Fairy and Wonder Tales

INTRODUCTION

The purpose of The Junior Classics is to provide, in ten volumes containing
about five thousand pages, a classified collection of tales, stories, and
poems, both ancient and modern, suitable for boys and girls of from six to
sixteen years of age. Thoughtful parents and teachers, who realize the evils of
indiscriminate reading on the part of children, will appreciate the educational
value of such a collection. A child’s taste in reading is formed, as a rule, in
the first ten or twelve years of its life, and experience has shown that the
childish mind will prefer good literature to any other, if access to it is made
easy, and will develop far better on literature of proved merit than on trivial
or transitory material.

The boy or girl who becomes familiar with the charming tales and poems in this
collection will have gained a knowledge of literature and history that will be
of high value in other school and home work. Here are the real elements of
imaginative narration, poetry, and ethics, which should enter into the
education of every English-speaking child.

This collection, carefully used by parents and teachers with due reference to
individual tastes and needs, will make many children enjoy good literature. It
will inspire them with a love of good reading, which is the best possible
result of any elementary education. The child himself should be encouraged to
make his own selections from this large and varied collection, the child’s
enjoyment being the object in view. A real and lasting interest in literature
or in scholarship is only to be developed through the individual’s enjoyment of
his mental occupations.

The most important change which has been made in American schools and colleges
within my memory is the substitution of leading for driving, of inspiration for
drill, of personal interest and love of work for compulsion and fear. The
schools are learning to use methods and materials which interest and attract
the children themselves. The Junior Classics will put into the home the means
of using this happy method.

Committing to memory beautiful pieces of literature, either prose or poetry,
for recitation before a friendly audience, acting charades or plays, and
reading aloud with vivacity and sympathetic emotion, are good means of
instruction at home or at school This collection contains numerous admirable
pieces of literature for such use. In teaching English and English literature
we should place more reliance upon processes and acts which awaken emotion,
stimulate interest, prove to be enjoyable for the actors, and result in giving
children the power of entertaining people, of blessing others with noble
pleasures which the children create and share.

From the home training during childhood there should result in the child a
taste for interesting and improving reading which will direct and inspire its
subsequent intellectual life. The training which results in this taste for good
reading, however unsystematic or eccentric it may have been, has achieved one
principal aim of education; and any school or home training which does not
result in implanting this permanent taste has failed in a very important
respect. Guided and animated by this impulse to acquire knowledge and exercise
the imagination through good reading, the adult will continue to educate him
all through life.

The story of the human race through all its slow development should be
gradually conveyed to the child’s mind from the time he begins to read, or to
listen to his mother reading; and with description of facts and actual events
should be mingled charming and uplifting products of the imagination. To try to
feed the minds of children upon facts alone is undesirable and unwise. The
immense product of the imagination in art and literature is a concrete fact
with which every educated human being should be made somewhat familiar, that
product being a very real part of every individual’s actual environment.

The right selection of reading matter for children is obviously of high
importance. Some of the mythologies, Old Testament stories, fairy tales, and
historical romances, on which earlier generations were accustomed to feed the
childish mind, contain a great deal that is barbarous, perverse, or cruel; and
to this infiltration into children’s minds, generation after generation, of
immoral, cruel, or foolish ideas is probably to be attributed in part the slow
ethical progress of the race. The commonest justification of this thoughtless
practice is that children do not apprehend the evil in the bad mental pictures
with which we foolishly supply them; but what should we think of a mother who
gave her children dirty milk or porridge, on the theory that the children would
not assimilate the dirt? Should we be less careful about mental and moral food
materials? The Junior Classics have been selected with this principle in mind,
without losing sight of the fact that every developing human being needs to
have a vision of the rough and thorny road over which the human race has been
slowly advancing during thousands of years.

Whoever has committed to memory in childhood such Bible extracts as Genesis i,
the Ten Commandments, Psalm xxiii, Matthew v, 8-12, The Lord’s Prayer, and I
Corinthians xiii, such English prose as Lincoln’s Gettysburg speech, Bacon’s
“Essay on Truth,” and such poems as Bryant’s “Waterfowl,” Addison’s “Divine
Ode,” Milton’s Sonnet on his Blindness, Wotton’s “How happy is he born or
taught,” Emerson’s “Rhodora,” Holmes’s “Chambered Nautilus,” and Gray’s Elegy,
and has stamped them on his brain by frequent repetition, will have set up in
his mind high standards of noble thought and feeling, true patriotism, and pure
religion. He will also have laid in an invaluable store of good English.

While the majority of the tales and poems are intended for children who have
begun to do their own reading, there will be found in every volume selections
fit for reading aloud to younger children. Throughout the collection the
authors tell the stories in their own words; so that the salt which gave them
savor is preserved. There are some condensations however, such as any good
teller of borrowed stories would make; but as a rule condensation has been
applied only in the case of long works which otherwise could not have been
included. The notes which precede the condensations supply explanations, and
answer questions which experience has shown boys and girls are apt to ask about
the works condensed or their authors.

The Junior Classics constitute a set of books whose contents will delight
children and at the same time satisfy the legitimate ethical requirements of
those who have the children’s best interests at heart.

Charles W. Eliot

NOTE

Notices of copyright on material used in these volumes appear on the back of
the title pages of the particular volumes in which the stories are printed. A
complete list of acknowledgments to authors and publishers, for their kind
permission to use copyrighted material, is given on pages 3 to 6 of Volume Ten.

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

HE OFTEN TREMBLED AT WHAT HE HEARD AND SAW, Manabozho the Mischief-Maker,
Frontispiece illustration in color from the painting by Dan Sayre Groesbeck

WHILE THEY WERE STUPIDLY STARING, THE KETTLE BEGAN FLYING ABOUT THE ROOM, The
Accomplished and Lucky Teakettle, From the painting by Warwick Goble

A VERY OLD WOMAN, WALKING UPON CRUTCHES, CAME OUT, Hansel and Grethel, From the
painting by Arthur Rackham

THEN BLUE BEARD BAWLED OUT SO LOUD THAT HE MADE THE WHOLE HOUSE TREMBLE, Blue
Beard, From the painting by Edmund Dulac

BEING INFORMED OF EVERYTHING BY A LITTLE DWARF WHO WORE SEVEN-LEAGUE BOOTS,
Sleeping Beauty, From the painting by Edmund Dulac

PREFACE

There are some things in this world we can get along without, but, the
experience of many thousand years has shown us that the fairy tale is not one
of them. There must have been fairy tales (or fables, or folk tales, or myths,
or whatever name we choose to give them) ever since the world began. They are
not exclusively French, German, Greek, Russian, Indian or Chinese, but are the
common property of the whole human family and are as universal as human speech.

All the world over, fairy tales are found to be pretty much the same. The story
of Cinderella is found in all countries. Japan has a Rip Van Winkle, China has
a Beauty and the Beast, Egypt has a Puss in Boots, and Persia has a Jack and
the Beanstalk.

Those wise people who have made a careful study of literature, and especially
of what we call folk tales or fairy tales or fables or myths, tell us that they
all typify in some way the constant struggle that is going on in every
department of life. It may be the struggle of Summer against Winter, the bright
Day against dark Night, Innocence against Cruelty, of Knowledge against
Ignorance. We are not obliged to think of these delightful stories as each
having a meaning. Our enjoyment of them will not be less if we overlook that
side, but it may help us to understand and appreciate good books if we remember
that the literature of the world is the story of man’s struggle against nature;
that the beginnings of literature came out of the mouths of story-tellers, and
that the stories they told were fairy tales—imaginative stories based on truth.

There is one important fact to remember in connection with the old fairy tales,
and that is that they were repeated aloud from memory, not read from a book or
manuscript.

The printing of books from type may be said to date from the year 1470, when
Caxton introduced printing into England. It is said that the first book printed
in English which had the pages numbered was a book of tales, “Æsop’s Fables.”

As late as 1600 printed books were still so rare that only rich men could own
them. There was one other way of printing a story—on sheepskin (split and made
into parchment) with a pen—but that was a long and laborious art that could
only be practiced by educated men who had been taught to write. The monks were
about the only men who had the necessary education and time, and they cared
more for making copies of the Bible and Lives of the Saints than they did of
fairy tales. The common people, and even kings and queens, were therefore
obliged to depend upon the professional story-teller.

Fairy tales were very popular in the Middle Ages. In the long winter months
fields could not be cultivated, traveling had to be abandoned, and all were
kept within doors by the cold and snow. We know what the knight’s house looked
like in those days. The large beamed hall or living room was the principal
room. At one end of it, on a low platform, was a table for the knight, his
family, and any visiting knights and ladies. At the other tables on the main
floor were the armed men, like squires and retainers, who helped defend the
castle from attack, and the maids of the household.

The story-teller, who was sometimes called a bard or skald or minstrel, had his
place of honor in the center of the room, and when the meal was over he was
called upon for a story. These story-tellers became very expert in the practice
of their art, and some of them could arouse their audiences to a great pitch of
excitement. In the note that precedes the story “The Treason of Ganelon,” in
the volume “Heroes and Heroines of Chivalry,” you can see how one of these
story-tellers, or minstrels, sang aloud a story to the soldiers of William the
Conqueror to encourage them as he led them into battle.

The fairy tales collected by the Brothers Grimm were first published in 1812.
They spent thirteen years collecting them, writing them down as they were told
by the peasants in Hesse, a mountainous province of Germany lying far removed
from the great main roads.

Their friends helped them, but their best friend was the wife of a cowherd, a
strong, intelligent woman of fifty, who had a perfect genius for storytelling.
She knew she told the stories well, and that not many had her gift. The Grimms
said that though she repeated a story for them three times, the variations were
so slight as to be hardly apparent.

The American Indian stories of Manabozho the Mischief-Maker and his adventures
with the Wolf and the Woodpeckers and the Ducks were collected in very much the
same way by Henry R. Schoolcraft (1793–1864), the explorer and traveler, who
lived among the Indian tribes for thirty years.

Mrs. Steel has told us how she collected her Hindu stories, often listening
over and over to poor story-tellers who would spoil a story in trying to tell
it, until one day her patience would be rewarded by hearing it from the lips of
the best storyteller in the village, who was generally a boy.

As all nations have their fairy tales, you will find in this collection
examples of English, Irish, French, German, Scandinavian, Icelandic, Russian,
Polish, Serbian, Spanish, Arabian, Hindu, Chinese, and Japanese fairy tales, as
well as those recited around the lodge fires at night by American Indians for
the entertainment of the red children of the West.

I hope the work may prove for many a boy and girl (of any age up to a hundred)
the Golden Bridge over which they can plunge into that marvelous world of
fairies, elves, goblins, kobolds, trolls, afreets, jinns, ogres, and giants
that fascinates us all, lost to this world till some one wakes us up to say
“Bedtime!”

Such excursions fill the mind with beautiful fancies and help to develop that
most precious of our faculties, the imagination.

WILLIAM PATTEN.

MANABOZHO, THE MISCHIEF-MAKER

Adapted from H. R. Schoolcraft

There was never in the whole world a more mischievous busybody than that
notorious giant Manabozho. He was everywhere, in season and out of season,
running about, and putting his hand in whatever was going forward.

To carry on his game he could take almost any shape he pleased. He could be
very foolish or very wise, very weak or very strong, very rich or very
poor—just as happened to suit his humor best. Whatever anyone else could do, he
would attempt without a moment’s reflection. He was a match for any man he met,
and there were few manitoes* (*good spirits or evil spirits) that could get the
better of him. By turns he would be very kind or very cruel, an animal or a
bird, a man or a spirit, and yet, in spite of all these gifts, Manabozho was
always getting himself involved in all sorts of troubles. More than once, in
the course of his adventures, was this great maker of mischief driven to his
wits’ ends to come off with his life.

To begin at the beginning, Manabozho, while yet a youngster, was living with
his grandmother near the edge of a great prairie. It was on this prairie that
he first saw animals and birds of every kind; he also there made first
acquaintance with thunder and lightning. He would sit by the hour watching the
clouds as they rolled by, musing on the shades of light and darkness as the day
rose and fell.

For a stripling, Manabozho was uncommonly wide-awake. Every sight he beheld in
the heavens was a subject of remark, every new animal or bird an object of deep
interest, and every sound was like a new lesson which he was expected to learn.
He often trembled at what he heard and saw.

The first sound he heard was that of the owl, at which he was greatly
terrified, and, quickly descending the tree he had climbed, he ran with alarm
to the lodge. “Noko! noko! grandmother!” he cried. “I have heard a monedo.”

She laughed at his fears, and asked him what kind of a noise it made. He
answered. “It makes a noise like this: ko-ko-ko-ho!”

His grandmother told him he was young and foolish; that what he heard was only
a bird which derived its name from the peculiar noise it made.

He returned to the prairie and continued his watch. As he stood there looking
at the clouds he thought to himself, “It is singular that I am so simple and my
grandmother so wise; and that I have neither father nor mother. I have never
heard a word about them. I must ask and find out.”

He went home and sat down, silent and dejected. Finding that this did not
attract the notice of his grandmother, he began a loud lamentation, which he
kept increasing, louder and louder, till it shook the lodge and nearly deafened
the old grandmother.

“Manabozho, what is the matter with you?” she said, “you are making a great
deal of noise.”

Manabozho started off again with his doleful hubbub, but succeeded in jerking
out between his big sobs, “I haven’t got any father nor mother, I haven’t.”

Knowing that he was of a wicked and revengeful nature, his grandmother dreaded
to tell him the story of his parentage, as she knew he would make trouble of
it.

Manabozho renewed his cries and managed to throw out for a third or fourth
time, his sorrowful lament that he was a poor unfortunate who had no parents or
relatives.

At last she said to him, to quiet him, “Yes, you have a father and three
brothers living. Your mother is dead. She was taken for a wife by your father,
the West, without the consent of her parents. Your brothers are the North,
East, and South; and being older than you your father has given them great
power with the winds, according to their names. You are the youngest of his
children. I have nursed you from your infancy, for your mother died when you
were born.”

“I am glad my father is living,” said Manabozho, “I shall set out in the
morning to visit him.”

His grandmother would have discouraged him, saying it was a long distance to
the place where his father, Ningabinn, or the West, lived.

This information seemed rather to please than to discourage Manabozho, for by
this time he had grown to such a size and strength that he had been compelled
to leave the narrow shelter of his grandmother’s lodge and live out of doors.
He was so tall that, if he had been so disposed, he could have snapped off the
heads of the birds roosting on the topmost branches of the highest trees, as he
stood up, without being at the trouble to climb. And if he had at any time
taken a fancy to one of the same trees for a walking stick, he would have had
no more to do than to pluck it up with his thumb and finger and strip down the
leaves and twigs with the palm of his hand.

Bidding good-by to his old grandmother, who pulled a very long face over his
departure, Manabozho set out at a great pace, for he was able to stride from
one side of a prairie to the other at a single step.

He found his father on a high mountain far in the west. His father espied his
approach at a great distance, and bounded down the mountainside several miles
to give him welcome. Apparently delighted with each other, they reached in two
or three of their giant paces the lodge of the West which stood high up near
the clouds.

They spent some days in talking with each other—for these two great persons did
nothing on a small scale, and a whole day to deliver a single sentence, such
was the immensity of their discourse, was quite an ordinary affair.

One evening Manabozho asked his father what he was most afraid of on earth.

He replied—“Nothing.”

“But is there nothing you dread here—nothing that would hurt you if you took
too much of it? Come, tell me.”

Manabozho was very urgent, so at last his father said: “Yes, there is a black
stone to be found a couple of hundred miles from here, over that way,” pointing
as he spoke. “It is the only thing on earth I am afraid of, for if it should
happen to hit me on any part of my body it would hurt me very much.” The West
made this important circumstance known to Manabozho in the strictest
confidence.

“Now you will not tell anyone, Manabozho, that the black stone is bad medicine
for your father, will you?” he added. “You are a good son, and I know you will
keep it to yourself. Now tell me, my darling boy, is there not something that
you don’t like?”

Manabozho answered promptly—“Nothing.”

His father, who was of a steady and persevering nature, put the same question
to him seventeen times, and each time Manabozho made the same answer—“Nothing.”

But the West insisted—“There must be something you are afraid of.”

“Well, I will tell you,” said Manabozho, “what it is.”

He made an effort to speak, but it seemed to be too much for him.

“Out with it,” said the West, fetching Manabozho such a blow on the back as
shook the mountain with its echo.

“Je-ee, je-ee—it is,” said Manabozho, apparently in great pain. “Yes, yes! I
cannot name it, I tremble so.”

The West told him to banish his fears, and to speak up; no one would hurt him.

Manabozho began again, and he would have gone over the same make-believe of
pain, had not his father, whose strength he knew was more than a match for his
own, threatened to pitch him into a river about five miles off. At last he
cried out:

“Father, since you will know, it is the root of the bulrush.” He who could with
perfect ease spin a sentence a whole day long, seemed to be exhausted by the
effort of pronouncing that one word, “bulrush.”

Some time after Manabozho observed: “I will get some of the black rock, merely
to see how it looks.”

“Well,” said the father, “I will also get a little of the bulrush root, to
learn how it tastes.”

They were both double-dealing with each other, and in their hearts getting
ready for some desperate work. They had no sooner separated for the evening
than Manabozho was striding off the couple of hundred miles necessary to bring
him to the place where the black rock was to be procured, while down the other
side of the mountain hurried Ningabinn, the West.

At the break of day they each appeared at the great level on the mountain-top,
Manabozho with twenty loads, at least, of the black stone, on one side, and on
the other the West, with a whole meadow of bulrush in his arms.

Manabozho was the first to strike—hurling a great piece of the black rock,
which struck the West directly between the eyes, and he returned the favor with
a blow of bulrush that rung over the shoulders of Manabozho, far and wide, like
the long lash of the lightning among the clouds.

First one and then the other, Manabozho poured in a tempest of black rock,
while the West discharged a shower of bulrush. Blow upon blow, thwack upon
thwack—they fought hand to hand until black rock and bulrush were all gone.
Then they betook themselves to hurling crags at each other, cudgeling with huge
oak trees, and defying each other from one mountain top to another; while at
times they shot enormous boulders of granite across at each other’s heads, as
though they had been mere jackstones. The battle, which had commenced on the
mountains, had extended far west. The West was forced to give ground. Manabozho
pressing on, drove him across rivers and mountains, ridges and lakes, till at
last he got him to the very brink of the world.

“Hold!” cried the West. “My son, you know my power, and although I allow I am
now fairly out of breath, it is impossible to kill me. Stop where you are, and
I will also portion you out with as much power as your brothers. The four
quarters of the globe are already occupied, but you can go and do a great deal
of good to the people of the earth, which is beset with serpents, beasts and
monsters, who make great havoc of human life. Go and do good, and if you put
forth half the strength you have to-day, you will acquire a name that will last
forever. When you have finished your work I will have a place provided for you.
You will then go and sit with your brother, Kabinocca, in the north.”

Manabozho gave his father his hand upon this agreement. And parting from. him,
he returned to his own grounds, where he lay for some time sore of his wounds.

WHY THE DIVER DUCK HAS SO FEW TAIL FEATHERS

Adapted from H. R. Schoolcraft

Having overcome the powerful Pearl Feather, killed his serpents and escaped all
is wiles and charms, the heart of Manabozho welled within him. An unconquerable
desire for further adventures seized upon him. He had won in a great fight on
land, so he determined his next success should come to him from the water.

He tried his luck as a fisherman and with such success that he captured an
enormous fish, a fish so rich in fat that with the oil Manabozho was able to
form a small lake. Wishing to be generous, and at the same time having a
cunning plan of his own, he invited all the birds and beasts of his
acquaintance to come and feast upon the oil, telling them that the order in
which they partook of the banquet would decide how fat each was to be for all
time to come.

As fast as they arrived he told them to plunge in and help themselves.

The first to make his appearance was the bear, who took a long and steady
draft; then came the deer, the opossum, and such others of the family as are
noted for their comfortable covering. The moose and the buffalo were late in
arriving on the scene, and the partridge, always lean in flesh, looked on till
the supply was nearly gone. There was not a drop left by the time the hare and
the marten appeared on the shore of the lake, and they are, in consequence, the
slenderest of all creatures.

When this ceremony was over Manabozho suggested to his friends, the assembled
birds and animals, that the occasion was proper for a little merrymaking; and
taking up his drum he cried out:

“New songs from the South! Come, brothers, dance!”

They all fell in and commenced their rounds. Whenever Manabozho, as he stood in
the circle, saw a fat fowl which he fancied pass him, he adroitly wrung its
neck and slipped it under his belt, at the same time beating his drum and
singing at the top of his lungs to drown the noise of the fluttering, crying
out in a tone of admiration:

“That’s the way, my brothers; that’s the way.” At last a small duck of the
diver family, thinking there was something wrong, opened one eye and saw what
Manabozho was doing. Giving a spring, and crying: “Ha-ha-a! Manabozho is
killing us!” he made a dash for the water.

Manabozho was so angry that the creature should have played the spy that he
gave chase, and just as the Diver Duck was getting into the water he gave him a
kick, which is the reason that the diver’s tail feathers are few, his back
flattened, and his legs straightened out, so that when he is seen walking on
land he makes a sorry looking figure.

The other birds, having no ambition to be thrust in Manabozho’s belt, flew off,
and the animals scampered into the woods.

MANAIBOZHO IS CHANGED INTO A WOLF

Adapted from H. R. Schoolcraft

One evening, as Manabozho was walking along the shore of a great lake, weary
and hungry, he met a great magician in the form of an Old Wolf, with six young
ones, coming toward him.

The Wolf no Sooner caught sight of him than he told his whelps, who were close
beside him, to keep out of the way of Manabozho, “For I know,” he said, “that
it is that mischievous fellow whom we see yonder.”

The young wolves were in the act of running off when Manabozho cried out, “My
grandchildren, where are you going? Stop and I will go with you. I wish to have
a little chat with your excellent father.”

Saying which, he advanced and greeted the Old Wolf, expressing himself as
delighted at seeing him looking so well. “Whither do you journey?” he asked.

“We are looking for a good hunting-ground to pass the winter,” the Old Wolf
answered. “What brings you here?”

“I was looking for you,” said Manabozho. “For I have a passion for the chase,
brother. I always admired your family; are you willing to change me into a
wolf?”

The Wolf gave him a favorable answer, and he was forthwith changed into a wolf.

“Well, that will do,” said Manabozho. “But,” he said, looking at his tail,
“could you oblige me by making my tail a little longer and more bushy, just a
little more bushy?”

“Certainly,” said the Old Wolf; and he straightway gave Manabozho such a length
and spread of tail that it was continually getting between his legs, and it was
so heavy that it was as much as he could do to carry it. But, having asked for
it, he was ashamed to say a word, and they all started off in company, dashing
up the ravine.

After getting into the woods for some distance they ran across the tracks of
moose. The young ones scampered off in pursuit, the Old Wolf and Manabozho
following at their leisure.

“Well,” said the Old Wolf, by way of starting the conversation, “who do you
think is the fastest of the boys? Can you tell by the jumps they take?”

“Why,” he replied, “that one that takes such long jumps, he is surely the
fastest.”

“Ha! ha! you are mistaken,” said the Old Wolf. “He makes a good start, but he
will be the first to tire out; this one who appears to be behind will be the
one to kill the game.”

By this time they had come to the spot where the boys had started in chase. One
had dropped what seemed to be a small medicine-sack, which he carried for the
use of the hunting party.

“Take that, Manabozho,” said the Old Wolf.

“Why, what will I do with a dirty dog skin?”

The Old Wolf took it up; it was a beautiful robe.

“Oh, I will carry it now,” cried Manabozho.

“Oh, no,” said the Wolf, who had used his magical powers, “it is a robe of
pearls. Come along!” And away he sped at a great rate of speed.

“Not so fast,” called Manabozho after him; and then he added to himself as he
panted after, “Oh, this tail!”

Coming to a place where the moose had lain down, they saw that the young wolves
had made a fresh start after their prey. “Why,” said the Old Wolf, “this moose
is thin. I know by the tracks. I can always tell whether they are fat or not.”
A little farther on, one of the young wolves, in dashing at the moose, had
broken a tooth on a tree.

“Manabozho,” said the Old Wolf, “one of your grandchildren has shot at the
game. Take his arrow; there it is.”

“No,” replied Manabozho, “what will I do with a dirty dog’s tooth?”

The Old Wolf took it up, and behold it was a beautiful silver arrow.

When they at last overtook them, they found that the youngsters had killed a
very fat moose. Manabozho was very hungry, but the Old Wolf just then again
exerted his magical powers, and Manabozho saw nothing but the bones picked
quite clean. He thought to himself, “Just as I expected; dirty, greedy fellows.
If it had not been for this log at my back I should have been in time to have
got a mouthful”; and he cursed the bushy tail which he carried to the bottom of
his heart.

The Old Wolf finally called out to one of the young ones, “Give some meat to
your grandfather.”

One of them obeyed, and coming near to Manabozho he presented him the end of
his own bushy tail, which was now nicely seasoned with burs gathered in the
course of the hunt. Manabozho jumped up and called out: “You dog, do you think
I am going to eat you?” And he walked off in anger.

“Come back brother,” cried the Wolf. “You are losing your eyes. You do the
child injustice. Look there!” and behold a heap of fresh meat was lying on the
spot, all prepared.

Manabozho turned back, and at the sight of so much good food put on a smiling
face. “Wonderful!” he said, “how fine the meat is!”

“Yes,” replied the Old Wolf, “it is always so with us; we know our work and
always get the best. It is not a long tail that makes the hunter.”

Manabozho bit his lip.

WHY THE WOODPECKER HAS RED HEAD FEATHERS

Adapted from H. R. Schoolcraft

When his wounds had all been cured by his grandmother’s skill in medicine,
Manabozho, as big and sturdy as ever, was ripe for new adventures. He set his
thoughts immediately upon a war excursion against the Pearl Feather, a wicked
old manito, living on the other side of the great lake, who had killed his
grandfather.

He began his preparations by making huge bows and arrows without number, but he
had no arrow heads. At last his grandmother, Noko, told him that an old man who
lived at some distance could furnish him with some, and he sent her to get
them. Though she returned with her wrapper full, he told her that he had not
enough and sent her again for more.

In the meanwhile he thought to himself, “I must find out the way of making
these heads.”

Instead of directly asking how it was done, he preferred—just like Manabozho—to
deceive his grandmother, in order to learn what he wanted by a trick. “Noko,”
said he, “while I take my drum and rattle, and sing my war songs, do you go and
try to get me some larger heads, for these you have brought me are all of the
same size. Go and see whether the old man is not willing to make some a little
larger.”

He followed her at a distance as she went, having left his drum at the lodge,
with a great bird tied at the top, whose fluttering wings should keep up the
drumbeat, the same as if he were standing there beating the drum himself. He
saw the old workman busy, and learned how he prepared the heads; he also beheld
the old man’s daughter, who was very beautiful. Manabozho discovered for the
first time that he had a heart of his own, and the sigh he heaved passed
through the arrow maker’s lodge like a young gale of wind.

“My how it blows!” said the old man.

“It must be from the south, though,” said the daughter, “it is so fragrant.”

Manabozho slipped away, and in two strides he was at home, shouting forth his
songs as though he had never left the lodge. He had just time to untie the bird
which had been beating the drum when his grandmother came in and gave him the
big arrowheads.

In the evening the grandmother said, “My son, you ought to fast before you go
to war, as your brothers do, to find out whether you will be successful or
not.”

He said he had no objection. Having privately stored away in a shady place in
the forest two or three dozen juicy bears, a moose, and twenty strings of the
tenderest birds, he would retire from the lodge so far as to be entirely out of
view of his grandmother and fall to and enjoy himself heartily. At nightfall,
having dispatched a dozen birds and half a bear or so, he would return,
tottering and forlorn, as if quite famished, so as to make his grandmother feel
sorry for him.

When he had finished his term of fasting, in the course of which he slyly
dispatched twenty fat bears, six dozen birds, and two fine moose, Manabozho
sung his war song and embarked in his canoe, fully prepared for war.

Besides his weapons he took along a large supply of oil.

He traveled rapidly night and day, for he had only to will or speak, and the
canoe went. At length he arrived in sight of the fiery serpents, and stopped to
study them. He noticed that they were of enormous length and of a bright color,
that they were some distance apart, and that the flames which poured forth from
the mouths reached across the pass, so he said good morning and began talking
with them in a very friendly way. They were not to be deceived, however.

“We know you, Manabozho,” they said, “you cannot pass.”

Turning his canoe as if about to go back, he suddenly cried out with a loud and
terrified voice: “WHAT IS THAT BEHIND YOU?”

The serpents thrown off their guard, instantly turned their heads, and in a
moment Manabozho glided silently past them.

“Well,” said he, softly, after he had got by, “how about it?”

He then took up his bow and arrows, and with deliberate aim shot every one of
them easily, for the serpents were fixed to one spot and could not even turn
around.

Having thus escaped the sentinel serpents, Manabozho pushed on in his canoe
until he came to a part of the lake called Pitch-Water, as whatever touched it
was sure to stick fast.

But Manabozho was prepared with his oil and, rubbing his canoe freely with it,
from end to end, he slipped through with ease—and he was the first person who
had ever succeeded in passing through the Pitch-Water.

“Nothing like a little oil,” said Manabozho to himself.

Having by this time come in view of land, he could see the lodge of the Shining
Manito, high upon a distant hill. At the dawn of day he put his clubs and
arrows in order and began his attack, yelling and shouting and beating his
drum, and calling out so as to make it appear that he had many followers:

“Surround him! surround him! run up! run up!”

He stalked bravely forward, shouting aloud, “It was you that killed my
grandfather,” and shot off a whole forest of arrows.

The Pearl Feather appeared on the height, blazing like the sun, and paid back
Manabozho with a tempest of bolts which rattled like hail.

All day long the fight was kept up, and Manabozho had fired all of his arrows
but three without effect, for the Shining Manito was clothed in pure wampum. It
was only by immense leaps to right and left that Manabozho could save his head
from the sturdy blows which fell about him on every side, like pine.trees, from
the hands of the Manito. He was badly bruised, and at his very wits’ end, when
a large Woodpecker flew past and lit on a tree. It was a bird he had known on
the prairie, near his grandmother’s lodge.

“Manabozho,” called out the Woodpecker, “your enemy has a weak point; shoot at
the lock of hair on the crown of his head.”

The first arrow he shot only drew a few drops of blood. The Manito made one or
two unsteady steps, but recovered himself. He began to parley, but Manabozho,
now that he had discovered a way to reach him, was in no humor to trifle, and
he let slip another arrow which brought the Shining Manito to his knees. Having
the crown of his head within good range Manabozho shot his third arrow, and the
Manito fell forward upon the ground, dead.

Manabozho called the Woodpecker to come and receive a reward for the timely
hint he had given him, and he rubbed the blood of the Shining Manito on the
Woodpecker’s head, the feathers of which are red to this day.

Full of his victory, Manabozho returned home, beating his war drum furiously
and shouting aloud his song of triumph. His grandmother was on the shore to
welcome him with the war dance, which she performed with wonderful skill for
one so far advanced in years.

MANABOZHO IS ROBBED BY THE WOLVES

Adapted from H. R. Schoolcraft

Shortly after this the Old Wolf suggested to Manabozho that he should go out
and try his luck in hunting by himself. When he chose to put his mind to it he
was quite expert, and this time he succeeded in killing a fine fat moose which
he thought he would take aside slyly and devour alone.

He was very hungry and he sat down to eat, but as he never could go to work in
a straightforward way, he immediately fell into great doubts as to the proper
point at which to begin.

“Well,” said he, “I do not know where to commence. At the head? No, people will
laugh, and say, ‘He ate him backward.’”

He went to the side. “No,” said he, “they will say I ate him sideways.”

He then went to the hind quarter. “No, that will not do, either; they will say
I ate him forward. I will begin here, say what they will.”

He took a delicate piece from the small of the back, and was just on the point
of putting it to his mouth when a tree close by made a creaking noise. He
seemed vexed at the sound. He raised the morsel to his mouth the second time,
when the tree creaked again.

“Why,” he exclaimed, “I cannot eat when I hear such a noise. “Stop, stop!” he
cried to the tree. He put down the morsel of meat, exclaiming. “I
CANNOT eat with such a noise,” and starting away he climbed the
tree and was actually pulling at the limb which had bothered him, when his
forepaw was caught between the branches so that he could not free himself.

While thus held fast he saw a pack of wolves advancing through the wood in the
direction of his meat. He suspected them to be the Old Wolf and his cubs, but
night was coming on and he could not make them out. “Go the other way, go the
other Way!” he cried out; “what do you expect to get here?”

The Wolves stopped for a while and talked among themselves, and said:
“Manabozho must have something there, or he would not tell us to go another
way.”

“I begin to know know him,” said the Old Wolf, “and all his tricks. Let us go
forward and see.” They came on and, finding the moose soon made away with it.

Manabozho looked wistfully on while they ate until they were fully satisfied,
when off they scampered in high spirits. A heavy blast of wind opened the
branches finally, and released him. The wolves had left nothing but bare bones.
He made for home.

When he related his mishap, the Old Wolf, taking him by the forepaw, condoled
with him deeply on his ill luck. A tear even started to his eye as he added:
“My brother, this should teach us not to meddle with points of ceremony when we
have good meat to eat.”

MANABOZHO AND THE WOODPECKERS

Adapted from H. R. Schoolcraft

Manabozho lost the greater part of his magical power through letting his young
wolf grandson fall through the thin ice and drown. No one knew where his
grandmother had gone to. He married the arrow maker’s daughter, and became the
father of several children, but he was very poor and scarcely able to procure a
living. His lodge was pitched in a distant part of the country, where he could
get no game, and it was winter time. One day he said to his wife, “I will go
out walking and see if I can find some lodges.”

After walking some time he finally discovered a lodge at a distance. There were
children playing at the door, and when they saw him approaching they ran in and
told their parents Manabozho was coming.

It was the home of the large Red-Headed Woodpecker. He came to the door and
asked Manabozho to enter, and the invitation was promptly accepted. After some
time the Woodpecker, who was a magician, said to his wife: “Have you nothing to
give Manabozho? he must be hungry.”

She answered, “No.”

“He ought not to go without his supper,” said the Woodpecker. “I will see what
I can do.”

In the center of the lodge stood a large tamarack tree. Upon this the
Woodpecker flew, and commenced going up, turning his head on each side of the
tree, and every now and then driving in his bill. At last he pulled something
out of the tree and threw it down, when, behold, a fine fat raccoon lay on the
ground. He drew out six or seven more, and then came down and told his wife to
prepare them.

“Manabozho,” he said, “this is the only thing we eat; what else can we give
you?”

“It is very good,” replied Manabozho.

They smoked their pipes and conversed, and after a while Manabozho got ready to
go home, so the Woodpecker said to his wife, “Give him the Other raccoons to
take home for his children.”

In the act of leaving the lodge Manabozho on purpose dropped one of his
mittens, which was soon after observed upon the ground. “Run,” said the
Woodpecker to his eldest son, “and give it to him; but mind that you do not
give it into his hand; throw it at him, for there is no knowing what he may do,
he acts so curiously.”

The boy did as he was directed. “Grandfather,” he said, as he came up to him,
“you have left one of your mittens, and here it is.”

“Yes,” he said, making believe he did not know he had dropped it, “so I did;
but don’t throw it, you will get it wet on the snow.”

The lad, however, threw it, and was about to return when Manabozho cried out,
“Bakah! Bakah! Stop, stop; is that all you eat? Do you eat nothing else with
your raccoon? Tell me!”

“Yes, that is all, answered the Young Woodpecker; “we have nothing else.”

“Tell your father,” continued Manabozho, “to come and visit me, and let him
bring a sack. I will give him what he shall eat with his raccoon meat.”

When the young one returned and reported this message to his father the Old
Woodpecker turned up his nose at the invitation. “I wonder,” he said “what he
thinks he has got, poor fellow!” He was bound, however, to answer the offer of
hospitality, and he went accordingly, taking along a cedar-sack, to pay a visit
to Manabozho.

Manabozho received the Old Red-Headed Woodpecker with great ceremony. He had
stood at the door awaiting his arrival, and as soon as he came in sight
Manabozho commenced, while he was yet far off, bowing and opening wide his
arms, in token of welcome; all of which the Woodpecker returned in due form, by
ducking his bill and hopping to right and left, extending his wings to their
full length and fluttering them back to his breast.

When the Woodpecker at last reached the lodge Manabozho made several remarks
upon the weather, the appearance of the country, and especially spoke of the
scarcity of game. “But we,” he added—“we always have enough. Come in, and you
shall not go away hungry, my noble birds!”

Manabozho had always prided himself on being able to give as good as he had
received; and to be up with the Woodpecker he had shifted his lodge so as to
inclose a large dry tamarack tree.

“What can I give you?” said he to the Woodpecker; “as we eat so shall you eat.”

With this he hopped forward and, jumping on the tamarack tree, he attempted to
climb it just as he had seen the Woodpecker do in his own lodge. He turned his
head first on one side and then on the other, as the Woodpecker does, striving
to go up the tree, but as often slipping down. Every now and then he would
strike the tree with his nose, as if it was a bell, and draw back as if to pull
something out of the tree, but he pulled out no raccoons. He dashed his nose so
often against the trunk that at last the blood began to flow, and he tumbled
down senseless on the ground.

The Woodpecker started up with his drum and rattle to restore him, and by
beating them violently he succeeded in bringing him to.

As soon as he came to his senses, Manabozho began to lay the blame of his
failure upon his wife, saying to his guest: “Nemesho, it is this woman relation
of yours—she is the cause of my not succeeding. She has made me a worthless
fellow. Before I married her I also could get raccoons.

The Woodpecker said nothing, but flying on the tree he drew out several fine
raccoons. “Here,” said he, “this is the way we do” and left him in disdain,
carrying his bill high in the air, and stepping over the doorsill as if it were
not worthy to be touched by his toes.

THE BOY AND THE WOLVES

Retold by Andrew Lang

Once upon a time an Indian hunter built himself a house in the middle of a
great forest, far away from all his tribe; for his heart was gentle and kind
and he was weary of the treachery and cruel deeds of those who had been his
friends. So he left them and took his wife and three children, and they
journeyed on until they found a spot near to a clear stream, where they began
to cut down trees and to make ready their wigwam. For many years they lived
peacefully and happily in this sheltered place, never leaving it except to hunt
the wild animals, which served them both for food and clothes. At last,
however, the strong man fell sick, and before long lie knew he must die. So he
gathered his family round him and said his last words to them.

“You, my wife, the companion of my days, will follow me ere many moons have
waned to the island of the blessed. But for you, 0 my children, whose lives are
but newly begun, the wickedness, unkindness, and ingratitude from which I fled
are before you. Yet I shall go hence in peace, my children, if you will promise
always to love each other and never to forsake your youngest brother.”

“Never!” they replied, holding out their hands. And the hunter died content.

Scarcely eight moons had passed when, just as he had said, the wife went forth
and followed her husband; but before leaving her children she bade the two
elder ones think of their promise never to forsake the younger, for he was a
child and weak. And while the snow lay thick upon the ground they tended him
and cherished him; but when the earth showed green again the heart of the young
man stirred within him, and he longed to see the wigwams of the village where
his father’s youth was spent.

Therefore he opened all his heart to his sister, who answered: “My brother, I
understand your longing for our fellow-men, whom here we cannot see. But
remember our father’s words. Shall we not seek our own pleasures and forget the
little one?”

But he would not listen, and, making no reply, he took his bow and arrows and
left the hut. The snows fell and melted, yet he never returned, and at last the
heart of the girl grew cold and hard and her little boy became a burden in her
eyes, till one day she spoke thus to him: “See, there is food for many days to
come. Stay here within the shelter of the hut. I go to seek our brother, and
when I have found him I shall return hither.”

But when, after hard journeying, she reached the village where her brother
dwelt and saw that he had a wife and was happy, and when she, too, was sought
by a young brave, then she also forgot the boy alone in the forest and thought
only of her husband.

Now as soon as the little boy had eaten all the food which his sister had left
him, he went out into the woods and gathered berries and dug up roots, and
while the sun shone he was contented and had his fill. But when the snows began
and the wind howled, then his stomach felt empty and his limbs cold, and he hid
in trees all the night and only crept out to eat what the wolves had left
behind. And by and by, having no other friends, he sought their company, and
sat by while they devoured their prey, and they grew to know him and gave him
food. And without them he would have died in the snow. But at last the snows
melted and the ice upon the great lake, and as the wolves went down to the
shore the boy went after them. And it happened one day that his big brother was
fishing in his canoe near the shore, and he heard the voice of a child singing
in the Indian tone:

“My brother, my brother!
I am becoming a wolf,
I am becoming a wolf!”

And when he had so sung he howled as wolves howl. Then the heart of the elder
sank and he hastened toward him, crying: “Brother, little brother, come to me;”
but he, being half a wolf, only continued his song. And the louder the elder
called him, “Brother, little brother, come to me,” the swifter he fled after
his brothers the wolves and the heavier grew his skin, till, with a long howl,
he vanished into the depths of the forest.

So, with shame and anguish in his soul, the elder brother went back to his
village, and with his sister mourned the little boy and the broken promise till
the end of his life.

THE INDIAN WHO LOST HIS WIFE

Retold by Andrew Lang

Once upon a time there was a man and his wife who lived in the forest far from
the rest of the tribe. Very often they spent the day in hunting together, but
after awhile the wife found that she had so many things to do that she was
obliged to stay at home; so he went alone, though he found that when his wife
was not with him he never had any luck. One day, when he was away hunting, the
woman fell ill, and in a few days she died. Her husband grieved bitterly and
buried her in the house where she had passed her life; but as the time went on
he felt so lonely without her that he made a wooden doll about her height amid
size for company and dressed it in her clothes. He seated it in front of the
fire and tried to think he had his wife back again. The next day he went out to
hunt, and when he came home the first thing he did was to go up to the doll and
brush off some of the ashes from the fire which had fallen on its face. But he
was very busy now, for he had to cook and mend, besides getting food, for there
was no one to help him. And so a whole year passed away.

At the end of that time he came back from hunting one night and found some wood
by the door and a fire within. The next night there was not only wood and fire,
but a piece of meat in the kettle, nearly ready for eating. He searched all
about to see who could have done this, but could find no one. The next time he
went to hunt he took care not to go far and came in quite early. And while he
was still a long way off he saw a woman going into the house with wood on her
shoulders. So he made haste and opened the door quickly, and instead of the
wooden doll his wife sat in front of the fire. Then she spoke to him and said:

“The Great Spirit felt sorry for you because you would not be comforted, so he
let me come back to you, but you must not stretch out your hand to touch me
till we have seen the rest of our people. If you do I shall die.”

So the man listened to her words, and the woman dwelt there and brought the
wood and kindled the fire, till one day her husband said to her:

“It is now two years since you died. Let us now go back to our tribe. Then you
will be well and I can touch you.”

And with that he prepared food for the journey, a string of deer’s flesh for
her to carry and one for himself; and so they started. Now, the camp of the
tribe was distant six days’ journey, and when they were yet one day’s journey
off it began to snow, and they felt weary and longed for rest. Therefore they
made a fire, cooked some food, and spread out their skins to sleep.

Then the heart of the man was greatly stirred and he stretched out his arms to
his wife, but she waved her hands and said:

“We have seen no one yet. It is too soon.”

But he would not listen to her and caught her to him, and behold! he was
clasping the wooden doll. And when he saw it was the doll he pushed it from him
in his misery and rushed away to the camp and told them all his story. And some
doubted, and they went back with him to the place where he and his wife had
stopped to rest, and there lay the doll, and besides, they saw in time snow the
steps of two people, and the foot of one was like the foot of the doll. And the
man grieved sore all the days of his life.

PUNCHKIN

By E. Frere

Once upon a time there was a Raja who had seven beautiful daughters. They were
all good girls; but the youngest, named Balna, was more clever than the rest.
The Raja’s wife died when they were quite little children, so these seven poor
Princesses were left with no mother to take care of them.

The Raja’s daughters took it by turns to cook their father’s dinner every day,
while he was absent deliberating with his Ministers on the affairs of the
nation.

About this time the Prudhan died, leaving a widow and one daughter; and every
day, when the seven Princesses were preparing their father’s dinner, the
Prudhan’s widow and daughter would come and beg for a little fire from the
hearth. Then Balna used to say to her sisters, “Send that woman away; send her
away. Let her get the fire at her own house. What does she want with ours? If
we allow her to come here, we shall suffer for it some day.”

But the other sisters would answer, “Be quiet, Balna; why must you always be
quarreling with this poor woman? Let her take some fire if she likes.” Then the
Prudhan’s widow used to go to the hearth and take a few sticks from it; and
while no one was looking, she would quickly throw some mud into the midst of
the dishes which were being prepared for the Raja’s dinner.

Now the Raja was very fond of his daughters. Ever since their mother’s death
they had cooked his dinner with their own hands, in order to avoid the danger
of his being poisoned by his enemies. So, when he found the mud mixed up with
his dinner, he thought it must arise from their carelessness, as it did not
seem likely that anyone should have put mud there on purpose; but being very
kind he did not like to reprove them for it, although this spoiling of the
curry was repeated many days.

At last, one day, he determined to hide, and watch his daughters cooking, and
see how it all happened; so he went into the next room, and watched them
through a hole in the wall.

There he saw his seven daughters carefully washing the rice and preparing the
curry, and as each dish was completed, they put it by the fire ready to be
cooked. Next he noticed the Prudhan’s widow come to the door, and beg for a few
sticks from the fire to cook her dinner with. Balna turned to her, angrily, and
said, “Why don’t you keep fuel in your own house, and not come here every day
and take ours? Sisters, don’t give this woman any more wood; let her buy it for
herself.”

Then the eldest sister answered, “Balna, let the poor woman take the wood and
the fire; she does us no harm.” But Balna replied, “If you let her come here so
often, maybe she will do us some harm, and make us sorry for it, some day.”

The Raja then saw the Prudhan’s widow go to the place where all his dinner was
nicely prepared, and, as she took the wood, she threw a little mud into each of
the dishes.

At this he was very angry, and sent to have the woman seized and brought before
him. But when the widow came, she told him that she had played this trick
because she wanted to gain an audience with him; and she spoke so cleverly, and
pleased him so well with her cunning words, that instead of punishing her, the
Raja married her, and made her his Ranee, and she and her daughter came to live
in the palace.

Now the new Ranee hated the seven poor Princesses, and wanted to get them, if
possible, out of the way, in order that her daughter might have all their
riches, and live in the palace as Princess in their place; and instead of being
grateful to them for their kindness to her, she did all she could to make them
miserable. She gave them nothing but bread to eat, and very little of that, and
very little water to drink; so these seven poor little Princesses, who had been
accustomed to have everything comfortable about them, and good food and good
clothes all their lives long, were very miserable and unhappy; and they used to
go out every day and sit by their dead mother’s tomb and cry—and say:

“O mother, mother, cannot you see your poor children, how unhappy we are, and
how we are starved by our cruel stepmother?”

One day, while they were thus sobbing and crying, lo and behold! a beautiful
pomelo tree grew up out of the grave, covered with fresh, ripe pomeloes, and
the children satisfied their hunger by eating some of the fruit, and every day
after this, instead of trying to eat the bad dinner their stepmother provided
for them, they used to go out to their mother’s grave and eat the pommels which
grew there on the beautiful tree.

Then the Ranee said to her daughter, “I cannot tell how it is, every day those
seven girls say they don’t want any dinner, and won’t eat any; and yet they
never grow thin nor look ill; they look better than you do. I cannot tell how
it is.” And she bade her watch the seven Princesses, and see if anyone gave
them anything to eat.

So next day, when the Princesses went to their mother’s grave, and were eating
the beautiful pomeloes, the Prudhan’s daughter followed them, and saw them
gathering the fruit.

Then Balna said to her sisters, “Do you not see that girl watching us? Let us
drive her away, or hide the pomeloes, else she will go and tell her mother all
about it, and that will be bad for us.”

But the other sisters said, “Oh no, do not be unkind, Balna. The girl would
never be so cruel as to tell her mother. Let us rather invite her to come and
have some of the fruit.” And calling her to them, they gave her one of the
pomeloes.

No sooner had she eaten it, however, than the Prudhan’s daughter went home and
said to her mother, “I do not wonder the seven Princesses will not eat the
dinner you prepare for them, for by their mother’s grave there grows a
beautiful pomelo tree, and they go there every day and eat the pomeloes. I ate
one, and it was the nicest I have ever tasted.”

The cruel Ranee was much vexed at hearing this, and all next day she stayed in
her room, and told the Raja that she had a very bad headache. The Raja was
deeply grieved, and said to his wife, “What can I do for you?” She answered,
“There is only one thing that will make my headache well. By your dead wife’s
tomb there grows a fine pomelo tree; you must bring that here, and boil it,
root and branch, and put a little of the water in which it has been boiled on
my forehead, and that will cure my headache.” So the Raja sent his servants,
and had the beautiful pomelo tree pulled up by the roots, and did as the Ranee
desired; and when some of the water, in which it had been boiled, was put on
her forehead, she said her headache was gone and she felt quite well.

Next day, when the seven Princesses went as usual to the grave of their mother,
the pomelo tree had disappeared. Then they all began to cry very bitterly.

Now there was by the Ranee’s tomb a small tank, and as they were crying they
saw the tank was filled with a rich cream-like substance, which quickly
hardened into a thick white cake. At seeing this all the Princesses were very
glad, and they ate some of the cake, and liked it; and next day the same thing
happened, and so it went on for many days. Every morning the Princesses went to
their mother’s grave, and found the little tank filled with the nourishing
cream-like cake. Then the cruel stepmother said to her daughter: “I cannot tell
how it is, I have had the pomelo tree which used to grow by the Ranee’s grave
destroyed, and yet the Princesses grow no thinner, nor look more sad, though
they never eat the dinner I give them. I cannot tell how it is!”

And her daughter said, “I will watch.”

Next day, while the Princesses were eating the cream cake, who should come by
but their stepmother’s daughter. Balna saw her first, and said, “See, sisters,
there comes that girl again. Let us sit round the edge of the tank and not
allow her to see it, for if we give her some of our cake, she will go and tell
her mother; and that will be very unfortunate for us.”

The other sisters, however, thought Balna unnecessarily suspicious, and instead
of following her advice, they gave the Prudhan’s daughter some of the cake, and
she went home and told her mother all about it.

The Ranee, on hearing how well the Princesses fared, was exceedingly angry, and
sent her servants to pull down the dead Ranee’s tomb, and fill the little tank
with the ruins. And not content with this, she next day pretended to be very,
very ill—in fact, at the point of death—and when the Raja was much grieved,
and asked her whether it was in his power to procure her any remedy, she said
to him: “Only one thing can save my life, but I know you will not do it.” He
replied, “Yes, whatever it is, I will do it.” She then said, “To save my life,
you must kill the seven daughters of your first wife, and put some of their
blood on my forehead and on the palms of my hands, and their death will be my
life.” At these words the Raja was very sorrowful; but because he feared to
break his word, he went out with a heavy heart to find his daughters.

He found them crying by the ruins of their mother’s grave.

Then, feeling he could not kill them, the Raja spoke kindly to them, and told
them to come out into the jungle with him; and there he made a fire and cooked
some rice, and gave it to them. But in the afternoon, it being very hot, the
seven Princesses all fell asleep, and when he saw they were fast asleep, the
Raja, their father, stole away and left them (for he feared his wife), saying
to himself: “It is better my poor daughters should die here, than be killed by
their stepmother.”

He then shot a deer, and returning home, put some of its blood on the forehead
and hands of the Ranee, and she thought then that he had really killed the
Princesses, and said she felt quite well.

Meantime the seven Princesses awoke, and when they found themselves all alone
in the thick jungle they were much frightened, and began to call out as loud as
they could, in hopes of making their father hear; but he was by that time far
away, and would not have been able to hear them even had their voices been as
loud as thunder.

It so happened that this very day the seven young sons of a neighboring Raja
chanced to be hunting in that same jungle, and as they were returning home,
after the day’s sport was over, the youngest Prince said to his brothers:
“Stop, I think I hear some one crying and calling out. Do you not hear voices?
Let us go in the direction of the sound, and find out what it is.”

So the seven Princes rode through the wood until they came to the place where
the seven Princesses sat crying and wringing their hands. At the sight of them
the young Princes were very much astonished, and still more so on learning
their story; and they settled that each should take one of these poor forlorn
ladies home with him, and marry her.

So the first and eldest Prince took the eldest Princess home with him, and
married her.

And the second took the second; and third took the third; and the fourth took
the fourth; and the fifth took the fifth; and the sixth took the sixth; and the
seventh, and the handsomest of all, took the beautiful Balna.

And when they got to their own land, there was great rejoicing throughout the
kingdom, at the marriage of the seven young Princes to seven such beautiful
Princesses.

About a year after this Balna had a little son, and his uncles and aunts were
so fond of the boy that it was as if he had seven fathers and seven mothers.
None of the other Princes and Princesses had any children, so the son of the
seventh Prince and Balna was acknowledged their heir by all the rest.

They had thus lived very happily for some time, when one fine day the seventh
Prince (Balna’s husband) said he would go out hunting, and away he went; and
they waited long for him, but he never came back.

Then his six brothers said they would go and see what had become of him; and
they went away, but they also did not return.

And the seven Princesses grieved very much, for they feared that their kind
husbands must have been killed.

One day, not long after this had happened, as Balna was rocking her baby’s
cradle, and while her sisters were working in the room below, there came to the
palace door a man in a long black dress, who said that he was a Fakir, and came
to beg. The servant said to him, “You cannot go into the palace—the Raja’s sons
have all gone away; we think they must be dead, and their widows cannot be
interrupted by your begging.” But he said, “I am a holy man, you must let me
in. Then the stupid servants let him walk through the palace, but they did not
know that this was no Fakir, but a wicked Magician named Punchkin.

Punchkin Fakir wandered through the palace, and saw many beautiful things
there, till at last he reached the room where Balna sat singing beside her
little boy’s cradle. The Magician thought her more beautiful than all the other
beautiful things he had seen, insomuch that he asked her to go home with him
and to marry him. But she said, “My husband, I fear, is dead, but my little boy
is still quite young; I will stay here and teach him to grow up a clever man,
and when he is grown up he shall go out into the world, and try and learn
tidings of his father. Heaven forbid that I should ever leave him, or marry
yon.” At these words the Magician was very angry, and turned her into a little
black dog, and led her away; saying, “Since yon will not come with me of your
own free will, I will make you.” So the poor Princess was dragged away, without
any power of effecting an escape, or of letting her sisters know what had
become of her. As Punchkin passed through the palace gate the servants said to
him, “Where did yon get that pretty little dog?” And he answered, “One of the
Princesses gave it to me as a present.” At hearing which they let him go
without further questioning.

Soon after this, the six elder Princesses heard the little baby, their nephew,
begin to cry, and when they went upstairs they were much surprised to find him
all alone, and Balna nowhere to be seen. Then they questioned the servants, and
when they heard of the Fakir and the little black dog, they guessed what had
happened, and sent in every direction seeking them, but neither the Fakir nor
the dog were to be found. What could six poor women do? They gave up all hopes
of ever seeing their kind husbands, and their sister, and her husband again,
and devoted themselves thenceforward to teaching and taking care of their
little nephew.

Thus time went on, till Balna’s son was fourteen years old. Then, one day, his
aunts told him the history of the family; and no sooner did he hear it, than be
was seized with a great desire to go in search of his father and mother and
uncles, and if he could find them alive to bring them home again. His aunts, on
learning his determination, were much alarmed and tried to dissuade him,
saying, “We have lost our husbands, and our sister and her husband, and you are
now our sole hope; if you go away, what shall we do?” But he replied, “I pray
you not to be discouraged; I will return soon, and if it is possible bring my
father and mother and uncles with me.” So he set out on his travels; but for
some months he could learn nothing to help him in his search.

At last, after he had journeyed many hundreds of weary miles, and become almost
hopeless of ever hearing anything further of his parents, he one day came to a
country that seemed full of stones, and rocks, and trees, and there he saw a
large palace with a tower; hard by was a Malee’s little house.

As he was looking about, the Malee’s wife saw him, and ran out of the house and
said, “My dear boy, who are you that dare venture to this dangerous place?” He
answered, “I am a Raja’s son, and I come in search of my father, and my uncles,
and my mother whom a wicked enchanter bewitched.”

Then the Malee’s wife said, “This country and this palace belong to a great
enchanter; he is all powerful, and if anyone displeases him, he can turn them
into stones and trees. All the rocks and trees you see here were living people
once, and the Magician turned them to what they now are. Some time ago a Raja’s
son came here, and shortly afterward came his six brothers, and they were all
turned into stones and trees; and these are not the only unfortunate ones, for
up in that tower lives a beautiful Princess, whom the Magician has kept
prisoner there for twelve years, because she hates him and will not marry him.”

Then the little Prince thought, “These must be my parents and my uncles. I have
found what I seek at last.” So he told his story to the Malee’s wife, and
begged her to help him to remain in that place awhile and inquire further
concerning the unhappy people she mentioned; and she promised to befriend him,
and advised his disguising himself lest the Magician should see him, and turn
him likewise into stone. To this the Prince agreed. So the Malee’s wife dressed
him up in a saree, and pretended that he was her daughter.

One day, not long after this, as the Magician was walking in his garden he saw
the little girl (as he thought) playing about, and asked her who she was. She
told him she was the Malee’s daughter, and the Magician said, “You are a pretty
little girl, and to-morrow you shall take a present of flowers from me to the
beautiful lady who lives in the tower.”

The young Prince was much delighted at hearing this, and went immediately to
inform the Malee’s wife; after consultation with whom he determined that it
would be more safe for him to retain his disguise, and trust to the chance of a
favorable opportunity for establishing some communication with his mother, if
it were indeed she.

Now it happened that at Balna’s marriage her husband had given her a small gold
ring on which her name was engraved, and she had put it on her little son’s
finger when he was a baby, and afterward when he was older his aunts had had it
enlarged for him, so that he was still able to wear it. The Malee’s wife
advised him to fasten the well-known treasure to one of the bouquets he
presented to his mother, and trust to her recognizing it. This was not to be
done without difficulty, as such a strict watch was kept over the poor Princess
(for fear of her ever establishing communication with her friends), that though
the supposed Malee’s daughter was permitted to take her flowers every day, the
Magician or one of his slaves was always in the room at the time. At last one
day, however, opportunity favored him, and when no one was looking the boy tied
the ring to a nosegay, and threw it at Balna’s feet. It fell with a clang on
the floor, and Balna, looking to see what made the strange sound, found the
little ring tied to the flowers. On recognizing it, she at once believed the
story her son told her of his long search, and begged him to advise her as to
what she had better do; at the same time entreating him on no account to
endanger his life by trying to rescue her. She told him that for twelve long
years the Magician had kept her shut up in the tower because she refused to
marry him, and she was so closely guarded that she saw no hope of release.

Now Balna’s son was a bright, clever boy, so he said, “Do not fear, dear
mother; the first thing to do is to discover how far the Magician’s power
extends, in order that we may be able to liberate my father and uncles, whom he
has imprisoned in the form of the rocks and trees. You have spoken to him
angrily for twelve long years; now rather speak kindly. Tell him you have given
up all hopes of again seeing the husband you have so long mourned, and say you
are willing to harry him. Then endeavor to find out what his power consists in,
and whether he is immortal, or can be put to death.”

Balna determined to take her son’s advice; and the next day sent for Punchkin,
and spoke to him as had been suggested.

The Magician greatly delighted, begged her to allow the wedding to take place
as soon as possible.

But she told him that before she married him he must allow her a little more
time, in which she might make his acquaintance, and that, after being enemies
so long, their friendship could but strengthen by degrees. “And do tell me,”
she said, “are you quite immortal? Can death never touch you? And are you too
great an enchanter ever to feel human suffering?”

“Why do you ask?” said he.

“Because,” she replied. “if I am to be your wife, I would fain know all about
you, in order, if any calamity threatens you, to overcome, or if possible to
avert it.”

“It is true,” he added, “that I am not as others. Far, far away, hundreds of
thousands of miles from this, there lies a desolate country covered with thick
jungle. In the midst of the jungle grows a circle of palm trees, and in the
center of the circle stand six chattees full of water, piled one above another:
below the sixth chattee is a small cage which contains a little green parrot;
on the life of the parrot depends my life; and if the parrot is killed I must
die. It is. however,” he added, “impossible that the parrot should sustain any
injury, both on account of the inaccessibility of the country, and because, by
my appointment, many thousand genii surround the palm trees, and kill all who
approach the place.”

Balna told her son what Punchkin had said; but at the same time implored him to
give up all idea of getting the parrot.

The Prince, however, replied, “Mother, unless I can get hold of that parrot,
you, and my father, and uncles, cannot be liberated: be not afraid, I will
shortly return. Do you, meantime, keep the Magician in good humor—still putting
off your marriage with him on various pretexts; and before he finds out the
cause of delay, I will be here.” So saying, he went away.

Many, many weary miles did he travel, till at last he came to a thick jungle;
and, being very tired, sat down under a tree and fell asleep. He was awakened
by a soft rustling sound, and looking about him, saw a large serpent which was
making its way to an eagle’s nest built in the tree under which he lay, and in
the nest were two young eagles. The Prince seeing the danger of the young
birds, drew his sword, and killed the serpent; at the same moment a rushing
sound was heard in the air, and the two old eagles, who had been out hunting
for food for their young ones, returned. They quickly saw the dead serpent and
the young Prince standing over it; and the old mother eagle said to him, “Dear
boy, for many’ years all our young ones have been devoured by that cruel
serpent; you have now saved the lives of our children; whenever you are in need
therefore, send to us and we will help you; and as for these little eagles,
take them, and let them be your servants.”

At this the Prince was very glad, and the two eaglets crossed their wings, on
which he mounted; and they carried him far, far away over the thick, jungles,
until he came to the place where grew the circle of palm trees, in the midst of
which stood the six chattees full of water. It was the middle of the day, and
the heat was very great. All round the trees were the genii fast asleep;
nevertheless, there were such countless thousands of them, that it would have
been quite impossible for anyone to walk through their ranks to the place; down
swooped the strong-winged eaglets—down jumped the Prince; in an instant he had
overthrown the six chattees full of water, and seized the little green parrot,
which he rolled up in his cloak; while, as he mounted again into the air, all
the genii below awoke, and finding their treasure gone, set up a wild and
melancholy howl.

Away, away flew the little eagles, till they came to their home in the great
tree; then the Prince said to the old eagles, “Take back your little ones; they
have done me good service; if ever again I stand in need of help, I will not
fail to come to you.” He then continued his journey on foot till he arrived
once more at the Magician’s palace, where he sat down at the door and began
playing with the Parrot. Punchkin saw him, and came to him quickly, and said,
“My boy, where did yon get that parrot? Give it to me, I pray you.”

But the Prince answered, “Oh no, I cannot give away my parrot, it is a great
pet of mine; I have had it many years.”

Then the Magician said, “If it is an old favorite, I can understand your not
caring to give it away; but come, what will you sell it for?”

“Sir,” said the Prince, “I will not sell my parrot.”

Then Punchkin got frightened, and said, “Anything, anything; name what price
you will, and it shall be yours.” The Prince answered, “Let the seven Raja’s
sons whom you turned into rocks and trees be instantly liberated.”

“It is done as you desire,” said the Magician, “only give me my parrot.” And
With that, by a stroke of his wand, Balna’s husband and his brothers resumed
their natural shapes. “Now, give me my parrot,” repeated Punchkin.

“Not so fast, my master,” rejoined the Prince; “I must first beg that you will
restore to life all whom you have thus imprisoned.”

The Magician immediately waved his wand again; and whilst he cried, in an
imploring voice, “Give me my parrot!” the whole garden became suddenly alive:
where rocks, and stones, and trees had been before, stood Rajas, and Punts, and
Sirdars, and mighty men on prancing horses, and jeweled pages, and troops of
armed attendants.

“Give me my parrot!” cried Punchkin. Then the boy took hold of the parrot, and
tore off one of its wings; and as he did so the Magician’s right arm fell off.

Punchkin then stretched out his left arm, crying, “Give me my parrot!” The
Prince pulled off the parrot’s second wing, and the Magician’s left arm tumbled
off.

“Give me my parrot!” cried he, and fell on his knees. The Prince pulled off the
parrot’s right leg, and the Magician’s right leg fell off: the Prince pulled
off the parrot’s left leg, down fell the Magician’s left.

Nothing remained of him save the limbless body and the head; but still he
rolled his eyes, and cried “Give me my parrot!” “Take your parrot, then, cried
the boy, and with that. he wrung the bird’s neck, and threw it at the magician;
and as he did so, Punchkin’s head twisted round and, with a fearful groan, he
died!

Then they let Balna out of the tower; and she, her son, and the seven Princes
went to their own country, and lived very happily ever afterward. And as to the
rest of the world, everyone went to his own house.

HOW SUN, MOON AND WIND WENT OUT TO DINNER

By E. Frere

One day Sun, Moon, and Wind went out to dine with their uncle and aunt Thunder
and Lightning. Their mother (one of the most distant Stars you see far up in
the sky) waited alone for her children’s return.

Now both Sun and Wind were greedy and selfish. They enjoyed the great feast
that had been prepared for them, without a thought of saving any of it to take
home to their mother—but the gentle Moon did not forget her. Of every dainty
dish that was brought round, she placed a small portion under one of her
beautiful long fingernails, that Star might also have a share in the treat.

On their return, their mother, Who had kept watch for them all night long with
her little bright eye, said, “Well, children, what have yon brought home for
me?” Then Sun (who was eldest) said, “I have brought nothing home for you. I
went out to enjoy myself with my friends—not to fetch dinner for my mother!”
And Wind said, “Neither have I brought anything home for you, mother. You could
hardly expect me to bring a collection of good things for you, when I merely
went out for my own pleasure.” But Moon said, “Mother, fetch a plate, see what
I have brought you.” And shaking her hands she showered down such a choice
dinner as never was seen before.

Then Star turned to Sun and spoke thus, “Because you went out to amuse yourself
with your friends, and feasted and enjoyed yourself, without any thought of our
mother at home—you shall be cursed. Henceforth, your rays shall ever be hot and
scorching, and shall burn all that they touch. And men shall hate you, and
cover their heads when you appear.

(And that is why the Sun is so hot to this day.)

Then she turned to Wind and said, “You also who forgot your mother in the midst
of your selfish pleasures—hear your doom. You shall always blow in the hot, dry
weather, and shall parch and shrivel all living things. And men shall detest
and avoid you from this very time.”

(And that is why the Wind in the hot weather is still so disagreeable.)

But to Moon she said, “Daughter, because you remembered your mother, and kept
for her a share in your own enjoyment, from henceforth you shall be ever cool,
and calm and bright. No noxious glare shall accompany your pure rays, and men
shall always call you ‘blessed.’”

(And that is why the Moon’s light is so soft, and cool, and beautiful even to
this day.)

WHY THE FISH LAUGHED

By Joseph Jacobs

As a certain fisherwoman passed by a palace crying her fish, the queen appeared
at one of the windows and beckoned her to come near and show what she had. At
that moment a very big fish jumped about in the bottom of the basket.

“Is it a he or a she?” inquired the queen. “I wish to purchase a she fish.”

On hearing this the fish laughed aloud.

“It’s a he,” replied the fisherwoman, and proceeded on her rounds.

The queen returned to her room in a great rage; and on coming to see her in the
evening, the king noticed that something had disturbed her.

“Are you indisposed?” he said.

“No; but I am very much annoyed at the strange behavior of a fish. A woman
brought me one to-day, and on my inquiring whether it was a male or female, the
fish laughed most rudely.”

“A fish laugh! Impossible! You must be dreaming.”

“I am not a fool. I speak of what I have seen with my own eyes and heard with
my own ears.”

“Passing strange! Be it so. I will inquire concerning it.”

On the morrow the king repeated to his vizier what his wife had told him, and
bade him investigate the matter, and be ready with a satisfactory answer within
six mouths, on pain of death. The vizier promised to do his best, though he
felt almost certain of failure. For live months he labored indefatigably to
find a reason for the laughter of the fish. He sought everywhere and from
everyone. The wise and learned, and they who were skilled in magic and in all
manner of trickery, were consulted. Nobody, however, could explain the matter;
and so he returned broken-hearted to his house, and began to arrange his
affairs in prospect of certain death, for he had had sufficient experience of
the king to know that His Majesty would not go back from his threat. Amongst
other things, he advised his son to travel for a time, until the king’s anger
should have somewhat cooled.

The young fellow, who was both clever and handsome, started off whithersoever
Kismet might lead him. He had been gone some days, when he fell in with an old
farmer, who also was on a journey to a certain village. Finding the old man
very pleasant, he asked him if he might accompany him, professing to be on a
visit to the same place. The old farmer agreed, and they walked along together.
The day was hot, and the way was long and weary.

“Don’t yon think it would be pleasanter if you and I sometimes gave one another
a lift?” said the youth.

“What a fool the man is!” thought the old farmer.

Presently they passed through a field of corn ready for the sickle, and
looking’ like a sea of gold as it waved to and fro in the breeze.

“Is this eaten or not?” said the young man.

Not understanding his meaning, the old man replied, “I don’t know.”

After a little while the two travelers arrived at a big village, where the
young man gave his companion a clasp knife, and said, “Take this, friend, and
get two horses with it; but mind and bring it back, for it is very precious.”

The old man, looking half amused and half angry, pushed back the knife,
muttering something to the effect that his friend was either a fool himself or
else tying to play the fool with him. The young man pretended not to notice his
reply, and remained almost silent till they reached the city, a short distance
outside which was the old farmer’s house.

They walked about the bazaar and went to the mosque, but nobody saluted them or
invited them to come in and rest.

“What a large cemetery!” exclaimed the young man.

“What does the man mean,” thought the old farmer, “calling this largely
populated city a cemetery?”

On leaving the city their way led through a cemetery where a few people were
praying beside a grave and distributing chupatties and kulchas to Passers-by,
in the name of their beloved dead. They beckoned to the two travelers and gave
them as much as they would.

“What a splendid city this is!” said the young man.

“Now, the man must surely be demented!” thought the old farmer. “I wonder what
he will do next? He will be calling the land water, and the water land; and be
speaking of light where there is darkness, and of darkness where it is light.”
However, he kept his thoughts to himself.

Presently they had to wade through a stream that ran along the edge of the
cemetery. The water was rather deep, so the old farmer took off his shoes and
pajamas and crossed over; but the young man waded through it with his shoes and
pajamas on.

“Well! I never did see such a perfect fool, both in word and in deed, said the
old man to himself.

However, he liked the fellow; and thinking that he would amuse his wife and
daughter, he invited him to come and stay at his house as long as he had
occasion to remain in the village.

“Thank you very much,” the young man replied; “but let me first inquire, if you
please, whether the beam of your house is strong.”

The old farmer left him in despair, and entered his house laughing.

“There is a man in yonder field,” he said, after returning their greetings. “He
has come the greater part of the way with me, and I wanted him to put up here
as long as he had to stay in this village. But the fellow is such a fool that I
cannot make anything out of him. He wants to know if the beam of this house is
all right. The man must be mad!” and saying this he burst into a fit of
laughter.

“Father,” said the farmer’s daughter, who was a very sharp and wise girl, “this
man, whosoever he is, is no fool, as you deem him. He only wishes to know if
you can afford to entertain him.”

“Oh! of course,” replied the farmer. “I see. Well perhaps you can help me to
solve some of his other mysteries. While we were walking together he asked
whether he should carry me or I should carry him, as he thought that would be a
pleasanter mode of proceeding.”

“Most assuredly,” said the girl. “He meant that one of you should tell a story
to beguile the time.”

“Oh, yes. Well, we were passing through a cornfield, when he asked me whether
it was eaten or not.”

“And didn’t you know the meaning of this, father? He simply wished to know if
the man was in debt or not; because if the owner of the field was in debt, then
the produce of the field was as good as eaten to him; that is, it would have to
go to his creditors.”

“Yes, yes, yes; of course! Then, on entering a certain village, he bade me take
his clasp knife and get two horses with it, and bring back the knife again to
him.”

“Are not two stout sticks as good as two horses for helping one along on the
road? He only asked you to cut a couple of sticks and be careful not to lose
his knife.”

“I see,” said time farmer. “While we were walking over the city we did not see
anybody that we knew, and not a soul gave us a scrap of anything to eat, till
we were passing the cemetery; but there some people called to us and put into
our hands some chupatties and kulchas; so my companion called the city a
cemetery, and the cemetery a city.”

“This also is to be understood, father, if one thinks of the city as the place
where everything is to be obtained, and of inhospitable people as worse than
the dead. The city, though crowded with people, was as if dead, as far as you
were concerned; while, in the cemetery, which is crowded with time dead, you
were saluted by kind friends and provided with bread.”

“True, true!” said the astonished farmer. “Then, just now, when we were
crossing the stream, he waded through it without taking off his shoes and
pajamas.”

“I admire his wisdom,” replied time girl. “I have often thought how stupid
people were to venture into that swiftly flowing stream and over those sharp
stones with bare feet. The slightest stumble and they would fall, and be wetted
from head to foot. This friend of yours is a most wise man. I should like to
see him and speak to him.”

“Very well,” said time farmer; “I will go and find him, and bring him in.”

“Tell him, father, that our beams are strong enough, and then he will come in.
I’ll send on ahead a present to the man, to show him that we can afford to have
him for our guest.”

Accordingly she called a servant and sent him to the young man with a present
of a basin of ghee, twelve chupatties, and a jar of milk, and the following
message: “O friend, time moon is full; twelve months make a year, and the sea
is overflowing with water.”

Half-way the bearer of this present and message met his little son, who, seeing
what was in the basket, begged his father to give him some of the food. His
father foolishly complied. Presently he saw the young man, and gave him the
rest of the present and the message.

“Give your mistress my salaam,” he replied, “and tell her that the moon is new,
and that I can only find eleven mouths in the year, and the sea is by no means
full.”

Not understanding the meaning of these words, the servant repeated them word
for word, as he had heard them, to his mistress; and thus his theft was
discovered, and he was severely punished. After a little while the young man
appeared with the old farmer. Great attention was shown to him, and he was
treated in every way as it he were the son of a great man, although his humble
host knew nothing of his origin. At length be told them everything—about the
laughing of the fish, his father’s threatened execution, and his own
banishment—and asked their advice as to what he should do.

“The laughing of the fish,” said the girl “which seems to have been the cause
of all this trouble, indicates that there is a man in the palace who is
plotting against the king’s life.”

“Joy, joy!” exclaimed the vizier’s son. “There is yet time for me to return and
save my father from an ignominious and unjust death, and the king from danger.”

The following day he hastened back to his own country, taking with him the
farmer’s daughter. Immediately on arrival he ran to the palace and informed his
father of what he had heard. The poor vizier, now almost dead from the
expectation of death, was at once carried to the king, to whom he repeated the
news that his son had just brought.

“Never!” said the king.

“But it must be so, Your Majesty,” replied the vizier; “and in order to prove
the truth of what I have heard, I pray you call together all the maids in your
palace, and order them to jump over a pit, which must be dug. We’ll soon find
out whether there is any man there.”

The king had time pit dug, and commanded all the maids belonging to the palace
to try to jump it. All of them tried, but only one succeeded. That one was
found to be a man!

Thus was the queen satisfied, and the faithful old vizier saved.

Afterward, as soon as could be, the vizier’s son married the old farmer’s
daughter; and a most happy marriage it was.

THE FARMER AND THE MONEY LENDER

By Joseph Jacobs

There was ounce a farmer who suffered much at time hands of the money lender.
Good harvests, or bad, the farmer was always poor, the money lender rich. At
the last, when he hadn’t a farthing left, the farmer went to the money lender’s
house, and said, “You can’t squeeze water from a stone, and as you have nothing
to get by me now, you might tell me the secret of becoming rich.”

“My friend,” returned the money lender, piously, “riches come from Ram—ask
him.”

“Thank you, I will!” replied the simple farmer; so he prepared three griddle
cakes to last him on the journey, and set out to find Ram.

First he met a Brahman, and to him he gave a cake asking him to point out the
road to Ram; but the Brahman only took the cake and went on his way without a
word. Next the farmer met a Jogi or devotee, and to him he gave a cake, without
receiving any help in return. At last, he came upon a poor man sitting under a
tree, and finding out he was hungry, the kindly farmer gave him his last cake,
and sitting clown to rest beside him, entered into conversation.

“And where are you going?” asked the poor man, at length.

“Oh, I have a long journey before me, for I am going to find Ram!” replied the
farmer. “I don’t suppose you could tell me which way to go?”

“Perhaps I can,” said the poor man, smiling, “for I am Ram! What do you want of
me?”

Then the farmer told the whole story, and Rain, taking pity on him, gave him a
conch shell, and showed him how to blow it in a particular way, saying,
“Remember! whatever you wish for, you have only to blow the conch that way, and
your wish will be fulfilled. Only have a care of that money lender, for even
magic is not proof against their wiles!”

The farmer went back to his village rejoicing. In fact the money lender noticed
his high spirits at once, and said to himself, “Some good fortune must have
befallen the stupid fellow, to make him hold his head so jauntily.” Therefore
he went over to the simple farmer’s house, and congratulated him on his good
fortune, in such cunning words, pretending to have heard all about it, that
before long the farmer found himself telling the whole story—all except the
secret of blowing the conch, for, with all his simplicity, the farmer was not
quite such a fool as to tell that.

Nevertheless, the money lender determined to have the conch by hook or by
crook, and as he was villain enough not to stick at trifles, he waited for a
favorable opportunity and stole the conch.

But, after nearly bursting himself with blowing the conch in every conceivable
way, he was obliged to give up the secret as a bad job. However, being
determined to succeed he went back to the farmer and said, coolly, “Look here;
I’ve got your conch, but I can’t use it; you haven’t got it, So it’s clear you
can’t use it either. Business is at a standstill unless we make a bargain. Now,
I promise to give you back your conch, and never to interfere with your using
it, on one condition, which is this—Whatever you get from it, I am to get
double.”

“Never!” cried the farmer; “that would be the old business all over again!”

“Not at all!” replied time wily money lender; “you will have your share! Now,
don’t be a dog in the manger, for if you get all you want, what can it matter
to you if I am rich or poor?”

At last, though it went sorely against the grain to be of any benefit to a
money lender, the farmer was forced to yield, and from that time, no matter
what he gained by the power of the couch, time money lender gained double. And
the knowledge that this was so preyed upon the farmer’s mind day and night, so
that he had no satisfaction out of anything.

At last, there came a very dry season—so dry that the farmer’s crops withered
for want of rain. Then he blew his conch, and wished for a well to water them,
and lo! there was the well, but the money lender had two!—two beautiful new
wells! This was too much for any farmer to stand: and our friend brooded over
it, and brooded over it, till at last a bright idea came into his head. He
seized the conch, blew it loudly, and cried out, “Oh Ram! I wish to be blind of
one eye!” And so he was in a twinkling, but the money lender of course was
blind of both, and in trying to steer his way between the two new wells, he
fell into one and was drowned.

Now this true story shows that a farmer once got time better of a money
lender-but only by losing one of his eyes.

PRIDE GOETH BEFORE A FALL

By Joseph Jacobs

In a certain village there lived ten cloth merchants who always went about
together. Once upon a time they had traveled far afield, and were returning
home with a great deal of money which they had obtained by selling their wares.
Now there happened to be a dense forest near their village, and this they
reached early one morning. In it there lived three notorious robbers, of whose
existence the traders had never heard, and while they were still in the middle
of it the robbers stood before them, with swords and cudgels in their hands,
and ordered them to lay down all they had. The traders had no weapons with
them, and so, though they were many more in number, they had to submit
themselves to the robbers, who took away everything from them, even the very
clothes they wore, and gave to each only a small loin cloth a span in breadth
and a cubit in length.

The idea that they had conquered ten men and plundered all their property now
took possession of the robbers’ minds. They seated themselves like three
monarchs before the men they had plundered, and ordered them to dance to them
before returning home. The merchants now mourned their fate.

They had lost all they had, except their loin cloth, and still the robbers were
not satisfied, but ordered them to dance.

There was, among the ten merchants, one who was very clever. He pondered over
the calamity that had come upon him and his friends, the dance they would have
to perform, and the magnificent manner in which the three robbers had seated
themselves on the grass. At the same time he observed that these last had
placed their weapons on the ground, in the assurance of having thoroughly cowed
the traders, who were now commencing to dance. So he took the lead in the
dance, and, as a song is always sung by the leader on such occasions, to which
the rest keep time with hands and feet, he thus began to sing:

We are enty men,
They are erith men:
If each erith man
Surround eno men,
Eno man remains.
Tâ, tai, tôm, tadingana.

The robbers were all uneducated, and thought that the leader was merely singing
a song as usual. So it was in one sense: for the leader commenced from a
distance, and had sung the song over twice before he and his companions
commenced to approach the robbers. They had understood his meaning, because
they had been trained in trade.

When two traders discuss the price of an article in the presence of a
purchaser, they use a riddling sort of language.

“What is the price of this cloth?” one trader will ask another.

“Enty rupees,” another will reply, meaning “ten rupees.”

Thus, there is no possibility of the purchaser knowing what is meant unless he
be acquainted with trade language. By the rules of this secret language erith
means “three,” enty means “ten,” and eno means “one.” So the leader by his song
meant to hint to his fellow-traders that they were ten men, the robbers only
three, that if three pounced upon each of the robbers, nine of them could hold
them down, while the remaining one bound the robbers’ hands and feet.

The three thieves, glorying in their victory, and little understanding the
meaning of the song and the intentions of the dancers, were proudly seated
chewing betel and tobacco. Meanwhile the song was sung a third time. Ta, tai,
tom had left the lips of the singer; and, before tadingana was out of them, the
traders separated into parties of three, and each party pounced upon a thief.
The remaining one—the leader himself—tore up into long narrow strips a large
piece of cloth, six cubits long, and tied the hands and feet of the robbers.
These were entirely humbled now, and rolled on the ground like three bags of
rice!

The ten traders now took back all their property, and armed themselves with the
swords and cudgels of their enemies; and when they reached their village, they
often amused their friends and relatives by relating their adventure.

HOW THE WICKED SONS WERE DUPED

By Joseph Jacobs

A very wealthy old man, imagining that he was on the point of death, sent for
his sons and divided his property among them. However, he did not die for
several years afterward, and miserable years many of them were. Besides the
weariness of old age, the old fellow had to bear with much abuse and cruelty
from his sons. Wretched, selfish ingrates! Previously they vied with one
another in trying to please their father, hoping thus to receive more money,
but now they had received their patrimony, they cared not how soon he left
them—nay, the sooner the better, because he was only a needless trouble and
expense. And they let the poor old man know what they felt.

One day he met a friend and related to him all his troubles. The friend
sympathized very much with him, and promised to think over the matter, and call
in a little while and tell him what to do. He did so; in a few days he visited
the old man and put down four bags full of stones and gravel before him.

“Look here, friend,” said he. “Your sons will get to know of my coming here
to-day, and will inquire about it. You must pretend that I came to discharge a
long-standing debt with you, and that you are several thousands of rupees
richer than you thought you were. Keep these bags in your own hands, and on no
account let your sons get to them as long as you are alive. You will soon find
them change their conduct toward you. Salaam, I will come again soon to see how
you are getting on.”

When the young men got to hear of this further increase of wealth they began to
be more attentive and pleasing to their father than ever before. And thus they
continued to the day of the old man’s demise, when the bags were greedily
opened, and found to contain only stones and gravel!

THE TIGER, THE BRAHMAN, AND THE JACKAL

By Flora Annie Steel

Once upon a time a Tiger was caught in a trap. He tried in vain to get out
through the bars, and rolled and bit with rage and grief when he failed.

By chance a poor Brahman came by.

“Let me out of this cage, oh pious one!” cried the Tiger.

“Nay, my friend,” replied the Brahman mildly, you would probably eat me if I
did.”

“Not at all!” swore the Tiger with many oaths; “on the contrary, I should be
forever grateful, and serve you as a slave!”

Now when the Tiger sobbed and sighed and wept and swore, the pious Brahman’s
heart softened, and at last he consented to open the door of the cage. Out
popped the Tiger, and, seizing the poor man, cried, “What a fool you are! What
is to prevent my eating you now, for after being cooped up so long I am
terribly hungry!”

In vain the Brahman Pleaded for his life; the most he could gain was a promise
to abide by the decision of the first three things he chose to question as to
the justice of the Tiger’s action.

So the Brahman first asked a Pipal Tree what it thought of the matter, but the
Pipal Tree replied coldly, “What have you to complain about? Don’t I give shade
and shelter to everyone who passes by, and don’t they in return tear down my
branches to feed their cattle? Don’t whimper—be a man!”

Then the Brahman sad at heart, went farther afield till he saw a Buffalo
turning a well wheel; but he fared no better from it, for it answered, “You are
a fool to expect gratitude! Look at me! While I gave milk they fed me on
cottonseed and oil cake, but now I am dry they yoke me here, and give me refuse
as fodder!”

The Brahman, still more sad, asked the Road to give him its opinion.

“My dear sir,” said the Road, “how foolish you are to expect anything else!
Here am I, useful to everybody, yet all, rich and poor, great and small,
trample on me as they go past, giving me nothing but the ashes of their pipes
and the husks of their grain!”

On this the Brahman turned back sorrowfully, and on the way he met a Jackal,
who called out, “Why, what’s the matter, Mr. Brahman? You look as miserable as
a fish out of water!”

The Brahman told him all that had occurred.

“How very confusing!” said the Jackal, when the recital was ended; “would you
mind telling me over again, for everything has got so mixed up?”

The Brahman told it all over again, but the Jackal shook his head in a
distracted sort of way, and still could not understand.

“It’s very odd,” said he, sadly, “but it all seems to go in at one ear and out
at the other! I will go to the place where it all happened, and then perhaps I
shall be able to give a judgment.”

So they returned to the cage, by which the Tiger was waiting for the Brahman,
and sharpening his teeth and claws.

“You’ve been away a long time!” growled the savage beast, “but now let us begin
our dinner.”

“Our dinner!” thought the wretched Brahman, as his knees knocked together with
fright; “what a remarkably delicate way of putting it!”

“Give mime five minutes, my lord!” he pleaded, “in order that I may explain
matters to the Jackal here, who is somewhat slow in his wits.”

The Tiger consented, and the Brahman began the whole story over again, not
missing a single detail, and spinning as long a yarn as possible.

“Oh, my poor brain! oh, my poor brain!” cried the Jackal, wringing its paws.
“Let me see! how did it all begin? You were in the cage, and the Tiger came
walking by—”

“Pooh!” interrupted the Tiger, “what a fool you are! I was in the cage.”

“Of course!” cried the Jackal, pretending to tremble with fright; “yes I was in
the cage—no I wasn’t—dear! dear, where are my wits? Let me see—the Tiger was in
the Brahman, and the cage came walking by—no, that’s not it, either! Well,
don’t mind me, but begin your dinner, for I shall never understand!”

“Yes, you shall!” returned the Tiger, in a rage at the Jackal’s stupidity;
“I’ll make you understand! Look here—I am the Tiger—”

“Yes, my lord!”

“And that is the Brahman—”

“Yes, my lord!”

“And that is the cage—”

“Yes, my lord!”

“And I was in the cage—do you understand?”

“Yes—no— Please, my lord—”

“Well?” cried the Tiger impatiently.

“Please, my lord!—how did you get in?”

“How?—why, in the usual way, of course!”

“Oh, dear me!—My head is beginning to whirl again! Please don’t get angry, my
lord, but what is the usual way?”

At this the Tiger lost patience, and, jumping into the cage, cried, “This way!
Now do you understand how it was?”

“Perfectly!” grinned the Jackal, as he dexterously shut the door. “And if you
will permit me to say so, I think matters will remain as they were!”

THE LAMBIKIN

By Flora Annie Steel

Once upon a time there was a wee wee Lambikin, who frolicked about on his
little tottery legs, and enjoyed himself amazingly.

Now one day he set off to visit his Granny, and was jumping with joy to think
of all the good things he should get from her, when who should he meet but a
Jackal, who looked at the tender young morsel and said: “Lambikin! Lambikin!
I’ll EAT YOU!”

But Lambikin only gave a little frisk and said:

“To Granny’s house I go,
Where I shall fatter grow,
Then you can eat me so.”

The Jackal thought this reasonable, and let Lambikin pass.

By and by he met a Vulture, and the Vulture, looking hungrily at the tender
morsel before him, said: “Lambikin! Lambikin! I’ll EAT YOU!”

But Lambikin only gave a little frisk, and said:

“To Granny’s house I go,
Where I shall fatter grow,
Then you can eat me so.”

The Vulture thought this reasonable, and let Lambikin pass.

And by and by he met a Tiger, and then a Wolf, and a Dog, arid an Eagle, and
all these, when they saw the tender little morsel, said: “Lambikin! Lambikin!
I’ll EAT YOU!”

But to all of them Lambikin replied, with a little frisk:

“To Granny’s house I go,
Where I shall fatter grow,
Then you can eat me so.

At last he reached his Granny’s house, and said, all in a great hurry, “Granny,
dear, I’ve promised to get very fat; so, as people ought to keep their
promises, please put me into the corn bin at once.”

So his Granny said he was a good boy, and put him into the corn bin, and there
the greedy little Lambikin stayed for seven days, and ate, and ate, and ate,
until he could scarcely waddle, and his Granny said he was fat enough for
anything, and must go home. But cunning little Lambikin said that would never
do, for some animal would be sure to eat him on the way back, he was so plump
and tender.

“I’ll tell you what you must do,” said Master Lambikin, “you must make a little
drumikin out of the skin of my little brother who died, and then I can sit
inside and trundle along nicely, for I’m as tight as a drum myself.”

So his Granny made a nice little drumikin out of his brother’s skin, with the
wool inside, and Lambikin curled himself up snug and warm in the middle, and
trundled away gayly. Soon lie met with the Eagle, who called out:

“Drumikin! Drumikin!
Have you seen Lambikin?”

And Mr. Lambikin, curled up in his soft warm nest, replied:

“Fallen into the fire, and so will you
On little Drumikin. Tum-pa, tum-too!”

“How very annoying!” sighed the Eagle, thinking regretfully of the tender
morsel he had let slip.

Meanwhile Lambikin trundled along, laughing to himself, and singing:

“Tum-pa, tum-too;
Tum-pa, tum-too!”

Every animal and bird he met asked him the same question:

“Drumikin! Drumikin!
Have you seen Lambikin?”

And to each of them the little slyboots replied:

“Fallen into the fire, and so will you
On little Drumikin. Tum-pa, tum-too;
Tum-pa, tum-too; Tum-pa, tum-too!”

Then they all sighed to think of the tender little morsel they had let slip.

At last the Jackal came limping along, for all his sorry looks as sharp as a
needle, and he too called out—

“Drumikin! Drumikin!
Have you seen Lambikin?”

And Lambikin, curled up in his snug little nest, replied gayly:

“Fallen into the fire, and so will you
On little Drumikin! Tum-pa—”

But he never got any further, for the Jackal recognized his voice at once, arid
cried: “Hullo! you’ve turned yourself inside out, have you? Just you come out
of that!”

Whereupon he tore open Drumikin and gobbled up Lambikin.

THE RAT’S WEDDING

By Flora Annie Steel

Once upon a time a fat, sleek Rat was caught in a shower of rain, and being far
from shelter he set to work and soon dug a nice hole in the ground, in which he
sat as dry as a bone while the raindrops splashed outside, making little
puddles on the road.

Now in the course of digging, he came upon a fine bit of root, quite dry and
fit for fuel, which he set aside carefully—for the Rat is an economical
creature—in order to take it home with him. So when the shower was over, he set
off with the dry root in his mouth. As he went along, daintily picking his way
through the puddles, he Saw a Poor Man vainly trying to light a fire, while a
little circle of children stood by, and cried piteously.

“Goodness gracious!” exclaimed the Rat, who was both soft-hearted and curious,
“What a dreadful noise to make! What is the matter?”

“The children are hungry,” answered the Man; “they are crying for their
breakfast, but the sticks are damp, the fire won’t burn, and so I can’t bake
the cakes.”

“If that is all your trouble, perhaps I can help you,” said the good-natured
Rat, “you are welcome to this dry root and I’ll warrant it will soon make a
fine blaze.”

The Poor Man, with a thousand thanks, took the dry root, and in his turn
presented the Rat with a morsel of dough, as a reward for his kindness and
generosity.

“What a remarkably lucky fellow I am!” thought the Rat, as he trotted off gayly
with his prize, “and clever, too! Fancy making a bargain like that—food enough
to last me five days in return for a rotten old stick! Wah! Wah! Wah! What it
is to have brains!”

Going along, hugging his good fortune in this way, he came presently to a
Potter’s yard, where the Potter, leaving his wheel to spin round by itself, was
trying to pacify his three little children, who were screaming arid crying as
if they would burst.

“My gracious!” cried the Rat, stopping his ears, “what a noise! do tell me what
it is all about.”

“I suppose they are hungry,” replied the Potter ruefully; “their mother has
gone to get flour in the bazaar, for there is none in the house. In the
meantime I can neither work nor rest because of them.”

“Is that all?” answered the officious Rat; then I can help you. Take this
dough, cook it quickly, and stop their mouths with food.”

The Potter overwhelmed the Rat with thanks for his obliging kindness, and
choosing out a nice well-burned pipkin, insisted on his accepting it as a
remembrance.

The Rat was delighted at the exchange, and though the pipkin was just a trifle
awkward for him to manage, he succeeded, after infinite trouble, in balancing
it on his head and went away gingerly, tink-a-tink, tink-a-tink, down the road,
with his tail over his arm for fear he should trip on it. And all the time he
kept saying to himself, “What a lucky fellow I am! and clever, too! Such a hand
at a bargain!”

By and by he came to where some cowherds were herding their cattle. One of them
was milking a buffalo, and having no pail, he used his shoes instead.

“Oh fie! oh fie!” cried the cleanly Rat, quite shocked at the sight. “What a
nasty, dirty trick! Why don’t you use a pail?”

“For the best of all reasons—we haven’t got one!” growled the Cowherd, who did
not see why the Rat should put his finger in the pie.

“If that is all,” replied the dainty Rat, “oblige me by using this pipkin, for
I cannot bear dirt!”

The Cowherd, nothing loath, took the pipkin and milked away until it was
brimming over; then turning to the Rat, who stood looking on, said, “Here,
little fellow, You may have a drink, in payment.”

But if the Rat was good-natured he was also shrewd. “No, no, my friend,” said
he, “that will not do! As if I could drink the worth of any pipkin at a draft!
My dear sir, I couldn’t hold it! Besides, I never make a bad bargain, so I
expect you, at least to give me the buffalo that gave the milk.”

“Nonsense!” cried the Cowherd; “a buffalo for a pipkin! Whoever heard of such a
price? And what on earth could you do with a buffalo when you got it? Why, the
pipkin was about as much as you could manage.”

At this the Rat drew himself up with dignity, for he did not like allusions to
his size. “That is my affair, not yours,” he retorted; “your business is to
hand over the buffalo.”

So just for the fun of the thing, and to amuse themselves at the Rat’s expense,
the cowherds loosened the buffalo’s halter and began to tie it to the little
animal’s tail.

“No! no!” he called, in a great hurry. “If the beast pulled, the skin of my
tail would come off, and then where should I be? Tie it around my neck, if you
please.”

So with much laughter the cowherds tied the halter round the Rat’s neck, and
he, after a polite leave-taking, set off gayly toward home with his prize; that
is to say, he set off with the rope, for no sooner did he come to the end of
the tether than be was brought up with a round turn; the buffalo, nose down,
grazing away, would not budge until it had finished its tuft of grass, and then
seeing another in a different direction marched off toward it, while the Rat,
to avoid being dragged, had to trot humbly behind, willy-nilly. He was too
proud to confess the truth, of course, and, nodding his head knowingly to the
cowherds, said: “Ta-ta, good people! I am going home this way. It may be a
little longer, but it’s much shadier.”

And when the cowherds roared with laughter he took no notice, but trotted on,
looking as dignified as possible. “After all,” he reasoned to himself, “when
one keeps a buffalo one has to look after its grazing. A beast must get a good
bellyful of grass if it is to give any milk, and I have plenty of time at my
disposal.” So all day long he trotted about after the buffalo, making believe;
but by evening he was dead tired, and felt truly thankful when the great big
beast, having eaten enough, lay down under a tree to chew the cud.

Just then a bridal party came by. The Bridegroom and his friends had evidently
gone on to the next village, leaving the Bride’s palanquin to follow; so the
palanquin bearers, being lazy fellows and seeing a nice shady tree, put down
their burden, and began to cook some food.

“What detestable meanness!” grumbled one; “a grand wedding, and nothing but
plain rice to eat! Not a scrap of meat in it, neither sweet nor salt! It would
serve the skinflints right if we upset the Bride into a ditch!”

“Dear me!” cried the Rat at once, seeing a way out of his difficulty, “that is
a shame! I sympathize with your feelings so entirely that if you will allow me,
I’ll give you my buffalo. You can kill it, and cook it.”

“Your buffalo!” returned the discontented bearers. “What rubbish! Whoever heard
of a rat owning a buffalo?”

“Not often, I admit,” replied the Rat with conscious pride; “but look for
yourselves. Can you not see that I am leading the beast by a string?”

“Oh, never mind the string!” cried a great big hungry bearer; master or no
master, I mean to have meat for my dinner!” Whereupon they killed the buffalo,
and cooking its flesh, ate their dinner with a relish; then, offering the
remains to the Rat, said carelessly, “Here, little Rat-skin, that is for you!”

“Now look here!” cried the Rat hotly; “I’ll have none of your pottage, or your
sauce, either. You don’t suppose I am going to give my best buffalo, that gave
quarts and quarts of milk—the buffalo I have been feeding all day—for a wee bit
of rice? No! I got a loaf for a bit of stick; I got a pipkin for a little loaf;
I got a buffalo for a pipkin; and now I’ll have the Bride for my buffalo—the
Bride, and nothing else!”

By this time the servants, having satisfied their hunger, began to reflect on
what they had done, and becoming alarmed at the consequences, arrived at the
conclusion it would be wisest to make their escape while they could. So,
leaving the Bride in her palanquin, they took to their heels in various
directions.

The Rat, being as it were left in possession, advanced to the palanquin, and
drawing aside the curtain, with the sweetest of voices and best of bows begged
the Bride to descend. She hardly knew whether to laugh or to cry, but as any
company, even a Rat’s, was better than being quite alone in the wilderness, she
did what she was bidden, and followed the lead of her guide, who set off as
fast as be could for his hole.

As he trotted along beside the lovely young Bride, who, by her rich dress and
glittering jewels, seemed to be some king’s daughter, he kept saying to
himself, “How clever I am! What bargains I do make, to be sure!”

When they arrived at his hole, the Rat stepped forward with the greatest
politeness, and said, “Welcome, madam, to my humble abode! Pray step in, or if
you will allow me, and as the passage is somewhat dark, I will show you the
way.”

Whereupon he ran in first, but after a time, finding the Bride did not follow,
he put his nose out again, saying testily, “Well, madam, why don’t you follow?
Don’t you know it’s rude to keep your husband waiting?”

“My good sir,” laughed the handsome young Bride, “I can’t squeeze into that
little hole!”

The Rat coughed; then after a moment’s thought he replied, “There is some truth
in your remark—you are overgrown, and I suppose I shall have to build
you a thatch somewhere, For to-night you can rest under that wild plum tree.”

“But I am so hungry!” said the Bride ruefully.

“Dear, dear! everybody seems hungry to-day!” returned the Rat pettishly;
“however, that’s easily settled—I’ll fetch you Some supper in a trice.”

So he ran into his hole, returning immediately with an ear of millet and a dry
pea. “There!” said he, triumphantly, “isn’t that a fine meal?”

“I can’t eat that!” whimpered the Bride; “it isn’t a mouthful; and I want rice
pottage, and cakes, and sweet eggs, and sugar drops. I shall die if I don’t get
them!”

“Oh, dear me!” cried the Rat in a rage, “what a nuisance a bride is, to be
sure! Why don’t you eat the wild plums?”

“I can’t live on wild plums!” retorted the weeping Bride; “nobody could;
besides, they are only half ripe, and I can’t reach them.”

“Rubbish!” cried the Rat; “ripe or unripe, they must do you for to-night, and
to-morrow you can gather a basketful, sell them in the city, and buy sugar
drops and sweet eggs to your heart’s content!”

So the next morning the Rat climbed up into the plum tree, and nibbled away at
the stalks till the fruit fell down into the Bride’s veil. Then, unripe as they
were, she carried them into the city, calling out through the streets—

“Green plums I sell! green plums I sell!
Princess am I, Rat’s bride as well!”

As she passed by the palace, her mother, the Queen, heard her voice, and
running out, recognized her daughter. Great were the rejoicings, for everyone
thought the poor Bride had been eaten by wild beasts.

In the midst of the feasting and merriment, the Rat, who had followed the
Princess at a distance, and had become alarmed at her long absence, arrived at
the door, against which he beat with a big knobby stick, calling out fiercely,
“Give me my wife! Give me my wife! She is mine by a fair bargain. I gave a
stick and I got a loaf; I gave a loaf and I got a pipkin; I gave a pipkin and I
got a buffalo; I gave a buffalo and I got a bride. Give me my wife! Give me my
wife!”

“La! son-in-law! What a fuss you do make,” said the wily old Queen through the
door, “and all about nothing! Who wants to run away with your wife? On the
contrary, we are proud to see you, and I only keep you waiting at the door till
we can spread the carpets, and receive you in style.”

Hearing this, the Rat was mollified, and waited patiently outside while the
cunning old Queen prepared for his reception, which she did by cutting a hole
in the very middle of a stool, putting a red hot stone underneath, covering it
over with a stew-pan lid, and then spreading a beautiful embroidered cloth over
all. Then she went to the door, and receiving the Rat with the greatest
respect, led him to the stool, praying him to be seated.

“Dear! dear! how clever I am! What bargains I do make, to be sure!” said he to
himself as he climbed on to the stool. “Here I am, son-in-law to a real live
Queen! What will the neighbors say?”

At first he sat down on the edge of the stool, but even there it was warm, and
after a while he began to fidget, saying, “Dear me, mother-in-law, how hot
your house is! Everything I touch seems burning!”

“You are out of the wind there, my son,” replied the cunning old Queen; “sit
more in the middle of the stool, and then you will feel the breeze and get
cooler.”

But he didn’t! for the stewpan lid by this time had become so hot that the Rat
fairly frizzled when he sat down on it; and it was not until he had left all
his tail, half his hair, and a large piece of his skin behind him, that he
managed to escape, howling with pain, and vowing that never, never, never again
would he make a bargain!

THE JACKAL AND THE PARTRIDGE

By Flora Annie Steel

A jackal and a partridge swore eternal friendship; but the Jackal was very
exacting and jealous. “You don’t do half as much for me as I do for you,” he
used to say, “and yet you talk a great deal of your friendship. Now my idea of
a friend is one who is able to make me laugh or cry, give me a good meal, or
save my life if need be. You couldn’t do that!”

“Let us see,” answered the Partridge; “follow me at a little distance, and if I
don’t make you laugh soon you may eat me!”

So she flew on till she met two travelers trudging along, one behind the other.
They were both foot-sore and weary, and the first carried his bundle on a stick
over his shoulder, while the second had his shoes in his hand.

Lightly as a feather the Partridge settled on the first traveler’s stick. He,
none the wiser, trudged on, but the second traveler, seeing the bird sitting so
tamely just in front of his nose, said to himself, “What a chance for a
supper!” and immediately flung his shoes at it, they being ready to hand.
Whereupon the Partridge flew away, and the shoes knocked off the first
traveler’s turban.

“What a plague do you mean?” cried he, angrily turning on his companion. “Why
did you throw your shoes at my head?”

“Brother,” replied the other mildly, “do not be vexed. I didn’t throw them at
you, but at a Partridge that was sitting on your stick.”

“On my stick! Do you take me for a fool?” shouted the injured man, in a great
rage. “Don’t tell me such cock-and-bull stories. First you insult me, and then
you lie like a coward; but I’ll teach you manners!”

Then he fell upon his fellow traveler without more ado, and they fought until
they could not see out of their eyes, till their noses were bleeding, their
clothes in rags, and the Jackal had nearly died of laughing.

“Are you satisfied?” asked the Partridge of her friend.

“Well,” answered the Jackal, “you have certainly made nine laugh, but I doubt
if you could make me cry. It is easy enough to be a buffoon; it is more
difficult to excite the highest emotions.”

“Let us see,” retorted the Partridge, somewhat piqued; “there is a huntsman
with his dogs coming along the road. Just creep into that hollow tree and watch
me; if you don’t weep scalding tears, you must have no feeling in you!”

The Jackal did as he was bid, and watched the Partridge, who began fluttering
about the bushes till the dogs caught sight of her, when she flew to the hollow
tree where the Jackal was hidden. Of course the dogs smelt him at once, and set
up such a yelping and scratching that the huntsman came up, and seeing what it
was, dragged the Jackal out by the tail. Whereupon the dogs worried him to
their heart’s content, and finally left him for dead.

By and by he opened his eyes—for he was only foxing—and saw the Partridge
sitting on a branch above him.

“Did you cry?” she asked anxiously. “Did I rouse your high emo—”

“Be quiet, will you!” snarled the Jackal; half dead with fear!”

So there the Jackal lay for some time, getting the better of his bruises, and
meanwhile he became hungry.

“Now is the time for friendship!” said he to the Partridge. “Get me a good
dinner, and I will acknowledge you a true friend.”

“Very well!” replied the Partridge; “only watch me, and help yourself when the
time comes.”

Just then a troop of women came by, carrying their husbands dinners to the
harvest field. The Partridge gave a little plaintive cry, and began fluttering
along from bush to bush as if she were wounded.

“A wounded bird! a wounded bird!” cried the women; “we can easily catch it.”
Whereupon they set off in pursuit, but the cunning Partridge played a thousand
tricks, till they became so excited over the chase that they put their bundles
on the ground in order to pursue it more nimbly. The Jackal, meanwhile, seizing
his opportunity, crept up, and made off with a good dinner.

“Are you satisfied now?” asked the Partridge.

“Well,” returned the Jackal, “I confess you have given me a very good dinner;
you have also made me laugh—and cry—ahem! But, after all, the great test of
friendship is beyond you—you couldn’t save my life!”

“Perhaps not,” acquiesced the Partridge mournfully, “I am so small and weak.
But it grows late—we should be getting home; and as it is a long way round by
the ford, let us go across the river. My friend the Crocodile will carry us
over.”

Accordingly they set off for the river, and the Crocodile kindly consented to
carry them across, so they sat on his broad back and he ferried them over. But
just as they were in the middle of the stream the Partridge remarked. “I
believe the Crocodile intends to play us a trick. How awkward if he were to
drop you into the water!”

“Awkward for you, too!” replied the Jackal, turning pale.

“Not at all! not at all! I have wings, you haven’t.”

On this the Jackal shivered and shook with fear, and when the Crocodile, in a
gruesome growl, remarked that he was hungry and wanted a good meal, the
wretched creature hadn’t a word to say.

“Pooh!” cried the Partridge airily, “don’t try tricks on us—I should fly away,
and as for my friend, the Jackal, you couldn’t hurt him. He is not such a fool
as to take his life with him on these little excursions; he leaves it at home,
locked up in the cupboard.”

“Is that a fact?” asked the Crocodile, surprised. “Certainly!” retorted the
Partridge. Try to eat him if you like, but you will only tire yourself to no
purpose.

“Dear me! how very odd!” gasped time Crocodile; and he was so taken aback that
he carried the Jackal safe to shore.

“Well, are you satisfied now?” asked the Partridge.

“My dear madam!” quoth the Jackal, “you have made me laugh, you have made me
cry, you have given me a good dinner, and you have saved my life; but, upon my
honor, I think you are too clever for a friend so good-by!”

And the Jackal never went near the Partridge again.

THE JACKAL AND THE CROCODILE

By Flora Annie Steel

Once upon a time Mr. Jackal was trotting along gayly, when lie caught sight of
a wild plum tree laden with fruit on the other side of a broad, deep stream. I
could not get across anyhow, so he just sat down on the bank and looked at the
ripe, luscious fruit until his mouth watered with desire.

Now it so happened that, just then, Miss Crocodile came floating down stream
with her nose in the air.

“Good morning, my dear!” said Mr. Jackal politely; “how beautiful you look
to-day, and how charmingly you swim! Now, if I could only swim too, what a fine
feast of plums we two friends might have over there together!” And Mr. Jackal
laid his paw on his heart, and sighed.

Now Miss Crocodile had a very inflammable heart, and when Mr. Jackal looked at
her so admiringly, and spoke so sentimentally, she simpered and blushed,
saying, “Oh! Mr. Jackal! how can you talk so? I could never dream of going out
to dinner with you, unless—unless—”

“Unless what?” asked the Jackal persuasively.

“Unless we were going to be married!” simpered Miss Crocodile.

“And why shouldn’t we be married, my charmer?” returned the Jackal eagerly. “I
would go and fetch the barber to begin the betrothal at once, but I am so faint
with hunger just at present that I should never reach the village. Now, if the
most adorable of her sex would only take pity on her slave, and carry me over
the stream, I might refresh myself with those plums, and so gain strength to
accomplish the ardent desire of my heart!”

Here the Jackal sighed so piteously, and cast such sheep’s eyes at Miss
Crocodile, that she was unable to withstand him. So she carried him across to
the plum tree, and then sat on the water’s edge to think over her wedding
dress, while Mr. Jackal feasted on the plums and enjoyed himself.

“Now for the barber, my beauty!” cried the gay Jackal, when he had eaten as
much as he could. Then the blushing Miss Crocodile carried him back again, and
bade him be quick about his business, like a dear good creature, for really she
felt so flustered at the very idea that she didn’t know what might happen.

“Now don’t distress yourself, my dear!” quoth the deceitful Mr. Jackal,
springing to the bank, “because it’s not impossible that I may not find the
barber, and then, you know, you may have to wait some time, a considerable time
in fact, before I return. So don’t injure your health for my sake, if you
please.” With that he blew her a kiss, and trotted away with his tail up.

Of course he never came back, though trusting Miss Crocodile waited patiently
for him; at last she understood what a gay, deceitful fellow he was, and
determined to have her revenge on him one way or another.

So she hid herself in the water, under the roots of a tree, close to a ford
where the Jackal always came to drink. By and by, sure enough, he came lilting
along in a self-satisfied way, and went right into the water for a good long
draft. Whereupon Miss Crocodile seized him by the right legs and held on. He
guessed at once what had happened, and called out, “Oh! my heart’s adored! I’m
drowning! I’m drowning! If you love me, leave hold of that old root and get a
good grip of my leg—it is just next door!”

Hearing this, Miss Crocodile thought she must have made a mistake, and, letting
go the Jackal’s leg in a hurry, seized an old root close by, and held on.
Whereupon Mr. Jackal jumped nimbly to shore, and ran off with his tail up,
calling out, “Have a little patience, my beauty! The barber will come some
day!”

But this time Miss Crocodile knew better than to wait, and being now dreadfully
angry, she crawled away to the Jackal’s hole, and, slipping inside, lay quiet.

By and by Mr. Jackal came lilting along with his tail up. “Ho! ho! That is your
game, is it?” said he to himself, when he saw the trail of the Crocodile in the
sandy soil. So he stood outside, and said aloud, “Bless my stars! What has
happened? I don’t half like to go in, for whenever I come home my wife always
calls out,

‘Oh, dearest hubby hub!
What have you brought for grub
to me and the darling cub?’

and to-day she doesn’t say anything!”

Hearing this, Miss Crocodile sang out from inside,

“Oh, dearest hubby hub!
What have you brought for grub
To me and the darling cub?”

The Jackal winked a very big wink, and, stealing in softly, stood at the
doorway. Meanwhile Miss Crocodile, hearing him coming, held her breath, and
lay, shamming dead, like a big log.

“Bless my stars!” cried Mr. Jackal, taking out his pocket handkerchief, “how
very sad! Here’s poor Miss Crocodile stone dead, and all for love of me! Dear!
dear! Yet it is very odd, and I don’t think she can be quite dead, you know—for
dead folks always wag their tails!”

On this, Miss Crocodile began to wag her tail very gently, and Mr. Jackal ran
off, roaring with laughter, and saying. “Oho! oho! so dead folks always wag
their tails!”

THE JACKAL AND THE IGUANA

By Flora Annie Steel

One moonlight night a miserable, half-starved Jackal, skulking through the
village, found a worn-out pair of shoes in the gutter. They were too tough for
him to eat, so, determined to make some use of them, he strung them to his ears
like earrings, and, going down to the edge of the pond, gathered all the old
bones he could find together and built a platform of them, plastering it over
with mud.

On this he sat in a dignified attitude, and when any animal came to the pond to
drink, he cried out in a loud voice, “Hi! stop! You must not taste a drop till
you have done homage to me. So repeat these verses which I have composed in
honor of the occasion:

‘Silver is his dais, plastered o’er with gold;
In his ears are jewels,—some prince I must behold!’”

Now, as most of the animals were very thirsty, and in a great hurry to drink,
they did not care to dispute the matter, but gabbled off the words without a
second thought. Even the royal tiger, treating it as a jest, repeated the
Jackal’s rime, in consequence of which the latter became quite a cock-a-hoop,
and really began to believe he was a personage of great importance.

By and by an Iguana, or big lizard, came waddling down to the water, looking
for all the world like a baby alligator.

“Hi! you there!” sang out the Jackal; “you mustn’t drink until you have said—

‘Silver is his dais, plastered o’er with gold;
In his ears are jewels,—some prince I must behold!’”

“Pouf! pouf! pouf!” gasped the Iguana. “Mercy on us, how dry my throat is!
Mightn’t I have just a wee sip of water first? and then I could do justice to
your admirable lines; at present I am as hoarse as a crow!”

“By all means,” replied the Jackal, with a gratified smirk. “I flatter myself
the verses are good, especially when well recited.”

So the Iguana, nose down in the water, drank away until the Jackal began to
think he would never leave off, and was quite taken aback when he finally came
to an end of his draft, and began to move away.

“Hi! hi!” cried the Jackal, recovering his presence of mind, “stop a bit, and
say—

‘Silver is his dais, plastered o’er with gold;
In his ears are jewels,—some prince I must behold!’”

“Dear me!” replied the Iguana, politely, “I was very near forgetting! Let me
see—I must try my voice first—do, re, me, fa, sol, la, si—that is right! Now,
how does it run?”

“Silver is his dais, plastered o’er with gold;
In his ears are jewels,—some prince I must behold!”

repeated the Jackal, not observing that the Lizard Was carefully edging farther
and farther away.

“Exactly so,” returned the Iguana; “I think I could say that!” Whereupon he
sang out at the top of his voice—

“Bones made up his dais, with mud it’s plastered o’er,
Old shoes are his eardrops; a jackal, nothing more!”

And turning round, he bolted for his hole as hard as he could.

The Jackal could scarcely believe his ears, and sat dumb with astonishment.
Then, rage lending him wings, he flew after the Lizard, who, despite his short
legs and scanty breath, put his best foot foremost, and scuttled away at a
great rate.

It was a near race, however, for just as he popped into his hole, the Jackal
caught him by the tail, and held on. Then it was a case of “pull, butcher;
pull, baker,” until the Lizard made certain his tail must come off, and he felt
as if his front teeth would come out. Still not an inch did either budge, one
way or the other, and there they might have remained till the present day, had
not the Iguana called out, in his sweetest tones, “Friend, I give in! Just
leave hold of my tail, will you? then I can turn round and come out.”

Whereupon the Jackal let go, and the tail disappeared up the hole in a
twinkling; while all the reward the Jackal got for digging away until his nails
were nearly worn out was hearing the Iguana sing softly—

“Bones made up his dais, with mud it’s plastered o’er,
Old shoes are his eardrops; a jackal, nothing more

THE BEAR’S BAD BARGAIN

By Flora Annie Steel

Once upon a time a very old Woodman lived with his very old Wife in a tiny hut
close to the orchard of a very rich man, so close that the boughs of a pear
tree hung right over the cottage yard. Now it was agreed between the rich man
and the Woodman that if any of the fruit fell into the yard, the old couple
were to be allowed to eat it; so you may imagine with what hungry eyes they
watched the pears ripening, and prayed for a storm of wind, or a flock of
flying foxes, or anything which would cause the fruit to fall. But nothing
came, and the old Wife, who was a grumbling, scolding old thing, declared they
would infallibly become beggars. So she took to giving her husband nothing but
dry bread to eat, and insisted on his working harder than ever, till the poor
soul got quite thin; and all because the pears would not fall down!

At last the Woodman turned round and declared he would not work more unless his
Wife gave him Khichri for his dinner; so with a very bad grace the old woman
took some rice and pulse, some butter and spices, and began to cook a savory
Khichri. What an appetizing smell it had, to be sure! The Woodman was for
gobbling it up as soon as ever it was ready. “No, no,” cried the greedy old
Wife, not till you have brought me in another load of Wood; and mind it is a
good one. You must work for your dinner.”

So the old man set off to the forest and began to hack and to hew with such a
will that he soon had quite a large bundle, and with every faggot he cut he
seemed to smell the savory Khichri and think of the feast that was coming.

Just then a Bear came swinging by, with its great black nose tilted in the air,
and its little keen eyes peering about; for bears, though good enough fellows
on the whole, are just dreadfully inquisitive.

“Peace be with you, friend,” said the Bear, “and what may you be going to do
with that remarkably large bundle of wood?”

“It is for my Wife,” returned the Woodman. “The fact is,” he added
confidentially, smacking his lips, “she has made such a Khichri for dinner! and
if I bring in a good bundle of wood she is pretty sure to give me a plentiful
portion. Oh, my dear fellow, you should just smell that Khichri.”

At this the Bear’s mouth began to water, for, like all bears, he was a dreadful
glutton.

“Do you think your Wife would give mite some, too, if I brought her a bundle of
wood?” he asked anxiously.

“Perhaps; if it is a very big load,” answered the Woodman craftily.

“Would—would four hundredweight be enough?” asked the Bear.

“I’m afraid not,” returned the Woodman, shaking his head; “you see Khichri is
an expensive dish to make—there is rice in it, and plenty of butter, and pulse,
and—”

“Would—would eight hundredweight do?”

“Say half a ton, and it’s a bargain!” quoth the Woodman.

“Half a ton is a large quantity!” sighed the Bear.

“There is saffron in the Khichri,” remarked the Woodman, casually.

The Bear licked his lips, and his little eyes twinkled with greed and delight.

“Well it’s a bargain! Go home sharp and tell your Wife to keep the Khichri hot;
I’ll be with you in a trice.”

Away went the Woodman in great glee to tell his Wife how the Bear had agreed to
bring half a ton of wood in return for a share of the Khichri.

Now the wife could not help allowing that her husband had made a good bargain,
but being by nature a grumbler, she was determined not to be pleased, so she
began to scold the old man for not having settled exactly the share the Bear
was to have. “For,” said she, “he will gobble up the potful before we have
finished our first helping.”

On this the Woodman became quite pale. “In that case,” he said, “we had better
begin now, and have a fair start.” So without more ado they squatted down on
the floor, with the brass pot full of Khichri between them, and began to eat as
fast as they could.

“Remember to leave some for the Bear, Wife,” said the Woodman, speaking with
his mouth crammed full.

“Certainly, certainly,” she replied, helping herself to another handful.

“My dear,” cried the old woman in her turn, with her mouth so full she could
hardly speak, “remember the poor Bear!”

“Certainly, certainly, my love!” returned the old man, taking another mouthful.

So it went on, till there was not a single grain left in the pot.

“What’s to be done now?” said the Woodman; “it is all your fault, Wife, for
eating so much.”

“My fault!” retorted his Wife scornfully, “why, you ate twice as much as I
did!”

“No, I didn’t!”

“Yes, you did! Men always eat more than women.

“No, they don’t!”

“Yes, they do!”

“Well, it’s no use quarreling about it now,” said the Woodman, “the Khichri’s
gone, and the Bear will be furious.”

“That wouldn’t matter much if we could get the wood,” said the greedy old
woman. “I’ll tell you what we must do—we must lock up everything there is to
eat in the house, leave the Khichri pot by the fire, and hide in the garret.
When the Bear comes he will think we have gone out and left his dinner for him.
Then he will throw down his bundle and come in. Of course he will rampage a
little when he finds the pot is empty, but he can’t do much mischief, and I
don’t think he will take the trouble of carrying the wood away.”

So they made haste to lock up all the food and hide themselves in the garret.

Meanwhile the Bear had been toiling and moiling away at his bundle of wood,
which took him much longer to collect than he expected; however, at last he
arrived quite exhausted at the woodcutter’s cottage. Seeing the brass Khichri
pot by the fire, he threw down his load and went in. And then—mercy! wasn’t he
angry when he found nothing in it—not even a grain of rice, nor a tiny wee bit
of pulse, but only a smell that was so uncommonly nice that he actually cried
with rage and disappointment. He flew into the most dreadful temper, but though
he turned the house topsy-turvy, he could not find a morsel of food. Finally,
he declared he would take the wood away again, but, as the crafty old woman had
imagined, when he came to the task, he did not care, even for the sake of
revenge, to carry so heavy a burden.

“I won’t go away empty-handed,” said he to himself, seizing the Khichri pot;
“if I can’t get the taste I’ll have the smell!”

Now, as he left the cottage, he caught sight of the beautiful golden pears
hanging over into the yard. His mouth began to water at once, for he was
desperately hungry, and the pears were the best of the season. In a trice he
was on the wall, up the tree, and gathering the biggest and ripest one he could
find, was just putting it into his mouth when a thought struck him.

“If I take these pears home I shall be able to sell them for ever so much to
the other bears, and then with the money I shall be able to buy some Khichri.
Ha, ha! I shall have the best of the bargain after all!”

So saying, he began to gather the ripe pears as fast as he could and put them
in the Khichri pot, but whenever he came to an unripe one he would shake his
head and say, “No one would buy that, yet it is a pity to waste it.” So he
would pop it into his mouth and eat it, making wry faces if it was very sour.

Now all this time the Woodman’s Wife had been watching the Bear through a
crevice, and holding her breath for fear of discovery; but, at last, what with
being asthmatic, and having a cold in her head, she could hold it no longer,
and just as the Khichri pot was quite full of golden ripe pears, out she came
with the most tremendous sneeze you ever heard—“A-h-che-u!”

The Bear, thinking some one had fired a gun at him, dropped the Khichri pot
into the cottage yard, and fled into the forest as fast as his legs would carry
him.

So the Woodrnan and his Wife got the Khichri, the wood, and the coveted pears,
but the poor bear got nothing but a very bad stomachache from eating unripe
fruit.

THE THIEF AND THE FOX

By Ramaswarni Raju

A man tied his horse to a tree and went into an inn. A Thief hid the horse in a
wood, and stood near the tree as if he had not done it.

“Did you see my horse?” said the man.

“Yes,” said the Thief, “I saw the tree eat up your horse.”

“How could the tree eat up my horse?” said the man.

“Why it did so,” said the Thief.

The two went to a Fox and told him of the case. The Fox said. “I am dull. All
last night the sea was on fire; I had to throw a great deal of hay into it to
quench the flames; so come to-morrow, and I shall hear your case.

“Oh, you lie,” said the Thief. “How could the sea burn? How could hay quench
the flames?”

“Oh, you lie,” said the Fox, with a loud laugh; “how could a tree eat up a
horse?”

The Thief saw his lie had no legs, and gave the man his horse.

THE FARMER AND THE FOX

By Ramaswami Raju

A farmer was returning from a fair which he had attended the previous day at a
neighboring market town. He had a quantity of poultry which he had purchased. A
Fox observed this, and approaching the Farmer, said, “Good morning, my friend.”

“What cheer, old fellow?” said the Farmer.

“I am just coming from the wood, through which you mean to go with your
poultry. A band of highwaymen has been tarrying there since daybreak.”

“Then what shall I do?” said the Farmer.

“Why,” said the Fox, “if I were you I should stay here a while, and after
breakfast enter the wood, for by that time the robbers will have left the
place.”

“So be it,” said the Farmer, and had a hearty breakfast, with Reynard for his
guest.

They kept drinking for a long time. Reynard appeared to have lost his wits; he
stood up and played the drunkard to perfection. The Farmer, who highly admired
the pranks of his guest, roared with laughter, and gradually fell into a deep
slumber. It was some time after noon when he awoke. To his dismay he found that
the Fox was gone, and that the poultry had all disappeared!

“Alas!” said the Farmer, as he trudged on his way home with a heavy heart, “I
thought the old rogue was quite drowned in liquor, but I now see it was all a
pretense. One must indeed be very sober to play the drunkard to perfection.”

THE FOOLS AND THE DRUM

By Ramaswami Raju

Two fools heard a Drum sounding, and said to themselves, There is some one
inside it who makes the noise.”

So, watching a moment, when the drummer was out, they pierced a hole in each
side of it, and pushed their hands in. Each felt the hand of the other within
the Drum, and exclaimed, “I have caught him!”

Then one said to the other, “Brother, the fellow seems to be a stubborn knave;
come what will, we should not give in.”

“Not an inch, brother,” said the other.

So they kept pulling each other’s hand, fancying it was the man in the Drum.
The drummer came up, and finding them in such an awkward plight showed them
with his fist who the man in the Drum really was. But as his fine Drum was
ruined, he said, with a sigh, “Alas! Fools have fancies with a triple wing!”

THE LION AND THE GOAT

By Ramaswami Raju

A lion was eating up one after another the animals of a certain country. One
day an old Goat said, “We must put a stop to this. I have a plan by which he
may be sent away from this part of the country.”

“Pray act up to it at once,” said the other animals.

The old Goat laid himself down in a cave on the roadside, with his flowing
beard and long curved horns. The Lion, on his way to the village, saw him, and
stopped at the mouth of the cave.

“So you have come, after all,” said the Goat.

“What do you mean?” said the Lion.

“Why, I have long been lying in this cave. I have eaten up one hundred
elephants, a hundred tigers, a thousand wolves, and ninety-nine lions. One more
lion has been wanting. I have waited long and patiently. Heaven has, after all,
been kind to me,” said the Goat, and shook his horns and his beard, and made a
start as if he were about to spring upon the Lion.

The latter said to himself, “This animal looks like a Goat, but it does not
talk like one. So it is very likely some wicked spirit in this shape. Prudence
often serves us better than valor, so for the present I shall return to the
wood,” and he turned back.

The Goat rose up, and, advancing to the mouth of the cave, said, “Will you come
back tomorrow?”

“Never again,” said the Lion.

“Do you think I shall be able to see you, at least, in the wood to-morrow?”

“Neither in the wood nor in this neighborhood any more,” said the Lion, and
running to the forest, soon left it with his kindred.

The animals in the country, not hearing him roar any more, gathered round the
Goat, and said, “The wisdom of one doth save a host.”

THE GLOWWORM AND THE JACKDAW

By Ramaswami Raju

Jackdaw once ran up to a Glowworm and was about to seize him. “Wait a moment,
good friend,” said the Worm, “and you shall hear something to your advantage.”

“Ah! what is it?” said the Daw.

“I am but one of the many glowworms that live in this forest. If you wish to
have them all, follow me,” said the Glowworm.

“Certainly!” said the Daw.

Then the Glowworm led him to a place in the wood where a fire had been kindled
by some woodmen, and pointing to the sparks flying about, said, “There you find
the glowworms warming themselves round a fire. When you have done with them I
shall show you some more, at a distance from this place.”

The Daw darted at the sparks and tried to swallow some of them, but his mouth
being burned by the attempt, he ran away exclaiming, “Ah, the Glowworm is a
dangerous little creature!”

THE CAMEL AND THE PIG

By Ramaswami Raju

A camel said, “Nothing like being tall! Look how tall I am!”

A Pig, who heard these words, said, “Nothing like being short! Look how short I
am!”

The Camel said, “Well, if I fail to prove the truth of what I said. I shall
give up my hump.”

The Pig said, “If I fail to prove the truth of what I have said, I shall give
up my snout.”

“Agreed!” said the Camel.

“Just so!” said the Pig.

They came to a garden, inclosed by a low wall without any opening. The Camel
stood on this side of the wall, and reaching the plants within by means of his
long neck, made a breakfast on them. Then he turned, jeeringly to the Pig, who
had been standing at the bottom of the wall, without even having a look at the
good things in the garden, and said, “Now, would you be tall or short?”

Next they came to a garden, inclosed by a high wall, with a wicket gate at one
end. The Pig entered by the gate, and, after having eaten his fill of the
vegetables within, came out, laughing at the poor Camel, who had had to stay
outside because he was too tall to enter the garden by the gate, and said,
“Now, would you be tall or short?”

Then they thought the matter over and came to the conclusion that the Camel
should keep his hump and the Pig his snout, observing, “Tall is good, where
tall would do; of short, again, ’tis also true!”

THE DOG AND THE DOG DEALER

By Ramaswami Raju

A dog was standing by the cottage of a peasant. A man who dealt in dogs passed
by the way. The Dog said, “Will you buy me?”

The man said, “Oh, you ugly little thing! I would not give a quarter of a penny
for you!”

Then the Dog went to the palace of the king and stood by the portal. The
sentinel caressed it, and said, “You are a charming little creature!”

Just then the Dog Dealer came by. The Dog said, “Will you buy me?”

“Oh,” said the man, “you guard the palace of the king, who must have paid a
high price for you. I cannot afford to pay the amount, else I would willingly
take you.”

“Ah!” said the Dog, “how place and position affect people!”

THE TIGER, THE FOX, AND THE HUNTERS

By Ramaswami Raju

A fox was once caught in a trap. A hungry Tiger saw him and said, “So you are
here!”

“Only on your account,” said the Fox in a whisper.

“How so?” said the Tiger.

“Why, you were complaining you could not get men to eat, so I got into this net
to-day, that you may have the men when they come to take me,” said the Fox, and
gave a hint that if he would wait a while in a thicket close by he would point
out the men to him.

“May I depend upon your word?” said the Tiger.

“Certainly,” said the Fox.

The Hunters came, and seeing the Fox in the net, said, “So you are here!”

“Only on your account,” said the Fox, in a whisper.

“How so?” said the men.

“Why, you were complaining you could not get at the Tiger that has been
devouring your cattle; I got into this net to-day that you may have him. As I
expected, he came to eat me up, and is in yonder thicket,” said the Fox, and
gave a hint that if they would take him out of the trap he would point out the
Tiger.

“May we depend upon your word?” said the men.

“Certainly,” said the Fox, while the men went with him in a circle to see that
he did not escape.

Then the Fox said to the Tiger and the men, “Sir Tiger, here are the men;
gentlemen, here is the Tiger.”

The men left the Fox and turned to the Tiger. The former beat a hasty retreat
to the wood, saying, “I have kept my promise to both; now you may settle it
between yourselves.”

The Tiger exclaimed, when it was too late, “Alas! what art for a double part!”

THE SEA, THE FOX, AND THE WOLF

By Ramaswami Raju

A fox that lived by the seashore once met a Wolf that had never seen the Sea.
The Wolf said, “What is the Sea?”

“It is a great piece of water by my dwelling,” said the Fox.

“Is it under your control?” said the Wolf.

“Certainly,” said the Fox.

“Will you show me the Sea, then?” said the Wolf.

“With pleasure,” said the Fox. So the Fox led the Wolf to the Sea and said to
the waves, “Now go back”—they went back! “Now come up”—and they came up! Then
the Fox said to the waves, “My friend, the Wolf, has come to see you, so you
will come up and go back till I bid you stop; and the Wolf saw with wonder the
waves coming up and going back.

He said to the Fox, “May I go into the Sea?”

“As far as you like. Don’t be afraid, for at a word, the Sea would go or come
as I bid, and as you have already seen.”

The Wolf believed the Fox, and followed the waves rather far from the shore. A
great wave soon upset him, and threw his carcass on the shore. The Fox made a
hearty breakfast on it.

THE FOX IN THE WELL

By Ramaswami Raju

A fox fell into a well and was holding hard to some roots at the side of it,
just above the water. A Wolf, who was passing by, saw him, and said, “Hello,
Reynard, after all you have fallen into a well!”

“But not without a purpose, and not without the means of getting out of it,”
said the Fox.

“What do you mean?” said the Wolf.

“Why,” said the Fox, “there is a drought all over the country now, and the
water in this well is the only means of appeasing the thirst of the thousands
that live in this neighborhood. They held a meeting, and requested me to keep
the water from going down lower; so I am holding it up for the public good.”

“What will be your reward?” said the Wolf.

“They will give me a pension, and save me the trouble of going about every day
in quest of food, not to speak of innumerable other privileges that will be
granted me. Further, I am not to stay here all day. I have asked a kinsman of
mine, to whom I have communicated the secret of holding up the water, to
relieve me from time to time. Of course he will also get a pension, and have
other privileges. I expect him here shortly.”

“Ah, Reynard, may I relieve you, then? May I hope to get a pension and other
privileges? You know what a sad lot is mine, especially in winter.”

“Certainly,” said the Fox; “but you must get a long rope, that I may come up
and let you in.

So the Wolf got a rope. Up came the Fox and down went the wo1f, when the former
observed, with a laugh, “My dear sir, you may remain there till doomsday, or
till the owner of the well throws up your carcass,” and left the place.

ASHIEPATTLE AND HIS GOODLY CREW

By P. C. Asbjörnsen

Once upon a time there was a king, and this king had heard about a ship which
went just as fast by land as by water; and as he wished to have one like it, he
promised his daughter and half the kingdom to anyone who could build one for
him. And this was given out at every church all over the country. There were
many who tried, as you can imagine; for they thought it would be a nice thing
to have half the kingdom, and the princess wouldn’t be a bad thing into the
bargain. But they all fared badly.

Now there were three brothers, who lived far away on the borders of a forest;
the eldest was called Peter, the second Paul, and the youngest Espen
Ashiepattle, because he always sat in the hearth, raking and digging in the
ashes.

It so happened that Ashiepattle was at church on the Sunday when the
proclamation about the ship, which the king wanted, was read. When he came home
amid told his family, Peter, the eldest, asked his mother to get some food
ready for him, for now he was going away to try if he could build the ship and
win the princess and half the kingdom. When the bag was ready lie set out. On
the way he met an old man who was very crooked and decrepit.

“Where are you going?” said the man.

“I’m going into the forest to make a trough for my father. He doesn’t like to
eat at table in our company,” said Peter.

“Trough it shall he!” said the man. “What have you got in that bag of yours?”
he added.

“Stones,” said Peter.

“Stones it shall be,” said the man. Peter then went into the forest and began
to cut and chop away at the trees and work away as hard as he could, but in
spite of all his cutting and chopping he could only turn out troughs. Toward
dinner time he wanted something to eat and opened his bag. But there was not a
crumb of food in it. As he had nothing to live upon, and as he did not turn out
anything but troughs, he became tired of the work, took his ax and bag on his
shoulder, and went home to his mother.

Paul then wanted to set out to try his luck at building the ship and winning
the princess and half the kingdom. He asked his mother for provisions, and when
the bag was ready he threw it over his shoulder and went on his way to the
forest. On the road he met the old man, who was very crooked and decrepit.

“Where are you going?” said the man.

“Oh, I am going into the forest to make a trough for our sucking pig,” said
Paul.

“Pig trough it shall be,” said the man. “What have you got in that bag of
yours?” added the man.

“Stones,” said Paul.

“Stones it shall be,” said the man.

Paul then began felling trees and working away as hard as he could, but no
matter how he cut and how he worked he could only turn out pig troughs. He did
not give in, however, but worked away till far into the afternoon before he
thought of taking any food; then all at once he became hungry and opened his
bag, but not a crumb could he find. Paul became so angry he turned the bag
inside out and struck it against the stump of a tree; then lie took his ax,
went out of the forest, and set off homeward.

As soon as Paul returned, Ashiepattle wanted to set out and asked his mother
for a bag of food.

“Perhaps I can manage to build the ship and win the princess and half the
kingdom,” said he.

“Well, I never heard the like,” said his mother. “Are you likely to win the
princess, you, who never do anything but root and dig in the ashes? No, you
shan’t have any bag with food!”

Ashiepattle did not give in, however, but he prayed and begged till he got
leave to go. He did not get any food, not he; but he stole a couple of oatmeal
cakes and some flat beer and set out.

When he had walked a while he met the same old man, who was so crooked and
tattered and decrepit.

“Where are you going?” said the man.

“Oh, I was going into the forest to try if it were possible to build a ship
which can go as fast by land as by water,” said Ashiepattle, “for the king has
given out that anyone who can build such a ship shall have the princess and
half the kingdom.”

“What have you got in that bag of yours?” said the man.

“Not much worth talking about; there ought to be a little food in it,” answered
Ashiepattle.

“If you’ll give me a little of it I’ll help you, said the man.

“With all my heart,” said Ashiepattle, “but there is nothing but some oatmeal
cakes and a drop of flat beer.”

It didn’t matter what it was, the man said; if he only got some of it he would
be sure to help Ashiepattle.

When they came up to an old oak in the wood the man said to the lad, “Now you
must cut off a chip and then put it back again in exactly the same place, and
when you have done that you can lie down and go to sleep.”

Ashiepattle did as he was told and then lay down to sleep, and in his sleep lie
thought he heard somebody cutting and hammering and sawing and carpentering,
but he could not wake up till the man called him; then the ship stood quite
finished by the side of the oak.

“Now you must go on board and everyone you meet you must take with you,” said
the man. Espen Ashiepattle thanked him for the ship, said he would do so, and
then sailed away.

When he had sailed some distance he came to a long, thin tramp, who was lying
near some rocks, eating stones.

“What sort of a fellow are you, that you lie there eating stones?” asked
Ashiepattle. The tramp said he was so fond of meat he could never get enough,
therefore he was obliged to eat stones. And then he asked if he might go with
him in the ship.

“If you want to go with us, you must make haste and get on board,” said
Ashiepattle.

Yes, that he would, but he must take with him some large stones for food.

When they had sailed some distance they met one who was lying on the side of a
sunny hill, sucking at a bung.

“Who are you,” said Ashiepattle, “and what is the good of lying there sucking
that bung?”

“Oh, when one hasn’t got the barrel, one must be satisfied with the bung,” said
the man. “I’m always so thirsty, I can never get enough beer and wine.” And
then he asked for leave to go with him in the ship.

“If you want to go with me you must make haste and get on board,” said
Ashiepattle.

Yes, that he would. And so he went on board and took the bung with him to allay
his thirst.

When they had sailed a while again they met one who was lying with his ear to
the ground, listening.

“Who are you, and what is the good of lying there on the ground listening?”
said Ashiepattle.

“I’m listening to the grass, for I have such good ears that I can hear the
grass growing,” said the man. And then he asked leave to go with him in the
ship. Ashiepattle could not say nay to that, so he said:

“If you want to go with me, you must make haste and get on board.”

Yes, the man would. And he also went on board.

When they had sailed some distance they came to one who was standing taking aim
with a gun.

“Who are you, and what is the good of standing there aiming like that?” asked
Ashiepattle.

So the man said: “I have such good eyes that I can hit anything, right to the
end of the world.” And then he asked for leave to go with him in the ship.

“If you want to go with me, you must make haste and get on board,” said
Ashiepattle.

Yes, that he would. And he went on board.

When they had sailed some distance again they came to one who was hopping and
limping about on one leg, and on the other he had seven ton weights.

“Who are you, said Ashiepattle, “and what is the good of hopping and limping
about on one leg with seven ton weights on the other?”

“I am so light,” said the man, “that if I walked on both my legs I should get
to the end of the world in less than five minutes.” And then he asked for leave
to go with him in the ship.

“If you want to go with us, you must make haste and get on board,” said
Ashiepattle.

Yes, that he would. And so he joined Ashiepattle and his crew on the ship.

When they had sailed on some distance they met one who was standing holding his
hand to his mouth.

“Who are you?” said Ashiepattle, “and what is the good of standing there,
holding your mouth like that?”

“Oh, I have seven summers and fifteen winters in my body,” said the man; “so I
think I ought to keep my mouth shut, for if they get out all at the same time
they would finish off the world altogether.” And then he asked for leave to go
with him in the ship.

“If you want to go with us you must make haste and get on board,” said
Ashiepattle.

Yes, that he would, and then he joined the others on the ship.

When they had sailed a long time they came to the king’s palace.

Ashiepattle went straight in to the king and said the ship stood ready in the
courtyard outside; and now he wanted the princess, as the king had promised.

The king did not like this very much, for Ashiepattle did not cut a very fine
figure; he was black and sooty, and the king did not care to give his daughter
to such a tramp, so he told Ashiepattle that he would have to wait a little.

“But you can have her all the same, if by this time to-morrow you can empty my
storehouse of three hundred barrels of meat,” said the king.

“I suppose I must try,” said Ashiepattle; “but perhaps you don’t mind my taking
one of my crew with me?”

“Yes, you can do that, and take all six if you like,” said the king, for he was
quite sure that even if Ashiepattle took six hundred with him, it would be
impossible. So Ashiepattle took with him the one who ate stones and always
hungered after meat.

When they came next morning and opened the storehouse they found he had eaten
all the meat, except six small legs of mutton, one for each of his companions.
Ashiepattle then went to the king and said the storehouse was empty, and he
supposed he could now have the princess.

The king went into the storehouse and, sure enough, it was quite empty; but
Ashiepattle was still black and sooty, and the king thought it was really too
bad that such a tramp should have his daughter. So he said he had a cellar full
of beer and old wine, three hundred barrels of each kind, which he would have
him drink first.

“I don’t mind your having my daughter if you can drink them up by this time
to-morrow,” said the king.

“I suppose I must try,” said Ashiepattle, “but perhaps you don’t mind my taking
one of my crew with me?”

“Yes, you may do that,” said the king, for he was quite sure there was too much
beer and wine even for all seven of them. Ashiepattle took with him the one who
was always sucking the bung and was always thirsty; and the king then shut them
down in the cellar.

There the thirsty one drank barrel after barrel, as long as there was any left,
but in the last barrel he left a couple of pints to each of his companions.

In the morning the cellar was opened and Ashiepattle went at once to the king
and said he had finished the beer and wine, and now he supposed he could have
the princess as the king had promised.

“Well, I must first go down to the cellar and see,” said the king, for he could
not believe it; but when he got there he found nothing but empty barrels.

But Ashiepattle was both black and sooty and the king thought it wouldn’t do
for him to have such a son in law. So he said that if Ashiepattle could get
water from the end of the world in ten minutes for the princess’s tea, he could
have both her and half the kingdom; for he thought that task would be quite
impossible.

“I suppose I must try,” said Ashiepattle, and sent for the one of his crew who
jumped about on one leg and had seven ton weights on the other, and told him he
must take off the weights and use his legs as quickly as he could, for he must
have water from the end of the world for the princess’s tea in ten minutes.

So he took off the weights, got a bucket, and set off, and the next moment he
was out of sight. But they waited and waited and still he did not return. At
last it wanted but three minutes to the time and the king became as pleased as
if he had won a big wager.

Then Ashiepattle called the one who could hear the grass grow and told him to
listen and find out what had become of their companion.

“He has fallen asleep at the well”,” said he who could hear the grass grow; “I
can hear him snoring, and a troll is scratching his head.” Ashiepattle then
called the one who could shoot to the end of the world and told him to send a
bullet into the troll; he did so and hit the troll right in the eye. The troll
gave such a yell that he woke the man who had come to fetch the water for the
tea, and when he returned to the palace there was still one minute left out of
the ten.

Ashiepattle went straight to the king and said: “Here is the water;” and now he
supposed he could have the princess, for surely the king would not make any
more fuss about it now. But the king thought that Ashiepattle was just as black
and sooty as ever, and did not like to have him for a son-in-law; so he said he
had three hundred fathoms of wood with which he was going to dry corn in the
bakehouse, and he wouldn’t mind Ashiepattle having his daughter if he would
first sit in the bakehouse and burn all the wood; he should then have the
princess, and that without fail.

“I suppose I must try,” said Ashiepattle; “but perhaps you don’t mind my taking
one of my crew with me?”

“Oh, no, you can take all six,” said the king, for he thought it would be warm
enough for all of them.

Ashiepattle took with him the one who had fifteen winters and seven summers in
his body, and in the evening he went across to the bakehouse: but the king had
piled up so much wood on the fire that you might almost have melted iron in the
room. They could not get out of it, for no sooner were they inside than the
king fastened the bolt and put a couple of padlocks on the door besides.
Ashiepattle then said to his companion:

“You had better let out six or seven winters, so that we may get something like
summer weather here.”

They were then just able to exist, but during the night it got cold again and
Ashiepattle then told the man to let out a couple of summers, and so they slept
far into the next day. But when they heard the king outside Ashiepattle said:

“You must let out a couple more winters, but you must manage it so that the
last winter you let out strikes the king right in the face.”

He did so, and when the king opened the door, expecting to find Ashiepattle and
his companion burned to cinders, he saw them huddling together and shivering
with cold till their teeth chattered. The same instant Ashiepattle’s companion
with the fifteen winters in his body let loose the last one right in the king’s
face, which swelled up into a big chilblain.

“Can I have the princess now?” asked Ashiepattle

“Yes, take her and keep her and the kingdom into the bargain,” said the king,
who dared not refuse any longer. And so the wedding took place and they feasted
and made merry and fired off guns and powder.

While the people were running about searching for wadding for their guns, they
took me instead, gave me some porridge in a bottle and some milk in a basket,
and fired me right across here, so that I could tell you how it all happened.

THE SQUIRE’S BRIDE

By P. C. Asbjörnsen

Once upon a time there was a rich squire who owned a large farm, and had plenty
of silver at the bottom of his chest and money in the bank besides; but he felt
there was something wanting, for he was a widower.

One day the daughter of a neighboring farmer was working for him in the
hayfield. The squire saw her and liked her very much, and as she was the child
of poor parents he thought if he only hinted that he wanted her she would be
ready to marry him at once.

So he told her he had been thinking of getting married again.

“Aye! one may think of many things,” said the girl, laughing slyly.

In her opinion the old fellow ought to be thinking of something that behooved
him better than getting married.

“Well, you see, I thought that you should be my wife!”

“No, thank you all the same,” said she, “that’s not at all likely.”

The squire was not accustomed to be gainsaid, and the more she refused him the
more determined he was to get her.

But as he made no progress in her favor he sent for her father and told him
that if he could arrange the matter with his daughter he would forgive him the
money he had lent him, and he would also give him the piece of land which lay
close to his meadow into the bargain.

“Yes, you may be sure I’ll bring my daughter to her senses,” said the father.
“She is only a child, and she doesn’t know what’s best for her.” But all his
coaxing and talking did not help matters. She would not have the squire, she
said, if he sat buried in gold up to his ears.

The squire waited day after day, but at last he became so angry and impatient
that he told the father, if he expected him to stand by his promise, he would
have to put his foot down and settle the matter now, for he would not wait any
longer.

The man knew no other way out of it but to let the squire get everything ready
for the wedding; and when the parson and the wedding guests had arrived the
squire should send for the girl as if she were wanted for some work on the
farm. When she arrived she would have to be married right away, so that she
would have no time to think it over.

The squire thought this was well and good, and so he began brewing and baking
and getting ready for the wedding in grand style. When the guests had arrived
the squire called one of his farm lads and told him to run down to his neighbor
and ask him to send him what he had promised.

“But if you are not back in a twinkling,” he said, shaking his fist at him,
“I’ll—”

He did not say more, for the lad ran off as if he had been shot at.

“My master has sent me to ask for that you promised him,” said the lad, when he
got to the neighbor, “but there is no time to be lost, for he is terribly busy
to-day.”

“Yes, yes! Run down into the meadow and take her with you. There she goes!”
answered the neighbor.

The lad ran off and when he came to the meadow he found the daughter there
raking the hay.

“I am to fetch what your father has promised my master,” said the lad.

“Ah, ha!” thought she. “Is that what they are up to?”

“Ah, indeed!” she said. “I suppose it’s that little bay mare of ours. You had
better go and take her. She stands there tethered on the other side of the pea
field,” said the girl.

The boy jumped on the back of the bay mare and rode home at full gallop.

“Have you got her with you?” asked the squire.

“She is down at the door,” said the lad.

“Take her up to the room my mother had,” said the squire.

“But master, how can that be managed?” said the lad.

“You must just do as I tell you,” said the squire. “If you cannot manage her
alone you must get the men to help you,” for he thought the girl might turn
obstreperous.

When the lad saw his master’s face he knew it would be no use to gainsay him.
So he went and got all the farm tenants who were there to help him. Some pulled
at the head and the forelegs of the mare and others pushed from behind, and at
last they got her up the stairs and into the room. There lay all the wedding
finery ready.

“Now, that’s done master!” said the lad; “but it was a terrible job. It was the
worst I have ever had here on the farm.

“Never mind, you shall not have done it for nothing,” said his master. “Now
send the women up to dress her.”

“But I say master—!” said the lad.

“None of your talk!” said the squire. “Tell them they must dress her and mind
and not forget either wreath or crown.

The lad ran into the kitchen.

“Look here, lasses,” he said; “you must go upstairs and dress up the bay mare
as bride. I expect the master wants to give the guests a laugh.”

The women dressed the bay mare in everything that was there, and then the lad
went and told his master that now she was ready dressed, with wreath and crown
and all.

“Very well, bring her down!” said the squire. “I will receive her myself at the
door,” said he.

There was a terrible clatter on the stairs; for that bride, you know, had no
silken shoes on.

When the door was opened and the squire’s bride entered the parlor you can
imagine there was a good deal of tittering and grinning.

And as for the squire you may he sure line had had enough of that bride, and
they say he never went courting again.

THE DOLL IN THE GRASS

By P. C. Asbjörnsen

Once upon a time there was a king who had twelve sons. When they were grown up
he told them they must go out into the world and find themselves wives, who
must all be able to spin and weave and make a shirt in one day, else he would
not have them for daughters-in-law. He gave each of his sons a horse and a new
suit of armor, and so they set out in the world to look for wives.

When they had traveled a bit on the way they said they would not take
Ashiepattle with them, for he was good for nothing. Ashiepattle must stop
behind; there was no help for it. He did not know what he should do or which
way he should turn; he became so sad that he got off the horse and sat down on
the grass and began to cry.

When he had sat a while one of the tussocks among the grass began to move, and
out of it came a small white figure; as it came nearer Ashiepattle saw that it
was a beautiful little girl, but she was so tiny, so very, very tiny.

She went up to him and asked him if he would come below and pay a visit to the
doll in the grass.

Yes, that he would; and so he did. When he came down below, the doll in the
grass was sitting in a chair dressed very finely and looking still more
beautiful. She asked Ashiepattle where he was going and what was his errand.

He told her they were twelve brothers, and that the king had given them each a
horse and a suit of armor, and told them to go out in the world and find
themselves wives, but they must all be able to spin and weave and make a shirt
in a day.

“If you can do that and will become my wife, I will not travel any farther,”
said Ashiepattle to the doll in the grass.

Yes, that she would, and she set to work at once to get the shirt spun, woven,
and made; but it was so tiny, so very, very tiny, no bigger than—so!

Ashiepattle then returned home, taking the shirt with him; but when he brought
it out he felt very shy because it was so small. But the king said he could
have her for all that, and you can imagine how happy and joyful Ashiepattle
became.

The road did not seem long to him as he set out to fetch his little sweetheart.
When he came to the doll in the grass he wanted her to sit with him on his
horse; but no, that she wouldn’t; she said she would sit and drive in a silver
spoon, and she had two small while horses which would draw her. So they set
out, he on his horse and she in the silver spoon; and the horses which drew her
were two small white mice.

Ashiepattle always kept to one side of the road, for he was so afraid he should
ride over her; she was so very, very tiny.

When they had traveled a bit on the way they came to a large lake; there
Ashiepattle’s horse took fright and shied over to the other side of the road,
and upset the spoon, so that the doll in the grass fell into the water.
Ashiepattle became very sad, for he did not know how he should get her out
again; but after a while a merman brought her up.

But now she had become just as big as any other grown-up being and was much
more beautiful than she was before. So he placed her in front of him on the
horse and rode home.

When Ashiepattle got there all his brothers had also returned, each with a
sweetheart; but they were so ugly and ill-favored and bad-tempered that they
had come to blows with their sweethearts on their way home. On their heads they
had hats which were painted with tar and soot, and this had run from their hats
down their faces, so that they were still uglier and more ill-favored to
behold.

When the brothers saw Ashiepattle’s sweetheart they all became envious of him,
but the king was so pleased with Ashiepattle and his sweetheart that he drove
all the others away, and so Ashiepattle was married to the doll in the grass;
and afterward they lived happy and comfortable for a long, long while; and if
they are not dead, they must be still alive.

THE BEAR AND THE FOX

By P. C. Asbjörnsen

Once upon a time there was a bear, who sat on a sunny hillside taking a nap.
Just then a fox came slinking by and saw him.

“Aha! have I caught you napping, grandfather? See if I don’t play you a trick
this time!” said Reynard to himself.

He then found three wood mice and laid them on a stump of a tree just under the
bear’s nose.

“Boo! Bruin! Peter the hunter is just behind that stump!” shouted the fox right
into the bear’s ear, and then took to his heels and made off into the wood.

The bear woke at once, and when he saw the three mice he became so angry that
he lifted his paw and was just going to strike them, for he thought it was they
who had shouted in his ear.

But just then he saw Reynard’s tail between the bushes and he set off at such a
speed that the branches crackled under him, and Bruin was soon so close upon
Reynard that he caught him by the right hind leg just as be was running into a
hole under a pine tree.

Reynard was now in a fix; but he was not to be outwitted, and he cried:

“Slip pine root, grip fox foot,” and so the bear let go his hold; but the fox
laughed far down in the hole and said:

“I sold you that time, also, grandfather!”

“Out of sight is not out of mind!” said the bear, who was in a fine fury.

The other morning, when Bruin came trudging across the moor with a fat pig,
Master Reynard was lying on a stone by the moorside.

“Good-day, grandfather!” said the fox. “What nice thing have you got there?”

“Pork,” said the bear.

“I have got something tasty as well,” said the fox.

“What’s that?” said the bear.

“It’s the biggest bees’ nest I ever found,” said Reynard.

“Ah, indeed,” said the bear, grinning, and his mouth began to water, he thought
a little honey would be so nice. “Shall we change victuals?” he said.

“No, I won’t do that,” said Reynard. But they made a wager about naming three
kinds of trees. If the fox could say them quicker than the bear he was to have
one bite at the pig; but if the bear could say them quicker he was to have one
suck at the bee’s nest. The bear thought he would be able to suck all the honey
up at one gulp.

“Well said the fox, “that’s all well and good but if I win you must promise to
tear off the bristles where I want to have a bite,” he said.

“Well, I suppose I must, since you are too lazy yourself,” said the bear.

Then they began to name the trees.

“Spruce, fir, pine,” growled the bear. His voice was very gruff. But all these
were only different names of one kind of tree.

“Ash, aspen, oak,” screeched the fox, so that the forest resounded. He had thus
won the bet, and so he jumped down, took the heart out of the pig at one bite,
and tried to run off. But the bear was angry, because he had taken the best bit
of the whole pig, and seized hold of him by his tail and held him fast.

“Just wait a bit,” said the bear, who was furious.

“Never mind, grandfather; if you’ll let me go you shall have a taste of my
honey,” said the fox.

When the bear heard this he let go his hold and the fox jumped up on the stone
after the honey.

“Over this nest,” said Reynard, “I’ll put a leaf, and in the leaf there is a
hole, through which you can suck the honey.” He then put the nest right up
under the bear’s nose, pulled away the leaf, jumped on to the stone, and began
grinning and laughing; for there was neither honey nor honeycomb in the nest.
It was a wasp’s nest as big as a man’s head, full of wasps, and out they
swarmed and stung the bear in his eyes and ears and on his mouth and snout. He
had so much to do with scratching them off him that he had no the to think of
Reynard.

Ever since the bear has been afraid of wasps.

Once the fox and the bear made up their minds to have a field in common. They
found a small clearing far away in the forest, where they sowed rye the first
year.

“Now we must share and share alike,” said Reynard; “if you will have the roots
I will have the tops,” he said.

Yes, Bruin was quite willing; but when they had thrashed the crop the fox got
all the corn, while the bear got nothing but the roots and tares.

Bruin didn’t like this, but the fox said it was only as they had agreed.

“This year I am the gainer,” said the fox; “another year it will be your turn;
you can then have the tops and I will be satisfied with the roots.”

Next spring the fox asked the bear if he didn’t think turnips would be the
right thing for that year.

“Yes, that’s better food than corn,” said the bear; and the fox thought the
same.

When the autumn came the fox took the turnips, but the bear only got the tops.

The bear then became so angry that he parted company then and there with
Reynard.

One day the bear was lying eating a horse which he had killed. Reynard was
about again and came slinking along, his mouth watering for a tasty bit of the
horseflesh.

He sneaked in and out and round about till he came up behind the bear, when he
made a spring to the other side of the carcass, snatching a piece as he jumped
across.

The bear was not slow either; he made a dash after Reynard and caught the tip
of his red tail in his paw. Since that time the fox has always had a white tip
to his tail.

“Wait a bit Reynard, and come here,” said the bear, “and I’ll teach you how to
catch horses.”

Yes, Reynard was quite willing to learn that, but he didn’t trust himself too
near the bear.

“When you see a horse lying asleep in a sunny place,” said the bear, “you must
tie yourself fast with the hair of his tail to your brush, and then fasten your
teeth in his thigh,” he said.

Before long the fox found a horse lying asleep on a sunny hillside; and so he
did as the bear had told him; he knotted and tied himself well to the horse
with the hair of the tail and then fastened his teeth into his thigh.

Up jumped the horse and began to kick and gallop so that Reynard was dashed
against stock and stone, and was so bruised and battered that he nearly lost
his senses.

All at once a hare rushed by. “Where are you off to in such a hurry, Reynard?”
said the hare.

“I’m having a ride, Bunny!” said the fox.

The hare sat up on his hind legs and laughed till the sides of his mouth split
right up to his ears, at the thought of Reynard having such a grand ride; but
since then the fox has never thought of catching horses again.

That time it was Bruin who for once had the better of Reynard; otherwise they
say the bear is as simple-minded as the trolls.

THE LAD WHO WENT TO THE NORTH WIND

By Sir George Webbe Dasent

Once upon a time there was an old widow who had one son, and she was poorly and
weak, her son had to go up into the safe to fetch meal for cooking; but when he
got outside the safe, and was just going down the steps, there came the North
Wind, puffing and blowing, caught up the meal, and so away with it through the
air. Then the lad went back into the safe for more; but when he came out again
on the steps, if the North Wind didn’t come again and carry off the meal with a
puff; and more than that, he did so the third time. At this the lad got very
angry; and as he thought it hard that the North Wind should behave so, he
thought he’d just look him up and ask him to give up his meal.

So off he went, but the way was long, and he walked and walked; but at last he
came to the North Wind’s house.

“Good day!” said the lad, and “thank you for coming to see us yesterday.”

“GOOD DAY!” answered the North Wind, for his voice was loud and gruff, “AND
THANKS FOR COMING TO SEE ME. WHAT DO YOU WANT?”

“Oh!” answered the lad, “I only wished to ask you to be so good as to let me
have back that meal you took from me on the safe steps, for we haven’t much to
live on; and if you’re to go on snapping up the morsel we have there’ll be
nothing for it but to starve.”

“I haven’t got your meal,” said the North Wind; “but if you are in such need,
I’ll give you a cloth which will get you everything you want, if you only say,
‘Cloth, spread yourself, and serve up all kinds of good dishes!’”

With this the lad was well content. But, as the way was so long he couldn’t get
home in one day, he stopped at an inn on the way; and when they were going to
sit down to supper, he laid the cloth on a table which stood in the corner and
said:

“Cloth, spread yourself, and serve up all kinds of good dishes.”

He had scarce said so before the cloth did as it was bid; and all who stood by
thought it a fine thing, but most of all the landlady. So, when all were fast
asleep, at dead of night, she took the lad’s cloth, and put another in its
stead, just like the one he had got from the North Wind, but which couldn’t so
much as serve up a bit of dry bread.

So when the lad awoke, he took his cloth and went off with it, and that day he
got home to his mother.

“Now,” said he, “I’ve been to the North Wind’s house, and a good fellow he is,
for he gave me this cloth, and when I only say to it, ‘Cloth, spread yourself,
and serve up all kinds of good dishes,’ I get any sort of food I please.”

“All very true, I dare say,” said his mother, “but seeing is believing, and I
shan’t believe it till I see it.”

So the lad made haste, drew out a table, laid the cloth on it, and said—
“Cloth, spread yourself, and serve up all kinds of good dishes.”

But never a bit of dry bread did the cloth serve

“Well,” said the lad, “there’s no help for it but to go to the North Wind
again;” and away he went.

So late in the afternoon he came to where the North Wind lived.

“Good evening!” said the lad.

“Good evening!” said the North Wind. “I want my rights for that meal of ours
which you took,” said the lad; “for, as for that cloth I got, it isn’t worth a
penny.”

“I’ve got no meal,” said the North Wind; “but yonder you have a ram which coins
nothing but golden ducats as soon as you say to it—

“‘Ram, ram! Make money!’”

So the lad thought this a fine thing; but as it was too far to get home that
day, he stopped for the night at the same inn where he had slept before.

Before he called for anything, he tried the truth of what the North Wind had
said of the ram, and found it all right; but when the landlord saw that, he
thought it was a famous ram, and, when the lad had fallen asleep, he took
another which couldn’t coin gold ducats, and changed the two.

Next morning off went the lad; and when he got home to his mother, he
said—“After all, the North Wind is a jolly fellow; for now he has given me a
ram which can coin golden ducats if I only say, ‘Ram, ram! Make money!’”

“All very true, I dare say,” said his mother; “but I shan’t believe any such
stuff until I see the ducats made.”

“Ram, ram! Make money!” said the lad; but the ram made no money.

So the lad went back again to the North Wind, and blew him up, and said the ram
was worth nothing, and he must have his rights for the meal.

“Well,” said the North Wind, “I’ve nothing else to give you but that old stick
in the corner yonder; but it’s a stick of that kind that if you say— ‘Stick,
stick! lay on!’ it lays on till you say, ‘Stick, stick! now stop!’

So, as the way was long the lad turned in this night, too, to the landlord; but
as he could pretty well guess how things stood as to the cloth and the ram, he
lay down at once on the bench and began to snore, as if he were asleep.

Now the landlord, who easily saw that the stick must be worth something, hunted
up one which was like it, and when he heard the lad snore, was going to change
the two, but just as the landlord was about to take it, the lad bawled out—
“Stick, stick! lay on!”

So the stick began to beat the landlord till he jumped over chairs, and tables,
and benches, and yelled and roared,— “Oh my! oh my! bid the stick be still,
else it will beat me to death, and you shall have back your cloth and your ram,

When the lad thought the landlord had got enough, he said— “Stick, stick! now
stop!”

Then he took the cloth and put it into his pocket, and went home with his stick
in his hand, leading the ram by a cord round its horns; and so he got his
rights for the meal he had lost.

THE HUSBAND WHO WAS TO MIND THE HOUSE

By Sir George Webbe Dasent

Once upon a time there was a man, so surly and cross, he never thought his wife
did anything right in the house. So one evening in haymaking time, he came
home, scolding and swearing, and showing his teeth and making a dust.

“Dear love, don’t be so angry; there’s a good man,” said his goody; “to-morrow
let’s change our work. I’ll go out with the mowers and mow, and you shall mind
the house at home.”

Yes, the husband thought that would do very well. He was quite willing, he
said.

So early next morning his goody took a scythe over her neck, and went out into
the hayfield with the mowers and began to mow; but the man was to mind the
house, and do the work at home.

First of all he wanted to churn the butter; but when he had churned a while, he
got thirsty, and went down to the cellar to tap a barrel of ale. So, just when
he had knocked in the bung, and was putting the tap into the cask, he heard
overhead the pig come into the kitchen. Then off he ran up the cellar steps,
with the tap in his hand, as fast as he could, to look after the pig, lest it
should upset the churn; but when he got up, and saw that the pig had already
knocked the churn over, and stood there, routing and grunting amid the cream
which was running all over the floor, he got so wild with rage that he quite
forgot his ale barrel and ran at the pig as hard as he could. He caught it,
too, just as it ran out of doors, and gave it such a kick that piggy lay for
dead on the spot. Then all at once he remembered he had the tap in his hand,
but when he got down to the cellar, every drop of ale had run out of the cask.

Then he went into the dairy and found enough cream left to fill the churn
again, and so he began to churn, for butter they must have for dinner. When he
had churned a bit, he remembered that their milking cow was still shut up in
the brye, and hadn’t had a bit to eat or a drop to drink all the morning,
though the sun was high. Then all at once he thought ’twas too far to take her
down to the meadow, so he’d just get her up on the housetop—for the house, you
must know, was thatched with sods, and a fine crop of grass was growing there.

Now their house lay close up against a steep down, and he thought if he laid a
plank across to the thatch at the back he’d easily get the cow up.

But still he couldn’t leave the churn, for there was his little babe crawling
about the floor, and “if I leave it,” he thought, “the child is sure to upset
it!” So he took the churn on his back, and went out with it; but then he
thought he’d better first water the cow before he turned her out on the thatch;
so he took up a bucket to draw water out of the well; but, as he stooped down
at the well’s brink, all the cream ran out of the churn over his shoulders, and
so down into the well.

Now it was near dinner time, and he hadn’t even got the butter yet; so he
thought he’d best boil the porridge, and filled the pot with water, and hung it
over the fire. When he had done that, he thought the cow might perhaps fall off
the thatch and break her legs or her neck. So he got up on the house to tie her
up. One end of the rope he made fast to the cow’s neck, and the other he
slipped down the chimney and tied round his own thigh; and he had to make
haste, for the water now began to boil in the pot, and he had still to grind
the oatmeal.

So he began to grind away; but while he was hard at it, down fell the cow off
the housetop after all, and as she fell, she dragged the man up the chimney by
the rope. There he stuck fast; and as for the cow, she hung halfway down the
wall, swinging between heaven and earth, for she could neither get down nor up.

And now the goody had waited seven lengths and seven breadths for her husband
to come and call them home to dinner; but never a call they had. At last she
thought she’d waited long enough, and went home. But when she got there and saw
the cow hanging in such an ugly place, she ran up and cut the rope in two with
her scythe. But as she did this, down came her husband out of the chimney; and
so when his old dame came inside the kitchen, there she found him standing on
his head in the porridge pot.

HOW ONE WENT OUT TO WOO

By Sir George Webbe Dasent

Once upon a time there was a lad who went out to woo him a wife. Among other
places he came to a farmhouse, where the household were little better than
beggars; but when the wooer came in they wanted to make out that they were well
to do, as you may guess. Now the husband had got a new arm to his coat.

“Pray, take a seat,” he said to the wooer; “but there’s a shocking dust in the
house.”

So he went about rubbing and wiping all the benches and tables with his new
arm, but he kept the other all the while behind his back.

The wife she had got one new shoe, and she went stamping and sliding with it up
against the stools and chairs saying, “How untidy it is here! Everything is out
of place!”

Then they called out to their daughter to come down and put things to rights;
but the daughter she had got a new cap; so she put her head in at the door, and
kept nodding and nodding, first to this side and then to that.

“Well! For my part, She said, I can’t be everywhere at once.”

Aye! Aye! That was a well-to-do household the wooer had come to.

WHY THE BEAR IS STUMPY-TAILED

By Sir George Webbe Dasent

One day the Bear met the Fox, who came slinking along with a string of fish he
had stolen.

“Whence did you get these from?” asked the Bear.

“Oh! My Lord Bruin, I’ve been out fishing and caught them,” said the Fox.

So the Bear had a mind to learn to fish too, and bade the Fox tell him how he
was to set about it.

“Oh! It’s an easy craft for you”, answered the Fox, “and soon learned. You’ve
only got to go upon the ice, and cut a hole and stick your tail down into it;
and so you must go on holding it there as long as you can. You’re not to mind
if your tail smarts a little; that’s when the fish bite. The longer you hold it
there the more fish you’ll get; and then all at once out with it, with a cross
pull sideways, and with a strong pull too.”

Yes; the Bear did as the Fox had said, and held his tail a long, long time down
in the hole, till it was fast frozen in. Then he pulled it out with a cross
pull, and it snapped short off. That’s why Bruin goes about with a stumpy tail
this very day.

BOOTS WHO MADE THE PRINCESS SAY “THAT’S A STORY”

By Sir George Webbe Dasent

Once upon a time there was a King who had a daughter, and she was such a
dreadful storyteller that the like of her was not to be found far or near. So
the King gave out, that if anyone could tell such a string of lies as would get
her to say, “That’s a story,” he should have her to wife, and half the kingdom
besides. Well, many came, as you may fancy, to try their luck, for everyone
would have been very glad to have the Princess, to say nothing of the kingdom;
but they all cut a sorry figure, for the Princess was so given to storytelling,
that all their lies went in at one ear and out of the other. Among the rest
came three brothers to try their luck, and the two elder went first, but they
fared no better than those that had gone before them. Last of all, the third,
Boots, set off and found the Princess in the farmyard.

“Good morning,” he said, “and thank you for nothing.” “Good morning,” said she,
“and the same to you.” Then she went on—

“You haven’t such a fine farmyard as ours, I’ll be bound; for when two
shepherds stand, one at each end of it, and blow their ram’s horns, the one
can’t hear the other.”

“Haven’t we though!” answered Boots; “ours is far bigger; for when a calf
starts to cross a field, it is a full-grown cow when it reaches the other end.”

“I dare say,” said the Princess. “Well, but you haven’t such a big ox, after
all, as ours yonder; for when two men sit, one on each horn, they can’t touch
each other with a tweny-foot rule.”

“Stuff!” said Boots; “is that all? Why, we have an ox who is so big, that when
two men sit, one on each horn, and each blows his great mountain-trumpet, they
can’t hear one another.”

“I dare say,” said the Princess; “but you haven’t so much milk as we, I’ll be
bound; for we milk our cows into great pails, and carry them indoors, and empty
them into great tubs, and so we make great, great cheeses.”

“Oh! you do, do you?” said Boots. “Well, we milk ours into great tubs, and then
we put them in carts and drive them indoors, and then we turn them out into
great brewing vats, and so we make cheeses as big as a great house. We had,
too, a dun mare to tread the cheese well together when it was making; but once
she tumbled down into the cheese, and we lost her; and after we had eaten at
this cheese seven years, we came upon a great dun mare, alive and kicking.
Well, once after that I was going to drive this mare to the mill, and her
backbone snapped in two; but I wasn’t put out, not I; for I took a spruce
sapling, and put it into her for a backbone, and she had no other backbone all
the while we had her. But the sapling grew up into such a tall tree, that I
climbed right up to the sky by it, and when I got there I saw a lady sitting
and spinning the foam of the sea into pigs’—bristle ropes; but just then the
spruce-fir broke short off, and I couldn’t get down again; so the lady let me
down by one of the ropes, and down I slipped straight into a fox’s hole, and
who should sit there but my mother and your father cobbling shoes; and just as
I stepped in, my mother gave your father such a box on the ear that it made his
whiskers curl.”

“That’s a story!” said the Princess, “my father never did any such thing in all
his born days!”

So Boots got the Princess to wife, and half the kingdom besides.

THE WITCH IN THE STONE BOAT

Retold by Andrew Lang

There was once a king and queen, and they had a son called Sigurd, who was very
strong and active and good-looking. When the king came to be bowed down with
the weight of years he spoke to his son, and said that now it was time for him
to look out for a fitting match for himself, for he did not know how long he
might last now, and he would like to see him married before he died.

Sigurd was not averse to this and asked his father where he thought it best to
look for a wife. The king answered that in a certain country there was a king
who had a beautiful daughter, and he thought it would be most desirable if
Sigurd could get her. So the two parted, and Sigurd prepared for the journey
and went to where his father had directed him.

He came to the king and asked his daughters hand, which was readily granted
him, but only on the condition that he should remain there as long as he could,
for the king himself was not strong and not very able to govern his kingdom.
Sigurd accepted this condition, but added that he would have to get leave to go
home again to his own country when he heard news of his father’s death. After
that Sigurd married the princess and helped his father-in-law to govern the
kingdom. He and the princess loved each other dearly, and after a year a son
came to them, who was two years old when word came to Sigurd that his father
was dead. Sigurd now prepared to return home with his wife and child and went
on board ship to go by sea.

They had sailed for several days, when the breeze suddenly fell and there came
a dead calm at a time when they needed only one day’s voyage to reach home.
Sigurd and his queen were one day on deck when most of the others on the ship
had fallen asleep. There they sat and talked for a while, and had their little
son along with them. After a time Sigurd became so heavy with sleep that he
could no longer keep awake, so he went below and lay down, leaving the queen
alone on the deck playing with her son.

A good while after Sigurd had gone below the queen saw something black on the
sea which seemed to be coming nearer. As it approached she could make out that
it was a boat and could see the figure of some one sitting in it and rowing it.
At last the boat came alongside the ship, and now the queen saw that it was a
stone boat, out of which there came on board the ship a fearfully ugly witch.
The queen was more frightened than words can describe, and could neither speak
a word nor move from the place so as to awaken the king or the sailors. The
witch came right up to the queen, took the child from her, and laid it on the
deck; then she took the queen and stripped her of all her fine clothes, which
she proceeded to put on herself and looked then like a human being. Last of all
she took the queen, put her into the boat and said:

“This spell I lay upon you, that you slacken not your course until you come to
my brother in the under world.”

The queen sat stunned and motionless, but the boat at once shot away from the
ship with her, and before long she was out of sight.

When the boat could no longer be seen the child began to cry, and though the
witch tried to quiet it she could not manage it; so, with the child on her arm,
she went below to where the king was sleeping, and awakened him, scolding him
for leaving them alone on deck while he and all the crew were asleep. It was
great carelessness of him, she said, to leave no one to watch the ship with
her.

Sigurd was greatly surprised to hear his queen scold him so much, for she had
never said an angry word to him before; but he thought it was quite excusable
in this case, and tried to quiet the child along with her but it was no use.
Then he went and wakened the sailors and bade them hoist the sails, for a
breeze had sprung up and was blowing straight toward the harbor.

They soon reached the land which Sigurd was to rule over, and found all the
people sorrowful for the old king’s death, but they became glad when they got
Sigurd back to the court, and made him king over them.

The king’s son, however, hardly ever stopped crying from the time he had been
taken from his mother on the deck of the ship, although he had always been such
a good child before, so that at last the king had to get a nurse for him—one of
the maids of the court. As soon as the child got into her charge he stopped
crying and behaved as well as before.

After the sea voyage it seemed to the king that the queen had altered very much
in many ways, and not for the better. He thought her much more haughty and
stubborn and difficult to deal with than she used to be. Before long others
began to notice this as well as the king. In the court there were two young
fellows, one of eighteen years old, the other of nineteen, who were very fond
of playing chess and often sat long inside playing at it. Their room was next
the queen’s, and often during the day they heard the queen talking.

One day they paid more attention than usual when they heard her talk, and put
their ears close to a crack in the wall between the rooms, and heard the queen
say quite plainly: “When I yawn a little, then I am a nice little maiden: when
I yawn halfway, then I am half a troll; and when I yawn fully then I am a troll
altogether.”

As she said this she yawned tremendously, and in a moment had put on the
appearance of a fearfully ugly troll. Then there came up through the floor of
the room a three-headed giant with a trough full of meat, who saluted her as
his sister and set down the trough before her. She began to eat out of it and
never stopped till she had finished it. The young fellows saw all this going
on, but did not hear the two of them say anything to each other. They were
astonished, though, at how greedily the queen devoured the meat and how much
she ate of it, and were no longer surprised that she took so little when she
sat at table with the king. As soon as she had finished it the giant
disappeared with the trough by the same way as he had come, and the queen
returned to her human shape.

Now we must go back to the king’s son after he had been put in charge of the
nurse. One evening. after she had lit a candle and was holding the child,
several planks sprang up in the floor of the room, and out at the opening came
a beautiful woman dressed in white, with an iron belt round her waist, to which
was fastened an iron chain that went down into the ground. The woman came up to
the nurse, took the child from her, and pressed it to her breast; then she gave
it back to the nurse and returned by the same way as she had come, and the
floor closed over her again. Although the woman had not spoken a single word to
her, the nurse was very much frightened, but told no one about it.

Next evening the same thing happened again, just as before, but as the woman
was going away she said in a sad tone, “Two are gone and one only is left,” and
then disappeared as before. The nurse was still more frightened when she heard
the woman say this, and thought that perhaps some danger was hanging over the
child, though she had no ill opinion of the unknown woman, who, indeed, had
behaved toward the child as if it were her own. The most mysterious thing was
the woman saying “and only one is left”; but the nurse guessed that this must
mean that only one day was left, since she had come for two days already.

At last the nurse made up her mind to go to the king. She told him the whole
story and asked him to be present in person the next day about the time when
the woman usually came. The king promised to do so, and came to the nurse’s
room a little before the time and sat down on a chair with his drawn sword in
his hand. Soon after the planks in the floor sprang up as before, and the woman
came up, dressed in white, with the iron belt and chain. The king saw at once
that it was his own queen, and immediately hewed asunder the iron chain that
was fastened to the belt. This was followed by such noises and crashings down
in the earth that all the king’s palace shook, so that no one expected anything
else than to see every bit of it shaken to pieces. At last the noises and
shaking stopped, and they began to come to themselves again.

The king and queen embraced each other, and she told him the whole story—how
the witch came to the ship when they were all asleep and sent her off in the
boat. After she had gone so far that she could not see the ship, she sailed on
through darkness until she landed beside a three-headed giant. The giant wished
her to marry him, but she refused; whereupon he shut her up by herself and told
her she would never get free until she consented. After a time she began to
plan how to get her freedom, and at last told him that she would consent if he
would allow her to visit her son on earth three days on end. This he agreed to,
but put on her this iron belt and chain, the other end of which he fastened
around his, own waist, and the great noises that were heard when the king cut
the chain must have been caused by the giant’s falling down the underground
passage when the chain gave way so suddenly. The giant’s dwelling, indeed, was
right under the palace, and the terrible shakings must have been caused by him
in his death throes.

The king now understood how the queen he had had for some time past had been so
ill-tempered. He at once had a sack drawn over her head and made her be stoned
to death, and after that torn in pieces by untamed horses. The two young
fellows also told now what they had heard and seen in the queen’s room, for
before this they had been afraid to say anything about it, on account of the
Queen’s power.

The real queen was now restored to all her dignity and was beloved by all. The
nurse was married to a nobleman and the king and queen gave her splendid
presents.

THE SNUFFBOX

By Paul Sébillot

As often happens in this world, there was once a young man who spent all his
time in traveling. One day, as he was walking along, he picked up a snuffbox.
He opened it, and the snuffbox said to him in the Spanish language: “What do
you want?” He was very much frightened, but, luckily, instead of throwing the
box away he only shut it tight and put it in his pocket. Then he went on, away,
away, away, and as he went he said to himself, “if it says to me again, ‘What
do you want?’ I shall know better what to say this time.” So he took out the
snuffbox and opened it, and again it asked: “What do you want?” “My hat full of
gold,” answered the youth, and immediately it was full.

Our young man was enchanted. Henceforth he should never be in need of anything.
So on he traveled, away, away, away, through thick forests, till at last he
came to a beautiful castle. In the castle there lived a king. The young man
walked round and round the castle, not caring who saw him, till the king
noticed him and asked what he was doing there. “I was just looking at your
castle.” “You would like to have one like it, wouldn’t you?” The young man did
not reply, but when it grew dark he took out his snuffbox and opened the lid.”
What do you want?” “Build me a castle with laths of gold and tiles of diamond
and the furniture all of silver and gold.” He had scarcely finished speaking
when there stood in front of him, exactly opposite the king’s palace, a castle
built precisely as he had ordered. When the king awoke he was struck dumb at
the sight of the magnificent house shining in the rays of the sun. The servants
could not do their work for stopping to stare at it. Then the king dressed
himself and went to see the young man. And he told him plainly that he was a
very powerful prince, and that he hoped that they might all live together in
one house or the other, and that the king would give him his daughter to wife.
So it all turned out just as the king wished. The young man married the
princess and they lived happily in the palace of gold.

But the king’s wife was jealous both of the young man and of her own daughter.
The princess had told her mother about the snuffbox, which gave them everything
they wanted, and the queen bribed a servant to steal the snuffbox. They noticed
carefully where it was put away every night, and one evening, when the whole
world was asleep, the woman stole it and brought it to her old mistress. Oh,
how happy the queen was! She opened the lid and the snuffbox said to her: “What
do you want?” And she answered at once: “I want you to take me and my husband
and my servants and this beautiful house and set us down on the other side of
the Red Sea, but my daughter and her husband are to stay behind.”

When the young couple woke up they found themselves back in the old castle,
without their snuffbox. They hunted for it high and low, but quite vainly. The
young man felt that no time was to be lost, and he mounted his horse and filled
his pockets with as much gold as he could carry. On he went, away, away, away,
but he sought the snuffbox in vain all up and down the neighboring countries,
and very soon he came to the end of all his money. But still he went on, as
fast as the strength of his horse would let him, begging his way.

Some one told him that he ought to consult the moon, for the moon traveled far
and might be able to tell him something. So he went away, away, away, and
ended, somehow or other, by reaching the land of the moon. There he found a
little old woman who said to him: “What are you doing here? My son eats all
living things he sees, and if you are wise you will go away without coming any
farther.” But the young man told her all his sad tale, and how he possessed a
wonderful snuffbox, and how it had been stolen from him, and how he had nothing
left now that he was parted from his wife and was in need of everything. And he
said that perhaps her son, who traveled so far, might have seen a palace with
laths of gold and tiles of diamond and furnished all in silver and gold. As he
spoke these last words the moon came in and said he smelled mortal flesh and
blood. But his mother told him that it was an unhappy man who had lost
everything and had come all this way to consult him, and bade the young man not
to be afraid, but to come forward and show himself. So he went boldly up to the
moon, and asked if by any accident he had seen a palace with the laths of gold
and the tiles of diamond and all the furniture of silver and gold. Once this
house belonged to him, but now it was stolen. And the moon said no, but that
the sun traveled farther than he did, and that the young man had better go and
ask him.

So the young man departed and went away, away, away, as well as his horse would
take him, begging his living as he rode along, and somehow or other at last he
got to the land of the sun. There he found a little old woman, who asked him:
“What are you doing here? Go away. Have you not heard that my son feeds upon
Christians?” But he said no and that he would not go, for he was so miserable
that it was all one to him whether he died or not; that he had lost everything,
and especially a splendid palace like none other in the whole world, for it had
laths of gold and tiles of diamond and all the furniture was of silver and
gold; and that he had sought it far and long, and in all the earth there was no
man more unhappy. So the old woman’s heart melted and she agreed to hide him.

When the sun arrived he declared that he smelled Christian flesh and he meant
to have it for his dinner. But his mother told him such a pitiful story of the
miserable wretch who had lost everything and had come from far to ask his help
that at last he promised to see him.

So the young man came out from his hiding-place and begged the sun to tell him
if in the course of his travels he had not seen somewhere a palace that had not
its like in the whole world, for its laths were of gold and its tiles of
diamond and all the furniture in silver and gold.

And the sun said no, but that perhaps the wind had seen it, for he entered
everywhere and saw things that no one else ever saw, and if anyone knew where
it was it was certainly the wind.

Then the poor young man again set forth as well as his horse could take him,
begging his living as he went, and somehow or other he ended by reaching the
home of the wind. He found there a little old woman busily occupied in filling
great barrels with water. She asked him what had put it into his head to come
there, for her son ate everything he saw, and that he would shortly arrive
quite mad, and that the young man had better look out. But he answered that he
was so unhappy that he had ceased to mind anything, even being eaten, and then
he told her that he had been robbed of a palace that had not its equal in all
the world, and of all that was in it, and that he had even left his wife and
was wandering over the world until he found it. And that it was the sun who had
sent him to consult the wind. So she hid him under the staircase, and soon they
heard the south wind arrive, shaking the house to its foundations. Thirsty as
he was, he did not wait to drink, but he told his mother that he smelled the
blood of a Christian man, and that she had better bring him out at once and
make him ready to be eaten. But she bade her son eat and drink what was before
him, and said that the poor young man was much to be pitied, and that the sun
had granted him his life in order that he might consult the Wind. Then she
brought out the young man, who explained how he was seeking for his palace, and
that no man had been able to tell him where it was, so he had come to the Wind.
And he added that he had been shamefully robbed, and that the laths were of
gold and the tiles of diamond, and all the furniture in silver and gold, and he
inquired if the Wind had not seen such a palace during his wanderings.

And the Wind said yes, and that all that day he had been blowing backward and
forward over it without being able to move one single tile. “Oh, do tell me
where it is,” cried the young man.” “It is a long way off,” replied the Wind,
“on the other side of the Red Sea.” But our traveler was not discouraged—he had
already journeyed too far.

So he set forth at once, and somehow or other he managed to reach that distant
land. And he inquired if any one wanted a gardener. He was told that the head
gardener at the castle had just left, and perhaps he might have a chance of
getting the place. The young man lost no time, but walked up to the castle and
asked if they were in want of a gardener; and how happy he was when they agreed
to take him! Now he passed most of his day in gossiping with the servants about
the wealth of their masters and the wonderful things in the house. He made
friends with one of the maids, who told him the history of the snuffbox, and he
coaxed her to let him see it. One evening she managed to get hold of it, and
the young man watched carefully where she hid it away in a secret place in the
bedchamber of her mistress.

The following night, when everyone was fast asleep, he crept in and took the
snuffbox. Think of his joy as he opened the lid! When it asked him, as of yore,
“What do you want?” he replied: “What do I want? What do I want? Why, I want to
go with my palace to the old place, and for the king and the queen and all
their servants to be drowned in the Red Sea.”

He had hardly finished speaking when he found himself back again with his wife,
while all the other inhabitants of the palace were lying at the bottom of the
Red Sea.

THE GOLDEN BLACKBIRD

By Paul Sébillot

Once upon a time there was a great lord who had three sons. He fell very ill,
sent for doctors of every kind, even bonesetters, but they none of them could
find out what was the matter with him or even give him any relief. At last
there came a foreign doctor, who declared that the golden blackbird alone could
cure the sick man.

So the old lord dispatched his eldest son to look for the wonderful bird, and
promised him great riches if he managed to find it and bring it back.

The young man began his journey and soon arrived at a place where four roads
met. He did not know which to choose, and tossed his cap in the air,
determining that the direction of its fall should decide him. After traveling
for two or three days he grew tired of walking without knowing where or for how
long, and he stopped at an inn which was filled with merrymakers and ordered
something to eat and drink.

“My faith,” said he, “it is sheer folly to waste more time hunting for this
bird. My father is old, and if he dies I shall inherit his goods.”

The old man, after waiting patiently for some time, sent his second son to seek
the golden blackbird. The youth took the same direction as his brother, and
when he came to the crossroads he too tossed up which road he should take. The
cap fell in the same place as before, and he walked on till he came to the spot
where his brother had halted. The latter, who was leaning out of the window of
the inn, called to him to stay where he was and amuse himself.

“You are right,” replied the youth. “Who knows if I should ever find the golden
blackbird, even if I sought the whole world through for it? At the worst, if
the old man dies we shall have his property.”

He entered the inn and the two brothers made merry and feasted, till very soon
their money was all spent. They even owed something to their landlord, who kept
them as hostages till they could pay their debts.

The youngest son set forth in his turn, and he arrived at the place where his
brothers where still prisoners. They called to him to stop and did all they
could to prevent his going further.

“No,” he replied, “my father trusted me, and I will go all over the world till
I find the golden blackbird.”

“Bah,” said his brothers, “you will never succeed any better than we did. Let
him die if he wants to. We will divide the property.”

As he went his way he met a little hare, who stopped to looked at him and
asked:

“Where are you going, my friend?”

“I really don’t quite know,” answered he. “My father is ill, and he cannot be
cured unless I bring him back the golden blackbird. It is a long time since I
set out, but no one can tell me where to find it.”

“Ah,” said the hare, “you have a long way to go yet. You will have to walk at
least seven hundred miles before you get to it.”

“And how am I to travel such a distance?”

“Mount on my back,” said the little hare, “and I will conduct you.”

The young man obeyed. At each bound the little hare went seven miles, and it
was not long before they reached a castle that was as large and beautiful as a
castle could be.

“The golden blackbird is in a little cabin near by,” said the little hare, “and
you will easily find it. It lives in a little cage, with another cage beside it
made all of gold. But whatever you do, be sure not to put it in the beautiful
cage, or everybody in the castle will know that you have stolen it.”

The youth found the golden blackbird standing on a wooden perch, but as stiff
and rigid as if he was dead. And beside, was the beautiful cage, the cage of
gold.

“Perhaps he would revive if I were to put him in that lovely cage,” thought the
youth.

The moment the golden blackbird had touched the bars of the splendid cage he
awoke and began to whistle, so that all the servants of the castle ran to see
what was the matter, saying that he was a thief and must be put in prison.

“No,” he answered, “I am not a thief. If I have taken the golden blackbird, it
is only that it may cure my father, who is ill, and I have traveled more than
seven hundred miles in order to find it.”

“Well,” they replied, “we will let you go, and will even give you the golden
blackbird if you are able to bring us the porcelain maiden.”

The youth departed, weeping, and met the little hare, who was munching wild
thyme.

“What are you crying for, my friend?” asked the hare.

“It is because,” he answered, “the castle people will not allow me to carry off
the golden blackbird without giving them the porcelain maiden in exchange.”

“You have not followed my advice,” said the little hare. “And you have put the
golden blackbird into the fine cage.”

“Alas! yes!”

“Don’t despair. The porcelain maiden is a young girl, beautiful as Venus, who
dwells two hundred miles from here. Jump on my back and I will take you there.”

The little hare, who took seven miles in a stride, was there in no time at all,
and he stopped on the borders of a lake.

“The porcelain maiden,” said the hare to the youth, “will come here to bathe
with her friends. Keep yourself out of sight behind the thicket, while I just
eat a mouthful of thyme to refresh me. When she is in the lake be sure you hide
her clothes, which are of dazzling whiteness, and do not give them back to her
unless she consents to follow you.”

The little hare left him, and almost immediately the porcelain maiden arrived
with her friends. She undressed herself and got into the water. Then the young
man glided up noiselessly and laid hold of her clothes, which he hid under a
rock at some distance.

When the porcelain maiden was tired of playing in the water she came out to
dress herself, but though she hunted for her clothes high and low she could
find them nowhere. Her friends helped her in the search, but, seeing at last
that it was of no use, they left her alone on the bank, weeping bitterly.

“Why do you cry?” said the young man, approaching her.

“Alas!” answered she, “while I was bathing some one stole my clothes, and my
friends have abandoned me.”

“I will find your clothes if you will only come with me.”

And the porcelain maiden agreed to follow him, and after having given up her
clothes the young man bought a small horse for her which went like the wind.
The little hare brought them both back to seek for the golden blackbird, and
when they drew near the castle where it lived the little hare said to the young
man:

“Now, do be a little sharper than you were before, and you will manage to carry
off both the golden blackbird and the porcelain maiden. Take the golden cage in
one hand and leave the bird in the old cage where he is, and bring that away
too.”

The little hare then vanished. The youth did as he was bid, and the castle
servants never noticed that he was carrying off the golden blackbird. When he
reached the inn where his brothers were detained he delivered them by paying
their debt. They set out all together, but as the two elder brothers were
jealous of the success of the youngest, they took the opportunity as they were
passing by the shores of a lake to throw themselves upon him, seize the golden
blackbird, and fling him in the water. Then they continued their journey,
taking with them the porcelain maiden, in the firm belief that their brother
was drowned. But happily he had snatched in falling at a tuft of rushes and
called loudly for help. The little hare came running to him and said: “Take
hold of my leg and pull yourself out of the water.”

When he was safe on shore the little hare said to him:

“Now, this is what you have to do: dress yourself like a Breton seeking a place
as stableboy, and go and offer your services to your father. Once there, you
will easily be able to make him understand the truth.”

The young man did as the little hare bade him, and he went to his father’s
castle and inquired if they were not in want of a stableboy.

“Yes,” replied his father, “very much indeed. But it is not an easy place.
There is a little horse in the stable which will not let anyone go near it, and
it has already kicked to death several people who have tried to groom it.”

“I will undertake to groom it,” said the youth. “I never saw the horse I was
afraid of yet.”

The little horse allowed itself to be rubbed down without a toss of its head
and without a kick.

“Good gracious!” exclaimed the master. “How is it that he lets you touch him
when no one else can go near him?”

“Perhaps he knows me,” answered the stableboy.

Two or three days later the master said to him: “The porcelain maiden is here;
but though she is as lovely as the dawn, she is so wicked that she scratches
every one that approaches her. Try if she will accept your services.”

When the youth entered the room where she was the golden blackbird broke forth
into a joyful song, and the porcelain maiden sang too and jumped for joy.

“Good gracious!” cried the master.” The porcelain maiden and the golden
blackbird know you too?”

“Yes,” replied the youth, “and the porcelain maiden can tell you the whole
truth if she only will.”

Then she told all that had happened, and how she had consented to follow the
young man who had captured the golden blackbird.

“Yes,” added the youth, “I delivered my brothers, who were kept prisoners in an
inn, and as a reward they threw me into a lake. So I disguised myself and came
here in order to prove the truth to you.

So the old lord embraced his son and promised that he should inherit all his
possessions, and he put to death the two elder ones, who had deceived him and
had tried to slay their own brother.

The young man married the porcelain maiden and had a splendid wedding feast

THE HALF-CHICK

Retold by Andrew Lang

Once upon a time there was a handsome black Spanish hen who had a large brood
of chickens. They were all fine, plump little birds except the youngest, who
was quite unlike his brothers and sisters. Indeed, he was such a strange,
queer-looking creature that when he first clipped his shell his mother could
scarcely believe her eyes, he was so different from the twelve other fluffy,
downy, soft little chicks who nestled under her wings. This one looked just as
if he had been cut in two. He had only one leg, and one wing, and one eye, and
he had half a head and half a beak. His mother shook her head sadly as she
looked at him and said:

“My youngest born is only a half-chick. He can never grow up a tall, handsome
cock like his brothers. They will go out into the world and rule over poultry
yards of their own; but this poor little fellow will always have to stay at
home with his mother.” And she called him Medio Pollito, which is Spanish for
half-chick.

Now, though Medio Pollito was such an odd, helpless-looking little thing, his
mother soon found that he was not at all willing to remain under her wing and
protection. Indeed, in character he was as unlike his brothers and sisters as
he was in appearance. They were good, obedient chickens, and when the old hen
chicked after them they chirped and ran back to her side. But Medio Pollito had
a roving spirit in spite of his one leg, and when his mother called to him to
return to the coop, he pretended that he could not hear, because he had only
one ear.

When she took the whole family out for a walk in the fields, Medio Pollito
would hop away by himself and hide among the corn. Many an anxious minute his
brothers and sisters had looking for him, while his mother ran to and fro
cackling in fear and dismay.

As he grew older he became more self-willed and disobedient, and his manner to
his mother was often very rude and his temper to the other chickens very
disagreeable.

One day he had been out for a longer expedition than usual in the fields. On
his return he strutted up to his mother with the peculiar little hop and kick
which was his way of walking, and cocking his one eye at her in a very bold
way, he said:

“Mother, I am tired of this life in a dull f farmyard, with nothing but a
dreary maize-field to look at. I’m off to Madrid to see the king.”

“To Madrid, Medio Pollito!” exclaimed his mother. “Why, you silly chick, it
would be a long Journey for a grown-up cock, and a poor little thing like you
would be tired out before you had gone half the distance. No, no, stay at home
with your mother, and some day, when you are bigger, we will go a little
journey together.”

But Medio Pollito had made up his mind, and he would not listen to his mother’s
advice nor to the prayers and entreaties of his brothers and sisters.

“What is the use of our all crowding each other up in this poky little place?”
he said. “When I have a fine courtyard of my own at the king’s palace, I shall
perhaps ask some of you to come and pay me a short visit.”

And scarcely waiting to say good-by to his family, away he stumped down the
high road that led to Madrid.

“Be sure that you are kind and civil to every one you meet,” called his mother,
running after him; but he was in such a hurry to be off that he did not wait to
answer her or even to look back.

A little later in the day, as he was taking a short cut through a field, he
passed a stream. Now, the stream was all choked up and overgrown with weeds and
water-plants, so that its waters could not flow freely.

“Oh! Medio Pollito,” it cried as the half-chick hopped along its banks, “do
come and help me by clearing away these weeds.”

“Help you, indeed!” exclaimed Medio Pollito, tossing his head and shaking the
few feathers in his tail. “Do you think I have nothing to do but to waste my
time on such trifles? Help yourself and don’t trouble busy travelers. I am off
to Madrid to see the king,” and hoppity-kick, hoppity-kick, away stumped Medio
Pollito.

A little later he came to a fire that had been left by some gypsies in a wood.
It was burning very low and would soon be out.

“Oh! Medio Pollito,” cried the fire in a weak, wavering voice as the half-chick
approached, “in a few minutes I shall go quite out unless you put some sticks
and dry leaves upon me. Do help me or I shall die!”

“Help you, indeed!” answered Medio Pollito. “I have other things to do. Gather
sticks for yourself and don’t trouble me. I am off to Madrid to see the king,”
and hoppity-kick, hoppity-kick, away stumped Medio Pollito.

The next morning, as he was getting near Madrid, he passed a large chestnut
tree, in whose branches the wind was caught and entangled.

“Oh! Medio Pollito,” called the wind, “do hop up here and help me to get free
of these branches. I cannot come away and it is so uncomfortable.”

“It is your own fault for going there,” answered Medio Pollito. “I can’t waste
all my morning stopping here to help you. Just shake yourself off, and don’t
hinder me, for I am off to Madrid to see the king,” and hoppity-kick,
hoppity-kick, away stumped Medio Pollito in great glee, for the towers and
roofs of Madrid were now in sight. When he entered the town he saw before him a
great, splendid house, with soldiers standing before the gates. This he knew
must be the king’s palace, and he determined to hop up to the front gate and
wait there until the king came out. But as he was hopping past one of the back
windows the king’s cook saw him.

“Here is the very thing I want,” he exclaimed, “for the king has just sent a
message to say that he must have chicken broth for his dinner.” Opening the
window he stretched out his arm, caught Medio Pollito, and popped him into the
broth pot that was standing near the fire. Oh! how wet and clammy the water
felt as it went over Medio Pollito’s head, making his feathers cling to him.

“Water! water!” he cried in his despair, “do have pity upon me and do not wet
me like this.”

“Ah! Medio Pollito,” replied the water, “you would not help me when I was a
little stream away on the fields. Now you must be punished.”

Then the fire began to burn and scald Medio Pollito, and he danced and hopped
from one side of the pot to the other, trying to get away from the heat and
crying out in pain:

“Fire! fire! do not scorch me like this; you can’t think how it hurts.”

“Ah! Medio Pollito,” answered the fire, “you would not help me when I was dying
away in the wood. You are being punished.”

At last, just when the pain was so great that Medio Pollito thought he must
die, the cook lifted up the lid of the pot to see if the broth was ready for
the king’s dinner.

“Look here!” he cried in horror, “this chicken is quite useless. It is burned
to a cinder. I can’t send it up to the royal table.” And opening the window he
threw Medio Pollito out in the street. But the wind caught him up and whirled
him through the air so quickly that Medio Pollito could scarcely breathe, and
his heart beat against his side till he thought it would break.

“Oh, wind I” at last he gasped out, “if you hurry me along like this you will
kill me. Do let me rest a moment, or—”

But he was so breathless that he could not finish his sentence.

“Ah! Medio Pollito,” replied the wind, “when I was caught in the branches of
the chestnut tree you would not help me. Now you are punished.” And he swirled
Medio Pollito over the roofs of the houses till they reached the highest church
in the town, and there he left him fastened to the top of the steeple.

And there stands Medio Pollito to this day. And if you go to Madrid and walk
through the streets till you come to the highest church, you will see Medio
Pollito perched on his one leg on the steeple, with his one wing drooping at
his side and gazing sadly out of his one eye over the town.

THE THREE BROTHERS

By Hermann R. Kletke

There was once upon a time a witch who in the shape of a hawk used every night
to break the windows of a certain village church. In the same village there
lived three brothers, who were all determined to kill the mischievous hawk. But
in vain did the two eldest mount guard in the church with their guns; as soon
as the bird appeared high above their heads sleep overpowered them, and they
only awoke to hear the windows crashing in.

Then the younger brother took his turn of guarding the windows, and to prevent
his being overcome by sleep he placed a lot of thorns under his chin, so that
if he felt drowsy and nodded his head they would prick him and keep him awake.

The moon was already risen and it was as light as day, when suddenly he heard a
fearful noise, and at the same time a terrible desire to sleep overpowered him.

His eyelids closed and his head sank on his shoulders, but the thorns ran into
him and were so painful that he awoke at once. He saw the hawk swooping down
upon the church, and in a moment he had seized his gun and shot at the bird.
The hawk fell heavily under a big stone, severely wounded in its right wing.
The youth ran to look at it and saw that a huge abyss had opened below the
stone. He went at once to fetch his brothers, and with their help dragged a lot
of pine wood and ropes to the spot. They fastened some of the burning pine wood
to the end of the rope and let it slowly down to the bottom of the abyss. At
first it was quite dark, and the flaming torch only lit up dirty gray stone
walls. But the youngest brother determined to explore the abyss, and letting
himself down by the rope he soon reached the bottom. Here he found a lovely
meadow full of green trees and exquisite flowers.

In the middle of the meadow stood a huge stone castle, with an iron gate
leading to it, which was wide open. Everything in the castle seemed to be made
of copper, and the only inhabitant he could discover was a lovely girl, who was
combing her golden hair; and he noticed that whenever one of her hairs fell on
the ground it rang out like pure metal. The youth looked at her more closely,
and saw that her skin was smooth and fair, her blue eyes bright and sparkling,
and her hair as golden as the sun. He fell in love with her on the spot, and
kneeling at her feet he implored her to become his wife.

The lovely girl accepted his proposal gladly; but at the same time she warned
him that she could never come up to the world above till her mother, the old
witch, was dead. And she went on to tell him that the only way in which the old
creature could be killed was with the sword that hung up in the castle; but the
sword was so heavy that no one could lift it.

Then the youth went into a room in the castle where everything was made of
silver, and here he found another beautiful girl, the sister of his bride. She
was combing her silver hair, and every hair that fell on the ground rang out
like pure metal. The second girl handed him the sword, but though he tried with
all his strength he could not lift it. At last a third sister came to him and
gave him a drop of something to drink, which she said would give him the
needful strength. He drank one drop, but still he could not lift the sword;
then he drank a second and the sword began to move; but only after he had drunk
a third drop was he able to swing the sword over his head.

Then he hid himself in the castle and awaited the old witch’s arrival. At last
as it was beginning to grow dark she appeared. She swooped down upon a big
apple tree, and after shaking some golden apples from it she pounced down upon
the earth. As soon as her feet touched the ground she became transformed from a
hawk into a woman. This was the moment the youth was waiting for, and he swung
his mighty sword in the air with all his strength and the witch’s head fell
off, and her blood spurted upon the walls.

Without fear of any further danger, he packed up all the treasures of the
castle into great chests and gave his brothers a signal to pull them up out of
the abyss. First the treasures were attached to the rope and then the three
lovely girls. And now everything was up above and only he himself remained
below. But as he was a little suspicious of his brothers, he fastened a heavy
stone on to the rope and let them pull it up. At first they heaved with a will,
but when the stone was halfway up they let it drop suddenly, and it fell to the
bottom broken into a hundred pieces.

“So that’s what would have happened to my bones had I trusted myself to them,”
said the youth sadly; and he cried bitterly, not because of the treasures, but
because of the lovely girl with her swanlike neck and golden hair.

For a long time he wandered sadly all through the beautiful underworld, and one
day he met a magician who asked him the cause of his tears. The youth told him
all that had befallen him, and the magician said:

“Do not grieve, young man! If you will guard the children who are hidden in the
golden apple tree I will bring you at once up to the earth. Another magician
who lives in this land always eats my children up. It is in vain that I have
hidden them under the earth and locked them into the castle. Now I have hidden
them in the apple tree; hide yourself there, too, and at midnight you will see
my enemy.”

The youth climbed up the tree and picked some of the beautiful golden apples,
which he ate for his supper. At midnight the wind began to rise and a rustling
sound was heard at the foot of the tree. The youth looked down and beheld a
long thick serpent beginning to crawl up the tree. It wound itself round the
stem and gradually got higher and higher. It stretched its huge head, in which
the eyes glittered fiercely, among the branches, searching for the nest in
which the little children lay. They trembled with terror when they saw the
hideous creature and hid themselves beneath the leaves.

Then the youth swung his mighty sword in the air, and with one blow cut off the
serpent’s head. He cut up the rest of the body into little bits and strewed
them to the four winds.

The father of the rescued children was so delighted over the death of his enemy
that he told the youth to get on his back, and thus he carried him up to the
world above.

With what joy did he hurry now to his brothers’ house! He burst into a room
where they were all assembled, but no one knew who he was. Only his bride, who
was serving as cook to her sisters, recognized her lover at once.

His brothers, who had quite believed he was dead, yielded him up his treasures
at once and flew into the woods in terror. But the good youth forgave them all
they had done and divided his treasures with them. Then he built himself a big
castle with golden windows, and there he lived happily with his golden-haired
wife till the end of their lives.

THE GLASS MOUNTAIN

By Hermann R. Kletke

Once upon a time there was a glass mountain at the top of which stood a castle
made of pure gold, and in front of the castle there grew an apple tree on which
there were golden apples.

Anyone who picked an apple gained admittance into the golden castle, and there
in a silver room sat an enchanted princess of surpassing fairness and beauty.
She was as rich, too, as she was beautiful, for the cellars of the castle were
full of precious stones, and great chests of the finest gold stood round the
walls of all the rooms.

Many knights had come from afar to try their luck, but it was in vain they
attempted to climb the mountain. In spite of having their horses shod with
sharp nails, no one managed to get more than halfway up, and then they all fell
back right down to the bottom of the steep, slippery hill. Sometimes they broke
an arm, sometimes a leg, and many a brave man had broken his neck even.

The beautiful princess sat at her window and watched the bold knights trying to
reach her on their splendid horses. The sight of her always gave men fresh
courage, and they flocked from the four quarters of the globe to attempt the
work of rescuing her. But all in vain, and for seven years the princess had sat
now and waited for some one to scale the glass mountain.

A heap of corpses both of riders and horses lay round the mountain, and many
dying men lay groaning there unable to go any further with their wounded limbs.
The whole neighborhood had the appearance of a vast churchyard. In three more
days the seven years would be at an end, when a knight in golden armor and
mounted on a spirited steed was seen making his way toward the fatal hill.

Sticking his spurs into his horse he made a rush at the mountain and got up
halfway, then he calmly turned his horse’s head and came down again without a
slip or stumble. The following day he started in the same way; the horse trod
on the glass as if it had been level earth, and sparks of fire flew from its
hoofs. All the other knights gazed in astonishment, for he had almost gained
the summit, and in another moment he would have reached the apple tree; but of
a sudden a huge eagle rose up and spread its mighty wings, hitting as it did so
the knight’s horse in the eye. The beast shied, opened its wide nostrils, and
tossed its mane, then rearing high up in the air, its hind feet slipped and it
fell with its rider down the steep mountain side. Nothing was left of either of
them except their bones, which rattled in the battered, golden armor like dry
peas in a pod.

And now there was only one more day before the close of the seven years. Then
there arrived on the scene a mere school boy—a merry, happy-hearted youth, but
at the same time strong and well grown. He saw how many knights had broken
their necks in vain, but undaunted he approached the steep mountain on foot and
began the ascent.

For long he had heard his parents speak of the beautiful princess who sat in
the golden castle at the top of the glass mountain. He listened to all he heard
and determined that he too would try his luck. But first he went to the forest
and caught a lynx, and cutting off the creature’s sharp claws, he fastened them
on to his own hands and feet.

Armed with these weapons he boldly started up the glass mountain. The sun was
nearly going down, and the youth had not got more than halfway up. He could
hardly draw breath he was so worn out, and his mouth was parched by thirst. A
huge black cloud passed over his head, but in vain did he beg and beseech her
to let a drop of water fall on him. He opened his mouth, but the black cloud
sailed past and not as much as a drop of dew moistened his dry lips.

His feet were torn and bleeding, and he could only hold on now with his hands.
Evening closed in, and he strained his eyes to see if he could behold the top
of the mountain. Then he gazed beneath him, and what a sight met his eyes! A
yawning abyss, with certain and terrible death at the bottom, reeking with
half-decayed bodies of horses and riders! And this had been the end of all the
other brave men who like himself had attempted the ascent.

It was almost pitch dark now, and only the stars lit up the glass mountain. The
poor boy still clung on as if glued to the glass by his blood-stained hands. He
made no struggle to get higher, for all his strength had left him, and seeing
no hope he calmly awaited death. Then all of a sudden he fell into a deep
sleep, and forgetful of his dangerous position he slumbered sweetly. But all
the same, although he slept, he had stuck his sharp claws so firmly into the
glass that he was quite safe not to fall.

Now, the golden apple tree was guarded by the eagle which had overthrown the
golden knight and his horse. Every night it flew round the glass mountain
keeping a careful lookout, and no sooner had the moon emerged from the clouds
than the bird rose up from the apple tree, and circling round in the air caught
sight of the sleeping youth.

Greedy for carrion, and sure that this must be a fresh corpse, the bird swooped
down upon the boy. But he was awake now, and perceiving the eagle, he
determined by its help to save himself.

The eagle dug its sharp claws into the tender flesh of the youth, but he bore
the pain without a sound and seized the bird’s two feet with his hands. The
creature in terror lifted him high up into the air and began to circle round
the tower of the castle. The youth held on bravely. He saw the glittering
palace, which by the pale rays of the moon looked like a dim lamp; and he saw
the high windows, and round one of them a balcony in which the beautiful
princess sat lost in sad thoughts. Then the boy saw that he was close to the
apple tree, and drawing a small knife from his belt he cut off both the eagle’s
feet. The bird rose up in the air in its agony and vanished into the clouds,
and the youth fell on to the broad branches of the apple tree.

Then he drew out the claws of the eagle’s feet that had remained in his flesh
and put the peel of one of the golden apples on the wound, and in one moment it
was healed and well again. He pulled several of the beautiful apples and put
them in his pocket; then he entered the castle. The door was guarded by a great
dragon, but as soon as he threw an apple at it the beast vanished.

At the same moment a gate opened, and the youth perceived a courtyard full of
flowers and beautiful trees, and on a balcony sat the lovely enchanted princess
with her retinue.

As soon as she saw the youth she ran toward him and greeted him as her husband
and master. She gave him all her treasures, and the youth became a rich and
mighty ruler. But he never returned to the earth, for only the mighty eagle,
who had been the guardian of the princess and of the castle, could have carried
on his wings the enormous treasure down to the world. But as the eagle had lost
its feet, it died, and its body was found in a wood on the glass mountain.

One day when the youth was strolling about the palace garden with the princess,
his wife, he looked down over the edge of the glass mountain and saw to his
astonishment a great number of people gathered there. He blew his silver
whistle, and the swallow who acted as messenger in the golden castle flew past.

“Fly down and ask what the matter is,” he said to the little bird, who sped off
like lightning and soon returned saying:

“The blood of the eagle has restored all the people below to life. All those
who have perished on this mountain are awakening up to-day, as it were from a
sleep, and are mounting their horses, and the whole population are gazing on
this unheard-of wonder with joy and amazement.”

HUNTSMAN THE UNLUCKY

By John T. Naaké

Once upon a time there lived a huntsman. He would go every day in search of
game, but it often happened that he killed nothing, and so was obliged to
return home with his bag empty. On that account he was nicknamed “Huntsman the
Unlucky.” At last he was reduced by his ill fortune to such extremities that he
had not a piece of bread nor a kopek left. The wretched man wandered about the
forest, cold and hungry; he had eaten nothing for three days, and was nearly
dying of starvation. He lay down on the grass determined to put an end to his
existence; happily better thoughts came into his mind; he crossed himself, and
threw away the gun. Suddenly he heard a rustling noise near him. It seemed to
issue from some thick grass close at hand. The hunter got up and approached the
spot. He then observed that the grass partly hid a gloomy abyss, from the
bottom of which there rose a stone, and on it lay a small jar. As he looked and
listened the hunter heard a small voice crying—

“Dear, kind traveler, release me!”

The voice seemed to proceed from the little jar. The courageous hunter, walking
carefully from one stone to another, approached the spot where the jar lay,
took it up gently, and heard a voice crying from within like the chirping of a
grasshopper—

“Release me, and I will be of service to you.”

“Who are you, my little friend?” asked Huntsman the Unlucky.

“I have no name, and cannot be seen by human eyes,” answered a soft voice. “If
you want me, call ‘Murza!’ A wicked magician put me in this jar, sealed it with
the seal of King Solomon, and then threw me into this fearful place, where I
have lain for seventy years.”

“Very good,” said Huntsman the Unlucky; “I will give you your liberty, and then
we shall see how you will keep your word.” He broke the seal and opened the
little jar—there was nothing in it!

“Halloa! where are you, my friend?” cried the hunter.

“By your side,” a voice answered.

The hunter looked about him, but could see no one.

“Murza!”

“Ready! I await your orders. I am your servant for the next three days, and
will do whatever you desire. You have only to say, ‘Go there, I know not where;
bring something, I know not what.’”

“Very well,” said the hunter. “You will doubtless know best what is wanted: Go
there, I know not where; bring something, I know not what.”

As soon as the hunter had uttered these words there appeared before him a table
covered with dishes, each filled with the most delicious viands, as if they had
come direct from a banquet of the czar. The hunter sat down at the table, and
ate and drank till he was satisfied. He then rose, crossed himself, and, bowing
on all sides, exclaimed—

“Thank you! thank you!”

Instantly the table, and everything else with it, disappeared, and the hunter
continued his journey.

After walking some distance he sat down by the roadside to rest. It so happened
that while the hunter was resting himself, there passed through the forest a
gypsy thief, leading a horse which he wanted to sell.

“I wish I had the money to buy the horse with,” thought the hunter; “what a
pity my pockets are empty! However, I will ask my invisible friend. Murza!”

“Ready!”

“Go there, I know not where; bring something, I know not what.”

In less than a minute the hunter heard the money chinking in his pocket; gold
poured into them, he knew not how nor whence.

“Thanks! you have kept your word,” said the hunter.

He then began to bargain with the gypsy for the horse. Having agreed upon the
price, he paid the man in gold, who, staring at the hunter with his mouth wide
open, wondered where Huntsman the Unlucky had got so much money from. Parting
from the hunter, the gypsy thief ran with all his speed to the farther end of
the forest, and whistled. There was no answer. “They are asleep,” thought the
gypsy, and entered a cavern where some robbers, lying on the skins of animals,
were resting themselves.

“Halloa, comrades! Are you asleep?” cried the gypsy. “Get up, quick! or you
will lose a fine bird. He is alone in the forest, and his pockets are full of
gold. Make haste!”

The robbers sprang up, mounted their horses, and galloped after the hunter.

The hunter heard the clatter, and seeing himself suddenly surrounded by
robbers, cried out— “Murza!”

“Ready!” answered a voice near him. “Go there, I know not where; bring
something, I know not what.”

There was a rustling noise heard in the forest, and then something from behind
the trees fell upon the robbers. They were knocked from their horses, and
scattered on all sides; yet no hand was seen to touch them. The robbers, thrown
upon the ground, could not raise themselves, and the hunter, thankful and
rejoicing at his deliverance, rode on, and soon found his way out of the dark
forest, and came upon a town.

Near this town there were pitched tents full of soldiers. Huntsman the Unlucky
was told that an enormous army of Tartars had come, under the command of their
khan, who, angry at being refused the hand of the beautiful Princess Milovzora,
the daughter of the czar, had declared war against him. The hunter had seen the
Princess Milovzora when she was out hunting in the forest. She used to ride a
beautiful horse, and carry a golden lance in her hand; a magnificent quiver of
arrows hung from her shoulder. When her veil was lifted up she appeared like
the spring sunlight, to give light to the eyes and warmth to the heart.

The hunter reflected for a little while, and then cried, “Murza!”

In an instant he found himself dressed in splendid attire; his jacket was
embroidered with gold, he wore a beautiful mantle on his shoulders, and ostrich
feathers hung gracefully down from the top of his helmet, fastened by a brooch
of a ruby surrounded by pearls. The hunter went into the castle, presented
himself before the czar, and offered to drive away the forces of the enemy on
condition that the czar gave him the beautiful Princess Milovzora for his wife.

The czar was greatly surprised, but did not like to refuse such an offer at
once; he first asked the hunter his name, his birth and his possessions.

“I am called Huntsman the Unlucky, Master of Murza the Invisible.”

The czar thought the young stranger was mad; the courtiers, however, who had
seen him before, assured the czar that the stranger exactly resembled Huntsman
the Unlucky, whom they knew; but how he had got that splendid dress they could
not tell.

Then the czar demanded:

“Do you hear what they say? If you are telling lies, you will lose your head.
Let us see, then, how you will overcome the enemy with the forces of your
invisible Murza?”

“Be of good hope, czar,” answered the hunter; “as soon as I say the word,
everything will be completed.”

“Good,” said the czar. “If you have spoken the truth you shall have my daughter
for your wife; if not, your head will be the forfeit.”

The hunter said to himself, “I shall either become a prince, or I am a lost
man.”

He then whispered, “Murza, go there, I know not where; do this, I know not
what.”

A few minutes passed, and there was nothing to be heard or seen. Huntsman the
Unlucky turned pale; the czar, enraged, ordered him to be seized and put in
irons, when suddenly the firing of guns was heard in the distance. The czar and
his courtiers ran out on the steps leading to the castle, and saw bodies of men
approaching from both right and left, their standards waving gracefully in the
air; the soldiers were splendidly equipped. The czar could hardly believe his
eyes, for he himself had no troops so fine as these.

“This is no delusion!” cried Huntsman the Unlucky. “These are the forces of my
invisible friend.”

“Let them drive away the enemy then, if they can,” said the czar.

The hunter waved his handkerchief. The army wheeled into position; music burst
forth in a martial strain, and then a great cloud of dust arose. When the dust
had cleared away, the army was gone.

The czar invited Huntsman the Unlucky to dinner, and asked him numerous
questions about Murza the Invisible. At the second course the news came that
the enemy was flying in every direction, completely routed. The terrified
Tartars had left all their tents and baggage behind them. The czar thanked the
hunter for his assistance, and informed his daughter that he had found a
husband for her. Princess Milovzora blushed upon receiving this intelligence,
then turned pale, and began to shed tears. The hunter whispered something to
Murza, and the princess’s tears changed into precious stones as they fell. The
courtiers hastened to pick them up—they were pearls and diamonds. The princess
smiled at this, and overcome with pleasure gave her hand to Huntsman the
Unlucky—unlucky no longer. Then began the feast. But here the story must end.

STORY OF LITTLE SIMPLETON

By John T. Naaké

Once there lived a peasant and his wife who had three daughters. The two elder
girls were cunning and selfish; the youngest was simple and open-hearted, and
on that account came to be called, first by her sisters and afterward by her
father and mother, “Little Simpleton.” Little Simpleton was pushed about, had
to fetch everything that was wanted, and was always kept at work; but she was
ever ready to do what she was told, and never uttered a word of complaint. She
would water the garden, prepare pine splinters, milk the cows, and feed the
ducks; she had to wait upon everybody—in a word, she was the drudge of the
family.

One day, as the peasant was going with the hay to market, he asked his
daughters what they would like him to buy for them.

“Buy me some kumach (Red wool stuff from Bucharest) for a sarafan (A long dress
worn by the Russian peasant women) father,” answered the eldest daughter.

“And me some nankeen,” said the second. The youngest daughter alone did not ask
for a present. The peasant was moved with compassion for the girl; although a
simpleton she was still his daughter.

Turning to her he asked “Well, Little Simpleton, what shall I buy for you?”

Little Simpleton smiled and replied—

“Buy me, dearest father, a little silver plate and a little apple.”

“What do you want them for?” asked her sisters.

“I will make the little apple roll round the plate, and will say some words to
it which an old woman taught me because I gave her a cake.”

The peasant promised to buy his daughters what they asked of him, and then
started for market. He sold his hay, and bought the presents: some nankeen for
one of his daughters, for another some kumach, and for Little Simpleton a
little silver plate and a little apple. Then he returned home and gave these
things to his daughters.

The girls were delighted; the two elder ones made themselves sarafans, and
laughed at Little Simpleton, wondering what she would do with the silver plate
and the apple.

Little Simpleton did not eat the apple, but sat down in a corner and cried—

“Roll, roll, little apple on the silver plate, and show me towns and fields,
forests and seas, lofty mountains and beautiful skies.”

And the apple began to roll on the plate, and there appeared on it town after
town; ships sailing on the seas, and people in the fields; mountains and
beautiful skies; suns and stars. All these things looked so beautiful, and were
so wonderful, that it would be impossible to tell of them in a story, or
describe them with the pen.

At first the elder sisters looked at the little plate with delight; soon,
however, their hearts were filled with envy, and they began to try to get it
from their younger sister. But the girl would not part with it on any account.
Then the wicked girls said— “Dearest sister, let us go into the forest to
gather blackberries.”

Little Simpleton got up, gave the plate and apple to her father, and went with
them into the forest. They walked about and gathered blackberries. All at once
they saw a spade lying upon the ground. The wicked sisters killed Little
Simpleton with it, and buried her under a birch tree.

They returned home late, and told their father, “The Simpleton is lost; she ran
away from us in the forest; we searched, but could not find her anywhere. The
wolves must have eaten her.”

The peasant regretted the loss of his daughter bitterly; for although so simple
she was still his child. The wicked sisters also shed tears. Her father put the
little silver plate and the little apple into a box, and locked them up.

Next morning a shepherd was tending his sheep near the place, playing on his
pipe, and searching in the forest for one of his flock that was missing. He
observed the little grave under the birch tree; it was covered by the most
lovely flowers, and out of the middle of the grave there grew a reed. The
shepherd cut off the reed, and made a pipe of it. As soon as the pipe was
prepared, oh, wonderful! It began to play of itself, and say—

“Play, oh pipe, play! and comfort my poor parents and sisters. I was killed for
the sake of my little silver plate and my little apple.”

When the people heard of this they ran out of their huts, and all came round
the shepherd and began to ask him who was killed.

“Good people,” answered the shepherd, “I don’t know who it is. While searching
for one of my sheep in the forest, I came upon a grave covered with flowers.
Above them all stood a reed. I cut off the reed and made this pipe of it. It
plays of itself, and you have heard what it says.”

The father of Little Simpleton happened to be present. He took the pipe into
his own hand, and it began to play:

“Play, oh pipe, play! Comfort my poor father and mother. I was killed for the
sake of my little silver plate and my little apple.” The peasant asked the
shepherd to take him to the place where he had cut the reed. They all went into
the forest, saw the grave, and were astonished at the sight of the lovely
flowers which grew there. They opened the grave, and there discovered the body
of a girl, which the poor man recognized as that of his youngest daughter.
There she lay, murdered—but by whom no one could tell. The people asked one
another who it was that had killed the poor girl. Suddenly the pipe began to
play—

“Oh, my dearest father; my sisters brought me to this forest, and here killed
me for the sake of my little plate and my little apple. You will not bring me
to life until you fetch some of the water from the czar’s well.”

Then the wicked sisters confessed it all. They were seized and cast into a dark
prison, to await the pleasure of the czar. The peasant set out for the capital.
As soon as he arrived at the city, he went to the palace, saw the czar, told
his story, and begged permission to take some water from the well. The czar
said, “You may take some water of life from my well, and as soon as you have
restored your daughter to life, bring her here with her little plate and the
little apple; bring your other two daughters also.”

The peasant bowed to the ground, and returned home with a bottle full of the
water of life. He hastened to the grave in the forest, lifted up the body of
his daughter, and as soon as he had sprinkled it with the water the girl came
to life again, and threw herself into his arms. All who were present were moved
to tears.

Then the peasant started again for the capital, and arriving there went at once
to the czar’s palace. The czar came out, and saw the peasant with his three
daughters, two of them with their arms bound, the third, as beautiful as the
spring flowers, stood near, the tears like diamonds falling down her cheeks.
The czar was very angry with the two wicked sisters; then he asked the youngest
for her little plate and apple. The girl took the box from her father’s hands,
and said—

“Sire, what would you like to see? Your towns or your armies; the ships at sea,
or the beautiful stars in the sky?”

Then she made the little apple roll round the plate, and there appeared on it
many towns, one after the other, with bodies of soldiers near them, with their
standards and artillery. Then the soldiers made ready for the fight, and the
officers stood in their places. The firing commenced, the smoke arose, and hid
it all from view. The little apple began again to roll on the plate, and there
appeared the sea covered with ships, their flags streaming in the wind. The
guns began to fire, the smoke arose, and again all disappeared from their
sight. The apple again began to roll on the plate, and there appeared on it the
beautiful sky with suns and stars.

The czar was astonished. The girl fell down on her knees before him, and cried—

“Oh, Sire, take my little plate and my little apple, and forgive my sisters!”

The czar was moved by her tears and entreaties and forgave the wicked sisters;
the delighted girl sprang up and began to embrace and kiss them. The czar
smiled, took her by the hand and said, “I honor the goodness of your heart, and
admire your beauty. Would you like to become my wife?”

“Sire,” answered the beautiful girl, “I obey your royal command; but allow me
first to ask my parents’ permission.”

The delighted peasant at once gave his consent; they sent for the mother, and
she, too, gladly bestowed her blessing.

“One favor more,” said the beautiful girl to the czar. “Permit my parents and
sisters to remain with me.”

On hearing this the sisters fell down on their knees before her, and cried—

“We are not worthy of so much favor!”

“Dearest sisters,” said the beautiful girl, “all is forgotten and forgiven.
They who remember the past with malice deserve to lose their sight.”

She then tried to lift them up from the ground, but they, shedding bitter
tears, would not rise. Then the czar, looking at them with a frown, bade them
get up; he allowed them, however, to stay in the palace.

A magnificent entertainment then began: the palace was splendidly lighted up,
and looked like the sun among the clouds. The czar and czarina rode out in an
open chariot and showed themselves to the people, who cried joyfully—

“Long live czar and czarina! May they shine upon us like the glorious sun for
years and years to come!”

THE GOLDEN FISH

By L. M. Gask

Upon a certain island in the middle of the sea dwelt an old man and his wife.
They were so poor that they often went short of bread, for the fish he caught
were their only means of livelihood.

One day when the man had been fishing for many hours without success, he hooked
a small Gold Fish, whose eyes were bright as diamonds.

“Let me go, kind man,” the little creature cried. “I should not make a mouthful
either for yourself or your wife, and my own mate waits for me down in the
waters.”

The old man was so moved by his pleadings that he took him off the hook and
threw him back into the sea. Before he swam off to rejoin his mate, the Gold
Fish promised that in return for his kindness he would come to the fisherman’s
help if ever he wanted him. Laughing merrily at this, for he did not believe
that a fish could help him except by providing him with food, the old man went
home and told his wife.

“What!” she cried, “you actually let him go when you had caught him? It was
just like your stupidity. We have not a scrap of bread in the house, and now, I
suppose, we must starve!”

Her reproaches continued for so long that though he scarcely believed what the
fish had said, the poor old man thought that at least it would do no harm to
put him to the test. He therefore hastened back to the shore, and stood at the
very edge of the waves.

“Golden Fish, Golden Fish!” he called. “Come to me, I pray, with your tail in
the water, and your head lifted up toward me!”

As the last word was uttered the Gold Fish popped up his head.

“You see I have kept my promise,” he said. “What can I do for you, my good
friend?”

“There is not a scrap of bread in the house,” quavered the old man, “and my
wife is very angry with me for letting you go.

“Don’t trouble about that!” said the Gold Fish in an off-hand manner; “you will
find bread, and to spare, when you go home.” And the old man hurried away to
see if his little friend had spoken truly.

Surely enough, he found that the pan was full of fine white loaves.

“I did not do so badly for you after all, good wife!” he said, as they ate
their supper; but his wife was anything but satisfied. The more she had, the
more she wanted, and she lay awake planning what they should demand from the
Gold Fish next.

“Wake up, you lazy man!” she cried to her husband, early next morning. “Go down
to the sea and tell your fish that I must have a new washtub.”

The old man did as his wife bade him, and the moment he called the Gold Fish
reappeared. He seemed quite willing to grant the new request, and on his return
home the old man found a beautiful new washtub in the small yard at the back of
their cabin.

“Why didn’t you ask for a new cabin too?” his wife said angrily. “If you had
had a grain of sense you would have done this without being told. Go back at
once, and say that we must have one.

The old man was rather ashamed to trouble his friend again so soon; but the
Gold Fish was as obliging as ever.

“Very well,” he said, “a new cabin you shall have.” And the old mart found one
so spick-and-span that he hardly dare cross the floor for fear of soiling it.
It would have pleased him greatly had his wife been contented, but she, good
woman, did nothing but grumble still.

“Tell your Gold Fish,” she said next day, “that I want to be a duchess, with
many servants at my beck and call, and a splendid carriage to drive in.

Once more her wish was granted, but now her husband’s plight was hard indeed.
She would not let him share her palace, but ordered him off to the stables,
where he was forced to keep company with her grooms. In a few days, however, he
grew reconciled to his lot, for here he could live in peace, while he learned
that she was leading those around her a terrible life, it was not long before
she sent for him again.

“Summon the Gold Fish,” she commanded haughtily, “and tell him I wish to be
Queen of the Waters, and to rule over all the fish.”

The poor old man felt sorry for the fish if they had to be under her rule, for
prosperity had quite spoiled her. However, he dared not disobey, and once more
summoned his powerful friend.

“Make your wife the Queen of the Waters?” exclaimed the Gold Fish. “That is the
last thing I should do. She is unfit to reign, for she cannot rule herself or
her desires. I shall make her once more a poor old woman. Adieu! You will see
me no more.”

The old man returned sorrowfully with this unpleasant message, to find the
palace transformed into a humble cabin, and his wife in a skirt of threadbare
stuff in place of the rich brocade which she had worn of late. She was sad and
humble, and much more easy to live with than she had been before. Her husband
therefore had occasion many times to think gratefully of the Gold Fish, and
sometimes when drawing up his net the glint of the sun upon the scales of his
captives would give him a moment’s hope—which, alas! was as often
disappointed—that once again he was to see his benefactor.

THE WONDERFUL HAIR

By W. S. Karajich

There once lived a man who was very poor, and who had many children; so many
that he was unable to support them. As he could not endure the idea of their
perishing of hunger, he was often tempted to destroy them; his wife alone
prevented him. One night, as he lay asleep, there appeared to him a lovely
child in a vision. The child said—

“Oh, man! I see your soul is in danger, in the thought of killing your helpless
children. But I know you are poor, and am come here to help you. You will find
under your pillow in the morning a looking-glass, a red handkerchief, and an
embroidered scarf. Take these three things, but show them to no one, and go to
the forest. In that forest you will find a rivulet. Walk by the side of this
rivulet until you come to its source; there you will see a girl, as bright as
the sun, with long hair streaming down her shoulders. Take care that she does
you no harm. Say not a word to her; for if you utter a single syllable, she
will change you into a fish or some other creature, and eat you. Should she ask
you to comb her hair, obey her. As you comb it, you will find one hair as red
as blood; pull it out, and run away with it. Be swift, for she will follow you.
Then throw on the ground, first the embroidered scarf, then the red
handkerchief, and last of all the looking-glass; they will delay her pursuit of
you. Sell the hair to some rich man; but see that you do not allow yourself to
be cheated, for it is of boundless worth. Its produce will make you rich and
thus you will be able to feed your children.”

Next morning, when the poor man awoke, he found under his pillow exactly the
things the child mad told him of in his dream. He went immediately into the
forest, and when he had discovered the rivulet he walked by the side of it, on
and on, until he reached its source. There he saw a girl sitting on the bank,
threading a needle with the rays of the sun. She was embroidering a net made of
the hair of heroes, spread on a frame before her. He approached and bowed to
her. The girl got up and demanded—

“Where did you come from, strange knight?”

The man remained silent. Again she asked him—

“Who are you, and why do you come here?” And many other questions. But he
remained silent as a stone, indicating with his hands only that he was dumb and
in need of help. She told him to sit at her feet, and when he had gladly done
so, she inclined her head toward him, that he might comb her hair. He began to
arrange her hair as if to comb it, but as soon as he had found the red one, he
separated it from the rest, plucked it out, leaped up, and ran from her with
his utmost speed.

The girl sprang after him, and was soon at his heels. The man, turning round as
he ran, and seeing that his pursuer would soon overtake him, threw the
embroidered scarf on the ground, as he had been told. When the girl saw it, she
stopped and began to examine it; turning it over on both sides, and admiring
the embroidery. Meanwhile the man gained a considerable distance in advance.
The girl tied the scarf round her bosom and recommenced the pursuit. When the
man saw that she was again about to overtake him, he threw down the red
handkerchief. At the sight of it, the girl again stopped, examined, and
wondered at it; the peasant, in the meantime, was again enabled to increase the
distance between them. When the girl perceived this, she became furious, and
throwing away both scarf and handkerchief began to run with increased speed
after him. She was just upon the point of catching the poor peasant, when he
threw the looking-glass at her feet. At the sight of the looking-glass, the
like of which she had never seen before, the girl checked herself, picked it
up, and looked in it. Seeing her own face, she fancied there was another girl
looking at her. While she was thus occupied the man ran so far that she could
not possibly overtake him. When the girl saw that further pursuit was useless,
she turned back, and the peasant, joyful and unhurt, reached his home. Once
within doors he showed the hair to his wife and children, and told them all
that had happened to him; but his wife only laughed at the Story. The peasant,
however, took no heed of her ridicule, but went to a neighboring town to sell
the hair. He was soon surrounded by a crowd of people, and some merchants began
to bid for his prize. One merchant offered him one gold piece, another two, for
the single hair, and so on, until the price rose to a hundred gold pieces.
Meanwhile the king, hearing of the wonderful red hair, ordered the peasant to
be called in, and offered him a thousand gold pieces for it. The man joyfully
sold it for that sum.

What wonderful kind of hair was this after all? The king split it carefully
open from end to end, and in it was found the story of many marvelous secrets
of nature, and of things that had happened since the creation of the world.

Thus the peasant became rich, and henceforth lived happily with his wife and
children. The child he had seen in his dream, was an angel sent down from
heaven to succor him, and to reveal to mankind the knowledge of many wonderful
things which had hitherto remained unexplained.

THE LANGUAGE OF ANIMALS

By W. S. Karajich

A certain man had a shepherd who had served him faithfully and honestly for
many years. One day, as the Shepherd was tending his sheep, he heard a hissing
noise in the forest, and wondered what it could he. He went, therefore, into
the wood in the direction of the sound, to learn what it was. There he saw that
the dry grass and leaves had caught fire, and in the middle of a burning circle
a Snake was hissing. The Shepherd stopped to see what the Snake would do, for
the fire was burning all around it, and the flames approached it nearer and
nearer every moment. Then the Snake cried from amid the fire—

“Oh, Shepherd! for heaven’s sake save me from this fire!”

The Shepherd stretched out his crook over the flames to the Snake, and the
Snake passed along it on to his hand, and from his hand it crawled to his neck,
where it twisted itself round.

When the Shepherd perceived this, he was greatly alarmed, and said to the
Snake—

“What have I done in an evil hour? Have I saved you to my own destruction?”

The Snake answered him, “Fear not, but carry me to my father’s house. My father
is the King of the snakes.”

The Shepherd, however, began to beg the Snake to excuse him, saying that he
could not leave the sheep; but the Snake answered—

“Be not troubled about the sheep; no harm shall happen to them; only go as fast
as you can.”

The Shepherd then walked through the forest with the Snake until he came to a
gate which was entirely made of snakes knotted together. There the Snake on the
Shepherd’s neck gave a whistle, and all the other snakes untwisted themselves.
Then the Snake said to the Shepherd—

“When we come to my father’s palace he will give you whatever you ask for:
silver, gold, and precious stones. Do you, however, take nothing of these, but
beg to know the language of the brutes and other creatures. He will refuse you
this for a long time, but at last he will grant your request.”

Meanwhile they came to the palace, to the father, who, shedding many tears,
cried—

“For heaven’s sake! my dearest daughter, where have you been?”

And she told him in due order how she had been surrounded by the forest fire,
and how the Shepherd had rescued her. Then the King of the snakes turned to the
Shepherd and said to him—

“What would you have me give you for the deliverance of my daughter?”

The Shepherd answered, “Only let me understand the language of animals; I want
nothing else.”

Then the King said, “That is not good for you; for if I were to bestow upon you
the gift of the knowledge of the tongue of animals, and you were to tell anyone
of it, you would instantly die. Ask, therefore, for something else; whatever
you desire to possess, I will give to you.”

To which the Shepherd replied—

“If you wish to give me anything, then grant me the knowledge of the language
of brute creatures; but if you do not care to give me that—farewell, and God
protect you! I want nothing else.” And the Shepherd turned to leave the place.

Then the King called him back, saying—

“Stay! come here to me, since you will have it at all hazards. Open your
mouth.”

The Shepherd opened his mouth, and the King of the snakes breathed into it, and
said—

“Do you now breathe into my mouth.”

The Shepherd breathed into his mouth, and the Snake King breathed again into
that of the Shepherd. After they had breathed each three times into the other’s
mouth, the King said—

“Now you understand the language of animals, and of all created things. Go in
peace, and God be with you! but for the life of you, tell no one of this; if
you do, you will die on the instant!”

The Shepherd returned home through the forest. As he walked he heard and
understood all that the birds said, and the grass and all the other things that
are upon the earth. When he came to his sheep and found them all together and
quite safe, he laid himself down to rest. Scarcely had he lain down when there
flew two ravens toward him, who took their perch upon a tree, and began to talk
together in their own language.

“What if that Shepherd only knew that underneath the place where the black lamb
lies there is a cellar full of silver and gold!’

When the Shepherd heard this, he went to his master, and told him of it. The
master took a cart with him, and they dug down to a door leading to the cave,
and removed the treasure to his house. But the master was an honest man, and
gave all the treasure to the Shepherd, saying—

“My son, all this treasure is yours, for heaven has given it to you. Buy
yourself a house with it, marry, and live happily in it.”

The Shepherd took the treasure, built himself a house, and, having married,
lived a happy life. Soon he became known as the richest man, not only in his
own village, but so rich that there was not his equal in the whole
neighborhood. He had his own shepherd, cow keeper, hostler, and swineherd;
plenty of goods and chattels, and great riches.

One day, just before Christmas, he said to his wife, “Get some wine, and some
brandy, and all things necessary; to-morrow we will go to the farmyard and take
the good things to the shepherds that they may also enjoy themselves.”

The wife followed his directions and prepared all that he had told her. When
they arrived on the following day at the farmhouse, the master said to the
shepherds in the evening—

“Come here, all of you; eat, drink, and be merry. I will watch over the flocks
for you to-night.” And he went, in very deed, and remained with the flocks.

About midnight the wolves began to howl and the dogs to bark, and the wolves
said in their language—

“May we come in and do what mischief we like? Then you, too, shall have your
share.”

And the dogs answered in their language, “Come in; and we will eat our fill
with you.”

But among the dogs there was an old one, who had but two teeth in his head, and
he said to the wolves—

“That will not do. So long as I have my two teeth in my head you shall do no
harm to my master nor his.”

The master heard it all, and understood what was said. On the following morning
he ordered all the dogs to be killed save only the old one. The hinds said,
“Heaven forbid, sir; that would be a great pity!” But the master answered, “Do
what I have told you.”

Then he prepared to return home with his wife, and they both mounted their
horses. And as they rode on, the husband got a little ahead, while the wife
fell behind. At last the husband’s horse neighed, and called to the mare—

“Come on! make haste! Why do you lag behind!”

And the mare answered him, “Ah yes, it is all very easy for you: you have only
one to carry, the master; while I have to carry two, the mistress and her
baby.”

The husband turned round and laughed, and his wife seeing this, urged the mare
forward, overtook her husband, and asked him what he had been laughing at.

“Nothing; I do not know; just something that came into my mind,” answered the
husband.

But the wife was not satisfied with this answer, and she pressed him again and
again to tell her why he had laughed.

But he excused himself, and said—

“Let me alone, wife! What is the matter with you? I do not know myself why I
laughed.”

But the more he denied her the more she insisted upon his telling her what he
had been laughing at. At last the husband said to her—

“Know then, that if I tell you the reason, I shall instantly die.”

The woman, however, did not care for that, but urged him to tell her
notwithstanding.

Meanwhile they had reached home. The husband ordered a coffin to be made
immediately, and when it was ready he had it placed before the house, and said
to his wife—

“See now, I now lay me down in this coffin, and then tell you why I laughed;
but as soon as I have told you I shall die.”

The husband lay down in the coffin, and looked around him for the last time.
And there came the old Dog from the farmyard, and sat down at his head and
whined. The husband seeing this, said to his wife—

“Bring a piece of bread and give it to this Dog.”

The wife brought out a piece of bread, and threw it down to the Dog; but the
Dog would not even look at it. Then the House Cock ran up, and began to pick at
the bread; and the Dog said to it—

“You miserable greedy thing, you! You can eat, and yet you see that the master
is going to die!”

The Cock answered the Dog, “And let him die since he is such a fool. I have a
hundred wives, and I call them all together whenever I find a grain of corn,
and as soon as they have come round me, I swallow it myself. And if any one of
them got angry, I should be at her directly with my beak. The master has only
one wife, and he cannot even manage her.”

When the husband heard this he quickly sprang out of the coffin, took up a
stick, and called his wife into the room.

“Come, wife,” he said, “I will tell you what you so much want to hear.”

Then as he beat her with the stick he cried, “This is it, wife! This is it.”

In this way he quieted his wife, and she never asked him again what he had been
laughing at.

THE EMPEROR TROJAN’S GOAT’S EARS

By W. S. Karajich

There once lived an emperor whose name was Trojan. This emperor had goat’s
ears, and he used to call in barber after barber to shave him. But whoever went
in never came out again; for while the barber was shaving him, the emperor
would ask what he observed uncommon in him, and when the barber would answer
that he observed his goat’s ears, the Emperor would immediately cut him into
pieces.

At last it came to the turn of a certain barber to go who feigned illness, and
sent his apprentice instead. When the apprentice appeared before the emperor he
was asked why his master did not come, and he answered, “Because he is ill.”
Then the emperor sat down, and allowed the youth to shave him.

As he shaved him the apprentice noticed the emperor’s goat’s ears, but when
Trojan asked him what he had observed, he answered, “I have observed nothing.”

Then the emperor gave him twelve ducats, and said to him—

“From this time forth you shall always come and shave me.

When the apprentice came home, his master asked him how he got on at the
emperor’s, and the youth answered—

“All well; and the emperor has told me that I am to shave him in future.”

Then he showed the twelve ducats he had received; but as to the emperor’s
goat’s ears, of that he said nothing.

From this time forth the apprentice went regularly to Trojan to shave him, and
for each shaving he received twelve ducats; but he told no one that the emperor
had goat’s ears.

At last it began to worry and torment him that he dare tell no one his secret;
and he became sick and began to pine away. His master, who could not fail to
observe this, asked him what ailed him, and after much pressing the apprentice
confessed that he had something on his heart which he dared not confide to
anyone, and he added, “If I could only tell it to somebody, I should feel
better at once.”

Then said the master—

“Tell it to me, and I will faithfully keep it from everybody else; or if you
fear to trust me with it, then go to the confessor and confide it to him; but
if you will not do even that, then go into the fields outside the town, there
dig a hole, thrust your head into it, and tell the earth three times what you
know, then throw the mold in again and fill up the hole.”

The apprentice chose the last course; went into the field outside the city, dug
a hole, into which he thrust his head, and called out three times—

“The Emperor Trojan has goat’s ears.”

Then he filled up the hole again, and with his mind quite relieved went home.

When some time had passed by, there sprang an elder tree out of this very hole,
and three slender sterns grew up, beautiful and straight as tapers. Some
shepherds found this elder, cut off one of the stems, and made a pipe of it.
But as soon as they began to blow into the new pipe, out burst the words:

“The Emperor Trojan has goat’s ears!”

The news of this strange occurrence spread immediately through the whole city,
and at last the Emperor Trojan himself heard the children blowing on a pipe:

“The Emperor Trojan has goat’s ears!”

He sent instantly for the barber’s apprentice, and shouted to him—

“Heh! what is this you have been telling the people about me.”

The poor youth began at once to explain that he had indeed noticed the
emperor’s ears, but had never told a soul of it. The emperor tore his saber out
of its sheath to hew the apprentice down, at which the youth was so frightened
that he told the whole story in its order: how he had confessed himself to the
earth; how an elder tree had sprang up on the very spot; and how, when a pipe
was made of one of its sterns, the tale was sounded in every direction.

Then the emperor took the apprentice with him in a carriage to the place, to
convince himself of the truth of the story; and when they arrived there they
found there was only a single stem left. The Emperor Trojan ordered a pipe to
be made out of this stem, that he might hear how it sounded. As soon as the
pipe was ready, and one of them blew into it, out poured the words:

“The Emperor Trojan has goat’s ears!”

Then the emperor was convinced that nothing on this earth could be hidden,
spared the barber apprentices life, and henceforth allowed any barber, without
exception, to come and shave him.

THE MAIDEN WHO WAS WISER THAN THE KING

By W. S. Karajich

There once lived a poor man in a miserable hovel, who had no one with him save
an only daughter. But she was very wise, and went about everywhere seeking
alms, and taught her father also to speak in a becoming manner when he begged.
It happened once that the poor man came to the king and asked for a gift. The
king demanded whence he came, and who had taught him to speak so well. The man
said whence he came, and that it was his daughter who had taught him.

“And who taught your daughter?” asked the king.

The poor man answered: “God, and our great poverty.”

Then the king gave him thirty eggs, saying—

“Take these eggs to your daughter, and tell her to hatch chickens out of them,
and I will reward her handsomely; but if she cannot hatch them, it will go ill
with you.”

The poor man went crying back to his hovel, and related to his daughter what
had passed. The maiden saw at once that the eggs had been boiled, but she told
her father to go to rest, and assured him that she would see that all went
well. The father followed her advice, and went to sleep; the maiden took a pot,
filled it with water and beans, and set it on the fire. On the following
morning, the beans being quite boiled, she told her father to take a plow and
oxen, and to plow along the road where the king would pass.

“And,” she added, “when you see the king, take the beans, sow them, and cry,
‘Hi! go on, oxen mine! Heaven be with me, and make my boiled beans take root
and grow!’ And when the king asks you how it is possible for boiled beans to
grow, answer him, that it is quite as possible as for boiled eggs to yield
chickens.”

The poor man hearkened to his daughter, went away, and began to plow. When he
saw the king coming he began to cry—

“Hi, go on, oxen mine! God help me, and make my boiled beans take root and
grow!”

The king, hearing these words, stopped on the road, and said to the poor man—

“Here, fellow! how is it possible for boiled beans to grow?”

And the poor man answered him—

“Heaven prosper you, king! just as possible as for boiled eggs to yield
chickens.”

The king guessed at once that it was the poor man’s daughter who had taught him
this answer. He ordered his servants to seize him and bring him into his
presence. Then he gave him a bundle of flax, and said to him—

“Take this flax and make out of it ropes and sails and all that is wanted on
shipboard; if you do not, you shall lose your head.”

The poor man took the bundle in great fear, and went crying home to his
daughter, to whom he related all that had passed. But the maiden sent him again
to rest with the promise that all should go well. On the following day she took
a small piece of wood, awoke her father, and said to him—

“Take this wood, and carry it to the king; let him cut a spinning wheel, a
spindle, and a loom out of it, and I will do all that he demands of me.”

The poor man again followed the directions of his daughter; he went to the king
and delivered the maiden’s message. The king was astonished at hearing this,
and began to think what he should do next. At last he took up a small cup, and
said as he gave it to the father—

“Take this cup to your daughter, and let her empty the sea with it, so that it
shall become like a dry field.”

The poor man obeyed with tears in his eyes, and took the cup to his daughter
with the king’s message. But the maiden told him he need only leave the matter
till the morning, when she would see to it.

In the morning she called her father, and gave him a pound of tow to take to
the king, and bade him say:

“Let the king stop up all the springs and river mouths of the earth with this
tow, and then will I dry up the sea for him.”

And the poor man went and told this to the king.

Now the king saw that this maiden was wiser that he was himself, and he ordered
her to be brought before him. And when the father and daughter stood in his
presence and bowed before him, he said to the daughter—

“Tell me, girl, what is it that man hears the farthest?”

And the maiden answered— “Great king! that which man hears the farthest is the
thunder, and a lie.”

Upon this the king took hold of his beard, and turning to his councilors,
demanded of them:

“Tell me what my beard is worth?”

And when one valued it at so much, and another at so much more, the maiden told
them outright that they could not guess it. “The king’s beard,” she said, “is
of as much worth as three rainy days in summer time.”

The king was astonished and exclaimed, “The maiden has made the best answer!”

Then he asked her if she would be his wife, nor would he desist from pressing
his suit, until she agreed to it. The maiden bent before him and said—

“Glorious king! let it be as you will; but I beg of you to write on a piece of
paper with your own hand, that, should you ever be angry with me, and should
drive me forth from your palace, I shall be at liberty to take whatever I love
dearest away with me.”

And the king agreed and wrote out the paper. After some time had passed away,
it came, in fact, to pass, that the king became one day so angry with his wife,
that he said to her—

“I will have you no longer for my wife; leave my palace, and go where you
will.”

“Illustrious king!” answered the queen, “I will obey you. Permit me, however,
to stay here over the night, then in the morning I will go forth.”

The king granted her prayer; and the queen before supper mixed some brandy and
some sweet herbs in the king’s wine, and pressed him to partake of it, saying—

“Drink, O king, and be merry. To-morrow we part; and believe me, I shall then
be happier than when I married you.”

The king drank too much, and when he was fast asleep, the queen had him laid in
a wagon ready prepared, and drove with him into a rocky cavern. And when the
king awoke in the cavern, and saw where he was, he cried out—

“Who has brought me here?”

“I have brought you here,” answered the queen.

The king demanded of her:

“Why have you done this? Have I not told you that you are no longer my wife?”

Then said she, as she drew forth a sheet of paper—

“It is true what you say; but see what you yourself have laid down on this
sheet: that when I should leave you, I might take with me, from your palace,
that which I loved best.”

When the king heard this, he kissed her, and went back with her to the palace.

THE THREE SONS

By Lady Gregory

I’ll tell you a story, says the old man who was bringing fish from the sea; and
after that I’ll be going on to Ballinrobe, to one that has a shop there and
that was reared by my grandmother. It is likely he’ll give me a tasty suit of
clothes.

Working all my life I am, working with the flail in the barn, working with the
spade at the potato tilling and the potato digging, breaking stones on the
road. And four years ago the wife died, and it’s lonesome to be housekeeping
alone.

There was a King long ago in Ireland, and he had three sons, and one of them
was something silly. There came a sickness on the King, and he called his three
sons, and he said to them that he had knowledge the only thing would cure him
was the apples from Burnett’s orchard, and he bade them to go look for them,
for that orchard was in some far-away place, and no one could tell where it
was.

The three sons went then, and they caught their horses, and put on their
bridles, and they set out, and went on till they came to three crossroads.
There they stopped, and they settled among themselves that each one of them
would take one of the roads and go searching for the apples, and they would
meet at the same place at the end of a year and a day.

The youngest son, that was a bit silly, took the crossest of the roads, and he
went on till he came to a cottage by the roadside. He went in, and there was a
withered old man in the house, and he said: “There is a great welcome before
the King of Ireland’s son!” The son was astonished at that because he thought
no one could know him. He was well received there, and in the course of the
evening he asked the old man did he know where was Burnett’s garden. “I am a
hundred years old,” said the man, “and I never heard of such a place. But I
have a brother,” he said, “that is a hundred years older than I am, and it may
be he would know,” he said.

So in the morning he gave a canoe to the King’s son, and it went on of itself
without him turning or guiding it, till it brought him to the old man’s
brother, and he got a welcome there and good treatment, and in the course of
the night he asked that old man did he know where was Burnett’s orchard.

“I do not,” said he: “though I am two hundred years old I never heard of it.
But go on,” he said, “to a brother I have that has a hundred years more than
myself.”

So in the morning, he went into the canoe, and it went on of itself till it
came to where the third old man was, that was older again than the other two,
and the King’s son asked did he know where was Burnett’s garden. “I do not,” he
said, “although I am three hundred years old; but I will tell you how you will
know it,” he said. “Go on till you come to shore, where you will see a
Swan-Gander standing by the water, and he is the one that can tell you and can
bring you to it,” he said. “And ask him to bring you to that garden in the name
of the Almighty God.”

So the King’s son went on in the canoe till he came where the Swan-Gander was
standing on the shore. “Can you tell me,” says he, “where can I get the apples
that are in Burnett’s orchard? And can you bring me there?” he said.

“Indeed,” said the Swan-Gander, “I am in no way obliged to your leader, or to
whoever it was sent you to me and gave you that teaching. And those apples are
well minded,” he said, “by wolves; and the only time they sleep is for three
hours once in every seven years. And it chances they are asleep for those three
hours at this time; and so I will bring you there,” he said.

With that he stretched out his wings, and he bade the King’s son to get on his
back. And it was long before he could start flying with the weight that was on
him; but at last he flew away, and he brought the King’s son to Burnett’s
garden, and there was a high wall around it, but he flew over the wall, and put
him down in the garden. The King’s son filled his bag with the apples, and when
he had done that he went looking around, and he came to a large cottage in the
garden, and he went in, and there was no one in the house but a beautiful young
girl, and she was asleep. So he went away; but he brought with him the gold
rings and the gold garters that he saw there in the window.

He got up again on the back of the Swan-Gander, but it was hard for it to rise
with the weight of the bag of apples. But it did rise at last, and it brought
him to where the old man was that was three hundred years old. The King’s son
gave one of the apples to the old man, and no sooner did he eat it than his age
left him, and he was like a boy of fifteen years.

He went on then to the two other old men, and gave an apple to both of them,
and no sooner did they eat it than they were like young boys again.

Then the King’s son went back to the crossroads, for it was the end of the year
and a day, and he was the first to come there, and he fell asleep. The two
brothers came and saw him there, and they stole the bag of apples from under
his head and put in the place of it a bag of apples that were no use at all.
Then they went on to their father’s house, and they gave him the apples they
had stolen, and he was cured on the moment; but they told him that what the
youngest son was bringing to him was poison apples, that would bring him to his
death.

The King was very angry when he heard that, and he went to his butler and said,
“Go out to the wood where my son is, and shoot him, and bring his heart here
with you on the top of a gun and throw it to the dogs at the door; for I will
never have him, or anything belonging to him, brought into the house,” he said.

So the butler got the gun, and went out to the wood; and when he saw the young
man he was going to shoot him. “Why would you do that?” said he. So the butler
told him all the father ordered him; and the young man said, “Do not shoot me,
but save me. And this is what you will do. Go into the wood until you meet with
a woodcock, and shoot it, and take the heart out of it, for that is most like
the heart of a man. Bring the woodcock’s heart to my father’s house,” he said,
“and throw it to the dogs at the door.”

So the butler did that, and spared him, and took the woodcock’s heart and threw
it to the dogs at the door.

It was a good while after that, a beautiful young lady came to the King’s
doorway in a coach and four, and stopped at the door. “Send out my husband to
me here,” she said. So the eldest son came out to her. “Was it you came to the
garden for the apples?” says she. “It was,” says he. “What things did you take
notice of in the cottage where I was?” says she.

So he began telling of this thing and that thing that never was in it at all.

And when she heard that she gave him a clout that knocked his head as solid as
any stone in the wall.

Then the second son came out, and she asked him the same question, and he told
the same lies, and she gave him another clout that left his head as solid as
any stone in the wall.

When the King heard all that, he knew they had deceived him, and that it was
the youngest son who got the apples for his cure, and he began to cry after him
and to lament that he was not living to come back again. “Would you like to
know he is living yet?” says the butler. “I would sooner hear it than any word
ever I heard,” says the King.

“Well he is living yet, and is in the wood,” says the butler.

When the young lady heard that, she bade the butler bring her to where he was,
and they went together to the wood, and there they found him, where he had been
living on the fruits of trees through the most of the year. When the young lady
saw him, she said: “Was it you came to the house where I was in the garden?”
“It was,” says he.

“What things did you take notice of in it?”

“Here they are,” says he. And he put his hand in his pocket, and brought out
the gold rings and the golden garters, and the other signs he had brought away.

So she knew that he was the right one, and she married him, and they lived
happy ever after, and there was great rejoicing in the King of Ireland’s house.

HOK LEE AND THE DWARFS

Retold by Andrew Lang

There once lived in a small town in China a man named Hok Lee. He was a steady,
industrious man, who not only worked hard at his trade, but did all his own
housework as well, for he had no wife to do it for him. “What an excellent,
industrious man is this Hok Lee!” said his neighbors. “How hard he works! He
never leaves his house to amuse himself or to take a holiday as others do!”

But Hok Lee was by no means the virtuous person his neighbors thought him.
True, he worked hard enough by day, but at night, when all respectable folk
were fast asleep, he used to steal out and join a dangerous band of robbers,
who broke into rich people’s houses and carried off all they could lay hands
on.

This state of things went on for some time, and though a thief was caught now
and then and punished, no suspicion ever fell on Hok Lee, he was such a very
respectable, hard-working man.

Hok Lee had already amassed a good store of money as his share of the proceeds
of these robberies, when it happened one morning on going to market that a
neighbor said to him:

“Why, Hok Lee, what is the matter with your face? One side of it is all swelled
up.”

True enough, Hok Lee’s right cheek was twice the size of his left, and it soon
began to feel very uncomfortable.

“I will bind up my face,” said Hok Lee. “Doubtless the warmth will cure the
swelling.” But no such thing. Next day it was worse, and day by day it grew
bigger and bigger till it was nearly as large as his head and became very
painful.

Hok Lee was at his wits’ end what to do. Not only was his check unsightly and
painful, but his neighbors began to jeer and make fun of him, which hurt his
feelings very much indeed.

One day, as luck would have it, a traveling doctor came to the town. He sold
not only all kinds of medicine, but also dealt in many strange charms against
witches and evil spirits.

Hok Lee determined to consult him and asked him into his house. After the
doctor had examined him carefully he spoke thus:

“This, Hok Lee, is no ordinary swelled face. I strongly suspect you have been
doing some wrong deed which has called down the anger of the spirits on you.
None of my drugs will avail to cure you, but if you are willing to pay me
handsomely I can tell you how you may be cured.”

Then Hok Lee and the doctor began to bargain together, and it was a long time
before they could come to terms. However, the doctor got the better of it in
the end, for he was determined not to part with his secret under a certain
price, and Hok Lee had no mind to carry his huge cheek about with him to the
end of his days. So he was obliged to part with the greater portion of his
ill-gotten gains.

When the doctor had pocketed the money he told Hok Lee to go on the first night
of the full moon to a certain wood and there to watch by a particular tree.
After a time he would see the dwarfs and little sprites who live underground
come out to dance. When they saw him they would be sure to make him dance too.
“And mind you dance your very best,” added the doctor. “If you dance well and
please them they will grant you a petition and you can then beg to be cured;
but if you dance badly they will most likely do you some mischief out of
spite.” With that he took leave and departed.

Happily the first night of the full moon was near, and at the proper time Hok
Lee set out for the wood. With a little trouble he found the tree the doctor
had described, and feeling nervous he climbed up into it.

He had hardly settled himself on a branch when he saw the little dwarfs
assembling in the moonlight. They came from all sides, till at length there
appeared to be hundreds of them. They seemed in high glee and danced and
skipped and capered about, while Hok Lee grew so eager watching them that he
crept farther and farther along his branch till at length it gave a loud crack.
All the dwarfs stood still, and Hok Lee felt as if his heart stood still also.

Then one of the dwarfs called out: “Some one is up in that tree. Come down at
once, whoever you are, or we must come and fetch you.”

In great terror Hok Lee proceeded to come down; but he was so nervous that he
tripped near the ground and came rolling down in the most absurd manner. When
he had picked himself up he came forward with a low bow, and the dwarf who had
first spoken and who appeared to be the leader said: “Now, then, who art thou
and what brings thee here?”

So Hok Lee told him the sad story of his swelled cheek, and how he had been
advised to come to the forest and beg the dwarfs to cure him.

“It is well,” replied the dwarf. “We will see about that. First, however, thou
must dance before us. Should thy dancing please us, perhaps we may be able to
do something; but shouldst thou dance badly we shall assuredly punish thee, so
now take warning and dance away.”

With that, he and all the other dwarfs sat down in a large ring, leaving Hok
Lee to dance alone in the middle. He felt half-frightened to death, and besides
was a good deal shaken by his fall from the tree and did not feel at all
inclined to dance. But the dwarfs were not to be trifled with.

“Begin!” cried their leader, and “Begin!” shouted the rest in chorus.

So in despair Hok Lee began. First he hopped on one foot and then on the other,
but he was so stiff and so nervous that he made but a poor attempt, and after a
time sank down on the ground and vowed he could dance no more.

The dwarfs were very angry. They crowded round Hok Lee and abused him. “Thou to
come here to be cured, indeed!” they cried. “Thou hast brought one big cheek
with thee, but thou shalt take away two.” And with that they ran off and
disappeared, leaving Hok Lee to find his way home as best he might.

He hobbled away, weary and depressed, and not a little anxious on account of
the dwarfs’ threat.

Nor were his fears unfounded, for when he rose next morning his left cheek was
swelled up as big as his right, and he could hardly see out of his eyes. Hok
Lee felt in despair, and his neighbors jeered at him more than ever. The
doctor, too, had disappeared, so there was nothing for it but to try the dwarfs
once more.

He waited a month till the first night of the full moon came round again, and
then he trudged back to the forest and sat down under the tree from which he
had fallen. He had not long to wait. Ere long the dwarfs came trooping out till
all were assembled.

“I don’t feel quite easy,” said one. “I feel as if some horrid human being were
near us.”

When Hok Lee heard this he came forward and bent down to the ground before the
dwarfs, who came crowding round and laughed heartily at his comical appearance
with his two big cheeks.

“What dost thou want?” they asked; and Hok Lee proceeded to tell them of his
fresh misfortunes and begged so hard to be allowed one more trial at dancing
that the dwarfs consented, for there is nothing they love so much as being
amused.

Now, Hok Lee knew how much depended on his dancing well, so he plucked up a
good spirit and began, first quite slowly and faster by degrees, and he danced
so well and gracefully, and made such new and wonderful steps, that the dwarfs
were quite delighted with him.

They clapped their tiny hands and shouted:

“Well done, Hok Lee, well done. Go on—dance more, for we are pleased.”

And Hok Lee danced on and on, till he really could dance no more and was
obliged to stop.

Then the leader of the dwarfs said: “We are well pleased, Hok Lee, and as a
recompense for thy dancing thy face shall he cured. Farewell.”

With these words he and the other dwarfs vanished, and Hok Lee, putting his
hands to his face, found to his great joy that his cheeks were reduced to their
natural size. The way home seemed short and easy to him, and he went to bed
happy and resolved never to go out robbing again.

Next day the whole town was full of the news of Hok’s sudden cure. His
neighbors questioned him, but could get nothing from him, except the fact that
he had discovered a wonderful cure for all kinds of diseases.

After a time a rich neighbor, who had been ill for some years, came and offered
to give Hok Lee a large sum of money if he would tell him how he might get
cured. Hok Lee consented on condition that he swore to keep the secret. He did
so, and Hok Lee told him of the dwarfs and their dances.

The neighbor went off, carefully obeyed Hok Lee’s directions, and was duly
cured by the dwarfs. Then another and another came to Hok Lee to beg his
secret, and from each he extracted a vow of secrecy and a large sum of money.
This went on for some years, so that at length Hok Lee became a very wealthy
man and ended his days in peace and prosperity.

A DREADFUL BOAR

By Adele M. Fielde

A poor Old Woman, who lived with her one little granddaughter in a wood, was
out gathering sticks for fuel and found a green stalk of sugar-cane which she
added to her bundle. She presently met an elf in the form of a Wild Boar, that
asked her for the cane. She declined giving it to him, saying that at her age
to stoop and to rise again was to earn what she picked up, and she was going to
take the cane home and let her little granddaughter suck its sap.

The Boar, angry at her refusal, said that during the coming night he would come
and eat her granddaughter instead of the cane, and went off into the wood.

When the Old Woman reached her cabin she sat down by the door and wailed, for
she knew that she had no means of defending herself against the Boar. While she
sat crying a vender of needles came along and asked her what was the matter.
She told him, but all that he could do for her was to give her a box of
needles. The Old Woman stuck the needles thickly over the lower half of the
door, on its outer side, and then went on crying.

Just then a Man came along with a basket of crabs, heard her lamentations, and
stopped to inquire what was the matter. She told him, but he said he knew no
help for her, but he would do the best he could for her by giving her half his
crabs. The woman put the crabs in her water jar, behind her door, and again sat
down and cried.

A Farmer, who was coming along from the fields, leading his ox, also asked the
cause of her distress and heard her story. He said he was sorry he could not
think of any way of preventing the evil she expected, but that he would leave
his ox to stay all night with her, as it might be a sort of company for her in
her loneliness. She led the ox into her cabin, tied it to the head of her
bedstead, gave it some straw, and then sat down to cry again.

A courier returning on horseback from a neighboring town was the next to pass
her door, and he dismounted to inquire what troubled her. Having heard her
tale, he said he would leave his horse to stay with her, and make the ox more
contented. So she tied the horse to the foot of the bed, and, thinking how
surely evil was coming upon her, she burst out crying anew.

A boy just then came along with a snapping turtle that he had caught and
stopped to ask what had happened to her. On learning the cause of her weeping
he said it was no use to contend against sprites, but that he would give her
his snapping turtle as a proof of his sympathy. She took the turtle, tied it in
front of her bedstead, and continued to cry.

Some men who were carrying millstones then came along, inquired into her
trouble, and expressed their compassion by giving her a millstone, which they
rolled into her back yard. While they were doing this a Man went by carrying
hoes and a pickaxe, and he stopped and asked her why she was crying so hard.
She told him her grief, and he said he would gladly help her if he could, but
he was only a well digger and could do nothing for her except to dig a well.
She pointed out a place in the backyard, and he went to work and quickly dug a
well.

On his departure the old woman cried again, until a Paper Seller came and
inquired what was the matter. When she told him he gave her a large sheet of
white paper, as a token of pity, and she laid it smoothly over the mouth of the
well.

Nightfall came. The old woman shut and barred her door, put her granddaughter
snugly on the wall side of the bed, and then lay down beside her to await the
foe.

At midnight the Boar came and threw himself against the door to break it in.
The needles wounded him sorely, so that when he had gained an entrance he was
heated and thirsty, and went to the water jar to drink.

When he thrust in his snout the crabs attacked him, clung to his bristles, and
pinched his ears, till he rolled over and over to free himself.

Then in a rage he approached the front of the bed; but the snapping turtle
nipped his tail and made him retreat under the feet of the horse, who kicked
him over to the ox, and the ox tossed him back to the horse. Thus beset, he was
glad to escape to the back yard to take a rest and to consider the situation.

Seeing a clean paper spread on the ground, he went to lie upon it, and fell
into the well. The Old Woman, hearing the fall, rushed out and rolled the
millstone down on him and crushed him.

THE FIVE QUEER BROTHERS

By Adele M. Fielde

An old woman had five grown-up sons that looked just alike. The eldest could
gulp up the ocean at a mouthful; the second was hard enough to nick steel; the
third had extensible legs; the fourth was unaffected by fire; the fifth lived
without breathing. They all concealed their peculiar traits, and their
neighbors did not know they were queer.

The eldest supported the family by fishing, going alone to the sea, and
bringing back loads of spoil. The neighbors often besought him to teach their
sons how to fish, and he at last let all their boys go with him, one day, to
learn his art. On reaching the shore he sucked the sea into his mouth, and sent
the boys to the dry bottom to collect the fish. When he was tired of holding
the water, he beckoned to the boys to return, but they were playing among
strange objects and paid no heed to him. When he could contain the sea no
longer, he had to let it flow back into its former basin, and all the boys were
drowned.

As he went homeward, he passed the doom of the parents, who inquired how many
fish their sons had caught and how long they would be in coming back. He told
them the facts, but they would not excuse him. They dragged him before the
magistrate to account for the loss of their children. He defended himself by
saying he had not invited the boys to go with him, and had consented to their
going only when the parents had repeatedly urged him; that after the boys were
on the ocean bed, he had done his utmost to induce them to come ashore; that he
had held the water as long as he could, and had then put it in the sea basin
solely because nothing else would contain it.

Notwithstanding this defense the judges decided that since he took the boys
away and did not bring them back, he was guilty of murder and sentenced him to
be beheaded.

He entreated leave to pay, before his execution, one visit to his aged mother,
and this was granted.

He went alone and told his brothers of his doom, and the second brother
returned in his stead to the judge, thanked him for having given him permission
to perform a duty required by filial piety, and said he was then ready to die.

He knelt with bowed head and the headsman brought the knife down across the
back of his neck, but the knife was nicked and the neck was left unharmed.

A second knife and a third of finer steel were brought and tried by headsmen
who were accustomed to sever heads clean off at one stroke. Having spoiled
their best blades without so much as scratching his neck, they took him back to
prison and informed the judge that the sentence could not be executed.

The judge accordingly decreed that he should be dropped into the sea which
covered his victims.

When the old woman’s son heard this decision he said that he took leave of his
mother supposing that his head was to be cut off, and that if he was to be
drowned he must go to her and make known his fate and get her blessing anew.

Permission being given, he went and told his brothers what had happened. The
third brother took the place of the second and presented himself before the
judge as the criminal that was to be sunk in the sea. He was carried far from
shore and thrown overboard, but he stretched his legs till his feet touched
bottom, and he stood with his head in the air. They hauled him aboard and took
him farther from land, but still his extensible legs supported him above the
waters. Then they sailed to mid-ocean and cast him into its greatest depths,
but his legs still lengthened so that he was not drowned. They brought him back
to the judge, reported what had been done, and said that some other method of
destroying him must be followed.

On hearing this the judge condemned him to death by being boiled in oil. While
the caldron was being heated he begged and obtained permission to go and tell
his mother of the way he had survived from the attempt to drown him, and of the
manner in which he was soon to be taken off.

His brothers having heard the latest judgment, the fourth one went to bear the
penalty of the law and was lowered into the kettle of boiling oil. In this he
disported himself as if in a tepid bath, and he even asked his executioners to
stir up the fire a little to increase the warmth. Finding that he could not be
fried, he was remanded to prison.

At this the populace, the bereaved parents, and the magistrate joined in an
effort to invent a sure method of putting him to death. Water, fire, and sword
all having failed, they finally fixed upon smothering him in a vast cream cake.

The whole country round made contributions of flour for the pastry, of sugar
for the filling, and of bricks for a huge oven; and it was made and baked on a
plain outside the city walls.

Meanwhile the prisoner was allowed to go and bid his mother farewell, and the
fifth brother secretly became his substitute.

When the cake was done, a multitude of people with oxen, horses, and ropes
dragged it to the execution ground, and within it the culprit was interred.

As he was able to exist without air he rested peacefully till the next
midnight, and then safely crawled forth, returned to his home, and dwelt there
happily for many years with his remarkable brothers.

THE ACCOMPLISHED AND LUCKY TEAKETTLE

By A. B. Mitford

A long time ago, at a temple called Morinji, there was an old teakettle. One
day, when the priest of the temple was about to hang it over the hearth to boil
the water for his tea, to his amazement the kettle all of a sudden put forth
the head and tail of a badger. What a wonderful kettle, to come out all over
fur!

The priest, thunderstruck, called in the novices or assistants of the temple to
see the sight; and while they were stupidly staring, one suggesting one thing
and another another, the kettle, jumping up into the air, began flying about
the room. More astonished than ever, the priest and his pupils tried to pursue
it; but no thief or cat was ever half so sharp as the wonderful badger kettle.
At last, however, they managed to knock it down and secure it; and, holding it
in with their united efforts, they forced it into a box, intending to carry it
off and throw it away in some distant place, so that they might no more be
plagued with the goblin.

For this day their troubles were over, but as luck would have it, the tinker
who was in the habit of working for the temple called in, and the priest
suddenly bethought him that it was a pity to throw the kettle away for nothing,
and that he might as well get a trifle for it, no matter how small. So he
brought out the kettle, which had resumed its former shape and had got rid of
its head and tail, and showed it to the tinker. When the tinker saw the kettle,
he offered twenty copper coins for it, and the priest was only too glad to
close the bargain and be rid of his troublesome piece of furniture. And the
tinker trudged off home with his pack and his new purchase.

That night, as he lay asleep, he heard a strange noise near his pillow; so he
peeped out from under the bedclothes and there he saw the kettle that he had
bought in the temple covered with fur and walking about on four legs. The
tinker started up in a fright to see what it could all mean, when all of a
sudden the kettle resumed its former shape. This happened over and over again,
until at last the tinker showed the teakettle to a friend of his, who said,
“This is certainly an accomplished and lucky teakettle—you should take it about
as a show, with songs and accompaniments of musical instruments, and make it
dance and walk on the tight rope.”

The tinker, thinking this good advice, made arrangements with a showman, and
set up an exhibition. The noise of the kettle’s performances soon spread
abroad, until even the princes of the land sent to order the tinker to come to
them; and he grew rich beyond all expectations. Even the princesses, too, and
the great ladies of the court, took great delight in the dancing kettle, so
that no sooner had it shown its tricks in one place than it was time for them
to keep some other engagement.

At last the tinker grew so rich that he took the kettle back to the temple,
where it was laid up as a precious treasure and worshiped as a saint.

THE ADVENTURES OF LITTLE PEACHLING

By A. B. Mitford

Many hundred years ago there lived an honest old woodcutter and his wife. One
fine morning the old man went off to the hills with his bill hook to gather a
faggot of sticks, while his wife went down to the river to wash the dirty
clothes. When she came to the river, she saw a peach floating down the stream;
so she picked it up and carried it homeward with her, thinking to give it to
her husband to eat when he should come in. The old man soon came down from the
hills, and the good wife set the peach before him, when, just as she was
inviting him to eat it, the fruit split in two and a little baby was born into
the world. So the old couple took the babe and brought it up as their own; and
because it had been born in a peach, they called it Momotaro, or Little
Peachhing!

By degrees Little Peachling grew up to be strong and brave, and at last one day
he said to his old foster parents—

“I am going to the ogres’ island, to carry off the riches they have stored up
there. Pray, then, make me some millet dumplings for my journey.”

So the old folks ground the millet and made the dumplings for him; and Little
Peachling, after taking an affectionate leave of them, cheerfully set out on
his travels.

As he was journeying on, he fell in with an Ape, who gibbered at him, and said,

“Kia! kia! kia! where are you off to, Little Peachling?”

“I’m going to the ogres’ island, to carry off their treasure,” answered Little
Peachling.

“What are you carrying at your girdle?”

“I’m carrying the very best millet dumplings in all Japan.

“If you’ll give me one, I will go with you,” said the Ape.

So Little Peachhing gave one of his dumplings to the Ape, who received it and
followed him. When he had gone a little farther, he heard a Pheasant calling—

“Ken! ken! ken! where are you off to, Master Peachling?”

Little Peachling answered as before; and the Pheasant, having begged and
obtained a millet dumpling, entered his service and followed him. A little
while after this they met a Dog, who cried—

Bow! wow! wow! whither away, Master Peachling?”

“I’m going off to the ogres’ island, to carry off their treasure.

“If you will give me one of those nice millet dumplings of yours, I will go
with you,” said the Dog.

“With all my heart,” said Little Peachling. So he went on his way, with the
Ape, the Pheasant, and the Dog following after him.

When they got to the ogres’ island, the Pheasant flew over the castle gate and
the Ape clambered over the castle wall, while Little Peachling, leading the
Dog, forced in the gate and got into the castle. Then they did battle with the
ogres and put them to flight, and took their King prisoner. So all the ogres
did homage to Little Peachling, and brought out the treasures which they had
laid up. There were caps and coats that made their wearers invisible, jewels
which governed the ebb and the flow of the tide, coral, musk, emeralds, amber,
and tortoise shells, besides gold and silver. All these were laid before Little
Peachling by the conquered ogres.

So Little Peachling went home laden with riches, and maintained his foster
parents in peace and plenty for the remainder of their lives.

THE TWO LIZARDS

By Annie Ker

In the old days there lived two lizards, Webubu and Nagari. Webubu was plain of
speech, and moreover was unable to cry aloud, but Nagari, by stretching his
long neck, could produce a sweet low sound, somewhat after the manner of a
whistle.

Nagari longed for companions, so he stretched his neck and cried “U-u-u-u-u.”
Then many women, hearing the sweet sound, flocked to where Nagari sat, and
listened to his music. This pleased Nagari, and he continued to sound his long
note. “U-u-u-u-u,” he sang, and the women sat so still, one might have thought
them dead or weeping.

Webubu, on the contrary, had no one to cheer him in his loneliness. “What can I
do,” he said, “to draw women to me as Nagari has done? I have not a sweet voice
as he has. What can I do?”

As he was speaking a thought grew up in his heart, and he began to act. He cut
a slim piece of hollow bamboo, and pierced small holes in it. Thus was the
first flute (duraio) born. Webubu then built himself a platform high in a
corkwood tree, which we call “troba” on the beach, and seating himself there he
began to play his flute.

The women sat patiently around Nagari, while he sounded his one note, “U-u-u!”
But on a sudden, upon the still air, broke the sweet voice of Webubu’s flute.
High and sweet were the notes which Webubu sent forth from his flute.

“M! m!” said the listening women.

“U-u-u-u,” sang Nagari.

“Ah, ss-ss-ss!” cried the women. “Deafen us not with thy ‘U,’ when we would
hear this strange music!”

Nagari was much troubled at this saying, and marveled greatly. Then one woman
made bold to rise up, and saying, “I shall return,” she went to seek the sweet
music. Now this woman lied, for she never returned. After a time, another woman
arose and said, “Stay here, my friends; I shall return.”

Then she went in like manner to look for the music. And she also lied, for she
returned not. And so with each woman, until Nagari was left sitting alone as he
had been at the beginning.

Now Webubu was still playing his flute on the platform he had built in the
corkwood tree, when the women came in sight. He was alarmed for the safety of
his frail platform, when he saw these many people advancing, and he cried,
“Come not up into the tree. Remain below, I beseech you, O women!”

But the women were consumed with eagerness to be close to the music which had
taken their hearts, and they climbed, all of them, until they were upon the
platform of Webubu.

Then straightway what he had feared came to pass, and Webubu, and his flute,
and the multitude of women fell crashing through the branches of the corkwood
tree to the ground beneath.

And from that hour until now, all corkwood trees lean toward the earth, as I
will show thee, if thou wilt go with me to the beach where they grow.

DE KING AND DE PEAFOWL

By Mary Pamela Milne-Horne

One day once ’pon a time de King hab a party of ladies an’ genelmen. An’ arter
de party, de band was ter come an’ play. But de fiddler was took sick, so dey
could not dance. So de King said, “I am gwine ter sen’ ober ter my frien’s an’
ask dem ter come an’ sing.” So he sen’, an’ de genelman say he was very glad
an’ his family was Dog, Peafowl, and Tiger. So he sen’ Missis Duck fus, an’ dey
said, “Can you sing? let me har you voice.”

Dey put her in a rocking-chair ’pon de platform, an’ de Duck say, “Hahh! hahh!”
an’ den he say, “Dat will not do. Sen’ for Dog.” An’ dey took her an’ put her
in a coop, an’ all de ducks come round an’ ask to have her let out, an’ say,
“Hahh! hahh! hahh!”

Den dey sen’ for Dog an’ tole him dat if he fin’ a salt beef bone in de road,
he mus’ not pick it up, ’cos it mek him rough in his troat. So Dog did not pick
it up, but pass it; but arter, when he go, his voice did not suit either. Dey
tole Dog to sing, an’ he said, “How! how! how!” An’ de King say, “Don’t wan’ a
man ter ask me how—he will not do.” Dey saw a Fowl coming. “Can you sing?” An’
de Fowl say “Ka! ka! ka!” an’ dey said, “Dat will not do,” an’ dribe de Fowl
’way. De Cock came in arter, an’ de Cock said, “Coquericou,” an’ dey said, “De
King don’ wan’ ter know when de daylight, sah!” De King came in an’ said, “All
dese people cannot sing; dey will not do.”

Dey sen’ Tiger, an’ dey said, “You must not pick up a big salt beef bone in de
road.” An’ de Tiger did pick it up, an’ Tiger could not sing, an’ said, “Grum!
grum! grum!”

“Dat voice is wuss dan all, dat voice will not do.”

Den dey sen’ off for Peafowl, but Peafowl would not go. Dey went back ter
dinner, all de people went back ter dinner, an’ when dey were at dinner in a
large house, de Peafowl came in an’ sing—

Mi – kale an’ iv’ry, Mi – kale an’ iv’rv. Mi –

kale an’ iv’ry, Mi – kale an’ iv’ry, Why – ou, Why – ou

Why – ou Why – ou Why-ou Wife gwine ter die.

Den de genelmen jump up an’ say, “Hullo! What dat?” De King say, “Sing again,
my pritty lil’ bird,” an’ den de Peafowl sang, “Mikale an’ iv’ry, Mikale an’
iv’ry, Mikale an’ iv’ry, Whyou, Whyou, Whyou, Whyou, Whyou wife gwine ter die.”
“What dat? What dat? What dat?” dey say, an’ de bird den settin’ on de tree
sing, “Mikale an’ iv’ry,” etc.

De King say, “Sing again, you pritty lil’ bird. You dress shall be tipped with
blue, an’ you shall hab a beautiful field of corn as a present.” An’ de bird
sang again better, when he har dat, “Mikale an’ iv’ry, Mikale an’ iv’ry, Mikale
an’ iv’ry, Mikale an’ iv’ry, whyou, whyou, whyou, whyou, whyou wife gwine ter
die.” De King jump up an’ call de buggy, an’ jump in an’ tek de Peafowl in, an’
all de horses was richly decked, an’ all de company very fine, dey dribe de
Peafowl home, an’ dat why de Peafowl hav such a beautiful dress.

HANSEL AND GRETHEL

By William and Jacob Grimm

Once upon a time there dwelt near a large wood a poor woodcutter with his wife
and two children by his former marriage, a little boy called Hansel and a girl
named Grethel. He had little enough to break or bite, and once, when there was
a great famine in the land, he could not procure even his daily bread; and as
he lay thinking in his bed one evening, rolling about for trouble, he sighed,
and said to his wife, “What will become of us? How can we feed our children
when we have no more than we can eat ourselves?”

“Know, then, my husband,” answered she, “we will lead them away quite early in
the morning into the thickest part of the wood, and there make them a fire, and
give them each a little piece of bread; then we will go to our work and leave
them alone, so they will not find the way home again and we shall be freed from
them.” “No, wife,” replied he, “that I can never do; how can you bring your
heart to leave my children all alone in the wood, for the wild beasts will soon
come and tear them to pieces?”

“Oh, you simpleton!” said she, “then we must all four die of hunger; you had
better plane the coffins for us.” But she left him no peace till he consented
saying, “Ah, but I shall regret the poor children.”

The two children, however, had not gone to sleep for very hunger, and so they
overheard what the stepmother said to their father. Grethel wept bitterly, and
said to Hansel, “What will become of us?” “Be quiet, Grethel,” said he; “do not
cry, I will soon help you.” And as soon as their parents had fallen asleep, he
got up, put on his coat, and, unbarring the back door, slipped out. The moon
shone brightly, and the white pebbles which lay before the door seemed like
silver pieces, they glittered so brightly. Hansel stooped down, and put as many
into his pocket as it would hold, and then going back he said to Grethel, “Be
comforted, dear sister, and sleep in peace; God will not forsake us;” and so
saying he went to bed again.

The next morning, before the sun arose, the wife went and awoke the two
children. “Get up, you lazy things; we are going into the forest to chop wood.”
Then she gave them each a piece of bread, saying, “There is something for your
dinner; do not eat it before the time, for you will get nothing else.” Grethel
took the bread in her apron, for Hansel’s pocket was full of pebbles; and so
they all set out upon their way. When they had gone a little distance Hansel
stood still, and peeped back at the house; and this he repeated several times,
till his father said, “Hansel, what are you peeping at, and why do you lag
behind? Take care, and remember your legs.”

“Ah! father,” said Hansel, “I am looking at my white cat sitting upon the roof
of the house, and trying to say good-by.” “You simpleton!” said the wife, “that
is not a cat; it is only the sun shining on the white chimney.” But in reality
Hansel was not looking at a cat; but every time he stopped he dropped a pebble
out of his pocket upon the path.

When they came to the middle of the wood the father told the children to
collect wood, and he would make them a fire, so that they should not be cold;
so Hansel and Grethel gathered together quite a little mountain of twigs. Then
they set fire to them, and as the flame burned up high the wife said, “Now, you
children, lie down near the fire and rest yourself, while we go into the forest
and chop Wood; when we are ready, I will come and call you.”

Hansel and Grethel sat down by the fire, and when it was noon each ate the
piece of bread, and, because they could hear the blows of an ax, they thought
their father was near; but it was not an ax, but a branch which he had bound to
a withered tree, so as to be blown to and fro by the wind. They waited so long
that at last their eyes closed from weariness, and they fell fast asleep. When
they awoke it was quite dark, and Grethel began to cry; “How shall we get out
of the wood?” But Hansel tried to comfort her by saying, “Wait a little while
till the moon rises, and then we will quickly find the way.” The moon soon
shone forth, and Hansel, taking his sister’s hand, followed the pebbles, which
glittered like new-coined silver pieces, and showed them the path. All night
long they walked on, and as day broke they came to their father’s house. They
knocked at the door, and when the wife opened it, and saw Hansel and Grethel,
she exclaimed, “You wicked children! why did you sleep so long in the wood? We
thought you were never coming home again.” But their father was very glad, for
it had grieved his heart to leave them all alone.

Not long afterward there was again great scarcity in every corner of the land;
and one night the children overheard their mother saying to their father,
“Everything is again consumed; we have only half a loaf left, and then the song
is ended: the children must be sent away. We will take them deeper into the
wood, so that they may not find the way out again; it is the only means of
escape for us.”

But her husband felt heavy at heart, and thought, “It were better to share the
last crust with the children.” His wife, however, would listen to nothing that
he said and scolded and, reproached him without end. He who says A must say B
too; and he who consents the first time must also the second.

The children, however, had heard the conversation as they lay awake, and as
soon as the old people went to sleep Hansel got up intending’ to pick up some
pebbles as before; but the wife had locked the door, so that he could not get
out. Nevertheless he comforted Grethel, saying, “Do not cry; sleep in quiet;
the good God will not forsake us.”

Early in the morning the stepmother came and pulled them out of bed, and gave
them each a slice of bread, which was still smaller than the former piece. On
the way Hansel broke his in his pocket, and, stopping every now and then,
dropped a crumb upon the path. “Hansel, why do you stop and look about?” said
the father. “Keep in the path.”—“I am looking at my little dove,” answered
Hansel, “nodding a good-by to me.”

“Simpleton!” said the wife, “that is no dove, but only the sun shining on the
chimney.”

So Hansel kept still dropping crumbs as he went along.

The mother led the children deep into the wood, where they had never been
before, and there making an immense fire, she said to them, “Sit down here and
rest, and when you feel tired you can sleep for a little while. We are going
into the forest to hew wood, and in the evening, when we are ready, we will
come and fetch you.”

When noon came Grethel shared her bread with Hansel, who had strewn his on the
path. Then they went to sleep; but the evening arrived, and no one came to
visit the poor children, and in the dark night they awoke, and Hansel comforted
his sister by saying, “Only wait, Grethel, till the moon comes out, then we
shall see the crumbs of bread which I have dropped, and they will show us the
way home.” The moon shone and they got up, but they could not see any crumbs,
for the thousands of birds which had been flying about in the woods and fields
had picked them all up. Hansel kept saying to Grethel, “We will soon find the
way”; but they did not, and they walked the whole night long and the next day,
but still they did not come out of the wood; and they got so hungry, for they
had nothing to eat but the berries which they found upon the bushes.

Soon they got so tired that they could not drag themselves along, so they laid
down under a tree and went to sleep.

It was now the third morning since they had left their father’s house, and they
still walked on; but they only got deeper and deeper into the wood, and Hansel
saw that if help did not come very soon they would die of hunger.

As soon as it was noon they saw a beautiful snow-white bird sitting upon a
bough which sang so sweetly that they stood still and listened to it. It soon
left off, and spreading its wings, flew off; and they followed it until it
arrived at a cottage, upon the roof of which it perched; and when they went
close up to it they saw that the cottage was made of bread and cakes, and the
windowpanes were of clear sugar.

“We will go in there,” said Hansel, “and have a glorious feast. I will eat a
piece of the roof, and you can eat the window. Will they not be sweet?” So
Hansel reached up and broke a piece off the roof, in order to see how it
tasted; while Grethel stepped up to the window and began to bite it. Then a
sweet voice called out in the room, “Tip-tap, tip-tap, who raps at my door?”
and the children answered, “The wind, the wind, the child of heaven”; and they
went on eating without interruption. Hansel thought the roof tasted very nice,
and so he tore off a great piece; while Grethel broke a large round pane out of
the window, and sat down quite contentedly. Just then the door opened, and a
very old woman, walking upon crutches, came out. Hansel and Grethel were so
frightened that they let fall what they had in their hands; but the old woman,
nodding her head, said, “Ah, you dear children, what has brought you here? Come
in and stop with me, and no harm shall befall you;” and so saying she took them
both by the hand, and led them into her cottage. A good meal of milk and
pancakes, with sugar, apples, and nuts, was spread on the table, and in the
back room were two nice little beds, covered with white, where Hansel and
Grethel laid themselves down, and thought themselves in heaven. The old woman
had behaved very kindly to them, but in reality she was a wicked witch who
waylaid children, and built the bread house in order to entice them in; but as
soon as they were in her power she killed them, cooked and ate them, and made a
great festival of the day. Witches have red eyes, and cannot see very far; but
they have a fine sense of smelling, like wild beasts, so that they know when
children approach them. When Hansel and Grethel came near the witch’s house she
laughed wickedly, saying, “Here come two who shall not escape me.” And early in
the morning, before they awoke, she went up to them, and saw how lovingly they
lay sleeping, with their chubby red cheeks; and she mumbled to herself, “That
will be a good bite.” Then she took up Hansel with her rough hand, and shut him
up in a little cage with a lattice door; and although he screamed loudly, it
was of no use. Grethel came next, and, shaking her till she awoke, she said,
“Get up, you lazy thing, and fetch some water to cook something good for your
brother, who must remain in that stall and get fat; when he is fat enough I
shall, eat him.” Grethel began to cry, but it was all useless, for the old
witch made her do as she wished. So a nice meal was cooked for Hansel, but
Grethel got nothing else but a crab’s claw.

Every morning the old witch came to the cage and said, “Hansel, stretch your
finger that I may feel whether you are getting fat.” But Hansel used to stretch
out a bone, and the old woman, having very bad sight, thought it was his
finger, and wondered very much that it did not get fat. When four weeks had
passed, and Hansel still kept quite lean, she lost all her patience and would
not wait any longer. “Grethel.” she called out in a passion, “get some water
quickly; be Hansel fat or lean, this morning I will kill and cook him.” Oh, how
the poor little sister grieved, as she was forced to fetch the water, and how
fast the tears ran down her cheeks! “Dear good God, help us now!” she
exclaimed. “Had we only been eaten by the wild beasts in the wood then we
should have died together.” But the old witch called out, “Leave off that
noise; it will not help you a bit.”

So early in the morning Grethel was forced to go out and fill the kettle, and
make a fire. “First we will bake, however,” said the old woman; “I have already
heated the oven and kneaded the dough”; and so saying she pushed poor Grethel
up to the oven, out of which the flames were burning fiercely. “Creep in,” said
the witch, “and see if it is hot enough, and then we will put in the bread”;
but she intended when Grethel got in to shut up the oven and let her bake, so
that she might eat her as well as Hansel. Grethel perceived what her thoughts
were, and said, “I do not know how to do it; how shall I get in?” “You stupid
goose,” said she, “the opening is big enough. See, I could even get in myself!”
and she got up and put her head into the oven. Then Grethel gave her a push, so
that she fell right in, and then shutting the iron door, she bolted it. Oh! how
horribly she howled; but Grethel ran away, and left the ungodly witch to burn
to ashes.

Now she ran to Hansel, and, opening his door, called out, “Hansel, we are
saved; the old witch is dead!” So he sprang out, like a bird out of his cage
when the door is opened; and they were so glad that they fell upon each other’s
neck, and kissed each other over and over again. And now, as there was nothing
to fear, they went into the witch’s house, where in every corner were caskets
full of pearls and precious stones. “These are better than pebbles,” said
Hansel, putting as many into his pocket as it would hold; while Grethel
thought, “I will take some home, too,” and filled her apron full. “We must be
off now,” said Hansel, “and get out of this bewitched forest”; but when they
had walked for two hours they came to a large piece of water. “We cannot get
over,” said Hansel. “I can see no bridge at all.” “And there is no boat
either,” said Grethel; “but there swims a white duck, I will ask her to help us
over;” and she sang,

“Little duck, good little duck,
    Grethel and Hansel, here we stand,
There is neither stile nor bridge,
    Take us on your back to land.”

So the duck came to them, and Hansel sat himself on, and bade his sister sit
behind him. “No,” answered Grethel, “that will be too much for the duck, she
shall take us over one at a time.” This the good little bird did, and when both
were happily arrived on the other side, and had gone a little way, they came to
a well-known wood, which they knew the better every step they went, and at last
they perceived their father’s house. Then they began to run, and, bursting into
the house, they fell on their father’s neck. He had not had one happy hour
since he had left the children in the forest; and his wife was dead. Grethel
shook her apron, and the pearls and precious stones rolled out upon the floor,
and Hansel threw down one handful after the other out of his pocket. Then all
their sorrows were ended, and they lived together in great happiness.

My tale is done. There runs a mouse; whoever catches her may make a great,
great cap out of her fur.

THUMBLING

By William and Jacob Grimm

Once upon a time there lived a poor peasant, who used to sit every evening by
the hearth, poking the fire, while his wife spun. One night he said, “How sad
it is that we have no children; everything is so quiet here, while in other
houses it is so noisy and merry.”

“Ah!” sighed his wife, “if we had but only one, and were he no bigger than my
thumb, I should still be content, and love him with all my heart.” A little
while after the wife fell ill; and after seven months a child was born, who,
although he was perfectly formed in all his limbs, was not actually bigger than
one’s thumb. So they said to one another that it had happened just as they
wished; and they called the child “Thumbling.” Every day they gave him all the
food he could eat; still he did not grow a bit, but remained exactly the height
he was when first born; he looked about him, however, very knowingly, and
showed himself to be a bold and clever fellow, who prospered in everything he
undertook.

One morning the peasant was making ready to go into the forest to fell wood,
and said, “Now I wish I had some one who could follow me with the cart.”

“Oh! father,” exclaimed Thumbling, “I will bring the cart; don’t you trouble
yourself; it shall be there at the right time.”

The father laughed at this speech, and said, “How shall that be? You are much
too small to lead the horse by the bridle.”

“That matters not, father. If mother will harness the horse, I can sit in his
car, and tell him which way to take.”

“Well, we will try for once,” said the father; and so, when the hour came, the
mother harnessed the horse, and placed Thumbling in its ear, and told him how
to guide it. Then he set out quite like a man, and the cart went on the right
road to the forest; and just as it turned a corner, and Thumbling called out
“Steady, steady,” two strange men met it; and one said to the other, “My
goodness, what is this? Here comes a cart, and the driver keeps calling to the
horse; but I can see no one.” “That cannot be all right,” said the other: “let
us follow and see where the cart stops.”

The cart went on safely deep into the forest, and straight to the place where
the wood was cut. As soon as Thumbling saw his father, he called to him, “Here,
father; here I am, you see, with the cart; just take me down.” The peasant
caught the bridle of the horse with his left hand, and with his right took his
little son out of its ear; and he sat himself down merrily on a straw. When the
two strangers saw the little fellow, they knew not what to say for
astonishment; and one of them took his companion aside, and said, “This little
fellow might make our fortune if we could exhibit him in the towns. Let us buy
him.” They went up to the peasant, and asked, “Will you sell your son? We will
treat him well.” “No,” replied the man; “he is my heart’s delight, and not to
be bought for all the money in the world!” But Thumbling, when he heard what
was said, climbed up by his father’s skirt, and set himself on his shoulder,
and whispered in his ear, “Let me go now, and I will soon come back again.” So
his father gave him to the two men for a fine piece of gold; and they asked him
where he would sit. “Oh,” replied he, “put me on the rim of your hat; and then
I can walk round and survey the country. I will not fall off.” They did as he
wished; and when he had taken leave of his father, they set out. Just as it was
getting dark he asked to be lifted down; and, after some demur, the man on
whose hat he was, took him off and placed him on the ground. In an instant
Thumbling ran off, and crept into a mousehole, where they could not see him.
“Good evening, masters,” said he, “you can go home without me”; and with a
quiet laugh he crept into his hole still further. The two men poked their
sticks into the hole, but all in vain; for Thumbling only went down further;
and when it had grown quite dark they were obliged to return home full of
vexation and with empty pockets.

As soon as Thumbling perceived that they were off, he crawled out of his hiding
place, and said, “How dangerous it is to walk in this field in the dark: one
might soon break one’s head or legs;” and so saying he looked around, and by
great good luck saw an empty snail shell. “God be praised,” he exclaimed, “here
I can sleep securely; and in he went. Just as he was about to fall asleep he
heard two men coming by, one of whom said to the other, “How shall we manage to
get at the parson’s gold and silver?”

“That I can tell you,” interrupted Thumbling.

“What was that?” exclaimed the thief, frightened. “I heard some one speak.”
They stood still and listened; and then Thumbling said, “Take me with you, and
I will help you.”

“Where are you?” asked the thieves.

“Search on the ground, and mark where my voice comes from,” replied he. The
thief looked about, and at last found him; and lifted him up in the air.

“What, will you help us, you little wight?” said they.

“Do you not see I can creep between the iron bars into the chamber of the
parson, and reach out to you whatever you require?”

“Very well; we will see what you can do,” said the thief.

When they came to the house, Thumbling crept into the chamber, and cried out
with all his might, “Will you have all that is here?” The thieves were
terrified, and said, “Speak gently, or some one will awake.”

But Thumbling feigned not to understand, and exclaimed, louder still, “Will you
have all that is here?”

This awoke the cook, who slept in the room, and sitting up in her bed she
listened. The thieves, however, had run back a little way, quite frightened;
but taking courage again, and thinking the little fellow wished to tease them,
they came and whispered to him to make haste and hand them out something. At
this, Thumbling cried out still more loudly, “I will give you it all, only put
your hands in.” The listening maid heard this clearly, and springing out of
bed, hurried out at the door. The thieves ran off as if they were pursued by
the wild huntsman, but the maid, as she could see nothing, went to strike a
light. When she returned, Thumbling escaped without being seen into the barn,
and the maid, after she had looked round and searched in every corner, without
finding anything, went to bed again, believing she had been dreaming with her
eyes open. Meanwhile Thumbling had crept in amongst the hay, and found a
beautiful place to sleep, where he intended to rest till daybreak, and then to
go home to his parents.

Other things however, was he to experience, for there is much tribulation and
trouble going on in this world.

The maid got up at dawn of day to feed the cow. Her first walk was to the barn,
where she took an armful of hay, and just the bundle where poor Thumbling lay
asleep. He slept so soundly, however, that he was not conscious, and only awoke
when he was in the cow’s mouth. “Ah, goodness!” exclaimed he, “however came I
into this mill?” but soon he saw where he really was. Then he took care not to
come between the teeth, but presently slipped quite down the cow’s throat.
“There are no windows in this room,” said he to himself, “and no sunshine, and
I brought no light with me.” Overhead his quarters seemed still worse, and more
than all, he felt his room growing narrower, as the cow swallowed more hay. So
he began to call out in terror as loudly as he could, “Bring me no more food. I
do not want any more food!” Just then the maid was milking the cow, and when
she heard the voice without seeing anything, and knew it was the same she had
listened to in the night, she was so frightened that she slipped off her stool
and overturned the milk. In great haste she ran to her master, saying, “Oh, Mr.
Parson, the cow has been speaking.”

“You are crazy,” he replied; but still he went himself into The stable to see
what was the matter, and scarcely had he stepped in when Thumbling began to
shout out again, “Bring me no more food, bring me no more food.” This terrified
the parson himself, and he thought an evil spirit had entered into his cow, and
so ordered her to be killed. As soon as that was done, and they were dividing
the carcass, a fresh accident befell Thumbling, for a wolf, who was passing at
the time, made a snatch at the cow, and tore away the part where he was stuck
fast. However, he did not lose courage, but as soon as the wolf had swallowed
him, he called out from inside, “Oh, Mr. Wolf, I know of a capital meal for
you.” “Where is it to be found?” asked the wolf

“In the house by the meadow; you must creep through the gutter, and there you
will find cakes, and bacon, and sausages, as many as you can eat,” replied
Thumbling, describing exactly his father’s house.

The wolf did not wait to be told twice, but in the night crept in, and ate away
in the larder, to his heart’s content. When he had finished, he tried to escape
by the way he entered, but the hole was not large enough. Thereupon Thumbling,
who had reckoned on this, began to make a tremendous noise inside the poor
wolf, screaming and shouting as loud as he could. “Will you be quiet?” said the
wolf; “you will awake the people.” “Eh, what!” cried the little man, “since you
have satisfied yourself, it is my turn now to make merry;” and he set up a
louder howling than before. At last his father and mother awoke, and came to
the room and looked through the chinks of the door; and as soon as they
perceived the ravages the wolf had committed, they ran and brought the man his
ax and the woman the scythe. “Stop you behind,” said the man, as they entered
the room; “if my blow does not kill him, you must give him a cut with your
weapon, and chop off his head if you can.”

When Thumbling heard his father’s voice, he called out, “Father dear, I am
here, in the wolf’s body!” “Heaven be praised,” said the man, full of joy, “our
dear child is found again;” and he bade his wife take away the scythe, lest it
should do any harm to his son. Then he raised his ax, and gave the wolf such a
blow on its head that it fell dead, and, taking a knife, he cut it open and
released the little fellow, his son. “Ah,” said his father, “what trouble we
have had about you.” “Yes, father,” replied Thumbling, “I have been traveling a
great deal about the world. Heaven be praised! I breathe fresh air again.”

“Where have you been, my son?” he inquired.

“Once I was in a mouse’s hole, once inside a cow, and lastly inside that wolf;
and now I will stop here with you,” said Thumbling.

“Yes,” said the old people, “we will not sell you again for all the riches of
the world;” and they embraced and kissed him with great affection. Then they
gave him plenty to eat and drink, and had new clothes made for him, for his old
ones were worn out with traveling.

THE SIX SWANS

By William and Jacob Grimm

A king was once hunting in a large wood, and pursued his game so hotly, that
none of his courtiers could follow him. But when evening approached he stopped,
and looking around him perceived that he had lost himself. He sought a path out
of the forest, but could not find one, and presently he saw an old woman with a
nodding head, who came up to him. “My good woman,” said he to her, “can you not
show me the way out of the forest?” “Oh, yes, my lord King,” she replied, “I
can do that very well, but upon one condition, which if you do not fulfill you
will never again get out of the wood, but will die of hunger.”

“What, then, is this condition?” asked the King.

“I have a daughter,” said the old woman, “who is as beautiful as anyone you can
find in the whole world, and well deserves to be your bride. Now, if you will
make her your Queen, I will show you your way out of the wood.” In the anxiety
of his heart the King consented, and the old woman led him to her cottage,
where the daughter was sitting by a fire. She received the King as if she had
expected him, and he saw at once that she was very beautiful, but yet she did
not quite please him, for he could not look at her without a secret shuddering.
However, after all, he took the maiden up on his horse, and the old woman
showed him the way, and the King arrived safely at his palace, where the
wedding was to be celebrated.

The King had been married once before, and had seven children by his first
wife, six boys and a girl, whom he loved above everything else in the world. He
became afraid, soon, that the stepmother might not treat them very well, and
might even do them some great injury, so he took them away to a lonely castle
which stood in the midst of a forest. This castle was so hidden, and the way to
it so difficult to discover, that he himself could not have found it if a wise
woman had not given him a ball of cotton which had the wonderful property, when
he threw it before him, of unrolling itself and showing him the right path. The
King went, however, so often to see his dear children, that the Queen noticed
his absence, became inquisitive, and wished to know what he went to fetch out
of the forest. So she gave his servants a great quantity of money, and they
disclosed to her the secret, and also told her of the ball of cotton which
alone could show the way. She had now no peace until she discovered where this
ball was concealed, and then she made some fine silken shirts, and, as she had
learned of her mother, she sewed within each one a charm. One day soon after,
when the King was gone out hunting, she took the little shirts and went into
the forest, and the cotton showed her the path. The children, seeing some one
coming in the distance, thought it was their dear father, and ran out toward
her full of joy. Then she threw over each of them a shirt, which as it touched
their bodies changed them into Swans, which flew away over the forest. The
Queen then went home quite contented, and thought she was free of her
stepchildren; but the little girl had not met her with the brothers, and the
Queen did not know of her.

The following day the King went to visit his children, but he found only the
maiden. “Where are your brothers?” asked he. “Ah, dear father,” she replied,
“they are gone away and have left me alone;” and she told him how she had
looked out of the window and seen them changed into Swans, which had flown over
the forest; and then she showed him the feathers which they had dropped in the
courtyard, and which she had collected together. The King was much grieved, but
he did not think that his wife could have done this wicked deed, and, as he
feared the girl might also be stolen away, he took her with him. She was,
however, so much afraid of the stepmother, that she begged him not to stop more
than one night in the castle.

The poor maiden thought to herself: “This is no longer my place, I will go and
seek my brothers;” and when night came she escaped and went quite deep into the
wood. She walked all night long and great part of the next day, until she could
go no further from weariness. Just then she saw a rude hut, and walking in she
found a room with six little beds, but she dared not get into one, but crept
under, and, laying herself upon the hard earth, prepared to pass the night
there. Just as the sun was setting, she heard a rustling, and saw six white
Swans come flying in at the window. They settled on the ground and began
blowing one another until they had blown all their feathers off, and their
swan’s down stripped off like a shirt. Then the maiden knew them at once for
her brothers, and gladly crept out from under the bed, and the brothers were
not less glad to see their sister, but their joy was of short duration. “Here
you must not stay,” said they to her; “this is a robber’s hiding-place; if they
should return and find you here, they will murder you.” “Can you not protect
me, then?” inquired the sister.

“No,” they replied, “for we can only lay aside our swan’s feathers for a
quarter of an hour each evening, and for that time we retain our human form,
but afterward we resume our usual appearance.”

Their sister then asked them with tears, “Can you not be restored again?”

“Oh, no,” replied they, “the conditions are too difficult. For six long years
you must neither speak nor laugh, and during that time you must sew together
for us six little shirts of star flowers, and should there fall a single word
from your lips, then all your labor will be vain.” Just as the brother finished
speaking, the quarter of an hour elapsed, and they all flew out of the window
again like Swans.

The little sister, however, made a solemn resolution to rescue her brothers or
die in the attempt; and she left the cottage, and, penetrating deep into the
forest, passed the night amid the branches of a tree. The next morning she went
out and collected the star flowers to sew together. She had no one to converse
with, and as for laughing she had no spirits, so there up in the tree she sat,
intent only upon her work. After she had passed some time there, it happened
that the King of that country was hunting in the forest, and his huntsmen came
beneath the tree on which the maiden sat. They called to her and asked, “Who
art thou?” But she gave no answer. “Come down to us,” continued they, “we will
do thee no harm.” She simply shook her head, and, when they pressed her further
with questions, she threw down to them her gold necklace, hoping therewith to
satisfy them. They did not, however, leave her, and she threw down her girdle,
but in vain; and even her rich dress did not make them desist. At last the
hunter himself climbed the tree and brought down the maiden and took her before
the King. The King asked her, “Who art thou? What dost thou upon that tree? But
she did not answer, and then he asked her, in all the languages that he knew,
but she remained dumb to all, as a fish. Since, however, she was so beautiful,
the King’s heart was touched, and he conceived for her a strong affection. Then
he put around her his cloak, and, placing her before him on his horse, took her
to his castle. There he ordered rich clothing to be made for her, and, although
her beauty shone as the sun-beams, not a word escaped her. The King placed her
by his side at table, and there her dignified mien and manners so won upon him,
that he said, “This maiden will I to marry, and no other in the world,” and
after some days he was united to her.

Now, the King had a wicked stepmother who was discontented with his marriage,
and spoke evil of the young Queen. “Who knows whence the wench comes?” said
she. “She who cannot speak is not worthy of a King.” A year after, when the
Queen brought her first-born son into the world, the old woman took him away.
Then she went to the King and complained that the Queen was a murderess. The
King, however, would not believe it, and suffered no one to do any injury to
his wife, who sat composedly sewing at her shirts and paying attention to
nothing else. When a second child was born, the false stepmother used the same
deceit, but the King again would not listen to her words, but said, “She is too
pious and good to act so: could she but speak and defend herself, her innocence
would come to light.” But when again the third time the old woman stole away
the child, and then accused the Queen, who answered her not a word to the
accusation, the King was obliged to give her up to be tried, and she was
condemned to suffer death by fire.

When the time had elapsed, and the sentence was to be carried out, during which
she had neither spoken nor laughed, it was the very day when her dear brothers
should be made free; the six shirts were also ready, all but the last, which
yet wanted the left sleeve. As she was led to the scaffold she placed the
shirts upon her arm, and just as she had mounted it, and the fire was about to
be kindled, she looked round, and saw six Swans come flying through the air.
Her heart leaped for joy as she perceived her deliverers approaching, and soon
the Swans, flying toward her, alighted so near that she was enabled to throw
over them the shirts, and as soon as she had so done their feathers fell off
and the brothers stood up alive and well; but the youngest wanted his left arm,
instead of which he had a swan’s wing. They embraced and kissed each other, and
the Queen going to the King, who was thunderstruck, began to say, “Now may I
speak, my dear husband, and prove to you that I am innocent and falsely
accused;” and then she told him how the wicked old woman had stolen away and
hidden her three children. When she had concluded, the King was overcome with
joy, and the wicked stepmother was led to the scaffold and bound to the stake
and burned to ashes.

The King and the Queen forever after lived in peace and prosperity with their
six brothers.

SNOW-WHITE AND ROSE-RED

By William and Jacob Grimm

There was once a poor Widow who lived alone in her hut with her two children,
who were called Snow-White and Rose-Red, because they were like the flowers
which bloomed on two rosebushes which grew before the cottage. But they were
two as pious, good, industrious, and amiable children as any that were in the
world, only Snow-White was more quiet and gentle than Rose-Red. For Rose-Red
would run and jump about the meadows, seeking flowers and catching butterflies,
while Snow-White sat at home helping her Mother to keep house, or reading to
her if there were nothing else to do. The two children loved one another
dearly, and always walked hand in hand when they went out together; and ever
when they talked of it they agreed that they would never separate from each
other, and that whatever one had the other should share. Often they ran deep
into the forest and gathered wild berries; but no beast ever harmed them. For
the hare would eat cauliflowers out of their hands, the fawn would graze at
their side, the goats would frisk about them in play, and the birds remained
perched on the boughs singing as if nobody were near. No accident ever befell
them; and if they stayed late in the forest, and night came upon them, they
used to lie down on the moss and sleep till morning; and because their Mother
knew they would do so, she felt no concern about them. One time when they had
thus passed the night in the forest, and the dawn of morning awoke them, they
saw a beautiful Child dressed in shining white sitting near their couch. She
got up and looked at them kindly, but without saying anything went into the
forest; and when the children looked round they saw that where they had slept
was close to the edge of a pit, into which they would have certainly fallen had
they walked a couple of steps further in the dark. Their Mother told them the
figure they had seen was doubtless the good angel who watches over children.

Snow-White and Rose-Red kept their Mother’s cottage so clean that it was a
pleasure to enter it. Every morning in the summer time Rose-Red would first put
the house in order, and then gather a nosegay for her Mother, in which she
always placed a bud from each rose tree. Every winter’s morning Snow-White
would light the fire and put the kettle on to boil, and although the kettle was
made of copper it yet shone like gold, because it was scoured so well. In the
evenings, when the flakes of snow were falling, the Mother would say: “Go,
Snow-White, and bolt the door;” and then they used to sit down on the hearth,
and the Mother would put on her spectacles and read out of a great book while
her children sat spinning. By their side, too, laid a little lamb, and on a
perch behind them a little white dove reposed with her head under her wing.

One evening, when they were thus sitting comfortably together, there came a
knock at the door as if somebody wished to come in. “Make haste, Rose-Red,”
cried her Mother; “make haste and open the door; perhaps there is some traveler
outside who needs shelter.” So Rose-Red went and drew the bolt and opened the
door, expecting to see some poor man outside, but instead, a great fat Bear
poked his black head in. Rose-Red shrieked out and ran back, the little lamb
bleated, the dove fluttered on her perch, and Snow-White hid herself behind her
Mother’s bed. The Bear, however, began to speak, and said: “Be not afraid, I
will do you no harm; but I am half frozen, and wish to come in and warm
myself.”

“Poor Bear!” cried the Mother; “come in and lie down before the fire; but take
care you do not burn your skin;” and then she continued: “Come here, Rose-Red
and Snow-White, the Bear will not harm you, he means honorably.” So they both
came back, and by degrees the lamb too and the dove overcame their fears and
welcomed the rough visitor.

“You children!” said the Bear, before he entered, “come and knock the snow off
my coat.” And they fetched their brooms and swept him clean. Then he stretched
himself before the fire and grumbled out his satisfaction; and in a little
while the children became familiar enough to play tricks with the unwieldy
animal. They pulled his long, shaggy skin, set their feet upon his back and
rolled him to and fro, and even ventured to beat him with a hazel stick,
laughing when he grumbled. The Bear bore all their tricks good temperedly, and
if they hit him too hard he cried out:

“Leave me my life, you children,
Snow-White and Rose-Red,
Or you’ll never wed.”

When bedtime came and the others were gone, the Mother said to the Bear: “You
may sleep here on the hearth if you like, and then you will be safely protected
from the cold and bad weather.”

As soon as day broke the two children let the Bear out again, and he trotted
away over the snow, and ever afterward he came every evening at a certain hour.
He would lie down on the hearth and allow the children to play with him as much
as they liked, till by degrees they became so accustomed to him that the door
was left unbolted till their black friend arrived.

But as soon as spring returned, and everything out of doors was green again,
the Bear one morning told Snow-White that he must leave her, and could not
return during the whole summer. “Where are you going, then, dear Bear?” asked
Snow-White, “I am obliged to go into the forest and guard my treasures from the
evil Dwarfs; for in winter, when the ground is hard, they are obliged to keep
in their holes, and cannot work through; but now, since the sun has thawed the
earth and warmed it, the Dwarf’s pierce through, and steal all they can find;
and what has once passed into their hands, and gets concealed by them in their
caves, is not easily brought to light.” Snow-White, however, was very sad at
the departure of the Bear, and opened the door so hesitatingly that when he
pressed through it he left behind on the sneck a piece of his hairy coat; and
through the hole which was made in his coat Snow-White fancied she saw the
glittering of gold; but she was not quite certain of it. The Bear, however, ran
hastily away, and was soon hidden behind the trees.

Some time afterward the Mother sent the children into the wood to gather
sticks; and while doing so, they came to a tree which was lying across the
path, on the trunk of which something kept bobbing up and down from the grass,
and they could not imagine what it was. When they came nearer they saw a Dwarf,
with an old wrinkled face and a snow-white beard a yard long. The end of this
beard was fixed in a split of the tree, and the little man kept jumping about
like a dog tied by a chain, for he did not know how to free himself. He glared
at the Maidens with his red fiery eyes, and exclaimed, “Why do you stand there?
are you going to pass without offering me any assistance?” “What have you done,
little man?” asked Rose-Red. “You stupid, gaping goose!” exclaimed he. “I
wanted to have split the tree, in order to get a little wood for my kitchen,
for the little wood which we use is soon burned up with great fagots, not like
what you rough, greedy people devour! I had driven the wedge in properly, and
everything was going on well, when the smooth wood flew upward, and the tree
closed so suddenly together that I could not draw my beautiful beard out, and
here it sticks and I cannot get away. There, don’t laugh, you milk-faced
things! are you dumfounded?”

The children took all the pains they could to pull the Dwarf’s beard out; but
without success. “I will run and fetch some help,” cried Rose-Red at length.

“Crack-brained sheep’s head that you are!” snarled the Dwarf; “what are you
going to call other people for? You are two too many now for me; can you think
of nothing else?”

“Don’t be impatient,” replied Snow-White; “I have thought of something;” and
pulling her scissors out of her pocket she cut off the end of the beard. As
soon as the Dwarf found himself at liberty, he snatched up his sack, which lay
between the roots of the tree, filled with gold, and throwing it over his
shoulder marched off, grumbling and groaning and crying: “Stupid people! to cut
off a piece of my beautiful beard. Plague take you!” and away he went without
once looking at the children.

Some time afterward Snow-White and Rose-Red went a-fishing, and as they neared
the pond they saw something like a great locust hopping about on the bank, as
if going to jump into the water. They ran up and recognized the Dwarf. “What
are you after?” asked Rose-Red; “you will fall into the water.” “I am not quite
such a simpleton as that,” replied the Dwarf: “but do you not see this fish
will pull me in?” The little man had been sitting there angling, and
unfortunately the wind had entangled his beard with the fishing line; and so,
when a great fish bit at the bait, the strength of the weak little fellow was
not able to draw it out, and the fish had the best of the struggle. The Dwarf
held on by the reeds and rushes which grew near; but to no purpose, for the
fish pulled him where it liked, and he must soon have been drawn into the pond.
Luckily just then the two Maidens arrived, and tried to release the beard of
the Dwarf from the fishing line; but both were too closely entangled for it to
be done. So the Maiden pulled out her scissors again and cut off another piece
of the beard. When the Dwarf saw this done he was in a great rage, and
exclaimed: “You donkey! that is the way to disfigure my face. Was it not enough
to cut it once, but you must now take away the best part of my fine beard? I
dare not show myself again now to my own people. I wish you had run the soles
off your boots before you had come here!” So saying, he took up a bag of pearls
which lay among the rushes, and without speaking another word, slipped off and
disappeared behind a stone.

Not many days after this adventure, it chanced that the Mother sent the two
Maidens to the next town to buy thread, needles and pins, laces and ribbons.
Their road passed over a common, on which here and there great pieces of rock
were lying about. Just over their heads they saw a great bird flying round and
round, and every now and then, dropping lower and lower, till at last it flew
down behind a rock. Immediately afterward they heard a piercing shriek, and
running up they saw with affright that the eagle had caught their old
acquaintance. the Dwarf, and was trying to carry him off. The compassionate
children thereupon laid hold of the little man, and held him fast till the bird
gave up the struggle and flew off. As soon then as the Dwarf had recovered from
his fright, he exclaimed in his squeaking voice: “Could you not hold me more
gently? You have seized my fine brown coat in such a manner that it is all torn
and full of holes, meddling and interfering rubbish that you are!” With these
words he shouldered a bag filled with precious stones, and slipped away to his
cave among the rocks.

The maidens were now accustomed to his ingratitude, and so they walked on to
the town and transacted their business there. Coming home, they returned over
the same common, and unawares walked up to a certain clean spot on which the
Dwarf had shaken out his bag of precious stones, thinking nobody was near. The
sun was shining, and the bright stones glittered in its beams and displayed
such a variety of colors that the two Maidens stopped to admire them.

“What are you standing there gaping for?” asked the Dwarf, while his face grew
as red as copper with rage; he was continuing to abuse the poor Maidens, when a
loud roaring noise was heard, and presently a great black Bear came rolling out
of the forest. The Dwarf jumped up terrified, but he could not gain his retreat
before the Bear overtook him. Thereupon, he cried out: “Spare me, my dear Lord
Bear! I will give you all my treasures. See these beautiful precious stones
which lie here; only give me my life; for what have you to fear from a little
weak fellow like me? you could not touch me with your big teeth. There are two
wicked girls, take them; they would make nice morsels, as fat as young quails;
eat them for heaven’s sake.”

The Bear, however, without troubling himself to speak, gave the bad-hearted
Dwarf a single blow with his paw, and he never stirred after.

The Maidens were then going to run away, but the Bear called after them:
“Snow-White and Rose-Red, fear not! wait a bit and I will accompany you.” They
recognized his voice and stopped; and when the Bear came, his rough coat
suddenly fell off, and he stood up a tall man, dressed entirely in gold. “I am
a king’s son,” he said, “and was condemned by the wicked Dwarf, who stole all
my treasures, to wander about in this forest, in the form of a bear, till his
death released me. Now he has received his well-deserved punishment.”

Then they went home, and Snow-White was married to the prince, and Rose-Red to
his brother, with whom they shared the immense treasure which the Dwarf had
collected. The old Mother also lived for many years happily with her two
children, and the rose trees which had stood before the cottage were planted
now before the palace, and produced every year beautiful red and white roses.

THE UGLY DUCKLING

By Hans Christian Andersen

It was so glorious out in the country; it was summer; the cornfields were
yellow, the oats were green, the hay had been put up in stacks in the green
meadows, and the stork went about on his long red legs, and chattered Egyptian,
for this was the language he had learned from his good mother. All around the
fields and meadows were great forests, and in the midst of these forests lay
deep lakes. Yes, it was right glorious out in the country. In the midst of the
sunshine there lay an old farm, with deep canals about it, and from the wall
down to the water grew great burdocks, so high that little children could stand
upright under the loftiest of them. It was just as wild there as in the deepest
wood, and here sat a Duck upon her nest; she had to hatch her ducklings; but
she was almost tired out before the little ones came; and then she so seldom
had visitors. The other ducks liked better to swim about in the canals than to
run up to sit down under a burdock, and cackle with her.

At last one egg-shell after another burst open. “Piep! piep!” it cried, and in
all the eggs there were little creatures that stuck out their heads.

“Quack! quack!” they said; and they all came quacking out as fast as they
could, looking all round them under the green leaves; and the mother let them
look as much as they chose, for green is good for the eye.

“How wide the world is!” said all the young ones, for they certainly had much
more room now than when they were in the eggs.

“D’ye think this is all the world?” said the mother. “That stretches far across
the other side of the garden, quite into the parson’s field; but I have never
been there yet. I hope you are all together,” and she stood up. “No, I have not
all. The largest egg still lies there. How long is that to last? I am really
tired of it.” And she sat down again.

“Well, how goes it?” asked an old Duck who had come to pay her a visit.

“It lasts a long time with that one egg,” said the Duck who sat there. “It will
not burst. Now, only look at the others; are they not the prettiest little
ducks one could possibly see? They are all like their father: the rogue, he
never comes to see me.”

“Let me see the egg which will not burst,” said the old visitor. “You may be
sure it is a turkey’s egg. I was once cheated in that way, and had much anxiety
and trouble with the young ones, for they are afraid of the water. Must I say
it to you, I could not get them to venture in. I quacked and I clacked, but it
was no use. Let me see the egg. Yes, that’s a turkey’s egg. Let it lie there,
and teach the other children to swim.”

“I think I will sit on it a little longer,” said the Duck. “I’ve sat so long
now that I can sit a few days more.”

“Just as you please,” said the old Duck; and she went away.

At last the great egg burst. “Piep! piep!” said the little one, and crept
forth, it was very large and very ugly. The Duck looked at it.

“It’s a very large duckling,” said she; “none of the others look like that: can
it really be a turkey chick? Well, we shall soon find out. It must go into the
water, even if I have to thrust it in myself.”

The next day, it was bright, beautiful weather; the sun shone on all the green
trees. The Mother Duck went down to the canal with all her family. Splash! she
jumped into the water. “Quack! quack!” she said, and one duckling after another
plunged in. The water closed over their heads, but they came up in an instant,
and swam capitally; their legs went of themselves, and they were all in the
water. The ugly gray Duckling swam with them.

“No, it’s not a turkey,” said she; “look how well it can use its legs, and how
straight it holds itself. It is my own child! On the whole it’s quite pretty,
if one looks at it rightly. Quack! quack! come with me, and I’ll lead you out
into the great world, and present you in the duckyard; but keep close to me, so
that no one may tread on you, and take care of the cats!”

And so they came into the duckyard. There was a terrible riot, going on in
there, for two families were quarreling about an eel’s head, and the cat got it
after all.

“See, that’s how it goes in the world!” said the Mother Duck; and she whetted
her beak, for she too wanted the eel’s head. “Only use your legs,” she said.
“See that you can bustle about, and bow your heads before the old Duck yonder.
She’s the grandest of all here; she’s of Spanish blood—that’s why she’s so fat;
and d’ye see she has a red rag round her leg; that’s something particularly
fine, and the greatest distinction a duck can enjoy; it signifies that one does
not want to lose her, and that she’s to be known by the animals and by men too.
Shake yourselves—don’t turn in your toes; a well-brought-up duck turns its toes
quite out, just like father and mother—so! Now bend your necks and say
‘Quack!’”

And they did so: but the other ducks round about looked at them, and said quite
boldly:

“Look there! now we’re to have these hanging on, as if there were not enough of
us already! And—fie!—how that Duckling yonder looks; we won’t stand that!” And
one duck flew up at it, and bit it in the neck.

“Let it alone,” said the mother: “it does no harm to anyone.”

“Yes, but it’s too large and peculiar,” said the Duck who had bitten it; “and
therefore it must be put down.”

“Those are pretty children that the mother has there,” said the old Duck with
the rag round her leg. They’re all pretty but that one; that was rather
unlucky. I wish she could bear it over again.”

“That cannot be done, my lady,” replied the Mother Duck. “It is not pretty, but
it has a really good disposition, and swims as well as any other; yes, I may
even say it, swims better. I think it will grow up pretty, and become smaller
in time; it has lain too long in the egg, and therefore is not properly
shaped.” And then she pinched it in the neck, and smoothed its feathers.
Moreover it is a drake,” she said, “and therefore it is not so much
consequence. I think he will be very strong: he makes his way already.”

“The other duckling’s are graceful enough,” said the old Duck. “Make yourself
at home; and if you find an eel’s head, you may bring it to me.”

And now they were at home. But the poor Duckling which had crept last out of
the egg, and looked so ugly, was bitten and pushed and jeered, as much by the
ducks as by the chickens.

“It is too big!” they all said. And the turkey cock, who had been born with
spurs, and therefore thought himself an emperor, blew himself up like a ship in
full sail, and bore straight down upon it; then he gobbled and grew quite red
in the face. The poor Duckling did not know where it should stand or walk; it
was quite melancholy because it looked ugly, and was the butt of the whole
duckyard.

So it went on the first day; and afterward it became worse and worse. The poor
Duckling was hunted about by everyone: even its brothers and sisters were quite
angry with it, and said: “If the cat would only catch you, you ugly creature!”
And the mother said: “If you were only far away!” And the ducks hit it, and the
chickens beat it, and the girl who had to feed the poultry kicked at it with
her foot.

Then it ran and flew over the fence, and the little birds in the bushes flew up
in fear.

“That is because I am so ugly!” thought the Duckling; and it shut its eyes, but
flew on further; and so it came out into the great moor, where the wild ducks
lived. Here it lay the whole night long; and it was weary and downcast.

Toward morning the wild chicks flew up, and looked at their new companion.

“What sort of a one are you?” they asked; and the Duckling turned in every
direction, and bowed as well as it could. You are remarkably ugly!” said the
Wild Ducks. “But that is nothing to us, so long as you do not marry into our
family.”

Poor thing! it certainly did not think of marrying, and only hoped to obtain
leave to lie among the reeds and drink some of the swamp water.

Thus it lay two whole days; then came thither two wild geese, or, properly
speaking, two wild ganders. It was not long since each had crept out of an egg,
and that’s why they were so saucy.

“Listen, comrade,” said one of them. “You’re so ugly that I like you. Will you
go with us, and become a bird of passage? Near here, in another moor, there are
a few sweet lovely geese, all unmarried, and all able to say ‘Rap?’ You’ve a
chance of’ making your fortune, ugly as you are.”

“Piff! paff!” resounded through the air; and the two ganders fell down dead in
the swamp, and the water became blood red. “Piff paff!” it sounded again, and
the whole flock of wild geese rose up from the reeds. And then there was
another report. A great hunt was going on. The sportsmen were lying in wait all
round the moor, and some were even sitting up in the branches of the trees,
which spread far over the reeds. The blue smoke rose up like clouds among the
dark trees, and was wafted far away across the water; and the hunting dogs
came—splash, splash!—into the swamp, and the rushes and the reeds bent down on
every side. That was a fright for the poor Duckling! It turned its head, and
put it under its wing; but at that moment a frightful great dog stood close by
the Duckling. His tongue hung far out of his mouth, and his eyes gleamed
horrible and ugly; he thrust out his nose close against the Duckling, showed
his Sharp teeth, and—splash, splash!—on he went, without seizing it.

“O, Heaven be thanked!” sighed the Duckling. “I am so ugly, that even the dog
does not like to bite me!”

And so it lay quite quiet, while the shots rattled through the reeds and gun
after gun was fired. At last, late in the day, all was still; but the poor
Duckling did not dare to rise up; it waited several hours before it looked
round, and then hastened away out of the moor as fast it could. It ran on over
field and meadow; there was such a storm raging that it was difficult to get
from one place to another.

Toward evening the Duck came to a little miserable peasant’s hut. This hut was
so dilapidated that it did not itself know on which side it should fall; and
that’s why it remained standing. The storm whistled round the Duckling in such
a way that the poor creature was obliged to sit down, to stand against it; and
the wind blew worse and worse. Then the Duckling noticed that one of the hinges
of the door had given way, and the door hung so slanting that the Duckling
could slip through the crack into the room; and that is what it did.

Here lived a woman, with her Cat and her Hen. And the Cat, whom she called
Sonnie, could arch his back and purr, he could even give out sparks; but for
that one had to stroke his fur the wrong way. The Hen had quite little short
legs, and therefore she was called Chickabiddy Shortshanks; she laid good eggs,
and the woman loved her as her own child.

In the morning the strange Duckling was at once noticed, and the Cat began to
purr and the Hen to cluck.

“What’s this?” said the woman, and looked all round; but she could not see
well, and therefore she thought the Duckling was a fat duck that had strayed.
“This is a rare prize!” she said, “Now I shall have ducks’ eggs. I hope it is
not a drake. We must try that.”

And so the Duckling was admitted on trial for three weeks; but no eggs came.
And the Cat was master of the house, and the Hen was the lady, and always said
“We and the world!” for she thought they were half the world, and by far the
better half. The Duckling thought one might have a different opinion, but the
Hen would not allow it.

“Can you lay eggs?” she asked.

“No.”

“Then will you hold your tongue!”

And the Cat said, “Can you curve your back, and purr, and give out sparks?”

“No.”

“Then you will please have no opinion of your own when sensible folks are
speaking.

And the Duckling sat in a corner and was melancholy; then the fresh air and the
sunshine streamed in; and it was seized with such a strange longing to swim on
the water, that it could not help telling the Hen of it.

“What are you thinking of?” cried the Hen. “You have nothing to do, that’s why
you have these fancies. Lay eggs, or purr, and they will pass over.”

“But it is so charming to swim on the water!” said the Duckling, “so refreshing
to let it close over one’s head, and to dive down to the bottom.”

“Yes, that must be a mighty pleasure, truly,” quoth the Hen. “I fancy you must
have gone crazy. Ask the Cat about it—he’s the cleverest animal I know—ask him
if he likes to swim on the water, or to dive down: I won’t speak about myself.
Ask our mistress, the old woman; no one in the world is cleverer than she. Do
you think she has any desire to swim, and to let the water close above her
head?”

“You don’t understand me,” said the Duckling.

“We don’t understand you? Then pray who is to understand you? You surely don’t
pretend to be cleverer than the Cat and the woman—I won’t say anything of
myself. Don’t be conceited, child, and thank your Maker for all the kindness
you have received. Did you not get into a warm room, and have you not fallen
into company from which you may learn something? But you are a chatterer, and
it is not pleasant to associate with you. You may believe me, I speak for your
good. I tell you disagreeable things, and by that one may always know one’s
true friends! Only take care that you learn to lay eggs, or to purr, and give
out sparks!”

“I think I will go out into the wide world,” said the Duckling.

“Yes, do go,” replied the Hen.

And so the Duckling went away. It swam on the water, and dived, but it was
slighted by every creature because of its ugliness.

Now came the autumn. The leaves in the forest turned yellow and brown; the wind
caught them so that they danced about, and up in the air it was very cold. The
clouds hung low, heavy with hail and snowflakes, and on the fence stood the
raven, crying, “Croak! croak!” for mere cold; yes, it was enough to make one
feel cold to think of this. The poor little Duckling certainly had not a good
time. One evening—the sun was just setting in his beauty—there came a whole
flock of great, handsome birds out of the bushes; they were dazzlingly white,
with long, flexible necks; they were swans. They uttered a very peculiar cry,
spread forth their glorious great wings, and flew away from that cold region to
warmer lands, to fair open lakes. They mounted so high, so high! and the ugly
Duckling felt quite strangely as it watched them. It turned round and round in
the water like a wheel, stretched out its neck toward them, and uttered such a
strange, loud cry as frightened itself. Oh! it could not forget those
beautiful, happy birds; and so soon as it could see them no longer, it dived
down to the very bottom, and when it came up again, it was quite beside itself.
It knew not the name of those birds, and knew not whither they were flying; but
it loved them more than it had ever loved anyone. It was not at all envious of
them. How could it think of wishing to possess such loveliness as they had? It
would have been glad if only the ducks would have endured its company the poor,
ugly creature!

And the winter grew cold, very cold! The Duckling was forced to swim about in
the water, to prevent the surface from freezing entirely; but every night the
hole in which it swam about became smaller and smaller. It froze so hard that
the icy covering crackled again; and the Duckling was obliged to use its legs
continually to prevent the hole from freezing up. At last it became exhausted,
and lay quite still, and thus froze fast into the ice. Early in the morning a
peasant came by, and when he saw what had happened, he took his wooden shoe,
broke the ice crust to pieces, and carried the Duckling home to his wife. Then
it came to itself again. The children wanted to play with it; but the Duckling
thought they wanted to hurt it, and in its terror fluttered up into the milk
pan, so that the milk spurted down into the room. The woman clasped her hands,
at which the Duckling flew down into the butter tub, and then into the meal
barrel and out again. How it looked then! The woman screamed, and struck at it
with the fire tongs; the children tumbled over one another in their efforts to
catch the Duckling; and they laughed and they screamed!—well it was that the
door stood open, and the poor creature was able to slip out between the shrubs
into the newly fallen snow—there it lay quite exhausted.

But it would be too melancholy if I were to tell all the misery and care which
the Duckling had to endure in the hard winter. It lay out on the moor among the
reeds, when the sun began to shine again and the larks to sing: it was a
beautiful spring.

Then all at once the Duckling could flap its wings: they beat the air more
strongly than before, and bore it strongly away; and before it well knew how
all this happened, it found itself in a great garden, where the elder trees
smelled sweet, and bent their long green branches down to the canal that wound
through the region. Oh, here it was so beautiful, such a gladness of spring!
and from the thicket came three glorious white swans; they rustled their wings,
and swam lightly on the water. The Duckling knew the splendid creatures, and
felt oppressed by a peculiar sadness.

“I will fly away to them, to the royal birds! and they will beat me, because I,
that am so ugly, dare to come near them. But it is all the same. Better to be
killed by them than to be pursued by ducks, and beaten by fowls, and pushed
about by the girl who takes care of the poultry yard, and to suffer hunger in
winter!” And it flew out into the water, and swam toward the beautiful swans:
these looked at it, and came sailing down upon it with outspread wings. “Kill
me!” said the poor creature, and bent its head down upon the water, expecting
nothing but death. But what was this that it saw in the clear water? It beheld
its own image; and, lo! it was no longer a clumsy, dark-gray bird, ugly and
hateful to look at, but a—swan!

It matters nothing if one is born in a duck yard, if one has only lain in a
swan’s egg.

It felt quite glad at all the need and misfortune it had suffered, now it
realized its happiness in all the splendor that surrounded it. And the great
swans swam round it, and stroked it with their beaks.

Into the garden came little children, who threw bread and corn into the water;
and the youngest cried, “There is a new one!” and the other children shouted
joyously, “Yes, a new one has arrived!” And they clapped their hands and danced
about, and ran to their father and mother; and bread and cake were thrown into
the water; and they all said, “The new one is the most beautiful of all so
young and handsome!” and the old swans bowed their heads before him.

Then he felt quite ashamed, and hid his head under his wings, for he did not
know what to do; he was so happy, and yet not at all proud. He thought how he
had been persecuted and despised; and now he heard them saying that he was the
most beautiful of all birds. Even the elder tree bent its branches straight
down into the water before him, and the sun shone warm and mild. Then his wings
rustled, he lifted his slender neck, and cried rejoicingly from the depths of
his heart:

“I never dreamed of so much happiness when I was the Ugly Duckling!”

THE TINDER-BOX

By Hans Christian Andersen

There came a soldier marching along the high road—one, two! one, two! He had
his knapsack on his back and a saber by his side, for he had been in the wars,
and now he wanted to go home. And on the way he met with an old Witch: she was
very hideous and her under lip hung down upon her breast. She said: “Good
evening, Soldier. What a fine sword you have, and what a big knapsack! You’re a
proper soldier! Now you shall have as much money as you like to have.”

“I thank you, you old Witch” said the Soldier.

“Do you see that great tree?” quoth the Witch; and she pointed to a tree which
stood beside them.

“It’s quite hollow inside. You must climb to the top, and then you’ll see a
hole, through which you can let yourself down and get deep into the tree. I’ll
tie a rope round your body, so that I can pull you up again when you call me.”

“What am I to do down in the tree?” asked the Soldier.

“Get money,” replied the Witch. “Listen to me. When you come down to the earth
under the tree, you will find yourself in a great hall: it is quite light, for
above three hundred lamps are burning there. Then you will see three doors;
these you can open, for the keys are hanging there. If you go into the first
chamber, you’ll see a great chest in the middle of the floor; on this chest
sits a dog, and he’s got a pair of eyes as big as two teacups. But you need not
care for that. I’ll give you my blue-checked apron, and you can spread it out
upon the floor; then go up quickly and take the dog, and set him on my apron;
then open the chest, and take as many shillings as you like. They are of
copper; if you prefer silver, you must go into the second chamber. But there
sits a dog with a pair of eyes as big as mill wheels. But do not you care for
that. Set him upon my apron, and take some of the money. And if you want gold,
you can have that too—in fact, as much as you can carry—if you go into the
third chamber. But the dog that sits on the money chest there has two eyes as
big as round towers. He is a fierce dog, you may be sure; but you needn’t be
afraid, for all that. Only set him on my apron, and he won’t hurt you; and take
out of the chest as much gold as you like.”

“That’s not so bad,” said the Soldier. “But what am I to give you, you old
Witch? for you will not do it for nothing, I fancy.”

“No,” replied the Witch, “not a single shilling will I have. You shall only
bring me an old Tinder-box which my grandmother forgot when she was down there
last.”

“Then tie the rope round my body,” cried the Soldier.

“Here it is,” said the Witch, “and here’s my blue-checked apron.”

Then the Soldier climbed up into the tree, let himself slip down into the hole,
and stood, as the Witch had said, in the great hall where the three hundred
lamps were burning.

Now he opened the first door. Ugh! there sat the dog with eyes as big as
teacups, staring at him.

“You’re a nice fellow!” exclaimed the Soldier; and he set him on the Witch’s
apron, and took as many shillings as his pockets would hold, and then locked
the chest, set the dog on it again, and went into the second chamber, Aha!
there sat the dog with eyes as big as mill wheels.

“You should not stare so hard at me,” said the Soldier; “you might strain your
eyes.” And he set the dog upon the Witch’s apron. And when he saw the silver
money in the chest, he threw away all the copper money he had and filled his
pockets and his knapsack with silver only. Then he went into the third chamber.
Oh, but that was horrid! The dog there really had eyes as big as towers, and
they turned round and round in his head like wheels.

“Good evening!” said the Soldier; and he touched his cap, for he had never seen
such a dog as that before. When he had looked at him a little more closely, he
thought: “That will do,” and lifted him down to the floor, and opened the
chest. Mercy! What a quantity of gold was there! He could buy with it the whole
town, and the sugar sucking pigs of the cake woman, and all the tin soldiers,
whips, and rocking-horses in the whole world. Yes, that was a quantity of
money! Now the Soldier threw away all the silver coin with which he had filled
his pockets and his knapsack, and took gold instead; yes, all his pockets, his
knapsack, his boots, and his cap were filled, so that he could scarcely walk.
Now indeed he had plenty of money. He put the dog on the chest shut the door,
and then called up through the tree: “Now pull me up, you old Witch!”

“Have you the Tinder-box?” asked the Witch.

“Plague on it!” exclaimed the Soldier, “I had clean forgotten that.” And he
went and brought it.

The Witch drew him up, and he stood on the high road again, with pockets,
boots, knapsack, and cap full of gold.

“What are you going to do with the Tinder-box?” asked the Soldier.

“That’s nothing to you,” retorted the Witch. “You’ve had your money; just give
me the Tinder-box.”

“Nonsense!” said the Soldier. “Tell me directly what you’re going to do with it
or I’ll draw my sword and cut off your head.”

“No!” cried the Witch.

So the Soldier cut off her head. There she lay! But he tied up all his money in
her apron, took it on his back like a bundle, put the Tinder-box in his pocket,
and went straight off toward the town.

That was a splendid town! And he put up at the very best inn, and asked for the
finest rooms, and ordered his favorite dishes, for now he was rich, as he had
so much money. The servant who had to clean his boots certainly thought them a
remarkably old pair for such a rich gentleman; but he had not bought any new
ones yet. The next day he procured proper boots and handsome clothes. Now our
Soldier had become a fine gentleman; and the people told him of all the
splendid things which were in their city, and about the King, and what a pretty
Princess the King’s daughter was.

“Where can one get to see her?” asked the Soldier.

“She is not to be seen at all,” said they all together; “she lives in a great
copper castle, with a great many walls and towers round about it: no one but
the King may go in and out there, for it has been prophesied that she shall
marry a common soldier, and the King can’t bear that.”

“I should like to see her,” thought the Soldier; but he could not get leave to
do so. Now he lived merrily, went to the theater, drove in the King’s garden,
and gave much money to the poor; and this was very kind of him, for he knew
from old times how hard it is when one has not a shilling.

Now he was rich, had new clothes, and gained many friends, who all said he was
a rare one, a true cavalier; and that pleased the Soldier well. But as he spent
money every day and never carried any, he had at last only two shillings left;
and he was obliged to turn out of the fine rooms in which he had dwelt, and had
to live in a little garret under the roof, and clean his boots for himself, and
mend them with a darning-needle. None of his friends came to see him, for there
were too many stairs to climb.

It was quite dark one evening, and he could not even buy himself a candle, when
it occurred to him that there was a candle end in the Tinder-box which he had
taken out of the hollow tree into which the Witch had helped him. He brought
out the Tinder-box and the candle end; but as soon as he struck fire and the
sparks rose up from the flint, the door flew open, and the dog who had eyes as
big as a couple of teacups, and whom he had seen in the tree, stood before him,
and said:

“What are my lord’s commands?”

“What is this?” said the Soldier. “That’s a famous Tinder-box, if I can get
everything with it that I want! Bring me some money,” said he to the dog; and
whisk! the dog was gone, and whisk! he was back again, with a great bag full of
shillings in his mouth.

Now the Soldier knew what a capital Tinder-box this was. If he struck it once,
the dog came who sat upon the chest of copper money; if he struck it twice, the
dog came who had the silver; and if he struck it three times, then appeared the
dog who had the gold. Now the Soldier moved back into the fine rooms, and
appeared again in handsome clothes; and all his friends knew him again, and
cared very much for him indeed.

Once he thought to himself: “It is a very strange thing that one cannot get to
see the Princess. They all say she is very beautiful; but what is the use of
that, if she has always to sit in the great copper castle with the many towers?
Can I not get to see her at all? Where is my Tinder-box?” And so he struck a
light, and whisk! came the dog with eyes as big as teacups.

“It is midnight, certainly,” said the Soldier, “but I should very much like to
see the Princess, only for one little moment.”

And the dog was outside the door directly, and, before the Soldier thought it,
came back with the Princess. She sat upon the dogs back and slept; and everyone
could see she was a real Princess, for she was so lovely. The Soldier could not
refrain from kissing her, for he was a thorough soldier. Then the dog ran back
again with the Princess. But when morning came, and the King and Queen were
drinking tea, the Princess said she had had a strange dream the night before
about a dog and a soldier—that she had ridden upon the dog, and the soldier had
kissed her.

“That would be a fine history!” said the Queen.

So one of the old court ladies had to watch the next night by the Princess’s
bed, to see if this was really a dream, or what it might be.

The Soldier had a great longing to see the lovely Princess again; so the dog
came in the night, took her away, and ran as fast as he could. But the old lady
put on water boots, and ran just as fast after him. When she saw that they both
entered a great house, she thought: “Now I know where it is; and with a bit of
chalk she drew a great cross on the door. Then she went home and lay down, and
the dog came up with the Princess; but when he saw that there was a cross drawn
on the door where the Soldier lived, he took a piece of chalk too, and drew
crosses on all the doors in the town. And that was cleverly done, for now the
lady could not find the right door, because all the doors had crosses upon
them.

In the morning early came the King and Queen, the old court lady and all the
officers, to see where it was the Princess had been. “Here it is!” said the
King, when he saw the first door with a cross upon it. “No, my dear husband, it
is there!” said the Queen, who descried another door which also showed a cross.
“But there is one, and there is one!” said all, for wherever they looked there
were crosses on the doors. So they saw that it would avail them nothing if they
searched on.

But the Queen was an exceedingly clever woman, who could do more than ride in a
coach. She took her great gold scissors, cut a piece of silk into pieces, and
made a neat little bag; this bag she filled with fine wheat flour, and tied it
on the Princess’s back, and when that was done, she cut a little hole in the
bag, so that the flour would be scattered along all the way which the Princess
should take.

In the night the dog came again, took the Princess on his back, and ran with
her to the Soldier, who loved her very much, and would gladly have been a
prince, so that he might have her for his wife. The dog did not notice at all
how the flour ran out in a stream from the castle to the windows of the
Soldier’s house, where he ran up the wall with the Princess. In the morning the
King and Queen saw well enough where their daughter had been, and they took the
Soldier and put him in prison.

There he sat. Oh, but it was dark and disagreeable there! And they said to him:
“To-morrow you shall be hanged.” That was not amusing to hear, and he had left
his Tinder-box at the inn. In the morning he could see, through the iron
grating of the little window, how the people were hurrying out of the town to
see him hanged. He heard the drums beat and saw the soldiers marching. All the
people were running out, and among them was the shoemaker’s boy with leather
apron and slippers, and he galloped so fast that one of his slippers flew off,
and came right against the wall where the Soldier sat looking through the iron
grating.

“Halloo, you shoemaker’s boy! you needn’t be in such a hurry,” cried the
Soldier to him: “it will not begin till I come. But if you will run to where I
lived and bring me my Tinder-box, you shall have four shillings: but you must
put your best leg foremost.”

The shoemaker’s boy wanted to get the four shillings, so he went and brought
the Tinder-box, and—well, we shall hear now what happened.

Outside the town a great gallows had been built, and round it stood the
soldiers and many hundred thousand people. The King and Queen sat on a splendid
throne, opposite to the judges and the whole council. The soldiers already
stood upon the ladder; but as they were about to put the rope round his neck,
he said that before a poor criminal suffered his punishment an innocent request
was always granted to him. He wanted very much to smoke a pipe of tobacco, and
it would be the last pipe he should smoke in the world. The King would not say
“No” to this; so the Soldier took his Tinder-box and struck fire.
One—two—three!—and there suddenly stood all the dogs—the one with eyes as big
as teacups, the one with eyes as large as mill wheels, and the one whose eyes
were as big as round towers.

“Help me now, so that I may not be hanged,” said the Soldier.

And the dogs fell upon the judges and all the council, seized one by the leg
and another by the nose, and tossed them many feet into the air, so that they
fell down and were all broken to pieces.

“I won’t!” cried the King; but the biggest dog took him and the Queen, and
threw them after the others. Then the soldiers were afraid, and the people
cried: “Little Soldier, you shall be our king, and marry the beautiful
Princess.”

So they put the Soldier into the King’s coach, and all the three dogs darted on
in front and cried “Hurrah!” and the boys whistled through their fingers, and
the soldiers presented arms. The Princess came out of the copper castle, and
became Queen, and she liked that well enough. The wedding lasted a week, and
the three dogs sat at the table too, and opened their eyes wider than ever at
all they saw.

THE CONSTANT TIN SOLDIER

By Hans Christian Andersen

There were once five-and-twenty tin soldiers; they were all brothers, for they
had all been born of one old tin spoon. They shouldered their muskets, and
looked straight before them; their uniform was red and blue, and very splendid.
The first thing they had heard in the world, when the lid was taken off the
box, had been the words “Tin soldiers!” These words were tittered by a little
boy, clapping his hands; the soldiers had been given to him, for it was his
birthday; and now he put them upon the table. Each soldier was exactly like the
rest; but one of them had been cast last of all, and there had not been enough
tin to finish him; but he stood as firmly upon his one leg as the others on
their two; and it was just this soldier who became remarkable.

On the table on which they had been placed stood many other playthings, but the
toy that attracted most attention was a neat castle of cardboard. Through the
little windows one could see straight into the hall. Before the castle some
little trees were placed round a little looking-glass, which was to represent a
clear lake. Waxen swans swam on this lake, and were mirrored in it. This was
all very pretty; but the prettiest of all was a little Lady, who stood at the
open door of the castle; she was also cut out in paper, but she had a dress of
the clearest gauze, and a little narrow blue ribbon over her shoulders that
looked like a scarf; and in the middle of this ribbon was a shining tinsel
rose, as big as her whole face. The little Lady stretched out both her arms,
for she was a dancer, and then she lifted one leg so high that the Tin Soldier
could not see it at all, and thought that, like himself, she had but one leg.

“That would be the wife for me,” thought he; “but she is very grand. She lives
in a castle, and I have only a box, and there are five-and-twenty of us in
that. It is no place for her. But I must try to make acquaintance with her.”

And then he lay down at full length behind a snuffbox which was on the table;
there he could easily watch the little dainty lady, who continued to stand on
one leg without losing her balance.

When the evening came, all the other tin soldiers were put into their box, and
the people in the house went to bed. Now the toys began to play at “visiting,”
and at “war,” and “giving balls.” The tin soldiers rattled in their box, for
they wanted to join, but could not lift the lid. The Nutcracker threw
somersaults, and the Pencil amused itself on the table; there was so much noise
that the Canary woke up, and began to speak too, and even in verse. The only
two who did not stir from their places were the Tin Soldier and the Dancing
Lady; she stood straight up on the point of one of her toes, and stretched out
both her arms: and he was just as enduring on his one leg; and he never turned
his eyes away from her.

Now the clock struck twelve—and, bounce!—the lid flew off the snuffbox; but
there was not snuff in it, but a little black goblin; you see, it was a trick.

“Tin Soldier,” said the Goblin, “don’t stare at things that don’t concern you.”

But the Tin Soldier pretended not to hear him. “Just you wait till to-morrow!”
said the Goblin. But when the morning came, and the children got up, the Tin
Soldier was placed in the window; and whether it was the Goblin or the draft
that did it, all at once the window flew open, and the Soldier fell, head over
heels, out of the third story. That was a terrible passage! He put his leg
straight up, and struck with his helmet downward, and his bayonet between the
paving stones.

The servant maid and the little boy came down directly to look for him, but
though they almost trod upon him they could not see him. If the Soldier had
cried out, “Here I am!” they would have found him; but he did not think it
fitting to call out loudly, because he was in uniform.

Now it began to rain; the drops soon fell thicker, and at last it came down in
a complete stream. When the rain was past, two street boys came by.

“Just look!” said one of them, “there lies a tin soldier. He must come out and
ride in the boat.”

And they made a boat out of a newspaper, and put the Tin Soldier in the middle
of it; and so he sailed down the gutter, and the two boys ran beside him and
clapped their hands. Goodness preserve us! how the waves rose in that gutter,
and how fast the stream ran! But then it had been a heavy rain. The paper boat
rocked up and down, and sometimes turned round so rapidly that the Tin Soldier
trembled; but he remained firm and never changed countenance, and looked
straight before him, and shouldered his musket.

All at once the boat went into a long drain, and it became as dark as if he had
been in his box.

“Where am I going now?” he thought. “Yes, yes, that’s the Goblin’s fault. Ah!
if the little Lady only sat here with me in the boat, it might be twice as dark
for what I should care.”

Suddenly there came a great water rat, which lived under the drain.

“Have you a passport?” said the Rat. “Give me your passport.”

But the Tin Soldier kept silence, and only held his musket tighter than ever.

The boat went on, but the Rat came after it. Hu! how he gnashed his teeth, and
called out to the bits of straw and wood:

“Hold him! hold him! he hasn’t paid toll—he hasn’t showed his passport!”

But the stream became stronger and stronger. The Tin Soldier could see the
bright daylight where the arch ended; but he heard a roaring noise, which might
well frighten a bolder man. Only think—just where the tunnel ended the drain
ran into a great canal; and for him that would have been as dangerous as for us
to be carried down a great waterfall.

Now he was already so near it that he could not stop. The boat was carried out,
the poor Tin Soldier stiffening himself as much as he could, and no one could
say that he moved an eyelid. The boat whirled round three or four times, and
was full of water to the very edge—it must sink. The Tin Soldier stood up to
his neck in water, and the boat sank deeper and deeper, and the paper was
loosened more and more, and now the water closed over the Soldier’s head. Then
he thought of the pretty little dancer, and how he should never see her again;
and it sounded in the Soldier’s ears:

“Farewell, farewell, thou warrior brave,
Die shalt thou this day.”

And now the paper parted, and the Tin Soldier fell out; but at that moment he
was snapped up by a great fish.

Oh, how dark it was in that fish’s body! It was darker yet than in the drain
tunnel; and then it was very narrow, too. But the Tin Soldier remained unmoved,
and lay at full length, shouldering his musket.

The fish swam to and fro; he made the most wonderful movements, and then became
quite still. At last something flashed through him like lightning. The daylight
shone quite clear, and a voice said aloud, “The Tin Soldier!” The fish had been
caught, carried to market, bought, and taken into the kitchen, where the cook
cut him open with a large knife. She seized the Soldier round the body with
both her hands, and carried him into the room, where all were anxious to see
the remarkable man who had traveled about in the inside of a fish; but the Tin
Soldier was not at all proud. They placed him on the table, and there—no! What
curious things may happen in the world! The Tin Soldier was in the very room in
which he had been before! he saw the same children, and the same toys stood
upon the table; and there was the pretty castle with the graceful little
Dancer. She was still balancing herself on one leg and held the other extended
in the air. She was faithful, too. That moved the Tin Soldier: he was very near
weeping tin tears, but that would not have been proper. He looked at her, but
they said nothing to each other.

Then one of the little boys took the Tin Soldier and flung him into the stove.
He gave no reason for doing this. It must have been the fault of the Goblin in
the snuffbox.

The Tin Soldier stood there quite illuminated, and felt a heat that was
terrible; but whether this heat proceeded from the real fire or from love he
did not know. The colors had quite gone off from him; but whether that had
happened on the journey, or had been caused by grief, no one could say. He
looked at the little Lady, she looked at him, and he felt that he was melting;
but he stood firm, shouldering his musket. Then suddenly the door flew open,
and the draft of air caught the Dancer, and she flew like a sylph just into the
stove to the Tin Soldier, and flashed up in a flame, and then was gone! Then
the Tin Soldier melted down into a lump, and when the servant maid took the
ashes out next day, she found him in the shape of a little tin heart. But of
the Dancer nothing remained but the tinsel rose, and that was burned as black
as coal.

THE FIR TREE

By Hans Christian Andersen

Out in the woods stood a nice little Fir tree. The place he had was a very good
one; the sun shone on him; as to fresh air, there was enough of that, and round
him grew many large-sized comrades, pines as well as firs. But the little Fir
wanted so very much to be a grown-up tree.

He did not think of the warm sun and of the fresh air; he did not care for the
little cottage children that ran about and prattled when they were in the wood
looking for wild strawberries. The children often came with a whole pitcher
full of berries, or a long row of them threaded on a straw, and sat down near
the young Tree and said, “Oh, how pretty he is! what a nice little fir!” But
this was what the Tree could not bear to hear.

At the end of a year he had shot up a good deal, and after another year he was
another long bit taller; for with fir trees one can always tell by the shoots
how many years old they are.

“Oh, were I but such a high tree as the others are,” sighed he. “Then I should
be able to spread out my branches, and with the tops to look into the wide
world! Then would the birds build nests among my branches; and when there was a
breeze, I could bend with as much stateliness as the others!”

Neither the sunbeams, nor the birds, nor the red clouds which morning and
evening sailed above him, gave the little Tree any pleasure.

In winter, when the snow lay glittering on the ground, a hare would often come
leaping along, and jump right over the little Tree. Oh, that made him so angry!
But two winters were past, and in the third the Tree was so large that the hare
was obliged to go round it. “To grow and grow, to get older and be tall,”
thought the Tree—“that, after all, is the most delightful thing in the world!”

In autumn the woodcutters always came and felled some of the largest trees.
This happened every year; and the young Fir tree, that had now grown to a very
comely size, trembled at the sight; for the magnificent great trees fell to the
earth with noise and cracking, the branches were lopped off, and the trees
looked long and bare: they were hardly to be recognized; and then they were
laid in carts, and the horses dragged them out of the wood.

Where did they go to? What became of them? In spring, when the Swallows and the
Storks came, the Tree asked them: “Don’t you know where they have been taken?
Have you not met them anywhere?”

The Swallows did not know anything about it; but the Stork looked musing,
nodded his head, and said: “Yes; I think I know; I met many ships as I was
flying hither from Egypt; on the ships were magnificent masts, and I venture to
assert that it was they that smelled so of fir. I may congratulate you, for
they lifted themselves on high most majestically!”

“Oh, were I but old enough to fly across the sea! But how does the sea look in
reality? What is it like?”

“That would take a long time to explain,” said the Stork, and with these words
off he went.

“Rejoice in thy growth!” said the Sunbeams, “rejoice in thy vigorous growth,
and in the fresh life that groweth within thee!”

And the Wind kissed the Tree, and the Dew wept tears over him; but the Fir
understood it not.

When Christmas came, quite young trees were cut down; trees which often were
not even as large or of the same age as this Fir tree, who could never rest,
but always wanted to be off. These young trees, and they were always the finest
looking, retained their branches; they were laid on carts, and the horses drew
them out of the wood.

“Where are they going to?” asked the Fir.

“They are not taller than I; there was one indeed that was considerably
shorter;—and why do they retain all their branches? Whither are they taken?”

“We know! we know!” chirped the Sparrows. “We have peeped in at the windows in
the town below! We know whither they are taken! The greatest splendor and the
greatest magnificence one can imagine await them. We peeped through the
windows, and saw them planted in the middle of the warm room, and ornamented
with the most splendid things—with gilded apples, with gingerbread, with toys,
and many hundred lights!”

“And then?” asked the Fir tree, trembling in every bough. “And then? What
happens then?”

“We did not see anything more: it was incomparably beautiful.”

“I would fain know if I am destined for so glorious a career,” cried the Tree,
rejoicing. “That is still better than to cross the sea! What a longing do I
suffer! Were Christmas but come! I am now tall, and my branches spread like the
others that were carried off last year! Oh, were I but already on the cart!
Were I in the warm room with all the splendor and magnificence! Yes; then
something better, something still grander, will surely follow, or wherefore
should they thus ornament me? Something better, something still grander, must
follow—but what? Oh, how I long, how I suffer! I do not know myself what is
the matter with me!”

“Rejoice in our presence!” said the Air and the Sunlight; “rejoice in thy own
fresh youth!”

But the Tree did not rejoice at all; he grew and grew, and was green both
winter and summer. People that saw him said, “What a fine tree!” and toward
Christmas he was one of the first that was cut down. The ax struck deep into
the very pith; the tree fell to the earth with a sigh: he felt a pang—it was
like a swoon; he could not think of happiness, for he was sorrowful at being
separated from his home, from the place where he had sprung up. He well knew
that he should never see his dear old comrades, the little bushes and flowers
around him, any more; perhaps not even the birds! The departure was not at all
agreeable.

The Tree only came to himself when he was unloaded in a courtyard with the
other trees, and heard a man say, “That one is splendid! we don’t want the
others.” Then two servants came in rich livery and carried the Fir tree into a
large and splendid drawing-room. Portraits were hanging on the walls, and near
the white porcelain stove stood two large Chinese vases with lions on the
covers. There, too, were large easy-chairs, silken sofas, large tables full of
picture books, and full of toys worth hundreds and hundreds of crowns—at least
the children said so. And the Fir tree was stuck upright in a cask that was
filled with sand: but no one could see that it was a cask, for green cloth was
hung all round it, and it stood on a large gayly colored carpet. Oh, how the
Tree quivered! What was to happen? The servants, as well as the young ladies,
decorated it. On one branch there hung little nets cut out of colored paper,
and each net was filled with sugarplums; and among the other boughs gilded
apples and walnuts were suspended, looking as though they had grown there, and
little blue and white tapers were placed among the leaves. Dolls that looked
for all the world like men—the Tree had never beheld such before—were seen
among the foliage, and at the very top a large star of gold tinsel was fixed.
It was really splendid—beyond description splendid.

“This evening!” said they all; “how it will shine this evening!”

“Oh,” thought the Tree, “if the evening were but come! If the tapers were but
lighted! And then I wonder what will happen! Perhaps the other trees from the
forest will come to look at me! Perhaps the sparrows will beat against the
windowpanes! I wonder if I shall take root here, and winter and summer stand
covered with ornaments!”

He knew very much about the matter! but he was so impatient that for sheer
longing he got a pain in his back, and this with trees is the same thing as a
headache with us.

The candles were now lighted. What brightness! What splendor! The Tree trembled
so in every bough that one of the tapers set fire to the foliage. It blazed up
splendidly.

“Help! help!” cried the young ladies, and they quickly put out the fire.

Now the Tree did not even dare tremble. What a state he was in! He was so
uneasy lest he should lose something of his splendor, that he was quite
bewildered amid the glare and brightness; when suddenly both folding doors
opened, and a troop of children rushed in as if they would upset the Tree. The
older persons followed quietly; the little ones stood quite still. But it was
only for a moment; then they shouted so that the whole place reechoed with
their rejoicing; they danced round the Tree, and one present after the other
was pulled off.

“What are they about?” thought the Tree. “What is to happen now!” And the
lights burned down to the very branches, and as they burned down they were put
out one after the other, and then the children had permission to plunder the
Tree. So they fell upon it with such violence that all its branches cracked; if
it had not been fixed firmly in the cask, it would certainly have tumbled down.

The children danced about with their beautiful playthings; no one looked at the
Tree except the old nurse, who peeped between the branches; but it was only to
see if there was a fig or an apple left that had been forgotten.

“A story! a story!” cried the children, drawing a little fat man toward the
Tree. He seated himself under it, and said: “Now we are in the shade, and the
Tree can listen too. But I shall tell only one story. Now which will you have;
that about IvedyAvedy, or about Klumpy-Dumpy who tumbled downstairs, and yet
after all came to the throne and married the princess?”

“Ivedy-Avedy,” cried some; “Klumpy-Dumpy,” cried the others. There was such a
bawling and screaming!—the Fir tree alone was silent, and he thought to
himself, “Am I not to bawl with the rest?—am I to do nothing whatever?” for he
was one of the company, and had done what he had to do.

And the man told about Klumpy-Dumpy that tumbled down, who notwithstanding came
to the throne, and at last married the princess. And the children clapped their
hands, arid cried out, “Oh, go on! Do go on!” they waited to hear about
Ivedy-Avedy too, but the little man only told them about Klumpy-Dumpy. The Fir
tree stood quite still and absorbed in thought: the birds in the wood had never
related the like of this. “Klumpy-Dumpy fell downstairs, and yet he married the
princess! Yes, yes! that’s the way of the world!” thought the Fir tree, and
believed it all, because the man who told the story was so good-looking. “Well,
well! who knows, perhaps I may fall downstairs too, and get a princess as
wife!” And he looked forward with joy to the morrow, when he hoped to be decked
out again with lights, play-things, fruits, and tinsel.

“I won’t tremble to-morrow!” thought the Fir tree. “I will enjoy to the full
all my splendor! To-morrow I shall hear again the story of Klumpy-Dumpy, and
perhaps that of Ivedy-Avedy too.” And the whole night the Tree stood still and
in deep thought.

In the morning the servant and the housemaid came in.

“Now then the splendor will begin again,” thought the Fir. But they dragged him
out of the room, and up the stairs into the loft; and here, in a dark corner,
where no daylight could enter, they left him. “What’s the meaning of this?”
thought the Tree. “What am I to do here? What shall I hear now, I wonder?” And
he leaned against the wall lost in reverie. Time enough had he too for his
reflections; for days and nights passed on, and nobody came up; and when at
last somebody did come, it was only to put some great trunks in a corner out of
the way. There stood the Tree quite hidden; it seemed as if he had been
entirely forgotten.

“’Tis now winter out-of-doors!” thought the Tree. “The earth is hard and
covered with snow; men cannot plant me now, and therefore I have been put up
here under shelter till the springtime comes! How thoughtful that is! How kind
man is, after all! If it only were not so dark here, and so terribly lonely!
Not even a hare. And out in the woods it was so pleasant, when the snow was on
the ground, and the hare leaped by; yes—even when he jumped over me; but I did
not like it then. It is really terribly lonely here!”

“Squeak! squeak!” said a little Mouse at the same moment, peeping out of his
hole. And then another little one came. They snuffed about the Fir tree, and
rustled among the branches.

“It is dreadfully cold,” said the Mouse. “But for that, it would be delightful
here, old Fir, wouldn’t it?”

“I am by no means old,” said the Fir tree. “There’s many a one considerably
older than I am.”

“Where do you come from,” asked the Mice; “and what can you do?” They were so
extremely curious. “Tell us about the most beautiful spot on the earth. Have
you never been there? Were you never in the larder, where cheeses lie on the
shelves, and hams hang from above; where one dances about on tallow candles;
that place where one enters lean, and comes out again fat and portly?”

“I know no such place,” said the Tree. “But I know the wood, where the sun
shines, and where the little birds sing.” And then he told all about his youth;
and the little Mice had never heard the like before; and they listened and
said:

“Well, to be sure! How much you have seen! How happy you must have been!”

“I!” said the Fir tree, thinking over what he had himself related. “Yes, in
reality those were happy times.” And then he told about Christmas Eve, when he
was decked out with cakes and candles.

“Oh,” said the little Mice, “how fortunate you have been, old Fir tree!”

“I am by no means old,” said he. “I came from the wood this winter; I am in my
prime, and am only rather short for my age.”

“What delightful stories you know!” said the Mice; and the next night they came
with four other little Mice, who were to hear what the Tree recounted; and the
more he related, the more plainly he remembered all himself; and it appeared as
if those times had really been happy times. “But they may still come—they may
still come. Humpy-Dumpy fell downstairs, and yet he got a princess!” and he
thought at the moment of a nice little Birch tree growing out in the woods; to
the Fir, that would be a real charming princess.

“Who is Klumpy-Dumpy?” asked the Mice. So then the Fir tree told the whole
fairy tale, for he could remember every single word of it; and the little Mice
jumped for joy up to the very top of the Tree. Next night two more Mice came,
and on Sunday two Rats, even; but they said the stories were not interesting,
which vexed the little Mice; and they, too, now began to think them not so very
amusing either.

“Do you know only one story?” asked the Rats.

“Only that one,” answered the Tree. “I heard it on my happiest evening; but I
did not then know how happy I was.”

“It is a very stupid story! Don’t you know one about bacon and tallow candles?
Can’t you tell any larder stories?”

“No,” said the Tree.

“Then good-by,” said the Rats and they went home.

At last the little Mice stayed away also; and the Tree sighed: “After all, it
was very pleasant when the sleek little Mice sat round me and listened to what
I told them. Now that too is over. But I will take good care to enjoy myself
when I am brought out again.”

But when was that to be? Why, one morning there came a quantity of people and
set to work in the loft. The trunks were moved, the tree was pulled out and
thrown—rather hard, it is true—down on the floor, but a man drew him toward
the stairs, where the daylight shone.

“Now a merry life will begin again,” thought the Tree. He felt the fresh air,
the first sunbeam—and now he was out in the courtyard. All passed so quickly,
there was so much going on around him, that the Tree quite forgot to look to
himself. The court adjoined a garden, and all was in flower; the roses hung so
fresh and odorous over the balustrade, the lindens were in blossom, the
Swallows flew by, and said “Quirre-vit! my husband is come!” but it was not
the Fir tree that they meant.

“Now, then, I shall really enjoy life,” said he, exultingly, and spread out his
branches; but, alas! they were all withered and yellow. It was in a corner that
he lay, among weeds and nettles. The golden star of tinsel was still on the top
of the Tree, and glittered in the sunshine.

In the courtyard some of the merry children were playing who had danced at
Christmas round the Fir tree, and were so glad at the sight of him. One of the
youngest ran and tore off the golden star.

“Only look what is still on the ugly old Christmas tree!” said he, trampling on
the branches, so that they all cracked beneath his feet.

And the Tree beheld all the beauty of the flowers, and the freshness in the
garden; he beheld himself, and wished he had remained in his dark corner in the
loft: he thought of his first youth in the wood, of the Merry Christmas Eve,
and of the little Mice who had listened with so much pleasure to the story of
Humpy-Dumpy.

“’Tis over—’tis past!” said the poor Tree. “Had I but rejoiced when I had
reason to do so! But now ’tis past, ’tis past!”

And the gardener’s boy chopped the Tree into small pieces; there was a whole
heap lying there. The wood flamed up splendidly under the large brewing copper,
and it sighed so deeply! Each sigh was like a shot.

The boys played about in the court, and the youngest wore the gold star on his
breast which the Tree had had on the happiest evening of his life. However,
that was over now—the Tree gone, the story at an end. All, all was over; every
tale must end at last.

THE FLYING TRUNK

By Hans Christian Andersen

There was once a merchant, who was so rich that he could pave the whole street
with gold, and almost have enough left for a little lane. But he did not do
that; he knew how to employ his money differently. When he spent a shilling he
got back a crown, such a clever merchant was he; and this continued till he
died.

His son now got all this money; and he lived merrily, going to the masquerade
every evening, making kites out of dollar notes, and playing at ducks and
drakes on the seacoast with gold pieces instead of pebbles. In this way the
money might soon be spent, and indeed it was so. At last he had no more than
four shillings left, and no clothes to wear but a pair of slippers and an old
dressing gown.

Now his friends did not trouble themselves any more about him as they could not
walk with him in the street, but one of them, who was good-natured, sent him
an old trunk, with the remark: “Pack up!” Yes, that was all very well, but he
had nothing to pack, therefore he seated himself in the trunk.

That was a wonderful trunk. So soon as any one pressed the lock the trunk could
fly. He pressed it, and whirr! away flew the trunk with him through the chimney
and over the clouds farther and farther away. But as often as the bottom of the
trunk cracked a little he was in great fear lest it might go to pieces, and
then he would have flung a fine somersault! In that way he came to the land of
the Turks. He hid the trunk in a wood under some dry leaves, and then went into
the town. He could do that very well, for among the Turks all the people went
about dressed like himself in dressing gown and slippers. Then he met a nurse
with a little child.

“Here, you Turkish nurse,” he began, “what kind of a great castle is that close
by the town, in which the windows are so high up?”

“There dwells the Sultan’s daughter,” replied she. “It is prophesied that she
will be very unhappy respecting a lover; and therefore nobody may go near her,
unless the Sultan and Sultana are there too.”

“Thank you!” said the Merchant’s Son; and he went out into the forest, seated
himself in his trunk, flew on the roof, and crept through the window into the
Princess’s room.

She was lying asleep on the sofa, and she was so beautiful that the Merchant’s
Son was compelled to kiss her. Then she awoke, and was startled very much; but
he said he was a Turkish angel who had come down to her through the air, and
that pleased her.

They sat down side by side, and he told her stories about her eyes; and he told
her they were the most glorious dark lakes, and that thoughts were swimming
about in them like mermaids. And he told her about her forehead; that it was a
snowy mountain with the most splendid halls and pictures. And he told her about
the stork who brings the lovely little children.

Yes, those were fine histories! Then he asked the Princess if she would marry
him, and she said, “Yes,” directly.

“But you must come here on Saturday,” said she. “Then the Sultan and Sultana
will be here to tea. They will be very proud that I am to marry a Turkish
angel. But take care that you know a very pretty story, for both my parents are
very fond indeed of stories. My mother likes them high-flown and moral, but my
father likes them merry, so that one can laugh.”

“Yes, I shall bring no marriage gift but a story,” said he; and so they parted.
But the Princess gave him a saber, the sheath embroidered with gold pieces and
that was very useful to him.

Now he flew away, bought a new dressing gown, and sat in the forest and made up
a story; it was to be ready by Saturday, and that was not an easy thing.

By the time he had finished it Saturday had come. The Sultan and his wife and
all the court were at the ‘Princess’s to tea. He was received very graciously.

“Will you relate us a story?” said the Sultana; “one that is deep and
edifying.”

“Yes, but one that we can laugh at,” said the Sultan.

“Certainly,” he replied; and so began. And now listen well.

“There was once a bundle of Matches, and these Matches were particularly proud
of their high descent. Their genealogical tree, that is to say, the great fir
tree of which each of them was a little splinter, had been a great old tree out
in the forest. The Matches now lay between a Tinder-box and an old Iron Pot;
and they were telling about the days of their youth. ‘Yes, when we were upon
the green boughs,’ they said, ‘then we really were upon the green boughs! Every
morning and evening there was diamond tea for us—I mean dew; we had sunshine
all day long whenever the sun shone, and all the little birds had to tell
stories. We could see very well that we were rich, for the other trees were
only dressed out in summer, while our family had the means to wear green
dresses in the winter as well. But then the woodcutter came, like a great
revolution, and our family was broken up. The head of the family got an
appointment as mainmast in a first-rate ship, which could sail round the world
if necessary; the other branches went to other places, and now we have the
office of kindling a light for the vulgar herd. That’s how we grand people came
to be in the kitchen.’

“‘My fate was of different kind,’ said the Iron Pot, which stood next to the
Matches. ‘From the beginning, ever since I came into the world, there has been
a great deal of scouring and cooking done in me. I look after the practical
part, and am the first here in the house. My only pleasure is to sit in my
place after dinner, very clean and neat, and to carry on a sensible
conversation with my comrades. But except the Waterpot, which is sometimes
taken down into the courtyard, we always live within our four walls. Our only
newsmonger is the Market Basket; but he speaks very uneasily about the
government and the people. Yes, the other day there was an old pot that fell
down, from fright, and burst. He’s liberal, I can tell you!’—‘Now you’re
talking too much,’ the Tinder-box interrupted, and the steel struck against the
flint, so that sparks flew out. ‘Shall we not have a merry evening?’

“‘Yes, let us talk about who is the grandest,’ said the Matches.

“‘No, I don’t like to talk about myself,’ retorted the Pot. ‘Let us get up an
evening entertainment. I will begin. I will tell a story from real life,
something that everyone has experienced, so that we can easily imagine the
situation, and take pleasure in it. On the Baltic, by the Danish shore—’

“‘That’s a pretty beginning!’ cried all the Plates. ‘That will be a story we
shall like.’

“‘Yes, it happened to me in my youth, when I lived in a family where the
furniture was polished, the floors scoured, and new curtains were put up every
fortnight.’

“‘What an interesting way you have of telling a story!’ said the Carpet Broom.
‘One can tell directly that a man is speaking who has been in woman’s society.
There’s something pure runs through it.’

“And the Pot went on telling the story, and the end was as good as the
beginning.

“All the Plates rattled with joy, and the Carpet Broom brought some green
parsley out of the dust hole, and put it like a wreath on the Pot, for he knew
that it would vex the others. ‘If I crown him to-day,’ it thought, ‘he will
crown me tomorrow.’

“‘Now I’ll dance,’ said the Fire Tongs; and they danced. Preserve us! how that
implement could lift up one leg! The old chair-cushion burst to see it. ‘Shall
I be crowned too?’ thought the Tongs; and indeed a wreath was awarded.

“‘They’re only common people, after all!’ thought the Matches.

“Now the Tea Urn was to sing; but she said she had taken cold and could not
sing unless she felt boiling within. But that was only affectation: she did not
want to sing, except when she was in the parlor with the grand people.

“In the window sat an old Quill Pen, with which the maid generally wrote: there
was nothing remarkable about this pen, except that it had been dipped too deep
into the ink, but she was proud of that. ‘If the Tea Urn won’t sing,’ she said,
‘she may leave it alone. Outside hangs a nightingale in a cage, and he can
sing. He hasn’t had any education, but this evening we’ll say nothing about
that.’

“‘I think it very wrong,’ said the Teakettle—he was the kitchen singer, and
half brother to the Tea Urn—‘that that rich and foreign bird should be listened
to. Is that patriotic? Let the Market Basket decide.’

“‘I am vexed,’ said the Market Basket. ‘No one can imagine how much I am
secretly vexed. Is that a proper way of spending the evening? Would it not be
more sensible to put the house in order? Let each one go to his own place, and
I will arrange the whole game. That would be quite another thing.’

‘Yes, let us make a disturbance, cried they all. Then the door opened, and the
maid came in, and they all stood still; not one stirred. But there was not one
pot among them who did not know what he could do and how grand he was. ‘Yes, if
I had liked,’ each one thought, ‘it might have been a very merry evening.’

“The servant girl took the Matches and lighted the fire with them. mercy! how
they sputtered and burst out into flame! ‘Now everyone can see,’ thought they,
‘that we are the first. How we shine! what a light!’—and they burned out.”

“That was a capital story,” said the Sultana. “I feel myself quite carried away
to the kitchen, to the Matches. Yes, now thou shalt marry our daughter.”

“Yes, certainly,” said the Sultan, “thou shalt marry our daughter on Monday.”

And they called him thou, because he was to belong to the family.

The wedding was decided on, and on the evening before it the whole city was
illuminated. Biscuits and cakes were thrown among the people, the street boys
stood on their toes, called out “Hurrah!” and whistled on their fingers. It was
uncommonly splendid.

“Yes, I shall have to give something as a treat,” thought the Merchant’s Son.
So he bought rockets and crackers, and every imaginable sort of fire-work, put
them all into his trunk, and flew up into the air.

“Crack!” how they went, and how they went off! All the Turks hopped up with
such a start that their slippers flew about their ears; such a meteor they had
never yet seen. Now they could understand that it must be a Turkish angel who
was going to marry the Princess.

What stories people tell! Everyone whom he asked about it had seen it in a
separate way; but one and all thought it fine.

“I saw the Turkish angel himself,” said one. “He had eyes like glowing stars,
and a beard like foaming water.”

“He flew up in a fiery mantle,” said another; “the most lovely little cherub
peeped forth from among the folds.”

Yes, they were wonderful things that he heard; and on the following day he was
to be married.

Now he went back to the forest to rest himself in his trunk. But what had
become of that? A spark from the fireworks had set fire to it, and the trunk
was burned to ashes. He could not fly any more, and could not get to his bride.

She stood all day on the roof waiting; and most likely she is waiting still.
But he wanders through the world, telling fairy tales; but they are not so
merry as that one he told about the Matches.

THE DARNING NEEDLE

By Hans Christian Andersen

There was once a darning needle, who thought herself so fine, she imagined she
was an embroidery needle.

“Take care, and mind you hold me tight!” she said to the Fingers that took her
out. “Don’t let me fall! If I fall on the ground I shall certainly never be
found again, for I am so fine!”

“That’s as it may be,” said the Fingers; and they grasped her round the body.

“See, I’m coming with a train!” said the Darning Needle, and she drew a long
thread after her, but there was no knot in the thread.

The Fingers pointed the needle just at the cook’s slipper, in which the upper
leather had burst, and was to be sewn together.

“That’s vulgar work,” said the Darning Needle. “I shall never get through. I’m
breaking! I’m breaking!” And she really broke. “Did I not say so?” said the
Darning Needle; “I’m too fine!”

“Now it’s quite useless,” said the Fingers; but they were obliged to hold her
fast, all the same; for the cook dropped some sealing wax upon the needle, and
pinned her handkerchief together with it in front.

“So, now I’m a breastpin!” said the Darning Needle. “I knew very well that I
should come to honor: when one is something, one comes to something!”

And she laughed quietly to herself—and one can never see when a darning needle
laughs. There she sat, as proud as if she was in a state coach, and looked all
about her.

“May I be permitted to ask if you are of gold?” she inquired of the pin, her
neighbor. “You have a very pretty appearance, and a peculiar head, but it is
only little. You must take pains to grow, for it’s not everyone that has
sealing wax dropped upon him.”

And the Darning Needle drew herself up so proudly that she fell out of the
handkerchief right into the sink, which the cook was rinsing out.

“Now we’re going on a journey,” said the Darning Needle. “If I only don’t get
lost!”

But she really was lost.

“I’m too fine for this world,” she observed, as she lay in the gutter. “But I
know who I am, and there’s always something in that!”

So the Darning Needle kept her proud behavior, and did not lose her good humor.
And things of many kinds swam over her, chips and straws and pieces of old
newspapers.

“Only look how they sail!” said the Darning Needle. “They don’t know what is
under them! I’m here, I remain firmly here. See, there goes a chip thinking of
nothing in the world but of himself—of a chip! There’s a straw going by now.
How he turns! how he twirls about! Don’t think only of yourself, you might
easily run up against a stone. There swims a bit of newspaper. What’s written
upon it has long been forgotten, and yet it gives itself airs. I sit quietly
and patiently here. I know who I am, and I shall remain what I am.”

One day something lay close beside her that glittered splendidly; then the
Darning Needle believed that it was a diamond; but it was a bit of broken
bottle; and because it shone, the Darning Needle spoke to it, introducing
herself as a breastpin.

“I suppose you are a diamond?” she observed.

“Why, yes, something of that kind.”

And then each believed the other to be a very valuable thing; and they began
speaking about the world, and how very conceited it was.

“I have been in a lady’s box,” said the Darning Needle, “and this lady was a
cook. She had five fingers on each hand, and I never saw anything so conceited
as those five fingers. And yet they were only there that they might take me out
of the box and put me back into it.”

“Were they of good birth?” asked the Bit of Bottle.

“No, indeed,” cried the Darning Needle, “but very haughty. There were five
brothers, all of the finger family. They kept very proudly together, though
they were of different lengths: the outermost, the thumbling, was short and
fat; he walked out in front of the ranks, and only had one joint in his back,
and could only make a single bow; but he said that if he were hacked off a man,
that man was useless for service in war. Daintymouth, the second finger, thrust
himself into sweet and sour, pointed to sun and moon, and gave the impression
when they wrote. Longrnan, the third, looked at all the others over his
shoulder. Goldborder, the fourth, went about with a golden belt round his
waist; and little Playman did nothing at all, and was proud of it. There was
nothing but bragging among them, and therefore I went away.”

“And now we sit here and glitter!” said the Bit of Bottle.

At that moment more water came into the gutter, so that it overflowed, and the
Bit of Bottle was carried away.

“So he is disposed of,” observed the Darning Needle. “I remain here, I am too
fine. But that’s my pride, and my pride is honorable.” And proudly she sat
there, and had many great thoughts. “I could almost believe I had been born of
a sunbeam, I’m so fine! It really appears as if the sunbeams were always
seeking for me under the water. Ah! I’m so fine that my mother cannot find me.
If I had my old eye, which broke off, I think I should cry; but, no, I should
not do that: it’s not genteel to cry.”

One day a couple of street boys lay grubbing in the gutter where they sometimes
find old nails, farthings, and similar treasures. It was dirty work, but they
took great delight in it.

“Oh!” cried one, who had pricked himself with the Darning Needle, there’s a
fellow for you!”

“I’m not a fellow; I’m a young lady!” said the Darning Needle.

But nobody listened to her. The sealing wax had come off, and she had turned
black; but black makes one look slender, and she thought herself finer even
than before.

“Here comes an eggshell sailing along!” said the boys; and they stuck the
Darning Needle fast in the eggshell.

“White walls, and black myself! that looks well,” remarked the Darning Needle.
“Now one can see me. I only hope I shall not be seasick!” But she was not
seasick at all. “It is good against seasickness, if one has a steel stomach,
and does not forget that one is a little more than an ordinary person! Now my
seasickness is over. The finer one is, the more one can bear.”

“Crack!” went the eggshell, for a wagon went over her.

“Good heavens, how it crushes one!” said the Darning Needle. “I’m getting
seasick now—I’m quite sick.”

But she was not really sick, though the wagon went over her; she lay there at
full length, and there she may lie.

PEN AND INKSTAND

By Hans Christian Andersen

The following remark was made in a poet’s room, as the speaker looked at the
inkstand that stood upon his table:

“It is marvelous all that can come out of that ink-stand! What will it produce
next? Yes, it is marvelous!”

“So it is!” exclaimed the Inkstand. “It is incomprehensible! That is what I
always say.” It was thus the Inkstand addressed itself to the Pen, and to
everything else that could hear it on the table. “It is really astonishing all
that can come from me! It is almost incredible! I positively do not know myself
what the next thing may be, when a person begins to dip into me. One drop of me
serves for half a side of paper; and what may not then appear upon it? I am
certainly something extraordinary. From me proceed all the works of the poets.
These animated beings, whom people think they recognize—these deep feelings,
that gay humor, these charming descriptions of nature—I do not understand them
myself, for I know nothing about nature; but still it is all in me. From me
have gone forth, and still go forth, these warrior hosts, these lovely maidens,
these bold knights on snorting steeds, those droll characters in humbler life.
The fact is, however, that I do not know anything about them myself. I assure
you they are not my ideas.”

“You are right there,” replied the Pen. “You have few ideas, and do not trouble
yourself much with thinking, if you did exert yourself to think, you would
perceive that you ought to give something that was not dry. You supply me with
the means of committing to paper what I have in me; I write with that. It is
the pen that writes. Mankind do not doubt that; and most men have about as much
genius for poetry as an old inkstand.”

“You have but little experience,” said the ink-stand. “You have scarcely been a
week in use, and you are already half worn out. Do you fancy that you are a
poet? You are only a servant: and I have had many of your kind before you
came—many of the goose family, and of English manufacture. I know both quill
pens and steel pens. I have had a great many in my service, and I shall have
many more still, when he, the man who stirs me up, comes and puts down what he
takes from me. I should like very much to know what will be the next thing he
will take from me.”

“Ink tub!” said the Pen.

Late in the evening the Poet returned home. He had been at a concert, had heard
a celebrated violin player, and was quite enchanted with his wonderful
performance. It had been a complete gush of melody that he had drawn from the
instrument. Sometimes it seemed like the gentle murmur of a rippling stream,
sometimes like the singing of birds, sometimes like the tempest sweeping
through the mighty pine forests, he fancied he heard his own heart weep, but in
the sweet tones that can be heard in a woman’s charming voice. It seemed as if
not only the strings of the violin made music, but its bridge, its pegs, and
its sounding board. It was astonishing! The piece had been a most difficult
one; but it seemed like play—as if the bow were but wandering capriciously over
the strings. Such was the appearance of facility, that everyone might have
supposed he could do it. The violin seemed to sound of itself, the bow to play
of itself. These two seemed to do it all. One forgot the master who guided
them, who gave them life and soul. Yes, they forgot the master; but the Poet
thought of him. He named him, and wrote down his thoughts as follows:

“How foolish it would be of the violin and the bow, were they to be vain in
their performance! And yet this is what so often we of the human species are.
Poets, artists, those who make discoveries in science, military and naval
commanders—we are all proud of ourselves; and yet we are all only the
instruments in our Lord’s hands. To Him alone be the glory! We have nothing to
arrogate to ourselves.”

This was what the Poet wrote; and he headed it with: “The Master and the
Instruments.”

“Well, madam,” said the Pen to the Inkstand when they were again alone, “you
heard him read aloud what I had written.”

“Yes, what I gave you to write,” said the Ink-stand. “It was a hit at you for
your conceit. Strange that you cannot see that people make a fool of you! I
gave you that hit pretty cleverly. I confess, though, it was rather malicious.”

“Inkholder!” cried the Pen.

“Writing stick!” cried the Inkstand.

They both felt assured that they had answered well; and it is a pleasant
reflection that one has made a smart reply—one sleeps comfortably after it. And
they both went to sleep; but the Poet could not sleep. His thoughts welded
forth like the tones from the violin, trilling like pearls, rushing like a
storm through the forest. He recognized the feeling of his own heart—he
perceived the gleam from the everlasting Master.

To Him alone be the glory!

CINDERELLA

Retold by Miss Mulock

There was once an honest gentleman who took for his second wife a lady, the
proudest and most disagreeable in the whole country. She had two daughters
exactly like herself in all things. He also had one little girl, who resembled
her dead mother, the best woman in all the world. Scarcely had the second
marriage taken place, than the stepmother became jealous of the good qualities
of the little girl who was so great a contrast to her own two daughters. She
gave her all the menial occupations of the house; compelled her to wash the
floors and staircases; to dust the bedrooms, and clean the grates; and while
her sisters occupied carpeted chambers hung with mirrors, where they could see
themselves from head to foot, this poor little damsel was sent to sleep in an
attic, on an old straw mattress, with only one chair and not a looking-glass in
the room.

She suffered all in silence, not daring to complain to her father, who was
entirely ruled by his new wife. When her daily work was done, she used to sit
down in the chimney corner among the ashes; from which the two sisters gave her
the nickname of Cinderella. But Cinderella, however, shabbily clad, was
handsomer than they were with all their fine clothes.

It happened that the king’s son gave a series of balls, to which were invited
all the rank and fashion of the city, and among the rest the two elder sisters.
They were very proud and happy, and occupied their whole time in deciding what
they should wear; a source of new trouble to Cinderella, whose duty it was to
get up their fine linen and laces, and who never could please them however much
she tried. They talked of nothing but their clothes.

“I,” said the elder, “shall wear my velvet gown and my trimmings of English
lace.”

“And I,” added the younger, “will have but my ordinary silk petticoat, but I
shall adorn it with an upper skirt of flowered brocade, and shall put on my
diamond tiara, which is a great deal finer than anything of yours.”

Here the elder sister grew angry, and the dispute began to run so high that
Cinderella, who was known to have excellent taste, was called upon to decide
between them. She gave them the best advice she could, and gently and
submissively offered to dress them herself, and especially to arrange their
hair, an accomplishment in which she excelled many a noted coiffeur. The
important evening came, and she exercised all her skill to adorn the two young
ladies. While she was combing out the elder’s hair, this ill-natured girl said
sharply, “Cinderella, do you not wish you were going to the ball?”

“Ah, madam” (they obliged her always to say madam), “you are only mocking me;
it is not my fortune to have any such pleasure.”

“You are right; people would only laugh to see a little cinder wench at a
ball.”

Any other than Cinderella would have dressed the hair all awry, but she was
good, and dressed it perfectly even and smooth, and as prettily as she could.

The sisters had scarcely eaten for two days, and had broken a dozen staylaces a
day, in trying to make themselves slender; but to-night they broke a dozen
more, and lost their tempers over and over again before they had completed
their toilet. When at last the happy moment arrived, Cinderella followed them
to the coach; after it had whirled them away, she sat down by the kitchen fire
and cried.

Immediately her godmother, who was a fairy, appeared beside her. “What are you
crying for, my little maid?”

“Oh, I wish—I wish—” Her sobs stopped her.

“You wish to go to the ball; isn’t it so?”

Cinderella nodded.

“Well then, be a good girl, and you shall go. First run into the garden and
fetch me the largest pumpkin you can find.”

Cinderella did not comprehend what this had to do with her going to the ball,
but being obedient and obliging, she went. Her godmother took the pumpkin, and
having scooped out all its inside, struck it with her wand; it became a
splendid gilt coach, lined with rose-colored satin.

“Now fetch me the mousetrap out of the pantry, my dear.”

Cinderella brought it; it contained six of the fattest, sleekest mice. The
fairy lifted up the wire door, and as each mouse ran out she struck it and
changed it into a beautiful black horse.

“But what shall I do for your coachman, Cinderella?”

Cinderella suggested that she had seen a large black rat in the rat trap, and
he might do for want of better.

“You are right; go and look again for him.”

He was found; and the fairy made him into a most respectable coachman, with the
finest whiskers imaginable. She afterward took six lizards from behind the
pumpkin frame, and changed them into six footmen, all in splendid livery, who
immediately jumped up behind the carriage, as if they had been footmen all
their days. “Well, Cinderella, now you can go to the ball.”

“What, in these clothes?” said Cinderella piteously, looking down on her ragged
frock.

Her godmother laughed, and touched her also with the wand; at which her
wretched threadbare jacket became stiff with gold, and sparkling with jewels;
her woolen petticoat lengthened into a gown of sweeping satin, from underneath
which peeped out her little feet, no longer bare, but covered with silk
stockings, and the prettiest glass slippers in the world. “Now, Cinderella,
depart; but remember, if you stay one instant after midnight, your carriage
will become a pumpkin, your coachman a rat, your horses mice, and your footmen
lizards; while you, yourself, will be the little cinder wench you were an hour
ago.”

Cinderella promised without fear, her heart was so full of joy.

Arrived at the palace, the king’s son, whom some one, probably the fairy, had
told to await the coming of an uninvited princess, whom nobody knew, was
standing at the entrance, ready to receive her. He offered her his hand, and
led her with the utmost courtesy through the assembled guests, who stood aside
to let her pass, whispering to one another, “Oh, how beautiful she is!” It
might have turned the head of anyone but poor Cinderella, who was so used to be
despised, that she took it all as if it were something happening in a dream.

Her triumph was complete; even the old king said to the queen, that never since
her majesty’s young days had he seen so charming and elegant a person. All the
court ladies scanned her eagerly, clothes and all, determining to have theirs
made next day of exactly the same pattern. The king’s son himself led her out
to dance, and she danced so gracefully that he admired her more and more.
Indeed, at supper, which was fortunately early, his admiration quite took away
his appetite. For Cinderella, herself, with an involuntary shyness, sought out
her sisters; placed herself beside them and offered them all sorts of civil
attentions, which coming as they supposed from a stranger, and so magnificent a
lady, almost overwhelmed them with delight.

While she was talking with them, she heard the clock strike a quarter to
twelve, and making a courteous adieu to the royal family, she reentered her
carriage, escorted tenderly by the king’s son, and arrived in safety at her own
door. There she found her godmother, who smiled approval; and of whom she
begged permission to go to a second ball, the following night, to which the
queen had earnestly invited her.

While she was talking, the two sisters were heard knocking at the gate, and the
fairy godmother vanished, leaving Cinderella sitting in the chimney corner,
rubbing her eves and pretending to be very sleepy.

“Ah,” cried the eldest sister maliciously, “it has been the most delightful
ball, and there was present the most beautiful princess I ever saw, who was so
exceedingly polite to us both.”

“Was she?” said Cinderella indifferently; “and who might she be?”

“Nobody knows, though everybody would give their eyes to know, especially the
king’s Son.”

“Indeed!” replied Cinderella, a little more interested; “I should like to see
her. Miss Javotte”—that was the elder sister’s name—“will you not let me go
to-morrow, and lend me your yellow gown that you wear on Sundays?”

“What, lend my yellow gown to a cinder wench! I am not so mad as that;” at
which refusal Cinderella did not complain, for if her sister really had lent
her the gown, she would have been considerably embarrassed.

The next night came, and the two young ladies, richly dressed in different
toilets, went to the ball.

Cinderella, more splendidly attired and beautiful than ever, followed them
shortly after. “Now remember twelve o’clock,” was her godmother’s parting
speech; and she thought she certainly should. But the prince’s attentions to
her were greater even than the first evening, and in the delight of listening
to his pleasant conversation, time slipped by unperceived. While she was
sitting beside him in a lovely alcove, and looking at the moon from under a
bower of orange blossoms, she heard a clock strike the first stroke of twelve.
She started up, and fled away as lightly as a deer.

Amazed, the prince followed, but could not catch her. Indeed he missed his
lovely princess altogether, and only saw running out of the palace doors, a
little dirty lass whom he had never beheld before, and of whom he certainly
would never have taken the least notice. Cinderella arrived at home breathless
and weary, ragged and cold, without carriage, or footman or coachman; the only
remnant of her past magnificence being one of her little glass slippers—the
other she had dropped in the ballroom as she ran away.

When the two sisters returned, they were full of this strange adventure, how
the beautiful lady had appeared at the ball more beautiful than ever, and
enchanted everyone who looked at her; and how as the clock was striking twelve
she had suddenly risen up and fled through the ballroom, disappearing no one
knew how or where, and dropping one of her glass slippers behind her in her
flight. How the king’s son had remained inconsolable, until he chanced to pick
up the little glass slipper, which he carried away in his pocket, and was seen
to take it out continually, and look at it affectionately, with the air of a
man very much in love; in fact, from his behavior during the remainder of the
evening, all the court and royal family were convinced that he had become
desperately enamored of the wearer of the little glass slipper.

Cinderella listened in silence, turning her face to the kitchen fire, and
perhaps it was that which made her look so rosy, but nobody ever noticed or
admired her at home, so it did not signify, and next morning she went to her
weary work again just as before.

A few days after, the whole city was attracted by the sight of a herald going
round with a little glass slipper in his hand, publishing with a flourish of
trumpets, that the king’s son ordered this to be fitted on the foot of every
lady in the kingdom, and that he wished to marry the lady whom it fitted best,
or to whom it and the fellow slipper belonged. Princesses, duchesses,
countesses, and simple gentlewomen all tried it on, but being a fairy slipper,
it fitted nobody; and besides, nobody could produce its fellow slipper, which
lay all the time safely in the pocket of Cinderella’s old linsey gown.

At last the herald came to the house of the two sisters, and though they well
knew neither of themselves was the beautiful lady, they made every attempt to
get their clumsy feet into the glass slipper, but in vain.

“Let me try it on,” said Cinderella from the chimney corner.

“What, you?” cried the others, bursting into shouts of laughter; but Cinderella
only smiled, and held out her hand.

Her sisters cou1d not prevent her, since the command was that every young
maiden in the city should try on the slipper, in order that no chance might be
left untried, for the prince was nearly breaking his heart; and his father and
mother were afraid that though a prince, he would actually die for love of the
beautiful unknown lady.