Of course we grown-up people know that the _Lion_ is the Buddha in

disguise. Children will not be able to realize this, nor is it the

least necessary that they should do so; but they will grasp the idea

that he is a very unusual lion, not to be met with in Paul Du Chaillu's

adventures, still less in the quasi-domestic atmosphere of the

Zoological Gardens. If our presentation is life-like and sincere,

we shall convey all we intend to the child. This is part of what

I call the atmosphere of the story, which, as in a photograph, can

only be obtained by long exposure, that is to say, in the case of

preparation we must bestow much reflection and sympathy.

Because these two animals are the chief characters, they must be

painted in fainter colors--they should be suggested rather than

presented in detail. It might be well to give a definite gesture to

the _Elephant_--say, a characteristic movement with his trunk--a scowl

to the _Tiger_, a supercilious and enigmatic smile to the _Camel_

(suggested by Kipling's wonderful creation). But if a gesture were

given to each of the animals, the effect would become monotonous, and

the minor characters would crowd the foreground of the picture, impeding

the action and leaving little to the imagination of the audience. I

personally have found it effective to repeat the gestures of these

animals as they are leaving the stage, but less markedly, as it is

only a form of reminder.

Now, what is the impression we wish to leave on the mind of the child,

apart from the dramatic joy and interest we have endeavored to provide?

Surely it is that he may realize the danger of a panic. One method of

doing this (alas! a favorite one still) is to say at the end of the

story: "Now, children, what do we learn from this?" Of this method Lord

Morley has said: "It is a commonplace to the wise, and an everlasting

puzzle to the foolish, that direct inculcation of morals should

invariably prove so powerless an instrument, so futile a method."

If this direct method were really effective, we might as well put the

little drama aside, and say plainly: "It is foolish to be nervous; it

is dangerous to make loose statements. Large-minded people understand

things better than those who are narrow-minded."

All these abstract statements would be as true and as tiresome as the

multiplication table. The child might or might not fix them in his

mind, but he would not act upon them.

But, put all the artistic warmth of which you are capable into the

presentation of the story, and, without one word of comment from you,

the children will feel the dramatic intensity of that vast concourse

of animals brought together by the feeble utterance of one irresponsible

little hare. Let them feel the dignity and calm of the _Lion_, which

accounts for his authority; his tender but firm treatment of the foolish

little _Hare_; and listen to the glorious finale when all the animals

retire convinced of their folly; and you will find that you have adopted

the same method as the _Lion_ (who must have been an unconscious

follower of Froebel), and that there is nothing to add to the picture.

QUESTION VI: _Is it wise to talk over a story with children and to

encourage them in the habit of asking questions about it_?

At the time, no! The effect produced is to be by dramatic means, and

this would be destroyed any attempt at analysis by means of questions.

The medium that has been used in the telling of the story is (or ought

to be) a purely artistic one which will reach the child through the

medium of the emotions: the appeal to the intellect or the reason is

a different method, which must be used at a different time. When you

are enjoying the fragrance of a flower or the beauty of its color, it

is not the moment to be reminded of its botanical classification, just

as in the botany lesson it would be somewhat irrelevant to talk of the

part that flowers play in the happiness of life.

From a practical point of view, it is not wise to encourage questions

on the part of the children, because they are apt to disturb the

atmosphere by bringing in entirely irrelevant matter, so that in

looking back on the telling of the story, the child often remembers

the irrelevant conversation to the exclusion of the dramatic interest

of the story itself.[47]

I remember once making what I considered at the time a most effective

appeal to some children who had been listening to the Story of the

Little Tin Soldier, and, unable to refrain from the cheap method of

questioning, of which I have now recognized the futility, I asked:

"Don't you think it was nice of the little dancer to rush down into

the fire to join the brave little soldier?" "Well," said a prosaic

little lad of six: "_I_ thought the draught carried her down."

QUESTION VII: _Is it wise to call upon children to repeat the story

as soon as it has been told_?

My answer here is decidedly in the negative.

While fully appreciating the modern idea of children expressing

themselves, I very much deprecate this so-called self-expression

taking the form of mere reproduction. I have dealt with this matter

in detail in another portion of my book. This is one of the occasions

when children should be taking in, not giving out (even the most

fanatic of moderns must agree that there _are_ such moments).

When, after much careful preparation, an expert has told a story to

the best of his ability, to encourage the children to reproduce this

story with their imperfect vocabulary and with no special gift of

speech (I am always alluding to the normal group of children) is as

futile as if, after the performance of a musical piece by a great

artist, some individual member of the audience were to be called upon

to give _his_ rendering of the original rendering. The result

would be that the musical joy of the audience would be completely

destroyed and the performer himself would share in the loss.[48]

I have always maintained that five minutes of complete silence after

the story would do more to fix the impression on the mind of the child

than any amount of attempt at reproducing it. The general statement

made in Dr. Montessor's wonderful chapter on "Silence" would seem to

me of special application to the moments following on the telling of

a story.

QUESTION VIII: _Should children be encouraged to illustrate the

stories which they have heard_?

As a dramatic interest to the teachers and the children, I think it

is a very praiseworthy experiment, if used somewhat sparingly. But

I seriously doubt whether these illustrations in any way indicate the

impression made on the mind of the child. It is the same question

that arises when that child is called upon, or expresses a wish, to

reproduce the story in his own words: the unfamiliar medium in both

instances makes it almost impossible for the child to convey his

meaning, unless he is an artist in the one case or he has real

literary power of expression in the other.

My own impression, confirmed by many teachers who have made the

experiment, is that a certain amount of disappointment is mixed

up with the daring joy in the attempt, simply because the children

can get nowhere near the ideal which has presented itself to the

"inner eye."

I remember a kindergarten teacher saying that on one occasion, when

she had told to the class a thrilling story of a knight, one of the

children immediately asked for permission to draw a picture of him on

the blackboard. So spontaneous a request could not, of course, be

refused, and, full of assurance, the would-be artist began to give his

impression of the knight's appearance. When the picture was finished,

the child stood back for a moment to judge for himself of the result.

He put down the chalk and said sadly: "And I _thought_ he was so

handsome."

Nevertheless, except for the drawback of the other children seeing a

picture which might be inferior to their own mental vision, I should

quite approve of such experiments, as long as they are not taken as

literal data of what the children have really received. It would,

however, be better not to have the picture drawn on a blackboard but

at the child's private desk, to be seen by the teacher and not, unless

the picture were exceptionally good, to be shown to the other children.

One of the best effects of such an experiment would be to show a child

how difficult it is to give the impression one wishes to record, and

which would enable him later on to appreciate the beauty of such work

in the hands of a finished artist.

I can anticipate the jeers with which such remarks would be received

by the Futurist School, but, according to their own theory, I ought to

be allowed to express the matter _as I see it_, however faulty the

vision may appear to them.[49]

QUESTION IX: _In what way can the dramatic method of story-telling

be used in ordinary class teaching_?

This is too large a question to answer fully in so general a survey as

this work, but I should like to give one or two examples as to how the

element of story-telling could be introduced.

I have always thought that the only way in which we could make either

a history or literature lesson live, so as to take a real hold on the

mind of the pupil at any age, would be that, instead of offering lists

of events, crowded into the fictitious area of one reign, one should

take a single event, say in one lesson out of five, and give it in the

most splendid language and in the most dramatic manner.

To come to a concrete example: Supposing that one is talking to the

class of Greece, either in connection with its history, its geography

or its literature, could any mere accumulation of facts give a clearer

idea of the life of the people than a dramatically told story from

Homer, Aeschylus, Sophocles or Euripides?

What in the history of Iceland could give any more graphic idea of

the whole character of the life and customs of the inhabitants than

one of the famous sagas, such as "The Burning of Njal" or "The Death

of Gunnar"?

In teaching the history of Spain, what could make the pupils understand

better the spirit of knight-errantry, its faults and its qualities, than

a recital from "Don Quixote" or from the tale of "The Cid"?

In a word, the stories must appeal so vividly to the imagination that

they will light up the whole period of history which we wish them to

illustrate and keep it alive in the memory for all time.

But quite apart from the dramatic presentation of history, there are

very great possibilities for the short story introduced into the

portrait of some great personage, insignificant in itself, but which

throws a sudden sidelight on his character, showing the mind behind

the actual deeds; this is what I mean by using the dramatic method.

To take a concrete example: Suppose, in giving an account of the life

of Napoleon, after enlarging upon his campaigns, his European policy,

his indomitable will, one were suddenly to give an idea of his many-

sidedness by relating how he actually found time to compile a catechism

which was used for some years in the elementary schools of France. What

sidelights might be thrown in this way on such characters as Nero,

Caesar, Henry VIII, Luther, Goethe!

To take one example from these: Instead of making the whole career of

Henry VIII center round the fact that he was a much-married man, could

we not present his artistic side and speak of his charming contributions

to music?

So much for the history lessons. But could not the dramatic form and

interest be introduced into our geography lessons? Think of the

romance of the Panama Canal, the position of Constantinople, as

affecting the history of Europe, the shape of Greece, England as an

island, the position of Thibet, the interior of Africa--to what

wonderful story-telling would these themes lend themselves!

QUESTION X: _Which should predominate in the story--the dramatic or

the poetic element_?

This is a much debated point. From experience I have come to the

conclusion that, though both should be found in the whole range of

stories, the dramatic element should prevail from the very nature of

the presentation, and also because it reaches the larger number of

children, at least of normal children. Almost every child is dramatic,

in the sense that it loves action (not necessarily an action in which

it has to bear a part). It is the exceptional child who is reached by

the poetic side, and just as on the stage the action must be quicker

and more concentrated than in a poem--than even a dramatic poem--the

poetical side, which must be painted in more delicate colors or

presented in less obvious form, often escapes them. Of course, the

very reason why we must include the poetical element is that it is

an unexpressed need of most children. Their need of the dramatic is

more loudly proclaimed and more easily satisfied.

QUESTION XI: _What is the educational value of humor in the stories

told to our children_?

My answer to this is that humor means so much more than is usually

understood by this term. So many people seem to think that to have a

sense of humor is merely to be tickled by a funny element in a story.

It surely means something much more subtle than this. It is Thackeray

who says: "If humor only meant laughter, but the humorist profess to

awaken and direct your love, your pity, your kindness, your scorn for

untruth and pretension, your tenderness for the weak, the poor, the

oppressed, the unhappy." So that, in our stories, the introduction of

humor should not merely depend on the doubtful amusement that follows

on a sense of incongruity. It should inculcate a sense of proportion

brought about by an effort of imagination; it shows a child its real

position in the universe and prevents hasty conclusions. It shortens

the period of joy in horse-play and practical jokes. It brings about

a clearer perception of all situations, enabling the child to get the

point of view of another person. It is the first instilling of

philosophy into the mind of a child and prevents much suffering later

on when the blows of life fall upon him; for a sense of humor teaches

us at an early age not to expect too much: and this philosophy can be

developed with cynicism or pessimism, without even destroying the

_joie de vivre_.

One cannot, however, sufficiently emphasize the fact that these far-

reaching results can be brought about only by humor quite distinct

from the broader fun and hilarity which have also their use in an

educational scheme.

From my own experience, I have learned that development of humor is

with most children extremely slow. It _is_ quite natural and quite

right that at first pure fun, obvious situations and elementary jokes

should please them, but we can very gradually appeal to something more

subtle, and if I were asked what story would educate our children most

thoroughly in appreciation of humor, I should say that "Alice in

Wonderland" was the most effective.

What better object lesson could be given in humorous form of taking

somebody else's point of view than that given to _Alice_ by the

_Mock Turtle_ in speaking of the _Whiting_--

"You know what they're like?"

"I believe so," said Alice. "They have their tails in their mouths--

and they're all over crumbs."

"You're wrong about the crumbs," said the Mock Turtle. "Crumbs would

all wash off in the sea."

Or when _Alice_ is speaking to the _Mouse_ of her cat, and says:

"She is such a dear quiet thing--and a capital one for catching mice---"

and then suddenly realizes the point of view of the _Mouse_, who was

"trembling down to the end of its tail."

Then, as an instance of how a lack of humor leads to illogical

conclusions (a condition common to most children), we have the

conversation between _Alice_ and the _Pigeon_:

ALICE: "But little girls eat quite as much as serpents, you know."

PIGEON: "I don't believe it. But if they do, why then they're a kind

of serpent, that's all I can say."

Then, as an instance of how a sense of humor would prevent too much

self-importance:

"I have a right to think," said Alice sharply.

"Just about as much right," said the Duchess, "as pigs have to fly."

PART II. THE STORIES.

The following stories do not form a comprehensive selection;

this I have endeavored to give in the List of Stories. The

stories given are chiefly taken from my own repertoire, and

have been so constantly asked by teachers that I am glad of

an opportunity of presenting them in full.

I regret that I have been unable to furnish many of the stories

I consider good for narration, but the difficulty of obtaining

permission has deterred me from further efforts in this direction.

STURLA, THE HISTORIAN.[50]

Then Sturla got ready to sail away with the king, and his name was put

on the list. He went on board before many men had come; he had a

sleeping bag and a travelling chest, and took his place on the foredeck.

A little later the king came on to the quay, and a company of men with

him. Sturla rose and bowed, and bade the king "hail," but the king

answered nothing, and went aft along the ship to the quarter-deck.

They sailed that day to go south along the coast. But in the evening

when men unpacked their provisions Sturla sat still, and no one invited

him to mess. Then a servant of the king's came and asked Sturla if he

had any meat and drink. Sturla said "NO." Then the king's servant went

to the king and spoke with him, out of hearing, and then went forward to

Sturla and said: "You shall go to mess with Thorir Mouth and Erlend

Maw." They took him into their mess, but rather stiffly. When men were

turning in to sleep, a sailor of the king's asked who should tell them

stories. There was little answer. Then said he: "Sturla the Icelander,

will you tell stories?" "As you will," said Sturla. So he told them

the story of Huld, better and fuller than any one there had ever heard

it told before. Then many men pushed forward to the fore-deck, wanting

to hear as clearly as might be, and there was a great crowd. The queen

asked: "What is that crowd on deck there?" A man answered: "The men are

listening to the story that the Icelander tells." "What story is that?"

said she. He answers: "It is about a great troll-wife, and it is a good

story and well told." The king bade her pay no heed to that, and go to

sleep. She says: "I think this Icelander must be a good fellow, and

less to blame than he is reported." The King was silent.

So the night passed, and the next morning there was no wind for them,

and the king's ship lay in the same place. Later in the day, when men

sat at their drink, the king sent dishes from his table to Sturla.

Sturla's messmates were pleased with this: "You bring better luck

than we thought, if this sort of thing goes on." After dinner the

queen sent for Sturla and asked him to come to her and bring the

troll-wife story along with him. So Sturla went aft to the quarter-

deck, and greeted the king and queen. The king answered little, the

queen well and cheerfully. She asked him to tell the same story he

had told overnight. He did so, for a great part of the day. When he

finished, the queen thanked him, and many others besides, and made him

out in their minds to be a learned man and sensible. But the king

said nothing; only he smiled a little. Sturla thought he saw that the

king's whole frame of mind was brighter than the day before. So he

said to the king that he had made a poem about him, and another about

his father: "I would gladly get a hearing for them." The queen said:

"Let him recite his poem; I am told that he is the best of poets, and

his poem will be excellent." The king bade him say on, if he would,

and repeat the poem he professed to have made about him. Sturla

chanted it to the end. The queen said: "To my mind that is a good

poem." The king said to her: "Can you follow the poem so clearly?"

"I would be fain to have you think so, Sir," said the queen. The king

said: "I have learned that Sturla is good at verses." Sturla took his

leave of the king and queen and went to his place. There was no

sailing for the king all that day. In the evening before he went to

bed he sent for Sturla. And when he came he greeted the king and

said: "What will you have me to do, Sir?" The king called for a

silver goblet full of wine, and drank some and gave it to Sturla and

said: "A health to a friend in wine!" (_Vin skal til vinar drekka_).

Sturla said: "God be praised for it!" "Even so," says the king, "and

now I wish you to say the poem you have made about my father." Sturla

repeated it: and when it was finished men praised it much and most of

all the queen. The king said: "To my thinking, you are a better reciter

than the Pope."

Sturlunga Saga, vol.ii, p.269.

A SAGA.

In the grey beginnings of the world, or ever the flower of justice

had rooted in the heart, there lived among the daughters of men two

children, sisters, of one house.

In childhood did they leap and climb and swim with the men children of

their race, and were nurtured on the same stories of gods and heroes.

In maidenhood they could do all that a maiden might and more--delve

could they no less than spin, hunt no less than weave, brew pottage and

helm ships, wake the harp and tell the stars, face all danger and laugh

at all pain.

Joyous in toil-time and rest-time were they as the days and years

of their youth came and went. Death had spared their house, and

unhappiness knew they none. Yet often as at falling day they sat

before sleep round the hearth of red fire, listening with the

household to the brave songs of gods and heroes, there would surely

creep into their hearts a shadow--the thought that whatever the

years of their lives, and whatever the generous deeds, there would

for them, as women, be no escape at the last from the dire mists of

Hela, the fogland beyond the grave for all such as die not in battle;

no escape for them from Hela, and no place for ever for them or for

their kind among the glory-crowned, sword-shriven heroes of echoing

Valhalla.

That shadow had first fallen in their lusty childhood, had slowly

gathered darkness through the overflowing days of maidenhood, and

now, in the strong tide of full womanhood, often lay upon their

future as the moon Odin's wrath lies upon the sun.

But stout were they to face danger and laugh at pain, and for all the

shadow upon their hope they lived brave and songful days--the one a

homekeeper and in her turn a mother of men: the other unhusbanded,

but gentle to ignorance and sickness and sorrow through the width

and length of the land.

And thus, facing life fearlessly and ever with a smile, those two

women lived even unto extreme old age, unto the one's children's

children's children, labouring truly unto the end and keeping strong

hearts against the dread day of Hela, and the fate-locked gates

of Valhalla.

But at the end a wonder.

As these sisters looked their last upon the sun, the one in the

ancestral homestead under the eyes of love, the other in a distant

land among strange faces, behold the wind of Thor, and out of the deep

of heaven the white horses of Odin, All-Father, bearing Valkyrie,

shining messengers of Valhalla. And those two world-worn women,

faithful in all their lives, were caught up in death in divine arms

and borne far from the fogs of Hela to golden thrones among the battle

heroes, upon which the Nornir, sitting at the loom of life, had from

all eternity graven their names.

And from that hour have the gates of Valhalla been thrown wide to all

faithful endeavour whether of man or woman.

JOHN RUSSELL

Headmaster of the King Alfred School.

THE LEGEND OF ST. CHRISTOPHER.

Christopher was of the lineage of the Canaaneans and he was of a right

great stature, and had a terrible and fearful cheer and countenance.

And he was twelve cubits of length. And, as it is read in some

histories, when he served and dwelled with the king of Canaaneans, it

came in his mind that he would seek the greatest prince that was in

the world and him he would serve and obey.

And so far he went that he came to a right great king, of whom the

renown generally was that he was the greatest of the world. And when

the king saw him received him into his service and made him to dwell

in his court.

Upon a time a minstrel sung tofore him a song in which he named oft

the devil. And the king which was a Christian man, when he heard him

name the devil, made anon the sign of the cross in his visage. And

when Christopher saw that, he had great marvel what sign it was and

wherefore the king made it. And he demanded it of him. And because

the king would not say, he said, "If thou tell me not, I shall no

longer dwell with thee." And then the king told to him saying,

"Alway when I hear the devil named, I fear that he should have power

over me, and I garnish me with this sign that he grieve not nor annoy

me." Then Christopher said to him, "Thou doubtest the devil that he

hurt thee not? Then is the devil more mighty and greater than thou

art. I am then deceived of my hope and purpose; for I supposed that I

had found the most mighty and the most greatest lord of the world.

But I commend thee to God, for I will go seek him to be my lord and I

his servant."

And then he departed from this king and hasted him to seek the devil.

And as he went by a great desert he saw a great company of knights.

Of which a knight cruel and horrible came to him and demanded whither

he went. And Christopher answered to him and said, "I go to seek the

devil for to be my master." And he said, "I am he that thou seekest."

And then Christopher was glad and bound himself to be his servant

perpetual, and took him for his master and lord.

And as they went together by a common way, they found there a cross

erect and standing. And anon as the devil saw the cross, he was

afeard and fled, and left the right way and brought Christopher about

by a sharp desert, and after, when they were past the cross, he

brought him to the highway that they had left. And when Christopher

saw that, he marvelled and demanded whereof he doubted that he had

left high and fair way and had gone so far about by so hard desert.

And the devil would not tell him in no wise. Then Christopher said to

him, "If thou wilt not tell me I shall anon depart from thee and shall

serve thee no more." Therefore the devil was constrained to tell him,

and said "There was a man called Christ which was hanged on the cross,

and when I see his sign, I am sore afeard and flee from it

wheresomever I find it." To whom Christopher said, "Then he is

greater and more mightier than thou, when thou art afraid of his sign.

And I see well that I have laboured in vain since I have not founden

the greatest lord of all the earth. And I will serve thee no longer.

Go thy way then: for I will go seek Jesus Christ."

And when he had long sought and demanded where he should find Christ,

at last he came into a great desert to an hermit that dwelled there.

And this hermit preached to him of Jesus Christ and informed him in

the faith diligently. And he said to him, "This king whom thou

desirest to serve, requireth this service that thou must oft fast."

And Christopher said to him, "Require of me some other thing and I

shall do it. For that which thou requirest I may not do." And the

hermit said, "Thou must then wake and make many prayers." And

Christopher said to him, "I wot not what it is. I may do no such

thing." And then the hermit said unto him, "Knowest thou such a river

in which many be perished and lost?" To whom Christopher said, "I

know it well." Then said the hermit, "Because thou art noble and high

of stature and strong in thy members, thou shalt be resident by that

river and shalt bear over all them that shall pass there. Which shall

be a thing right convenable to Our Lord Jesus Christ, whom thou

desirest to serve, and I hope He shall shew Himself to thee." Then

said Christopher, "Certes, this service may I well do, and I promise

to Him for to do it."

Then went Christopher to this river, and made there his habitation for

him. And he bare a great pole in his hand instead of a staff, by

which he sustained him in the water; and bare over all manner of

people without ceasing. And there he abode, thus doing, many days.

And on a time, as he slept in his lodge, he heard the voice of a child

which called him and said, "Christopher, come out and bear me over."

Then he awoke and went out; but he found no man. And when he was

again in his house, he heard the same voice, and he ran out and found

no body. The third time he was called, and came thither, and found a

child beside the rivage of the river: which prayed him goodly to bear

him over the water. And then Christopher lift up the child on his

shoulders and took his staff and entered in to the river for to pass.

And the water of the river arose and swelled more and more. And the

child was heavy as lead. And always as he went further the water

increased and grew more, and the child more and more waxed heavy: in

so much that Christopher had great anguish and feared to be drowned.

And when he was escaped with great pain and passed the water, and set

the child aground, he said to the child, "Child, thou hast put me in

great peril. Thou weighest almost as I had had all the world upon me.

I might bear no greater burden." And the child answered, "Christopher,

marvel thou no thing. For thou hast not only borne all the world upon

thee; but thou hast borne Him that created and made the world upon thy

shoulders. I am Jesus Christ, the king to whom thou servest in this

work. And that thou mayest know that I say to thee truth, set thy staff

in the earth by the house, and thou shalt see to-morrow that it shall

bear flowers and fruit." And anon he vanished from his eyes.

And then Christopher set his staff in the earth and when he arose on

the morrow, he found his staff like a palm-tree bearing flowers,

leaves and dates.

From THE LEGENDA AUREA TEMPLE CLASSICS.

ARTHUR IN THE CAVE.

Once upon a time a Welshman was walking on London Bridge, staring at

the traffic and wondering why there were so many kites hovering about.

He had come to London, after many adventures with thieves and

highwaymen, which need not be related here, in charge of a herd of

black Welsh cattle. He had sold them with much profit, and with

jingling gold in his pocket he was going about to see the sights of

the city.

He was carrying a hazel staff in his hand, for you must know that a

good staff is as necessary to a drover as teeth are to his dogs. He

stood still to gaze at some wares in a shop (for at that time London

Bridge was shops from beginning to end), when he noticed that a man

was looking at his stick with a long fixed look. The man after a

while came to him and asked him where he came from.

"I come from my own country," said the Welshman, rather surlily, for

he could not see what business the man had to ask such a question.

"Do not take it amiss," said the stranger: "if you will only answer my

questions, and take my advice, it will be of greater benefit to you

than you imagine. Do you remember where you cut that stick?"

The Welshman was still suspicious, and said: "What does it matter where

I cut it?"

"It matters," said the questioner, "because there is a treasure hidden

near the spot where you cut that stick. If you can remember the place

and conduct me to it, I will put you in possession of great riches."

The Welshman now understood he had to deal with a sorcerer, and he was

greatly perplexed as to what to do. On the one hand, he was tempted

by the prospect of wealth; on the other hand, he knew that the

sorcerer must have derived his knowledge from devils, and he feared to

have anything to do with the powers of darkness. The cunning man

strove hard to persuade him, and at length made him promise to shew

the place where he cut his hazel staff.

The Welshman and the magician journeyed together to Wales. They went

to Craig y Dinas, the Rock of the Fortress, at the head of the Neath

valley, near Pont Nedd Fechan, and the Welshman, pointing to the stock

or root of an old hazel, said: "This is where I cut my stick."

"Let us dig," said the sorcerer. They digged until they came to a

broad, flat stone. Prying this up, they found some steps leading

downwards. They went down the steps and along a narrow passage until

they came to a door. "Are you brave?" asked the sorcerer; "will you

come in with me?"

"I will," said the Welshman, his curiosity getting the better of

his fear.

They opened the door, and a great cave opened out before them. There

was a faint red light in the cave, and they could see everything. The

first thing they came to was a bell.

"Do not touch that bell," said the sorcerer, "or it will be all over

with us both."

As they went further in, the Welshman saw that the place was not

empty. There were soldiers lying down asleep, thousands of them, as

far as ever the eye could see. Each one was clad in bright armour,

the steel helmet of each was on his head, the shining shield of each

was on his arm, the sword of each was near his hand, each had his

spear stuck in the ground near him, and each and all were asleep.

In the midst of the cave was a great round table at which sat warriors

whose noble features and richly-dight armour proclaimed that they were

not as the roll of common men.

Each of these, too, had his head bent down in sleep. On a golden

throne on the further side of the round table was a king of gigantic

stature and august presence. In his hand, held below the hilt, was a

mighty sword with scabbard and haft of gold studded with gleaming

gems; on his head was a crown set with precious stones which flashed

and glinted like so many points of fire. Sleep had set its seal on

his eyelids also.

"Are they asleep?" asked the Welshman, hardly believing his own eyes.

"Yes, each and all of them," answered the sorcerer. "But, if you

touch yonder bell, they will all awake."

"How long have they been asleep?"

"For over a thousand years."

"Who are they?"

"Arthur's warriors, waiting for the time to come when they shall

destroy all the enemy of the Cymry and re-possess the strand of

Britain, establishing their own king once more at Caer Lleon."

"Who are these sitting at the round table?"

"These are Arthur's knights--Owain, the son of Urien; Cai, the

son of Cynyr; Gnalchmai, the son of Gwyar; Peredir, the son of Efrawe;

Geraint, the son of Erbin; Ciernay, the son of Celhddon; Edeyrn, the

son of Nudd; Cymri, the son of Clydno."

"And on the golden throne?" broke in the Welshman.

"Is Arthur himself, with his sword Excalibur in his hand," replied

the sorcerer.

Impatient by this time at the Welshman's questions, the sorcerer

hastened to a great heap of yellow gold on the floor of the cave. He

took up as much as he could carry, and bade his companion do the same.

"It is time for us to go," he then said, and he led the way towards

the door by which they had entered.

But the Welshman was fascinated by the sight of the countless soldiers

in their glittering arms--all asleep.

"How I should like to see them all awaking!" he said to himself. "I

will touch the bell--I _must_ see them all arising from their sleep."

When they came to the bell, he struck it until it rang through the

whole place. As soon as it rang, lo! the thousands of warriors leapt

to their feet and the ground beneath them shook with the sound of the

steel arms. And a great voice came from their midst: "Who rang the

bell? Has the day come?"

The sorcerer was so much frightened that he shook like an aspen leaf.

He shouted in answer: "No, the day has not come. Sleep on."

The mighty host was all in motion, and the Welshman's eyes were dazzled

as he looked at the bright steel arms which illumined the cave as with

the light of myriad flames of fire.

"Arthur," said the voice again, "awake; the bell has rung, the day is

breaking. Awake, Arthur the Great."

"No," shouted the sorcerer, "it is still night. Sleep on, Arthur

the Great."

A sound came from the throne. Arthur was standing, and the jewels in

his crown shone like bright stars above the countless throng. His

voice was strong and sweet like the sound of many waters, and he said:

"My warriors, the day has not come when the Black Eagle and the Golden

Eagle shall go to war. It is only a seeker after gold who has rung

the bell. Sleep on, my warriors; the morn of Wales has not yet dawned."

A peaceful sound like the distant sigh of the sea came over the cave,

and in a trice the soldiers were all asleep again. The sorcerer

hurried the Welshman out of the cave, moved the stone back to its

place and vanished.

Many a time did the Welshman try to find his way into the cave again,

but though he dug over every inch of the hill, he has never again

found the entrance to Arthur's Cave.

From "THE WELSH FAIRY BOOK," by W. JENKYN THOMAS.

published by FISHER UNWIN.

HAFIZ, THE STONE-CUTTER.

There was once a stone-cutter whose name was Hafiz, and all day long

he chipped, chipped, chipped at his block. And often he grew very

weary of his task and he would say to himself impatiently, "Why should

I not have pleasure and amusement as other folk have?"

One day, when the sun was very hot and when he felt specially weary,

he suddenly heard the sound of many feet, and, looking up from his

work, he saw a great procession coming his way. It was the King,

mounted on a splendid charger, all his soldiers to the right, in their

shining armour, and the servants to the left, dressed in gorgeous

clothing, ready to do his behests.

And Hafiz said: "How splendid to be a King! If only I could be a

King, if only for ten minutes, so that I might know what it feels

like!" And then, even as he spoke, he seemed to be dreaming, and

in his dream he sang this little song:

"Ah me! Ah me!

If Hafiz only the King could be!"[51]

And then a voice from the air around seemed to answer him and to say:

"Be thou the King."

And Hafiz became the King, and he it was that sat on the splendid

charger, and they were his soldiers to the right and his servants to

the left. And Hafiz said: "I am King, and there is no one stronger

in the whole world than I."

But soon, in spite of the golden canopy over his head, Hafiz began to

feel the terrible heat of the rays of the sun, and soon he noticed

that the soldiers and servants were weary, that his horse drooped, and

that he, Hafiz, was overcome, and he said angrily: "What! Is there

something stronger in the world than a King?" And, almost without

knowing it, he again sang his song more boldly than the first time:

"Ah me! Ah me!

If Hafiz only the Sun could be!"

And the Voice answered:

"Be thou the Sun."

And Hafiz became the Sun, and shone down upon the Earth, but, because

he did not know how to shine very wisely, he shone very fiercely, so

that the crops dried up, and folk grew sick and died. And then there

arose from the East a little cloud which slipped between Hafiz and the

Earth, so that he could no longer shine down upon it, and he said:

"Is there something stronger in the world than the Sun?"

"Ah me! Ah me!

If Hafiz only the Cloud could be!"

"Be thou the Cloud.

And Hafiz became the Cloud, and rained down water upon the Earth, but,

because he did not know how to do so wisely, there fell so much rain

that all the little rivulets became great rivers, and all the great

rivers overflowed their banks, and carried everything before them in

swift torrent--all except one great rock which stood unmoved. And Hafiz

said: "Is there something stronger than the Cloud?"

"Ah me! Ah me!

If Hafiz only the Rock could be!"

And the Voice said:

"Be thou the Rock."

And Hafiz became the Rock, and the Cloud disappeared and the waters

went down.

And Hafiz the Rock, saw coming towards him a man--he could not see the

face. As the man approached he suddenly raised a hammer and struck

Hafiz, so that he felt it through all his stony body. And Hafiz said:

"Is there something stronger in the world than the Rock?

"Ah me! Ah me!

If Hafiz only that Man might be!"

And the Voice said:

"Be thou---Thyself."

And Hafiz seized the hammer and said:

"The Sun was stronger than the King, the Cloud was stronger than the

sun, the Rock was stronger then the Cloud, but I, Hafiz, was stronger

than all."

Adapted and arranged by the Author.

TO YOUR GOOD HEALTH. (From the Russian)

Long long ago there lived a King who was such a mighty monarch that

whenever he sneezed everyone in the whole country had to say, "To your

good health!" Everyone said it except the Shepherd with the bright

blue eyes, and he would not say it.

The King heard of this and was very angry, and sent for the Shepherd

to appear before him.

The Shepherd came and stood before the throne, where the King sat

looking very grand and powerful. But however grand or powerful he

might be, the Shepherd did not feel a bit afraid of him.

"Say at once 'To my good health'!" cried the King.

"To my good health," replied the Shepherd.

"To mine--to _mine_, you rascal, you vagabond!" stormed the King.

"To mine, to mine, Your Majesty," was the answer.

"But to _mine_--to my own!" roared the King, and beat on his

breast in a rage.

"Well, yes; to mine, of course, to my own," cried the Shepherd, and

gently tapped his breast.

The King was beside himself with fury and did not know what to do,

when the Lord chamberlain interfered:

"Say at once--say this very moment, 'To your health, Your Majesty,'

for if you don't say it you will lose your life," he whispered.

"No, I won't say it tell I get the Princess for my wife," was the

Shepherd's answer.

Now the Princess was sitting on a little throne beside the King, her

father, and she look as sweet and lovely as a little golden dove.

When she heard what the Shepherd said, she could not help laughing,

for there is no denying the fact that this young shepherd with the

blue eyes pleased her very much; indeed, he pleased her better than

any king's son she had yet seen.

But the King was not as pleasant as his daughter, and gave orders to

throw the Shepherd into the white bear's pit.

The guards led him away and thrust him into the pit with the white

bear, who had had nothing to eat for two days and was very hungry.

The door of the pit was hardly closed when the bear rushed at the

shepherd; but when it saw his eyes it was so frightened that it was

ready to eat itself. It shrank away into a corner and gazed at him

from there, and in spite of being so famished, did not dare to touch

him, but sucked its own paws from sheer hunger. The Shepherd felt

that if he once removed his eyes off the beast he was a dead man, and

in order to keep himself awake he made songs and sang them, and so the

night went by.

Next morning the Lord Chamberlain came to see the Shepherd's bones,

and was amazed to find him alive and well. He led him to the King,

who fell into a furious passion, and said:

"Well, you have learned what it is to be very near death, and now will

you say, 'To my very good health'?"

But the Shepherd answered:

"I am not afraid of ten deaths! I will only say it if I may have the

Princess for my wife."

"Then go to your death," cried the King, and ordered him to be thrown

into the den with the wild boars.

The wild boars had not been fed for a week, and when the Shepherd

was thrust into their den they rushed at him to tear him to pieces.

But the Shepherd took a little flute out of the sleeve of his jacket,

and began to play a merry tune, on which the wild boars first of all

shrank shyly away, and then got up on their hind legs and danced

gaily. The Shepherd would have given anything to be able to laugh,

they looked so funny; but he dared not stop playing, for he knew well

enough that the moment he stopped they would fall upon him and tear

him to pieces. His eyes were of no use to him here, for he could not

have stared ten wild boars in the face at once; so he kept playing,

and the wild boars danced very slowly, as if in a minuet; then by

degrees he played faster and faster, till they could hardly twist and

turn quickly enough, and ended by all falling over each other in a

heap, quite exhausted and out of breath.

Then the Shepherd ventured to laugh at last; and he laughed so long

and so loud that when the Lord Chamberlain came early in the morning,

expecting to find only his bones, the tears were still running down

his cheeks from laughter.

As soon as the King was dressed the Shepherd was again brought before

him; but he was more angry than ever to think the wild boars had not

torn the man to bits, and he said:

"Well, you have learned what it feels to be near ten deaths, _now_ say

'To my good health'!"

But the shepherd broke in with:

"I do not fear a hundred deaths; and I will only say it if I may have

the Princess for my wife."

"Then go to a hundred deaths!" roared the King, and ordered the

Shepherd to be thrown down the deep vault of scythes.

The guards dragged him away to a dark dungeon, in the middle of which

was a deep well with sharp scythes all round it. At the bottom of the

well was a little light by which one could see, if anyone was thrown

in, whether he had fallen to the bottom.

When the Shepherd was dragged to the dungeon he begged the guards to

leave him alone a little while that he might look down into the pit of

scythes; perhaps he might after all make up his mind to say, "To your

good health" to the King.

So the guards left him alone, and he stuck up his long stick near the

wall, hung his cloak round the stick and put his hat on the top. He

also hung his knapsack up beside the cloak, so that it might seem to

have some body within it. When this was done, he called out to the

guards and said that he had considered the matter, but after all he

could not make up his mind to say what the King wished.

The guards came in, threw the hat and cloak, knapsack and stick all

down in the well together, watched to see how they put out the light

at the bottom, and came away, thinking that now there was really an

end to the Shepherd. But he had hidden in a dark corner, and was now

laughing to himself all the time.

Quite early next morning came the Lord Chamberlain with a lamp, and he

nearly fell backwards with surprise when he saw the Shepherd alive and

well. He brought him to the King, whose fury was greater than ever,

but who cried:

"Well, now you have been near a hundred deaths; will you say, 'To your

good health'?"

But the Shepherd only gave the answer:

"I won't say it till the Princess is my wife."

"Perhaps, after all, you may do it for less," said the King, who saw

that there was no chance of making away with the shepherd; and he

ordered the state coach to be got ready; then he made the Shepherd get

in with him and sit beside him, and ordered the coachman to drive to

the silver wood.

When they reached it, he said:

"Do you see this silver wood? Well, if you will say 'To your good

health,' I will give it to you."

The shepherd turned hot and cold by turns, but he still persisted:

"I will not say it till the Princess is my wife."

The King was much vexed; he drove further on till they came to a

splendid castle, all of gold, and then he said:

"Do you see this golden castle? Well, I will give you that too, the

silver wood and the gold castle, if only you will say one thing to me:

'To your good health.'"

The Shepherd gaped and wondered, and was quite dazzled but he

still said:

"No, I will not say it till I have the Princess for my wife."

This time the King was overwhelmed with grief, and gave orders to

drive on to the diamond pond and there he tried once more:

"You shall have the all--all, if you will but say 'To your good

health.'"

The Shepherd had to shut his staring eyes tight not to be dazzled with

the brilliant pond, but still he said:

"No, no; I will not say it till I have the Princess for my wife."

Then the King saw that all his efforts were useless, and that he might

as well give in; so he said:

"Well, well, it is all the same to me--I will give you my daughter to

wife; but then you really must say to me, 'To your good health.'"

"Of course I'll say it; why should I not say it? It stands to reason

that I shall say it then."

At this the King was more delighted than anyone could have believed.

He made it known all through the country that there were going to be

great rejoicings, as the Princess was going to be married. And

everyone rejoiced to think that the Princess who had refused so many

royal suitors, should have ended by falling in love with the staring-

eyed Shepherd.

There was such a wedding as had never been seen. Everyone ate and

drank and danced. Even the sick were feasted, and quite tiny new-born

children had presents given them. But the greatest merrymaking was in

the King's palace; there the best bands played and the best food was

cooked. A crowd of people sat down to table, and all was fun and

merrymaking.

And when the groomsman, according to custom, brought in the great

boar's head on a big dish and placed it before the King, so that he

might carve it and give everyone a share, the savoury smell was so

strong that the King began to sneeze with all his might.

"To your very good health!" cried the Shepherd before anyone else, and

the King was so delighted that he did not regret having given him his

daughter.

In time, when the old King died, the Shepherd succeeded him. He made

a very good king, and never expected his people to wish him well

against their wills: but, all the same, everyone did wish him well,

because they loved him.

THE PROUD COCK.

There was once a cock who grew so dreadfully proud that he would have

nothing to say to anybody. He left his house, it being far beneath

his dignity to have any trammel of that sort in his life, and as for

his former acquaintance, he cut them all.

One day, whilst walking about, he came to a few little sparks of fire

which were nearly dead.

They cried out to him: "Please fan us with your wings, and we shall

come to the full vigour of life again."

But he did not deign to answer, and as he was going away one of the

sparks said; "Ah well! we shall die, but our big brother, the Fire

will pay you out for this one day."

On another day he was airing himself in a meadow, showing himself off

in a very superb set of clothes. A voice calling from somewhere said:

"Please be so good as to drop us into the water again."

He looked about and saw a few drops of water: they had got separated

from their friends in the river, and were pining away with grief. "Oh!

please be so good as to drop us into the water again," they said; but,

without any answer, he drank up the drops. He was too proud and a great

deal too big to talk to a poor little puddle of water; but the drops

said: "Our big brother, the Water, will one day take you in hand, you

proud and senseless creature."

Some days afterwards, during a great storm of rain, thunder and

lightning, the cock took shelter in a little empty cottage, and shut

to the door; and he thought: "I am clever; I am in comfort. What

fools people are to top out in a storm like this! What's that?"

thought he. "I never heard a sound like that before."

In a little while it grew much louder, and when a few minutes had

passed, it was a perfect howl. "Oh!" thought he, "this will never

do. I must stop it somehow. But what is it I have to stop?"

He soon found it was the wind, shouting through the keyhole, so he

plugged up the keyhole with a bit of clay, and then the wind was able

to rest. He was very tired with whistling so long through the keyhole,

and he said: "Now, if ever I have at any time a chance of doing a good

turn to that princely domestic fowl, I well do it."

Weeks afterwards, the cock looked in at a house door: he seldom went

there, because the miser to whom the house belonged almost starved

himself, and so, of course, there was nothing over for anybody else.

To his amazement the cock saw the miser bending over a pot on the

fire. At last the old fellow turned round to get a spoon with which

to stir his pot, and then the cock, waking up, looked in and saw that

the miser was making oyster-soup, for he had found some oyster-shells

in an ash-pit, and to give the mixture a colour he had put in a few

halfpence in the pot.

The miser chanced to turn quickly round, while the cock was peering

into the saucepan, and, chuckling to himself, he said: "I shall have

chicken broth after all."

He tripped up the cock into the pot and shut the lid on. The bird,

feeling warm, said: "Water, water, don't boil!" But the water only

said: "You drank up my young brothers once: don't ask a favour of _me_."

Then he called out to the Fire: "Oh! kind Fire, don't boil the water."

But the fire replied: "You once let my young sisters die: you cannot

expect any mercy from me." So he flared up and boiled the water all

the faster.

At last, when the cock got unpleasantly warm, he thought of the wind,

and called out: "Oh, Wind, come to my help!" and the Wind said: "Why,

there is that noble domestic bird in trouble. I will help him." So

he came down the chimney, blew out the fire, blew the lid off the pot,

and blew the cock far away into the air, and at last settled him on a

steeple, where the cock remained ever since. And people say that the

halfpence which were in the pot when it was boiling have given him the

queer brown colour he still wears.

From the Spanish.

SNEGOURKA.

There lived once, in Russia, a peasant and his wife who would have

been as happy as the day is long, if only God had given them a

little child.

One day, as they were watching the children playing in the snow, the

man said to the woman:

"Wife, shall we go out and help the children make a snowball?"

But the wife answered, smiling:

"Nay, husband, but since God has given us no little child, let us go

and fashion one from the snow."

And she put on her long blue cloak, and he put on his long brown

coat, and they went out onto the crisp snow, and began to fashion

the little child.

First, they made the feet and the legs and the little body, and then

they took a ball of snow for the head. And at that moment a stranger

in a long cloak, with his hat well drawn over his face, passed that

way, and said: "Heaven help your undertaking!"

And the peasants crossed themselves and said:

"It is well to ask help from Heaven in all we do."

Then they went on fashioning the little child. And they made two

holes for the eyes and formed the nose and the mouth. And then--

wonder of wonders--the little child came alive, and breath came from

its nostrils and parted lips.

And the man was feared, and said to his wife: "What have we done?"

And the wife said: "This is the little girl child God has sent us."

And she gathered it into her arms, and the loose snow fell away from

the little creature. Her hair became golden and her eyes were as blue

as forget-me-nots--but there was no colour in her cheeks, because

there was no blood in her veins.

In a few days she was like a child of three or four, and in a few

weeks she seemed to be the age of nine or ten, and ran about gaily

and prattled with the other children, who loved her so dearly, though

she was so different from them.

Only, happy as she was, and dearly as her parents loved her, there was

one terror in her life, and that was the sun. And during the day she

would run and hide herself in cool, damp places away from the sunshine,

and this the other children could not understand.

As the Spring advanced and the days grew longer and warmed, little

Snegourka (for this was the name by which she was known) grew paler

and thinner, and her mother would often ask her: "What ails you, my

darling?" and Snegourka would say: "Nothing, Mother but I wish the sun

were not so bright."

One day, on St. John's Day, the children of the village came to fetch

her for a day in the woods, and they gathered flowers for her and did

all they to make her happy, but it was only when the great red sun

went down that Snegourka drew a deep breath of relief and spread her

little hands out to the cool evening air. And the boys, glad at her

gladness, said: "Let us do something for Snegourka. Let us light a

bonfire." And Snegourka not knowing what a bonfire was, she clapped

her hands and was as merry and eager as they. And she helped them

gather the sticks, and then they all stood round the pile and the boys

set fire to the wood.

Snegourka stood watching the flames and listening to the crackle of

the wood: and then suddenly they heard a tiny sound and looking at the

place where Snegourka had been standing, they saw nothing but a little

snow-drift fast melting. And they called and called, "Snegourka!

Snegourka!" thinking she had run into the forest. But there was no

answer. Snegourka had disappeared from this life as mysteriously as

she had come into it.

Adapted by the author.

THE WATER NIXIE.

The river was so clear because it was the home of a very beautiful

Water Nixie who lived in it, and who sometimes could emerge from her

home and sit in woman's form upon the bank. She had a dark green

smock upon her, the colour of the water-weed that waves as the water

wills it, deep, deep down. And in her long wet hair were the white

flowers of the water-violet, and she held a reed mace in her hand.

Her face was very sad because she had lived a long life, and known so

many adventures, ever since she was a baby, which was nearly a hundred

years ago. For creatures of the streams and trees live a long, long

time, and when they die they lose themselves in Nature. That means

that they are forever clouds, or trees, or rivers, and never have the

form of men and women again.

All water creatures would live, if they might choose it, in the sea,

where they are born. It is in the sea they float hand-in-hand upon

the crested billows, and sink deep in the great troughs of the strong

waves, that are as green as jade. They follow the foam and lose

themselves in the wide ocean--

"Where great whales come sailing by,

Sail and sail with unshut eye;"

and they store in the Sea King's palace the golden phosphor of the

sea. But this Water Nixie had lost her happiness through not being

good. She had forgotten many things that had been told her, and she

had done many things that grieved others. She had stolen somebody

else's property--quite a large bundle of happiness--which belonged

elsewhere and not to her. Happiness is generally made to fit the

person who owns it, just as do your shoes, or clothes; so that when

you take someone else's it's very little good to you, for it fits

badly, and you can never forget it isn't yours.

So what with one thing and another, this Water Nixie had to be punished,

and the Queen of the Sea had banished her from the waves.[52]

"You shall live for a long time in little places where you will weary

of yourself. You will learn to know yourself so well that everything

you want will seem too good for you, and you will cease to claim it.

And so, in time, you shall get free."

Then the Nixie had to rise up and go away, and be shut into the

fastness of a very small space, according to the words of the Queen.

And this small space was--a tear.

At first she could hardly express her misery, and by thinking so

continuously of the wideness and savour of the sea, she brought a dash

of the brine with her, that makes the saltness of our tears. She

became many times smaller than her own stature; even then, by standing

upright and spreading wide her arms, she touched with her finger-tips

the walls of her tiny crystal home. How she longed that this tear

might be wept, and the walls of her prison shattered! But the owner

of this tear was of a very proud nature, and she was so sad that tears

seemed to her in no wise to express her grief.

She was a Princess who lived in a country that was not her home. What

were tears to her? If she could have stood on the top of the very

highest hill and with both hands caught the great winds of heaven,

strong as they, and striven with them, perhaps she might have felt as

if she expressed all she knew. Or, if she could have torn down the

stars from the heavens, or cast her mantle over the sun. But tears!

Would they have helped to tell her sorrow? You cry if you soil your

copybook, don't you? or pinch your hand? So you may imagine the

Nixie's home was a safe one, and she turned round and round in the

captivity of that tear.

For twenty years she dwelt in that strong heart, till she grew to be

accustomed to her cell. At last, in this wise came her release.

An old gipsy came one morning to the Castle and begged to see the

Princess. She must see her, she cried. And the Princess came down

the steps to meet her, and the gipsy gave her a small roll of paper,

but in the midst of the page was a picture, small as the picture

reflected in the iris of an eye. The picture shewed a hill, with

one tree on the sky-line, and a long road wound round the hill.

And suddenly in the Princess' memory a voice spoke to her. Many

sounds she heard, gathered up into one great silence, like the quiet

there is in forest spaces, when it is Summer and the green is deep:--

"Blessed are they that have the home longing,

For they shall go home."

Then the Princess gave the gipsy two golden pieces, and went up to

her chamber, and long that night she sat, looking out upon the sky.

She had no need to look upon the honeyed scroll, though she held it

closely. Clearly before her did she see that small picture: the hill,

and the tree, and the winding road, imaged as if mirrored in the iris

of an eye. And in her memory she was upon that road, and the hill

rose beside her, and the little tree was outlined, every twig of it,

against the sky.

And as she saw all this, an overwhelming love of the place arose in

her, a love of that certain bit of country that was so sharp and

strong, that it stung and swayed her, as she leaned on the window-sill.

And because the love of a country is one of the deepest loves you may

feel, the band of her control was loosened, and the tears came welling

to her eyes. Up they brimmed and over in salty rush and follow,

dimming her eyes, magnifying everything, speared for a moment on her

eyelashes, then shimmering to their fall. And at last came the tear

that held the disobedient Nixie.

Splish! it fell. And she was free.

If you could have seen how pretty she looked standing there, about

the height of a grass-blade, wringing out her long wet hair. Every

bit of moisture she wrung out of it, she was so glad to be quit of

that tear. Then she raised her two arms above her in one delicious

stretch, and if you had been the size of a mustard-seed perhaps you

might have heard her laughing. Then she grew a little, and grew and

grew, till she was about the height of a bluebell, and as slender

to see.

She stood looking at the splash on the window-sill that had been her

prison so long, and then with three steps of her bare feet, she

reached the jessamine that was growing by the window, and by this

she swung herself to the ground.

Away she sped over the dew-drenched meadows till she came to the running

brook, and with all her longing in her outstretched hands, she kneeled

down by the crooked willows among all the comfry and the loosestrife,

and the yellow irises and the reeds.

Then she slid into the wide, cool stream.

From "THE CHILDREN AND THE PICTURES."

PAMELA TENNANT (LADY GLENCONNER).

THE BLUE ROSE.

There lived once upon a time in China a wise Emperor who had one

daughter. His daughter was remarkable for her perfect beauty. Her

feet were the smallest in the world; her eyes were long and slanting

and bright as brown onyxes, and when you heard her laugh it was like

the listening to a tinkling stream or to the chimes of a silver bell.

Moreover, the Emperor's daughter was as wise as she was beautiful, and

she chanted the verse of the great poets better than anyone in the

land. The Emperor was old in years; his son was married and had

begotten a son; he was, therefore, quite happy with regard to the

succession to the throne, but he wished before he died to see his

daughter wedded to someone who should be worthy of her.

Many suitors presented themselves to the palace as soon as it became

know that the Emperor desired a son-in-law, but when they reached the

palace they were met by the Lord Chamberlain, who told them that the

Emperor had decided that only the man who found and brought back the

blue rose should marry his daughter. The suitors were much puzzled by

this order. What was the blue rose and where was it to be found? In

all, a hundred and fifty at once put away from them all thought of

winning the hand of the Emperor's daughter, since they considered the

condition imposed to be absurd.

The other hundred set about trying to find the blue rose. One of them--

his name was Ti-Fun-Ti--he was a merchant and was immensely rich, at

once went to the largest shop in the town and said to the shopkeeper,

"I want a blue rose, the best you have."

The shopkeeper, with many apologies, explained that he did not stock

blue roses. He had red roses in profusion, white, pink and yellow

roses, but no blue roses. There had hitherto been no demand for

the article.

"Well," said Ti-Fun-Ti, "you must get one for me. I do not mind how

much money it costs, but I must have a blue rose."

The shopkeeper said he would do his best, but he feared it would be an

expensive article and difficult to procure. Another of the suitors,

whose name I have forgotten, was a warrior, and extremely brave; he

mounted his horse, and taking with him a hundred archers and a

thousand horsemen, he marched into the territory of the King of the

Five Rivers, whom he knew to be the richest king in the world and the

possessor of the rarest treasures, and demanded of him the blue rose,

threatening him with a terrible doom should he be reluctant to give

it up.

The King of the Five Rivers, who disliked soldiers, and had a horror

of noise, physical violence, and every kind of fuss (his bodyguard was

armed solely with fans and sunshades), rose from the cushions on which

he was lying when the demand was made, and, tinkling a small bell, said

to the servant who straightway appeared, "Fetch me the blue rose."

The servant retired and returned presently bearing on a silken cushion

a large sapphire which was carved so as to imitate a full-blown rose

with all its petals.

"This," said the king of the Five Rivers, "is the blue rose. You are

welcome to it."

The warrior took it, and after making brief, soldier-like thanks, he

went straight back to the Emperor's palace, saying that he had lost no

time in finding the blue rose. He was ushered into the presence of

the Emperor, who as soon as he heard the warrior's story and saw the

blue rose which had been brought sent for his daughter and said to

her: "This intrepid warrior has brought you what he claims to be the

blue rose. Has he accomplished the quest?"

The Princess took the precious object in her hands, and after examining

it for a moment, said: "This is not a rose at all. It is a sapphire;

I have no need of precious stones." And the warrior went away in

discomfiture.

The merchant, hearing of the warrior's failure, was all the more anxious

to win the prize. He sought the shopkeeper and said to him: "Have you

got me the blue rose?" I trust you have; because, if not, I shall most

assuredly be the means of your death. My brother-in-law is chief

magistrate, and I am allied by marriage to all the chief officials in

the kingdom."

The shopkeeper turned pale and said: "Sir, give me three days and I

will procure you the rose without fail." The merchant granted him the

three days and went away. Now the shopkeeper was at his wit's end as

to what to do, for he knew well there was no such thing as a blue

rose. For two days he did nothing but moan and wring his hands, and

on the third day he went to his wife and said, "Wife, we are ruined."

But his wife, who was a sensible woman, said: "Nonsense. If there

is no such thing as a blue rose we must make one. Go to the chemist

and ask him for a strong dye which well change a white rose into a

blue one."

So the shopkeeper went to the chemist and asked him for a dye, and

the chemist gave him a bottle of red liquid, telling him to pick a

white rose and to dip its stalk into the liquid and the rose would

turn blue. The shopkeeper did as he was told; the rose turned into

a beautiful blue and the shopkeeper took it to the merchant, who at

once went with it to the palace saying that he had found the blue rose.

He was ushered into the presence of the Emperor, who as soon as he saw

the blue rose sent for his daughter and said to her: "This wealthy

merchant has brought you what he claims to be the blue rose. Has he

accomplished the quest?"

The Princess took the flower in her hands and after examining it for a

moment said: "This is a white rose, its stalk has been dipped in a

poisonous dye and it has turned blue. Were a butterfly to settle upon

it it would die of the potent fume. Take it back. I have no need of

a dyed rose." And she returned it to the merchant with many elegantly

expressed thanks.

The other ninety-eight suitors all sought in various ways for the blue

rose. Some of them traveled all over the world seeking it; some of

them sought the aid of wizards and astrologers, and one did not

hesitate to invoke the help of the dwarfs that live underground; but

all of them, whether they traveled in far countries or took counsel

with wizards and demons or sat pondering in lonely places, failed to

find the blue rose.

At last they all abandoned the quest except the Lord Chief Justice,

who was the most skillful lawyer and statesman in the country. After

thinking over the matter for several months he sent for the most

famous artist in the country and said to him: "Make me a china cup.

Let it be milk-white in colour and perfect in shape, and paint on

it a rose, a blue rose."

The artist made obeisance and withdrew, and worked for two months at the

Lord Chief Justice's cup. In two months' time it was finished, and the

world has never seen such a beautiful cup, so perfect in symmetry, so

delicate in texture, and the rose on it, the blue rose, was a living

flower, picked in fairyland and floating on the rare milky surface of

the porcelain. When the Lord Chief Justice saw it he gasped with

surprise and pleasure, for he was a great lover of porcelain, and never

in his life had he seen such a piece. He said to himself, "Without

doubt the blue rose is here on this cup and nowhere else."

So, after handsomely rewarding the artist, he went to the Emperor's

palace and said that he had brought the blue rose. He was ushered

into the Emperor's presence, who as he saw the cup sent for his

daughter and said to her: "This eminent lawyer has brought you what he

claims to be the blue rose. Has he accomplished the quest?"

The Princess took the bowl in her hands, and after examining it for

a moment said: "This bowl is the most beautiful piece of china I have

ever seen. If you are kind enough to let me keep it I will put it

aside until I receive the blue rose. For so beautiful is it that no

other flower is worthy to be put in it except the blue rose."

The Lord Chief Justice thanked the Princess for accepting the bowl

with many elegantly turned phrases, and he went away in discomfiture.

After this there was no one in the whole country who ventured on the

quest of the blue rose. It happened that not long after the Lord

Chief Justice's attempt a strolling minstrel visited the kingdom of

the Emperor. One evening he was playing his one-stringed instrument

outside a dark wall. It was a summer's evening, and the sun had sunk

in a glory of dusty gold, and in the violet twilight one or two stars

were twinkling like spearheads. There was an incessant noise made by

the croaking of frogs and the chatter of grasshoppers. The minstrel

was singing a short song over and over again to a monotonous tune.

The sense of it was something like this:

I watched beside the willow trees

The river, as the evening fell,

The twilight came and brought no breeze,

Nor dew, nor water for the well.

When from the tangled banks of grass

A bird across the water flew,

And in the river's hard grey glass

I saw a flash of azure blue.

As he sang he heard a rustle on the wall, and looking up he saw a

slight figure white against the twilight, beckoning him. He walked

along under the wall until he came to a gate, and there someone was

waiting for him, and he was gently led into the shadow of a dark cedar

tree. In the dim twilight he saw two bright eyes looking at him, and

he understood their message. In the twilight a thousand meaningless

nothings were whispered in the light of the stars, and the hours fled

swiftly. When the East began to grow light, the Princess (for it was

she) said it was time to go.

"But," said the minstrel, "to-morrow I shall come to the palace and

ask for your hand."

"Alas!" said the Princess, "I would that were possible, but my father

has made a foolish condition that only he may wed me who finds the

blue rose."

"That is simple," said the minstrel. "I will find it." And they said

good night to each other.

The next morning the minstrel went to the palace, and on his way he

picked a common white rose from a wayside garden. He was ushered into

the Emperor's presence, who sent for his daughter and said to her:

"This penniless minstrel has brought you what he claims to be the blue

rose. Has he accomplished the quest?"

The Princess took the rose in her hands and said: "Yes, this is without

doubt the blue rose."

But the Lord Chief Justice and all who were present respectfully

pointed out that the rose was a common white rose and not a blue

one, and the objection was with many forms and phrases conveyed to

the Princess.

"I think the rose is blue," said the Princess. "Perhaps you are all

colour blind."

The Emperor, with whom the decision rested, decided that if the

Princess thought the rose was blue it was blue, for it was well

known that her perception was more acute than that of any one

else in the kingdom.

So the minstrel married the Princess, and they settled on the sea

coast in a little seen house with a garden full of white roses, and

they lived happily ever afterwards. And the Emperor, knowing that

his daughter had made a good match, died in peace.

MAURICE BARING.

THE TWO FROGS.

Once upon a time in the country of Japan there lived two frogs, one

of whom made his home in a ditch near the town of Osaka, on the sea

coast, while the other dwelt in a clear little stream which ran

through the city of Kioto. At such a great distance apart, they had

never even heard of each other; but, funnily enough, the idea came

into both their heads at once that they should like to see a little

of the world, and the frog who lived at Kioto wanted to visit Osaka,

and the frog who lived at Osaka wished to go to Kioto, where the great

Mikado had his palace.

So one fine morning in the spring, they both set out along the road

that led from Kioto to Osaka, one from one end and the other from

the other.

The journey was more tiring than they expected, for they did not know

much about travelling, and half-way between the two towns there rose

a mountain which had to be climbed. It took them a long time and a

great many hops to reach the top, but there they were at last, and

what was the surprise of each to see another frog before him! They

looked at each other for a moment without speaking, and then fell

into conversation, and explained the cause of their meeting so far

from their homes. It was delightful to find that they both felt the

same wish--to learn a little more of their native country--and as

there was no sort of hurry they stretched themselves out in a cool,

damp place, and agreed that they would have a good rest before they

parted to go their ways.

"What a pity we are not bigger," said the Osaka frog, "and then we

could see both towns from here and tell if it worth our while going

on."

"Oh, that is easily manage," returned the Kioto frog. "We have only

got to stand up on our hind legs, and hold on to each other, and then

we can each look at the town he is travelling to."

This idea pleased the Osaka frog so much that he at once jumped up and

put his front paws on the shoulder of his friend, who had risen also.

There they both stood, stretching themselves as high as they could,

and holding each other tightly, so that they might not fall down. The

Kioto frog turned his nose towards Osaka, and the Osaka frog turned

his nose toward Kioto; but the foolish thing forgot that when the

stood up their great eyes lay in the backs of their heads, and that

though their noses might point to the places to which they wanted to

go, their eyes beheld the places from which they had come.

"Dear me!" cried the Osaka frog; "Kioto is exactly like Osaka. It is

certainly not worth such a long journey. I shall go home."

"If I had had any idea that Osaka was only a copy of Kioto I should

never have travelled all this way," exclaimed the frog from Kioto, and

as he spoke, he took his hands from his friend's shoulders and they

both fell down to the grass.

Then they took a polite farewell of each other, and set off for home,

again, and to the end of their lives they believed that Osaka and

Kioto, which are as different to look at as two towns can be, were

as like as two peas.

THE VIOLET LOVING BOOK.

THE WISE OLD SHEPHERD.

Once upon a time a Snake went out of his hole to take an airing. He

crawled about, greatly enjoying the scenery and the fresh whiff of the

breeze, until, seeing an open door, he went in. Now this door was the

door of the palace of the King, and inside was the King himself, with

all his courtiers.

Imagine their horror at seeing a huge Snake crawling in at the

door. They all ran away except the king, who felt that his rank

forbade him to be a coward, and the King's son. The King called out

for somebody to come and kill the Snake; but this horrified them still

more, because in that country the people believed it to be wicked to

kill any living thing, even snakes and scorpion and wasps. So the

courtiers did nothing, but the young Prince obeyed his father, and

killed the Snake with his stick.

After a while the Snake's wife became anxious and set out in search of

her husband. She too saw the open door of the palace, and in she

went. O horror! there on the floor lay the body of her husband all

covered with blood and quite dead. No one saw the Snake's wife crawl

in; she inquired of a white ant what had happened, and when she found

that the young prince had killed her husband, she made a vow that, as

he had made her a widow, so she would make his wife a widow.

That night, when all the world was asleep, the Snake crept into the

Prince's bedroom, and coiled round his neck. The Prince slept on,

and when he awoke in the morning, he was surprised to find his neck

encircled with the coils of a snake. He was afraid to stir, so there

he remained, until the Prince's mother became anxious and went to see

what was the matter. When she entered his room, and saw him in this

plight, she gave a loud shriek, and ran off to tell the king.

"Call the archers," said the King.

The archers came in a row, fitted the arrows to the bows, the bows

were raised and ready to shoot, when, on a sudden, from the Snake

there issued a voice which spoke as follows:

"O archers, wait, wait and hear me before you shoot. It is not fair

to carry out the sentence before you have heard the case. Is not this

a good law: an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth? Is it not so,

O King?"

"Yes," replied the King, "that is our law."

"Then," said the snake, "I plead the law. Your son has made me a

widow, so it is fair and right that I should make his wife a widow."

"That sounds right enough," said the King, "but right and law are not

always the same thing. We had better ask somebody who knows."

They asked all the judges, but none of them could tell the law of the

matter. They shook their heads, and said they would look up all their

law-books, and see whether anything of the sort had ever happened

before, and if so, how it had been decided. That is the way judges

used to decide cases in that country, though I dare say it sounds to

you a very funny way. It looked as if they had not much sense in

their own heads, and perhaps that was true. The upshot of it all was

that not a judge would give an opinion; so the King sent messengers

all over the countryside, to see if they could find somebody somewhere

who knew something.

One of these messengers found a party of five shepherds, who were

sitting upon a hill and trying to decide a quarrel of their own. They

gave their opinions so freely, and in language so very strong, that

the King's messenger said to himself, "Here are the men for us. Here

are five men, each with an opinion of his own, and all different."

Posthaste he scurried back to the King, and told him that he had found

at last some one ready to judge the knotty point.

So the King and the Queen, and the Prince and Princess, and all the

courtiers, got on horseback, and away they galloped to the hill

whereupon the five shepherds were sitting, and the Snake too went

with them, coiled around the neck of the Prince.

When they got to the shepherds' hill, the shepherds were dreadfully

frightened. At first they thought the strangers were a gang of robbers,

and when they saw it was the King their next thought was that one of

their misdeeds had been found out; and each of them began thinking

what was the last thing he had done, and wondering, was it that?

But the King and the courtiers got off their horses, and said good

day, in the most civil way. So the shepherds felt their minds set at

ease again. Then the King said:

"Worthy shepherds, we have a question to put to you, which not all the

judges in all the courts of my city have been able to solve. Here is

my son, and here, as you see, is a snake coiled round his neck. Now,

the husband of this Snake came creeping into my palace hall, and my

son the Prince killed him; so this Snake, who is the wife of the other,

says that, as my son has made her a widow, so she has a right to widow

my son's wife. What do you think about it?"

The first shepherd said: "I think she is quite right, my Lord the

King. If anyone made my wife a widow, I would pretty soon do the

same to him."

This was brave language, and the other shepherds shook their heads and

looked fierce. But the King was puzzled, and could not quite understand

it. You see, in the first place, if the man's wife were a widow, the

man would be dead; and then it is hard to see that he could do anything.

So to make sure, the King asked the second shepherd whether that was his

opinion too.

"Yes," said the second shepherd; "now the Prince has killed the Snake,

the Snake has a right to kill the Prince if he can." But that was not

of much use either, as the Snake was as dead as a doornail. So the

King passed on to the third.

"I agree with my mates," said the third shepherd. "Because, you see,

a Prince is a Prince, but then a Snake is a Snake." That was quite

true, they all admitted, but it did not seem to help the matter much.

Then the King asked the fourth shepherd to say what he thought.

The fourth shepherd said: "An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth;

so I think a widow should be a widow, if so be she don't marry again."

By this time the poor King was so puzzled that he hardly knew whether

he stood on his head or his heels. But there was still the fifth

shepherd left; the oldest and wisest of them all; and the fifth

shepherd said:

"King, I should like to ask two questions."

"Ask twenty, if you like," said the King. He did not promise to

answer them, so he could afford to be generous.

"First. I ask the Princess how many sons she has."

"Four," said the Princess.

"And how many sons has Mistress Snake here?"

Seven," said the Snake.

"Then," said the old shepherd, "it will be quite fair for Mistress

Snake to kill his Highness the Prince when her Highness the Princess

has had three sons more."

"I never thought of that," said the Snake. "Good-bye, King, and all

you good people. Send a message when the Princess has had three more

sons, and you may count upon me--I will not fail you."

So saying, she uncoiled from the Prince's neck and slid away among

the grass.

The King and the Prince and everybody shook hands with the wise old

shepherd, and went home again. And the Princess never had any more

sons at all. She and the Prince lived happily for many years; and if

they are not dead they are living still.

From "THE TALKING THRUSH."

THE FOLLY OF PANIC.

And it came to pass that the Buddha (to be) was born again as a Lion.

Just as he had helped his fellow-men, he now began to help his fellow-

animals, and there was a great deal to be done. For instance, there

was a little nervous Hare who was always afraid that something

dreadful was going to happen to her. She was always saying: "Suppose

the Earth were to fall in, what would happen to me?" And she said

this so often that at last she thought it really was about to happen.

One day, when she had been saying over and over again, "Suppose the

Earth were to fall in, what would happen to me?" she heard a slight

noise: it really was only a heavy fruit which had fallen upon a

rustling leaf, but the little Hare was so nervous she was ready

to believe anything, and she said in a frightened tone: "The Earth

is falling in." She ran away as fast as she could go, and presently

she met an old brother Hare, who said: "Where are you running to

Mistress Hare?"

And the little Hare said: "I have no time to stop and tell you

anything. The Earth is falling in, and I am running away."

"The Earth is falling in, is it?" said the old brother Hare, in a tone

of much astonishment; and he repeated this to _his_ brother hare, and

_he_ to _his_ brother hare, and he to his brother hare, until at last

there were a hundred thousand brother hares, all shouting: "The Earth is

falling in." Now presently the bigger animals began to take the cry up.

First the deer, and then the sheep, and then the wild boar, and then the

buffalo, and then the camel, and then the tiger, and then the elephant.

Now the wise Lion heard all this noise and wondered at it. "There are

no signs," he said, "of the Earth falling in. They must have heard

something." And then he stopped them all short and said: "What is

this you are saying?"

And the Elephant said: "I remarked that the Earth was falling in."

"How do you know this?" asked the Lion.

"Why, now I come to think of it, it was the Tiger that remarked it

to me."

And the Tiger said: "I had it from the Camel," and the Camel said: "I

had it from the Buffalo." And the buffalo from the wild boar, and the

wild boar from the sheep, and the sheep from the deer, and the deer

from the hares, and the Hares said: "Oh! _we_ heard it from _that_

little Hare."

And the Lion said: "Little Hare, _what_ made you say that the Earth

was falling in?"

And the little Hare said: "I _saw_ it."

"You saw it?" said the Lion. "Where?"

"Yonder, by that tree."

"Well," said the Lion, "come with me and I will show you how---"

"No, no," said the Hare, "I would not go near that tree for anything,

I'm _so_ nervous."

"But," said the Lion, "I am going to take you on my back." And he

took her on his back, and begged the animals to stay where they were

until they returned. Then he showed the little Hare how the fruit had

fallen upon the leaf, making the noise that had frightened her, and

she said: "Yes, I see--the Earth is _not_ falling in." and the Lion

said: "Shall we go back and tell the other animals?" And they went

back. The little Hare stood before the animals and said: "The Earth

is _not_ falling in." And all the animals began to repeat this to one

another, and they dispersed gradually, and you heard the words more and

more softly:

"The Earth is _not_ falling in," etc., etc., etc., until the sound died

away altogether.

From "EASTERN STORIES AND LEGENDS."

[NOTE:--This story I have told in my own words, using the language

I have found most effective for very young children.]

THE TRUE SPIRIT OF A FESTIVAL DAY.

And it came to pass that the Buddha was born a Hare and lived in a

wood; on one side was the foot of a mountain, on another a river, on

the third side a border village.

And with him lived three friends: a Monkey, a Jackal and an Otter;

each of these creatures got food on his own hunting ground. In the

evening they met together, and the Hare taught his companions many

wise things: that the moral law should be observed, that alms should

be given to the poor, and that holy days should be kept.

One day the Buddha said: "To-morrow is a fast day. Feed any beggars

that come to you by giving food from your own table." They all

consented.

The next day the Otter went down to the bank of the Ganges to seek his

prey. Now a fisherman had landed seven red fish and had buried them

in the sand on the river's bank while he went down the stream catching

more fish. The Otter scented the buried fish, dug up the sand till he

came upon them, and he called aloud: "Does any one own these fish?"

And, not seeing the owner, he laid the fish in the jungle where he

dwelt, intending to eat them at a fitting time. Then he lay down,

thinking how virtuous he was.

The Jackal also went off in search of food, and found in the hut of a

field watcher a lizard, two spits, and a pot of milk-curd.

And, after thrice crying aloud, "To whom do these belong?" and not

finding an owner, he put on his neck the rope for lifting the pot, and

grasping the spits and lizard with his teeth, he laid them in his own

lair, thinking, "In due season I will devour them," and then he lay

down, thinking how virtuous he had been.

But the Hare (who was the Buddha-to-be) in due time came out, thinking

to lie (in contemplation) on the Kuca grass. "It is impossible for me

to offer _grass_ to any beggars who may chance to come by, and I have

no oil or rice or fish. If any beggar comes to me, I will give him (of)

my own flesh to eat."

Now when Sakka, the King of the Gods, heard this thing, he determined

to put the Royal Hare to the test. So he came in disguise of a Brahmin

to the Otter and said: "Wise Sir, if I could get something to eat, I

would perform _all_ my priestly duties."

The Otter said: "I will give you food. Seven red fish have I safely

brought to land from the sacred river of the Ganges. Eat thy fill, O

Brahmin, and stay in this wood."

And the Brahmin said: "Let it be until to-morrow, and I will see to

it then."

Then he went to the Jackal, who confessed that he had stolen the food,

but he begged the Brahmin to accept it and remain in the wood: but the

Brahmin said: "Let it be until the morrow, and then I well see to it."

Then the Brahmin went to the wise Hare, and the Hare said: "Behold, I

will give you of my flesh to eat. But you must not take life on this

holy day. When you have piled up the logs I will sacrifice myself by

falling into the midst of the flames, and when my body is roasted you

shall eat my flesh and perform all your priestly duties."

Now when Sakka heard these words he caused a heap of burning coals

to appear, and the Wisdom Being, rising from the grass, came to the

place, but before casting himself into the flames he shook himself,

lest perchance there should be any insects in his coat who might

suffer death. Then, offering his body as a free gift, he sprang up,

and like a royal swan, lighting on a bed of lotus in an ecstasy of

joy, he fell on the heap of live coals. But the flame failed even to

heat the pores or the hair on the body of the Wisdom Being, and it was

as if he had entered a region of frost. Then he addressed the Brahmin

in these words: "Brahmin, the fire that you have kindled is icy cold;

it fails to heat the pores of the hair on my body. What is the

meaning of this?"

"O most wise Hare! I am Sakka, and have come to put your virtue to

the test."

And the Buddha in a sweet voice said: "No god or man could find in me

an unwillingness to die."

Then Sakka said: "O wise Hare, be thy virtue known to all the ages

to come."

And seizing the mountain he squeezed out the juice and daubed on the

moon the signs of the young hare.

Then he placed him back on the grass that he might continue his

Sabbath meditation, and returned to Heaven.

And the four creatures lived together and kept the moral law.

From "EASTERN STORIES AND LEGENDS."

FILIAL PIETY

Now it came to pass that the Buddha was reborn in the shape of a

parrot, and he greatly excelled all other parrots in his strength and

beauty. And when he was full grown his father, who had long been the

leader of the flock in their flights to other climes, said to him: "My

son, behold, thou shalt rest. I will lead the birds." And the

parrots rejoiced in the strength of their new leader, and willingly

did they follow him. Now from that day on, the Buddha undertook to

feed his parents, and would not consent that they should do any more

work. Each day he led his flock to the Himalaya Hills, and when he

had eaten his fill of the clumps of rice that grew there, he filled

his beak with food for the dear parents who were waiting his return.

Now there was a man appointed to watch the rice-fields, and he did

his best to drive the parrots away, but there seemed to be some secret

power in the leader of this flock which the keeper could not overcome.

He noticed that the parrots ate their fill and then flew away, but

that the Parrot-King not only satisfied his hunger, but carried away

rice in his beak.

Now he feared there would be no rice left, and he went to his master,

the Brahmin, to tell him what had happened; and even as the master

listened there came to him the thought that the Parrot-King was

something higher than he seemed, and he loved him even before he saw

him. But he said nothing of this, and only warned the Keeper that

he should set a snare and catch the dangerous bird. So the man did

as he was bidden: he made a small cage and set the snare, and sat

down in his hut waiting for the birds to come. And soon he saw the

Parrot-King amidst his flock, who, because he had no greed, sought

no richer spot, but flew down to the same place in which he had fed

the day before.

Now, no sooner had he touched the ground than he felt his feet caught

in the noose. Then fear crept into his bird heart, but a stronger

feeling was there to crush it down, for he thought: "If I cry out the

Cry of the Captured, my Kinsfolk will be terrified, and they will fly

away foodless. But if I lie still, then their hunger will be satisfied,

and may they safely come to my aid." Thus, was the parrot both brave

and prudent.

But alas! he did not know that his Kinsfolk had nought of his brave

spirit. When _they_ had eaten their fill, though they heard the

thrice-uttered cry of the captured, they flew away, nor heed the sad

plight of their leader.

Then was the heart of the Parrot-King sore within him, and he said:

"All these my kith and kin, and not one to look back on me. Alas!

what sin have I done?"