again to his wife to learn what he had told her. She repeated
everything carefully, and the Prince went straight away to his
brothers-in-law with the much-longed-for news. They received it with
joy, and at once set out with the Prince to go to that mountain-peak.
Arrived there, they set the eagles upon the Fox, which immediately
took refuge in a lake and there changed himself into a gull with six
wings. But the falcons gave battle to the gull and drove him thence.
He flew high amid the clouds, the falcons ever following. In a trice
the gull changed himself into a fox again and tried to escape into the
earth; but, falling into the power of the eagles and all the rest of
the mighty host, he was surrounded and taken prisoner.
Then the emperors commanded that the Fox should be cut open and his
heart taken out. A fire was kindled, the heart cut open, and the bird
taken out and cast into the flames. As soon as the bird was burned
Steelpacha vanished forever.
So the Prince took his wife and went happily home.
_The Buried Moon_
Long ago in my grandmother's time, the Carland was all in bogs, great
pools of black water, and creeping trickles of green water, and
squishy mools which squirted when you stepped on them.
Well, granny used to say how long before her time the Moon herself was
once dead and buried in the marshes, and as she used to tell me, I'll
tell you all about it.
The Moon up yonder shone and shone just as she does now, and when she
shone she lighted up the bogpools, so that one could walk about almost
as safe as in the day.
But when she didn't shine, out came the Things that dwelt in the
darkness and went about seeking to do evil and harm; Bogles and
Crawling Horrors, all came out when the Moon didn't shine.
Well, the Moon heard of this, and being kind and good--as she surely
is, shining for us in the night instead of taking her natural
rest--she was main troubled. "I'll see for myself, I will," said she,
"maybe it's not so bad as folks make out."
Sure enough, at the month's end down she stepped, wrapped up in a
black cloak, and a black hood over her yellow shining hair. Straight
she went to the bog edge and looked about her. Water here and water
there; waving tussocks and trembling mools, and great black snags all
twisted and bent. Before her all was dark--dark but for the glimmer of
the stars in the pools, and the light that came from her own white
feet, stealing out of her black cloak.
The Moon drew her cloak faster about her and trembled, but she
wouldn't go back without seeing all there was to be seen; so on she
went, stepping as light as the wind in summer from tuft to tuft
between the muddy, gurgling water holes. Just as she came near a big
black pool her foot slipped and she was nigh tumbling in. She grabbed
with both hands at a snag near by, to steady herself with, but as she
touched it, it twined itself round her wrists, like a pair of
handcuffs, and gripped her so that she couldn't move. She pulled and
twisted and fought, but it was no good. She was fast, and must stay
fast.
Presently as she stood trembling in the dark, wondering if help would
come, she heard something calling in the distance, calling, calling,
and then dying away with a sob, till the marshes were full of this
pitiful crying sound; then she heard steps floundering along,
squishing in the mud and slipping on the tufts, and through the
darkness she saw a white face with great feared eyes.
'T was a man strayed in the bogs. Mazed with fear he struggled on
toward the flickering light that looked like help and safety. And when
the poor Moon saw that he was coming nigher and nigher to the deep
hole, farther and farther from the path, she was so mad and so sorry
that she struggled and fought and pulled harder than ever. And though
she couldn't get loose she twisted and turned, till her black hood
fell back off her shining yellow hair, and the beautiful light that
came from it drove away the darkness.
Oh, but the man cried with joy to see the light again. And at once all
evil things fled back into the dark corners, for they cannot abide the
light. So he could see where he was, and where the path was, and how
he could get out of the marsh. And he was in such haste to get away
from the Quicks, and Bogles, and Things that dwelt there, that he
scarce looked at the brave light that came from the beautiful shining
yellow hair, streaming out over the black cloak and falling to the
water at his feet. And the Moon herself was so taken up with saving
him, and with rejoicing that he was back on the right path, that she
clean forgot that she needed help herself, and that she was held fast
by the Black Snag.
So off he went, spent and gasping, and stumbling and sobbing with joy,
flying for his life out of the terrible bogs. Then it came over the
Moon, she would main like to go with him. So she pulled and fought as
if she were mad, till she fell on her knees, spent with tugging, at
the foot of the snag. And as she lay there, gasping for breath, the
black hood fell forward over her head. So out went the blessed light
and back came the darkness, with all its Evil Things, with a screech
and a howl. They came crowding round her, mocking and snatching and
beating; shrieking with rage and spite, and swearing and snarling, for
they knew her for their old enemy, that drove them back into the
corners, and kept them from working their wicked wills.
"Drat thee!" yelled the witch-bodies, "thou 'st spoiled our spells
this year agone!"
"And us thou sent'st to brood in the corners!" howled the Bogles.
And all the Things joined in with a great "Ho, ho!" till the very
tussocks shook and the water gurgled. And they began again.
"We'll poison her--poison her!" shrieked the witches.
And "Ho, ho!" howled the Things again.
"We'll smother her--smother her!" whispered the Crawling Horrors, and
twined themselves round her knees.
And "Ho, ho!" mocked the rest of them.
And again they all shouted with spite and ill-will. And the poor Moon
crouched down, and wished she was dead and done with.
And they fought and squabbled what they should do with her, till a pale
gray light began to come in the sky; and it drew nigh the dawning. And
when they saw that, they were feared lest they shouldn't have time to
work their will; and they caught hold of her, with horrid bony fingers,
and laid her deep in the water at the foot of the snag. And the Bogles
fetched a strange big stone and rolled it on top of her, to keep her
from rising. And they told two of the Will-o-the-wykes to take turns in
watching on the black snag, to see that she lay safe and still, and
couldn't get out to spoil their sport.
And there lay the poor Moon, dead and buried in the bog; till some one
would set her loose; and who'd know where to look for her?
Well, the days passed, and 't was the time for the new moon's coming,
and the folk put pennies in their pockets and straws in their caps so
as to be ready for her, and looked about, for the Moon was a good
friend to the marsh folk, and they were main glad when the dark time
was gone, and the paths were safe again, and the Evil Things were
driven back by the blessed Light into the darkness and the waterholes.
But days and days passed, and the new Moon never came, and the nights
were aye dark, and the Evil Things were worse than ever. And still the
days went on, and the new Moon never came. Naturally the poor folk
were strangely feared and mazed, and a lot of them went to the Wise
Woman who dwelt in the old mill, and asked if so be she could find out
where the Moon was gone.
"Well," said she, after looking in the brewpot, and in the mirror, and
in the Book, "it be main queer, but I can't rightly tell ye what's
happened to her. If ye hear aught, come and tell me."
So they went their ways; and as days went by, and never a Moon came,
naturally they talked--my word! I reckon they _did_ talk! their
tongues wagged at home, and at the inn, and in the garth. But so came
one day, as they sat on the great settle in the Inn, a man from the
far end of the bog lands was smoking and listening, when all at once
he sat up and slapped his knee. "My faicks!" said he, "I'd clean
forgot, but I reckon I kens where the Moon be!" and he told them of
how he was lost in the bogs, and how, when he was nigh dead with
fright, the light shone out, and he found the path and got home safe.
So off they all went to the Wise Woman, and told her about it, and she
looked long in the pot and the Book again, and then she nodded her
head.
"It's dark still, childer, dark!" says she, "and I can't rightly see,
but do as I tell ye, and ye'll find out for yourselves. Go, all of ye,
just afore the night gathers, put a stone in your mouth, and take a
hazel-twig in your hands, and say never a word till you're safe home
again. Then walk on and fear not, far into the midst of the marsh,
till ye find a coffin, a candle, and a cross. Then ye'll not be far
from your Moon; look, and m'appen ye'll find her."
So come the next night in the darklings, out they went all together,
every man with a stone in his mouth, and a hazel-twig in his hand, and
feeling, thou may'st reckon, main feared and creepy. And they stumbled
and stottered along the paths into the midst of the bogs; they saw
naught, though they heard sighings and flutterings in their ears, and
felt cold wet fingers touching them; but all together, looking around
for the coffin, the candle, and the cross, while they came nigh to the
pool beside the great snag, where the Moon lay buried. And all at once
they stopped, quaking and mazed and skeery, for there was the great
stone, half in, half out of the water, for all the world like a
strange big coffin; and at the head was the black snag, stretching out
its two arms in a dark gruesome cross, and on it a tiddy light
flickered, like a dying candle. And they all knelt down in the mud,
and said, "Our Lord," first forward, because of the cross, and then
backward, to keep off the Bogles; but without speaking out, for they
knew that the Evil Things would catch them, if they didn't do as the
Wise Woman told them.
Then they went nigher, and took hold of the big stone, and shoved it
up, and afterward they said that for one tiddy minute they saw a
strange and beautiful face looking up at them glad-like out of the
black water; but the Light came so quick and so white and shining,
that they stepped back mazed with it, and the very next minute, when
they could see again, there was the full Moon in the sky, bright and
beautiful and kind as ever, shining and smiling down at them, and
making the bogs and the paths as clear as day, and stealing into the
very corners, as though she'd have driven the darkness and the Bogles
clean away if she could.
_The Farmer of Liddesdale_
There was in Liddesdale (in Morven) a Farmer who suffered great loss
within the space of one year. In the first place, his wife and
children died, and shortly after their death the Ploughman left him.
The hiring-markets were then over, and there was no way of getting
another Ploughman in the place of the one that left. When spring came
his neighbours began ploughing; but he had not a man to hold the
plough, and he knew not what he should do. The time was passing, and
he was, therefore, losing patience. At last he said to himself, in a
fit of passion, that he would engage the first man that came his way,
whoever he should be.
Shortly after that a man came to the house. The Farmer met him at the
door, and asked him whither was he going, or what was he seeking? He
answered that he was a Ploughman, and that he wanted an engagement. "I
want a Ploughman, and if we agree about the wages, I will engage thee.
What dost thou ask from this day to the day when the crop will be
gathered in?"
"Only as much of the corn when it shall be dry as I can carry with me
in one burden-withe."
"Thou shalt get that," said the Farmer, and they agreed.
Next morning the Farmer went out with the Ploughman, and showed him
the fields which he had to plough. Before they returned, the Ploughman
went to the wood, and having cut three stakes, came back with them,
and placed one of them at the head of each one of the fields. After he
had done that he said to the Farmer, "I will do the work now alone,
and the ploughing need no longer give thee anxiety."
Having said this, he went home and remained idle all that day. The
next day came, but he remained idle as on the day before. After he
had spent a good while in that manner, the Farmer said to him that it
was time for him to begin to work now, because the spring was passing
away, and the neighbours had half their work finished.
He replied, "Oh, our land is not ready yet."
"How dost thou think that?"
"Oh, I know it by the stakes."
If the delay of the Ploughman made the Farmer wonder, this answer made
him wonder more. He resolved that he would keep his eye on him, and
see what he was doing.
The Farmer rose early next morning, and saw the Ploughman going to the
first field. When he reached the field, he pulled the stake at its end
out of the ground, and put it to his nose. He shook his head and put
the stake back in the ground, He then left the first field and went to
the rest. He tried the stakes, shook his head, and returned home. In
the dusk he went out the second time to the fields, tried the stakes,
shook his head, and after putting them again in the ground, went home.
Next morning he went out to the fields the third time. When he reached
the first stake he pulled it out of the ground and put it to his nose
as he did on the foregoing days. But no sooner had he done that than
he threw the stake from him, and stretched away for the horses with
all his might.
He got the horses, the withes, and the plough, and when he reached the
end of the first field with them, he thrust the plough into the
ground, and cried:
"My horses and my leather-traces, and mettlesome lads,
The earth is coming up!"
He then began ploughing, kept at it all day at a terrible rate and
before the sun went down that night there was not a palm-breadth of
the three fields which he had not ploughed, sowed, and harrowed. When
the Farmer saw this he was exceedingly well pleased, for he had his
work finished as soon as his neighbours.
The Ploughman was quick and ready to do everything that he was told,
and so he and the Farmer agreed well until the harvest came. But on a
certain day when the reaping was over the Farmer said to him that he
thought the corn was dry enough for putting in. The Ploughman tried a
sheaf or two, and answered that it was not dry yet. But shortly after
that day he said that it was now ready. "If it is," said the Farmer,
"we'd better begin putting it in."
"We will not until I get my share out of it first," said the
Ploughman. He then went off to the wood, and in a short time returned,
having in his hand a withe scraped and twisted. He stretched the withe
on the field, and began to put the corn in it. He continued putting
sheaf after sheaf in the withe until he had taken almost all the
sheaves that were on the field. The Farmer asked of him what he meant?
"Thou didst promise me as wages as much corn as I could carry with me
in one burden-withe, and here I have it now," said the Ploughman, as
he was shutting the withe.
The Farmer saw that he would be ruined by the Ploughman, and therefore
said:
"'T was in the Mart I sowed,
'T was in the Mart I baked,
'T was in the Mart I harrowed.
Thou Who hast ordained the three Marts,
Let not my share go in one burden-withe.'"
Instantly the withe broke, and it made a loud report, which echo
answered from every rock far and near. Then the corn spread over the
field, and the Ploughman went away in a white mist in the skies, and
was seen no more.
_The Badger's Money_
Once upon a time, in a hut at a place called Namekata, in Hitache,
there lived an old priest, famous neither for learning nor wisdom, but
bent only on passing his days in prayer and meditation. He had not
even a child to wait upon him, but prepared his food with his own
hands. Night and morning he recited the prayer, "Namu Amida Butsu,"
intent upon that alone. Although the fame of his virtue did not reach
far, yet his neighbours respected and revered him, and often brought
him food and raiment; and when his roof or his walls fell out of
repair, they would mend them for him; so for the things of this world
he took no thought.
One very cold night, when he little thought any one was outside, he
heard a voice calling, "Your reverence! your reverence!" So he rose
and went out to see who it was, and there he beheld an old badger
standing. Any ordinary man would have been greatly alarmed at the
apparition; but the priest, being such as he has been described above,
showed no sign of fear, but asked the creature his business. Upon this
the badger respectfully bent its knees, and said:
"Hitherto, sir, my lair has been in the mountains, and of snow or
frost I have taken no heed; but now I am growing old, and this severe
cold is more that I can bear. I pray you to let me enter and warm
myself at the fire of your cottage, that I may live through this
bitter night."
When the priest heard what a helpless state the beast was reduced to,
he was filled with pity, and said:
"That's a very slight matter; make haste and come in and warm
yourself."
The badger, delighted with so good a reception, went into the hut, and
squatting down by the fire began to warm itself; and the priest, with
renewed fervour, recited his prayers and struck his bell before the
image of Buddha, looking straight before him. After two hours the
badger took its leave, with profuse expressions of thanks, and went
out; and from that time forth it came every night to the hut. As the
badger would collect and bring with it dried branches and dead leaves
from the hills for firewood, the priest at last became very friendly
with it, and got used to its company; so that if ever, as the night
wore on, the badger did not arrive, he used to miss it, and wonder why
it did not come. When the winter was over, and the spring-time came at
the end of the second month, the badger gave up its visits, and was no
more seen; but, on the return of the winter, the beast resumed its old
habit of coming to the hut. When this practice had gone on for ten
years, one day the badger said to the priest, "Through your
reverence's kindness for all these years, I have been able to pass the
winter nights in comfort. Your favours are such that, during all my
life, and even after my death, I must remember them. What can I do to
requite them? If there is anything that you wish for, pray tell me."
The priest, smiling at this speech, answered, "Being such as I am, I
have no desire and no wishes. Glad as I am to hear your kind
intentions, there is nothing that I can ask you to do for me. You need
feel no anxiety on my account. As long as I live, when the winter
comes, you shall be welcome here." The badger, on hearing this, could
not conceal its admiration at the depth of the old man's benevolence;
but having so much to be grateful for, it felt hurt at not being able
to requite it. As this subject was often renewed between them, the
priest at last, touched by the goodness of the badger's heart, said,
"Since I have shaven my head, renounced the world, and forsaken the
pleasures of this life, I have no desire to gratify, yet I own I
should like to possess three riyos in gold. Food and raiment I receive
by the favour of the villagers, so I take no heed for those things.
Were I to die to-morrow, and attain my wish of being born again into
the next world, the same kind folk have promised to meet and bury my
body. Thus, although I have no other reason to wish for money, still
if I had three riyos I would offer them up at some holy shrine, that
masses and prayers might be said for me, whereby I might enter into
salvation. Yet I would not get this money by violent or unlawful
means; I only think of what might be if I had it. So you see, since
you have expressed such kind feelings toward me, I have told you what
is on my mind." When the priest had done speaking, the badger leaned
its head on one side with a puzzled and anxious look, so much so that
the old man was sorry he had expressed a wish which seemed to give the
beast trouble, and tried to retract what he had said. "Posthumous
honours, after all, are the wish of ordinary men, I, who am a priest,
ought not to entertain such thoughts, or to want money; so pray pay no
attention to what I have said;" and the badger, feigning assent to
what the priest had impressed upon it, returned to the hills as usual.
From that time forth the badger came no more to the hut. The priest
thought this very strange, but imagined either that the badger stayed
away because it did not like to come without the money, or that it had
been killed in an attempt to steal it; and he blamed himself for
having added to his sins for no purpose, repenting when it was too
late: persuaded, however, that the badger must have been killed, he
passed his time in putting up prayers upon prayers for it.
After three years had gone by, one night the old man heard a voice
near his door calling out, "Your reverence! your reverence!"
As the voice was like that of the badger, he jumped up as soon as he
heard it, and ran out to open the door; and there, sure enough, was
the badger. The priest, in great delight, cried out, "And so you are
safe and sound, after all! Why have you been so long without coming
here? I have been expecting you anxiously this long while."
So the badger came into the hut, and said, "If the money which you
required had been for unlawful purposes, I could easily have procured
as much as ever you might have wanted; but when I heard that it was to
be offered to a temple for masses for your soul, I thought that, if I
were to steal the hidden treasure of some other man, you could not
apply to a sacred purpose money which had been obtained at the
expense of his sorrow. So I went to the island of Sado, and gathering
the sand and earth which had been cast away as worthless by the
miners, fused it afresh in the fire; and at this work I spent months
and days." As the badger finished speaking, the priest looked at the
money which it had produced, and sure enough he saw that it was bright
and new and clean; so he took the money, and received it respectfully,
raising it to his head.
"And so you have had all this toil and labour on account of a foolish
speech of mine? I have obtained my heart's desire, and am truly
thankful."
As he was thanking the badger with great politeness and ceremony, the
beast said, "In doing this I have but fulfilled my own wish; still I
hope that you will tell this thing to no man."
"Indeed," replied the priest, "I cannot choose but tell this story.
For if I keep the money in my poor hut, it will be stolen by thieves:
I must either give it to some one to keep for me, or else at once
offer it up at the temple. And when I do this, when people see a poor
old priest with a sum of money quite unsuited to his station, they
will think it very suspicious, and I shall have to tell the tale as it
occurred; but as I shall say that the badger that gave me the money
has ceased coming to my hut, you need not fear being waylaid, but can
come, as of old, and shelter yourself from the cold." To this the
badger nodded assent, and as long as the old priest lived, it came and
spent the winter nights with him.
_The Grateful Foxes_
One fine spring day, two friends went out to a moor to gather fern,
attended by a boy with a bottle of wine and a box of provisions. As
they were straying about, they saw at the foot of a hill a fox that
had brought out its cub to play; and whilst they looked on, struck by
the strangeness of the sight, three children came up from a
neighbouring village with baskets in their hands, on the same errand
as themselves. As soon as the children saw the foxes, they picked up a
bamboo stick and took the creatures stealthily in the rear; and when
the old foxes took to flight, they surrounded them and beat them with
the stick, so that they ran away as fast as their legs could carry
them; but two of the boys held down the cub, and, seizing it by the
scruff of the neck, went off in high glee.
The two friends were looking on all the while, and one of them,
raising his voice, shouted out, "Hallo! you boys! what are you doing
with that fox?"
The eldest of the boys replied, "We're going to take him home and sell
him to a young man in our village. He'll buy him, and then he'll boil
him in a pot and eat him."
"Well," replied the other, after considering the matter attentively,
"I suppose it's all the same to you whom you sell him to. You'd better
let me have him."