it may be, the cure, of our Lord's strange sickness. Perform divination
for us, O Abé Yasu."
Then Abé Yasu performed divination, and he came before the Wise Men and
said:
"The wine is sweet, but the aftertaste is bitter.
Set not your teeth in the golden persimmon,
It is rotten at the core.
Fair is the scarlet flower of the Death Lily,
Pluck it not.
What is beauty?
What is wisdom?
What is love?
Be not deceived. They are threads in the fabric of illusion!"
Then the Wise Men said, "Speak out, Abé Yasu, for your saying is dark,
and we cannot understand it."
"I will do more than speak," said Abé Yasu. And he spent three days in
fasting and in prayer. Then he took the sacred _Gohei_ from its place in
the Temple, and calling the Wise Men to him he waved the sacred _Gohei_
and with it touched each one of them. And together they went to Tamamo's
bower, and Abé Yasu took the sacred _Gohei_ in his right hand.
Tamamo was in her bower adorning herself, and her maidens were with her.
"My lords," she said, "you come all unbidden. What would you have with
me?"
"My lady Tamamo," said Abé Yasu the Diviner, "I have made a song after
the fashion of the Chinese. You who are learned in poetry, I pray you
hear and judge my song."
"I am in no mood for songs," she said, "with my dear lord lying sick to
death."
"Nevertheless, my lady Tamamo, this song of mine you needs must hear."
"Why, then, if I must ..." she said.
Then spoke Abé Yasu:
"The wine is sweet, the aftertaste is bitter.
Set not your teeth in the golden persimmon,
It is rotten at the core.
Fair is the scarlet flower of the Death Lily,
Pluck it not.
What is beauty?
What is wisdom?
What is love?
Be not deceived. They are threads in the fabric of illusion!"
When Abé Yasu the Diviner had spoken, he came to Tamamo and he touched
her with the sacred _Gohei_.
She gave a loud and terrible cry, and on the instant her form was
changed into that of a great fox having nine long tails and hair like
golden wire. The fox fled from Tamamo's bower, away and away, until it
reached the far plain of Nasu, and it hid itself beneath a great black
stone that was upon that plain.
But the Mikado was immediately recovered from his sickness.
Soon, strange and terrible things were told concerning the great stone
of Nasu. A stream of poisonous water flowed from under it and withered
the bright flowers of the plain. All who drank of the stream died, both
man and beast. Moreover, nothing could go near the stone and live. The
traveller who rested in its shadow arose no more, and the birds that
perched upon it fell dead in a moment. People named it the Death Stone,
and thus it was called for more than a hundred years.
Then it chanced that Genyo, the High Priest, who was a holy man indeed,
took his staff and his begging bowl and went upon a pilgrimage.
When he came to Nasu, the dwellers upon the plain put rice into his
bowl.
"O thou Holy Man," they said, "beware the Death Stone of Nasu. Rest not
in its shade."
But Genyo, the High Priest, having remained a while in thought, made
answer thus:
"Know, my children, what is written in the Book of the Good Law: 'Herbs,
trees and rocks shall all enter into Nirvana.'"
With that he took his way to the Death Stone. He burnt incense, he
struck the stone with his staff, and he cried, "Come forth, Spirit of
the Death Stone; come forth, I conjure thee."
Then there was a great flame of fire and a rending noise, and the Stone
burst and split in sunder. From the stone and from the fire there came a
woman.
She stood before the Holy Man. She said:
"I am Tamamo, once called the Proud Perfection;
I am the golden-haired Fox;
I know the Sorceries of the East;
I was worshipped by the Princes of Ind;
I was great Cathay's undoing;
I was wise and beautiful,
Evil incarnate.
The power of the Buddha has changed me;
I have dwelt in grief for a hundred years;
Tears have washed away my beauty and my sin.
Shrive me, Genyo, shrive me, Holy Man;
Let me have peace."
"Poor Spirit," said Genyo. "Take my staff and my priestly robe and my
begging bowl and set forth upon the long journey of repentance."
Tamamo took the priestly robe and put it upon her; in one hand she took
the staff, in the other the bowl. And when she had done this, she
vanished for ever from the sight of earthly men.
"O thou, Tathagatha," said Genyo, "and thou, Kwannon, Merciful Lady,
make it possible that one day even she may attain Nirvana."
XXIX
MOMOTARO
If you'll believe me there was a time when the fairies were none so shy
as they are now. That was the time when beasts talked to men, when there
were spells and enchantments and magic every day, when there was great
store of hidden treasure to be dug up, and adventures for the asking.
At that time, you must know, an old man and an old woman lived alone by
themselves. They were good and they were poor and they had no children
at all.
One fine day, "What are you doing this morning, good man?" says the old
woman.
"Oh," says the old man, "I'm off to the mountains with my billhook to
gather a faggot of sticks for our fire. And what are you doing, good
wife?"
"Oh," says the old woman, "I'm off to the stream to wash clothes. It's
my washing day," she adds.
So the old man went to the mountains and the old woman went to the
stream.
Now, while she was washing the clothes, what should she see but a fine
ripe peach that came floating down the stream? The peach was big enough,
and rosy red on both sides.
"I'm in luck this morning," said the dame, and she pulled the peach to
shore with a split bamboo stick.
By-and-by, when her good man came home from the hills, she set the peach
before him. "Eat, good man," she said; "this is a lucky peach I found in
the stream and brought home for you."
But the old man never got a taste of the peach. And why did he not?
All of a sudden the peach burst in two and there was no stone to it, but
a fine boy baby where the stone should have been.
"Mercy me!" says the old woman.
"Mercy me!" says the old man.
The boy baby first ate up one half of the peach and then he ate up the
other half. When he had done this he was finer and stronger than ever.
"Momotaro! Momotaro!" cries the old man; "the eldest son of the peach."
"Truth it is indeed," says the old woman; "he was born in a peach."
Both of them took such good care of Momotaro that soon he was the
stoutest and bravest boy of all that country-side. He was a credit to
them, you may believe. The neighbours nodded their heads and they said,
"Momotaro is the fine young man!"
"Mother," says Momotaro one day to the old woman, "make me a good store
of _kimi-dango_" (which is the way that they call millet dumplings in
those parts).
"What for do you want _kimi-dango_?" says his mother.
"Why," says Momotaro, "I'm going on a journey, or as you may say, an
adventure, and I shall be needing the _kimi-dango_ on the way."
"Where are you going, Momotaro?" says his mother.
"I'm off to the Ogres' Island," says Momotaro, "to get their treasure,
and I should be obliged if you'd let me have the _kimi-dango_ as soon as
may be," he says.
So they made him the _kimi-dango_, and he put them in a wallet, and he
tied the wallet to his girdle and off he set.
"_Sayonara_, and good luck to you, Momotaro!" cried the old man and the
old woman.
"_Sayonara! Sayonara!_" cried Momotaro.
He hadn't gone far when he fell in with a monkey.
"Kia! Kia!" says the monkey. "Where are you off to, Momotaro?"
Says Momotaro, "I'm off to the Ogres' Island for an adventure."
"What have you got in the wallet hanging at your girdle?"
"Now you're asking me something," says Momotaro; "sure, I've some of the
best millet dumplings in all Japan."
"Give me one," says the monkey, "and I will go with you."
So Momotaro gave a millet dumpling to the monkey, and the two of them
jogged on together. They hadn't gone far when they fell in with a
pheasant.
"Ken! Ken!" said the pheasant. "Where are you off to, Momotaro?"
Says Momotaro, "I'm off to the Ogres' Island for an adventure."
"What have you got in your wallet, Momotaro?"
"I've got some of the best millet dumplings in all Japan."
"Give me one," says the pheasant, "and I will go with you."
So Momotaro gave a millet dumpling to the pheasant, and the three of
them jogged on together.
They hadn't gone far when they fell in with a dog.
"Bow! Wow! Wow!" says the dog. "Where are you off to, Momotaro?"
Says Momotaro, "I'm off to the Ogres' Island."
"What have you got in your wallet, Momotaro?"
"I've got some of the best millet dumplings in all Japan."
"Give me one," says the dog, "and I will go with you."
So Momotaro gave a millet dumpling to the dog, and the four of them
jogged on together. By-and-by they came to the Ogres' Island.
"Now, brothers," says Momotaro, "listen to my plan. The pheasant must
fly over the castle gate and peck the Ogres. The monkey must climb over
the castle wall and pinch the Ogres. The dog and I will break the bolts
and bars. He will bite the Ogres, and I will fight the Ogres."
Then there was the great battle.
The pheasant flew over the castle gate: "Ken! Ken! Ken!"
Momotaro broke the bolts and bars, and the dog leapt into the castle
courtyard. "Bow! Wow! Wow!"
The brave companions fought till sundown and overcame the Ogres. Those
that were left alive they took prisoners and bound with cords--a wicked
lot they were.
"Now, brothers," says Momotaro, "bring out the Ogres' treasure."
So they did.
The treasure was worth having, indeed. There were magic jewels there,
and caps and coats to make you invisible. There was gold and silver, and
jade and coral, and amber and tortoise-shell and mother-of-pearl.
"Here's riches for all," says Momotaro. "Choose, brothers, and take your
fill."
"Kia! Kia!" says the monkey. "Thanks, my Lord Momotaro."
"Ken! Ken!" says the pheasant. "Thanks, my Lord Momotaro."
"Bow! Wow! Wow!" says the dog. "Thanks, my dear Lord Momotaro."
XXX
THE MATSUYAMA MIRROR
[Illustration: The Matsuyama Mirror.--_P. 228._]
A long, long time ago there lived in a quiet spot a young man and his
wife. They had one child, a little daughter, whom they both loved with
all their hearts. I cannot tell you their names, for they have long
since been forgotten; but the name of the place where they lived was
Matsuyama, in the Province of Echigo.
It happened once, while the little girl was still a baby, that the
father was obliged to go to the great city, the capital of Japan, upon
some business. It was too far for the mother and her little baby to go,
so he set out alone, after bidding them goodbye and promising to bring
them home some pretty present.
The mother had never been farther from home than the next village, and
she could not help being a little frightened at the thought of her
husband taking such a long journey; and yet she was a little proud too,
for he was the first man in all that country-side who had been to the
big town where the king and his great lords lived, and where there
were so many beautiful and curious things to be seen.
At last the time came when she might expect her husband back, so she
dressed the baby in its best clothes, and herself put on a pretty blue
dress which she knew her husband liked.
You may fancy how glad this good wife was to see him come home safe and
sound, and how the little girl clapped her hands, and laughed with
delight when she saw the pretty toys her father had brought for her. He
had much to tell of all the wonderful things he had seen upon the
journey, and in the town itself.
"I have brought you a very pretty thing," said he to his wife; "it is
called a mirror. Look and tell me what you see inside." He gave to her a
plain white wooden box, in which, when she had opened it, she found a
round piece of metal. One side was white, like frosted silver, and
ornamented with raised figures of birds and flowers; the other was
bright as the clearest crystal. Into it the young mother looked with
delight and astonishment, for, from its depths was looking at her with
parted lips and bright eyes, a smiling happy face.
"What do you see?" again asked the husband, pleased at her astonishment
and glad to show that he had learned something while he had been away.
"I see a pretty woman looking at me, and she moves her lips as if she
was speaking, and--dear me, how odd, she has on a blue dress just like
mine!"
"Why, you silly woman, it is your own face that you see!" said the
husband, proud of knowing something that his wife didn't know. "That
round piece of metal is called a mirror. In the town everybody has one,
although we have not seen them in this country-place before."
The wife was charmed with her present, and for a few days could not look
into the mirror often enough; for you must remember that as this was the
first time she had seen a mirror, so, of course, it was the first time
she had ever seen the reflection of her own pretty face. But she
considered such a wonderful thing far too precious for everyday use, and
soon shut it up in its box again and put it away carefully among her
most valued treasures.
Years passed on, and the husband and wife still lived happily. The joy
of their life was their little daughter, who grew up the very image of
her mother, and who was so dutiful and affectionate that everybody loved
her. Mindful of her own little passing vanity on finding herself so
lovely, the mother kept the mirror carefully hidden away, fearing that
the use of it might breed a spirit of pride in her little girl.
She never spoke of it, and as for the father he had forgotten all about
it. So it happened that the daughter grew up as simple as the mother had
been, and knew nothing of her own good looks, or of the mirror which
would have reflected them.
But by-and-by a terrible misfortune happened to this happy little
family. The good, kind mother fell sick; and, although her daughter
waited upon her, day and night, with loving care, she got worse and
worse, until at last there was no doubt but that she must die.
When she found that she must so soon leave her husband and child, the
poor woman felt very sorrowful, grieving for those she was going to
leave behind, and most of all for her little daughter.
She called the girl to her and said, "My darling child, you know that I
am very sick; soon I must die and leave your dear father and you alone.
When I am gone, promise me that you will look into this mirror every
night and every morning; there you will see me, and know that I am still
watching over you." With these words she took the mirror from its
hiding-place and gave it to her daughter. The child promised, with many
tears, and so the mother, seeming now calm and resigned, died a short
time after.
Now this obedient and dutiful daughter never forgot her mother's last
request, but each morning and evening took the mirror from its
hiding-place, and looked in it long and earnestly. There she saw the
bright and smiling vision of her lost mother. Not pale and sickly as in
her last days, but the beautiful young mother of long ago. To her at
night she told the story of the trials and difficulties of the day; to
her in the morning she looked for sympathy and encouragement in whatever
might be in store for her.
So day by day she lived as in her mother's sight, striving still to
please her as she had done in her lifetime, and careful always to avoid
whatever might pain or grieve her.
Her greatest joy was to be able to look in the mirror and say, "Mother,
I have been to-day what you would have me to be."
Seeing her look into the mirror every night and morning without fail,
and seem to hold converse with it, her father at length asked her the
reason of her strange behaviour. "Father," she said, "I look in the
mirror every day to see my dear mother and to talk with her." Then she
told him of her mother's dying wish, and how she had never failed to
fulfil it. Touched by so much simplicity, and such faithful, loving
obedience, the father shed tears of pity and affection. Nor could he
find it in his heart to tell the child that the image she saw in the
mirror was but the reflection of her own sweet face, becoming by
constant sympathy and association more and more like her dead mother's
day by day.
XXXI
BROKEN IMAGES
Once there lived two brothers who were princes in the land.
The elder brother was a hunter. He loved the deep woods and the chase.
He went from dawn to dark with his bow and his arrows. Swiftly he could
run; he was strong and bright-eyed. The younger brother was a dreamer;
his eyes were gentle. From dawn to dark he would sit with his book or
with his thoughts. Sweetly could he sing of love, or of war, or of the
green fields, and tell stories of the fairies and of the time of the
gods.
Upon a fair day of summer the hunter betook himself very early to the
woods, as was his wont. But the dreamer took his book in his hand, and,
musing, he wandered by the stream's side, where grew the yellow mimulus.
"It is the fairies' money," he said; "it will buy all the joys of
fairyland!" So he went on his way, smiling.
And when he had continued for some time, he came to a holy shrine. And
there led to the shrine a hundred steps, moss-grown and grey. Beside
the steps were guardian lions, carved in stone. Behind the shrine was
Fugi, the Mystic Mountain, white and beautiful, and all the lesser hills
rose softly up like prayers.
"O peerless Fugi," said the dreamer, "O passionless wonder mountain! To
see thee is to hear sweet music without sound, the blessed harmony of
silence."
Then he climbed the steps, moss-grown and grey. And the lions that were
carved in stone rose up and followed him, and they came with him to the
inner gates of the shrine and stayed there.
In the shrine there was a hush of noonday. The smoke of incense curled
and hung upon the air. Dimly shone the gold and the bronze, the lights
and the mystic mirrors.
There was a sound of singing in the shrine, and turning, the dreamer saw
a man who stood at his right hand. The man was taller than any child of
earth. Moreover, his face shone with the glory of a youth that cannot
pass away. He held a year-old child upon his arm and hushed it to sleep,
singing a strange melody. When the babe fell asleep he was well pleased,
and smiled.
"What babe is that?" said the dreamer.
"O dreamer, it is no babe, but a spirit."
"Then, my lord, what are you?" said the dreamer.
"I am Jizo, who guards the souls of little children. It is most pitiful
to hear their crying when they come to the sandy river-bed, the
_Sai-no-kawara_. O dreamer, they come alone, as needs they must, wailing
and wandering, stretching out their pretty hands. They have a task,
which is to pile stones for a tower of prayer. But in the night come the
_Oni_ to throw down the towers and to scatter all the stones. So the
children are made afraid, and their labour is lost."
"What then, my lord Jizo?" said the dreamer.
"Why, then I come, for the Great One gives me leave. And I call 'Come
hither, wandering souls.' And they fly to me that I may hide them in my
long sleeves. I carry them in my arms and on my breast, where they lie
light and cold,--as light and cold as the morning mist upon the
mountains."
When he had spoken, the year-old child stirred and murmured: so he
rocked it, and wandered to and fro in the quiet temple court and hushed
it as he went.
So the swift moments flew and the noontide passed away.
Presently there came to the shrine a lady most gentle and beautiful.
Grey was her robe, and she had silver sandals on her feet. She said, "I
am called The Merciful. For mankind's dear sake, I have refused eternal
peace. The Great One has given to me a thousand loving arms, arms of
mercy. And my hands are full of gifts. O dreamer, when you dream your
dreams you shall see me in my lotus boat when I sail upon the mystic
mere."
"Lady, Lady Kwannon ..." said the dreamer.
Then came one clothed in blue, speaking with a sweet, deep, well-known
voice.
"I am Benten, the Goddess of the Sea and the Goddess of Song. My dragons
are about me and beneath my feet. See their green scales and their opal
eyes. Greeting, O dreamer!"
After her there came a band of blooming boys, laughing and holding out
their rosy arms. "We are the Sons of the Sea Goddess," they said. "Come,
dreamer, come to our cool caves."
The God of Roads came, and his three messengers with him. Three apes
were the three messengers. The first ape covered his eyes with his
hands, for he could see no evil thing. The second ape covered his ears
with his hands, for he could hear no evil thing. The third ape covered
his mouth with his hands, for he could speak no evil thing. Then came
She, the fearful woman who takes the clothes of the dead who are not
able to pay their toll, so that they must stand shivering at the
entrance of the mysterious Three Ways. They are unfortunate indeed.
And many and many a vision the dreamer saw in that enchanted shrine.
And dark night fell, with storm and tempest and the sound of rain upon
the roof. Yet the dreamer never stirred. Suddenly there was a sound of
hurrying feet without. A voice called loud, "My brother, my brother, my
brother!..." In sprang the hunter through the golden temple doors.
"Where are you?" he cried, "my brother, my brother!" He had his swinging
lantern in his hand and held it high, as he flung his long blown hair
back over his shoulder. His face was bright with the rain upon it, his
eyes were as keen as an eagle's.
"O brother ..." said the dreamer, and ran to meet him.
"Now the dear gods be thanked that I have you safe and sound," said the
hunter. "Half the night I have sought you, wandering in the forest and
by the stream's side. I was all to blame for leaving you ... my little
brother." With that, he took his brother's face between his two warm
hands.
But the dreamer sighed, "I have been with the gods all night," he said,
"and I think I see them still. The place is holy."
Then the hunter flashed his light upon the temple walls, upon the
gilding and the bronze.
"I see no gods," he said.
"What see you, brother?"
"I see a row of stones, broken images, grey, with moss-grown feet."
"They are grey because they are sad, they are sad because they are
forgotten," said the dreamer.
But the hunter took him by the hand and led him into the night.
The dreamer said, "O brother, how sweet is the scent of the bean fields
after the rain."
"Now bind your sandals on," said the hunter, "and I'll run you a race to
our home."
XXXII
THE TONGUE-CUT SPARROW
Once upon a time there was an old man who lived all alone. And there was
an old woman who lived all alone. The old man was merry and kind and
gentle, with a good word and a smile for all the world. The old woman
was sour and sad, as cross a patch as could be found in all the
country-side. She grumbled and growled for ever, and would not so much
as pass the time of day with respectable folk.
The old man had a pet sparrow that he kept as the apple of his eye. The
sparrow could talk and sing and dance and do all manner of tricks, and
was very good company. So the old man found when he came home from his
work at night. There would be the sparrow twittering on the doorstep,
and "Welcome home, master," he would say, his head on one side, as pert
and pretty as you please.
One day the old man went off to cut wood in the mountains. The old
woman, she stayed at home for it was her washing day. She made some
good starch in a bowl and she put it outside her door to cool.
"It will be all ready when I want it," she said to herself. But that's
just where she made a mistake. The little sparrow flew over the bamboo
fence and lighted on the edge of the starch bowl. And he pecked at the
starch with his little beak. He pecked and he pecked till all the starch
was gone, and a good meal he made, to be sure.
Then out came the old woman for the starch to starch her clothes.
You may believe she was angry. She caught the little sparrow roughly in
her hand, and, alas and alack! she took a sharp, sharp scissors and cut
his little tongue. Then she let him go.
Away and away flew the little sparrow, over hill and over dale.
"And a good riddance, too!" said the cruel old woman.
When the old man came home from the mountains he found his pet sparrow
gone. And before long he knew all the tale. He lost no time, the good
old man; he set out at once on foot, calling "Sparrow, sparrow, where
are you, my tongue-cut sparrow?"
Over hill and over dale he went, calling "Sparrow, sparrow, where are
you, my tongue-cut sparrow?"