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JAPANESE FAIRY WORLD - TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES - MACRONS
The use of the macron above the letter "O" in names throughout the
book is inconsistent. The same name may appear either with or without
a macron or the macron may appear above different letters when the
same name is printed in different places through the book. This has
been left as printed in the original book.
In the plain text version, macrons are indicated by [=o] in place of
the letter "O" with the macron above it. Macrons do not appear above
any letter other than "O".
For further transcriber's notes, please see the end of the text.
[Illustration: HOW THE SUN-GODDESS WAS ENTICED OUT OF HER CAVE.]
JAPANESE
FAIRY WORLD.
STORIES FROM THE WONDER-LORE OF JAPAN.
BY
WILLIAM ELLIOT GRIFFIS,
AUTHOR OF "THE MIKADO'S EMPIRE."
ILLUSTRATED BY OZAWA, OF TOKIO.
LONDON:
TRUeBNER & CO., LUDGATE HILL.
1887.
PREFACE.
The thirty-four stories included within this volume do
not illustrate the bloody, revengeful or licentious
elements, with which Japanese popular, and juvenile
literature is saturated. These have been carefully
avoided.
It is also rather with a view to the artistic, than to
the literary, products of the imagination of Japan, that
the selection has been made. From my first acquaintance,
twelve years ago, with Japanese youth, I became an eager
listener to their folk lore and fireside stories. When
later, during a residence of nearly four years among the
people, my eyes were opened to behold the wondrous
fertility of invention, the wealth of literary, historic
and classic allusion, of pun, myth and riddle, of
heroic, wonder, and legendary lore in Japanese art, I at
once set myself to find the source of the ideas
expressed in bronze and porcelain, on lacquered
cabinets, fans, and even crape paper napkins and tidies.
Sometimes I discovered the originals of the artist's
fancy in books, sometimes only in the mouths of the
people and professional story-tellers. Some of these
stories I first read on the tattooed limbs and bodies of
the native foot-runners, others I first saw in
flower-tableaux at the street floral shows of Tokio.
Within this book the reader will find translations,
condensations of whole books, of interminable romances,
and a few sketches by the author embodying Japanese
ideas, beliefs and superstitions. I have taken no more
liberty, I think, with the native originals, than a
modern story-teller of Tokio would himself take, were he
talking in an American parlor, instead of at his
bamboo-curtained stand in Yanagi Cho, (Willow Street,)
in the mikado's capital.
Some of the stories have appeared in English before, but
most of them are printed for the first time. A few
reappear from _The Independent_ and other periodicals.
The illustrations and cover-stamp, though engraved in
New York by Mr. Henry W. Troy, were, with one exception,
drawn especially for this work, by my artist-friend,
Ozawa Nankoku, of Tokio. The picture of Yorimasa, the
Archer, was made for me by one of my students in Tokio.
Hoping that these harmless stories that have tickled the
imagination of Japanese children during untold
generations, may amuse the big and little folks of
America, the writer invites his readers, in the language
of the native host as he points to the chopsticks and
spread table, _O agari nasai_
W.E.G.
SCHENECTADY, N.Y., Sept. 28th, 1880.
CONTENTS.
I. The Meeting of the Star Lovers.
II. The Travels of Two Frogs.
III. The Child of the Thunder.
IV. The Tongue-cut Sparrow.
V. The Fire-fly's Lovers.
VI. The Battle of the Ape and the Crab.
VII. The Wonderful Tea-Kettle.
VIII. Peach-Prince and the Treasure Island.
IX. The Fox and the Badger.
X. The Seven Patrons of Happiness.
XI. Daikoku and the Oni.
XII. Benkei and the Bell.
XIII. Little Silver's Dream of the Shoji.
XIV. The Tengus, or the Elves with Long Noses.
XV. Kintaro, or the Wild Baby.
XVI. Jiraiya, or the Magic Frog.
XVII. How the Jelly-Fish Lost its Shell.
XVIII. Lord Cuttle-Fish Gives a Concert.
XIX. Yorimasa, the Brave Archer.
XX. Watanabe cuts off the Oni's Arm.
XXI. Watanabe Kills the Great Spider.
XXII. Raiko and the Shi Ten Doji.
XXIII. The Sazaye and the Tai.
XXIV. Smells and Jingles.
XXV. The Lake of the Lute and the Matchless Mountain.
The Waterfall of Yoro, or the Fountain of Youth.
XXVI. The Earthquake Fish.
XXVII. The Dream Story of Gojiro.
XXVIII. The Procession of Lord Long-Legs.
XXIX. Kiyohime, or the Power of Love.
XXX. The Fisherman and the Moon-Maiden.
XXXI. The Jewels of the Ebbing and the Flowing Tide.
XXXII. Kai Riu O, or the Dragon King of the World Under the Sea.
XXXIII. The Creation of Heaven and Earth.
XXXIV. How the Sun Goddess was Enticed out of her Cave.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
1. Kaname holding down the great Earthquake
Fish, _Stamp on cover_.
2. How the Sun-goddess was enticed
out of her Cave, _Frontispiece_.
3. The Star-lovers Meeting on the
Bridge of Birds, Faces page 6.
4. The Egg, Wasp and Mortar attack
the Monkey, " " 54.
5. The Oni submitting to Peach Prince " " 70.
6. The Monkeys in Grief, " " 150.
7. Yorimasa and the Night-beast, " " 176.
8. The Fish Stall in Tokio, " " 204.
9. A Jingle for a Sniff, " " 206.
10. The Ascent of the Dragon's Gate, " " 234.
11. The Sorceress Melting the Bell, " " 262.
12. The Dragon King's Gift of the
Tide Jewels, " " 288.
THE MEETING OF THE STAR-LOVERS.
One of the greatest days in the calendar of old Japan was the seventh of
July; or, as the Japanese people put it, "the seventh day of the seventh
month." It was a vermilion day in the almanacs, to which every child
looked forward with eyes sparkling, hands clapping, and fingers counting,
as each night rolled the time nearer. All manner of fruits and other
eatable vegetables were prepared, and cakes baked, in the household. The
boys plucked bamboo stalks, and strung on their branches bright-colored
ribbons, tinkling bells, and long streamers of paper, on which poetry
was written. On this night, mothers hoped for wealth, happiness, good
children, and wisdom. The girls made a wish that they might become
skilled in needlework. Only one wish a year, however, could be made. So,
if any one wanted several things--health, wealth, skill in needlework,
wisdom, etc.--they must wait many years before all the favors could be
granted. Above all things, rainy weather was not desired. It was a "good
sign" when a spider spun his web over a melon, or, if put in a square box
he should weave a circular web. Now, the cause of all this preparation
was that on the seventh of July the Herd-boy star and the Spinning Maiden
star cross the Milky Way to meet each other. These are the stars which we
call Capricornus and Alpha Lyra. These stars that shine and glitter so
far up in the zenith, are the boy with an ox and the girl with a
shuttle, about whom the story runs as follows:
* * * * *
On the banks of the Silver River of Heaven (which we call the Milky Way)
there lived a beautiful maiden, who was the daughter of the sun. Her name
was Shokujo. She did not care for games or play, like her companions,
and, thinking nothing of vain display, wore only the simplest of dress.
Yet she was very diligent, and made many garments for others. Indeed, so
busy was she that all called her the Weaving or Spinning Princess.
The sun-king noticed the serious disposition and close habits of his
daughter, and tried in various ways to get her to be more lively. At last
he thought to marry her. As marriages in the star-land are usually
planned by the parents, and not by the foolish lover-boys and girls, he
arranged the union without consulting his daughter. The young man on whom
the sun-king thus bestowed his daughter's hand was Kingin, who kept a
herd of cows on the banks of the celestial stream. He had always been a
good neighbor, and, living on the same side of the river, the father
thought he would get a nice son-in-law, and at the same time improve his
daughter's habits and disposition.
No sooner did the maiden become wife than her habits and character
utterly changed for the worse, and the father had a very vexatious case
of _tadashiku suguru_ ("too much of a good thing") on his hands. The wife
became not only very merry and lively, but utterly forsook loom and
needle. She gave up her nights and days to play and idleness, and no
silly lover could have been more foolish than she.
The sun-king became very much offended at all this, and thinking that the
husband was the cause of it, he determined to separate the couple. So he
ordered the husband to remove to the other side of the river of stars,
and told him that hereafter they should meet only once a year, on the
seventh night of the seventh month. To make a bridge over the flood of
stars, the sun-king called myriads of magpies, which thereupon flew
together, and, making a bridge, supported him on their wings and backs as
if it were a roadway of solid land. So, bidding his weeping wife
farewell, the lover-husband sorrowfully crossed the River of Heaven. No
sooner had he set foot on the opposite side than the magpies flew away,
filling all the heavens with their chatter. The weeping wife and
lover-husband stood for a long time wistfully gazing at each other from
afar. Then they separated, the one to lead his ox, the other to ply her
shuttle during the long hours of the day with diligent toil. Thus they
filled the hours, and the sun-king again rejoiced in his daughter's
industry.
But when night fell, and all the lamps of heaven were lighted, the lovers
would come and stand by the banks of the starry river, and gaze longingly
at each other, waiting for the seventh night of the seventh month.
At last the time drew near, and only one fear possessed the loving wife.
Every time she thought of it her heart played pit-a-pat faster. What if
it should rain? For the River of Heaven is always full to the brim, and
one extra drop of rain causes a flood which sweeps away even the
bird-bridge.
[Illustration: THE STAR-LOVERS MEETING ON THE BRIDGE OF BIRDS.]
But not a drop fell. The seventh month, seventh night, came, and all the
heavens were clear. The magpies flew joyfully in myriads, making one way
for the tiny feet of the little lady. Trembling with joy, and with heart
fluttering more than the bridge of wings, she crossed the River of
Heaven, and was in the arms of her husband. This she did every year. The
lover-husband stayed on his side of the river, and the wife came to him
on the magpie bridge, save on the sad occasion when it rained. So every
year the people hope for clear weather, and the happy festival is
celebrated alike by old and young.
THE TRAVELS OF TWO FROGS.
Forty miles apart, as the cranes fly, stand the great cities of Ozaka and
Kioto. The one is the city of canals and bridges. Its streets are full of
bustling trade, and its waterways are ever alive with gondolas, shooting
hither and thither like the wooden shuttles in a loom. The other is the
sacred city of the Mikado's empire, girdled with green hills and a
nine-fold circle of flowers. In its quiet, clean streets, laid out like a
chessboard, walk the shaven monks and gowned scholars. And very beautiful
is Kioto, with pretty girls, and temple gardens, and castle walls, and
towers, and moats in which the white lotus blooms.
* * * * *
Long, long ago, in the good old days before the hairy-faced and
pale-cheeked men from over the Sea of Great Peace (Pacific Ocean) came to
Japan; before the black coal-smoke and snorting engine scared the white
heron from the rice-fields; before black crows and fighting sparrows,
which fear not man, perched on telegraph wires, or ever a railway was
thought of, there lived two frogs--one in a well in Kioto, the other in a
lotus-pond in Ozaka.
Now it is a common proverb in the Land of the Gods (Japan) that "the frog
in the well knows not the great ocean," and the Kioto frog had so often
heard this scornful sneer from the maids who came to draw out water, with
their long bamboo-handled buckets that he resolved to travel abroad and
see the world, and especially the _tai kai_ (the great ocean).
"I'll see for myself," said Mr. Frog, as he packed his wallet and wiped
his spectacles, "what this great ocean is that they talk about. I'll
wager it isn't half as deep or wide as well, where I can see the stars
even at daylight."
Now the truth was, a recent earthquake had greatly reduced the depth of
the well and the water was getting very shallow. Mr. Frog informed his
family of his intentions. Mrs. Frog wept a great deal; but, drying her
eyes with her paper handkerchief, she declared she would count the hours
on her fingers till he came back, and at every morning and evening meal
would set out his table with food on it, just as if he were home. She
tied up a little lacquered box full of boiled rice and snails for his
journey, wrapped it around with a silk napkin, and, putting his extra
clothes in a bundle, swung it on his back. Tying it over his neck, he
seized his staff and was ready to go.
"_Sayonara_" ("Good-bye") cried he, as, with a tear in his eye, he walked
away.
"_Sayonara. Oshidzukani_" ("Good-bye. Walk slowly"), croaked Mrs. Frog
and the whole family of young frogs in a chorus.
Two of the froggies were still babies, that is, they were yet polywogs,
with a half inch of tail still on them; and, of course, were carried
about by being strapped on the back of their older brothers.
Mr. Frog being now on land, out of his well, noticed that the other
animals did not leap, but walked on their legs. And, not wishing to be
eccentric, he likewise began briskly walking upright on his hind legs or
waddling on all fours.
Now it happened that about the same time the Ozaka father frog had become
restless and dissatisfied with life on the edges of his lotus-ditch. He
had made up his mind to "cast the lion's cub into the valley."
"Why! that _is_ tall talk for a frog, I must say," exclaims the reader.
"What did he mean?"
I must tell you that the Ozaka frog was a philosopher. Right at the edge
of his lotus-pond was a monastery, full of Buddhist monks, who every day
studied their sacred rolls and droned over the books of Confucius, to
learn them by heart. Our frog had heard them so often that he could (in
frog language, of course) repeat many of their wise sentences and intone
responses to their evening prayers put up by the great idol Amida.
Indeed, our frog had so often listened to their debates on texts from the
classics that he had himself become a sage and a philosopher. Yet, as
the proverb says, "the sage is not happy."
Why not? In spite of a soft mud-bank, plenty of green scum, stagnant
water, and shady lotus leaves, a fat wife and a numerous family; in
short, everything to make a frog happy, his forehead, or rather gullet,
was wrinkled with care from long pondering of knotty problems, such as
the following:
The monks often come down to the edge of the pond to look at the pink and
white lotus. One summer day, as a little frog, hardly out of his tadpole
state, with a small fragment of tail still left, sat basking on a huge
round leaf, one monk said to the other:
"Of what does that remind you?"
"The babies of frogs will become but frogs," said one shaven pate,
laughing.
"What think you?"
"The white lotus flower springs out of the black mud," said the other,
solemnly, as both walked away.
The old frog, sitting near by, overheard them and began to philosophize:
"Humph! The babies of frogs will become but frogs, hey? If mud becomes
lotus, why shouldn't a frog become a man? Why not? If my pet son should
travel abroad and see the world--go to Kioto, for instance--why shouldn't
he be as wise as those shining-headed men, I wonder? I shall try it,
anyhow. I'll send my son on a journey to Kioto. I'll 'cast the lion's cub
into the valley' (send the pet son abroad in the world, to see and study)
at once. I'll deny myself for the sake of my offspring."
Flump! splash! sounded the water, as a pair of webby feet disappeared.
The "lion's cub" was soon ready, after much paternal advice, and much
counsel to beware of being gobbled up by long-legged storks, and trod on
by impolite men, and struck at by bad boys. "_Kio ni no inaka_" ("Even in
the capital there are boors") said Father Frog.
Now it so happened that the old frog from Kioto and the "lion's cub" from
Ozaka started each from his home at the same time. Nothing of importance
occurred to either of them until, as luck would have it, they met on a
hill near Hashimoto, which is half way between the two cities. Both were
footsore, and websore, and very tired, especially about the hips, on
account of the unfroglike manner of walking, instead of hopping, as they
had been used to.
"_Ohio gozarimasu_" ("Good-morning") said the "lion's cub" to the old
frog, as he fell on all fours and bowed his head to the ground three
times, squinting up over his left eye, to see if the other frog was
paying equal deference in return.
"_He, konnichi wa_" ("Yes, good-day") replied the Kioto frog.
"_O tenki_" ("It is rather fine weather to-day") said the "cub."
"_He, yoi tenki gozence_" ("Yes, it is very fine") replied the old
fellow.
"I am Gamataro, from Ozaka, the oldest son of Hiki Dono, Sensui no Kami"
(Lord Bullfrog, Prince of the Lotus-Ditch).
"Your Lordship must be weary with your journey. I am Kayeru San of
Idomidzu (Sir Frog of the Well) in Kioto. I started out to see the 'great
ocean' from Ozaka; but, I declare, my hips are so dreadfully tired that I
believe that I'll give up my plan and content myself with a look from
this hill."
The truth must be owned that the old frog was not only on his hind legs,
but also on his last legs, when he stood up to look at Ozaka; while the
"cub" was tired enough to believe anything. The old fellow, wiping his
face, spoke up:
"Suppose we save ourselves the trouble of the journey. This hill is half
way between the two cities, and while I see Ozaka and the sea you can get
a good look of the Kio" (Capital, or Kioto).
"Happy thought!" said the Ozaka frog.
Then both reared themselves upon their hind-legs, and stretching upon
their toes, body to body, and neck to neck, propped each other up, rolled
their goggles and looked steadily, as they supposed, on the places which
they each wished to see. Now everyone knows that a frog has eyes mounted
in that part of his head which is FRONT WHEN HE IS DOWN AND BACK WHEN HE
STANDS UP. They are set like a compass on gimbals.
Long and steadily they gazed, until, at last, their toes being tired,
they fell down on all fours.
"I declare!" said the old _yaze_ (daddy) "Ozaka looks just like Kioto;
and as for 'the great ocean' those stupid maids talked about, I don't see
any at all, unless they mean that strip of river that looks for all the
world like the Yodo. I don't believe there is any 'great ocean'!"
"As for my part," said the 'cub', "I am satisfied that it's all folly to
go further; for Kioto is as like Ozaka as one grain of rice is like
another." Then he said to himself: "Old Totsu San (my father) is a fool,
with all his philosophy."
Thereupon both congratulated themselves upon the happy labor-saving
expedient by which they had spared themselves a long journey, much
leg-weariness, and some danger. They departed, after exchanging many
compliments; and, dropping again into a frog's hop, they leaped back in
half the time--the one to his well and the other to his pond. There each
told the story of both cities looking exactly alike; thus demonstrating
the folly of those foolish folks called men. As for the old gentleman in
the lotus-pond, he was so glad to get the "cub" back again that he never
again tried to reason out the problems of philosophy. And to this day the
frog in the well knows not and believes not in the "great ocean." Still
do the babies of frogs become but frogs. Still is it vain to teach the
reptiles philosophy; for all such labor is "like pouring water in a
frog's face." Still out of the black mud springs the glorious white lotus
in celestial purity, unfolding its stainless petals to the smiling
heavens, the emblem of life and resurrection.
THE CHILD OF THE THUNDER.
In among the hills of Echizen, within sight of the snowy mountain called
Hakuzan, lived a farmer named Bimbo. He was very poor, but frugal and
industrious. He was very fond of children though he had none himself. He
longed to adopt a son to bear his name, and often talked the matter over
with his old dame. But being so dreadfully poor both thought it best not
to adopt, until they had bettered their condition and increased the area
of their land. For all the property Bimbo owned was the earth in a little
gully, which he himself was reclaiming. A tiny rivulet, flowing from a
spring in the crevice of the rocks above, after trickling over the
boulders, rolled down the gully to join a brook in the larger valley
below. Bimbo had with great labor, after many years, made dams or
terraces of stone, inside which he had thrown soil, partly got from the
mountain sides, but mainly carried in baskets on the backs of himself and
his wife, from the valley below. By such weary toil, continued year in
and year out, small beds of soil were formed, in which rice could be
planted and grown. The little rivulet supplied the needful water; for
rice, the daily food of laborer and farmer, must be planted and
cultivated in soft mud under water. So the little rivulet, which once
leaped over the rock and cut its way singing to the valley, now spread
itself quietly over each terrace, making more than a dozen descents
before it reached the fields below.
Yet after all his toil for a score of years, working every day from the
first croak of the raven, until the stars came out, Bimbo and his wife
owned only three _tan_ (3/4 acre) of terrace land. Sometimes a summer
would pass, and little or no rain fall. Then the rivulet dried up and
crops failed. It seemed all in vain that their backs were bent and their
foreheads seamed and wrinkled with care. Many a time did Bimbo have hard
work of it even to pay his taxes, which sometimes amounted to half his
crop. Many a time did he shake his head, muttering the discouraged
farmer's proverb "A new field gives a scant crop," the words of which
mean also, "Human life is but fifty years."
One summer day after a long drought, when the young rice sprouts, just
transplanted were turning yellow at the tips, the clouds began to gather
and roll, and soon a smart shower fell, the lightning glittered, and the
hills echoed with claps of thunder. But Bimbo, hoe in hand, was so glad
to see the rain fall, and the pattering drops felt so cool and
refreshing, that he worked on, strengthening the terrace to resist the
little flood about to come.
* * * * *
Pretty soon the storm rattled very near him, and he thought he had better
seek shelter, lest the thunder should strike and kill him. For Bimbo,
like all his neighbors, had often heard stories of Kaijin, the god of the
thunder-drums, who lives in the skies and rides on the storm, and
sometimes kills people by throwing out of the clouds at them a terrible
creature like a cat, with iron-like claws and a hairy body.
Just as Bimbo threw his hoe over his shoulder and started to move, a
terrible blinding flash of lightning dazzled his eyes. It was immediately
followed by a deafening crash, and the thunder fell just in front of him.
He covered his eyes with his hands, but finding himself unhurt, uttered a
prayer of thanks to Buddha for safety. Then he uncovered his eyes and
looked down at his feet.
There lay a little boy, rosy and warm, and crowing in the most lively
manner, and never minding the rain in the least. The farmer's eyes opened
very wide, but happy and nearly surprised out of his senses, he picked up
the child tenderly in his arms, and took him home to his old wife.
"Here's a gift from Raijin," said Bimbo. "We'll adopt him as our own son
and call him Rai-taro," (the first-born darling of the thunder).
So the boy grew up and became a very dutiful and loving child. He was as
kind and obedient to his foster-parents as though he had been born in
their house. He never liked to play with other children, but kept all day
in the fields with his father, sporting with the rivulet and looking at
the clouds and sky. Even when the strolling players of the Dai Kagura
(the comedy which makes the gods laugh) and the "Lion of Corea" came into
the village, and every boy and girl and nurse and woman was sure to be
out in great glee, the child of the thunder stayed up in the field, or
climbed on the high rocks to watch the sailing of the birds and the
flowing of the water and the river far away.
Great prosperity seemed to come to the farmer, and he laid it all to the
sweet child that fell to him from the clouds. It was very curious that
rain often fell on Bimbo's field when none fell elsewhere; so that Bimbo
grew rich and changed his name to Kanemochi. He believed that the boy
Raitaro beckoned to the clouds, and they shed their rain for him.
A good many summers passed by, and Raitaro had grown to be a tall and
handsome lad, almost a man and eighteen years old. On his birthday the
old farmer and the good wife made a little feast for their foster-child.
They ate and drank and talked of the thunder-storm, out of which Raitaro
was born.
Finally the young man said solemnly:
"My dear parents, I thank you very much for your kindness to me, but I
must now say farewell. I hope you will always be happy."
Then, in a moment, all trace of a human form disappeared, and floating
in the air, they saw a tiny white dragon, which hovered for a moment
above them, and then flew away. The old couple went out of doors to watch
it, when it grew bigger and bigger, taking its course to the hills above,
where the piled-up white clouds, which form on a summer's afternoon,
seemed built up like towers and castles of silver. Towards one of these
the dragon moved, until, as they watched his form, now grown to a mighty
size, it disappeared from view.
After this Kanemochi and his wife, who were now old and white-headed,
ceased from their toil and lived in comfort all their days. When they
died and their bodies were reduced to a heap of white cinders in the
stone furnace of the village cremation-house, their ashes were mixed, and
being put into one urn, were laid away in the cemetery of the temple
yard. Their tomb was carved in the form of a white dragon, which to this
day, in spite of mosses and lichens, may still be seen among the ancient
monuments of the little hamlet.
THE TONGUE-CUT SPARROW.
There was once an old man who had a wife with a very bad temper. She had
never borne him any children, and would not take the trouble to adopt a
son. So for a little pet he kept a tiny sparrow, and fed it with great
care. The old dame not satisfied with scolding her husband hated the
sparrow.
Now the old woman's temper was especially bad on wash days, when her old
back and knees were well strained over the low tub, which rested on the
ground.
It happened once that she had made some starch, and set it in a red
wooden bowl to cool. While her back was turned, the sparrow hopped down
on the edge of the bowl, and pecked at some of the starch. In a rage the
old hag seized a pair of scissors and cut the sparrow's tongue out.
Flinging the bird in the air she cried out, "Now be off." So the poor
sparrow, all bleeding, flew away.
When the old man came back and found his pet gone, he made a great ado.
He asked his wife, and she told him what she had done and why. The
sorrowful old man grieved sorely for his pet, and after looking in every
place and calling it by name, gave it up as lost.
Long after this, old man while wandering on the mountains met his old
friend the sparrow. They both cried "Ohio!" (good morning,) to each
other, and bowing low offered many mutual congratulations and inquiries
as to health, etc. Then the sparrow begged the old man to visit his
humble abode, promising to introduce his wife and two daughters.
The old man went in and found a nice little house with a bamboo garden,
tiny waterfall, stepping stone and everything complete. Then Mrs. Sparrow
brought in slices of sugar-jelly, rock-candy, sweet potato custard, and a
bowl of hot starch sprinkled with sugar, and a pair of chopsticks on a
tray. Miss Suzumi, the elder daughter brought the tea caddy and tea-pot,
and in a snap of the fingers had a good cup of tea ready, which she
offered on a tray, kneeling.
"Please take up and help yourself. The refreshments are very poor, but I
hope you will excuse our plainness," said Mother Sparrow. The delighted
old man, wondering in himself at such a polite family of sparrows, ate
heartily, and drank several cups of tea. Finally, on being pressed he
remained all night.
For several days the old man enjoyed himself at the sparrow's home. He
looked at the landscapes and the moonlight, feasted to his heart's
content, and played _go_ (the game of 360 checkers) with Ko-suzumi the
little daughter. In the evening Mrs. Sparrow would bring out the
refreshments and the wine, and seat the old man on a silken cushion,
while she played the guitar. Mr. Sparrow and his two daughters danced,
sung and made merry. The delighted old man leaning on the velvet arm-rest
forgot his cares, his old limbs and his wife's tongue, and felt like a
youth again.
On the fifth day the old man said he must go home. Then the sparrow
brought out two baskets made of plaited rattan, such as are used in
traveling and carried on men's shoulders. Placing them before their
guest, the sparrow said, "Please accept a parting gift."
Now one basket was very heavy, and the other very light. The old man, not
being greedy, said he would take the lighter one. So with many thanks and
bows and good-byes, he set off homewards.
He reached his hut safely, but instead of a kind welcome the old hag
began to scold him for being away so long. He begged her to be quiet, and
telling of his visit to the sparrows, opened the basket, while the
scowling old woman held her tongue, out of sheer curiosity.
Oh, what a splendid sight! There were gold and silver coin, and gems, and
coral, and crystal, and amber, and the never-failing bag of money, and
the invisible coat and hat, and rolls of books, and all manner of
precious things.
At the sight of so much wealth, the old hag's scowl changed to a smile of
greedy joy. "I'll go right off and get a present from the sparrows," said
she.
So binding on her straw sandals, and tucking up her skirts, and adjusting
her girdle, tying the bow in front, she seized her staff and set off on
the road. Arriving at the sparrow's house she began to flatter Mr.
Sparrow by soft speeches. Of course the polite sparrow invited her into
his house, but nothing but a cup of tea was offered her, and wife and
daughters kept away. Seeing she was not going to get any good-bye gift,
the brazen hussy asked for one. The sparrow then brought out and set
before her two baskets, one heavy and the other light. Taking the heavier
one without so much as saying "thank you," she carried it back with her.
Then she opened it, expecting all kinds of riches.
She took off the lid, when a horrible cuttle-fish rushed at her, and a
horned _oni_ snapped his tusks at her, a skeleton poked his bony fingers
in her face, and finally a long, hairy serpent, with a big head and
lolling tongue, sprang out and coiled around her, cracking her bones, and
squeezing out her breath, till she died.
After the good old man had buried his wife, he adopted a son to comfort
his old age, and with his treasures lived at ease all his days.
THE FIRE-FLY'S LOVERS.
In Japan the night-flies emit so brilliant a light and are so beautiful
that ladies go out in the evenings and catch the insects for amusement,
as may be seen represented on Japanese fans. They imprison them in tiny
cages made of bamboo threads, and hang them up in their rooms or suspend
them from the eaves of their houses. At their picnic parties, the people
love to sit on August evenings, fan in hand, looking over the lovely
landscape, spangled by ten thousand brilliant spots of golden light. Each
flash seems like a tiny blaze of harmless lightning.
One of the species of night-flies, the most beautiful of all, is a source
of much amusement to the ladies. Hanging the cage of glittering insects
on their verandahs, they sit and watch the crowd of winged visitors
attracted by the fire-fly's light. What brings them there, and why the
fire-fly's parlor is filled with suitors as a queen's court with
courtiers, let this love story tell.
* * * * *
On the southern and sunny side of the castle moats of the Fukui castle,
in Echizen, the water had long ago become shallow so that lotus lilies
grew luxuriantly. Deep in the heart of one of the great flowers whose
petals were as pink as the lining of a sea-shell, lived the King of the
Fire-flies, Hi-[=o], whose only daughter was the lovely princess
Hotaru-hime. While still a child the hime (princess) was carefully kept
at home within the pink petals of the lily, never going even to the
edges except to see her father fly off on his journey. Dutifully she
waited until of age, when the fire glowed in her own body, and shone,
beautifully illuminating the lotus, until its light at night was like a
lamp within a globe of coral.
Every night her light grew brighter and brighter, until at last it was as
mellow as gold. Then her father said:
"My daughter is now of age, she may fly abroad with me sometimes, and
when the proper suitor comes she may marry whom she will."
So Hotaru-hime flew forth in and out among the lotus lilies of the moat,
then into rich rice fields, and at last far off to the indigo meadows.
Whenever she went a crowd of suitors followed her, for she had the
singular power of attracting all the night-flying insects to herself.
But she cared for none of their attentions, and though she spoke politely
to them all she gave encouragement to none. Yet some of the sheeny-winged
gallants called her a coquette.
One night she said to her mother, the queen:
"I have met many admirers, but I don't wish a husband from any of them.
Tonight I shall stay at home, and if any of them love me truly they will
come and pay me court here. Then I shall lay an impossible duty on them.
If they are wise they will not try to perform it; and if they love their
lives more than they love me, I do not want any of them. Whoever succeeds
may have me for his bride."
"As you will my child," said the queen mother, who arrayed her daughter
in her most resplendent robes, and set her on her throne in the heart of
the lotus.
Then she gave orders to her body-guard to keep all suitors at a
respectful distance lest some stupid gallant, a horn-bug or a cockchafer
dazzled by the light should approach too near and hurt the princess or
shake her throne.
No sooner had twilight faded away, than forth came the golden beetle, who
stood on a stamen and making obeisance, said:--
"I am Lord Green-Gold, I offer my house, my fortune and my love to
Princess Hotaru."
"Go and bring me fire and I will be your bride" said Hotaru-hime.
With a bow of the head the beetle opened his wings and departed with a
stately whirr.
Next came a shining bug with wings and body as black as lamp-smoke, who
solemnly professed his passion.
"Bring me fire and you may have me for your wife."
Off flew the bug with a buzz.
Pretty soon came the scarlet dragon-fly, expecting so to dazzle the
princess by his gorgeous colors that she would accept him at once.
"I decline your offer" said the princess, "but if you bring me a flash of
fire, I'll become your bride."
Swift was the flight of the dragon-fly on his errand, and in came the
Beetle with a tremendous buzz, and ardently plead his suit.
"I'll say 'yes' if you bring me fire" said the glittering princess.
Suitor after suitor appeared to woo the daughter of the King of the
Fire-flies until every petal was dotted with them. One after another in a
long troop they appeared. Each in his own way, proudly, humbly, boldly,
mildly, with flattery, with boasting, even with tears, each proffered his
love, told his rank or expatiated on his fortune or vowed his constancy,
sang his tune or played his music. To every one of her lovers the
princess in modest voice returned the same answer:
"Bring me fire and I'll be your bride."
So without telling his rivals, each one thinking he had the secret alone
sped away after fire.
But none ever came back to wed the princess. Alas for the poor suitors!
The beetle whizzed off to a house near by through the paper windows of
which light glimmered. So full was he of his passion that thinking
nothing of wood or iron, he dashed his head against a nail, and fell dead
on the ground.
The black bug flew into a room where a poor student was reading. His lamp
was only a dish of earthenware full of rape seed oil with a wick made of
pith. Knowing nothing of oil the love-lorn bug crawled into the dish to
reach the flame and in a few seconds was drowned in the oil.
"Nan jaro?" (What's that?) said a thrifty housewife, sitting with needle
in hand, as her lamp flared up for a moment, smoking the chimney, and
then cracking it; while picking out the scorched bits she found a roasted
dragon-fly, whose scarlet wings were all burned off.
Mad with love the brilliant hawk-moth, afraid of the flame yet determined
to win the fire for the princess, hovered round and round the candle
flame, coming nearer and nearer each time. "Now or never, the princess or
death," he buzzed, as he darted forward to snatch a flash of flame, but
singeing his wings, he fell helplessly down, and died in agony.
"What a fool he was, to be sure," said the ugly clothes moth, coming on
the spot, "I'll get the fire. I'll crawl up _inside_ the candle." So he
climbed up the hollow paper wick, and was nearly to the top, and inside
the hollow blue part of the flame, when the man, snuffing the wick,
crushed him to death.
Sad indeed was the fate of the lovers of Hi-[=o]'s daughter. Some hovered
around the beacons on the headland, some fluttered about the great wax
candles which stood eight feet high in their brass sockets in Buddhist
temples; some burned their noses at the top of incense sticks, or were
nearly choked by the smoke; some danced all night around the lanterns in
the shrines; some sought the sepulchral lamps in the graveyard; one
visited the cremation furnace; another the kitchen, where a feast was
going on; another chased the sparks that flew out of the chimney; but
none brought fire to the princess, or won the lover's prize. Many lost
their feelers, had their shining bodies scorched or their wings singed,
but most of them alas! lay dead, black and cold next morning.
As the priests trimmed the lamps in the shrines, and the servant maids
the lanterns, each said alike:
"The Princess Hotaru must have had many lovers last night."
Alas! alas! poor suitors. Some tried to snatch a streak of green fire
from the cat's eyes, and were snapped up for their pains. One attempted
to get a mouthful of bird's breath, but was swallowed alive. A carrion
beetle (the ugly lover) crawled off to the sea shore, and found some fish
scales that emitted light. The stag-beetle climbed a mountain, and in a
rotten tree stump found some bits of glowing wood like fire, but the
distance was so great that long before they reached the castle moat it
was daylight, and the fire had gone out; so they threw their fish scales
and old wood away.
The next day was one of great mourning and there were so many funerals
going on, that Hi-mar[=o] the Prince of the Fire-flies on the north side
of the castle moat inquired of his servants the cause. Then he learned
for the first time of the glittering princess. Upon this the prince who
had just succeeded his father upon the throne fell in love with the
princess and resolved to marry her. He sent his chamberlain to ask of her
father his daughter in marriage according to true etiquette. The father
agreed to the prince's proposal, with the condition that the Prince
should obey her behest in one thing, which was to come in person
bringing her fire.
Then the Prince at the head of his glittering battalions came in person
and filled the lotus palace with a flood of golden light. But Hotaru-hime
was so beautiful that her charms paled not their fire even in the blaze
of the Prince's glory. The visit ended in wooing, and the wooing in
wedding. On the night appointed, in a palanquin made of the white
lotus-petals, amid the blazing torches of the prince's battalions of
warriors, Hotaru-hime was borne to the prince's palace and there, prince
and princess were joined in the wedlock.
Many generations have passed since Hi-mar[=o] and Hotaru-hime were
married, and still it is the whim of all Fire-fly princesses that their
base-born lovers must bring fire as their love-offering or lose their
prize. Else would the glittering fair ones be wearied unto death by the
importunity of their lovers. Great indeed is the loss, for in this quest
of fire many thousand insects, attracted by the fire-fly, are burned to
death in the vain hope of winning the fire that shall gain the cruel but
beautiful one that fascinates them. It is for this cause that each night
insects hover around the lamp flame, and every morning a crowd of victims
drowned in the oil, or scorched in the flame, must be cleaned from the
lamp. This is the reason why young ladies catch and imprison the
fire-flies to watch the war of insect-love, in the hope that they may
have human lovers who will dare as much, through fire and flood, as they.
THE BATTLE OF THE APE AND THE CRAB.
In the land where neither the monkeys or the cats have tails, and the
persimmons grow to be as large as apples and with seeds bigger than a
melon's, there once lived a land crab in the side of a sand hill. One day
an ape came along having a persimmon seed, which he offered to swap with
the crab for a rice-cake. The crab agreed, and planting the seed in his
garden went out every day to watch it grow.
By-and-by the ape came to visit the crab, and seeing the fine tree laden
with the yellow-brown fruit, begged a few. The crab, asking pardon of
the ape, said he could not climb the tree to offer him any, but agreed to
give the ape half, if he would mount the tree and pluck them.
So the monkey ran up the tree, while the crab waited below, expecting to
eat the ripe fruit. But the monkey sitting on a limb first filled his
pockets full, and then picking off all the best ones, greedily ate the
pulp, and threw the skin and stones in the crab's face. Every once in a
while, he would pull off a green sour persimmon and hit the crab hard,
until his shell was nearly cracked. At last the crab thought he would get
the best of the ape. So when his enemy had eaten his fill until he was
bulged out, he cried out,
"Now Mister Ape, I dare you to come down head-foremost. You can't do it."
So the ape began to descend, head downward. This was just what the crab
wanted, for all the finest persimmons rolled out of his pockets on the
ground. The crab quickly gathered them up, and with both arms full ran
off to his hole. Then the ape was very angry. He kindled a fire, and blew
the smoke down the hole, until the crab was nearly choked. The poor crab
to save his life had to crawl out.
Then the monkey beat him soundly, and left him for dead.
The crab had not been long thus, when three travelers, a rice-mortar, an
egg, and a wasp found him lying on the ground. They carried him into the
house, bound up his wounds and while he lay in bed they planned how they
might destroy the ape. They all talked of the matter over their cups of
tea, and after the mortar had smoked several pipes of tobacco, a plan was
agreed on.
So taking the crab along, stiff and sore as he was, they marched to the
monkey's castle. The wasp flew inside, and found that their enemy was
away from home. Then all entered and hid themselves. The egg cuddled up
under the ashes in the hearth. The wasp flew into the closet. The mortar
hid behind the door. They then waited for the ape to come home. The crab
sat beside the fire.
Towards evening the monkey arrived, and throwing off his coat (which was
just what the wasp wanted) he lighted a sulphur match, and kindling a
fire, hung on the kettle for a cup of tea, and pulled out his pipe for a
smoke. Just as he sat down by the hearth to salute the crab, the egg
burst and the hot yolk flew all over him and in his eye, nearly blinding
him. He rushed out to the bath-room to plunge in the tub of cold water,
when the wasp flew at him and stung his nose. Slipping down, he fell
flat on the floor, when the mortar rolled on him and crushed him to
death. Then the whole party congratulated the crab on their victory.
Grateful for the friendship thus shown, the whole party, crab, mortar and
wasp lived in peace together.
The crab married the daughter of a rich crab that lived over the hill,
and a great feast of persimmons was spread before the bride's relatives
who came to see the ceremony. By-and-by a little crab was born which
became a great pet with the mortar and wasp. With no more apes to plague
them, they lived very happily.
[Illustration: THE EGG, WASP AND MORTAR ATTACK THE MONKEY.]
THE WONDERFUL TEA-KETTLE.
A long time ago there was an old priest who lived in the temple of
Morinji in the province of Hitachi. He cooked his own rice, boiled his
own tea, swept his own floor and lived frugally as an honest priest
should do.
One day he was sitting near the square fire-place in the middle of the
floor. A rope and chain to hold the pot and kettle hung down from the
covered hole in the ceiling which did duty as a chimney. A pair of brass
tongs was stuck in the ashes and the fire blazed merrily. At the side of
the fire-place, on the floor, was a tray filled with tiny tea-cups, a
pewter tea-caddy, a bamboo tea-stirrer, and a little dipper. The priest
having finished sweeping the ashes off the edges of the hearth with a
little whisk of hawk's feathers, was just about to put on the tea when
"suzz," "suzz," sang the tea-kettle spout; and then "pattari"--"pattari"
said the lid, as it flapped up and down, and the kettle swung backwards
and forwards.
"What does this mean?" said the old bonze. "_Naru hodo_," said he, with a
start as the spout of the kettle turned into a badger's nose with its big
whiskers, while from the other side sprouted out a long bushy tail.
"_Yohodo medzurashi_," shouted the priest dropping the tea-caddy and
spilling the green tea all over the matting as four hairy legs appeared
under the kettle, and the strange compound, half badger and half kettle,
jumped off the fire, and began running around the room. To the priest's
horror it leaped on a shelf, puffed out its belly and began to beat a
tune with its fore-paws as if it were a drum. The old bonze's pupils,
hearing the racket rushed in, and after a lively chase, upsetting piles
of books and breaking some of the tea-cups, secured the badger, and
squeezed him in a keg used for storing the pickled radishes called
_daikon_, (or Japanese sauer-kraut.) They fastened down the lid with a
heavy stone. They were sure that the strong odor of the radishes would
kill the beast, for no man could possibly survive such a smell, and it
was not likely a badger could.
The next morning the tinker of the village called in and the priest told
him about his strange visitor. Wishing to show him the animal, he
cautiously lifted the lid of the cask, lest the badger, might after all,
be still alive, in spite of the stench of the sour mess, when lo! there
was nothing but the old iron tea-kettle. Fearing that the utensil might
play the same prank again, the priest was glad to sell it to the tinker
who bought the kettle for a few iron cash. He carried it to his junk
shop, though he thought it felt unusually heavy.
The tinker went to bed as usual that night with his _andon_, or paper
shaded lamp, just back of his head. About midnight, hearing a strange
noise like the flapping up and down of an iron pot-lid, he sat up in bed,
rubbed his eyes, and there was the iron pot covered with fur and
sprouting out legs. In short, it was turning into a hairy beast. Going
over to the recess and taking a fan from the rack, the badger climbed up
on the frame of the lamp, and began to dance on its one hind leg, waving
the fan with its fore-paw. It played many other tricks, until the man
started up, and then the badger turned into a tea-kettle again.
"I declare," said the tinker as he woke up next morning, and talked the
matter over with his wife. "I'll just 'raise a mountain'" (earn my
fortune) on this kettle. It certainly is a very highly accomplished
tea-kettle I'll call it the Bumbuku Chagama (The Tea-Kettle accomplished
in literature and military art) and exhibit it to the public.