Next morning Caliph Chasid had barely finished dressing, and
breakfasting, when the Grand Vizier arrived, according to orders, to
accompany him in his expedition. The Caliph stuck the snuff-box in his
girdle, and, having desired his servants to remain at home, started off
with the Grand Vizier only in attendance. First they walked through the
palace gardens, but they looked in vain for some creature which could
tempt them to try their magic power. At length the Vizier suggested
going further on to a pond which lay beyond the town, and where he
had often seen a variety of creatures, especially storks, whose grave,
dignified appearance and constant chatter had often attracted his
attention.
The Caliph consented, and they went straight to the pond. As soon as
they arrived they remarked a stork strutting up and down with a stately
air, hunting for frogs, and now and then muttering something to itself.
At the same time they saw another stork far above in the sky flying
towards the same spot.
‘I would wager my beard, most gracious master,’ said the Grand Vizier,
‘that these two long legs will have a good chat together. How would it
be if we turned ourselves into storks?’
‘Well said,’ replied the Caliph; ‘but first let us remember carefully
how we are to become men once more. True! Bow three times towards the
east and say “Mutabor!” and I shall be Caliph and you my Grand Vizier
again. But for Heaven’s sake don’t laugh or we are lost!’
As the Caliph spoke he saw the second stork circling round his head and
gradually flying towards the earth. Quickly he drew the box from his
girdle, took a good pinch of the snuff, and offered one to Mansor, who
also took one, and both cried together ‘Mutabor!’
Instantly their legs shrivelled up and grew thin and red; their smart
yellow slippers turned to clumsy stork’s feet, their arms to wings;
their necks began to sprout from between their shoulders and grew a
yard long; their beards disappeared, and their bodies were covered with
feathers.
‘You’ve got a fine long bill, Sir Vizier,’ cried the Caliph, after
standing for some time lost in astonishment. ‘By the beard of the
Prophet I never saw such a thing in all my life!’
‘My very humble thanks,’ replied the Grand Vizier, as he bent his long
neck; ‘but, if I may venture to say so, your Highness is even handsomer
as a stork than as a Caliph. But come, if it so pleases you, let us go
near our comrades there and find out whether we really do understand the
language of storks.’
Meantime the second stork had reached the ground. It first scraped its
bill with its claw, stroked down its feathers, and then advanced towards
the first stork. The two newly made storks lost no time in drawing near,
and to their amazement overheard the following conversation:
‘Good morning, Dame Longlegs. You are out early this morning!’
‘Yes, indeed, dear Chatterbill! I am getting myself a morsel of
breakfast. May I offer you a joint of lizard or a frog’s thigh?’
‘A thousand thanks, but I have really no appetite this morning. I
am here for a very different purpose. I am to dance to-day before
my father’s guests, and I have come to the meadow for a little quiet
practice.’
Thereupon the young stork began to move about with the most wonderful
steps. The Caliph and Mansor looked on in surprise for some time; but
when at last she balanced herself in a picturesque attitude on one leg,
and flapped her wings gracefully up and down, they could hold out no
longer; a prolonged peal burst from each of their bills, and it was some
time before they could recover their composure. The Caliph was the first
to collect himself. ‘That was the best joke,’ said he, ‘I’ve ever seen.
It’s a pity the stupid creatures were scared away by our laughter, or no
doubt they would have sung next!’
Suddenly, however, the Vizier remembered how strictly they had been
warned not to laugh during their transformation. He at once communicated
his fears to the Caliph, who exclaimed, ‘By Mecca and Medina! it
would indeed prove but a poor joke if I had to remain a stork for the
remainder of my days! Do just try and remember the stupid word, it has
slipped my memory.’
‘We must bow three times eastwards and say “Mu...mu...mu...”’
They turned to the east and fell to bowing till their bills touched the
ground, but, oh horror--the magic word was quite forgotten, and
however often the Caliph bowed and however touchingly his Vizier cried
‘Mu...mu...’ they could not recall it, and the unhappy Chasid and Mansor
remained storks as they were.