flew out to greet his master. Then there was a twittering, to be sure.
The sparrow called his brothers and sisters and his children and his
wife and his mother-in-law and his mother and his grandmother. And they
all flew out to do the old man honour. They brought him into the house
and they set him down upon mats of silk. Then they spread a great feast;
red rice and _daikon_ and fish, and who knows what all besides, and the
very best _saké_ to drink. The sparrow waited upon the good old man, and
his brothers and sisters and his children and his wife and his
mother-in-law and his mother and his grandmother with him.
After supper the sparrow danced, whilst his grandmother played the
_samisen_ and the good old man beat time.
It was a merry evening.
At last, "All good things come to an end," says the old man; "I fear
'tis late and high time I was getting home."
"Not without a little present," says the sparrow.
"Ah, sparrow dear," says the old man, "I'd sooner have yourself than any
present."
But the sparrow shook his head.
Presently they brought in two wicker baskets.
"One of them is heavy," says the sparrow, "and the other is light. Say,
master, will you take the heavy basket or the light?"
"I'm not so young as I once was," says the good old man. "Thanking you
kindly, I'd sooner have the light basket; it will suit me better to
carry--that is, if it's the same to you," he says.
So he went home with the light basket. When he opened it, wonderful to
tell, it was full of gold and silver and tortoise-shell and coral and
jade and fine rolls of silk. So the good old man was rich for life.
Now, when the bad old woman heard tell of all this, she tied on her
sandals and kilted her skirts and took a stout stick in her hand. Over
hill and over dale she went, and took the straight road to the sparrow's
house. There was the sparrow, and there were his brothers and sisters
and children and his wife and his mother and his mother-in-law and his
grandmother. They were not too pleased to see the bad old woman, but
they couldn't do less than ask her in as she'd come so far. They gave
her red rice and white rice and _daikon_ and fish, and who knows what
besides, and she gobbled it up in a twinkling, and drank a good cup of
_saké_. Then up she got. "I can't waste any more time here," she says,
"so you'd best bring out your presents."
They brought in two wicker baskets.
"One of them is heavy," says the sparrow, "and the other is light. Say,
mistress, will you take the heavy basket or the light?"
"I'll take the heavy one," says the old woman, quick as a thought. So
she heaved it up on her back and off she set. Sure enough it was as
heavy as lead.
When she was gone, Lord! how the sparrows did laugh!
No sooner did she reach home than she undid the cords of the basket.
"Now for the gold and silver," she said, and smiled--though she hadn't
smiled for a twelve-month. And she lifted up the lid.
"_Ai! Ai! Kowai! Obaké da! Obaké!_" she screeched.
The basket was full of ugly imps and elves and pixies and demons and
devils. Out they came to tease the old woman, to pull her and to poke
her, to push her and to pinch her. She had the fine fright of her life,
I warrant you.
XXXIII
THE NURSE
[Illustration: The Nurse.--_P. 243._]
Idé the _samurai_ was wedded to a fair wife and had an only child, a boy
called Fugiwaka. Idé was a mighty man of war, and as often as not he was
away from home upon the business of his liege lord. So the child
Fugiwaka was reared by his mother and by the faithful woman, his nurse.
Matsu was her name, which is, in the speech of the country, the Pine
Tree. And even as the pine tree, strong and evergreen, was she,
unchanging and enduring.
In the house of Idé there was a very precious sword. Aforetime a hero of
Idé's clan slew eight-and-forty of his enemies with this sword in one
battle. The sword was Idé's most sacred treasure. He kept it laid away
in a safe place with his household gods.
Morning and evening the child Fugiwaka came to make salutations before
the household gods, and to reverence the glorious memory of his
ancestors. And Matsu, the nurse, knelt by his side.
Morning and evening, "Show me the sword, O Matsu, my nurse," said
Fugiwaka.
And O Matsu made answer, "Of a surety, my lord, I will show it to you."
Then she brought the sword from its place, wrapped in a covering of red
and gold brocade. And she drew off the covering and she took the sword
from its golden sheath and displayed the bright steel to Fugiwaka. And
the child made obeisance till his forehead touched the mats.
At bedtime O Matsu sang songs and lullabies. She sang this song:
"Sleep, my little child, sweetly sleep--
Would you know the secret,
The secret of the hare o Nennin Yama?
Sleep, my little child, sweetly sleep--
You shall know the secret.
Oh, the august hare of Nennin Yama,
How augustly long are his ears!
Why should this be, oh, best beloved?
You shall know the secret.
His mother ate the bamboo seed.
Hush! Hush!
His mother ate the loquat seed.
Hush! Hush!
Sleep, my little child, sweetly sleep--
Now you know the secret."
Then O Matsu said, "Will you sleep now, my lord Fugiwaka?"
And the child answered, "I will sleep now, O Matsu."
"Listen, my lord," she said, "and, sleeping or waking, remember. The
sword is your treasure. The sword is your trust. The sword is your
fortune. Cherish it, guard it, keep it."
"Sleeping or waking, I will remember," said Fugiwaka.
Now in an evil day the mother of Fugiwaka fell sick and died. And there
was mourning in the house of Idé. Howbeit, when years were past, the
_samurai_ took another bride, and he had a son by her and called him
Goro. And after this Idé himself was slain in an ambush, and his
retainers brought his body home and laid him with his fathers.
Fugiwaka was chief of the House of Idé. But the Lady Sadako, his
stepmother, was ill-pleased. Black mischief stirred in her heart; she
bent her brows and she brooded as she went her ways, bearing her babe in
her arms. At night she tossed upon her bed.
"My child is a beggar," she said. "Fugiwaka is chief of the House of
Idé. Evil fortune betide him! It is too much," said the proud lady. "I
will not brook it; my child a beggar! I would rather strangle him with
my hands...." Thus she spoke and tossed upon her bed, thinking of a
plan.
When Fugiwaka was fifteen years old she turned him out of the house with
a poor garment upon his back, barefooted, with never a bite nor a sup
nor a gold piece to see him on his way.
"Ah, lady mother," he said, "you use me ill. Why do you take my
birthright?"
"I know nought of birthrights," she said. "Go, make your own fortune if
you can. Your brother Goro is chief of the House of Idé."
With that she bade them shut the door in his face.
Fugiwaka departed sorrowfully, and at the cross-roads O Matsu, his
nurse, met him. She had made herself ready for a journey: her robe was
kilted, she had a staff in her hand and sandals on her feet.
"My lord," she said, "I am come to follow you to the world's end."
Then Fugiwaka wept and laid his head upon the woman's breast.
"Ah," he said, "my nurse, my nurse! And," he said, "what of my father's
sword? I have lost the precious sword of Idé. The sword is my treasure,
the sword is my trust, the sword is my fortune. I am bound to cherish
it, to guard it, to keep it. But now I have lost it. Woe is me! I am
undone, and so is all the House of Idé!"
"Oh, say not so, my lord," said O Matsu. "Here is gold; go you your way
and I will return and guard the sword of Idé."
So Fugiwaka went his way with the gold that his nurse gave him.
As for O Matsu, she went straightway and took the sword from its place
where it lay with the household gods, and she buried it deep in the
ground until such time as she might bear it in safety to her young
lord.
But soon the Lady Sadako became aware that the sacred sword was gone.
"It is the nurse!" she cried. "The nurse has stolen it.... Some of you
bring her to me."
Then the Lady Sadako's people laid their hands roughly upon O Matsu and
brought her before their mistress. But for all they could do O Matsu's
lips were sealed. She spoke never a word, neither could the Lady Sadako
find out where the sword was. She pressed her thin lips together.
"The woman is obstinate," she said. "No matter; for such a fault I know
the sovereign cure."
So she locked O Matsu in a dark dungeon and gave her neither food nor
drink. Every day the Lady Sadako went to the door of the dark dungeon.
"Well," she said, "where is the sword of Idé? Will you say?"
But O Matsu answered not a word.
Howbeit she wept and sighed to herself in the darkness--"Alas! Alas!
never alive may I come to my young lord. Yet he must have the sword of
Idé, and I shall find a way."
Now after seven days the Lady Sadako sat in the garden-house to cool
herself, for it was summer. The time was evening. Presently she saw a
woman that came towards her through the garden flowers and trees. Frail
and slender was the woman; as she came her body swayed and her slow
steps faltered.
"Why, this is strange!" said the Lady Sadako. "Here is O Matsu, that was
locked in the dark dungeon." And she sat still, watching.
But O Matsu went to the place where she had buried the sword and
scratched at the ground with her fingers. There she was, weeping and
moaning and dragging at the earth. The stones cut her hands and they
bled. Still she tore away the earth and found the sword at last. It was
in its wrapping of gold and scarlet, and she clasped it to her bosom
with a loud cry.
"Woman, I have you now," shrieked the Lady Sadako, "and the sword of Idé
as well!" And she leaped from the garden-house and ran at full speed.
She stretched forth her hand to catch O Matsu by the sleeve, but did not
have her or the sword either, for both of them were gone in a flash, and
the lady beat the empty air. Swiftly she sped to the dark dungeon, and
as she went she called her people to bring torches. There lay the body
of poor O Matsu, cold and dead upon the dungeon floor.
"Send me the Wise Woman," said the Lady Sadako.
So they sent for the Wise Woman. And the Lady Sadako asked, "How long
has she been dead?"
The Wise Woman said, "She was starved to death; she has been dead two
days. It were well you gave her fit burial; she was a good soul."
As for the sword of Idé, it was not found.
Fugiwaka tossed to and fro upon his lowly bed in a wayside tavern. And
it seemed to him that his nurse came to him and knelt by his side. Then
he was soothed.
O Matsu said, "Will you sleep now, my lord Fugiwaka?"
And he answered, "I will sleep now, O Matsu."
"Listen, my lord," she said, "and, sleeping or waking, remember. The
sword is your treasure. The sword is your trust. The sword is your
fortune. Cherish it, guard it, keep it."
The sword was in its wrapping of gold and scarlet, and she laid it by
Fugiwaka's side. The boy turned over to sleep, and his hand clasped the
sword of Idé.
"Waking or sleeping," he said, "I will remember."
XXXIV
THE BEAUTIFUL DANCER OF YEDO
[Illustration: The Beautiful Dancer of Yedo.--_P. 250._]
This is the tale of Sakura-ko, Flower of the Cherry, who was the
beautiful dancer of Yedo. She was a _geisha_, born a _samurai's_
daughter, that sold herself into bondage after her father died, so that
her mother might have food to eat. Ah, the pity of it! The money that
bought her was called _Namida no Kané_, that is "the money of tears."
She dwelt in the narrow street of the _geisha_, where the red and white
lanterns swing and the plum trees flourish by the low eves. The street
of the _geisha_ is full of music, for they play the _samisen_ there all
day long.
Sakura-ko played it too; indeed she was skilful in every lovely art. She
played the _samisen_, the _kotto_, the _biwa_, and the small hand-drum.
She could make songs and sing them. Her eyes were long, her hair was
black, her hands were white. Her beauty was wonderful, and wonderful her
power to please. From dawn to dusk, and from dusk to dawn she could go
smiling and hide her heart. In the cool of the day she would stand
upon the gallery of her mistress's house, and muse as she stood and
looked down into the street of the _geisha_. And the folk that passed
that way said to one another, "See, yonder stands Sakura-ko, Flower of
the Cherry, the beautiful dancer of Yedo, the _geisha_ without peer."
But Sakura-ko looked down and mused and said, "Little narrow street of
the _geisha_, paved with bitterness and broken hearts, your houses are
full of vain hopes and vain regrets; youth and love and grief dwell
here. The flowers in your gardens are watered with tears."
The gentlemen of Yedo must needs have their pleasure, so Sakura-ko
served at feasts every night. They whitened her cheeks and her forehead,
and gilded her lips with _beni_. She wore silk attires, gold and purple
and grey and green and black, _obi_ of brocade magnificently tied. Her
hair was pinned with coral and jade, fastened with combs of gold lacquer
and tortoise-shell. She poured _saké_, she made merry with the good
company. More than this, she danced.
Three poets sang of her dancing. One said, "She is lighter than the
rainbow-tinted dragonfly."
And another said, "She moves like the mist of the morning when the
bright sun shines."
And the third said, "She is like the shadow in the river of the waving
willow-branch."
But it is time to tell of her three lovers.
The first lover was neither old nor young. He was passing rich, and a
great man in Yedo. He sent his servant to the street of the _geisha_
with money in his girdle. Sakura-ko shut the door in his face.
"You are wrong, fellow," she said, "you have lost your way. You should
have gone to the street of the toy-shops and bought your master a doll;
let him know there are no dolls here."
After this the master came himself. "Come to me, O Flower of the
Cherry," he said, "for I must have you."
"_Must?_" she said, and looked down with her long eyes.
"Aye," he said, "must is the word, O Flower of the Cherry."
"What will you give me?" she said.
"Fine attires, silk and brocade, a house, white mats and cool galleries;
servants to wait on you, gold hairpins--what you will."
"What do I give you?" she said.
"Yourself, just that, O Flower of the Cherry."
"Body and soul?" she said.
And he answered her, "Body and soul."
"Now, fare you well," she said, "I have a fancy to remain a _geisha_. It
is a merry life," she said, and she laughed.
So that was the end of the first lover.
The second lover was old. To be old and wise is very well, but he was
old and foolish. "Sakura-ko," he cried, "ah, cruel one, I am mad for
love of you!"
"My lord," she said, "I can easily believe it."
He said, "I am not so very old."
"By the divine compassion of the gods," she told him, "you may yet have
time to prepare for your end. Go home and read the good law." But the
old lover would hear nothing of her counsel. Instead, he bade her to his
house by night to a great feast which he had prepared for her. And when
they had made an end of the feast she danced before him wearing scarlet
_hakama_ and a robe of gold brocade. After the dancing he made her sit
beside him and he called for wine, that they might drink together. And
the _geisha_ who poured the _saké_ was called Silver Wave.
When they had drunk together, Sakura-ko and her old lover, he drew her
to him and cried:
"Come, my love, my bride, you are mine for the time of many existences;
there was poison in the cup. Be not afraid, for we shall die together.
Come with me to the Meido."
But Sakura-ko said, "My sister, the Silver Wave, and I are not children,
neither are we old and foolish to be deceived. I drank no _saké_ and no
poison. My sister, the Silver Wave, poured fresh tea in my cup. Howbeit
I am sorry for you, and so I will stay with you till you die."
He died in her arms and was fain to take his way alone to the Meido.
"Alas! alas!" cried the Flower of the Cherry. But her sister, Silver
Wave, gave her counsel thus: "Keep your tears, you will yet have cause
for weeping. Waste not grief for such as he."
And that was the end of the second lover.
The third lover was young and brave and gay. Impetuous he was, and
beautiful. He first set eyes on the Flower of the Cherry at a festival
in his father's house. Afterwards he went to seek her out in the street
of the _geisha_. He found her as she leaned against the gallery railing
of her mistress's house.
She looked down into the street of the _geisha_ and sang this song:
"My mother bade me spin fine thread
Out of the yellow sea sand--
A hard task, a hard task.
May the dear gods speed me!
My father gave me a basket of reeds;
He said, 'Draw water from the spring
And carry it a mile'--
A hard task, a hard task.
May the dear gods speed me!
My heart would remember,
My heart must forget;
Forget, my heart, forget--
A hard task, a hard task.
May the dear gods speed me!"
When she had made an end of singing, the lover saw that her eyes were
full of tears.
"Do you remember me," he said, "O Flower of the Cherry? I saw you last
night at my father's house."
"Aye, my young lord," she answered him, "I remember you very well."
He said, "I am not so very young. And I love you, O Flower of the
Cherry. Be gentle, hear me, be free, be my dear wife."
At this she flushed neck and chin, cheeks and forehead.
"My dear," said the young man, "now you are Flower of the Cherry
indeed."
"Child," she said, "go home and think of me no more. I am too old for
such as you."
"Old!" he said; "why, there lies not a year between us!"
"No, not a year--no year, but an eternity," said Flower of the Cherry.
"Think no more of me," she said; but the lover thought of nothing else.
His young blood was on fire. He could not eat, nor drink, nor sleep. He
pined and grew pale, he wandered day and night, his heart heavy with
longing. He lived in torment; weak he grew, and weaker. One night he
fell fainting at the entrance of the street of the _geisha_. Sakura-ko
came home at dawn from a festival in a great house. There she found him.
She said no word, but she bore him to his house outside Yedo, and stayed
with him there full three moons. And after that time he was nursed back
to ruddy health. Swiftly, swiftly, the glad days sped by for both of
them.
"This is the happy time of all my life. I thank the dear gods," said
Flower of the Cherry one evening.
"My dear," the young man bade her, "fetch hither your _samisen_ and let
me hear you sing."
So she did. She said, "I shall sing you a song you have heard already."
"My mother bade me spin fine thread
Out of the yellow sea sand--
A hard task, a hard task.
May the dear gods speed me!
My father gave me a basket of reeds;
He said, 'Draw water from the spring
And carry it a mile'--
A hard task, a hard task.
May the dear gods speed me!
My heart would remember,
My heart must forget;
Forget, my heart, forget--
A hard task, a hard task.
May the dear gods speed me!"
"Sweet," he said, "what does this song mean, and why do you sing it?"
She answered, "My lord, it means that I must leave you, and therefore do
I sing it. I must forget you; you must forget me. That is my desire."
He said, "I will never forget you, not in a thousand existences."
She smiled, "Pray the gods you may wed a sweet wife and have children."
He cried, "No wife but you, and no children but yours, O Flower of the
Cherry."
"The gods forbid, my dear, my dear. All the world lies between us."
The next day she was gone. High and low the lover wandered, weeping and
lamenting and seeking her both near and far. It was all in vain, for he
found her not. The city of Yedo knew her no more--Sakura-ko, the
beautiful dancer.
And her lover mourned many many days. Howbeit at last he was comforted,
and they found for him a very sweet fair lady whom he took to wife
willingly enough, and soon she bore him a son. And he was glad, for time
dries all tears.
Now when the boy was five years old he sat in the gate of his father's
house. And it chanced that a wandering nun came that way begging for
alms. The servants of the house brought rice and would have put it into
her begging bowl, but the child said, "Let me give."
So he did as he would.
As he filled the begging bowl and patted down the rice with a wooden
spoon and laughed, the nun caught him by the sleeve and held him and
looked into his eyes.
"Holy nun, why do you look at me so?" cried the child.
She said, "Because I once had a little boy like you, and I went away and
left him."
"Poor little boy!" said the child.
"It was better for him, my dear, my dear--far, far better."
And when she had said this, she went her way.
XXXV
HANA-SAKA-JIJI
In the early days there lived a good old couple. All their lives long
they had been honest and hard-working, but they had always been poor.
Now in their old age it was all they could do to make both ends meet,
the poor old creatures.
But they did not complain, not a bit of it. They were merry as the day
is long. If they ever went to bed cold or hungry they said nothing about
it, and if they had bite or sup in the house you may be sure they shared
it with their dog, for they were very fond of him. He was faithful,
good, and clever. One evening the old man and the old woman went out to
do a bit of digging in their garden, and the dog went with them.
While they were working the dog was sniffing the ground, and presently
he began to scratch up the earth with his paws.
"What can the dog be about now?" says the old woman.
"Oh, just nothing at all," says the old man; "he's playing."
"It's more than playing," says the old woman. "It's my belief he's found
something worth having."
So off she went to see what the dog would be at, and the old man
followed her and leaned on his spade. Sure enough the dog had dug a
pretty big hole by this time, and he went on scratching with his paws
for dear life and barking short and sharp. The old man helped with his
spade, and before long they came on a big box of hidden treasure, silver
and gold and jewels and rich stuffs.
It is easy to believe that the good old couple were glad. They patted
their clever dog, and he jumped up and licked their faces. After this
they carried the treasure into the house. The dog ran to and fro and
barked.
Now, next door to the good old couple lived another old couple, not so
good as they, but envious and discontented. When the dog found the
hidden treasure they looked through a hole in the bamboo hedge and saw
the whole affair. Do you think they were pleased? Why, not a bit of it.
They were so angry and envious that they could get no pleasure by day
nor rest at night.
At last the bad old man came to the good old man.
"I've come to ask for the loan of your dog," he says.
"With all my heart," says the good old man; "take him and welcome."
So the bad old man took the dog and brought him to their best room. And
the bad old man and his wife put a supper, of all manner of fine things
to eat, before the dog, and bade him fall to.
"Honourable Dog," they said, "you are good and wise, eat and afterwards
find us treasure."
But the dog would not eat.
"All the more left for us," said the greedy old couple, and they ate up
the dog's supper in a twinkling. Then they tied a string round his neck
and dragged him into the garden to find treasure. But never a morsel of
treasure did he find, nor a glint of gold, nor a shred of rich stuff.
"The devil's in the beast," cries the bad old man, and he beat the dog
with a big stick. Then the dog began to scratch up the earth with his
paws.
"Oho! Oho!" says the bad old man to his wife, "now for the treasure."
But was it treasure that the dog dug up? Not a bit of it. It was a heap
of loathly rubbish, too bad to tell of. But they say it smelt most
vilely and the bad old couple were fain to run away, hiding their noses
with their sleeves.
"Arah, arah!" they cried, "the dog has deceived us." And that very night
they killed the poor dog and buried him at the foot of a tall pine tree.
Alack for the good old man and the good old woman when they heard the
dog was gone! It was they that wept the bitter tears. They pulled
flowers and strewed them on the poor dog's grave. They burned incense
and they spread out good things to eat, and the vapour that rose from
them comforted the poor dog's spirit.
Then the good old man cut down the pine tree, and made a mortar of its
wood. He put rice in the mortar and pounded the rice with a pestle.
"Wonder of wonders," cried the old woman, who was looking on, "wonder of
wonders, good man, our rice is all turned into broad gold pieces!"
So it was sure enough.
Presently, in comes the bad old man to ask for the loan of the mortar.
"For I'm needing a mortar something very special," says he.
"Take it," says the good old man; "I'm sure you're welcome."
So the bad old man took away the mortar under his arm, and when he had
got it home he filled it with rice in a twinkling. And he pounded away
at it for dear life's sake.
"Do you see any gold coming?" he says to his wife, who was looking on.
"Never a bit," she says, "but the rice looks queer."
Queer enough it was, mildewed and rotten, no use to man or beast.