Manito as his trophy, and calling the woodpecker to come and receive a
reward for the timely hint he had given him, he rubbed the blood of
the Shining Manito on the woodpecker’s head, the feathers of which are
red to this day. Full of his victory, Manabozho returned home, beating
his war-drum furiously, and shouting aloud his songs of triumph. His
grandmother was on the shore ready to welcome him with the war-dance,
which she performed with wonderful skill for one so far advanced in years.
The heart of Manabozho swelled within him. He was fairly on fire, and
an unconquerable desire for further adventures seized upon him. He had
destroyed the powerful Pearl Feather, killed his serpents, and escaped
all his wiles and charms. He had prevailed in a great land fight, his
next trophy should be from the water.
He tried his prowess as a fisherman, and with such success that he
captured a fish so monstrous in size and so rich in fat that with the
oil Manabozho was able to form a small lake. To this, being generously
disposed, and having a cunning purpose of his own to answer, he invited
all the birds and beasts of his acquaintance; and he made the order in
which they partook of the banquet the measure of their fatness for all
time to come. As fast as they arrived he told them to plunge in and help
themselves.
The first to make his appearance was the bear, who took a long and steady
draught; then came the deer, the opossum, and such others of the family
as are noted for their comfortable case. The moose and bison were slack
in their cups, and the partridge, always lean in flesh, looked on till
the supply was nearly gone. There was not a drop left by the time the
hare and the martin appeared on the shore of the lake, and they are, in
consequence, the slenderest of all creatures.
When this ceremony was over, Manabozho suggested to his friends, the
assembled birds and animals, that the occasion was proper for a little
merry-making; and taking up his drum, he cried out:
“New songs from the South; come, brothers, dance!”
He directed them, to make the sport more mirthful, that they should shut
their eyes and pass round him in a circle. Again he beat his drum and
cried out:
“New songs from the South; come, brothers, dance!”
They all fell in and commenced their rounds. Whenever Manabozho, as he
stood in the circle, saw a fat fowl which he fancied, pass by him, he
adroitly wrung its neck and slipped it in his girdle, at the same time
beating his drum and singing at the top of his lungs, to drown the noise
of the fluttering, and crying out in a tone of admiration:
“That’s the way, my brothers; that’s the way!”
At last a small duck, of the diver family, thinking there was something
wrong, opened one eye and saw what Manabozho was doing. Giving a spring,
and crying:
“Ha-ha-a! Manabozho is killing us!” he made for the water.
Manabozho, quite vexed that the creature should have played the spy upon
his house-keeping, followed him, and just as the diver duck was plunging
into the water, gave him a kick, which is the reason that the diver’s
tail-feathers are few, his back flattened, and his legs straightened out,
so that when he comes on land he makes a poor figure in walking.
Meantime, the other birds, having no ambition to be thrust into
Manabozho’s girdle, flew off, and the animals scampered into the woods.
Manabozho stretching himself at ease in the shade along the side of the
prairie, thought what he should do next. He concluded that he would
travel and see new countries; and having once made up his mind, in less
than three days, such was his length of limb and the immensity of his
stride, he had walked over the entire continent, looked into every lodge
by the way, and with such nicety of observation, that he was able to
inform his good old grandmother what each family had for a dinner at a
given hour.
By way of relief to these grand doings, Manabozho was disposed to vary
his experiences by bestowing a little time upon the sports of the woods.
He had heard reported great feats in hunting, and he had a desire to
try his power in that way. Besides that, it was a slight consideration
that he had devoured all the game within reach of the lodge; and so, one
evening, as he was walking along the shore of the great lake, weary and
hungry, he encountered a great magician in the form of an old wolf, with
six young ones, coming toward him.
The wolf no sooner caught sight of him than he told his whelps, who were
close about his side, to keep out of the way of Manabozho; “For I know,”
he said, “that it is that mischievous fellow whom we see yonder.”
The young wolves were in the act of running on, when Manabozho cried out,
“My grandchildren, where are you going? Stop and I will go with you. I
wish to have a little chat with your excellent father.”
Saying which he advanced and greeted the old wolf, expressing himself as
delighted at seeing him looking so well. “Whither do you journey?” he
asked.
“We are looking for a good hunting ground to pass the winter,” the old
wolf answered. “What brings you here?”
“I was looking for you,” said Manabozho. “For I have a passion for the
chase, brother. I always admired your family; are you willing to change
me into a wolf?”
The wolf gave him a favorable answer, and he was forthwith changed into a
wolf.
“Well, that will do,” said Manabozho; then looking at his tail, he added,
“Oh! could you oblige me by making my tail a little longer and more
bushy?”
“Certainly,” said the wolf; and he gave Manabozho such a length and
spread of tail, that it was constantly getting between his legs, and it
was so heavy that it was as much as he could do to find strength to carry
it. But having asked for it, he was ashamed to say a word; and they all
started off in company, dashing up a ravine.
After getting into the woods for some distance, they fell in with the
tracks of moose. The young ones scampered off in pursuit, the old wolf
and Manabozho following at their leisure.
“Well,” said the old wolf, by way of opening discourse, “who do you think
is the fastest of the boys? Can you tell by the jumps they take?”
“Why,” he replied, “the one that takes such long jumps, he is the fastest
to be sure.”
“Ha! ha! you are mistaken,” said the old wolf. “He makes a good start,
but he will be the first to tire out; this one, who appears to be behind,
will be the one to kill the game.”
By this time they had come to the spot where the boys had started in
chase. One had dropped what seemed to be a small medicine-sack, which he
carried for the use of the hunting party.
“Take that, Manabozho,” said the old wolf.
“Esa,” he replied, “what will I do with a dirty dog-skin?”
The old wolf took it up; it was a beautiful robe.
“Oh, I will carry it now,” cried Manabozho.
“Oh, no,” said the old wolf, who had exerted his magical powers, “it is a
robe of pearls. Come along!” And away sped the old wolf at a great rate
of speed.
“Not so fast,” called Manabozho after him; and then he added to himself
as he panted after, “Oh, this tail!”
Coming to a place where the moose had lain down, they saw that the young
wolves had made a fresh start after their prey.
“Why,” said the old wolf, “this moose is poor. I know by the tracks; for
I can always tell whether they are fat or not.”
A little further on, one of the young wolves, in dashing at the moose,
had broken a tooth on a tree.
“Manabozho,” said the old wolf, “one of your grandchildren has shot at
the game. Take his arrow; there it is.”
“No,” replied Manabozho; “what will I do with a dirty dog’s tooth?”
The old wolf took it up, and behold it was a beautiful silver arrow.
When they at last overtook them, they found that the youngsters had
killed a very fat moose. Manabozho was very hungry; but the old wolf just
then again exerted his magical powers, and Manabozho saw nothing but the
bones picked quite clean. He thought to himself, “Just as I expected;
dirty, greedy fellows. If it had not been for this log at my back, I
should have been in time to have got a mouthful:” and he cursed the bushy
tail which he carried, to the bottom of his heart. He, however, sat down
without saying a word.
At length the old wolf spoke to one of the young ones, saying:
“Give some meat to your grandfather.”
One of them obeyed, and coming near to Manabozho, he presented him the
other end of his own bushy tail, which was nicely seasoned with burs,
gathered in the course of the hunt.
Manabozho jumped up and called out:
“You dog, now that your stomach is full, do you think I am going to eat
you to get at my dinner? Get you gone into some other place.”
Saying which Manabozho, in his anger, walked off by himself.
“Come back, brother,” cried the wolf. “You are losing your eyes.”
Manabozho turned back.
“You do the child injustice. Look there!” and behold, a heap of fresh,
ruddy meat, was lying on the spot, already prepared.
Manabozho, at the view of so much good provision, put on a smiling face.
“In amazement,” he said; “how fine the meat is!”
“Yes,” replied the old wolf, “it is always so with us; we know our work,
and always get the best. It is not a long tail that makes the hunter.”
Manabozho bit his lip.
They now fixed their winter quarters. The youngsters went out in search
of game, and they soon brought in a large supply. One day, during the
absence of the young hunters, the old wolf amused himself in cracking the
large bones of a moose.
“Manabozho,” said he, “cover your head with the robe, and do not look at
me while I am busy with these bones, for a piece may fly in your eye.”
He did as he was bid; but looking through a rent that was in the robe, he
saw what the other was about. Just at that moment a piece flew off and
hit him on the eye. He cried out:
“Tyau, why do you strike me, you old dog?”
The wolf answered, “You must have been looking at me.”
“No, no,” retorted Manabozho, “why should I want to look at you?”
“Manabozho,” said the old wolf, “you must have been looking or you would
not have got hurt.”
“No, no,” he replied again, “I was not. I will repay the saucy wolf this
mischief,” he thought to himself.
So the next day, taking up a bone to obtain the marrow, he said to the
wolf:
“Brother, cover your head and do not look at me, for I very much fear a
piece may fly in your eye.”
The wolf did so; and Manabozho, taking the large leg-bone of the moose,
first looking to see if the wolf was well covered, hit him a blow with
all his might. The wolf jumped up, cried out, and fell prostrate from the
effects of the blow.
“Why,” said he, when he came to a little and was able to sit up, “why do
you strike me so?”
“Strike you?” said Manabozho, with well-feigned surprise; “no; you must
have been looking at me.”
“No,” answered the wolf, “I say I have not.”
But Manabozho insisted, and as the old wolf was no great master of tricky
argument, he was obliged to give it up.
Shortly after this the old wolf suggested to Manabozho that he should go
out and try his luck in hunting by himself.
When he chose to put his mind upon it he was quite expert, and this time
he succeeded in killing a fine fat moose, which he thought he would take
aside slyly, and devour alone, having prepared to tell the old wolf a
pretty story on his return, to account for his failure to bring anything
with him.
He was very hungry, and he sat down to eat; but as he never could go to
work in a straightforward way, he immediately fell into great doubts as
to the proper point at which to begin.
“Well,” said he, “I do not know where to commence. At the head? No.
People will laugh, and say, ‘He ate him backward.’”
He went to the side. “No,” said he, “they will say I ate him sideways.”
He then went to the hind-quarter. “No, that will not do either; they will
say I ate him forward. I will begin here, say what they will.”
He took a delicate piece from the small of the back, and was just on the
point of putting it to his mouth, when a tree close by made a creaking
noise. He seemed vexed at the sound. He raised the morsel to his mouth
the second time, when the tree creaked again.
“Why”, he exclaimed, “I cannot eat when I hear such a noise. Stop, stop!”
he said to the tree. He put it down, exclaiming, “I cannot eat with such
a noise;” and starting away he climbed the tree, and was pulling at the
limb which had offended him, when his fore paw was caught between the
branches so that he could not free himself.
While thus held fast, he saw a pack of wolves advancing through the wood
in the direction of his meat. He suspected them to be the old wolf and
his cubs, but night was coming on and he could not make them out.
“Go the other way, go the other way!” he cried out; “what would you come
to get here?”
The wolves stopped for a while and talked among themselves, and said:
“Manabozho must have something there, or he would not tell us to go
another way.”
“I begin to know him,” said an old wolf, “and all his tricks. Let us go
forward and see.”
They came on, and finding the moose, they soon made away with it.
Manabozho looked wistfully on to see them eat till they were fully
satisfied, when they scampered off in high spirits.
A heavy blast of wind opened the branches and released Manabozho, who
found that the wolves had left nothing but the bare bones. He made for
home, where, when he related his mishap, the old wolf, taking him by the
fore paw, condoled with him deeply on his ill-luck. A tear even started
to his eye as he added:
“My brother, this should teach us not to meddle with points of ceremony
when we have good meat to eat.”
The winter having by this time drawn fairly to a close, on a bright
morning in the early spring the old wolf addressed Manabozho: “My
brother, I am obliged to leave you; and although I have sometimes been
merry at your expense, I will show that I care for your comfort. I shall
leave one of the boys behind me to be your hunter, and to keep you
company through the long summer afternoons.”
The old wolf galloped off with his five young ones; and as they
disappeared from view, Manabozho was disenchanted in a moment, and
returned to his mortal shape.
Although he had been sometimes vexed and imposed upon, he had,
altogether, passed a pleasant winter with the cunning old wolf, and
now that he was gone, Manabozho was downcast and low in spirit. But
as the days grew brighter he recovered by degrees his air of cheerful
confidence, and was ready to try his hand upon any new adventure that
might occur to him. The old spirit of mischief was still alive within him.
The young wolf who had been left with him was a good hunter, and never
failed to keep the lodge well supplied with meat. One day Manabozho
addressed him as follows:
“My grandson, I had a dream last night, and it does not portend good. It
is of the large lake which lies in that direction. You must be careful
always to go across it, whether the ice seem strong or not. Never go
around it, for there are enemies on the further shore who lie in wait for
you. The ice is always safe.”
Now Manabozho knew well that the ice was thinning every day under the
warm sun, but he could not stay himself from playing a trick upon the
young wolf.
In the evening when he came to the lake, after a long day’s travel in
quest of game, the young wolf, confiding in his grandfather, said,
“Hwooh! the ice does look thin, but Nesho says it is sound;” and he
trotted upon the glassy plain.
He had not got half way across when the ice snapped, and with a
mournful cry the young wolf fell in and he was immediately seized by
the water-serpents who knew that it was Manabozho’s grandson, and were
thirsting for revenge upon him for the death of their relations in the
war upon Pearl Feather.
Manabozho heard the young wolf’s cry as he sat in his lodge; he knew what
had happened; and, from that moment, he was deprived of the greater part
of his magical power.
He returned, scarcely more than an ordinary mortal, to his former place
of dwelling, whence his grandmother had departed no one knew whither.
He married the arrow-maker’s daughter, and became the father of several
children, and very poor. He was scarcely able to procure the means of
living. His lodge was pitched in a remote part of the country, where he
could get no game. It was winter, and he had not the common comforts of
life. He said to his wife one day, “I will go out walking and see if I
cannot find some lodges.”
After walking some time he saw a lodge at a distance. The children were
playing at the door. When they saw him approaching they ran in and told
their parents that Manabozho was coming.
It was the residence of the large red-headed woodpecker. He came to the
door and asked Manabozho to enter. This invitation was promptly accepted.
After some time, the woodpecker, who was a magician, said to his wife:
“Have you nothing to give Manabozho? He must be hungry.”
She answered, “No.”
“He ought not to go without his supper,” said the woodpecker. “I will see
what I can do.”
In the center of the lodge stood a large tamarack-tree. Upon this the
woodpecker flew, and commenced going up, turning his head on each side
of the tree, and every now and then driving in his bill. At last he
pulled something out of the tree and threw it down; when, behold, a fine
fat raccoon lay on the ground. He drew out six or seven more. He then
descended, and told his wife to prepare them.
“Manabozho,” he said, “this is the only thing we eat; what else can we
give you?”
“It is very good,” replied Manabozho.
They smoked their pipes and conversed with each other.
After eating, Manabozho got ready to go home; when the woodpecker said to
his wife, “Give him the other raccoons to take home for his children.”
In the act of leaving the lodge, Manabozho, on purpose, dropped one of
his mittens, which was soon after observed on the ground.
“Run,” said the woodpecker to his eldest son, “and give it to him; but
mind that you do not give it into his hand; throw it at him, for there is
no knowing him, he acts so curiously.”
The boy did as he was directed.
“Grandfather,” said he to Manabozho, as he came up to him, “you have left
one of your mittens; here it is.”
“Yes,” he said, affecting to be ignorant of the circumstance, “it is so;
but don’t throw it, you will soil it on the snow.”
The lad, however, threw it, and was about to return, when Manabozho cried
out, “Bakah! Bakah! stop—stop; is that all you eat? Do you eat nothing
else with your raccoon? Tell me!”
“Yes, that is all,” answered the young woodpecker; “we have nothing else.”
“Tell your father,” continued Manabozho, “to come and visit me, and
let him bring a sack. I will give him what he shall eat with his
raccoon-meat.”
When the young one returned and reported this message to his father, the
old woodpecker turned up his nose at the invitation. “I wonder,” he said,
“what he thinks he has got, poor fellow!”
He was bound, however, to answer the proffer of hospitality, and he went
accordingly, taking along a cedar-sack, to pay a visit to Manabozho.
Manabozho received the old red-headed woodpecker with great ceremony.
He had stood at the door awaiting his arrival, and as soon as he came in
sight Manabozho commenced, while he was yet far off, bowing and opening
wide his arms, in token of welcome; all of which the woodpecker returned
in due form, by ducking his bill, and hopping to right and left, upon the
ground, extending his wings to their full length and fluttering them back
to his breast.
When the woodpecker at last reached the lodge, Manabozho made various
remarks upon the weather, the appearance of the country, and especially
on the scarcity of game.
“But we,” he added, “we always have enough. Come in, and you shall not go
away hungry, my noble bird!”
Manabozho had always prided himself on being able to give as good as he
had received; and to be up with the woodpecker, he had shifted his lodge
so as to enclose a large dry tamarack-tree.
“What can I give you,” said he to the woodpecker; “but as we eat so shall
you eat.”
With this he hopped forward, and, jumping on the tamarack-tree, he
attempted to climb it just as he had seen the woodpecker do in his own
lodge. He turned his head first on one side, then on the other, in the
manner of the bird, meanwhile striving to go up, and as often slipping
down. Ever and anon he would strike the tree with his nose, as if it had
been a bill, and draw back, but he pulled out no raccoons; and he dashed
his nose so often against the trunk that at last the blood began to
flow, and he tumbled down senseless upon the ground.
The woodpecker started up with his drum and rattle to restore him, and by
beating them violently he succeeded in bringing him to.
As soon as he came to his senses, Manabozho began to lay the blame of his
failure upon his wife, saying to his guest:
“Nemesho, it is this woman-relation of yours—she is the cause of my not
succeeding. She has made me a worthless fellow. Before I took her I also
could get raccoons.”
The woodpecker said nothing, but flying on the tree he drew out several
fine raccoons.
“Here,” said he, “this is the way we do!” and left him in disdain,
carrying his bill high in the air, and stepping over the door-sill as if
it were not worthy to be touched by his toes.
After this visit, Manabozho was sitting in the lodge one day with his
head down. He heard the wind whistling round it, and thought that by
attentively listening he could hear the voice of some one speaking to
him. It seemed to say to him:
“Great chief, why are you sorrowful? Am not I your friend—your guardian
spirit?”
Manabozho immediately took up his rattle, and without rising from the
ground where he was sitting, began to sing the chant which has at every
close the refrain of, “Wha lay le aw.”
When he had dwelt for a long time on this peculiar chant, which he had
been used to sing in all his times of trouble, he laid his rattle aside
and determined to fast. For this purpose he went to a cave which faced
the setting sun, and built a very small fire, near which he lay down,
first telling his wife that neither she nor the children must come near
him till he had finished his fast.
At the end of seven days he came back to the lodge, pale and thin,
looking like a spirit himself, and as if he had seen spirits. His wife
had in the meantime dug through the snow and got a few of the plants
called truffles. These she boiled and set before him, and this was all
the food they had or seemed likely to obtain.
When he had finished his light repast, Manabozho took up his station in
the door to see what would happen. As he stood thus, holding in his hand
his large bow, with a quiver well filled with arrows, a deer glided past
along the far edge of the prairie but it was miles away, and no shaft
that Manabozho could shoot would be able to touch it.
Presently a cry came down the air, and looking up he beheld a great
flight of birds, but they were so far up in the sky that he would have
lost his arrows in a vain attempt among the clouds.
Still he stood watchful, and confident that some turn of luck was about
to occur, when there came near to the lodge two hunters, who bore between
them, on poles upon their shoulders, a bear, and it was so fine and fat
a bear that it was as much as the two hunters could do with all their
strength to carry it.
As they came to the lodge-door, one of the hunters asked if Manabozho
lived thereabout.
“He is here,” answered Manabozho.
“I have often heard of you,” said the first hunter, “and I was curious to
see you. But you have lost your magical power. Do you know whether any of
it is left?”
Manabozho answered that he was himself in the dark on the subject.
“Suppose you make a trial,” said the hunter.
“What shall I do?” asked Manabozho.
“There is my friend,” said the hunter, pointing to his companion, “who
with me owns this bear which we are carrying home. Suppose you see if you
can change him into a piece of rock.”
“Very well,” said Manabozho; and he had scarcely spoken before the other
hunter became a rock.
“Now change him back again,” said the first hunter.
“That I can’t do,” Manabozho answered; “there my power ends.”
The hunter looked at the rock with a bewildered face.
“What shall I do?” he asked. “This bear I can never carry alone, and it
was agreed between my friend there and myself that we should not divide
it till we reached home. Can’t you change my friend back, Manabozho?”
“I would like to oblige you,” answered Manabozho, “but it is utterly out
of my power.”
With this, looking again at the rock with a sad and bewildered face, and
then casting a sorrowful glance at the bear, which lay by the door of the
lodge, the hunter took his leave, bewailing bitterly at heart the loss of
his friend and his bear.
He was scarcely out of sight when Manabozho sent the children to get red
willow sticks. Of these he cut off as many pieces of equal length as
would serve to invite his friends among the beasts and birds to a feast.
A red stick was sent to each one, not forgetting the woodpecker and his
family.
When they arrived they were astonished to see such an abundance of meat
prepared for them at such a time of scarcity. Manabozho understood their
glance, and was proud of a chance to make such a display.
“Akewazi,” he said to the oldest of the party, “the weather is very
cold, and the snow lasts a long time; we can kill nothing now but small
squirrels, and they are all black; and I have sent for you to help me eat
some of them.”
The woodpecker was the first to try a mouthful of the bear’s meat, but he
had no sooner begun to taste it than it changed into a dry powder, and
set him coughing. It appeared as bitter as ashes.
The moose was affected in the same way, and it brought on such a dry
cough as to shake every bone in his body.
One by one, each in turn joined the company of coughers, except Manabozho
and his family, to whom the bear’s meat proved very savory.
But the visitors had too high a sense of what was due to decorum and
good manners to say anything. The meat looked very fine, and being keenly
set and strongly tempted by its promising look, they thought they would
try more of it. The more they ate the faster they coughed, and the louder
became the uproar, until Manabozho, exerting the magical gift which he
found he retained, changed them all into squirrels; and to this day
the squirrel suffers from the same dry cough which was brought on by
attempting to sup off of Manabozho’s ashen bear’s meat.
And ever after this transformation, when Manabozho lacked provisions for
his family, he would hunt the squirrel, a supply of which never failed
him, so that he was always sure to have a number of his friends present
in this shape at the banquet.
The rock into which he changed the hunter, and so became possessed of
the bear, and thus laid the foundations of his good fortune, ever after
remained by his lodge-door, and it was called the Game-Bag of Manabozho,
the Mischief-Maker.
HOW GLOOSKAP MADE HIS UNCLE MIKCHICH THE TURTLE INTO A GREAT MAN, AND GOT
HIM A WIFE. OF TURTLES’ EGGS, AND HOW GLOOSKAP VANQUISHED A SORCERER BY
SMOKING TOBACCO.
(_Micmac and Passamaquoddy_)
Now when Glooskap left Uktukamkw, or Newfoundland, it was in a canoe, and
he came to Piktook (M. for Pictou), which means the bubbling up of air,
because there is much bubbling in the water near that place. And here
there was an Indian village, and in that place the Master met with a man
whom he loved all his life.
And this was not because this man, whose name in Micmac is Mikchich and
in Passamaquoddy Chick-we-notchk, meaning the Turtle, was great, or well
favored, or rich. For truly he was none of these, being very poor and
lazy, no longer young, and not very clever or wise in any way. It is
said that he was indeed Glooskap’s uncle, but others think that this was
by adoption. However, this old fellow bore all his wants with such good
nature that the Master, taking him in great affection, resolved to make
of him a mighty man. Which came to pass, and that in a strange manner, as
we shall see.
For coming to Piktook, where there were above a hundred wigwams,
Glooskap, being a very handsome, stately man, with the manner of a great
chief, was much admired, and that not a little by all the women, so that
every one wished to have him in the house. Yet he gave them all the
go-by, and dwelt with his old uncle, in whose quaint ways and old time
stories he took great delight. And there was to be a great feast with
games, but Glooskap did not care to go, either as a guest or a performer
in the play.
Still he inquired of Mikchich if he would not take part in it, telling
him that all the maidens would be there, and asking him why he had never
married, and saying that he should not live alone. Then the uncle said,
“Poor and old and plain am I; I have not even garments fit for a feast;
better were it for me to smoke my pipe at home.” “Truly, if that be all,
uncle,” replied Glooskap, “I trow I can turn tailor and fit you to a
turn; and have no care as to your outside or your face, for to him who
knows how, ’tis as easy to make a man over as a suit of clothes.” “Yes;
but, nephew,” said Mikchich, “how say you as to making over the inside of
a mortal?” “By the great Beaver!” answered the Master, “that is something
harder to do, else I were not so long at work in this world. But before
I leave this town I shall do that also for you; and as for this present
sport, do but put on my belt.” And when he had done that, Mikchich became
so young and handsome that no man or woman ever saw the like. And then
Glooskap dressed him in his own best clothes, and promised him that
to the end of his days, whenever he should be a man, he would be the
comeliest of men; and because he was patient and tough, he should, as an
animal, become the hardest to kill of all creatures on the face of the
earth, as it came to pass.
So Mikchich went to the feast. Now the chief of Piktook had three
beautiful daughters, and the youngest was the loveliest in the land. And
on her he cast his eyes, and returning said, “I have seen one whom I
want.” Now all the young men in Piktook desired this girl, and would kill
any one who would win her.
So the next day Glooskap, taking a bunch of _wawbap_ (P., wampum), went
to the chief and proposed for Mikchich, and the mother at once said
“Yes.” So the girl made up a bed of fresh twigs and covered it with a
great white bear-skin, and went to Mikchich, and they returned and had
dried meat for supper. So they were married.
Now Turtle seemed to be very lazy, and when others hunted he lounged
at home. One day his young wife said to him that if this went on thus
they must soon starve. So he put on his snow-shoes and went forth, and
she followed him to see what he would do. And he had not gone far ere
he tripped and fell down, and the girl, returning, told her mother that
he was worthless. But the mother said, “He will do something yet. Be
patient.”
One day it came to pass that Glooskap said to Mikchich, “To-morrow there
will be a great game at ball, and you must play. But because you have
made yourself enemies of all the young men here, they will seek to slay
you, by crowding altogether and trampling upon you. And when they do this
it will be by your father-in-law’s lodge, and to escape them I give you
the power to jump high over it. This you may do twice, but the third time
will be terrible for you, and yet it must be.”
All this happened as he foretold; for the young men indeed tried to take
his life, and to escape them Mikchich jumped over the lodge, so that he
seemed like a bird flying. But the third time he did this he was caught
on the top of the tent-poles, and hung there dangling in the smoke which
rose from below.
Then Glooskap, who was seated in the tent, said, “Uncle, I will now make
you the _sogmo_, or great chief of the Tortoises, and you shall bear up
a great nation.” Then he smoked Mikchich so long that his skin became a
hard shell, and the marks of the smoke may be seen thereon to this day.
And removing his entrails he destroyed them, so that but one short one
was left. And he cried aloud, “_Milooks!_ (M.) My nephew, you will kill
me!” But the nephew replied, “Not so. I am giving you great life. From
this time you may roll through a flame and never feel it, and live on
land or in the water. And though your head be cut off, it will live for
nine days, and your heart, even, shall beat as long when taken from your
body.” So Mikchich rejoiced greatly.
And this came betimes, for he soon had need of it all. For the next day
all the men went on a hunt, and the Master warned him that they would
seek to slay him. Now the young men went on before, and Turtle lingered
behind; but all at once he made a magic flight far over their heads,
unseen, and deep in the forest he slew a moose. Then he drew this to the
snow-shoe track or road, and when his foes came up there he sat upon the
moose, smoking, and waiting for them. Now Glooskap had told them that
they would see some one come out ahead of them all that day, and when
this came to pass they were more angered in their hearts than ever.
So they plotted to kill Turtle, and his nephew, who was about to leave,
told him how it would be. “First of all, they will build a mighty fire
and throw you in it. But do thou, O uncle, go cheerfully, for by my power
thou wilt in no wise suffer. Then they will speak of drowning, but thou
must beg and pray that this may not be; and then they will the more seek
to do so, and thou shalt fight them to the bitter end, and yet it shall
be.”
And as he said, so it came to pass; and Mikchich, being of good cheer,
bade farewell to his nephew. And they seized him and threw him into a
great fire, but he turned over and went to sleep in it, being very lazy;
and when the fire had burnt out he awoke, and called for more wood,
because it was a cold night.
Then they seized him yet again, and spoke of drowning. But, hearing this,
he, as if he were in mortal dread, begged them not to do this thing. And
he said they might cut him to pieces, or burn him, as they would, but
not to throw him into the water. Therefore they resolved to do so, and
dragged him on. Then he screamed horribly and fought lustily, and tore
up trees and roots and rocks like a madman; but they took him into a
canoe and paddled out into the middle of the lake (or to the sea), and,
throwing him in, watched him sink as he vanished far down below. So they
thought him dead, and returned rejoicing.
Now the next day at noon there was a hot sunshine, and something was seen
basking on a great rock, about a mile out in the lake. So two young men
took a canoe and went forth to see what this might be. And when they came
to the edge of the rock, which was about a foot high, there lay Mikchich
sunning himself; but seeing them coming to take him, he only said,
“Good-by,” and rolled over plump into the water, where he is living to
this day. In memory whereof all turtles, when they see any one coming,
tip tilt themselves over into the water at once.
* * * * *
In the following Hindoo story of “Punchkin” you will see the expression
of the primitive notion that the life of a person may be bound up in some
external object. Invention runs riot in the attempts to make this object
as inaccessible as possible. There is the Norse story of the “Giant who
had no Heart in his Body,” who finally tells the lovely princess he
keeps in bondage that “Far, far away in a lake lies an island; on that
island stands a church; in that church is a well; in that well swims a
duck; in that duck there is an egg; and in that egg there lies my heart,
you darling.” The hero, of course, goes and finds the giant’s heart,
and so kills him, and rescues the princess. There is also the story of
the little Hindoo princess, called Sodawa Bai, whose soul was in the
beautiful golden necklace she was born with around her neck, and who died
when another princess who hated her finally took it off.
PUNCHKIN
(_A Hindoo Story_)
Once upon a time there was a Rajah who had seven beautiful daughters.
They were all good girls; but the youngest, named Balna, was more clever
than the rest. The Rajah’s wife died when they were quite little
children, so these seven poor princesses were left with no mother to take
care of them.
The Rajah’s daughters took it by turns to cook their father’s dinner
every day, whilst he was absent deliberating with his ministers on the
affairs of the nation.
About this time the Purdan died, leaving a widow and one daughter; and
every day, when the seven princesses were preparing their father’s
dinner, the Purdan’s widow and daughter would come and beg for a little
fire from the hearth. Then Balna used to say to her sisters, “Send that
woman away; send her away. Let her get the fire at her own house. What
does she want with ours? If we allow her to come here we shall suffer
for it some day.” But the other sisters would answer, “Be quiet, Balna;
why must you always be quarrelling with this poor woman? Let her take
some fire if she likes.” Then the Purdan’s widow used to go to the hearth
and take a few sticks from it; and, whilst no one was looking, she would
quickly throw some mud into the midst of the dishes which were being
prepared for the Rajah’s dinner.
Now the Rajah was very fond of his daughters. Ever since their mother’s
death they had cooked his dinner with their own hands, in order to avoid
the danger of his being poisoned by his enemies. So, when he found
the mud mixed up with his dinner, he thought it must arise from their
carelessness, as it appeared improbable that any one should have put mud
there on purpose; but being very kind, he did not like to reprove them
for it, although this spoiling of the curry was repeated many successive
days.
At last, one day, he determined to hide and watch his daughters cooking
and see how it all happened; so he went into the next room, and watched
them through a hole in the wall.
There he saw his seven daughters carefully washing the rice and preparing
the curry, and as each dish was completed they put it by the fire ready
to be cooked. Next he noticed the Purdan’s widow come to the door, and
beg for a few sticks from the fire to cook her dinner with. Balna turned
to her, angrily, and said, “Why don’t you keep fuel in your own house and
not come here every day and take ours? Sisters, don’t give this woman any
more; let her buy it for herself.”
Then the eldest sister answered, “Balna, let the poor woman take the wood
and the fire; she does us no harm.” But Balna replied, “If you let her
come here so often, maybe she will do us some harm, and make us sorry for
it, some day.”
The Rajah then saw the Purdan’s widow go to the place where all his
dinner was nicely prepared, and, as she took the wood, she threw a little
mud into each of the dishes.
At this he was very angry, and sent to have the woman seized and brought
before him. But when the widow came, she told him that she had played
this trick because she wanted to gain an audience with him; and she spoke
so cleverly, and pleased him so well with her cunning words, that instead
of punishing her the Rajah married her, and made her his Ranee, and she
and her daughter came to live in the palace.
The new Ranee hated the seven poor princesses, and wanted to get them, if
possible, out of the way, in order that her daughter might have all their
riches and live in the palace as princess in their place; and instead of
being grateful to them for their kindness to her, she did all she could
to make them miserable. She gave them nothing but bread to eat, and very
little of that, and very little water to drink; so these seven poor
little princesses, who had been accustomed to have everything comfortable
about them, and good food and good clothes all their lives long, were
very miserable and unhappy; and they used to go out every day and sit by
their dead mother’s tomb and cry; and used to say, “Oh mother, mother,
cannot you see your poor children, how unhappy we are, and how we are
starved by our cruel step-mother?”
One day, whilst they were sobbing and crying, lo and behold! a beautiful
pomelo tree grew up out of the grave, covered with fresh ripe pomeloes,
and the children satisfied their hunger by eating some of the fruit; and
every day after this, instead of trying to eat the nasty dinner their
step-mother provided for them, they used to go out to their mother’s
grave and eat the pomeloes which grew there on the beautiful tree.
Then the Ranee said to her daughter, “I cannot tell how it is; every day
those seven girls say they don’t want any dinner, and won’t eat any, and
yet they never grow thin nor look ill; they look better than you do. I
cannot tell how it is;” and she bade her watch the seven princesses and
see if any one gave them anything to eat.
So next day, when the princesses went to their mother’s grave, and were
eating the beautiful pomeloes, the Purdan’s daughter followed them and
saw them gathering the fruit.
Then Balna said to her sisters, “Do you see that girl watching us? Let us
drive her away or hide the pomeloes, else she will go and tell her mother
all about it, and that will be very bad for us.”
But the other sisters said, “Oh, no, do not be unkind, Balna. The girl
would never be so cruel as to tell her mother. Let us rather invite her
to come and have some of the fruit;” and calling her to them, they gave
her one of the pomeloes.
No sooner had she eaten it, however, than the Purdan’s daughter went home
and said to her mother, “I do not wonder the seven princesses will not
eat the nasty dinner you prepare for them, for by their mother’s grave
there grows a beautiful pomelo tree, and they go there every day and eat
the pomeloes. I ate one, and it was the nicest I have ever tasted.”
The cruel Ranee was much vexed at hearing this, and all next day she
stayed in her room, and told the Rajah that she had a very bad headache.
The Rajah at hearing this was deeply grieved, and said to his wife,
“What can I do for you?” She answered, “There is only one thing that
will make my headache well. By your dead wife’s tomb there grows a fine
pomelo tree; you must bring that here, and boil it, root and branch, and
put a little of the water in which it has been boiled on my forehead,
and that will cure my headache.” So the Rajah sent his servants, and had
the beautiful pomelo tree pulled up by the roots, and did as the Ranee
desired; and when some of the water in which it had been boiled was put
on her forehead she said her headache was gone and she felt quite well.
Next day, when the seven princesses went as usual to the grave of their
mother, the pomelo tree had disappeared. Then they all began to cry very
bitterly.
Now there was by the Ranee’s tomb a small tank, and as they were crying
they saw that the tank was filled with a rich, cream-like substance,
which quickly hardened into a thick white cake. At seeing this all the
princesses were very glad, and they ate some of the cake, and liked it;
and next day the same thing happened, and so it went on for many days.
Every morning the princesses went to their mother’s grave, and found
the little tank filled with nourishing, cream-like cake. Then the cruel
step-mother said to her daughter, “I cannot tell how it is; I have had
the pomelo tree which used to grow by the Ranee’s grave destroyed, and
yet the princesses grow no thinner, nor look more sad, though they never
eat the dinner I give them. I cannot tell how it is!”
And her daughter said, “I will watch.”
Next day, while the princesses were eating the cream cake, who should
come by but their step-mother’s daughter. Balna saw her first, and said,
“See, sisters, there comes that girl again. Let us sit round the edge of
the tank, and not allow her to see it; for if we give her some of our
cake she will go and tell her mother, and that will be very unfortunate
for us.”
The other sisters, however, thought Balna unnecessarily suspicious, and
instead of following her advice they gave the Purdan’s daughter some of
the cake, and she went home and told her mother all about it.
The Ranee, on hearing how well the princesses fared, was exceedingly
angry, and sent her servants to pull down the dead Ranee’s tomb and fill
the little tank with the ruins. And not content with this, she next day
pretended to be very, very ill—in fact, at the point of death; and when
the Rajah was much grieved, and asked her whether it was in his power
to procure her any remedy, she said to him, “Only one thing can save my
life, but I know you will not do it.” He replied, “Yes, whatever it is,
I will do it.” She then said, “To save my life, you must kill the seven
daughters of your first wife, and put some of their blood on my forehead
and on the palms of my hands, and their death will be my life.” At these
words the Rajah was very sorrowful; but because he feared to break his
word, he went out with a heavy heart to find his daughters.
He found them crying by the ruins of their mother’s grave.
Then, feeling he could not kill them, the Rajah spoke kindly to them, and
told them to come out into the jungle with him; and there he made a fire
and cooked some rice, and gave it to them. But in the afternoon, it being
very hot, the seven princesses all fell asleep, and when he saw they
were fast asleep the Rajah, their father, stole away and left them (for
he feared his wife), saying to himself, “It is better my poor daughters
should die here than be killed by their step-mother.”
He then shot a deer, and returning home, put some of the blood on the
forehead and hands of the Ranee, and she thought then that he had really
killed the princesses and said she felt quite well.
Meantime the seven princesses awoke, and when they found themselves all
alone in the thick jungle they were much frightened, and began to call
out as loud as they could, in hopes of making their father hear; but he
was by that time far away, and would not have been able to hear them,
even had their voices been as loud as thunder.
It so happened that this very day the seven young sons of a neighboring
Rajah chanced to be hunting in the same jungle, and as they were
returning home after the day’s sport was over, the youngest prince said
to his brothers: “Stop, I think I hear some one crying and calling out.
Do you not hear voices? Let us go in the direction of the sound, and try
and find out what it is.”
So the seven princes rode through the wood until they came to the place
where the seven princesses sat crying and wringing their hands. At the
sight of them the young princes were very much astonished, and still more
so on learning their story; and they settled that each should take one of
these poor forlorn ladies home with him and marry her.
So the first and eldest prince took the eldest princess home with him and
married her.
And the second took the second;
And the third took the third;
And the fourth took the fourth;
And the fifth took the fifth;
And the sixth took the sixth;
And the seventh, and handsomest of all, took the beautiful Balna.
And when they got to their own land there was great rejoicing throughout
the kingdom at the marriage of the seven young princes to seven such
beautiful princesses.
About a year after this Balna had a little son, and his uncles and aunts
were so fond of the boy that it was as if he had seven fathers and seven
mothers. None of the other princes or princesses had any children, so the
son of the seventh prince and Balna was acknowledged their heir by all
the rest.
They had thus lived very happily for some time, when one fine day the
seventh prince (Balna’s husband) said he would go out hunting, and away
he went; and they waited long for him, but he never came back.
Then his six brothers said they would go and see what had become of him;
and they went away, but they also did not return.
And the seven princesses grieved very much, for they felt sure their kind
husbands must have been killed.
One day, not long after this had happened, as Balna was rocking her
baby’s cradle, and whilst her sisters were working in the room below,
there came to the palace door a man in a long black dress, who said that
he was a Fakir, and came to beg. The servants said to him, “You cannot go
into the palace—the Rajah’s sons have all gone away; we think they must
be dead, and their widows cannot be interrupted by your begging.” But he
said, “I am a holy man; you must let me in.” Then the stupid servants let
him walk through the palace, but they did not know that this man was no
Fakir, but a wicked magician named Punchkin.
Punchkin Fakir wandered through the palace, and saw many beautiful things
there, till at last he reached the room where Balna sat singing beside
her little boy’s cradle. The magician thought her more beautiful than all
the other beautiful things he had seen, insomuch that he asked her to go
home with him and to marry him. But she said, “My husband, I fear, is
dead, but my little boy is still quite young; I will stay here and teach
him to grow up a clever man, and when he is grown up he shall go out
into the world, and try and learn tidings of his father. Heaven forbid
that I should ever leave him or marry you.” At these words the magician
was very angry, and turned her into a little black dog, and led her away,
saying, “Since you will not come with me of your own free will, I will
make you.” So the poor princess was dragged away, without any power of
effecting an escape, or of letting her sisters know what had become of
her. As Punchkin passed through the palace gate the servants said to him,
“Where did you get that pretty little dog?” And he answered, “One of the
princesses gave it to me as a present.” At hearing which they let him go
without further questioning.
Soon after this the six elder princesses heard the little baby, their
nephew, begin to cry, and when they went upstairs they were much
surprised to find him all alone, and Balna nowhere to be seen. Then they
questioned the servants, and when they heard of the Fakir and the little
black dog they guessed what had happened, and sent in every direction
seeking them, but neither the Fakir nor the dog was to be found. What
could six poor women do? They had to give up all hopes of ever seeing
their kind husbands and their sister and her husband again, and they
devoted themselves thenceforward to teaching and taking care of their
little nephew.
Thus time went on, till Balna’s son was fourteen years old. Then one
day his aunts told him the history of the family; and no sooner did he
hear it than he was seized with a great desire to go in search of his
father and mother and uncles, and bring them home again if he could find
them alive. His aunts, on learning his determination, were much alarmed
and tried to dissuade him, saying, “We have lost our husbands, and our
sister and her husband, and you are now our sole hope; if you go away,
what shall we do?” But he replied, “I pray you not to be discouraged; I
shall return soon, and, if it is possible, bring my father and mother and
uncles with me.” So he set out on his travels, but for some months he
could learn nothing to help him in his search.
At last, after he had journeyed many hundreds of weary miles, and become
almost hopeless of ever being able to hear anything further of his
parents, he one day came to a country which seemed full of stones and
rocks and trees, and there he saw a large palace with a high tower; hard
by which was a Malee’s little house.
As he was looking about, the Malee’s wife saw him, and ran out of the
house and said, “My dear boy, who are you that dare venture to this
dangerous place?” And he answered, “I am a Rajah’s son, and I come in
search of my father and my uncles and my mother whom a wicked enchanter
bewitched.” Then the Malee’s wife said, “This country and this palace
belong to a great enchanter; he is all-powerful, and if any one
displeases him, he can turn them into stones and trees. All the rocks and
trees you see here were living people once, and the magician turned them
to what they now are. Some time ago a Rajah’s son came here, and shortly
afterward came his six brothers, and they were all turned into stones and
trees; and these are not the only unfortunate ones, for up in that tower
lives a beautiful princess, whom the magician has kept prisoner there for
twelve years, because she hates him and will not marry him.”
Then the little prince thought, “These must be my parents and my uncles.
I have found what I seek at last.” So he told his story to the Malee’s
wife, and begged her to help him to remain in that place a while, and
inquire further concerning the unhappy people she mentioned; and she
promised to befriend him, and advised his disguising himself, lest the
magician should see him, and turn him likewise into stone. To this
the prince agreed. So the Malee’s wife dressed him up in a saree, and
pretended that he was her daughter.
One day, not long after this, as the magician was walking in his garden,
he saw the little girl (as he thought) playing about, and he asked her
who she was. She told him she was the Malee’s daughter, and the magician
said, “You are a pretty little girl, and to-morrow you shall take a
present of flowers from me to the beautiful lady who lives in the tower.”
The young prince was much delighted at hearing this, and after some
consultation with the Malee’s wife, he settled that it would be more safe
for him to retain his disguise, and trust to the chance of a favorable
opportunity for establishing some communication with his mother, if it
were indeed she.
Now it happened that at Balna’s marriage her husband had given her a
small gold ring on which her name was engraved, and she put it on her
little son’s finger when he was a baby, and afterward when he was older,
his aunts had had it enlarged for him, so that he was still able to wear
it. The Malee’s wife advised him to fasten the well-known treasure to one
of the bouquets he presented to his mother, and trust to her recognizing
it. This was not to be done without difficulty, as such a strict watch
was kept over the poor princess (for fear of her ever establishing
communication with her friends) that though the supposed Malee’s daughter
was permitted to take her flowers every day, the magician or one of his
slaves was always in the room at the same time. At last one day, however,
opportunity favored him and when no one was looking the boy tied the ring
to a nosegay and threw it at Balna’s feet. The ring fell with a clang on
the floor, and Balna, looking to see what made the strange sound, found
the little ring tied to the flowers. On recognizing it, she at once
believed the story her son told her of his long search, and begged him to
advise her as to what she had better do; at the same time entreating him
on no account to endanger his life by trying to rescue her. She told him
that for twelve long years the magician had kept her shut up in the tower
because she refused to marry him, and she was so closely guarded that she
saw no hope of release.
Now Balna’s son was a bright, clever boy; so he said, “Do not fear, dear
mother; the first thing to do is to discover how far the magician’s power
extends, in order that we may be able to liberate my father and uncles,
whom he has imprisoned in the form of rocks and trees. You have spoken to
him angrily for twelve long years; do you now rather speak kindly. Tell
him you have given up all hopes of again seeing the husband you have so
long mourned, and say you are willing to marry him. Then endeavor to find
out what his power consists in, and whether he is immortal or can be put
to death.”
Balna determined to take her son’s advice; and the next day sent for
Punchkin and spoke to him as had been suggested.
The magician, greatly delighted, begged her to allow the wedding to take
place as soon as possible.
But she told him that before she married him he must allow her a little
more time in which she might make his acquaintance, and that, after being
enemies so long, their friendship could but strengthen by degrees. “And
do tell me,” she said, “are you quite immortal? Can death never touch
you? And are you too great an enchanter ever to feel human suffering?”
“Why do you ask?” said he.
“Because,” she replied, “if I am to be your wife I would fain know all
about you, in order, if any calamity threatens you, to overcome, or, if
possible, to avert it.”
“It is true,” he said, “that I am not as others. Far, far away, hundreds
of thousands of miles from this, there lies a desolate country covered
with thick jungle. In the midst of the jungle grows a circle of palm
trees, and in the center of the circle stand six chattees full of water,
piled one above another; below the sixth chattee is a small cage which
contains a little green parrot; on the life of the parrot depends my
life, and if the parrot is killed I must die. It is, however,” he added,
“impossible that the parrot should sustain any injury, both on account of
the inaccessibility of the country and because, by my appointment, many
thousand evil genii surround the palm trees, and kill all who approach
the place.”
Balna told her son what Punchkin had said, but, at the same time,
implored him to give up all idea of getting the parrot.
The prince, however, replied, “Mother, unless I can get hold of that
parrot you and my father and uncles cannot be liberated: be not afraid,
I will shortly return. Do you, meantime, keep the magician in good
humor—still putting off your marriage with him on various pretexts; and
before he finds out the cause of delay I will return.” So saying he went
away.
Many, many weary miles did he travel, till at last he came to a thick
jungle, and being very tired, sat down under a tree and fell asleep.
He was awakened by a soft rustling sound, and, looking about him, saw
a large serpent which was making its way to an eagle’s nest built in
the tree under which he lay, and in the nest were two young eagles. The
prince, seeing the danger of the young birds, drew his sword and killed
the serpent; at the same moment a rushing sound was heard in the air, and
the two old eagles, who had been out hunting for food for their young
ones, returned. They quickly saw the dead serpent and the young prince
standing over it; and the old mother eagle said to him, “Dear boy, for
many years all our young have been devoured by that cruel serpent: you
have now saved the lives of our children; whenever you are in need,
therefore, send to us and we will help you; and as for these little
eagles, take them, and let them be your servants.”
At this the prince was very glad, and the two eaglets crossed their
wings, on which he mounted; and they carried him far, far away over the
thick jungles until he came to the place where grew the circle of palm
trees in the midst of which stood the six chattees full of water. It was
the middle of the day. All around the trees were the genii fast asleep;
nevertheless, there were such countless thousands of them that it would
have been quite impossible for any one to walk through their ranks to the
place. Down swooped the strong-winged eaglets—down jumped the prince; in
an instant he had overthrown the six chattees full of water, and seized
the little green parrot, which he rolled up in his cloak; while, as he
mounted again into the air, all the genii below awoke, and, finding
their treasure gone, set up a wild and melancholy howl.
Away, away flew the little eagles till they came to their home in the
great tree; then the prince said to the old eagles, “Take back your
little ones; they have done me good service; if ever again I stand in
need of help I shall not fail to come to you.” He then continued his
journey on foot till he arrived once more at the magician’s palace, where
he sat down at the door and began playing with the parrot. The magician
saw him, and came to him quickly and said, “My boy, where did you get
that parrot? Give it to me, I pray you.” But the prince answered, “Oh,
no, I cannot give away my parrot; it is a great pet of mine; I have had
it many years.” Then the magician said, “If it is an old favorite, I can
understand you not caring to give it away; but come, what will you sell
it for?” “Sir,” replied the prince, “I will not sell my parrot.”
Then the magician got frightened and said, “Anything, anything; name what
price you will, and it shall be yours.” “Then,” the prince answered, “I
will that you liberate the Rajah’s seven sons whom you turned into rocks
and trees.” “It is done as you desire,” said the magician, “only give
me my parrot” (and with that, by a stroke of his wand, Balna’s husband
and his brothers resumed their natural shapes). “Now give me my parrot,”
repeated Punchkin. “Not so fast, my master,” rejoined the prince; “I must
first beg that you restore to life all whom you have thus imprisoned.”
The magician immediately waved his wand again; and whilst he cried in an
imploring voice, “Give me my parrot!” the whole garden became suddenly
alive: where rocks and stones and trees had been before, stood Rajahs and
Punts and Sirdars, and mighty men on prancing horses, and jewelled pages
and troops of armed attendants.
“Give me my parrot!” cried Punchkin. Then the boy took hold of the parrot
and tore off one of its wings; and as he did so the magician’s right arm
fell off.
Punchkin then stretched out his left arm, crying “Give me my parrot!” The
prince pulled off the parrot’s second wing, and the magician’s left arm
tumbled off.
“Give me my parrot!” cried he, and fell on his knees. The prince pulled
off the parrot’s right leg—the magician’s right leg fell off; the prince
pulled off the parrot’s left leg—down fell the magician’s left.
Nothing remained of him save the limbless body and the head; but still
he rolled his eyes, and cried, “Give me my parrot!” “Take your parrot,
then,” cried the boy, and with that he wrung the bird’s neck and threw
it at the magician; and as he did so, Punchkin’s head twisted round, and
with a fearful groan he died!
Then they let Balna out of the tower; and she, her son, and the seven
princes went to their own country, and lived very happily ever afterward.
And as to the rest of the world, every one went to his own house.