the master came out and said, ‘Here, my lad, I will hire you for

three years, and will show you all that I am master of. For a year and

a day,’ he continued, ‘you will have nothing to do but chop wood, and

feed the oven fire, and sit with your elbows on the table, and watch

the prentices at their work.’

Now the watchmaker had had a clock of the emperor’s fifteen years, and

no one could be found to repair it; he had fetched watchmakers from

Paris and Vienna, and not one of them had managed it. The time came

when the emperor offered the half of his kingdom to whoso should repair

it; one and all they failed. The clock had twenty-four tunes in it. And

as it played, the emperor grew young again. Easter Sunday came; and the

watchmaker went to church with his prentices. Only the old wife and the

lad stayed behind. The lad chopped the wood up quickly, and went back

to the table that they did their work at. He never touched one of the

little watches, but he took the big clock, and set it on the table. He

took out two of its pipes, and cleaned them, and put them back in their

place; then the four-and-twenty tunes began to play, and the clock to

go. Then the lad hid himself for fear; and all the people came out of

the church when they heard the tunes playing.

The watchmaker, too, came home, and said, ‘Mother, who did me this

kindness, and repaired the clock?’

His mother said, ‘Only the lad, dear, went near the table.’

And he sought him and found him sitting in the stable. He took him in

his arms: ‘My lad, you were my master, and I never knew it, but set you

to chop wood on Easter Day.’ Then he sent for three tailors, and they

made him three fine suits of clothes. Next day he ordered a carriage

with four fine horses; and he took the clock in his arms, and went off

to the emperor. The emperor, when he heard it, came down from his

throne, and took his clock in his arms and grew young. Then he said to

the watchmaker, ‘Bring me him who mended the clock.’

He said, ‘I mended it.’

‘Don’t tell me it was you. Go and bring me him who mended it.’

He went then and brought the lad.

The emperor said, ‘Go, give the watchmaker three purses of ducats; but

the lad you shall have no more, for I mean to give him ten thousand

ducats a year, just to stay here and mind the clock and repair it when

it goes wrong.’

So the lad dwelt there thirteen years.

The emperor had a grown-up daughter, and he proposed to find a husband

for her. She wrote a letter, and gave it to her father. And what did

she put in the letter? She put this: ‘Father, I am minded to feign to

be dumb; and whoso is able to make me speak, I will be his.’

Then the emperor made a proclamation throughout the world: ‘He who is

able to make my daughter speak shall get her to wife; and whoso fails

him will I kill.’

Then many suitors came, but not one of them made her speak. And the

emperor killed them all, and by and by no one more came.

Now the lad, the watchmaker, went to the emperor, and said, ‘Emperor,

let me also go to the maiden, to see if I cannot make her speak.’

‘Well, this is how it stands, my lad. Haven’t you seen the proclamation

on the table, how I have sworn to kill whoever fails to make her

speak?’

‘Well, kill me also, Emperor, if I too fail.’

‘In that case, go to her.’

The lad dressed himself bravely, and went into her chamber. She was

sewing at her frame. When the lad entered, he said, ‘Good-day, you

rogue.’

‘Thank you, watchmaker. Well, sit you down since you have come, and

take a bite.’

‘Well, all right, you rogue.’

He only was speaking. [59] Then he tarried no longer, but came out and

said, ‘Good-night, rogue.’

‘Farewell, watchmaker.’

Next evening the emperor summoned him, to kill him. But the lad said,

‘Let me go one more night.’ Then the lad went again, and said,

‘Good-evening, rogue.’

‘Welcome, watchmaker. And since you have come, brother, pray sit down

to table.’

Only he spoke, so at last he said, ‘Good-night, rogue.’

‘Farewell, watchmaker.’

Next night the emperor summoned him. ‘I must kill you now, for you have

reached your allotted term.’

Then said the lad, ‘Do you know, emperor, that there is thrice

forgiveness for a man?’

‘Then go to-night, too.’

Then the lad went that night, and said, ‘How do you do, rogue?’

‘Thank you, watchmaker. Since you have come, sit at table.’

‘So I will, rogue. And see you this knife in my hand? I mean to cut you

in pieces if you will not answer my question.’

‘And why should I not answer it, watchmaker?’

‘Well, rogue, know you the princess?’

‘And how should I not know her?’

‘And the three princes, know you them?’

‘I know them, watchmaker.’

‘Well and good, if you know them. The three brothers had an intrigue

with the princess. They knew not that the three had to do with her. But

what did the maiden? She knew they were brothers. The eldest came at

nightfall, and she set him down to table and he ate. Then she lay with

him and shut him up in a chamber. The middle one came at midnight, and

she lay with him also and shut him up in another chamber. And that same

night came the youngest, and she lay with him too. Then at daybreak she

let them all out, and they sprang to slay one another, the three

brothers. The maiden said, “Hold, brothers, do not slay one another,

but go home and take each of you to himself ten thousand ducats, and go

into three cities; and his I will become who brings me the finest piece

of workmanship.” So the eldest journeyed to Bucharest, and there found

a beautiful mirror. Now look you what kind of mirror it was. “Here,

merchant, [60] what is the price of your mirror?” “Ten thousand ducats,

my lad.” “Indeed, is that not very dear, brother?” “But mark you what

kind of mirror it is. You look in it and you can see both the dead and

the living therein.” Now let’s have a look at the middle brother. He

went to another city and found a robe. “You, merchant, what is the

price of this robe?” “Ten thousand ducats, my son.”’

‘What are you talking about, watchmaker? A robe cost ten thousand

ducats!’ [61]

‘But look you, you rogue, what sort of robe it is. For when you step on

it, it will carry you whither you will. So you may fancy he cries

“Done!” Meanwhile the youngest also arrived in a city and found a Jew,

and bought an apple from him. And the apple was such that when a dead

man ate it he revived. He took it and came to his brothers. And when

they were all come home they saw their sweetheart dead. And they gave

her the apple to eat and she arose. And whom then did she choose? She

chose the youngest. What do you say?’

And the emperor’s daughter spoke. And the watchmaker took her to wife.

And they made a marriage.

This story, though well enough told, is very defective. Of course,

by rights the eldest brother looks in his mirror, and sees the

princess dead or about to die; then the middle brother transports

the three of them on his travelling robe; and only then can the

youngest brother make use of his apple of life. ‘The Watchmaker’ is

a corrupt version of ‘The Golden Casket’ in Geldart’s Folk-lore of

Modern Greece, pp. 106–125, which should be carefully compared with

it, to render it intelligible. Compare also Clouston’s chapter on

‘The Four Clever Brothers’ (i. 277–288), where he cites with others

a Sanskrit version, and Grimm’s No. 129 (ii. 165, 428). Apropos of

the magic mirror here, and of the telescope in European folk-tales,

Burton has this note on the ivory tube bought by Prince Ali in the

Arabian tale of ‘Prince Ahmad and the Peri Bánú’:—‘The origin of

the lens and its applied use to the telescope and the microscope

“are lost” (as the Castle guides of Edinburgh say) “in the gloom of

antiquity.” Well-ground glasses have been discovered amongst the

finds in Egypt and Assyria; indeed, much of the finer work of the

primeval artist could not have been done without such aid. In

Europe the “spy-glass” appears first in the Opus Majus of the

learned Roger Bacon (circa A.D. 1270); and his “optic tube” (whence

his saying, “All things are known by perspective”) chiefly

contributed to make his widespread fame as a wizard. The telescope

was popularised by Galileo, who, as mostly happens, carried off and

still keeps amongst the vulgar all the honours of the invention.’

With the travelling robe compare the saddle in the Polish-Gypsy

‘Tale of a Girl who was sold to the Devil’ (No. 46) and the wings

in the Bukowina-Gypsy ‘Winged Hero’ (No. 26); and with the apple of

life, which occurs also in the Icelandic version of this story, the

other-world apple in the Roumanian-Gypsy ‘Bad Mother’ (No. 8). See

also Clouston on ‘Prince Ahmad’ in his Variants of Sir R. F.

Burton’s Supplemental Arabian Nights, pp. 600–616.

NO. 14.—THE RED KING AND THE WITCH

It was the Red King, and he bought ten ducats’ worth of victuals. He

cooked them, and he put them in a press. And he locked the press, and

from night to night posted people to guard the victuals.

In the morning, when he looked, he found the platters bare; he did not

find anything in them. Then the king said, ‘I will give the half of my

kingdom to whoever shall be found to guard the press, that the victuals

may not go amissing from it.’

The king had three sons. Then the eldest thought within himself, ‘God!

What, give half the kingdom to a stranger! It were better for me to

watch. Be it unto me according to God’s will.’

He went to his father. ‘Father, all hail. What, give the kingdom to a

stranger! It were better for me to watch.’

And his father said to him, ‘As God will, only don’t be frightened by

what you may see.’

Then he said, ‘Be it unto me according to God’s will.’

And he went and lay down in the palace. And he put his head on the

pillow, and remained with his head on the pillow till towards dawn. And

a warm sleepy breeze came and lulled him to slumber. And his little

sister arose. And she turned a somersault, and her nails became like an

axe and her teeth like a shovel. And she opened the cupboard and ate up

everything. Then she became a child again and returned to her place in

the cradle, for she was a babe at the breast. The lad arose and told

his father that he had seen nothing. His father looked in the press,

found the platters bare—no victuals, no anything. His father said, ‘It

would take a better man than you, and even he might do nothing.’

His middle son also said, ‘Father, all hail. I am going to watch

to-night.’

‘Go, dear, only play the man.’

‘Be it unto me according to God’s will.’

And he went into the palace and put his head on a pillow. And at ten

o’clock came a warm breeze and sleep seized him. Up rose his sister and

unwound herself from her swaddling-bands and turned a somersault, and

her teeth became like a shovel and her nails like an axe. And she went

to the press and opened it, and ate off the platters what she found.

She ate it all, and turned a somersault again and went back to her

place in the cradle. Day broke and the lad arose, and his father asked

him and said, ‘It would take a better man than you, and even he might

do nought for me if he were as poor a creature as you.’

The youngest son arose. ‘Father, all hail. Give me also leave to watch

the cupboard by night.’

‘Go, dear, only don’t be frightened with what you see.’

‘Be it unto me according to God’s will,’ said the lad.

And he went and took four needles and lay down with his head on the

pillow; and he stuck the four needles in four places. When sleep seized

him he knocked his head against a needle, so he stayed awake until ten

o’clock. And his sister arose from her cradle, and he saw. And she

turned a somersault, and he was watching her. And her teeth became like

a shovel and her nails like an axe. And she went to the press and ate

up everything. She left the platters bare. And she turned a somersault,

and became tiny again as she was; went to her cradle. The lad, when he

saw that, trembled with fear; it seemed to him ten years till daybreak.

And he arose and went to his father. ‘Father, all hail.’

Then his father asked him, ‘Didst see anything, Peterkin?’

‘What did I see? what did I not see? Give me money and a horse, a horse

fit to carry the money, for I am away to marry me.’

His father gave him a couple of sacks of ducats, and he put them on his

horse. The lad went and made a hole on the border of the city. He made

a chest of stone, and put all the money there and buried it. He placed

a stone cross above and departed. And he journeyed eight years and came

to the queen of all the birds that fly.

And the queen of the birds asked him, ‘Whither away, Peterkin?’

‘Thither, where there is neither death nor old age, to marry me.’

The queen said to him, ‘Here is neither death nor old age.’

Then Peterkin said to her, ‘How comes it that here is neither death nor

old age?’

Then she said to him, ‘When I whittle away the wood of all this forest,

then death will come and take me and old age.’

Then Peterkin said, ‘One day and one morning death will come and old

age, and take me.’

And he departed further, and journeyed on eight years and arrived at a

palace of copper. And a maiden came forth from that palace and took him

and kissed him. She said, ‘I have waited long for thee.’

She took the horse and put him in the stable, and the lad spent the

night there. He arose in the morning and placed his saddle on the

horse.

Then the maiden began to weep, and asked him, ‘Whither away, Peterkin?’

‘Thither, where there is neither death nor old age.’

Then the maiden said to him, ‘Here is neither death nor old age.’

Then he asked her, ‘How comes it that here is neither death nor old

age?’

‘Why, when these mountains are levelled, and these forests, then death

will come.’

‘This is no place for me,’ said the lad to her. And he departed

further.

Then what said his horse to him? ‘Master, whip me four times, and twice

yourself, for you are come to the Plain of Regret. And Regret will

seize you and cast you down, horse and all. So spur your horse, escape,

and tarry not.’

He came to a hut. In that hut he beholds a lad, as it were ten years

old, who asked him, ‘What seekest thou, Peterkin, here?’

‘I seek the place where there is neither death nor old age.’

The lad said, ‘Here is neither death nor old age. I am the Wind.’

Then Peterkin said, ‘Never, never will I go from here.’ And he dwelt

there a hundred years and grew no older.

There the lad dwelt, and he went out to hunt in the Mountains of Gold

and Silver, and he could scarce carry home the game.

Then what said the Wind to him? ‘Peterkin, go unto all the Mountains of

Gold and unto the Mountains of Silver; but go not to the Mountain of

Regret or to the Valley of Grief.’

He heeded not, but went to the Mountain of Regret and the Valley of

Grief. And Grief cast him down; he wept till his eyes were full.

And he went to the Wind. ‘I am going home to my father, I will not stay

longer.’

‘Go not, for your father is dead, and brothers you have no more left at

home. A million years have come and gone since then. The spot is not

known where your father’s palace stood. They have planted melons on it;

it is but an hour since I passed that way.’

But the lad departed thence, and arrived at the maiden’s whose was the

palace of copper. Only one stick remained, and she cut it and grew old.

As he knocked at the door, the stick fell and she died. He buried her,

and departed thence. And he came to the queen of the birds in the great

forest. Only one branch remained, and that was all but through.

When she saw him she said, ‘Peterkin, thou art quite young.’

Then he said to her, ‘Dost thou remember telling me to tarry here?’

As she pressed and broke through the branch, she, too, fell and died.

He came where his father’s palace stood and looked about him. There was

no palace, no anything. And he fell to marvelling: ‘God, Thou art

mighty!’ He only recognised his father’s well, and went to it. His

sister, the witch, when she saw him, said to him, ‘I have waited long

for you, dog.’ She rushed at him to devour him, but he made the sign of

the cross and she perished.

And he departed thence, and came on an old man with his beard down to

his belt. ‘Father, where is the palace of the Red King? I am his son.’

‘What is this,’ said the old man, ‘thou tellest me, that thou art his

son? My father’s father has told me of the Red King. His very city is

no more. Dost thou not see it is vanished? And dost thou tell me that

thou art the Red King’s son?’

‘It is not twenty years, old man, since I departed from my father, and

dost thou tell me that thou knowest not my father?’ (It was a million

years since he had left his home.) ‘Follow me if thou dost not believe

me.’

And he went to the cross of stone; only a palm’s breadth was out of the

ground. And it took him two days to get at the chest of money. When he

had lifted the chest out and opened it, Death sat in one corner

groaning, and Old Age groaning in another corner.

Then what said Old Age? ‘Lay hold of him, Death.’

‘Lay hold of him yourself.’

Old Age laid hold of him in front, and Death laid hold of him behind.

The old man took and buried him decently, and planted the cross near

him. And the old man took the money and also the horse.

In these days, when one is called upon to admire Maeterlinck and

not for the world to admire Scott’s Marmion, it is hard to know

what is really good and what bad. Else this story of ‘The Red King

and the Witch’ to me seems the finest folk-tale that we have. It is

like Albert Dürer’s ‘Knight,’ it is like the csárdás of some great

Gypsy maestro. But is it original? Well, that’s the question. There

are several non-Gypsy stories that offer most striking analogies.

There is Ralston’s ‘The Witch and the Sun’s Sister’ (pp. 170–175,

from the Ukraine), and there is Ralston’s ‘The Norka’ (pp. 73–80

from the Chernigof government). Then there is Wratislaw’s

‘Transmigration of the Soul’ (pp. 161–162, Little Russian), of a

baby that gobbles up victuals. And there are Grimm’s No. 57 and

Hahn’s No. 65. From these it would not be difficult to patch

together a story that should almost exactly parallel our Gypsy one;

but not one of them, I feel certain, can rightly be deemed its

original.

NO. 15.—THE PRINCE AND THE WIZARD

There was a king, and he had an only son. Now, that lad was heroic,

nought-heeding. And he set out in quest of heroic achievements. And he

went a long time nought-heeding. And he came to a forest, and lay down

to sleep in the shadow of a tree, and slept. Then he saw a dream, that

he arises and goes to the hill where the dragon’s horses are, and that

if you [62] keep straight on you will come to the man with no kidneys,

screaming and roaring. So he arose and departed, and came to the man

with no kidneys. And when he came there, he asked him, ‘Mercy! what are

you screaming for?’

He said, ‘Why, a wizard has taken my kidneys, and has left me here in

the road as you see me.’

Then the lad said to him, ‘Wait a bit longer till I return from

somewhere.’

And he left him, and journeyed three more days and three nights. And he

came to that hill, and sat down, and ate, and rested. And he arose and

went to the hill. And the horses, when they saw him, ran to eat him.

And the lad said, ‘Do not eat me, for I will give you pearly hay [63]

and fresh water.’

Then the horses said, ‘Be our master. But see you do as you’ve

promised.’

The lad said, ‘Horses, if I don’t, why, eat me and slay me.’

So he took them and departed with them home. And he put them in the

stable, and gave them fresh water and pearly hay. And he mounted the

smallest horse, and set out for the man with no kidneys, and found him

there. And he asked him what was the name of the wizard who had taken

his kidneys.

‘What his name is I know not, but I do know where he is gone to. He is

gone to the other world.’

Then the lad took and went a long time nought-heeding, and came to the

edge of the earth, and let himself down, and came to the other world.

And he went to the wizard’s there, and said, ‘Come forth, O wizard,

that I may see the sort of man you are.’

So when the wizard heard, he came forth to eat him and slay him. Then

the lad took his heroic club and his sabre; and the instant he hurled

his club, the wizard’s hands were bound behind his back. And the lad

said to him, ‘Here, you wizard, tell quick, my brother’s kidneys, or I

slay thee this very hour.’

And the wizard said, ‘They are there in a jar. Go and get them.’

And the lad said, ‘And when I’ve got them, what am I to do with them?’

The wizard said, ‘Why, when you’ve got them, put them in water and give

him them to drink.’

Then the lad went and took them, and departed to him. And he put the

kidneys in water, and gave him to drink, and he drank. And when he had

drunk he was whole. And he took the lad, and kissed him, and said, ‘Be

my brother till my death or thine, and so too in the world to come.’

So they became brothers. And having done so, they took and journeyed in

quest of heroic achievements. So they set out and slew every man that

they found in their road. Then the man who had had no kidneys said he

was going after the wizard, and would pass to the other world. Then

they took and went there to the edge of the earth, and let themselves

in. And they came there, and went to the wizard. And when they got

there, how they set themselves to fight, and fought with him two whole

days. Then when the lad, his brother, took and hurled his club, the

wizard’s hands were bound behind his back. And he cut his throat, and

took his houses, made them two apples. [64]

And they went further, and came on a certain house, and there were

three maidens. And the lad hurled his club, and carried away half their

house. And when the maidens saw that, they came out, and saw them

coming. And they flung a comb on their path, and it became a forest—no

needle could thread it. So when the lad saw that, he flung his club and

his sabre. And the sabre cut and the club battered. And it cut all the

forest till nothing was left.

And when the maidens saw that they had felled the forest, they flung a

whetstone, and it became a fortress of stone, so that there was no

getting further. And he flung the club, and demolished the stone, and

made dust of it. And when the maidens saw that they had demolished the

stone, they flung a mirror before them, and it became a lake, and there

was no getting over. And the lad flung his sabre, and it cleft the

water, and they passed through, and went there to the maidens. When

they came there they said, ‘And what were you playing your cantrips on

us for, maidens?’

Then the maidens said, ‘Why, lad, we thought that you were coming to

kill us.’

Then the lad shook hands with them, the three sisters, and said to

them, ‘There, maidens, and will you have us?’

And they took them to wife—one for himself, and one for him who had

lost his kidneys, and one they gave to another lad. And he went with

them home. And they made a marriage.

And I came away, and I have told the story.

And a very quaint story it is; to the best of my knowledge, that

rarest of all things, a new one. ‘God’s Godson,’ No. 6, also offers

an instance of an heroic hero, nought-heeding, who sets out in

quest of heroic achievements; and we find the same notion in a good

many folk-tales of South-east Europe, e.g. in the Croatian story of

‘Kraljevitch Marko’ (Wratislaw, No. 52, p. 266). For the comb,

whetstone, and mirror, cf. Ralston, p. 142, and the Bukowina-Gypsy

story, ‘Made over to the Devil’ (No. 34), where it is a whetstone,

a comb, and a towel.

NO. 16.—THE APPLES OF PREGNANCY

There were where there were a king and a queen. Now for sixteen years

that king and that queen had had no sons or daughters. So he thought

they would never have any. And he was always weeping and lamenting, for

what would become of them without any children? Then the king said to

the queen, ‘O queen, I will go away and leave you, and if I do not find

a son born of you by my return, know that either I will kill you with

my own hands, or I will send you away, and live no longer with you.’

Then another king sent a challenge to him to go and fight, for, if he

goes not, he will come and slay him on his throne. Then the king said

to his queen, ‘Here, O queen, is a challenge come for me to go and

fight. If I had had a son, would he not have gone, and I have remained

at home?’

She said, ‘How can I help it, O king, if God has not chosen to give us

any sons? What can I do?’

He said, ‘Prate not to me of God. If I come and don’t find a son born

of you, I shall kill you.’

And the king departed.

Then the holy God and St. Peter fell to discussing what they should do

for the queen. So God said to Peter, ‘Here, you Peter, go down with

this apple, and pass before her window, and cry, “I have an apple, and

whoso eats of it will conceive.” She will hear you. For it were a pity,

Peter, for the king to come and kill her.’

So St. Peter took the apple, and came down, and did as God had told

him. He cried in front of the queen’s window. She heard him, and came

out, and called him to her, and asked, ‘How much do you want for that

apple, my man?’

He said, ‘I want much; give me a purse of money.’

And the queen took the purse of money, and gave it him, and took the

apple and ate it. And when she had eaten it, she conceived. And St.

Peter left her the purse of money there. So the time drew near for her

to bear a child. And the very day that she brought forth her son, his

father came from the war, and he had won the fight. So when he came

home and heard that the queen had borne him a son, he went to the

wine-shop and drank till he was drunk. And as he was coming home from

the wine-shop, he reached the door, and fell down, and died. Then the

boy heard it, and rose up out of his mother’s arms, and went to the

vintner, and killed him with a blow. And he came home. And the people,

the nobles, beheld him, what a hero he was, and wondered at him. But an

evil eye fell on him, and for three days he took to his bed. And he

died of the evil eye.

Two other Roumanian-Gypsy stories may be compared with this one—No.

10 and ‘The Prince who ate Men,’ where, likewise, a king has no

son, threatens the queen with death, and goes off to the war. The

queen goes out driving, and meets a little bit of a man who follows

her home, gives her a glass of medicine, and vanishes. She

conceives, and bears a son, ‘half dog, half bear, and half man.’

The father returns victorious, and is going to slay this monster,

till he learns who he is. Afterwards the monster takes to eating

sentinels, until he himself is slain by a hero. Fruits of pregnancy

are very common in Indian folk-tales, and God plays much the same

part there. For instance, in ‘Chandra’s Vengeance’ (Mary Frere’s

Old Deccan Days, pp. 253–4), Mahadeo gives a mango-fruit to a

sterile woman, and she bears a child. Cf. also Maive Stokes’s

Indian Fairy Tales, pp. 42, 91; Knowles’s Folk-tales of Kashmir, p.

416 note; Hahn, Nos. 4, 6, etc.; and the English-Gypsy story, ‘De

Little Fox,’ No. 52.