Once upon a time there was a servant who served a wise man, and cooked
for him his cabbage and his onions and his pot-herbs and his broth, day
after day, time in and time out, for seven years.
In those years the servant was well enough contented, but no one likes
to abide in the same place forever, and so one day he took it into his
head that he would like to go out into the world to see what kind of a
fortune a man might make there for himself. “Very well,” says the wise
man, the servant’s master; “you have served me faithfully these seven
years gone, and now that you ask leave to go you shall go. But it is
little or nothing in the way of money that I can give you, and so you
will have to be content with what I can afford. See, here is a little
pebble, and its like is not to be found in the seven kingdoms, for
whoever holds it in his mouth can hear while he does so all that the
birds and the beasts say to one another. Take it--it is yours, and, if
you use it wisely, it may bring you a fortune.”
The servant would rather have had the money in hand than the magic
pebble, but, as nothing better was to be had, he took the little stone,
and, bidding his master good-bye, trudged out into the world, to seek
his fortune. Well, he jogged on and on, paying his way with the few
pennies he had saved in his seven years of service, but for all of his
travelling nothing of good happened to him until, one morning, he came
to a lonely place where there stood a gallows, and there he sat him down
to rest, and it is just in such an unlikely place as this that a man’s
best chance of fortune comes to him sometimes.
As the servant sat there, there came two ravens flying, and lit upon the
cross-beam overhead. There they began talking to one another, and the
servant popped the pebble into his mouth to hear what they might say.
“Yonder is a traveller in the world,” said the first raven.
“Yes,” said the second, “and if he only knew how to set about it, his
fortune is as good as made.”
“How is that so?” said the first raven.
“Why, thus,” said the second. “If he only knew enough to follow yonder
road over the hill, he would come by-and-by to a stone cross where two
roads meet, and there he would find a man sitting. If he would ask it of
him, that man would lead him to the garden where the fruit of happiness
grows.”
“The fruit of happiness!” said the first raven, “and of what use would
the fruit of happiness be to him?”
“What use? I tell you, friend, there is no fruit in the world like that,
for one has only to hold it in one’s hand and wish, and whatever one
asks for one shall have.”
You may guess that when the servant understood the talk of the ravens he
was not slow in making use of what he heard. Up he scrambled, and away
he went as fast as his legs could carry him. On and on he travelled,
until he came to the cross-roads and the stone cross of which the raven
spoke, and there, sure enough, sat the traveller. He was clad in a
weather-stained coat, and he wore dusty boots, and the servant bade him
good-morning.
How should the servant know that it was an angel whom he beheld, and not
a common wayfarer?
“Whither away, comrade,” asked the traveller.
“Out in the world,” said the servant, “to seek my fortune. And what I
want to know is this--will you guide me to where I can find the fruit of
happiness?”
“You ask a great thing of me,” said the other; “nevertheless, since you
do ask it, it is not for me to refuse, though I may tell you that many
a man has sought for that fruit, and few indeed have found it. But if
I guide you to the garden where the fruit grows, there is one condition
you must fulfil: many strange things will happen upon our journey
between here and there, but concerning all you see you must ask not a
question and say not a word. Do you agree to that?”
“Yes,” said the servant, “I do.”
“Very well,” said his new comrade; “then let us be jogging, for I have
business in the town to-night, and the time is none too long to get
there.”
So all the rest of that day they journeyed onward together, until,
towards evening, they came to a town with high towers and steep roofs
and tall spires. The servant’s companion entered the gate as though
he knew the place right well, and led the way up one street and down
another, until, by-and-by, they came to a noble house that stood a
little apart by itself, with gardens of flowers and fruit-trees all
around it. There the travelling companion stopped, and, drawing out a
little pipe from under his jacket, began playing so sweetly upon it that
he made one’s heart stand still to listen to the music.
Well, he played and played until, by-and-by, the door opened, and out
came a serving-man. “Ho, piper!” said he, “would you like to earn good
wages for your playing?”
“Yes,” said the travelling companion, “I would, for that is why I came
hither.”
“Then follow me,” said the servant, and thereupon the travelling
companion tucked away his pipe and entered, with the other at his heels.
The house-servant led the way from one room to another, each grander
than the one they left behind, until at last he came to a great hall
where dozens of servants were serving a fine feast. But only one man
sat at table--a young man with a face so sorrowful that it made a body’s
heart ache to look upon him. “Can you play good music, piper?” said he.
“Yes,” said the piper, “that I can, for I know a tune that can cure
sorrow. But before I blow my pipe I and my friend here must have
something to eat and drink, for one cannot play well with an empty
stomach.”
“So be it,” said the young man; “sit down with me and eat and drink.”
So the two did without second bidding, and such food and drink the
serving-man had never tasted in his life before. And while they were
feasting together the young man told them his story, and why it was
he was so sad. A year before he had married a young lady, the most
beautiful in all that kingdom, and had friends and comrades and all
things that a man could desire in the world. But suddenly everything
went wrong; his wife and he fell out and quarrelled until there was
no living together, and she had to go back to her old home. Then his
companions deserted him, and now he lived all alone.
“Yours is a hard case,” said the travelling companion, “but it is not
past curing.” Thereupon he drew out his pipes and began to play, and
it was such a tune as no man ever listened to before. He played and he
played, and, after a while, one after another of those who listened to
him began to get drowsy. First they winked, then they shut their eyes,
and then they nodded until all were as dumb as logs, and as sound asleep
as though they would never waken again. Only the servant and the piper
stayed awake, for the music did not make them drowsy as it did the rest.
Then, when all but they two were tight and fast asleep, the travelling
companion arose, tucked away his pipe, and, stepping up to the young
man, took from off his finger a splendid ruby ring, as red as blood
and as bright as fire, and popped the same into his pocket. And all the
while the serving-man stood gaping like a fish to see what his comrade
was about. “Come,” said the travelling companion, “it is time we were
going,” and off they went, shutting the door behind them.
As for the serving-man, though he remembered his promise and said
nothing concerning what he had beheld, his wits buzzed in his head like
a hive of bees, for he thought that of all the ugly tricks he had seen,
none was more ugly than this--to bewitch the poor sorrowful young man
into a sleep, and then to rob him of his ruby ring after he had fed them
so well and had treated them so kindly.
But the next day they jogged on together again until by-and-by they came
to a great forest. There they wandered up and down till night came upon
them and found them still stumbling onward through the darkness, while
the poor serving-man’s flesh quaked to hear the wild beasts and the
wolves growling and howling around them.
But all the while the angel--his travelling companion--said never a
word; he seemed to doubt nothing nor fear nothing, but trudged straight
ahead until, by-and-by, they saw a light twinkling far away, and, when
they came to it, they found a gloomy stone house, as ugly as eyes ever
looked upon. Up stepped the servant’s comrade and knocked upon the
door--rap! tap! tap! By-and-by it was opened a crack, and there stood an
ugly old woman, blear-eyed and crooked and gnarled as a winter twig.
But the heart within her was good for all that. “Alas, poor folk!”
she cried, “why do you come here? This is a den where lives a band of
wicked thieves. Every day they go out to rob and murder poor travellers
like yourselves. By-and-by they will come back, and when they find you
here they will certainly kill you.”
“No matter for that,” said the travelling companion; “we can go no
farther to-night, so you must let us in and hide us as best you may.”
And in he went, as he said, with the servant at his heels trembling like
a leaf at what he had heard. The old woman gave them some bread and
meat to eat, and then hid them away in the great empty meal-chest in the
corner, and there they lay as still as mice.
By-and-by in came the gang of thieves with a great noise and uproar,
and down they sat to their supper. The poor servant lay in the chest
listening to all they said of the dreadful things they had done that
day--how they had cruelly robbed and murdered poor people. Every word
that they said he heard, and he trembled until his teeth chattered in
his head. But all the same the robbers knew nothing of the two being
there, and there they lay until near the dawning of the day. Then the
travelling companion bade the servant be stirring, and up they got, and
out of the chest they came, and found all the robbers sound asleep and
snoring so that the dust flew.
“Stop a bit,” said the angel--the travelling companion--“we must pay
them for our lodging.”
As he spoke he drew from his pocket the ruby ring which he had stolen
from the sorrowful young man’s finger, and dropped it into the cup from
which the robber captain drank. Then he led the way out of the house,
and, if the serving-man had wondered the day before at that which the
comrade did, he wondered ten times more to see him give so beautiful a
ring to such wicked and bloody thieves.
The third evening of their journey the two travellers came to a little
hut, neat enough, but as poor as poverty, and there the comrade knocked
upon the door and asked for lodging. In the house lived a poor man and
his wife; and, though the two were as honest as the palm of your hand,
and as good and kind as rain in spring-time, they could hardly scrape
enough of a living to keep body and soul together. Nevertheless, they
made the travellers welcome, and set before them the very best that was
to be had in the house; and, after both had eaten and drunk, they showed
them to bed in a corner as clean as snow, and there they slept the night
through.
But the next morning, before the dawning of the day, the travelling
companion was stirring again. “Come,” said he; “rouse yourself, for I
have a bit of work to do before I leave this place.”
And strange work it was! When they had come outside of the house, he
gathered together a great heap of straw and sticks of wood, and stuffed
all under the corner of the house. Then he struck a light and set fire
to it, and, as the two walked away through the gray dawn, all was a red
blaze behind them.
Still, the servant remembered his promise to his travelling comrade,
and said never a word or asked never a question, though all that day he
walked on the other side of the road, and would have nothing to say or
to do with the other. But never a whit did his comrade seem to think
of or to care for that. On they jogged, and, by the time evening was at
hand, they had come to a neat cottage with apple and pear trees around
it, all as pleasant as the eye could desire to see. In this cottage
lived a widow and her only son, and they also made the travellers
welcome, and set before them a good supper and showed them to a clean
bed.
This time the travelling comrade did neither good nor ill to those of
the house, but in the morning he told the widow whither they were going,
and asked if she and her son knew the way to the garden where grew the
fruit of happiness.
“Yes,” said she, “that we do, for the garden is not a day’s journey from
here, and my son himself shall go with you to show you the way.”
“That is good,” said the servant’s comrade, “and if he will do so I will
pay him well for his trouble.”
So the young man put on his hat, and took up his stick, and off went the
three, up hill and down dale, until by-and-by they came over the top of
the last hill, and there below them lay the garden.
And what a sight it was, the leaves shining and glistening like so many
jewels in the sunlight! I only wish that I could tell you how beautiful
that garden was. And in the middle of it grew a golden tree, and on it
golden fruit. The servant, who had travelled so long and so far, could
see it plainly from where he stood, and he did not need to be told that
it was the fruit of happiness. But, after all, all he could do was to
stand and look, for in front of them was a great raging torrent, without
a bridge for a body to cross over.
“Yonder is what you seek,” said the young man, pointing with his finger,
“and there you can see for yourself the fruit of happiness.”
The travelling companion said never a word, good or bad, but, suddenly
catching the widow’s son by the collar, he lifted him and flung him into
the black, rushing water. Splash! went the young man, and then away he
went whirling over rocks and water-falls. “There!” cried the comrade,
“that is your reward for your service!”
When the servant saw this cruel, wicked deed, he found his tongue at
last, and all that he had bottled up for the seven days came frothing
out of him like hot beer. Such abuse as he showered upon his travelling
companion no man ever listened to before. But to all the servant said
the other answered never a word until he had stopped for sheer want of
breath. Then--
“Poor fool,” said the travelling companion, “if you had only held your
tongue a minute longer, you, too, would have had the fruit of happiness
in your hand. Now it will be many a day before you have a sight of it
again.”
Thereupon, as he ended speaking, he struck his staff upon the ground.
Instantly the earth trembled, and the sky darkened overhead until it
grew as black as night. Then came a great flash of fire from up in the
sky, which wrapped the travelling companion about until he was hidden
from sight. Then the flaming fire flew away to heaven again, carrying
him along with it. After that the sky cleared once more, and, lo and
behold! The garden and the torrent and all were gone, and nothing was
left but a naked plain covered over with the bones of those who had
come that way before, seeking the fruit which the travelling servant had
sought.
It was a long time before the servant found his way back into the world
again, and the first house he came to, weak and hungry, was the widow’s.
But what a change he beheld! It was a poor cottage no longer, but a
splendid palace, fit for a queen to dwell in. The widow herself met him
at the door, and she was dressed in clothes fit for a queen to wear,
shining with gold and silver and precious stones.
The servant stood and stared like one bereft of wits. “How comes all
this change?” said he, “and how did you get all these grand things?”
“My son,” said the widow woman, “has just been to the garden, and
has brought home from there the fruit of happiness. Many a day did we
search, but never could we find how to enter into the garden, until, the
other day, an angel came and showed the way to my son, and he was able
not only to gather of the fruit for himself, but to bring an apple for
me also.”
Then the poor travelling servant began to thump his head. He saw well
enough through the millstone now, and that he, too, might have had one
of the fruit if he had but held his tongue a little longer.
Yes, he saw what a fool he had made of himself, when he learned that it
was an angel with whom he had been travelling the five days gone.
But, then, we are all of us like the servant for the matter of that; I,
too, have travelled with an angel many a day, I dare say, and never knew
it.
That night the servant lodged with the widow and her son, and the next
day he started back home again upon the way he had travelled before.
By evening he had reached the place where the house of the poor couple
stood--the house that he had seen the angel set fire to. There he beheld
masons and carpenters hard at work hacking and hewing, and building a
fine new house. And there he saw the poor man himself standing by giving
them orders. “How is this,” said the travelling servant; “I thought that
your house was burned down?”
“So it was, and that is how I came to be rich now,” said the one-time
poor man. “I and my wife had lived in our old house for many a long
day, and never knew that a great treasure of silver and gold was hidden
beneath it, until a few days ago there came an angel and burned it down
over our heads, and in the morning we found the treasure. So now we are
rich for as long as we may live.”
The next morning the poor servant jogged along on his homeward way more
sad and downcast than ever, and by evening he had come to the robbers’
den in the thick woods, and there the old woman came running to the door
to meet him. “Come in!” cried she; “come in and welcome! The robbers are
all dead and gone now, and I use the treasure that they left behind to
entertain poor travellers like yourself. The other day there came an
angel hither, and with him he brought the ring of discord that breeds
spite and rage and quarrelling. He gave it to the captain of the band,
and after he had gone the robbers fought for it with one another until
they were all killed. So now the world is rid of them, and travellers
can come and go as they please.”
Back jogged the travelling servant, and the next day came to the town
and to the house of the sorrowful young man. There, lo and behold!
Instead of being dark and silent, as it was before, all was ablaze
with light and noisy with the sound of rejoicing and merriment. There
happened to be one of the household standing at the door, and he knew
the servant as the companion of that one who had stolen the ruby ring.
Up he came and laid hold of the servant by the collar, calling to his
companions that he had caught one of the thieves. Into the house they
hauled the poor servant, and into the same room where he had been
before, and there sat the young man at a grand feast, with his wife
and all his friends around him. But when the young man saw the poor
serving-man he came to him and took him by the hand, and set him beside
himself at the table. “Nobody except your comrade could be so welcome
as you,” said he, “and this is why. An enemy of mine one time gave me a
ruby ring, and though I knew nothing of it, it was the ring of discord
that bred strife wherever it came. So, as soon as it was brought
into the house, my wife and all my friends fell out with me, and we
quarrelled so that they all left me. But, though I knew it not at that
time, your comrade was an angel, and took the ring away with him, and
now I am as happy as I was sorrowful before.”
By the next night the servant had come back to his home again. Rap! tap!
tap! He knocked at the door, and the wise man who had been his master
opened to him. “What do you want?” said he.
“I want to take service with you again,” said the travelling servant.
“Very well,” said the wise man; “come in and shut the door.”
And for all I know the travelling servant is there to this day. For he
is not the only one in the world who has come in sight of the fruit of
happiness, and then jogged all the way back home again to cook cabbage
and onions and pot-herbs, and to make broth for wiser men than himself
to sup.
That is the end of this story.
“I like your story, holy sir,” said the Blacksmith who made Death sit in
a pear-tree. “Ne’th’less, it hath indeed somewhat the smack of a sermon,
after all. Methinks I am like my friend yonder,” and he pointed with
his thumb towards Fortunatus; “I like to hear a story about treasures of
silver and gold, and about kings and princes--a story that turneth out
well in the end, with everybody happy, and the man himself married in
luck, rather than one that turneth out awry, even if it hath an angel in
it.”
“Well, well,” said St. George, testily, “one cannot please everybody.
But as for being a sermon, why, certes, my story was not that--and even
if it were, it would not have hurt thee, sirrah.”
“No offence,” said the Blacksmith; “I meant not to speak ill of your
story. Come, come, sir, will you not take a pot of ale with me?”
“Why,” said St. George, somewhat mollified, “for the matter of that, I
would as lief as not.”
“I liked the story well enough,” piped up the little Tailor who had
killed seven flies at a blow. “Twas a good enough story of its sort, but
why does nobody tell a tale of good big giants, and of wild boars, and
of unicorns, such as I killed in my adventures you wot of?”
Old Ali Baba had been sitting with his hands folded and his eyes closed.
Now he opened them and looked at the Little Tailor. “I know a story,”
said he, “about a Genie who was as big as a giant, and six times as
powerful. And besides that,” he added, “the story is all about treasures
of gold, and palaces, and kings, and emperors, and what not, and about
a cave such as that in which I myself found the treasure of the forty
thieves.”
The Blacksmith who made Death sit in the pear-tree clattered the bottom
of his canican against the table. “Aye, aye,” said he, “that is the sort
of story for me. Come, friend, let us have it.”
“Stop a bit,” said Fortunatus; “what is this story mostly about?”
“It is,” said Ali Baba, “about two men betwixt whom there was--”
Not a Pin to Choose.
Once upon a time, in a country in the far East, a merchant was
travelling towards the city with three horses loaded with rich goods,
and a purse containing a hundred pieces of gold money. The day was very
hot, and the road dusty and dry, so that, by-and-by, when he reached a
spot where a cool, clear spring of water came bubbling out from under
a rock beneath the shade of a wide-spreading wayside tree, he was glad
enough to stop and refresh himself with a draught of the clear coolness
and rest awhile. But while he stooped to drink at the fountain the purse
of gold fell from his girdle into the tall grass, and he, not seeing it,
let it lie there, and went his way.
Now it chanced that two fagot-makers--the elder by name Ali, the younger
Abdallah--who had been in the woods all day chopping fagots, came also
travelling the same way, and stopped at the same fountain to drink.
There the younger of the two spied the purse lying in the grass, and
picked it up. But when he opened it and found it full of gold money, he
was like one bereft of wits; he flung his arms, he danced, he shouted,
he laughed, he acted like a madman; for never had he seen so much wealth
in all of his life before--a hundred pieces of gold money!
Now the older of the two was by nature a merry wag, and though he had
never had the chance to taste of pleasure, he thought that nothing in
the world could be better worth spending money for than wine and music
and dancing. So, when the evening had come, he proposed that they
two should go and squander it all at the Inn. But the younger
fellow--Abdallah--was by nature just as thrifty as the other was
spendthrift, and would not consent to waste what he had found.
Nevertheless, he was generous and open-hearted, and grudged his friend
nothing; so, though he did not care for a wild life himself, he gave Ali
a piece of gold to spend as he chose.
By morning every copper of what had been given to the elder fagot-maker
was gone, and he had never had such a good time in his life before. All
that day and for a week the head of Ali was so full of the memory of the
merry night that he had enjoyed that he could think of nothing else.
At last, one evening, he asked Abdallah for another piece of gold, and
Abdallah gave it to him, and by the next morning it had vanished in the
same way that the other had flown. By-and-by Ali borrowed a third piece
of money, and then a fourth and then a fifth, so that by the time that
six months had passed and gone he had spent thirty of the hundred pieces
that had been found, and in all that time Abdallah had used not so much
as a pistareen.
But when Ali came for the thirty-and-first loan, Abdallah refused to
let him have any more money. It was in vain that the elder begged and
implored--the younger abided by what he had said.
Then Ali began to put on a threatening front. “You will not let me have
the money?” he said.
“No, I will not.”
“You will not?”
“No!”
“Then you shall!” cried Ali; and, so saying, caught the younger
fagot-maker by the throat, and began shaking him and shouting, “Help!
Help! I am robbed! I am robbed!” He made such an uproar that half a
hundred men, women, and children were gathered around them in less than
a minute. “Here is ingratitude for you!” cried Ali. “Here is wickedness
and thievery! Look at this wretch, all good men, and then turn away
your eyes! For twelve years have I lived with this young man as a father
might live with a son, and now how does he repay me? He has stolen all
that I have in the world--a purse of seventy sequins of gold.”
All this while poor Abdallah had been so amazed that he could do nothing
but stand and stare like one stricken dumb; whereupon all the people,
thinking him guilty, dragged him off to the judge, reviling him and
heaping words of abuse upon him.
Now the judge of that town was known far and near as the “Wise Judge”;
but never had he had such a knotty question as this brought up before
him, for by this time Abdallah had found his speech, and swore with a
great outcry that the money belonged to him.
But at last a gleam of light came to the Wise Judge in his perplexity.
“Can any one tell me,” said he, “which of these fellows has had money of
late, and which has had none?”
His question was one easily enough answered; a score of people were
there to testify that the elder of the two had been living well and
spending money freely for six months and more, and a score were also
there to swear that Abdallah had lived all the while in penury. “Then
that decides the matter,” said the Wise Judge. “The money belongs to the
elder fagot-maker.”
“But listen, oh my lord judge!” cried Abdallah. “All that this man has
spent I have given to him--I, who found the money. Yes, my lord, I have
given it to him, and myself have spent not so much as single mite.”
All who were present shouted with laughter at Abdallah’s speech, for
who would believe that any one would be so generous as to spend all upon
another and none upon himself?
So poor Abdallah was beaten with rods until he confessed where he had
hidden his money; then the Wise Judge handed fifty sequins to Ali and
kept twenty himself for his decision, and all went their way praising
his justice and judgment.
That is to say, all but poor Abdallah; he went to his home weeping and
wailing, and with every one pointing the finger of scorn at him. He was
just as poor as ever, and his back was sore with the beating that he
had suffered. All that night he continued to weep and wail, and when the
morning had come he was weeping and wailing still.
Now it chanced that a wise man passed that way, and hearing his
lamentation, stopped to inquire the cause of his trouble. Abdallah told
the other of his sorrow, and the wise man listened, smiling, till he was
done, and then he laughed outright. “My son,” said he, “if every one in
your case should shed tears as abundantly as you have done, the world
would have been drowned in salt water by this time. As for your friend,
think not ill of him; no man loveth another who is always giving.”
“Nay,” said the young fagot-maker, “I believe not a word of what
you say. Had I been in his place I would have been grateful for the
benefits, and not have hated the giver.”
But the wise man only laughed louder than ever. “Maybe you will have the
chance to prove what you say some day,” said he, and went his way, still
shaking with his merriment.
“All this,” said Ali Baba, “is only the beginning of my story; and now
if the damsel will fill up my pot of ale, I will begin in earnest and
tell about the cave of the Genie.”
He watched Little Brown Betty until she had filled his mug, and the
froth ran over the top. Then he took a deep draught and began again.
Though Abdallah had affirmed that he did not believe what the wise man
had said, nevertheless the words of the other were a comfort, for it
makes one feel easier in trouble to be told that others have been in a
like case with one’s self.
So, by-and-by, Abdallah plucked up some spirit, and, saddling his
ass and shouldering his axe, started off to the woods for a bundle of
fagots.
Misfortunes, they say, never come single, and so it seemed to be with
the fagot-maker that day; for that happened that had never happened to
him before--he lost his way in the woods. On he went, deeper and deeper
into the thickets, driving his ass before him, bewailing himself and
rapping his head with his knuckles. But all his sorrowing helped him
nothing, and by the time that night fell he found himself deep in the
midst of a great forest full of wild beasts, the very thought of which
curdled his blood. He had had nothing to eat all day long, and now
the only resting-place left him was the branches of some tree. So,
unsaddling his ass and leaving it to shift for itself, he climbed to and
roosted himself in the crotch of a great limb.
In spite of his hunger he presently fell asleep, for trouble breeds
weariness as it breeds grief.
About the dawning of the day he was awakened by the sound of voices and
the glaring of lights. He craned his neck and looked down, and there he
saw a sight that filled him with amazement: three old men riding each
upon a milk-white horse and each bearing a lighted torch in his hand, to
light the way through the dark forest.
When they had come just below where Abdallah sat, they dismounted and
fastened their several horses to as many trees. Then he who rode first
of the three, and who wore a red cap and who seemed to be the chief of
them, walked solemnly up to a great rock that stood in the hillside,
and, breaking a switch from a shrub that grew in a cleft, struck the
face of the stone, crying in a loud voice, “I command thee to open, in
the name of the red Aldebaran!”
Instantly, creaking and groaning, the face of the rock opened like
a door, gaping blackly. Then, one after another, the three old men
entered, and nothing was left but the dull light of their torches,
shining on the walls of the passage-way.
What happened inside the cavern the fagot-maker could neither see nor
hear, but minute after minute passed while he sat as in a maze at all
that had happened. Then presently he heard a deep thundering voice and
a voice as of one of the old men in answer. Then there came a sound
swelling louder and louder, as though a great crowd of people were
gathering together, and with the voices came the noise of the neighing
of horses and the trampling of hoofs. Then at last there came pouring
from out the rock a great crowd of horses laden with bales and bundles
of rich stuffs and chests and caskets of gold and silver and jewels,
and each horse was led by a slave clad in a dress of cloth-of-gold,
sparkling and glistening with precious gems. When all these had come
out from the cavern, other horses followed, upon each of which sat
a beautiful damsel, more lovely than the fancy of man could picture.
Beside the damsels marched a guard, each man clad in silver armor, and
each bearing a drawn sword that flashed in the brightening day more
keenly than the lightning. So they all came pouring forth from the
cavern until it seemed as though the whole woods below were filled with
the wealth and the beauty of King Solomon’s day--and then, last of all,
came the three old men.
“In the name of the red Aldebaran,” said he who had bidden the rock to
open, “I command thee to become closed.” Again, creaking and groaning,
the rock shut as it had opened--like a door--and the three old men,
mounting their horses, led the way from the woods, the others following.
The noise and confusion of the many voices shouting and calling, the
trample and stamp of horses, grew fainter and fainter, until at last
all was once more hushed and still, and only the fagot-maker was left
behind, still staring like one dumb and bereft of wits.
But so soon as he was quite sure that all were really gone, he clambered
down as quickly as might be. He waited for a while to make doubly sure
that no one was left behind, and then he walked straight up to the rock,
just as he had seen the old man do. He plucked a switch from the bush,
just as he had seen the old man pluck one, and struck the stone, just
as the old man had struck it. “I command thee to open,” said he, “in the
name of the red Aldebaran!”
Instantly, as it had done in answer to the old man’s command, there came
a creaking and a groaning, and the rock slowly opened like a door, and
there was the passageway yawning before him. For a moment or two the
fagot-maker hesitated to enter; but all was as still as death, and
finally he plucked up courage and went within.
By this time the day was brightening and the sun rising, and by the gray
light the fagot-maker could see about him pretty clearly. Not a sign was
to be seen of horses or of treasure or of people--nothing but a square
block of marble, and upon it a black casket, and upon that again a gold
ring, in which was set a blood-red stone. Beyond these things there was
nothing; the walls were bare, the roof was bare, the floor was bare--all
was bare and naked stone.
“Well,” said the wood-chopper, “as the old men have taken everything
else, I might as well take these things. The ring is certainly worth
something, and maybe I shall be able to sell the casket for a trifle
into the bargain.” So he slipped the ring upon his finger, and, taking
up the casket, left the place. “I command thee to be closed,” said
he, “in the name of the red Aldebaran!” And thereupon the door closed,
creaking and groaning.
After a little while he found his ass, saddled it and bridled it, and
loaded it with the bundle of fagots that he had chopped the day before,
and then set off again to try to find his way out of the thick woods.
But still his luck was against him, and the farther he wandered the
deeper he found himself in the thickets. In the meantime he was like to
die of hunger, for he had not a bite to eat for more than a whole day.
“Perhaps,” said he to himself, “there may be something in the casket to
stay my stomach;” and, so saying, he sat him down, unlocked the casket,
and raised the lid.
Such a yell as the poor wretch uttered ears never heard before. Over
he rolled upon his back and there lay staring with wide eyes, and away
scampered the jackass, kicking up his heels and braying so that the
leaves of the trees trembled and shook. For no sooner had he lifted the
lid than out leaped a great hideous Genie, as black as a coal, with one
fiery-red eye in the middle of his forehead that glared and rolled most
horribly, and with his hands and feet set with claws, sharp and hooked
like the talons of a hawk. Poor Abdallah the fagot-maker lay upon his
back staring at the monster with a face as white as wax.
“What are thy commands?” said the Genie in a terrible voice, that
rumbled like the sound of thunder.
“I--I do not know,” said Abdallah, trembling and shaking as with an
ague. “I--I have forgotten.”
“Ask what thou wilt,” said the Genie, “for I must ever obey whomsoever
hast the ring that thou wearest upon thy finger. Hath my lord nothing to
command wherein I may serve him?”
Abdallah shook his head. “No,” said he, “there is
nothing--unless--unless you will bring me something to eat.”
“To hear is to obey,” said the Genie. “What will my lord be pleased to
have?”
“Just a little bread and cheese,” said Abdallah.
The Genie waved his hand, and in an instant a fine damask napkin lay
spread upon the ground, and upon it a loaf of bread as white as snow and
a piece of cheese such as the king would have been glad to taste. But
Abdallah could do nothing but sit staring at the Genie, for the sight of
the monster quite took away his appetite.
“What more can I do to serve thee?” asked the Genie.
“I think,” said Abdallah, “that I could eat more comfortably if you were
away.”
“To hear is to obey,” said the Genie. “Whither shall I go? Shall I enter
the casket again?”
“I do not know,” said the fagot-maker; “how did you come to be there?”
“I am a great Genie,” answered the monster, “and was conjured thither
by the great King Solomon, whose seal it is that thou wearest upon thy
finger. For a certain fault that I committed I was confined in the box
and hidden in the cavern where thou didst find me to-day. There I lay
for thousands of years until one day three old magicians discovered
the secret of where I lay hidden. It was they who only this morning
compelled me to give them that vast treasure which thou sawest them take
away from the cavern not long since.”
“But why did they not take you and the box and the ring away also?”
asked Abdallah.
“Because,” answered the Genie, “they are three brothers, and neither two
care to trust the other one with such power as the ring has to give, so
they made a solemn compact among themselves that I should remain in the
cavern, and that no one of the three should visit it without the other
two in his company. Now, my lord, if it is thy will that I shall enter
the casket again I must even obey thy command in that as in all things;
but, if it please thee, I would fain rejoin my own kind again--they from
whom I have been parted for so long. Shouldst thou permit me to do so
I will still be thy slave, for thou hast only to press the red stone in
the ring and repeat these words: By the red Aldebaran, I command thee
to come,’ and I will be with thee instantly. But if I have my freedom
I shall serve thee from gratitude and love, and not from compulsion and
with fear.”
“So be it!” said Abdallah. “I have no choice in the matter, and thou
mayest go whither it pleases thee.”
No sooner had the words left his lips than the Genie gave a great cry
of rejoicing, so piercing that it made Abdallah’s flesh creep, and then,
fetching the black casket a kick that sent it flying over the tree tops,
vanished instantly.
“Well,” quote Abdallah, when he had caught his breath from his
amazement, “these are the most wonderful things that have happened to
me in all of my life.” And thereupon he fell to at the bread and cheese,
and ate as only a hungry man can eat. When he had finished the last
crumb he wiped his mouth with the napkin, and, stretching his arms, felt
within him that he was like a new man.
Nevertheless, he was still lost in the woods, and now not even with his
ass for comradeship.
He had wandered for quite a little while before he bethought himself of
the Genie. “What a fool am I,” said he, “not to have asked him to help
me while he was here.” He pressed his finger upon the ring, and cried in
a loud voice, “By the red Aldebaran, I command thee to come!”
Instantly the Genie stood before him--big, black, ugly, and grim. “What
are my lord’s commands?” said he.
“I command thee,” said Abdallah the fagot-maker, who was not half
so frightened at the sight of the monster this time as he had been
before--“I command thee to help me out of this woods.”
Hardly were the words out of his mouth when the Genie snatched Abdallah
up, and, flying swifter than the lightning, set him down in the middle
of the highway on the outskirts of the forest before he had fairly
caught his breath.
When he did gather his wits and looked about him, he knew very well
where he was, and that he was upon the road that led to the city. At the
sight his heart grew light within him, and off he stepped briskly for
home again.
But the sun shone hot and the way was warm and dusty, and before
Abdallah had gone very far the sweat was running down his face in
streams. After a while he met a rich husband-man riding easily along on
an ambling nag, and when Abdallah saw him he rapped his head with his
knuckles. “Why did I not think to ask the Genie for a horse?” said he.
“I might just as well have ridden as to have walked, and that upon
a horse a hundred times more beautiful than the one that that fellow
rides.”
He stepped into the thicket beside the way, where he might be out of
sight, and there pressed the stone in his ring, and at his bidding the
Genie stood before him.
“What are my lord’s commands?” said he.
“I would like to have a noble horse to ride upon,” said Abdallah--“a
horse such as a king might use.”
“To hear is to obey,” said the Genie; and, stretching out his hand,
there stood before Abdallah a magnificent Arab horse, with a saddle and
bridle studded with precious stones, and with housings of gold. “Can I
do aught to serve my lord further?” said the Genie.
“Not just now,” said Abdallah; “if I have further use for you I will
call you.”
The Genie bowed his head and was gone like a flash, and Abdallah mounted
his horse and rode off upon his way. But he had not gone far before
he drew rein suddenly. “How foolish must I look,” said he, “to be thus
riding along the high-road upon this noble steed, and I myself clad in
fagot-maker’s rags.” Thereupon he turned his horse into the thicket, and
again summoned the Genie. “I should like,” said he, “to have a suit of
clothes fit for a king to wear.”
“My lord shall have that which he desires,” said the Genie. He stretched
out his hand, and in an instant there lay across his arm raiment such
as the eyes of man never saw before--stiff with pearls, and blazing with
diamonds and rubies and emeralds and sapphires. The Genie himself aided
Abdallah to dress, and when he looked down he felt, for the time, quite
satisfied.
He rode a little farther. Then suddenly he bethought himself, “What a
silly spectacle shall I cut in the town with no money in my purse and
with such fine clothes upon my back.” Once more the Genie was summoned.
“I should like,” said the fagot-maker, “to have a box full of money.”
The Genie stretched out his hand, and in it was a casket of
mother-of-pearl inlaid with gold and full of money. “Has my lord any
further commands for his servant?” asked he.
“No,” answered Abdallah. “Stop--I have, too,” he added. “Yes; I would
like to have a young man to carry my money for me.”
“He is here,” said the Genie. And there stood a beautiful youth clad in
clothes of silver tissue, and holding a milk-white horse by the bridle.
“Stay, Genie,” said Abdallah. “Whilst thou art here thou mayest as
well give me enough at once to last me a long time to come. Let me have
eleven more caskets of money like this one, and eleven more slaves to
carry the same.”
“They are here,” said the Genie; and as he spoke there stood eleven more
youths before Abdallah, as like the first as so many pictures of the
same person, and each youth bore in his hands a box like the one that
the monster had given Abdallah. “Will my lord have anything further?”
asked the Genie.
“Let me think,” said Abdallah. “Yes; I know the town well, and that
should one so rich as I ride into it without guards he would be certain
to be robbed before he had travelled a hundred paces. Let me have an
escort of a hundred armed men.”
“It shall be done,” said the Genie, and, waving his hand, the road where
they stood was instantly filled with armed men, with swords and helmets
gleaming and flashing in the sun, and all seated upon magnificently
caparisoned horses. “Can I serve my lord further?” asked the Genie.
“No,” said Abdallah the fagot-maker, in admiration, “I have nothing more
to wish for in this world. Thou mayest go, Genie, and it will be long
ere I will have to call thee again,” and thereupon the Genie was gone
like a flash.
The captain of Abdallah’s troop--a bearded warrior clad in a superb suit
of armor--rode up to the fagot-maker, and, leaping from his horse and
bowing before him so that his forehead touched the dust, said, “Whither
shall we ride, my lord?”
Abdallah smote his forehead with vexation. “If I live a thousand years,”
said he, “I will never learn wisdom.” Thereupon, dismounting again, he
pressed the ring and summoned the Genie. “I was mistaken,” said he, “as
to not wanting thee so soon. I would have thee build me in the city a
magnificent palace, such as man never looked upon before, and let it be
full from top to bottom with rich stuffs and treasures of all sorts. And
let it have gardens and fountains and terraces fitting for such a place,
and let it be meetly served with slaves, both men and women, the most
beautiful that are to be found in all the world.”
“Is there aught else that thou wouldst have?” asked the Genie.
The fagot-maker meditated a long time. “I can bethink myself of nothing
more just now,” said he.
The Genie turned to the captain of the troop and said some words to him
in a strange tongue, and then in a moment was gone. The captain gave the
order to march, and away they all rode with Abdallah in the midst. “Who
would have thought,” said he, looking around him, with the heart within
him swelling with pride as though it would burst--“who would have
thought that only this morning I was a poor fagot-maker, lost in the
woods and half starved to death? Surely there is nothing left for me to
wish for in this world!”
Abdallah was talking of something he knew nothing of.
Never before was such a sight seen in that country, as Abdallah and
his troop rode through the gates and into the streets of the city.
But dazzling and beautiful as were those who rode attendant upon him,
Abdallah the fagot-maker surpassed them all as the moon dims the lustre
of the stars. The people crowded around shouting with wonder, and
Abdallah, in the fulness of his delight, gave orders to the slaves who
bore the caskets of money to open them and to throw the gold to the
people. So, with those in the streets scrambling and fighting for the
money and shouting and cheering, and others gazing down at the spectacle
from the windows and house-tops, the fagot-maker and his troop rode
slowly along through the town.
Now it chanced that their way led along past the royal palace, and the
princess, hearing all the shouting and the hubbub, looked over the edge
of the balcony and down into the street. At the same moment Abdallah
chanced to look up, and their eyes met. Thereupon the fagot-maker’s
heart crumbled away within him, for she was the most beautiful princess
in all the world. Her eyes were as black as night, her hair like threads
of fine silk, her neck like alabaster, and her lips and her cheeks as
soft and as red as rose-leaves. When she saw that Abdallah was looking
at her she dropped the curtain of the balcony and was gone, and the
fagot-maker rode away, sighing like a furnace.
So, by-and-by, he came to his palace, which was built all of marble
as white as snow, and which was surrounded with gardens, shaded by
flowering trees, and cooled by the plashing of fountains. From the
gateway to the door of the palace a carpet of cloth-of-gold had been
spread for him to walk upon, and crowds of slaves stood waiting to
receive him. But for all these glories Abdallah cared nothing; he hardly
looked about him, but, going straight to his room, pressed his ring and
summoned the Genie.
“What is it that my lord would have?” asked the monster.
“Oh, Genie!” said poor Abdallah, “I would have the princess for my wife,
for without her I am like to die.”
“My lord’s commands,” said the Genie, “shall be executed if I have to
tear down the city to do so. But perhaps this behest is not so hard to
fulfil. First of all, my lord will have to have an ambassador to send to
the king.”
“Very well,” said Abdallah with a sigh; “let me have an ambassador or
whatever may be necessary. Only make haste, Genie, in thy doings.”
“I shall lose no time,” said the Genie; and in a moment was gone.
The king was sitting in council with all of the greatest lords of the
land gathered about him, for the Emperor of India had declared war
against him, and he and they were in debate, discussing how the country
was to be saved. Just then Abdallah’s ambassador arrived, and when he
and his train entered the council-chamber all stood up to receive him,
for the least of those attendant upon him was more magnificently attired
than the king himself, and was bedecked with such jewels as the royal
treasury could not match.
Kneeling before the king, the ambassador touched the ground with his
forehead. Then, still kneeling, he unrolled a scroll, written in letters
of gold, and from it read the message asking for the princess to wife
for the Lord Abdallah.
When he had ended, the king sat for a while stroking his beard and
meditating. But before he spoke the oldest lord of the council arose and
said: “O sire! If this Lord Abdallah who asks for the princess for his
wife can send such a magnificent company in the train of his ambassador,
may it not be that he may be able also to help you in your war against
the Emperor of India?”
“True!” said the king. Then turning to the ambassador: “Tell your
master,” said he, “that if he will furnish me with an army of one
hundred thousand men, to aid me in the war against the Emperor of India,
he shall have my daughter for his wife.”
“Sire,” said the ambassador, “I will answer now for my master, and the
answer shall be this: That he will help you with an army, not of one
hundred thousand, but of two hundred thousand men. And if to-morrow you
will be pleased to ride forth to the plain that lieth to the south of
the city, my Lord Abdallah will meet you there with his army.” Then,
once more bowing, he withdrew from the council-chamber, leaving all them
that were there amazed at what had happened.
So the next day the king and all his court rode out to the place
appointed. As they drew near they saw that the whole face of the plain
was covered with a mighty host, drawn up in troops and squadrons. As the
king rode towards this vast army, Abdallah met him, surrounded by his
generals. He dismounted and would have kneeled, but the king would not
permit him, but, raising him, kissed him upon the cheek, calling him
son. Then the king and Abdallah rode down before the ranks and the whole
army waved their swords, and the flashing of the sunlight on the blades
was like lightning, and they shouted, and the noise was like the pealing
of thunder.
Before Abdallah marched off to the wars he and the princess were
married, and for a whole fortnight nothing was heard but the sound of
rejoicing. The city was illuminated from end to end, and all of the
fountains ran with wine instead of water. And of all those who rejoiced,
none was so happy as the princess, for never had she seen one whom
she thought so grand and noble and handsome as her husband. After the
fortnight had passed and gone, the army marched away to the wars with
Abdallah at its head.
Victory after victory followed, for in every engagement the Emperor of
India’s troops were driven from the field. In two months’ time the war
was over and Abdallah marched back again--the greatest general in the
world. But it was no longer as Abdallah that he was known, but as the
Emperor of India, for the former emperor had been killed in the war, and
Abdallah had set the crown upon his own head.
The little taste that he had had of conquest had given him an appetite
for more, so that with the armies the Genie provided him he conquered
all the neighboring countries and brought them under his rule. So he
became the greatest emperor in all the world; kings and princes kneeled
before him, and he, Abdallah, the fagot-maker, looking about him, could
say: “No one in all the world is so great as I!”
Could he desire anything more?
Yes; he did! He desired to be rid of the Genie!
When he thought of how all that he was in power and might--he, the
Emperor of the World--how all his riches and all his glory had come
as gifts from a hideous black monster with only one eye, his heart was
filled with bitterness. “I cannot forget,” said he to himself, “that
as he has given me all these things, he may take them all away again.
Suppose that I should lose my ring and that some one else should find
it; who knows but that they might become as great as I, and strip me
of everything, as I have stripped others. Yes; I wish he was out of the
way!”
Once, when such thoughts as these were passing through his mind, he was
paying a visit to his father-in-law, the king. He was walking up and
down the terrace of the garden meditating on these matters, when,
leaning over a wall and looking down into the street, he saw a
fagot-maker--just such a fagot-maker as he himself had one time
been--driving an ass--just such an ass as he had one time driven. The
fagot-maker carried something under his arm, and what should it be but
the very casket in which the Genie had once been imprisoned, and
which he--the one-time fagot-maker--had seen the Genie kick over the
tree-tops.
The sight of the casket put a sudden thought into his mind. He shouted
to his attendants, and bade them haste and bring the fagot-maker to
him. Off they ran, and in a little while came dragging the poor wretch,
trembling and as white as death; for he thought nothing less than that
his end had certainly come. As soon as those who had seized him had
loosened their hold, he flung himself prostrate at the feet of the
Emperor Abdallah, and there lay like one dead.
“Where didst thou get yonder casket?” asked the emperor.
“Oh, my lord!” croaked the poor fagot-maker, “I found it out yonder in
the woods.”
“Give it to me,” said the emperor, “and my treasurer shall count thee
out a thousand pieces of gold in exchange.”
So soon as he had the casket safe in his hands he hurried away to his
privy chamber, and there pressed the red stone in his ring. “In the
name of the red Aldebaran, I command thee to appear!” said he, and in a
moment the Genie stood before him.
“What are my lord’s commands?” said he.
“I would have thee enter this casket again,” said the Emperor Abdallah.
“Enter the casket!” cried the Genie, aghast.
“Enter the casket.”
“In what have I done anything to offend my lord?” said the Genie.
“In nothing,” said the emperor; “only I would have thee enter the casket
again as thou wert when I first found thee.”
It was in vain that the Genie begged and implored for mercy, it was in
vain that he reminded Abdallah of all that he had done to benefit him;
the great emperor stood as hard as a rock--into the casket the Genie
must and should go. So at last into the casket the monster went,
bellowing most lamentably.
The Emperor Abdallah shut the lid of the casket, and locked it and
sealed it with his seal. Then, hiding it under his cloak, he bore it out
into the garden and to a deep well, and, first making sure that nobody
was by to see, dropped casket and Genie and all into the water.
Now had that wise man been by--the wise man who had laughed so when
the poor young fagot-maker wept and wailed at the ingratitude of
his friend--the wise man who had laughed still louder when the young
fagot-maker vowed that in another case he would not have been so
ungrateful to one who had benefited him--how that wise man would have
roared when he heard the casket plump into the waters of the well! For,
upon my word of honor, betwixt Ali the fagot-maker and Abdallah the
Emperor of the World there was not a pin to choose, except in degree.
Old Ali Baba’s pipe had nearly gone out, and he fell a puffing at it
until the spark grew to life again, and until great clouds of smoke
rolled out around his head and up through the rafters above.
“I liked thy story, friend,” said old Bidpai--“I liked it mightily much.
I liked more especially the way in which thy emperor got rid of his
demon, or Genie.”
Fortunatus took a long pull at his mug of ale. “I know not,” said he,
“about the demon, but there was one part that I liked much, and that
was about the treasures of silver and gold and the palace that the Genie
built and all the fine things that the poor fagot-maker enjoyed.” Then
he who had once carried the magic purse in his pocket fell a clattering
with the bottom of his quart cup upon the table. “Hey! My pretty lass,”
cried he, “come hither and fetch me another stoup of ale.”
Little Brown Betty came at his call, stumbling and tumbling into the
room, just as she had stumbled and tumbled in the Mother Goose book,
only this time she did not crack her crown, but gathered herself up
laughing.
“You may fill my canican while you are about it,” said St. George, “for,
by my faith, tis dry work telling a story.”
“And mine, too,” piped the little Tailor who killed seven flies at a
blow.
“And whose turn is it now to tell a story?” said Doctor Faustus.
“Tis his,” said the Lad who fiddled for the Jew, and he pointed to Hans
who traded and traded until he had traded his lump of gold for an empty
churn.
Hans grinned sheepishly. “Well,” said he, “I never did have luck at
anything, and why, then, d’ye think I should have luck at telling a
story?”
“Nay, never mind that,” said Aladdin, “tell thy story, friend, as best
thou mayst.”
“Very well,” said Hans, “if ye will have it, I will tell it to you; but,
after all, it is not better than my own story, and the poor man in the
end gets no more than I did in my bargains.”
“And what is your story about, my friend?” said Cinderella.
“Tis,” said Hans, “about how--”
Much shall have more and little shall have less.
Once upon a time there was a king who did the best he could to rule
wisely and well, and to deal justly by those under him whom he had to
take care of; and as he could not trust hearsay, he used every now and
then to slip away out of his palace and go among his people to hear what
they had to say for themselves about him and the way he ruled the land.
Well, one such day as this, when he was taking a walk, he strolled out
past the walls of the town and into the green fields until he came at
last to a fine big house that stood by the banks of a river, wherein
lived a man and his wife who were very well to do in the world. There
the king stopped for a bite of bread and a drink of fresh milk.
“I would like to ask you a question,” said the king to the rich man;
“and the question is this: Why are some folk rich and some folk poor?”
“That I cannot tell you,” said the good man; “only I remember my father
used to say that much shall have more and little shall have less.”
“Very well,” said the king; “the saying has a good sound, but let us
find whether or not it is really true. See; here is a purse with three
hundred pieces of golden money in it. Take it and give it to the poorest
man you know; in a week’s time I will come again, and then you shall
tell me whether it has made you or him the richer.”
Now in the town there lived two beggars who were as poor as poverty
itself, and the poorer of the twain was one who used to sit in rags and
tatters on the church step to beg charity of the good folk who came and
went. To him went the rich man, and, without so much as a good-morning,
quoth he: “Here is something for you,” and so saying dropped the purse
of gold into the beggar’s hat. Then away he went without waiting for a
word of thanks.
As for the beggar, he just sat there for a while goggling and staring
like one moon-struck. But at last his wits came back to him, and then
away he scampered home as fast as his legs could carry him. Then he
spread his money out on the table and counted it--three hundred pieces
of gold money! He had never seen such great riches in his life before.
There he sat feasting his eyes upon the treasure as though they would
never get their fill. And now what was he to do with all of it? Should
he share his fortune with his brother? Not a bit of it. To be sure,
until now they had always shared and shared alike, but here was the
first great lump of good-luck that had ever fallen in his way, and he
was not for spoiling it by cutting it in two to give half to a poor
beggar-man such as his brother. Not he; he would hide it and keep it all
for his very own.
Now, not far from where he lived, and beside the river, stood a
willow-tree, and thither the lucky beggar took his purse of money and
stuffed it into a knot-hole of a withered branch, then went his
way, certain that nobody would think of looking for money in such a
hiding-place. Then all the rest of the day he sat thinking and thinking
of the ways he would spend what had been given him, and what he would do
to get the most good out of it. At last came evening, and his brother,
who had been begging in another part of the town, came home again.
“I nearly lost my hat to-day,” said the second beggar so soon as he had
come into the house.
“Did you?” said the first beggar. “How was that?”
“Oh! The wind blew it off into the water, but I got it again.”
“How did you get it?” said the first beggar.
“I just broke a dead branch off of the willow-tree and drew my hat
ashore,” said the second beggar.
“A dead branch!!”
“A dead branch.”
“Off of the willow tree!!”
“Off of the willow tree.”
The first beggar could hardly breathe.
“And what did you do with the dead branch after that?”
“I threw it away into the water, and it floated down the river.”
The beggar to whom the money had been given ran out of the house
howling, and down to the river-side, thumping his head with his knuckles
like one possessed. For he knew that the branch his brother had broken
off of the tree and had thrown into the water, was the very one in which
he had hidden the bag of money.
Yes; and so it was.
The next morning, as the rich man took a walk down by the river, he saw
a dead branch that had been washed up by the tide. “Halloo!” says he,
“this will do to kindle the fire with.”
So he brought it to the house, and, taking down his axe, began to split
it up for kindling. The very first blow he gave, out tumbled the bag of
money.
But the beggar--well, by-and-by his grieving got better of its first
smart, and then he started off down the river to see if he could not
find his money again. He hunted up and he hunted down, but never a whit
of it did he see, and at last he stopped at the rich man’s house and
begged for a bite to eat and lodgings for the night. There he told all
his story--how he had hidden the money that had been given him from his
brother, how his brother had broken off the branch and had thrown it
away, and how he had spent the whole live-long day searching for it. And
to all the rich man listened and said never a word. But though he said
nothing, he thought to himself, “Maybe, after all, it is not the will of
Heaven that this man shall have the money. Nevertheless, I will give him
another trial.”
So he told the poor beggar to come in and stay for the night; and,
whilst the beggar was snoring away in his bed in the garret, the rich
man had his wife make two great pies, each with a fine brown crust. In
the first pie he put the little bag of money; the second he filled full
of rusty nails and scraps of iron.
The next morning he called the beggar to him. “My friend,” said he, “I
grieve sadly for the story you told me last night. But maybe, after all,
your luck is not all gone. And now, if you will choose as you should
choose, you shall not go away from here comfortless. In the pantry
yonder are two great pies--one is for you and one for me. Go in and take
whichever one you please.”
“A pie!” thought the beggar to himself; “does the man think that a big
pie will comfort me for the loss of three hundred pieces of money?”
Nevertheless, as it was the best thing to be had, into the pantry the
beggar went and there began to feel and weigh the pies, and the one
filled with the rusty nails and scraps of iron was ever so much the
fatter and the heavier.
“This is the one that I shall take,” said he to the rich man, “and you
may have the other.” And, tucking it under his arm, off he tramped.
Well, before he got back to the town he grew hungry, and sat down by the
roadside to eat his pie; and if there was ever an angry man in the world
before, he was one that day--for there was his pie full of nothing but
rusty nails and bits of iron. “This is the way the rich always treat the
poor,” said he.
So back he went in a fume. “What did you give me a pie full of old nails
for?” said he.
“You took the pie of your own choice,” said the rich man; “nevertheless,
I meant you no harm. Lodge with me here one night, and in the morning I
will give you something better worth while, maybe.”
So that night the rich man had his wife bake two loaves of bread, in one
of which she hid the bag with the three hundred pieces of gold money.
“Go to the pantry,” said the rich man to the beggar in the morning, “and
there you will find two loaves of bread--one is for you and one for me;
take whichever one you choose.”
So in went the beggar, and the first loaf of bread he laid his hand upon
was the one in which the money was hidden, and off he marched with it
under his arm, without so much as saying thank you.
“I wonder,” said he to himself, after he had jogged along awhile--“I
wonder whether the rich man is up to another trick such as he played
upon me yesterday?” He put the loaf of bread to his ear and shook it and
shook it, and what should he hear but the chink of the money within. “Ah
ha!” said he, “he has filled it with rusty nails and bits of iron again,
but I will get the better of him this time.”
By-and-by he met a poor woman coming home from market. “Would you like
to buy a fine fresh loaf of bread?” said the beggar.
“Yes, I would,” said the woman.
“Well, here is one you may have for two pennies,” said the beggar.
That was cheap enough, so the woman paid him his price and off she went
with the loaf of bread under her arm, and never stopped until she had
come to her home.
Now it happened that the day before this very woman had borrowed just
such a loaf of bread from the rich man’s wife; and so, as there was
plenty in the house without it, she wrapped this loaf up in a napkin,
and sent her husband back with it to where it had started from first of
all.
“Well,” said the rich man to his wife, “the way of Heaven is not to be
changed.” And so he laid the money on the shelf until he who had given
it to him should come again, and thought no more of giving it to the
beggar.
At the end of seven days the king called upon the rich man again, and
this time he came in his own guise as a real king. “Well,” said he, “is
the poor man the richer for his money?”
“No,” said the rich man, “he is not;” and then he told the whole story
from beginning to end just as I have told it.
“Your father was right,” said the king; “and what he said was very
true--Much shall have more and little shall have less.’ Keep the bag of
money for yourself, for there Heaven means it to stay.”
And maybe there is as much truth as poetry in this story.
And now it was the turn of the Blacksmith who had made Death sit in his
pear-tree until the cold wind whistled through the ribs of man’s enemy.
He was a big, burly man, with a bullet head, and a great thick neck, and
a voice like a bull’s.
“Do you mind,” said he, “about how I clapped a man in the fire and
cooked him to a crisp that day that St. Peter came travelling my way?”
There was a little space of silence, and then the Soldier who had
cheated the Devil spoke up. “Why yes, friend,” said he, “I know your
story very well.”
“I am not so fortunate,” said old Bidpai. “I do not know your story.
Tell me, friend, did you really bake a man to a crisp? And how was it
then?”
“Why,” said the Blacksmith, “I was trying to do what a better man than
I did, and where he hit the mark I missed it by an ell. Twas a pretty
scrape I was in that day.”
“But how did it happen?” said Bidpai.
“It happened,” said the Blacksmith, “just as it is going to happen in
the story I am about to tell.”
“And what is your story about?” said Fortunatus.
“It is,” said the Blacksmith, “about--”