arms about him, and wept over him.
“It is I, oh, my father! It is thy daughter, Sim Ching,” she wept.
Then her father knew her voice and cried aloud with joy. “Oh, my
daughter, I had thought thee dead,” he cried, “and now thou art alive
and I can feel thy arms about me.”
As he spoke the tears of joy ran down his cheeks, and these tears washed
away the mists of sorrow that had clouded his eyes and he found he could
see again.
Then there was great rejoicing, and the King called the old man father
and made him welcome, and in due time he who had been blind and now
could see was raised to great wealth and honor, and so the words of the
priest, that he had spoken without believing, came true.
But as for the priest himself, the King had him sought for, and when he
was found, he was thrown into prison and punished as he deserved for his
greed and cruelty.
THE OAT CAKE
A SCOTCH STORY
One time the farmer’s wife made two oat cakes. She shaped them, and
patted them and put them down in front of the fire to bake. “They will
do for the good man’s dinner,” said she.
Then said one cake to the other cake, “It is all very well for the woman
to say that, but I have no wish to be eaten. I will wait until I am
baked hard, and then I shall set out to see the world.”
“That is a poor way to talk, brother,” replied the other. “Oat cakes
were made to be eaten, and you should be proud to think the master
himself is to have you for dinner.”
“Master or no master, I have no wish to be eaten,” repeated the first
oat cake.
Not long after that, the farmer came home, and he was very hungry. First
he ate the oat cake that wished to be eaten, and after he had finished
it, he stretched out his hand for the other, but it slipped through his
fingers and away it rolled, out of the door and on down the road.
It rolled along and rolled along until it came to a neat, tidy house
with a thatched roof.
“This looks like a good and proper place for me to stop,” said the oat
cake, so it rolled on in through the doorway.
There inside were a tailor and his two apprentices, all of them sitting
cross-legged and sewing away; and the tailor’s wife stood by the fire,
stirring the porridge.
When the tailor and the boys saw the oat cake come rolling in across the
floor so boldly, they were frightened, and jumped up and hid behind the
woman.
“Now out upon you! To be frightened by an oat cake!” cried the good
wife. “Quick! Catch hold of it and divide it among you, and I’ll give
you some milk to drink with it.”
When the tailor and his apprentices heard this, they took courage and
ran out and tried to catch the oat cake; but it dodged them and rolled
under the table and under the chairs, and while they were chasing it and
the woman watching them, the porridge boiled over into the fire and was
burned.
But the oat cake escaped them, and rolled out through the door, and on
down the road again. “I’d better go a bit farther before I settle down
for the night,” it thought to itself.
Presently it came to a little small house. “I’ll try how it is in here,”
said the oat cake, and in it rolled.
There sat a weaver at his loom, and his wife was winding some yarn.
“What’s that that just came in at the door?” asked the weaver, for his
eyesight was not very good.
“It’s an oat cake!” said his wife staring.
“Catch it woman! Catch it, before it rolls away again!” cried the
weaver.
The woman chased the oat cake up and down and round about, and the
weaver left his work and joined in the chase, but the oat cake was too
lively for them. Every time they thought they had it, it slipped
through their fingers as though it were buttered.
“Throw your yarn over it and snare it,” cried the weaver.
The woman threw her yarn over the oat cake, but the cake tangled up the
yarn so that later on it took the woman a good two days to straighten it
out again. But the oat cake escaped and rolled out and down the road.
“That’s too lively a place for me to stay,” said the oat cake to itself.
At the next place where the oat cake stopped, a woman was churning.
“Oh, the dear little, pretty little oat cake!” cried she. “I have good
thick cream to-day, and plenty of it, and the oat cake will taste good
with it.”
“But first you must catch me,” said the oat cake.
It rolled round and round the churn, and the woman ran after it, and in
the end she fell against the churn and upset it.
While she was cleaning up the mess, the oat cake set out on further
adventures.
“So far I’ve found no place in the world where an oat cake can rest in
peace and quiet,” said the cake. “But, there must be such a place
somewhere, and if there is, I mean to find it.”
Soon it came to a bit of a stream, with a mill beside it.
The oat cake rolled into the mill, and there stood a miller at work, and
he was all white with flour. “Oat cake and a bit of cheese taste well
together,” said the miller. “The cheese I already have. Come in, come in
and make the other half of the feast.”
But the oat cake was frightened and rolled on out, and the miller never
bothered his head further about it.
The next place the oat cake stopped was at a smithy. The smith was busy
beating out a horseshoe, but when he saw the oat cake he laid aside the
shoe.
“Welcome! Welcome! I like an oat cake and a drink of ale as well as the
next man. Come in and let us feast together.”
“Not I,” cried the oat cake, and away it rolled in haste, and as the
road was downhill now, it made good time.
The smith ran after it, and when he found the cake was going too fast
for him, he threw his hammer after it, and the hammer fell into a
thicket, and the smith had a great time finding it.
But the oat cake hid in a crack between two rocks, and lay there quiet
until the smith had found his hammer and gone back to his smithy again
grumbling. Then out it came and away it rolled, but it was getting tired
now.
“Maybe it would have been better if I had gone to rest in the good man’s
stomach,” said the oat cake, “but here we go, and I have no mind to be
eaten by the first stranger who takes a fancy to me,--no, nor by the
second either.”
In the next house the oat cake entered, the good wife was cooking
supper, and her husband sat plaiting straw rope.
“Look at that!” cried the woman. “You’re always asking me for oat cake,
and there is one ready to your hand. Quick! Quick! Shut the door and
catch it.”
The man jumped up to shut the door, but he caught his foot in the rope
he was plaiting and fell flat on the floor. The woman threw her porridge
stick at the cake, but away it went and off down the road.
“Now I’ll have to find some place to sleep,” said it to itself. “No
knowing what will happen if I lay me down by the roadside.”
It saw an open door, and in it rolled. The good man of the house had
just taken off his breeches, and the woman was tucking the children into
bed.
“Look! Look!” cried the woman. “There is an oat cake rolling in at the
door, and no one coming after to claim it. Catch it before it can get
away again.”
The good man jumped up and threw his breeches at it. They fell on the
oat cake and almost smothered it, but it managed to roll out from under
them and away it went, with the man and his wife in full chase after it,
and the children crying after them.
But the oat cake was too quick, even for the two of them. It outran them
both, and
[Illustration: As soon as he saw the oat cake he was wide awake again in
a moment. _Page 209_]
the man and his wife had to go back home without it, the man with his
bare legs, and the neighbors peeking out at him from behind their window
curtains.
By this time it was dark. “I’ll have to hurry if I want to find a place
to-night where I can sleep in quiet,” said the oat cake.
So now it rolled along more briskly, and presently it came to a pasture,
and it leaped and bounded across it at a great rate, for it was all
downhill, and then suddenly--plunk!--it fell down into a fox’s hole.
The fox was at home and half asleep, but as soon as he saw the oat cake,
he was wide awake again in a moment. The fox had had nothing to eat all
day, and he did not stop to look twice at the oat cake, but bit it in
half and swallowed it down in a trice and with no words about it.
So the oat cake slept quiet after all its wanderings, but it might as
well have been eaten by the farmer in the first place.
THE DREAMER
AN ENGLISH STORY
There once lived a man and his wife, named Peter and Kate, and they were
so poor that they had scarcely enough bread to put in their mouths. They
lived in a wretched, miserable hut, and in front of the hut was a river,
and back of it a patch of ground and a gnarled old apple tree.
One night when Peter was sleeping he dreamed a dream, and in this dream
a tall old man dressed in gray, and with a long gray beard came to him
and said, “Peter, I know that you have had a hard life, and have neither
grumbled nor complained, and now I have a mind to help you. Follow down
the river until you come to a bridge. On the other side of the river you
will see a town. Take up your stand on the bridge and wait there
patiently. It may be that nothing will happen the first day, and it may
be that nothing will happen the second day either, but if you do not
lose courage, but still wait patiently, some time during the third day
some one will come to you, and tell you something that will make your
fortune for you.”
In the morning, when Peter awoke, he told his dream to Kate, his wife.
“It would be a curious thing if I should do as the old man told me and
really become rich,” said he.
“Nonsense!” answered his wife. “Dreams are nothing but foolishness. Do
you go over to Neighbor Goodkin and see whether he has not some wood to
be cut, so you can earn a few pence to buy meal for to-morrow.”
So Peter did as his wife told him, and went over to his neighbor’s and
worked there all day, and by evening he had almost forgotten his dream.
But that night, as soon as he fell asleep, the old man appeared before
him again. “Why have you not done as I told you, Peter?” said he.
“Remember, good luck will not wait forever. To-morrow do you set out for
the bridge and town I told you of, and believe, for it is the truth; if
you wait there for three days and make the best of what will then be
told you you will become a rich man.”
When Peter awoke the next morning, his first thought was to set out in
search of the bridge and town of which the old man had told him, but
still his wife dissuaded him.
“Do not be so foolish,” said she. “Sit down and eat your breakfast and
be thankful that you have it. You earned a few pence yesterday, and who
knows but what you may be lucky enough to earn even more to-day.”
So Peter did not set out on his journey in search of fortune that day
either.
But the next night for the third time the old man appeared before him,
and now his look was stern and forbidding. “Thou fool!” said he. “Three
times have I come to thee, and now I will come no more. Go to the bridge
of which I have spoken and listen well to what is there said to thee.
Otherwise want and poverty will still be thy portion, even as they have
been heretofore.”
With this the old man disappeared, and Peter awoke. And now it was of no
use for his wife to scold and argue. As the old man had commanded so
Peter would do. He only stopped to put some food in his stomach and more
in his pockets, and off he set, one foot before another.
For a long time Peter journeyed on down the river till he was both
footsore and weary, and then he came to a bridge that crossed the
stream, and on the other side was a town, and Peter felt almost sure
this was the place to which the old man of his dreams had told him to
come.
So he took his stand on the fridge and stayed there all day. The
passers-by stared at him, and some of them spoke to him, but none of
them said to him anything that might, by any chance, lead him on to
fortune. All that day he waited on the bridge, and all of the day after,
and by the time the third day came, he had eaten all the food he had
brought with him except one hard, dry crust of bread. Then he began to
wonder whether he were not a simpleton to be loitering there day after
day, all because of a dream, when he might, perhaps, be earning a few
pennies at home in one way or another.
Now just beyond this bridge there was a tailor’s shop, and the tailor
who lived there was a very curious man. Ever since Peter had taken his
stand on the bridge the tailor had been peeping out at him, and
wondering why he was standing there, and what his business might be; and
the longer Peter stayed the more curious the tailor became. He fussed
and he fidgeted, and along toward the afternoon of the third day he
could bear it no longer, and he put aside his work and went out to the
bridge to find out what he could about Peter and what he was doing
there.
When he came where Peter was he bade him good-day.
“Good-day,” answered Peter.
“Are you waiting here on the bridge for some one?” asked the tailor.
“I am and I am not,” replied Peter.
“Now what may be the meaning of that?” asked the tailor. “How can you be
waiting and still not be waiting all at one and the same time?”
“I am waiting for some one--that is true”; said Peter, “but I know not
who he is nor whence he will come, nor, for the matter of that, whether
any one will come at all.” And then he related to the tailor his dream,
and how he had been told that if he waited on the bridge for three days
some one would come along and tell him something that would make him
rich for life.
“Why, what a silly fellow you are,” said the tailor. “I, too, have
dreamed dreams, but I have too much sense to pay any attention to them.
Only last week I dreamed three times that an old man came to me and told
me to follow up along the bank of the river until I came to a hut where
a man and his wife lived,--the man’s name was Peter, and his wife’s name
was Kate. I was to go and dig among the roots of an apple tree back of
this house, and there, buried among the roots of the tree, I would find
a chest of golden money. That was what I dreamed. But did I go wandering
off in search of such a place? No, indeed, I am not such a simpleton. I
stick to my work, and I can manage to keep a warm roof over my head,
and have plenty of food to eat, and when I am dressed in my best there
is not one of the neighbors that looks half as fine as I do. No, no; go
back to where you belong and set to work, my man, and maybe you can earn
something better than those miserable rags you are wearing now.”
So said the tailor, and then he went back to his tailor’s bench and his
sewing.
But Peter stood and scratched his head. “A man named Peter, and his wife
named Kate! And an apple tree behind the house!” said he. “Now it’s a
strange thing if a fortune’s been lying there under the roots of the
apple tree all this while, and I had to come to this town and this
bridge to hear about it!”
So said Peter as he stood there on the bridge. But then, after he had
scratched his head and thought a bit longer, he pulled his hat down over
his ears and off he set for home. The farther he went, the more of a
hurry he was in, and at last, when he came within sight of his house
again, he was all out of breath with the haste he had made.
He did not wait to go inside, but he bawled to his wife to fetch him a
pick and shovel, and ran around the house to where the apple tree stood.
His wife did not know what had happened to him. She thought he must have
lost his wits, but she brought him the pick and shovel, and he began
digging around about the roots of the apple tree.
He had not dug for so very long when his pick struck something hard. He
flung the pick aside and seized his spade, and presently he uncovered a
great chest made of stout oak wood and bound about with iron.
The chest was so heavy that he could not lift it out of the hole
himself, and his wife had to help him. The chest was locked, but that
mattered little to Peter. He took his pick, and with a few blows he
broke the hinges and fastenings, and lifted the lid from its place. At
once he gave a loud cry, and fell on his knees beside the chest. He and
his wife could scarce believe in their good fortune. It was brimming
over with golden money, enough to make them rich for life.
They carried the chest into the house, and barred the door, and set
about counting the money, and there was so much of it, they were all
evening and part of the night counting it.
That was the way good fortune came to Peter, and all by way of a dream.
Now he and his wife built themselves a great house, and had fine food,
and coaches, and horses, and handsome clothes, and they feasted the
neighbors, and never a poor man came to the door but what they gave him
as much food as he could eat and a piece of silver to put in his pocket.
One day Peter put on his finest clothes and made his wife dress herself
in her best, and then they stepped into one of their coaches, and Peter
bade the coachman drive to the town where he had stood on the bridge and
listened to the tailor tell his dream of the chest of money buried under
the apple tree.
Peter made the coachman drive up in front of the tailor’s shop, and
when the tailor saw the coach stopping at his door, and the fine people
sitting in it, he thought it was some great nobleman and his wife, come
perhaps to order a suit of clothes of him.
He came out, bowing and smiling and smirking, and Peter said to him, “Do
you remember me?”
“No, your lordship,” answered the tailor, still bowing and smiling, “I
have not that honor, your lordship.”
Then Peter told him he was the ragged fellow who had stood out there on
the bridge waiting for good luck to come to him; and sure enough it had,
for if it had not been for the dream the tailor told him, he would have
known nothing about the gold buried under the apple tree and would never
have become the rich man he was now.
When the tailor heard this tale, he was ready to tear his hair out, for
if he had believed his dream he might have found the gold himself and
have kept a share of it.
However, Peter gave him a hundred gold pieces to comfort him and
ordered a fine suit. He also promised that after that he would buy all
his clothes from the tailor and pay him a good price for them, so the
tailor, too, got some good from all the dreaming.
THE STORY OF HARKA
AN AMERICAN INDIAN TALE
It was evening, and the Indians had gathered around their camp fires.
Among the youths sat Harka, the tallest and handsomest of them all.
From the lodge his mother called to him, “Harka, go down to the spring
in the forest and bring me some water.”
Without moving, Harka answered, “It is dark down in the forest, and I am
afraid to go where it is dark.”
Then from all the Indians around there rose a shout of laughter and of
jeering. “He is afraid of the dark!” they shouted. “He has said it!” And
even the children laughed and jeered at him.
Then Harka arose and cried, “You think I am a coward, but I will prove
to you before long that I am as brave as any man in the tribe, either
youth or warrior.”
“How will you prove it, Harka?” they mocked at him; and one cried,
“Bring us the head of Pahundootah! Then we will believe you.”
Now Pahundootah was a sorcerer, so powerful and wicked that he was the
terror of all the villages. Even the warriors feared him, and women and
children shuddered at his name.
But in his anger Harka answered rashly, “I will bring you the head of
Pahundootah.”
Then again the shouts arose, mocking and jeering at him. None believed
him, but they thought him an idle boaster.
But Harka wrapped his blanket about him and went back in silence to his
lodge, and the sound of laughter followed him, and his heart was
troubled within him. He had said that he would bring them the head of
the sorcerer, and now unless he kept his promise he would be ashamed to
face again his people and have them taunt him for his boasting.
Early the next morning Harka arose, and without saying anything to any
one, he took from a bag that hung in the lodge three magic arrows
belonging to his father, and set out upon a journey. He had determined
to seek out Pahundootah and either slay him or be slain.
All the morning he traveled on without stopping, and at noon he shot one
of the magic arrows high into the air. He carefully noted the direction
in which it went and then followed, running swiftly and lightly.
Toward evening he came to where a deer lay dead, with the arrow sticking
in it.
Without troubling to withdraw the arrow, Harka cut some slices of
venison and cooked and ate.
All night he tended the fire that it might not die down and leave him in
darkness, and in the early morning he again set out upon his journey.
At noon he shot his second arrow into the air, and toward evening he
found it buried in the heart of an elk. That night he had elk meat for
supper, and the next day he went on his way, traveling swiftly, but he
forgot the arrow.
He waited till noonday and then shot from his bow his third and last
arrow. That evening he came to where a buffalo lay dead, slain by the
arrow. Once more he ate and rested by the fire, and at dawning he set
out again upon his journey.
When noon came he had no arrow to shoot, for he had left them all behind
him.
By evening Harka was very hungry, but there was nothing for him to eat.
Suddenly he saw the light of a fire just ahead of him. He advanced
toward it, slowly and cautiously, fearing it might be the encampment of
some enemy, but he saw no one except an old woman who was stirring
something in a pot that hung over the fire. Never was seen an old woman
half so horrible and terrifying as she. Her face was more like that of a
skull than of a human being. Her gray hair hung down about her like a
mat; her eyes were as red as fire, and her nails so long that she could
hardly close her hands. About her neck was a necklace of bones, and
about her waist a girdle of scalps.
After looking at her for awhile, Harka was about to steal quietly away
when, without looking up, the old woman called to him, “Come nearer to
the fire, Harka. Supper is almost ready.”
Harka came forward into the firelight, and the old witch, still without
looking up, bade him be seated.
Suddenly the scalps about her waist burst into a shout of laughter, and
the hag joined in with them, laughing loudly. Then they fell silent, and
the old woman too became quiet, scowling and muttering to herself as she
bent over the pot.
Presently she filled a dish with food and brought it to Harka. The youth
was hungry, and in spite of the strange look of the old woman, he ate
heartily.
When he had finished, she took away the bowl. Again the scalps burst
into wild laughter, and the hag laughed with them.
After they were silent, she came over and sat down beside Harka and
began talking.
“I know why you have come here, Harka,” she said. “You are in search of
Pahundootah. I am the Witch Wokonkatonzooeyepekahaichu and Pahundootah
is my bitterest enemy. I myself cannot destroy him, but you may be able
to do it with my help. It will be a very dangerous business, and you
will have to be careful. Now sleep, and to-morrow I will tell you what
you must do in order to destroy the sorcerer.”
Harka lay down beside the fire and slept soundly.
The next morning, when he awoke, the breakfast was ready, and after he
had eaten, the old woman went into the lodge and brought out a magic
pouch. From this she drew a leaden comb, a golden cup, and a blade of
sword grass. She also took from the bag a woman’s dress most beautifully
shaped and colored.
“Now listen carefully,” said the witch. “Only as a maiden can you come
near Pahundootah. Put on the dress, and then I will comb your hair for
you.”
Harka did as the old witch bade him. He dressed himself in the
beautiful garments, and then the old witch took the leaden comb and
combed his hair; and as she combed, his hair grew longer and longer
until it hung down below his knees in beautiful shining tresses. His
eyes also looked larger, and his face finer, so that any one who saw him
would have thought him a surpassingly beautiful young maiden.
The old witch looked at him and burst into laughter, and all the scalps
laughed with her.
Then she gave Harka the golden goblet and the blade of sword grass. “Put
the grass in your girdle,” said she. “With that and that alone can
Pahundootah’s head be severed from his shoulders. Now walk forward until
you come to a lake with an island in the middle of it. Upon that island
live the sorcerer and his people. As soon as you reach the lake you must
begin to dip up the water in the golden cup. The sorcerer will see the
gleam of it and come in his canoe to capture you. This you must allow
him to do, though you must seem frightened and reluctant, as would a
timid maiden. He will take you back to the island with him, and then
you must find some way to draw him apart from the others and lull him to
sleep. Then you can cut off his head with the blade of grass I have
given you and escape before the others find what you have done.”