Tiger, shut up in a strong iron cage. The villagers had caught him and
shut him up there for his wickedness.
"Oh, Brother Brahmin, Brother Brahmin," said the Tiger, "please let me
out, to get a little drink! I am so thirsty, and there is no water
here."
"But Brother Tiger," said the Brahmin, "you know if I should let you
out, you would spring on me and eat me up."
"Never, Brother Brahmin!" said the Tiger. "Never in the world would I do
such an ungrateful thing! Just let me out a little minute, to get a
little, little drink of water, Brother Brahmin!"
So the Brahmin unlocked the door and let the Tiger out. The moment he
was out he sprang on the Brahmin, and was about to eat him up.
"But, Brother Tiger," said the Brahmin, "you promised you would not. It
is not fair or just that you should eat me, when I set you free."
"It is perfectly right and just," said the Tiger, "and I shall eat you
up."
However, the Brahmin argued so hard that at last the Tiger agreed to
wait and ask the first five whom they should meet, whether it was fair
for him to eat the Brahmin, and to abide by their decision.
The first thing they came to, to ask, was an old Banyan Tree, by the
wayside. (A banyan tree is a kind of fruit tree.)
"Brother Banyan," said the Brahmin, eagerly, "does it seem to you right
or just that this Tiger should eat me, when I set him free from his
cage?"
The Banyan Tree looked down at them and spoke in a tired voice.
"In the summer," he said, "when the sun is hot, men come and sit in the
cool of my shade and refresh themselves with the fruit of my branches.
But when evening falls, and they are rested, they break my twigs and
scatter my leaves, and stone my boughs for more fruit. Men are an
ungrateful race. Let the Tiger eat the Brahmin."
The Tiger sprang to eat the Brahmin, but the Brahmin said,--
"Wait, wait; we have asked only one. We have still four to ask."
Presently they came to a place where an old Bullock was lying by the
road. The Brahmin went up to him and said,--
"Brother Bullock, oh, Brother Bullock, does it seem to you a fair thing
that this Tiger should eat me up, after I have just freed him from a
cage?"
The Bullock looked up, and answered in a deep, grumbling voice,--
"When I was young and strong my master used me hard, and I served him
well. I carried heavy loads and carried them far. Now that I am old and
weak and cannot work, he leaves me without food or water, to die by the
wayside. Men are a thankless lot. Let the Tiger eat the Brahmin."
The Tiger sprang, but the Brahmin spoke very quickly,--
"Oh, but this is only the second, Brother Tiger; you promised to ask
five."
The Tiger grumbled a good deal, but at last he went on again with the
Brahmin. And after a time they saw an Eagle, high overhead. The Brahmin
called up to him imploringly,--
"Oh, Brother Eagle, Brother Eagle! Tell us if it seems to you fair that
this Tiger should eat me up, when I have just saved him from a frightful
cage?"
The Eagle soared slowly overhead a moment, then he came lower, and spoke
in a thin, clear voice.
"I live high in the air," he said, "and I do no man any harm. Yet as
often as they find my eyrie, men stone my young and rob my nest and
shoot at me with arrows. Men are a cruel breed. Let the Tiger eat the
Brahmin!"
The Tiger sprang upon the Brahmin, to eat him up; and this time the
Brahmin had very hard work to persuade him to wait. At last he did
persuade him, however, and they walked on together. And in a little
while they saw an old Alligator, lying half buried in mud and slime, at
the river's edge.
"Brother Alligator, oh, Brother Alligator!" said the Brahmin, "does it
seem at all right or fair to you that this Tiger should eat me up, when
I have just now let him out of a cage?"
The old Alligator turned in the mud, and grunted, and snorted; then he
said,--
"I lie here in the mud all day, as harmless as a pigeon; I hunt no man,
yet every time a man sees me, he throws stones at me, and pokes me with
sharp sticks, and jeers at me. Men are a worthless lot. Let the Tiger
eat the Brahmin!"
At this the Tiger was going to eat the Brahmin at once. The poor Brahmin
had to remind him, again and again, that they had asked only four.
"Wait till we've asked one more! Wait until we see a fifth!" he begged.
Finally, the Tiger walked on with him.
After a time, they met the little Jackal, coming gaily down the road
toward them.
"Oh, Brother Jackal, dear Brother Jackal," said the Brahmin, "give us
your opinion! Do you think it right or fair that this Tiger should eat
me, when I set him free from a terrible cage?"
"Beg pardon?" said the little Jackal.
"I said," said the Brahmin, raising his voice, "do you think it is fair
that the Tiger should eat me, when I set him free from his cage?"
"Cage?" said the little Jackal, vacantly.
"Yes, yes, his cage," said the Brahmin. "We want your opinion. Do you
think----"
"Oh," said the little Jackal, "you want my opinion? Then may I beg you
to speak a little more loudly, and make the matter quite clear? I am a
little slow of understanding. Now what was it?"
"Do you think," said the Brahmin, "it is right for this Tiger to eat me,
when I set him free from his cage?"
"What cage?" said the little Jackal.
"Why, the cage he was in," said the Brahmin. "You see----"
"But I don't altogether understand," said the little Jackal. "You 'set
him free,' you say?"
"Yes, yes, yes!" said the Brahmin. "It was this way: I was walking
along, and I saw the Tiger----"
"Oh, dear, dear!" interrupted the little Jackal; "I never can see
through it, if you go on like that, with a long story. If you really
want my opinion you must make the matter clear. What sort of cage was
it?"
"Why, a big, ordinary cage, an iron cage," said the Brahmin.
"That gives me no idea at all," said the little Jackal. "See here, my
friends, if we are to get on with this matter you'd best show me the
spot. Then I can understand in a jiffy. Show me the cage."
So the Brahmin, the Tiger, and the little Jackal walked back together to
the spot where the cage was.
"Now, let us understand the situation," said the little Jackal. "Friend
Brahmin, where were you?"
"I stood just here by the roadside," said the Brahmin.
"Tiger, and where were you?" said the little Jackal.
"Why, in the cage, of course," roared the Tiger.
"Oh, I beg your pardon, Father Tiger," said the little Jackal, "I
really am _so_ stupid; I cannot _quite_ understand what happened. If you
will have a little patience,--_how_ were you in the cage? What position
were you in?"
"I stood here," said the Tiger, leaping into the cage, "with my head
over my shoulder, so."
"Oh, thank you, thank you," said the little Jackal, "that makes it
_much_ clearer; but I still don't _quite_ understand--forgive my slow
mind--why did you not come out, by yourself?"
"Can't you see that the door shut me in?" said the Tiger.
"Oh, I do beg your pardon," said the little Jackal. "I know I am very
slow; I can never understand things well unless I see just how they
were; if you could show me now exactly how that door works I am sure I
could understand. How does it shut?"
"It shuts like this," said the Brahmin, pushing it to.
"Yes; but I don't see any lock," said the little Jackal, "does it lock
on the outside?"
"It locks like this," said the Brahmin. And he shut and bolted the door!
"Oh, does it, indeed?" said the little Jackal. "Does it, _indeed_! Well,
Brother Brahmin, now that it is locked, I should advise you to let it
stay locked! As for you, my friend," he said to the Tiger, "I think you
will wait a good while before you'll find anyone to let you out again!"
Then he made a very low bow to the Brahmin.
"Good-bye, Brother," he said. "Your way lies that way, and mine lies
this; good-bye!"
THE LITTLE JACKAL AND THE CAMEL
All these stories about the little Jackal that I have told you, show how
clever the little Jackal was. But you know--if you don't, you will when
you are grown up--that no matter how clever you are, sooner or later you
surely meet some one who is more clever. It is always so in life. And it
was so with the little Jackal. This is what happened.
The little Jackal was, as you know, exceedingly fond of shell-fish,
especially of river crabs. Now there came a time when he had eaten all
the crabs to be found on his own side of the river. He knew there must
be plenty on the other side, if he could only get to them, but he could
not swim.
One day he thought of a plan. He went to his friend the Camel, and
said,--
"Friend Camel, I know a spot where the sugar-cane grows thick; I'll show
you the way, if you will take me there."
"Indeed I will," said the Camel, who was very fond of sugar-cane. "Where
is it?"
"It is on the other side of the river," said the little Jackal; "but we
can manage it nicely, if you will take me on your back and swim over."
The Camel was perfectly willing, so the little Jackal jumped on his
back, and the Camel swam across the river, carrying him. When they were
safely over, the little Jackal jumped down and showed the Camel the
sugar-cane field; then he ran swiftly along the river bank, to hunt for
crabs; the Camel began to eat sugar-cane. He ate happily, and noticed
nothing around him.
Now, you know, a Camel is very big, and a Jackal is very little.
Consequently, the little Jackal had eaten his fill by the time the Camel
had barely taken a mouthful. The little Jackal had no mind to wait for
his slow friend; he wanted to be off home again, about his business. So
he ran round and round the sugar-cane field, and as he ran he sang and
shouted, and made a great hullabaloo.
Of course, the villagers heard him at once.
"There is a Jackal in the sugar-cane," they said; "he will dig holes and
destroy the roots; we must go down and drive him out." So they came
down, with sticks and stones. When they got there, there was no Jackal
to be seen; but they saw the great Camel, eating away at the juicy
sugar-cane. They ran at him and beat him, and stoned him, and drove him
away half dead.
When they had gone, leaving the poor Camel half killed, the little
Jackal came dancing back from somewhere or other.
"I think it's time to go home, now," he said; "don't you?"
"Well, you _are_ a pretty friend!" said the Camel. "The idea of your
making such a noise, with your shouting and singing! You brought this
upon me. What in the world made you do it? Why did you shout and sing?"
"Oh, I don't know _why_" said the little Jackal,--"I always sing after
dinner!"
"So?" said the Camel. "Ah, very well, let us go home now."
He took the little Jackal kindly on his back and started into the water.
When he began to swim he swam out to where the river was the very
deepest. There he stopped, and said,--
"Oh, Jackal!"
"Yes," said the little Jackal.
"I have the strangest feeling," said the Camel,--"I feel as if I must
roll over."
"'Roll over'!" cried the Jackal. "My goodness, don't do that! If you do
that, you'll drown me! What in the world makes you want to do such a
crazy thing? Why should you want to roll over?"
"Oh, I don't know _why_," said the Camel slowly, "but I always roll over
after dinner!"
So he rolled over.
And the little Jackal was drowned, for his sins, but the Camel came
safely home.
THE GULLS OF SALT LAKE
The story I am going to tell you is about something that really
happened, many years ago.
A brave little company of pioneers from the Atlantic coast crossed the
Mississippi River and journeyed across the plains of Central North
America in big covered wagons with many horses, and finally succeeded in
climbing to the top of the great Rockies and down again into a valley in
the very midst of the mountains. It was a valley of brown, bare, desert
soil, in a climate where almost no rain falls; but the snow on the
mountain-tops sent down little streams of pure water, the winds were
gentle, and lying like a blue jewel at the foot of the western hills was
a marvellous lake of salt water,--an inland sea. So the pioneers settled
there and built themselves huts and cabins for the first winter.
It had taken them many months to make the terrible journey; many had
died of weariness and illness on the way; many died of hardship during
the winter; and the provisions they had brought in their wagons were so
nearly gone that, by spring, they were living partly on roots, dug from
the ground. All their lives now depended on the crops of grain and
vegetables which they could raise in the valley. They made the barren
land fertile by spreading water from the little streams over it,--what
we call "irrigating"; and they planted enough corn and grain and
vegetables for all the people. Every one helped, and every one watched
for the sprouting, with hopes, and prayers, and careful eyes.
In good time the seeds sprouted, and the dry, brown earth was covered
with a carpet of tender, green, growing things. No farmer's garden could
have looked better than the great garden of the desert valley. And from
day to day the little shoots grew and flourished till they were all well
above the ground.
Then a terrible thing happened. One day, the men who were watering the
crops saw a great number of crickets swarming over the ground at the
edge of the gardens nearest the mountains. They were hopping from the
barren places into the young, green crops, and as they settled down they
ate the tiny shoots and leaves to the ground. More came, and more, and
ever more, and as they came they spread out till they covered a big
corner of the grain field. And still more and more, till it was like an
army of black, hopping, crawling crickets, streaming down the side of
the mountain to kill the crops.
The men tried to kill the crickets by beating them down, but the
numbers were so great that it was like beating at the sea. Then they ran
and told the terrible news, and all the village came to help. They
started fires; they dug trenches and filled them with water; they ran
wildly about in the fields, killing what they could. But while they
fought in one place new armies of crickets marched down the
mountain-sides and attacked the fields in other places. And at last the
people fell on their knees and wept and cried in despair, for they saw
starvation and death in the fields.
A few knelt to pray. Others gathered round and joined them, weeping.
More left their useless struggles and knelt beside their neighbours. At
last nearly all the people were kneeling on the desolate fields praying
for deliverance from the plague of crickets.
Suddenly, from far off in the air toward the great salt lake, there was
the sound of flapping wings. It grew louder. Some of the people looked
up, startled. They saw, like a white cloud rising from the lake, a flock
of sea gulls flying toward them. Snow-white in the sun, with great wings
beating and soaring, in hundreds and hundreds, they rose and circled and
came on.
"The gulls! the gulls!" was the cry. "What does it mean?"
The gulls flew overhead, with a shrill chorus of whimpering cries, and
then, in a marvellous white cloud of outspread wings and hovering
breasts, they settled down over the cultivated ground.
"Oh! woe! woe!" cried the people. "The gulls are eating what the
crickets have left! they will strip root and branch!"
But all at once, someone called out,--
"No, no! See! they are eating the crickets! They are eating only the
crickets!"
It was true. The gulls devoured the crickets in dozens, in hundreds, in
swarms. They ate until they were gorged, and then they flew heavily back
to the lake, only to come again with new appetite. And when at last they
finished, they had stripped the fields of the army of crickets; and the
people were saved.
To this day, in the beautiful city of Salt Lake, which grew out of that
pioneer village, the little children are taught to love the sea gulls.
And when they learn drawing and weaving in the schools, their first
design is often a picture of a cricket and a gull.
THE NIGHTINGALE[25]
A long, long time ago, as long ago as when there were fairies, there
lived an emperor in China, who had a most beautiful palace, all made of
crystal. Outside the palace was the loveliest garden in the whole world,
and farther away was a forest where the trees were taller than any other
trees in the world, and farther away, still, was a deep wood. And in
this wood lived a little Nightingale. The Nightingale sang so
beautifully that everybody who heard her remembered her song better than
anything else that he heard or saw. People came from all over the world
to see the crystal palace and the wonderful garden and the great forest;
but when they went home and wrote books about these things they always
wrote, "But the Nightingale is the best of all."
At last it happened that the Emperor came upon a book which said this,
and he at once sent for his Chamberlain.
"Who is this Nightingale?" said the Emperor. "Why have I never heard him
sing?"
The Chamberlain, who was a very important person, said, "There cannot be
any such person; I have never heard his name."
"The book says there is a Nightingale," said the Emperor. "I command
that the Nightingale be brought here to sing for me this evening."
The Chamberlain went out and asked all the great lords and ladies and
pages where the Nightingale could be found, but not one of them had ever
heard of him. So the Chamberlain went back to the Emperor and said,
"There is no such person."
"The book says there is a Nightingale," said the Emperor; "if the
Nightingale is not here to sing for me this evening I will have the
court trampled upon, immediately after supper."
The Chamberlain did not want to be trampled upon, so he ran out and
asked everybody in the palace about the Nightingale. At last, a little
girl who worked in the kitchen to help the cook, said, "Oh, yes, I know
the Nightingale very well. Every night, when I go to carry scraps from
the kitchen to my mother, who lives in the wood beyond the forest, I
hear the Nightingale sing."
The Chamberlain asked the maid to take him to the Nightingale's home,
and many of the lords and ladies followed after. When they had gone a
little way, they heard a cow moo.
"Ah!" said the lords and ladies, "that must be the Nightingale; what a
large voice for so small a creature!"
"Oh, no," said the little girl, "that is just a cow, mooing."
A little farther on they heard some bullfrogs, in a swamp. "Surely that
is the Nightingale," said the courtiers; "it really sounds like
church-bells!"
"Oh, no," said the little girl, "those are bullfrogs, croaking."
At last they came to the wood where the Nightingale was. "Hush!" said
the little girl, "she is going to sing." And, sure enough, the little
Nightingale began to sing. She sang so beautifully that you have never
in all your life heard anything like it.
"Dear, dear," said the courtiers, "that is very pleasant; does that
little grey bird really make all that noise? She is so pale that I think
she has lost her colour for fear of us."
The Chamberlain asked the little Nightingale to come and sing for the
Emperor. The little Nightingale said she could sing better in her own
greenwood, but she was so sweet and kind that she came with them.
That evening the palace was all trimmed with the most beautiful flowers
you can imagine, and rows and rows of little silver bells, that tinkled
when the wind blew in, and hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of wax
candles, that shone like tiny stars. In the great hall there was a gold
perch for the Nightingale, beside the Emperor's throne.
When all the people were there, the Emperor asked the Nightingale to
sing. Then the little grey Nightingale filled her throat full, and sang.
And, my dears, she sang so beautifully that the Emperor's eyes filled up
with tears! And, you know, emperors do not cry at all easily. So he
asked her to sing again, and this time she sang so marvellously that
the tears came out of his eyes and ran down his cheeks. That was a great
success. They asked the little Nightingale to sing, over and over again,
and when they had listened enough the Emperor said that she should be
made "Singer in Chief to the Court." She was to have a golden perch near
the Emperor's bed, and a little golden cage, and was to be allowed to go
out twice every day. But there were twelve servants appointed to wait on
her, and those twelve servants went with her every time she went out,
and each of the twelve had hold of the end of a silken string which was
tied to the little Nightingale's leg! It was not so very much fun to go
out that way!
For a long, long time the Nightingale sang every evening to the Emperor
and his court, and they liked her so much that the ladies all tried to
sing like her; they used to put water in their mouths and then make
little sounds like this: _glu-glu-glug_. And when the courtiers met each
other in the halls, one would say "Night," and the other would say
"ingale," and that was supposed to be conversation.
At last, one day, there came a little package to the Emperor, on the
outside of which was written, "The Nightingale." Inside was an
artificial bird, something like a Nightingale, only it was made of gold,
and silver, and rubies, and emeralds, and diamonds. When it was wound
up it played a waltz tune, and as it played it moved its little tail up
and down. Everybody in the court was filled with delight at the music of
the new nightingale. They made it sing that same tune thirty-three
times, and still they had not had enough. They would have made it sing
the tune thirty-four times, but the Emperor said, "I should like to hear
the real Nightingale sing, now."
But when they looked about for the real little Nightingale, they could
not find her anywhere! She had taken the chance, while everybody was
listening to the waltz tunes, to fly away through the window to her own
greenwood.
"What a very ungrateful bird!" said the lords and ladies. "But it does
not matter; the new nightingale is just as good."
So the artificial nightingale was given the real Nightingale's little
gold perch, and every night the Emperor wound her up, and she sang waltz
tunes to him. The people in the court liked her even better than the old
Nightingale, because they could all whistle her tunes,--which you can't
do with real nightingales.
About a year after the artificial nightingale came, the Emperor was
listening to her waltz tune, when there was a _snap_ and _whir-r-r_
inside the bird, and the music stopped. The Emperor ran to his doctor,
but he could not do anything. Then he ran to his clock-maker, but he
could not do much. Nobody could do much. The best they could do was to
patch the gold nightingale up so that it could sing once a year; even
that was almost too much, and the tune was very shaky. Still, the
Emperor kept the gold nightingale on the perch in his own room.
A long time went by, and then, at last, the Emperor grew very ill, and
was about to die. When it was sure that he could not live much longer,
the people chose a new emperor and waited for the old one to die. The
poor Emperor lay, quite cold and pale, in his great big bed, with velvet
curtains and tall candlesticks all about. He was quite alone, for all
the courtiers had gone to congratulate the new emperor, and all the
servants had gone to talk it over.
When the Emperor woke up, he felt a terrible weight on his chest. He
opened his eyes, and there was Death, sitting on his heart. Death had
put on the Emperor's gold crown, and he had the gold sceptre in one
hand, and the silken banner in the other; and he looked at the Emperor
with his great hollow eyes. The room was full of shadows, and the
shadows were full of faces. Everywhere the Emperor looked, there were
faces. Some were very, very ugly, and some were sweet and lovely; they
were all the things the Emperor had done in his life, good and bad. And
as he looked at them they began to whisper. They whispered, "_Do you
remember this?_" "_Do you remember that?_" The Emperor remembered so
much that he cried out loud, "Oh, bring the great drum! Make music, so
that I may not hear these dreadful whispers!" But there was nobody there
to bring the drum.
Then the Emperor cried, "You little gold nightingale, can you not sing
something for me? I have given you gifts of gold and jewels, and kept
you always by my side; will you not help me now?" But there was nobody
to wind the little gold nightingale up, and of course it could not sing.