by a thousand fairy bridesmaids, and the whole city was brilliantly
decorated and illuminated until Bar Shalmon was almost blinded by the
dazzling spectacle.
The rabbi performed the marriage ceremony, and Bar Shalmon had to
swear an oath by word of mouth and in writing that he loved the
princess and would never desert her. He was given a beautiful palace
full of jewels as a dowry, and the wedding festivities lasted six
months. All the fairies and demons invited them in turn; they had to
attend banquets and parties and dances in grottoes and caves and in
the depths of the fairy fountains in the square. Never before in
Ergetz had there been such elaborate rejoicings.
III
Some years rolled by and still Bar Shalmon thought of his native land.
One day the princess found him weeping quietly.
"Why art thou sad, husband mine?" she asked. "Dost thou no longer love
me, and am I not beautiful now?"
"No, it is not that," he said, but for a long time he refused to say
more. At last he confessed that he had an intense longing to see his
home again.
"But thou art bound to me by an oath," said the princess.
"I know," replied Bar Shalmon, "and I shall not break it. Permit me to
visit my home for a brief while, and I will return and prove myself
more devoted to thee than ever."
On these conditions, the princess agreed that he should take leave for
a whole year. A big, black demon flew swiftly with him to his native
city.
No sooner had Bar Shalmon placed his feet on the ground than he
determined not to return to the land of Ergetz.
"Tell thy royal mistress," he said to the demon, "that I shall never
return to her."
He tore his clothes to make himself look poor, but his wife was
overjoyed to see him. She had mourned him as dead. He did not tell of
his adventures, but merely said he had been ship-wrecked and had
worked his way back as a poor sailor. He was delighted to be among
human beings again, to hear his own language and to see solid
buildings that did not appear and disappear just when they pleased,
and as the days passed he began to think his adventures in fairyland
were but a dream.
Meanwhile, the princess waited patiently until the year was ended.
Then she sent the big, black demon to bring Bar Shalmon back.
Bar Shalmon met the messenger one night when walking alone in his
garden.
"I have come to take thee back," said the demon.
Bar Shalmon was startled. He had forgotten that the year was up. He
felt that he was lost, but as the demon did not seize him by force, he
saw that there was a possibility of escape.
"Return and tell thy mistress I refuse," he said.
"I will take thee by force," said the demon.
"Thou canst not," Bar Shalmon said, "for I am the son-in-law of the
king."
The demon was helpless and returned to Ergetz alone.
King Ashmedai was very angry, but the princess counseled patience.
"I will devise means to bring my husband back," she said. "I will send
other messengers."
Thus it was that Bar Shalmon found a troupe of beautiful fairies in
the garden the next evening. They tried their utmost to induce him to
return with them, but he would not listen. Every day different
messengers came--big, ugly demons who threatened, pretty fairies who
tried to coax him, and troublesome sprites and goblins who only
annoyed him. Bar Shalmon could not move without encountering
messengers from the princess in all manner of queer places. Nobody
else could see them, and often he was heard talking to invisible
people. His friends began to regard him as strange in his behavior.
King Ashmedai grew angrier every day, and he threatened to go for Bar
Shalmon himself.
"Nay, I will go," said the princess; "it will be impossible for my
husband to resist me."
She selected a large number of attendants, and the swift flight of the
princess and her retinue through the air caused a violent storm to
rage over the lands they crossed. Like a thick black cloud they
swooped down on the land where Bar Shalmon dwelt, and their weird
cries seemed like the wild shrieking of a mighty hurricane. Down they
swept in a tremendous storm such as the city had never known. Then, as
quickly as it came, the storm ceased, and the people who had fled into
their houses, ventured forth again.
The little son of Bar Shalmon went out into the garden, but quickly
rushed back into the house.
"Father, come forth and see," he cried. "The garden is full of strange
creatures brought by the storm. All manner of creeping, crawling
things have invaded the garden--lizards, toads, and myriads of
insects. The trees, the shrubs, the paths are covered, and some shine
in the twilight like tiny lanterns."
Bar Shalmon went out into the garden, but he did not see toads and
lizards. What he beheld was a vast array of demons and goblins and
sprites, and in a rose-bush the princess, his wife, shining like a
star, surrounded by her attendant fairies. She stretched forth her
arms to him.
"Husband mine," she pleaded, "I have come to implore thee to return to
the land of Ergetz with me. Sadly have I missed thee; long have I
waited for thy coming, and difficult has it been to appease my
father's anger. Come, husband mine, return with me; a great welcome
awaits thee."
"I will not return," said Bar Shalmon.
"Kill him, kill him," shrieked the demons, and they surrounded him,
gesticulating fiercely.
"Nay, harm him not," commanded the princess. "Think well, Bar
Shalmon, ere you answer again. The sun has set and night is upon us.
Think well, until sunrise. Come to me, return, and all shall be well.
Refuse, and thou shalt be dealt with as thou hast merited. Think well
before the sunrise."
"And what will happen at sunrise, if I refuse?" asked Bar Shalmon.
"Thou shalt see," returned the princess. "Bethink thee well, and
remember, I await thee here until the sunrise."
"I have answered; I defy thee," said Bar Shalmon, and he went indoors.
Night passed with strange, mournful music in the garden, and the sun
rose in its glory and spread its golden beams over the city. And with
the coming of the light, more strange sounds woke the people of the
city. A wondrous sight met their gaze in the market place. It was
filled with hundreds upon hundreds of the queerest creatures they had
ever seen, goblins and brownies, demons and fairies. Dainty little
elves ran about the square to the delight of the children, and quaint
sprites clambered up the lamposts and squatted on the gables of the
council house. On the steps of that building was a glittering array of
fairies and attendant genii, and in their midst stood the princess, a
dazzling vision, radiant as the dawn.
The mayor of the city knew not what to do. He put on his chain of
office and made a long speech of welcome to the princess.
"Thank you for your cordial welcome," said the princess, in reply,
"and you the mayor, and ye the good people of this city of mortals,
hearken unto me. I am the princess of the Fairyland of Ergetz where my
father, Ashmedai, rules as king. There is one among ye who is my
husband."
"Who is he?" the crowd asked in astonishment.
"Bar Shalmon is his name," replied the princess, "and to him am I
bound by vows that may not be broken."
"'Tis false," cried Bar Shalmon from the crowd.
"'Tis true. Behold our son," answered the princess, and there stepped
forward a dainty elfin boy whose face was the image of Bar Shalmon.
"I ask of you mortals of the city," the princess continued, "but one
thing, justice--that same justice which we in the land of Ergetz did
give unto Bar Shalmon when, after breaking his oath unto his father,
he set sail for a foreign land and was delivered into our hands. We
spared his life; we granted his petition for a new trial. I but ask
that ye should grant me the same petition. Hear me in your Court of
Justice."
"Thy request is but reasonable, princess," said the mayor. "It shall
not be said that strangers here are refused justice. Bar Shalmon,
follow me."
He led the way into the Chamber of Justice, and the magistrates of the
city heard all that the princess and her witnesses, among whom was the
rabbi, and also all that Bar Shalmon, had to say.
"'Tis plain," said the mayor, delivering judgment, "that her royal
highness, the princess of the Fairyland of Ergetz, has spoken that
which is true. But Bar Shalmon has in this city wife and child to whom
he is bound by ties that may not be broken. Bar Shalmon must divorce
the princess and return unto her the dowry received by him on their
marriage."
"If such be your law, I am content," said the princess.
"What sayest thou, Bar Shalmon?" asked the mayor.
"Oh! I'm content," he answered gruffly. "I agree to anything that
will rid me of the demon princess."
The princess flushed crimson with shame and rage at these cruel words.
"These words I have not deserved," she exclaimed, proudly. "I have
loved thee, and have been faithful unto thee, Bar Shalmon. I accept
the decree of your laws and shall return to the land of Ergetz a
widow. I ask not for your pity. I ask but for that which is my right,
one last kiss."
"Very well," said Bar Shalmon, still more gruffly, "anything to have
done with thee."
The princess stepped proudly forward to him and kissed him on the
lips.
Bar Shalmon turned deadly pale and would have fallen had not his
friends caught him.
"Take thy punishment for all thy sins," cried the princess, haughtily,
"for thy broken vows and thy false promises--thy perjury to thy God,
to thy father, to my father and to me."
As she spoke Bar Shalmon fell dead at her feet. At a sign from the
princess, her retinue of fairies and demons flew out of the building
and up into the air with their royal mistress in their midst and
vanished.
The Higgledy-Piggledy Palace
Sarah, the wife of the patriarch Abraham, and the great mother of the
Jewish people, was the most beautiful woman who ever lived. Everybody
who saw her marveled at the dazzling radiance of her countenance; they
stood spellbound before the glorious light that shone in her eyes and
the wondrous clearness of her complexion. This greatly troubled
Abraham when he fled from Canaan to Egypt. It was disconcerting to
have crowds of travelers gazing at his wife as if she were something
more than human. Besides, he feared that the Egyptians would seize
Sarah for the king's harem.
So, after much meditation, he concealed his wife in a big box. When he
arrived at the Egyptian frontier, the customs officials asked him what
it contained.
"Barley," he replied.
"You say that because the duty on barley is the lowest," they said.
"The box must surely be packed with wheat."
[Illustration: He could not see what Sarah saw--a figure, a
spirit, clutching a big stick. (_Page 72_).]
"I will pay the duty on wheat," said Abraham, who was most anxious
they should not open the box.
The officials were surprised, for, as a rule, people endeavored to
avoid paying the duties.
"If you are so ready to pay the higher tax," they said, "the box must
contain something of greater value. Perhaps it contains spices."
Abraham intimated his readiness to pay the duty on spices.
"Oh, Oh!" laughed the officers. "Here is a strange person ready to pay
heavy dues. He must be anxious to conceal something--gold, perchance."
"I will pay the duty on gold," said Abraham, quietly.
The officers were now completely bewildered.
"Our highest duty," said their chief, "is on precious stones, and
since you decline to open the box, we must demand the tax on the
costliest gems."
"I will pay it," said Abraham, simply.
The officers could not understand this at all, and after consulting
among themselves, they decided that the box must be opened.
"It may contain something highly dangerous," they argued.
Abraham protested, but he was arrested by the guards and the box
forced open. When Sarah was revealed, the officials stepped back in
amazement and admiration.
"Indeed, a rare jewel," said the chief.
It was immediately decided to send Sarah to the king. When Pharaoh
beheld her, he was enraptured. She was simply dressed in the garments
of a peasant woman, with no adornment and no jewels, and yet the king
thought he had never seen a woman so entrancingly beautiful. When he
saw Abraham, however, his brow clouded.
"Who is this man?" he demanded of Sarah.
Fearing that he might be imprisoned, or even put to death if she
acknowledged him as her husband, Sarah replied that he was her
brother.
Pharaoh felt relieved. He smiled on Abraham and greeted him
pleasantly.
"Thy sister is exceeding fair to gaze upon," he said, "and comely of
form. She hath bewitched me by her matchless charm. She shall become
the favorite of my harem. I will recompense thee well for thy loss of
her. Thou shalt be loaded with gifts."
Abraham was too wise to betray the anger that surged in his heart.
"Courage, my beloved," he whispered to Sarah. "The good God will not
forsake us."
He made pretense of agreeing to Pharaoh's suggestion, and the chief
steward of the king gave him an abundant store of gold and silver and
jewels, also sheep and oxen and camels. Abraham was conducted to a
beautiful palace, where many slaves attended him and bowed before him,
for one on whom the monarch had showered favors was a great man in the
land of Pharaoh. Left alone, Abraham began to pray most devoutly.
Meanwhile, Sarah was led into a gorgeous apartment where the queen's
own attendants were ordered to array her in the richest of the royal
garments. Then she was brought before Pharaoh who dismissed all the
attendants.
"I desire to be alone with thee," said the king to Sarah. "I have much
to say to thee, and I long to feast my eyes on those features of
beauty rare."
But Sarah shrank from him. To her, he appeared ugly and loathsome. His
smile was a vicious leer, and his voice sounded like a harsh croak.
"Fear not," he said, trying to speak tenderly and kindly. "I will do
thee no harm. Nay, I will load thee with honors. I will grant any
request that thou makest."
"Then let me go hence," said Sarah, quickly. "I desire naught but that
thou shouldst permit me to depart with my brother."
"Thou jestest," said Pharaoh. "That cannot be. I will make thee
queen," he cried, passionately and he made a move toward her.
"Stop!" cried Sarah. "If thou approachest one step nearer...."
Pharaoh interrupted with a laugh. To threaten a king was so funny that
he could not refrain from a hoarse cackle. But Sarah had become
suddenly silent. She was looking not at him, but behind him. Pharaoh
turned, but observed nothing. He could not see what Sarah saw--a
figure, a spirit, clutching a big stick.
"Come," said the king, "be not foolish. I cannot be angry with a
creature so fair as thou art. But it is not meet--nay, it is not
wise--to utter threats to one who wears a crown."
Sarah made no reply. She was no longer afraid. She knew that her
prayers, and those of Abraham, had been answered, and that no harm
would befall her. Pharaoh mistook her silence and advanced toward her.
As he did so, however, he felt a tremendous blow on the head. He was
stunned for a moment. On recovering himself he looked all round the
room, but could see nothing. Sarah continued to stand motionless.
"Strange," muttered Pharaoh. "I--I thought some one had entered the
room."
Again he moved toward Sarah, and once more he received a staggering
blow--this time on the shoulder. It was only by a great effort of will
that he did not cry out in pain. He concluded he must have been seized
by some sudden illness, but after a moment he felt better and bravely
tried to smile at Sarah.
"I--I just thought of something most important," said he, attempting
to offer some explanation for nearly toppling over in an undignified
manner. He stood nearer to Sarah and began to raise his hand to touch
her.
"If thou layest but a finger on me, it will be at thy peril,"
exclaimed Sarah, her eyes flashing angrily.
"Pshaw!" he cried, losing patience, and he raised his hand.
This time the cudgel of the spirit invisible to Pharaoh did not strike
him: it came down gently and rested lightly on the king's
out-stretched arm. And Pharaoh could not move it. He grew pale and
trembled.
"Art thou a witch?" he gasped, at last.
Sarah was so angry when she heard this insult that she flashed a
signal with her eyes to the spirit, and the latter plied his cudgel
lustily about the king's head and shoulders, making the monarch break
out in most unkingly howls of pain.
"Thy pardon, thy pardon, I crave," he managed to scream. "I mean not
what I said. I am ill--very ill. My body aches. My arm is paralyzed."
The cudgeling ceased and Pharaoh was able to move his arm. He writhed
in agony, for he was bruised all over. He rushed hastily away, saying
he would return on the morrow. Sarah found herself locked in, but she
was not again disturbed.
Pharaoh, however, had further adventures. The spirit was in merry mood
and had a night's entertainment at the king's expense. No sooner did
the king lie down upon his bed than the spirit tilted it and sent him
sprawling on the floor. Whenever Pharaoh tried to lie down the same
thing happened. He went from one room to another, but all efforts at
rest were unavailing. Every bed rejected him and every chair and
couch did the same, although when he commanded others to lie down they
did so quite comfortably. He tried lying down with one of his
attendants, but while the latter was able to remain undisturbed,
Pharaoh found himself bodily lifted, stood upon his head, spun around
and then rolled over on the ground.
His physicians could provide no remedy, his magicians--hastily
summoned from their own slumbers--could afford no explanation, and
Pharaoh spent a terrible night wandering from room to room and up and
down the corridors, where the corners seemed to go out of their way to
bump against him and the stairs seemed to go down when he wanted to
walk up, and vice-versa. Such a higgledy-piggeldy palace was never
seen. Worse still, with the first streak of dawn he noticed that he
was smitten with leprosy.
Hastily he sent for Abraham and said: "Who and what thou art I know
not. Thou and thy sister have brought a plague upon me. I desired to
make her my queen, but now I say to you: Rid me of this leprosy and
get thee hence with thy sister. I will bestow riches on ye, but get ye
gone, and speedily."
With a magic jewel which he wore on his breast, Abraham restored
Pharaoh to health, and then departed with Sarah. These final words he
said to Pharaoh:
"Sarah is not my sister, but my wife. I give thee this warning. Should
thy descendants at any time seek to persecute our descendants, then
will our God, He, the One God of the universe, surely punish the king
with plague again."
And, many years afterward, as you read in the Bible, the prediction
came true.
The Red Slipper
Rosy-red was a sweet little girl, with beautiful blue eyes, soft pink
cheeks and glorious ruddy-gold hair of the tinge that artists love to
paint. Her mother died the day she was born, but her grandmother
looked after her with such tender care that Rosy-red regarded her as
her mother. She was very happy, was Rosy-red. All day long she sang,
as she tripped gaily about the house or the woods that surrounded it,
and so melodious was her voice that the birds gathered on the trees to
listen to her and to encourage her to continue, by daintily chirruping
whenever she ceased.
Merrily Rosy-red performed all the little duties her grandmother
called upon her to do, and on festivals she was allowed to wear a
delightful pair of red leather slippers, her father's gift to her on
her first birthday. Now, although neither she nor her father knew it,
they were magic slippers which grew larger as her feet grew. Rosy-red
was only a child and so did not know that slippers don't usually grow.
Her grandmother knew the secret of the slippers, but she did not tell,
and her father had become too moody and too deeply absorbed in his own
thoughts and affairs to notice anything.
One day--Rosy-red remembered it only too sadly--she returned from the
woods to find her grandmother gone and three strange women in the
house. She stopped suddenly in the midst of her singing and her cheeks
turned pale, for she did not like the appearance of the strangers.
"Who are you?" she asked.
"I am your new mother," answered the eldest of the three, "and these
are my daughters, your two new sisters."
Rosy-red trembled with fear. They were all three so ugly, and she
began to cry.
Her new sisters scolded her for that and would have beaten her had not
her father appeared. He spoke kindly, telling her he had married
again, because he was lonely and that her step-mother and step-sisters
would be good to her. But Rosy-red knew different. She hastened away
to her own little room and hid her slippers of which she was very
proud.
"They have turned my dear granny out of doors; they will take from me
my beautiful slippers," she sobbed.
After that, Rosy-red sang no more. She became a somber girl and a
drudge. The birds could not understand. They followed her through the
woods, but she was silent, as if she had been stricken dumb, and her
eyes always seemed eager to be shedding tears. Also, she was too busy
to notice her feathered friends.
She had to collect firewood for the home, to draw water from the well
and struggle along with the heavy bucket whose weight made her arms
and her back ache with pain. Sometimes, too, her white arms were
scarred with bruises, for her cruel and selfish step-sisters did not
hesitate to beat her. Often they went out to parties, or to dances,
and on these occasions she had to act as their maid and help them to
dress. Rosy-red did not mind; she was only happy when they were out of
the house. Then only did she sing softly to herself, and the birds
came to listen.
And thus many unhappy years passed away.
Once, when her father was away from home, her step-sisters went off to
a wedding dance. They told her not to forget to draw water from the
well, and warned her that if she forgot, as she did the last time,
they would beat her without mercy when they returned.
So Rosy-red, tired though she was, went out in the darkness to draw
water. She lowered the bucket, but the cord broke and the pail fell to
the bottom of the well. She ran back home for a long stick with a hook
at the end of it to recover the bucket, and as she put it into the
water she sang:
Swing and sweep till all does cling
And to the surface safely bring.
Now it so happened that a sleeping jinn dwelt at the bottom of the
well. He could only be awakened by a spell, and although Rosy-red did
not know it, the words she uttered, which she had once heard her
granny use, were the spell.
The jinn awoke, and he was so delighted with the sweet voice that he
promptly decided to help the girl whom he saw peering down into the
water. He fastened the bucket to the stick and, taking some jewels
from a treasure of which he was the guardian, he put them inside.
"Oh, how beautiful," cried Rosy-red when she saw the glittering gems.
"They are ever so much nicer than those my sisters put on to go to
the ball."
Then she sat thinking for a while and a bright idea came into her
head.
"I will give these jewels to my sisters," she said. "Perhaps they will
be kinder to me."
She waited impatiently until the sisters returned from the dance and
immediately told them. For a moment they were too dazed to speak when
they saw the sparkling precious stones. Then they looked meaningly at
one another and asked how she came by them. Rosy told them of the
words she had sung.
"Ah, we thought so," said the sisters, to her horror. "The jewels are
ours. We hid them in the well for safety. You have stolen them."
In vain Rosy-red protested. Her sisters would not listen. They beat
her severely, told her to hurry off to bed, and then, snatching the
bucket, they hurried off to the well. They lowered the bucket and sang
the words that Rosy-red had sung. At least they thought they sang; but
their voices were harsh. The sleeping jinn awoke again, but he did not
like the croaking sound the sisters made.
"Ha, ha!" he laughed. "I will teach you to disturb my sleep with
hideous noises and shall punish such pranks played on me. Here are
some more croakers," and he filled the bucket with slimy toads and
frogs.
The sisters were so enraged that they ran back home and dragged poor
Rosy-red from her bed.
"You cat, you thief," screamed one.
"You cheat," exclaimed the other. "Off you go. Not another day can you
remain in this house."