E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland, Sandra Brown,
and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team

 

JASON SNATCHED OFF HIS HELMET AND HURLED IT.

YOUNG FOLKS’ TREASURY

In 12 Volumes

HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE
Editor

EDWARD EVERETT HALE
Associate Editor

Myths and Legendary Heroes

HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE
Editor

VOLUME II

NEW YORK

THE UNIVERSITY SOCIETY INC.

Publishers

PARTIAL LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS, ASSISTANT EDITORS AND
ADVISERS

HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE
Editor

EDWARD EVERETT HALE
Associate Editor

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

Jason Snatched
off his Helmet and Hurled it.

Out Flew a Bright,
Smiling Fairy.

Orpheus and
Eurydice.

The Punishment of
Loki.

The Princess Labam
… Shines so that She Lights Up all the Country.

Hiawatha in His
Canoe.

So Danae was
Comforted and Went Home With Dictys.

Orpheus Sang Till
His Voice Drowned the Song of the Sirens.

They Leapt Across
the Pool and came to Him.

Theseus Looked up
into Her Fair Face.

Sir Galahad.

Robin Hood in an
Encounter.

The Hero’s Shining
Sword Pierced the Heart of the Monster.

William Tell and His
Friends.

Book Cover

(Many of the illustrations in this volume are reproduced
by special permission of E.P. Dutton & Company, owners of
American rights.)

INTRODUCTION

With such a table of contents in front of this little
foreword, I am quite sure that few will pause to consider my
prosy effort. Nor can I blame any readers who jump over my
head, when they may sit beside kind old Baucis, and drink out
of her miraculous milk-pitcher, and hear noble Philemon talk;
or join hands with Pandora and Epimetheus in their play before
the fatal box was opened; or, in fact, be in the company of
even the most awe-inspiring of our heroes and heroines.

For ages the various characters told about in the following
pages have charmed, delighted, and inspired the people of the
world. Like fairy tales, these stories of gods, demigods, and
wonderful men were the natural offspring of imaginative races,
and from generation to generation they were repeated by father
and mother to son and daughter. And if a brave man had done a
big deed he was immediately celebrated in song and story, and
quite as a matter of course, the deed grew with repetition of
these. Minstrels, gleemen, poets, and skalds (a Scandinavian
term for poets) took up these rich themes and elaborated them.
Thus, if a hero had killed a serpent, in time it became a fiery
dragon, and if he won a great battle, the enthusiastic reciters
of it had him do prodigious feats—feats beyond belief.
But do not fancy from this that the heroes were every-day
persons. Indeed, they were quite extraordinary and deserved
highest praise of their fellow-men.

So, in ancient and medieval Europe the wandering poet or
minstrel went from place to place repeating his wondrous
narratives, adding new verses to his tales, changing his
episodes to suit locality or occasion, and always skilfully
shaping his fascinating romances. In court and cottage he was
listened to [pg xiv] with breathless attention.
He might be compared to a living novel circulating about the
country, for in those days books were few or entirely
unknown. Oriental countries, too, had their professional
story-spinners, while our American Indians heard of the
daring exploits of their heroes from the lips of old men
steeped in tradition. My youngest reader can then appreciate
how myths and legends were multiplied and their incidents
magnified. We all know how almost unconsciously we color and
change the stories we repeat, and naturally so did our
gentle and gallant singers through the long-gone centuries
of chivalry and simple faith.

Every reader can feel the deep significance underlying the
myths we present—the poetry and imperishable beauty of
the Greek, the strange and powerful conceptions of the
Scandinavian mind, the oddity and fantasy of the Japanese,
Slavs, and East Indians, and finally the queer imaginings of
our own American Indians. Who, for instance, could ever forget
poor Proserpina and the six pomegranate seeds, the death of
beautiful Baldur, the luminous Princess Labam, the stupid
jellyfish and shrewd monkey, and the funny way in which
Hiawatha remade the earth after it had been destroyed by
flood?

Then take our legendary heroes: was ever a better or braver
company brought together—Perseus, Hercules, Siegfried,
Roland, Galahad, Robin Hood, and a dozen others? But stop, I am
using too many question-marks. There is no need to query heroes
known and admired the world over.

As true latter-day story-tellers, both Hawthorne and
Kingsley retold many of these myths and legends, and from their
classic pages we have adapted a number of our tales, and made
them somewhat simpler and shorter in form. By way of apology
for this liberty (if some should so consider it), we humbly
offer a paragraph from a preface to the “Wonder Book” written
by its author:

“A great freedom of treatment was necessary but it will be
observed by every one who attempts to render these legends
malleable in his intellectual furnace, that they are
marvelously independent of all temporary modes and
circumstances. They [pg xv] remain essentially the same,
after changes that would affect the identity of almost
anything else.”

Now to those who have not jumped over my head, or to those
who, having done so, may jump back to this foreword, I trust my
few remarks will have given some additional interest in our
myths and heroes of lands far and near.

Daniel Edwin Wheeler

MYTHS OF MANY COUNTRIES

MYTHS OF GREECE AND ROME

BAUCIS AND PHILEMON

ADAPTED BY C.E. SMITH

One evening, in times long ago, old Philemon and his wife
Baucis sat at their cottage door watching the sunset. They had
eaten their supper and were enjoying a quiet talk about their
garden, and their cow, and the fruit trees on which the pears
and apples were beginning to ripen. But their talk was very
much disturbed by rude shouts and laughter from the village
children, and by the fierce barking of dogs.

“I fear,” said Philemon, “that some poor traveler is asking
for a bed in the village, and that these rough people have set
the dogs on him.”

“Well, I never,” answered old Baucis. “I do wish the
neighbors would be kinder to poor wanderers; I feel that some
terrible punishment will happen to this village if the people
are so wicked as to make fun of those who are tired and hungry.
As for you and me, so long as we have a crust of bread, let us
always be willing to give half of it to any poor homeless
stranger who may come along.”

“Indeed, that we will,” said Philemon.

These old folks, you must know, were very poor, and had to
work hard for a living. They seldom had anything to eat except
bread and milk, and vegetables, with sometimes a little honey
from their beehives, or a few ripe pears and apples from their
little garden. But they were two of the kindest old people in
the world, and would have gone without their dinner
[pg 2] any day, rather than refuse a
slice of bread or a cupful of milk to the weary traveler who
might stop at the door.

Their cottage stood on a little hill a short way from the
village, which lay in a valley; such a pretty valley, shaped
like a cup, with plenty of green fields and gardens, and fruit
trees; it was a pleasure just to look at it. But the people who
lived in this lovely place were selfish and hard-hearted; they
had no pity for the poor, and were unkind to those who had no
home, and they only laughed when Philemon said it was right to
be gentle to people who were sad and friendless.

These wicked villagers taught their children to be as bad as
themselves. They used to clap their hands and make fun of poor
travelers who were tramping wearily from one village to
another, and they even taught the dogs to snarl and bark at
strangers if their clothes were shabby. So the village was
known far and near as an unfriendly place, where neither help
nor pity was to be found.

What made it worse, too, was that when rich people came in
their carriages, or riding on fine horses, with servants to
attend to them, the village people would take off their hats
and be very polite and attentive: and if the children were rude
they got their ears boxed; as to the dogs—if a single dog
dared to growl at a rich man he was beaten and then tied up
without any supper.

So now you can understand why old Philemon spoke sadly when
he heard the shouts of the children, and the barking of the
dogs, at the far end of the village street.

He and Baucis sat shaking their heads while the noise came
nearer and nearer, until they saw two travelers coming along
the road on foot. A crowd of rude children were following them,
shouting and throwing stones, and several dogs were snarling at
the travelers’ heels.

They were both very plainly dressed, and looked as if they
might not have enough money to pay for a night’s lodging.

“Come, wife,” said Philemon, “let us go and meet these poor
people and offer them shelter.”

“You go,” said Baucis, “while I make ready some supper,” and
she hastened indoors.

Philemon went down the road, and holding out his hand to the
two men, he said, “Welcome, strangers, welcome.”

“Thank you,” answered the younger of the two travelers.
“Yours is a kind welcome, very different from the one we got in
the village; pray why do you live in such a bad place?”

“I think,” answered Philemon, “that Providence put me here
just to make up as best I can for other people’s
unkindness.”

The traveler laughed heartily, and Philemon was glad to see
him in such good spirits. He took a good look at him and his
companion. The younger man was very thin, and was dressed in an
odd kind of way. Though it was a summer evening, he wore a
cloak which was wrapped tightly about him; and he had a cap on
his head, the brim of which stuck out over both ears. There was
something queer too about his shoes, but as it was getting
dark, Philemon could not see exactly what they were like.

One thing struck Philemon very much, the traveler was so
wonderfully light and active that it seemed as if his feet were
only kept close to the ground with difficulty. He had a staff
in his hand which was the oddest-looking staff Philemon had
seen. It was made of wood and had a little pair of wings near
the top. Two snakes cut into the wood were twisted round the
staff, and these were so well carved that Philemon almost
thought he could see them wriggling.

The older man was very tall, and walked calmly along, taking
no notice either of naughty children or yelping dogs.

When they reached the cottage gate, Philemon said, “We are
very poor folk, but you are welcome to whatever we have in the
cupboard. My wife Baucis has gone to see what you can have for
supper.”

They sat down on the bench, and the younger stranger let his
staff fall as he threw himself down on the grass, and then a
strange thing happened. The staff seemed to get up from the
ground of its own accord, and it opened a little pair of wings
and half-hopped, half-flew and leaned itself against the wall
of the cottage.

Philemon was so amazed that he feared he had been dreaming,
but before he could ask any questions, the elder stranger
[pg 4] said: “Was there not a lake
long ago covering the spot where the village now
stands?”

“Never in my day,” said old Philemon, “nor in my father’s,
nor my grandfather’s: there were always fields and meadows just
as there are now, and I suppose there always will be.”

“That I am not so sure of,” replied the stranger. “Since the
people in that village have forgotten how to be loving and
gentle, maybe it were better that the lake should be rippling
over the cottages again,” and he looked very sad and stern.

He was a very important-looking man, Philemon felt, even
though his clothes were old and shabby; maybe he was some great
learned stranger who did not care at all for money or clothes,
and was wandering about the world seeking wisdom and knowledge.
Philemon was quite sure he was not a common person. But he
talked so kindly to Philemon, and the younger traveler made
such funny remarks, that they were all constantly laughing.

“Pray, my young friend, what is your name?” Philemon
asked.

“Well,” answered the younger man, “I am called Mercury,
because I am so quick.”

“What a strange name!” said Philemon; “and your friend, what
is he called?”

“You must ask the thunder to tell you that,” said Mercury,
“no other voice is loud enough.”

Philemon was a little confused at this answer, but the
stranger looked so kind and friendly that he began to tell them
about his good old wife, and what fine butter and cheese she
made, and how happy they were in their little garden; and how
they loved each other very dearly and hoped they might live
together till they died. And the stern stranger listened with a
sweet smile on his face.

Baucis had now got supper ready; not very much of a supper,
she told them. There was only half a brown loaf and a bit of
cheese, a pitcher with some milk, a little honey, and a bunch
of purple grapes. But she said, “Had we only known you were
coming, my goodman and I would have gone without anything in
order to give you a better
supper.”

“Do not trouble,” said the elder stranger kindly. “A hearty
welcome is better than the finest of food, and we are so hungry
that what you have to offer us seems a feast.” Then they all
went into the cottage.

And now I must tell you something that will make your eyes
open. You remember that Mercury’s staff was leaning against the
cottage wall? Well, when its owner went in at the door, what
should this wonderful staff do but spread its little wings and
go hop-hop, flutter-flutter up the steps; then it went tap-tap
across the kitchen floor and did not stop till it stood close
behind Mercury’s chair. No one noticed this, as Baucis and her
husband were too busy attending to their guests.

Baucis filled up two bowls of milk from the pitcher, while
her husband cut the loaf and the cheese. “What delightful milk,
Mother Baucis,” said Mercury, “may I have some more? This has
been such a hot day that I am very thirsty.”

“Oh dear, I am so sorry and ashamed,” answered Baucis, “but
the truth is there is hardly another drop of milk in the
pitcher.”

“Let me see,” said Mercury, starting up and catching hold of
the handles, “why here is certainly more milk in the pitcher.”
He poured out a bowlful for himself and another for his
companion. Baucis could scarcely believe her eyes. “I suppose I
must have made a mistake,” she thought, “at any rate the
pitcher must be empty now after filling both bowls twice
over.”

“Excuse me, my kind hostess,” said Mercury in a little
while, “but your milk is so good that I should very much like
another bowlful.”

Now Baucis was perfectly sure that the pitcher was empty,
and in order to show Mercury that there was not another drop in
it, she held it upside down over his bowl. What was her
surprise when a stream of fresh milk fell bubbling into the
bowl and overflowed on to the table, and the two snakes that
were twisted round Mercury’s staff stretched out their heads
and began to lap it up.

“And now, a slice of your brown loaf, pray Mother Baucis,
and a little honey,” asked Mercury.

Baucis handed the loaf, and though it had been rather a
[pg 6] hard and dry loaf when she and
her husband ate some at tea-time, it was now as soft and new
as if it had just come from the oven. As to the honey, it
had become the color of new gold and had the scent of a
thousand flowers, and the small grapes in the bunch had
grown larger and richer, and each one seemed bursting with
ripe juice.

Although Baucis was a very simple old woman, she could not
help thinking that there was something rather strange going on.
She sat down beside Philemon and told him in a whisper what she
had seen.

“Did you ever hear anything so wonderful?” she asked.

“No, I never did,” answered Philemon, with a smile. “I fear
you have been in a dream, my dear old wife.”

He knew Baucis could not say what was untrue, but he thought
that she had not noticed how much milk there had really been in
the pitcher at first. So when Mercury once more asked for a
little milk, Philemon rose and lifted the pitcher himself. He
peeped in and saw that there was not a drop in it; then all at
once a little white fountain gushed up from the bottom, and the
pitcher was soon filled to the brim with delicious milk.

Philemon was so amazed that he nearly let the jug fall. “Who
are ye, wonder-working strangers?” he cried.

“Your guests, good Philemon, and your friends,” answered the
elder traveler, “and may the pitcher never be empty for kind
Baucis and yourself any more than for the hungry traveler.”

The old people did not like to ask any more questions; they
gave the guests their own sleeping-room, and then they lay down
on the hard floor in the kitchen. It was long before they fell
asleep, not because they thought how hard their bed was, but
because there was so much to whisper to each other about the
wonderful strangers and what they had done.

They all rose with the sun next morning. Philemon begged the
visitors to stay a little till Baucis should milk the cow and
bake some bread for breakfast. But the travelers seemed to be
in a hurry and wished to start at once, and they asked Baucis
and Philemon to go with them a short distance to show them the
way.

So they all four set out together, and Mercury was so full
of fun and laughter, and made them feel so happy and bright,
that they would have been glad to keep him in their cottage
every day and all day long.

“Ah me,” said Philemon, “if only our neighbors knew what a
pleasure it was to be kind to strangers, they would tie up all
their dogs and never allow the children to fling another
stone.”

“It is a sin and shame for them to behave so,” said Baucis,
“and I mean to go this very day and tell some of them how
wicked they are.”

“I fear,” said Mercury, smiling, “that you will not find any
of them at home.”

The old people looked at the elder traveler and his face had
grown very grave and stern. “When men do not feel towards the
poorest stranger as if he were a brother,” he said, in a deep,
grave voice, “they are not worthy to remain on the earth, which
was made just to be the home for the whole family of the human
race of men and women and children.”

“And, by the bye,” said Mercury, with a look of fun and
mischief in his eyes, “where is this village you talk about? I
do not see anything of it.”

Philemon and his wife turned towards the valley, where at
sunset only the day before they had seen the trees and gardens,
and the houses, and the streets with the children playing in
them. But there was no longer any sign of the village. There
was not even a valley. Instead, they saw a broad lake which
filled all the great basin from brim to brim, and whose waters
glistened and sparkled in the morning sun.

The village that had been there only yesterday was now
gone!

“Alas! what has become of our poor neighbors?” cried the
kind-hearted old people.

“They are not men and women any longer,” answered the elder
traveler, in a deep voice like distant thunder. “There was no
beauty and no use in lives such as theirs, for they had no love
for one another, and no pity in their hearts for those who were
poor and weary. Therefore the lake that was here
[pg 8] in the old, old days has flowed
over them, and they will be men and women no more.”

“Yes,” said Mercury, with his mischievous smile, “these
foolish people have all been changed into fishes because they
had cold blood which never warmed their hearts, just as the
fishes have.”

“As for you, good Philemon, and you, kind Baucis,” said the
elder traveler, “you, indeed, gave a hearty welcome to the
homeless strangers. You have done well, my dear old friends,
and whatever wish you have most at heart will be granted.”

Philemon and Baucis looked at one another, and then I do not
know which spoke, but it seemed as if the voice came from them
both. “Let us live together while we live, and let us die
together, at the same time, for we have always loved one
another.”

“Be it so,” said the elder stranger, and he held out his
hands as if to bless them. The old couple bent their heads and
fell on their knees to thank him, and when they lifted their
eyes again, neither Mercury nor his companion was to be
seen.

So Philemon and Baucis returned to the cottage, and to every
traveler who passed that way they offered a drink of milk from
the wonderful pitcher, and if the guest was a kind, gentle
soul, he found the milk the sweetest and most refreshing he had
ever tasted. But if a cross, bad-tempered fellow took even a
sip, he found the pitcher full of sour milk, which made him
twist his face with dislike and disappointment.

Baucis and Philemon lived a great, great many years and grew
very old. And one summer morning when their friends came to
share their breakfast, neither Baucis nor Philemon was to be
found!

The guests looked everywhere, and all in vain. Then suddenly
one of them noticed two beautiful trees in the garden, just in
front of the door. One was an oak tree and the other a linden
tree, and their branches were twisted together so that they
seemed to be embracing.

No one had ever seen these trees before, and while they were
all wondering how such fine trees could possibly have grown up
in a single night, there came a gentle wind which
[pg 9] set the branches moving, and
then a mysterious voice was heard coming from the oak tree.
“I am old Philemon,” it said; and again another voice
whispered, “And I am Baucis.” And the people knew that the
good old couple would live for a hundred years or more in
the heart of these lovely trees. And oh, what a pleasant
shade they flung around! Some kind soul built a seat under
the branches, and whenever a traveler sat down to rest he
heard a pleasant whisper of the leaves over his head, and he
wondered why the sound should seem to say, “Welcome, dear
traveler, welcome.”

PANDORA

ADAPTED BY C.E. SMITH

Long, long ago, when this old world was still very young,
there lived a child named Epimetheus. He had neither father nor
mother, and to keep him company, a little girl, who was
fatherless and motherless like himself, was sent from a far
country to live with him and be his playfellow. This child’s
name was Pandora.

The first thing that Pandora saw, when she came to the
cottage where Epimetheus lived, was a great wooden box. “What
have you in that box, Epimetheus?” she asked.

“That is a secret,” answered Epimetheus, “and you must not
ask any questions about it; the box was left here for safety,
and I do not know what is in it.”

“But who gave it you?” asked Pandora, “and where did it come
from?”

“That is a secret too,” answered Epimetheus.

“How tiresome!” exclaimed Pandora, pouting her lip. “I wish
the great ugly box were out of the way;” and she looked very
cross.

“Come along, and let us play games,” said Epimetheus; “do
not let us think any more about it;” and they ran out to
[pg 10] play with the other children,
and for a while Pandora forgot all about the box.

But when she came back to the cottage, there it was in front
of her, and instead of paying no heed to it, she began to say
to herself: “Whatever can be inside it? I wish I just knew who
brought it! Dear Epimetheus, do tell me; I know I cannot be
happy till you tell me all about it.”

Then Epimetheus grew a little angry. “How can I tell you,
Pandora?” he said, “I do not know any more than you do.”

“Well, you could open it,” said Pandora, “and we could see
for ourselves!”

But Epimetheus looked so shocked at the very idea of opening
a box that had been given to him in trust, that Pandora saw she
had better not suggest such a thing again.

“At least you can tell me how it came here,” she said.

“It was left at the door,” answered Epimetheus, “just before
you came, by a queer person dressed in a very strange cloak; he
had a cap that seemed to be partly made of feathers; it looked
exactly as if he had wings.”

“What kind of a staff had he?” asked Pandora.

“Oh, the most curious staff you ever saw,” cried Epimetheus:
“it seemed like two serpents twisted round a stick.”

“I know him,” said Pandora thoughtfully. “It was Mercury,
and he brought me here as well as the box. I am sure he meant
the box for me, and perhaps there are pretty clothes in it for
us to wear, and toys for us both to play with.”

“It may be so,” answered Epimetheus, turning away; “but
until Mercury comes back and tells us that we may open it,
neither of us has any right to lift the lid;” and he went out
of the cottage.

“What a stupid boy he is!” muttered Pandora, “I do wish he
had a little more spirit.” Then she stood gazing at the box.
She had called it ugly a hundred times, but it was really a
very handsome box, and would have been an ornament in any
room.

It was made of beautiful dark wood, so dark and so highly
polished that Pandora could see her face in it. The edges and
[pg 11] the corners were wonderfully
carved. On these were faces of lovely women, and of the
prettiest children, who seemed to be playing among the
leaves and flowers. But the most beautiful face of all was
one which had a wreath of flowers about its brow. All around
it was the dark, smooth-polished wood with this strange face
looking out from it, and some days Pandora thought it was
laughing at her, while at other times it had a very grave
look which made her rather afraid.

The box was not fastened with a lock and key like most
boxes, but with a strange knot of gold cord. There never was a
knot so queerly tied; it seemed to have no end and no
beginning, but was twisted so cunningly, with so many ins and
outs, that not even the cleverest fingers could undo it.

Pandora began to examine the knot just to see how it was
made. “I really believe,” she said to herself, “that I begin to
see how it is done. I am sure I could tie it up again after
undoing it. There could be no harm in that; I need not open the
box even if I undo the knot.” And the longer she looked at it,
the more she wanted just to try.

So she took the gold cord in her fingers and examined it
very closely. Then she raised her head, and happening to glance
at the flower-wreathed face, she thought it was grinning at
her. “I wonder whether it is smiling because I am doing wrong,”
thought Pandora, “I have a good mind to leave the box alone and
run away.”

But just at that moment, as if by accident, she gave the
knot a little shake, and the gold cord untwisted itself as if
by magic, and there was the box without any fastening.

“This is the strangest thing I have ever known,” said
Pandora, rather frightened, “What will Epimetheus say? How can
I possibly tie it up again?”

She tried once or twice, but the knot would not come right.
It had untied itself so suddenly she could not remember in the
least how the cord had been twisted together. So there was
nothing to be done but to let the box remain unfastened until
Epimetheus should come home.

“But,” thought Pandora; “when he finds the knot untied he
will know that I have done it; how shall I ever make him
[pg 12] believe that I have not
looked into the box?” And then the naughty thought came into
her head that, as Epimetheus would believe that she had
looked into the box, she might just as well have a little
peep.

She looked at the face with the wreath, and it seemed to
smile at her invitingly, as much as to say: “Do not be afraid,
what harm can there possibly be in raising the lid for a
moment?” And then she thought she heard voices inside, tiny
voices that whispered: “Let us out, dear Pandora, do let us
out; we want very much to play with you if you will only let us
out?”

“What can it be?” said Pandora. “Is there something alive in
the box? Yes, I must just see, only one little peep and the lid
will be shut down as safely as ever. There cannot really be any
harm in just one little peep.”

All this time Epimetheus had been playing with the other
children in the fields, but he did not feel happy. This was the
first time he had played without Pandora, and he was so cross
and discontented that the other children could not think what
was the matter with him. You see, up to this time everybody in
the world had always been happy, no one had ever been ill, or
naughty, or miserable; the world was new and beautiful, and the
people who lived in it did not know what trouble meant. So
Epimetheus could not understand what was the matter with
himself, and he stopped trying to play games and went back to
Pandora.

On the way home he gathered a bunch of lovely roses, and
lilies, and orange-blossoms, and with these he made a wreath to
give Pandora, who was very fond of flowers. He noticed there
was a great black cloud in the sky, which was creeping nearer
and nearer to the sun, and just as Ejpimetheus reached the
cottage door the cloud went right over the sun and made
everything look dark and sad.

Epimetheus went in quietly, for he wanted to surprise
Pandora with the wreath of flowers. And what do you think he
saw? The naughty little girl had put her hand on the lid of the
box and was just going to open it. Epimetheus saw this quite
well, and if he had cried out at once it would have given
[pg 13] Pandora such a fright she
would have let go the lid. But Epimetheus was very naughty
too. Although he had said very little about the box, he was
just as curious as Pandora was to see what was inside: if
they really found anything pretty or valuable in it, he
meant to take half of it for himself; so that he was just as
naughty, and nearly as much to blame as his companion.

When Pandora raised the lid, the cottage had grown very
dark, for the black cloud now covered the sun entirely and a
heavy peal of thunder was heard. But Pandora was too busy and
excited to notice this: she lifted the lid right up, and at
once a swarm of creatures with wings flew out of the box, and a
minute after she heard Epimetheus crying loudly: “Oh, I am
stung, I am stung! You naughty Pandora, why did you open this
wicked box?”

Pandora let the lid fall with a crash and started up to find
out what had happened to her playmate. The thunder-cloud had
made the room so dark that she could scarcely see, but she
heard a loud buzz-buzzing, as if a great many huge flies had
flown in, and soon she saw a crowd of ugly little shapes
darting about, with wings like bats and with terribly long
stings in their tails. It was one of these that had stung
Epimetheus, and it was not long before Pandora began to scream
with pain and fear. An ugly little monster had settled on her
forehead, and would have stung her badly had not Epimetheus run
forward and brushed it away.

Now I must tell you that these ugly creatures with stings,
which had escaped from the box, were the whole family of
earthly troubles. There were evil tempers, and a great many
kinds of cares: and there were more than a hundred and fifty
sorrows, and there were diseases in many painful shapes. In
fact all the sorrows and worries that hurt people in the world
to-day had been shut up in the magic-box, and given to
Epimetheus and Pandora to keep safely, in order that the happy
children in the world might never be troubled by them. If only
these two had obeyed Mercury and had left the box alone as he
told them, all would have gone well.

But you see what mischief they had done. The winged
[pg 14] troubles flew out at the
window and went all over the world: and they made people so
unhappy that no one smiled for a great many days. It was
very strange, too, that from this day flowers began to fade,
and after a short time they died, whereas in the old times,
before Pandora opened the box, they had been always fresh
and beautiful.

Meanwhile Pandora and Epimetheus remained in the cottage:
they were very miserable and in great pain, which made them
both exceedingly cross. Epimetheus sat down sullenly in a
corner with his back to Pandora, while Pandora flung herself on
the floor and cried bitterly, resting her head on the lid of
the fatal box.

Suddenly, she heard a gentle tap-tap inside. “What can that
be?” said Pandora, raising her head; and again came the tap,
tap. It sounded like the knuckles of a tiny hand knocking
lightly on the inside of the box.

“Who are you?” asked Pandora.

A sweet little voice came from inside: “Only lift the lid
and you will see.”

But Pandora was afraid to lift the lid again. She looked
across to Epimetheus, but he was so cross that he took no
notice. Pandora sobbed: “No, no, I am afraid; there are so many
troubles with stings flying about that we do not want any
more?”

“Ah, but I am not one of these,” the sweet voice said, “they
are no relations of mine. Come, come, dear Pandora, I am sure
you will let me out.”

The voice sounded so kind and cheery that it made Pandora
feel better even to listen to it. Epimetheus too had heard the
voice. He stopped crying. Then he came forward, and said: “Let
me help you, Pandora, as the lid is very heavy.”

So this time both the children opened the box, and out flew
a bright, smiling little fairy, who brought light and sunshine
with her. She flew to Epimetheus and with her finger touched
his brow where the trouble had stung him, and immediately the
pain was gone.

Then she kissed Pandora, and her hurt was better at
once.

 

OUT FLEW A BRIGHT SMILING LITTLE FAIRY.

“Pray who are you, kind fairy?” Pandora
asked.

“I am called Hope,” answered the sunshiny figure. “I was
shut up in the box so that I might be ready to comfort people
when the family of troubles got loose in the world.”

“What lovely wings you have! They are just like a rainbow.
And will you stay with us,” asked Epimetheus, “for ever and
ever?”

“Yes,” said Hope, “I shall stay with you as long as you
live. Sometimes you will not be able to see me, and you may
think I am dead, but you will find that I come back again and
again when you have given up expecting me, and you must always
trust my promise that I will never really leave you.”

“Yes, we do trust you,” cried both children. And all the
rest of their lives when the troubles came back and buzzed
about their heads and left bitter stings of pain, Pandora and
Epimetheus would remember whose fault it was that the troubles
had ever come into the world at all, and they would then wait
patiently till the fairy with the rainbow wings came back to
heal and comfort them.

MIDAS

ADAPTED BY C.E. SMITH

Once upon a time there lived a very rich King whose name was
Midas, and he had a little daughter whom he loved very dearly.
This King was fonder of gold than of anything else in the whole
world: or if he did love anything better, it was the one little
daughter who played so merrily beside her father’s
footstool.

But the more Midas loved his daughter, the more he wished to
be rich for her sake. He thought, foolish man, that the best
thing he could do for his child was to leave her the biggest
pile of yellow glittering gold that had ever been heaped
together since the world began. So he gave all his thoughts and
all his time to this purpose.

When he worked in his garden, he used to wish that the
[pg 16] roses had leaves made of
gold, and once when his little daughter brought him a
handful of yellow buttercups, he exclaimed, “Now if these
had only been real gold they would have been worth
gathering.” He very soon forgot how beautiful the flowers,
and the grass, and the trees were, and at the time my story
begins Midas could scarcely bear to see or to touch anything
that was not made of gold.

Every day he used to spend a great many hours in a dark,
ugly room underground: it was here that he kept all his money,
and whenever Midas wanted to be very happy he would lock
himself into this miserable room and would spend hours and
hours pouring the glittering coins out of his money-bags. Or he
would count again and again the bars of gold which were kept in
a big oak chest with a great iron lock in the lid, and
sometimes he would carry a boxful of gold dust from the dark
corner where it lay, and would look at the shining heap by the
light that came from a tiny window.

To his greedy eyes there never seemed to be half enough; he
was quite discontented. “What a happy man I should be,” he said
one day, “if only the whole world could be made of gold, and if
it all belonged to me!”

Just then a shadow fell across the golden pile, and when
Midas looked up he saw a young man with a cheery rosy face
standing in the thin strip of sunshine that came through the
little window. Midas was certain that he had carefully locked
the door before he opened his money-bags, so he knew that no
one, unless he were more than a mortal, could get in beside
him. The stranger seemed so friendly and pleasant that Midas
was not in the least afraid.

“You are a rich man, friend Midas,” the visitor said. “I
doubt if any other room in the whole world has as much gold in
it as this.”

“May be,” said Midas in a discontented voice, “but I wish it
were much more; and think how many years it has taken me to
gather it all! If only I could live for a thousand years, then
I might be really rich.

“Then you are not satisfied?” asked the stranger. Midas
shook his head.

“What would satisfy you?” the stranger said.

Midas looked at his visitor for a minute, and then said, “I
am tired of getting money with so much trouble. I should like
everything I touch to be changed into gold.”

The stranger smiled, and his smile seemed to fill the room
like a flood of sunshine. “Are you quite sure, Midas, that you
would never be sorry if your wish were granted?” he asked.

“Quite sure,” said Midas: “I ask nothing more to make me
perfectly happy.”

“Be it as you wish, then,” said the stranger: “from
to-morrow at sunrise you will have your desire—everything
you touch will be changed into gold.”

The figure of the stranger then grew brighter and brighter,
so that Midas had to close his eyes, and when he opened them
again he saw only a yellow sunbeam in the room, and all around
him glittered the precious gold which he had spent his life in
gathering.

How Midas longed for the next day to come! He scarcely slept
that night, and as soon as it was light he laid his hand on the
chair beside his bed; then he nearly cried when he saw that
nothing happened: the chair remained just as it was. “Could the
stranger have made a mistake,” he wondered, “or had it been a
dream?”

He lay still, getting angrier and angrier each minute until
at last the sun rose, and the first rays shone through his
window and brightened the room. It seemed to Midas that the
bright yellow sunbeam was reflected very curiously from the
covering of his bed, and he sat up and looked more closely.

What was his delight when he saw that the bedcover on which
his hands rested had become a woven cloth of the purest and
brightest gold! He started up and caught hold of the
bed-post—instantly it became a golden pillar. He pulled
aside the window-curtain and the tassel grew heavy in his
hand—it was a mass of gold! He took up a book from the
table, and at his first touch it became a bundle of thin golden
leaves, in which no reading could be seen.

Midas was delighted with his good fortune. He took his
spectacles from his pocket and put them on, so that he might
[pg 18] see more distinctly what he
was about. But to his surprise he could not possibly see
through them: the clear glasses had turned into gold, and,
of course, though they were worth a great deal of money,
they were of no more use as spectacles.

Midas thought this was rather troublesome, but he soon
forgot all about it. He went downstairs, and how he laughed
with pleasure when he noticed that the railing became a bar of
shining gold as he rested his hand on it; even the rusty iron
latch of the garden door turned yellow as soon as his fingers
pressed it.

How lovely the garden was! In the old days Midas had been
very fond of flowers, and had spent a great deal of money in
getting rare trees and flowers with which to make his garden
beautiful.

Red roses in full bloom scented the air: purple and white
violets nestled under the rose-bushes, and birds were singing
happily in the cherry-trees, which were covered with snow-white
blossoms. But since Midas had become so fond of gold he had
lost all pleasure in his garden: this morning he did not even
see how beautiful it was.

He was thinking of nothing but the wonderful gift the
stranger had brought him, and he was sure he could make the
garden of far more value than it had ever been. So he went from
bush to bush and touched the flowers. And the beautiful pink
and red color faded from the roses: the violets became stiff,
and then glittered among bunches of hard yellow leaves: and
showers of snow-white blossoms no longer fell from the
cherry-trees; the tiny petals were all changed into flakes of
solid gold, which glittered so brightly in the sunbeams that
Midas could not bear to look at them.

But he was quite satisfied with his morning’s work, and went
back to the palace for breakfast feeling very happy.

Just then he heard his little daughter crying bitterly, and
she came running into the room sobbing as if her heart would
break. “How now, little lady,” he said, “pray what is the
matter with you this morning?”

“Oh dear, oh dear, such a dreadful thing has happened!”
answered the child. “I went to the garden to gather you
[pg 19] some roses, and they are all
spoiled; they have grown quite ugly, and stiff, and yellow,
and they have no scent. What can be the matter?” and she
cried bitterly.

Midas was ashamed to confess that he was to blame, so he
said nothing, and they sat down at the table. The King was very
hungry, and he poured out a cup of coffee and helped himself to
some fish, but the instant his lips touched the coffee it
became the color of gold, and the next moment it hardened into
a solid lump. “Oh dear me!” exclaimed the King, rather
surprised.

“What is the matter, father?” asked his little daughter.

“Nothing, child, nothing,” he answered; “eat your bread and
milk before it gets cold.”

Then he looked at the nice little fish on his plate, and he
gently touched its tail with his finger. To his horror it at
once changed into gold. He took one of the delicious hot cakes,
and he had scarcely broken it when the white flour changed into
yellow crumbs which shone like grains of hard sea-sand.

“I do not see how I am going to get any breakfast,” he said
to himself, and he looked with envy at his little daughter, who
had dried her tears and was eating her bread and milk hungrily.
“I wonder if it will be the same at dinner,” he thought, “and
if so, how am I going to live if all my food is to be turned
into gold?”

Midas began to get very anxious and to think about many
things he had never thought of before. Here was the very
richest breakfast that could be set before a King, and yet
there was nothing that he could eat! The poorest workman
sitting down to a crust of bread and a cup of water was better
off than King Midas, whose dainty food was worth its weight in
gold.

He began to doubt whether, after all, riches were the only
good thing in the world, and he was so hungry that he gave a
groan.

His little daughter noticed that her father ate nothing, and
at first she sat still looking at him and trying to find out
what was the matter. Then she got down from her chair, and
running to her father, she threw her arms lovingly round his
knees.

Midas bent down and kissed her. He felt that his little
[pg 20] daughter’s love was a
thousand times more precious than all the gold he had gained
since the stranger came to visit him. “My precious, precious
little girl!” he said, but there was no answer.

Alas! what had he done? The moment that his lips had touched
his child’s forehead, a change took place. Her sweet, rosy
face, so full of love and happiness, hardened and became a
glittering yellow color; her beautiful brown curls hung like
wires of gold from the small head, and her soft, tender little
figure grew stiff in his arms.

Midas had often said to people that his little daughter was
worth her weight in gold, and it had become really true. Now
when it was too late, he felt how much more precious was the
warm tender heart that loved him than all the gold that could
be piled up between the earth and sky.

He began to wring his hands and to wish that he was the
poorest man in the wide world, if the loss of all his money
might bring back the rosy color to his dear child’s face.

While he was in despair he suddenly saw a stranger standing
near the door, the same visitor he had seen yesterday for the
first time in his treasure-room, and who had granted his
wish.

“Well, friend Midas,” he said, “pray how are you enjoying
your new power?”

Midas shook his head. “I am very miserable,” he said.

“Very miserable, are you?” exclaimed the stranger. “And how
does that happen: have I not faithfully kept my promise; have
you not everything that your heart desired?”

“Gold is not everything,” answered Midas, “and I have lost
all that my heart really cared for.”

“Ah!” said the stranger, “I see you have made some
discoveries since yesterday. Tell me truly, which of these
things do you really think is most worth—a cup of clear
cold water and a crust of bread, or the power of turning
everything you touch into gold; your own little daughter, alive
and loving, or that solid statue of a child which would be
valued at thousands of dollars?”

“O my child, my child!” sobbed Midas, wringing his hands. “I
would not have given one of her curls for the power of
[pg 21] changing all the world into
gold, and I would give all I possess for a cup of cold water
and a crust of bread.”

“You are wiser than you were, King Midas,” said the
stranger. “Tell me, do you really wish to get rid of your fatal
gift?”

“Yes,” said Midas, “it is hateful to me.”

“Go then,” said the stranger, “and plunge into the river
that flows at the bottom of the garden: take also a pitcher of
the same water, and sprinkle it over anything that you wish to
change back again from gold to its former substance.”

King Midas bowed low, and when he lifted his head the
stranger was nowhere to be seen.

You may easily believe that King Midas lost no time in
getting a big pitcher, then he ran towards the river. On
reaching the water he jumped in without even waiting to take
off his shoes. “How delightful!” he said, as he came out with
his hair all dripping, “this is really a most refreshing bath,
and surely it must have washed away the magic gift.”

Then he dipped the pitcher into the water, and how glad he
was to see that it became just a common earthen pitcher and not
a golden one as it had been five minutes before! He was
conscious, also of a change in himself: a cold, heavy weight
seemed to have gone, and he felt light, and happy, and human
once more. Maybe his heart had been changing into gold too,
though he could not see it, and now it had softened again and
become gentle and kind.

Midas hurried back to the palace with the pitcher of water,
and the first thing he did was to sprinkle it by handfuls all
over the golden figure of his little daughter. You would have
laughed to see how the rosy color came back to her cheeks, and
how she began to sneeze and choke, and how surprised she was to
find herself dripping wet and her father still throwing water
over her.

You see she did not know that she had been a little golden
statue, for she could not remember anything from the moment
when she ran to kiss her father.

King Midas then led his daughter into the garden, where he
sprinkled all the rest of the water over the rose-bushes, and
[pg 22] the grass, and the trees; and
in a minute they were blooming as freshly as ever, and the
air was laden with the scent of the flowers.

There were two things left, which, as long as he lived, used
to remind King Midas of the stranger’s fatal gift. One was that
the sands at the bottom of the river always sparkled like
grains of gold: and the other, that his little daughter’s curls
were no longer brown. They had a golden tinge which had not
been there before that miserable day when he had received the
fatal gift, and when his kiss had changed them into gold.

CADMUS

ADAPTED BY C.E. SMITH

Cadmus, Phoenix, and Cilix, the three sons of King Agenor,
were playing near the seashore in their father’s kingdom of
Phoenicia, and their little sister Europa was beside them.

They had wandered to some distance from the King’s palace
and were now in a green field, on one side of which lay the
sea, sparkling brightly in the sunshine, and with little waves
breaking on the shore.

The three boys were very happy gathering flowers and making
wreaths for their sister Europa. The little girl was almost
hidden under the flowers and leaves, and her rosy face peeped
merrily out among them. She was really the prettiest flower of
them all.

While they were busy and happy, a beautiful butterfly came
flying past, and the three boys, crying out that it was a
flower with wings, set off to try to catch it.

Europa did not run after them. She was a little tired with
playing all day long, so she sat still on the green grass and
very soon she closed her eyes.

For a time she listened to the sea, which sounded, she
thought, just like a voice saying, “Hush, hush,” and telling
her to go to [pg 23] sleep. But if she slept at
all it was only for a minute. Then she heard something
tramping on the grass and, when she looked up, there was a
snow-white bull quite close to her!

Where could he have come from? Europa was very frightened,
and she started up from among the tulips and lilies and cried
out, “Cadmus, brother Cadmus, where are you? Come and drive
this bull away.” But her brother was too far off to hear her,
and Europa was so frightened that her voice did not sound very
loud; so there she stood with her blue eyes big with fear, and
her pretty red mouth wide open, and her face as pale as the
lilies that were lying on her golden hair.

As the bull did not touch her she began to peep at him, and
she saw that he was a very beautiful animal; she even fancied
he looked quite a kind bull. He had soft, tender, brown eyes,
and horns as smooth and white as ivory: and when he breathed
you could feel the scent of rosebuds and clover blossoms in the
air.

The bull ran little races round Europa and allowed her to
stroke his forehead with her small hands, and to hang wreaths
of flowers on his horns. He was just like a pet lamb, and very
soon Europa quite forgot how big and strong he really was and
how frightened she had been. She pulled some grass and he ate
it out of her hand and seemed quite pleased to be friends. He
ran up and down the field as lightly as a bird hopping in a
tree; his hoofs scarcely seemed to touch the grass, and once
when he galloped a good long way Europa was afraid she would
not see him again, and she called out, “Come back, you dear
bull, I have got you a pink clover-blossom.” Then he came
running and bowed his head before Europa as if he knew she was
a King’s daughter, and knelt down at her feet, inviting her to
get on his back and have a ride.

At first Europa was afraid: then she thought there could
surely be no danger in having just one ride on the back of such
a gentle animal, and the more she thought about it, the more
she wanted to go.

What a surprise it would be to Cadmus, and Phoenix, and
Cilix if they met her riding across the green field, and what
fun it would be if they could all four ride round and round the
[pg 24] field on the back of this
beautiful white bull that was so tame and kind!

“I think I will do it,” she said, and she looked round the
field. Cadmus and his brothers were still chasing the butterfly
away at the far end. “If I got on the bull’s back I should soon
be beside them,” she thought. So she moved nearer, and the
gentle white creature looked so pleased, and so kind, she could
not resist any longer, and with a light bound she sprang up on
his back: and there she sat holding an ivory horn in each hand
to keep her steady.

“Go very gently, good bull,” she said, and the animal gave a
little leap in the air and came down as lightly as a feather.
Then he began a race to that part of the field where the
brothers were, and where they had just caught the splendid
butterfly. Europa shouted with delight, and how surprised the
brothers were to see their sister mounted on the back of a
white bull!

They stood with their mouths wide open, not sure whether to
be frightened or not. But the bull played round them as gently
as a kitten, and Europa looked down all rosy and laughing, and
they were quite envious. Then when he turned to take another
gallop round the field, Europa waved her hand and called out
“Good-by,” as if she was off for a journey, and Cadmus,
Phoenix, and Cilix shouted “Good-by” all in one breath. They
all thought it such good fun.

And then, what do you think happened? The white bull set off
as quickly as before, and ran straight down to the seashore. He
scampered across the sand, then he took a big leap and plunged
right in among the waves. The white spray rose in a shower all
over him and Europa, and the poor child screamed with fright.
The brothers ran as fast as they could to the edge of the
water, but it was too late.

The white bull swam very fast and was soon far away in the
wide blue sea, with only his snowy head and tail showing above
the water. Poor Europa was holding on with one hand to the
ivory horn and stretching the other back towards her dear
brothers.

And there stood Cadmus and Phoenix and Cilix looking
[pg 25] after her and crying
bitterly, until they could no longer see the white head
among the waves that sparkled in the sunshine.

Nothing more could be seen of the white bull, and nothing
more of their beautiful sister.

This was a sad tale for the three boys to carry back to
their parents. King Agenor loved his little girl Europa more
than his kingdom or anything else in the world, and when Cadmus
came home crying and told how a white bull had carried off his
sister, the King was very angry and full of grief.

“You shall never see my face again,” he cried, “unless you
bring back my little Europa. Begone, and enter my presence no
more till you come leading her by the hand;” and his eyes
flashed fire and he looked so terribly angry that the poor boys
did not even wait for supper, but stole out of the palace
wondering where they should go first.

While they were standing at the gate, the Queen came
hurrying after them. “Dear children,” she said, “I will come
with you.”

“Oh no, mother,” the boys answered, “it is a dark night, and
there is no knowing what troubles we may meet with; the blame
is ours, and we had better go alone.”

“Alas!” said the poor Queen, weeping, “Europa is lost, and
if I should lose my three sons as well, what would become of
me? I must go with my children.”

The boys tried to persuade her to stay at home, but the
Queen cried so bitterly that they had to let her go with
them.

Just as they were about to start, their playfellow Theseus
came running to join them. He loved Europa very much, and
longed to search for her too. So the five set off together: the
Queen, and Cadmus, and Phoenix, and Cilix, and Theseus, and the
last they heard was King Agenor’s angry voice saying, “Remember
this, never may you come up these steps again, till you bring
back my little daughter.”

The Queen and her young companions traveled many a weary
mile: the days grew to months, and the months became years, and
still they found no trace of the lost Princess. Their clothes
were worn and shabby, and the peasant people looked curiously
at them when they asked, “Have you seen a snow-white
[pg 26] bull with a little Princess
on its back, riding as swiftly as the wind?”

And the farmers would answer, “We have many bulls in our
fields, but none that would allow a little Princess to ride on
its back: we have never seen such a sight.”

At last Phoenix grew weary of the search. “I do not believe
Europa will ever be found, and I shall stay here,” he said one
day when they came to a pleasant spot. So the others helped him
to build a small hut to live in, then they said good-by and
went on without him.

Then Cilix grew tired too. “It is so many years now since
Europa was carried away that she would not know me if I found
her. I shall wait here,” he said. So Cadmus and Theseus built a
hut for him too, and then said good-by.

After many long months Theseus broke his ankle, and he too
had to be left behind, and once more the Queen and Cadmus
wandered on to continue the search.

The poor Queen was worn and sad, and she leaned very heavily
on her son’s arm. “Cadmus,” she said one day, “I must stay and
rest.”

“Why, yes, mother, of course you shall, a long, long rest
you must have, and I will sit beside you and watch.”

But the Queen knew she could go no further. “Cadmus,” she
said, “you must leave me here, and, go to the wise woman at
Delphi and ask her what you must do next. Promise me you will
go!”

And Cadmus promised. The tired Queen lay down to rest, and
in the morning Cadmus found that she was dead, and he must
journey on alone.

He wandered for many days till he came in sight of a high
mountain which the people told him was called Parnassus, and on
the steep side of this mountain was the famous city of Delphi
for which he was looking. The wise woman lived far up the
mountain-side, in a hut like those he had helped his brothers
to build by the roadside.

When he pushed aside the branches he found himself in a low
cave, with a hole in the wall through which a strong wind was
blowing. He bent down and put his mouth to the
[pg 27] hole and said, “O sacred
goddess, tell me where I must look now for my dear sister
Europa, who was carried off so long ago by a bull?”

At first there was no answer. Then a voice said softly,
three times, “Seek her no more, seek her no more, seek her no
more.”

“What shall I do, then?” said Cadmus. And the answer came,
in a hoarse voice, “Follow the cow, follow the cow, follow the
cow.”

“But what cow,” cried Cadmus, “and where shall I
follow?”

And once more the voice came, “Where the stray cow lies
down, there is your home;” and then there was silence.

“Have I been dreaming?” Cadmus thought, “or did I really
hear a voice?” and he went away thinking he was very little
wiser for having done as the Queen had told him.

I do not know how far he had gone when just before him he
saw a brindled cow. She was lying down by the wayside, and as
Cadmus came along she got up and began to move slowly along the
path, stopping now and then to crop a mouthful of grass.

Cadmus wondered if this could be the cow he was to follow,
and he thought he would look at her more closely, so he walked
a little faster; but so did the cow. “Stop, cow,” he cried,
“hey brindle, stop,” and he began to run; and much to his
surprise so did the cow, and though he ran as hard as possible,
he could not overtake her.

So he gave it up. “I do believe this may be the cow I was
told about,” he thought. “Any way, I may as well follow her and
surely she will lie down somewhere.”

On and on they went. Cadmus thought the cow would never
stop, and other people who had heard the strange story began to
follow too, and they were all very tired and very far away from
home when at last the cow lay down. His companions were
delighted and began to cut down wood to make a fire, and some
ran to a stream to get water. Cadmus lay down to rest close
beside the cow. He was wishing that his mother and brothers and
Theseus had been with him now,
[pg 28] when suddenly he was startled
by cries and shouts and screams.

He ran towards the stream, and there he saw the head of a
big serpent or dragon, with fiery eyes and with wide open jaws
which showed rows and rows of horrible sharp teeth. Before
Cadmus could reach it, the monster had killed all his poor
companions and was busy devouring them. The stream was an
enchanted one, and the dragon had been told to guard it so that
no mortal might ever touch the water, and the people round
about knew this, so that for a hundred years none of them had
ever come near the spot.

The dragon had been asleep and was very hungry, and when he
saw Cadmus he opened his huge jaws again, ready to devour him
too. But Cadmus was very angry at the death of all his
companions, and drawing his sword he rushed at the monster.
With one big bound he leaped right into the dragon’s mouth, so
far down that the two rows of terrible teeth could not close on
him or do him any harm. The dragon lashed with his tail
furiously, but Cadmus stabbed him again and again, and in a
short time the great monster lay dead.

“What shall I do now?” he said aloud. All his companions
were dead, and he was alone once more. “Cadmus,” said a voice,
“pluck out the dragon’s teeth and plant them in the earth.”

Cadmus looked round and there was nobody to be seen. But he
set to work and cut out the huge teeth with his sword, and then
he made little holes in the ground and planted the teeth. In a
few minutes the earth was covered with rows of armed men,
fierce-looking soldiers with swords and helmets who stood
looking at Cadmus in silence.

“Throw a stone among these men,” came the voice again, and
Cadmus obeyed. At once all the men began to fight, and they cut
and stabbed each other so furiously that in a short time only
five remained alive out of all the hundreds that had stood
before him. “Cadmus,” said the voice once more, “tell these men
to stop fighting and help you to build a palace.” And as soon
as Cadmus spoke, the five big men sheathed their swords, and
they began to carry stones, and to carve these for
[pg 29] Cadmus, as if they had never
thought of such a thing as fighting each other!

They built a house for each of themselves, and there was a
beautiful palace for Cadmus made of marble, and of fine kinds
of red and green stone, and there was a high tower with a flag
floating from a tall gold flag-post.

When everything was ready, Cadmus went to take possession of
his new house, and, as he entered the great hall, he saw a lady
coming slowly towards him. She was very lovely and she wore a
royal robe which shone like sunbeams, with a crown of stars on
her golden hair, and round her neck was a string of the fairest
pearls.

Cadmus was full of delight. Could this be his long lost
sister Europa coming to make him happy after all these weary
years of searching and wandering?

How much he had to tell her about Phoenix, and Cilix, and
dear Theseus and of the poor Queen’s lonely grave in the
wilderness! But as he went forward to meet the beautiful lady
he saw she was a stranger. He was thinking what he should say
to her, when once again he heard the unknown voice speak.

“No, Cadmus,” it said, “this is not your dear sister whom
you have sought so faithfully all over the wide world. This is
Harmonia, a daughter of the sky, who is given to you instead of
sister and brother, and friend and mother. She is your Queen,
and will make happy the home which you have won by so much
suffering.”

So King Cadmus lived in the palace with his beautiful Queen,
and before many years passed there were rosy little children
playing in the great hall, and on the marble steps of the
palace, and running joyfully to meet King Cadmus as he came
home from looking after his soldiers and his workmen.

And the five old soldiers that sprang from the dragon’s
teeth grew very fond of these little children, and they were
never tired of showing them how to play with wooden swords and
to blow on a penny trumpet, and beat a drum and march like
soldiers to battle.

PROSERPINA

ADAPTED BY C.E. SMITH

Mother Ceres was very fond of her little daughter
Proserpina. She did not of ten let her go alone into the fields
for fear she should be lost. But just at the time when my story
begins she was very busy. She had to look after the wheat and
the corn, and the apples and the pears, all over the world, and
as the weather had been bad day after day she was afraid none
of them would be ripe when harvest-time came.

So this morning Mother Ceres put on her turban made of
scarlet poppies and got into her car. This car was drawn by a
pair of winged dragons which went very fast, and Mother Ceres
was just ready to start, when Proserpina said, “Dear mother, I
shall be very lonely while you are away, may I run down to the
sands, and ask some of the sea-children to come out of the
water to play with me?”

“Yes, child, you may,” answered Mother Ceres, “but you must
take care not to stray away from them, and you are not to play
in the fields by yourself with no one to take care of you.”

Proserpina promised to remember what her mother said, and by
the time the dragons with their big wings had whirled the car
out of sight she was already on the shore, calling to the
sea-children to come to play with her.

They knew Proserpina’s voice and came at once: pretty
children with wavy sea-green hair and shining faces, and they
sat down on the wet sand where the waves could still break over
them, and began to make a necklace for Proserpina of beautiful
shells brought from their home at the bottom of the sea.

Proserpina was so delighted when they hung the necklace
round her neck that she wanted to give them something in
return. “Will you come with me into the fields,” she asked,
“and I will gather flowers and make you each a wreath?”

“Oh no, dear Proserpina,” said the sea-children, “we may
[pg 31] not go with you on the dry
land. We must keep close beside the sea and let the waves
wash over us every minute or two. If it were not for the
salt water we should soon look like bunches of dried
sea-weed instead of sea-children.”

“That is a great pity,” said Proserpina, “but if you wait
for me here, I will run to the fields and be back again with my
apron full of flowers before the waves have broken over you ten
times. I long to make you some wreaths as beautiful as this
necklace with all its colored shells.”

“We will wait, then,” said the sea-children: “we will lie
under the water and pop up our heads every few minutes to see
if you are coming.”

Proserpina ran quickly to a field where only the day before
she had seen a great many flowers; but the first she came to
seemed rather faded, and forgetting what Mother Ceres had told
her, she strayed a little farther into the fields. Never before
had she found such beautiful flowers! Large sweet-scented
violets, purple and white; deep pink roses; hyacinths with the
biggest of blue bells; as well as many others she did not know.
They seemed to grow up under her feet, and soon her apron was
so full that the flowers were falling out of the corners.

Proserpina was just going to turn back to the sands to make
the wreaths for the sea-children, when she cried out with
delight. Before her was a bush covered with the most wonderful
flowers in the world. “What beauties!” said Proserpina, and
then she thought, “How strange! I looked at that spot only a
moment ago; why did I not see the flowers?”

They were such lovely ones too. More than a hundred
different kinds grew on the one bush: the brightest, gayest
flowers Proserpina had ever seen. But there was a shiny look
about them and about the leaves which she did not quite like.
Somehow it made her wonder if this was a poison plant, and to
tell the truth she was half inclined to turn round and run
away.

“How silly I am!” she thought, taking courage: “it is really
the most beautiful bush I ever saw. I will pull it up by the
roots and carry it home to plant in mother’s
garden.”

Holding her apron full of flowers with one hand, Proserpina
seized the large shrub with the other and pulled and
pulled.

What deep roots that bush had! She pulled again with all her
might, and the earth round the roots began to stir and crack,
so she gave another big pull, and then she let go. She thought
there was a rumbling noise right below her feet, and she
wondered if the roots went down to some dragon’s cave. Then she
tried once again, and up came the bush so quickly that
Proserpina nearly fell backwards. There she stood, holding the
stem in her hand and looking at the big hole which its roots
had left in the earth.

To her surprise this hole began to grow wider and wider, and
deeper and deeper, and a rumbling noise came out of it. Louder
and louder it grew, nearer and nearer it came, just like the
tramp of horses’ feet and the rattling of wheels.

Proserpina was too frightened now to run away, and soon she
saw a wonderful thing. Two black horses, with smoke coming out
of their nostrils and with long black tails and flowing black
manes, came tearing their way out of the earth, and a splendid
golden chariot was rattling at their heels.

The horses leaped out of the hole, chariot and all, and came
close to the spot where Proserpina stood.

Then she saw there was a man in the chariot. He was very
richly dressed, with a crown on his head all made of diamonds
which sparkled like fire. He was a very handsome man, but
looked rather cross and discontented, and he kept rubbing his
eyes and covering them with his hand, as if he did not care
much for the bright sunshine.

As soon as he saw Proserpina, the man waved to her to come a
little nearer. “Do not be afraid,” he said. “Come! would you
not like to ride a little way with me in my beautiful
chariot?”

But Proserpina was very frightened, and no wonder. The
stranger did not look a very kind or pleasant man. His voice
was so gruff and deep, and sounded just like the rumbling
Proserpina had heard underneath the earth.

She at once began to cry out, “Mother, mother! O Mother
Ceres, come quickly and save me!”

 

HE CAUGHT HER IN HIS ARMS AND SPRANG INTO THE
CHARIOT.

But her voice was very shaky and too faint for Mother Ceres
to hear, for by this time she was many thousands of miles away
making the corn grow in another country.

No sooner did Proserpina begin to cry out than the strange
man leaped to the ground; he caught her in his arms and sprang
into the chariot, then he shook the reins and shouted to the
two black horses to set off. They began to gallop so fast that
it was just like flying, and in less than a minute Proserpina
had lost sight of the sunny fields where she and her mother had
always lived.

She screamed and screamed and all the beautiful flowers fell
out of her apron to the ground.

But Mother Ceres was too far away to know what was happening
to her little daughter.

“Why are you so frightened, my little girl?” said the
strange man, and he tried to soften his rough voice. “I promise
not to do you any harm. I see you have been gathering flowers?
Wait till we come to my palace and I will give you a garden
full of prettier flowers than these, all made of diamonds and
pearls and rubies. Can you guess who I am? They call me Pluto,
and I am the King of the mines where all the diamonds and
rubies and all the gold and silver are found: they all belong
to me. Do you see this lovely crown on my head? I will let you
have it to play with. Oh, I think we are going to be very good
friends when we get out of this troublesome sunshine.”

“Let me go home,” sobbed Proserpina, “let me go home.”

“My home is better than your mother’s,” said King Pluto. “It
is a palace made of gold, with crystal windows and with diamond
lamps instead of sunshine; and there is a splendid throne; if
you like you may sit on it and be my little Queen, and I will
sit on the footstool.”

“I do not care for golden palaces and thrones,” sobbed
Proserpina. “O mother, mother! Take me back to my mother.”

But King Pluto only shouted to his horses to go faster.

“You are very foolish, Proserpina,” he said, rather crossly.
“I am doing all I can to make you happy, and I want very
[pg 34] much to have a merry little
girl to run upstairs and downstairs in my palace and make it
brighter with her laughter. This is all I ask you to do for
King Pluto.”

“Never” answered Proserpina, looking very miserable. “I
shall never laugh again, till you take me back to my mother’s
cottage.”

And the horses galloped on, and the wind whistled past the
chariot, and Proserpina cried and cried till her poor little
voice was almost cried away, and nothing was left but a
whisper.

The road now began to get very dull and gloomy. On each side
were black rocks and very thick trees and bushes that looked as
if they never got any sunshine. It got darker and darker, as if
night was coming, and still the black horses rushed on leaving
the sunny home of Mother Ceres far behind.

But the darker it grew, the happier King Pluto seemed to be.
Proserpina began to peep at him, she thought he might not be
such a wicked man after all.

“Is it much further,” she asked, “and will you carry me back
when I have seen your palace?”

“We will talk of that by and by,” answered Pluto. “Do you
see these big gates? When we pass these we are at home; and
look! there is my faithful dog at the door! Cerberus; Cerberus,
come here, good dog.”

Pluto pulled the horses’ reins, and the chariot stopped
between two big tall pillars. The dog got up and stood on his
hind legs, so that he could put his paws on the chariot wheel.
What a strange dog he was! A big, rough, ugly-looking monster,
with three heads each fiercer than the other.

King Pluto patted his heads and the dog wagged his tail with
delight. Proserpina was much afraid when she saw that his tail
was a live dragon, with fiery eyes and big poisonous teeth.

“Will the dog bite me?” she asked, creeping closer to King
Pluto. “How very ugly he is.”

“Oh, never fear,” Pluto answered; “he never bites people
unless they try to come in here when I do not want them. Down,
Cerberus. Now, Proserpina, we will drive on.”

The black horses started again and King Pluto seemed very
happy to find himself once more at
home.

All along the road Proserpina could see diamonds, and rubies
and precious stones sparkling, and there were bits of real gold
among the rocks. It was a very rich place.

Not far from the gateway they came to an iron bridge. Pluto
stopped the chariot and told Proserpina to look at the river
which ran underneath. It was very black and muddy, and flowed
slowly, very slowly, as if it had quite forgotten which way it
wanted to go, and was in no hurry to flow anywhere.

“This is the river Lethe,” said King Pluto; “do you not
think it a very pleasant stream?”

“I think it is very dismal,” said Proserpina.

“Well, I like it,” answered Pluto, who got rather cross when
any one did not agree with him. “It is a strange kind of river.
If you drink only a little sip of the water, you will at once
forget all your care and sorrow. When we reach the palace, you
shall have some in a golden cup, and then you will not cry any
more for your mother, and will be perfectly happy with me.”

“Oh no, oh no!” said Proserpina, sobbing again. “O mother,
mother, I will never forget you; I do not want to be happy by
forgetting all about you.”

“We shall see,” said King Pluto; “you do not know what good
times we will have in my palace. Here we are, just at the gate.
Look at the big pillars; they are all made of solid gold.”

He got out of the chariot and carried Proserpina in his arms
up a long stair into the great hall of the palace. It was
beautifully lit by hundreds of diamonds and rubies which shone
like lamps. It was very rich and splendid to look at, but it
was cold and lonely and Pluto must have longed for some one to
keep him company; perhaps that was why he had stolen Proserpina
from her sunny home.

King Pluto sent for his servants and told them to get ready
a grand supper with all kinds of dainty food and sweet things
such as children like. “And be sure not to forget a golden cup
filled with the water of Lethe,” he said to the servant.

“I will not eat anything,” said Proserpina, “nor drink a
single drop, even if you keep me for ever in your
palace.”

“I should be sorry for that,” replied King Pluto. He really
wished to be kind if he had only known how. “Wait till you see
the nice things my cook will make for you, and then you will be
hungry.”

Now King Pluto had a secret reason why he wanted Proserpina
to eat some food. You must understand that when people are
carried off to the land of magic, if once they taste any food
they can never go back to their friends.

If King Pluto had offered Proserpina some bread and milk she
would very likely have taken it as soon as she was hungry, but
all the cook’s fine pastries and sweets were things she had
never seen at home, and, instead of making her hungry, she was
afraid to touch them.

But now my story must leave King Pluto’s palace, and we must
see what Mother Ceres has been about.

You remember she had gone off in her chariot with the winged
dragons to the other side of the world to see how the corn and
fruit were growing. And while she was busy in a field she
thought she heard Proserpina’s voice calling her. She was sure
her little daughter could not possibly be anywhere near, but
the idea troubled her: and presently she left the fields before
her work was half done and, ordering her dragons with the
chariot, she drove off.

In less than an hour Mother Ceres got down at the door of
her cottage. It was empty! At first she thought “Oh, Proserpina
will still be playing on the shore with the sea-children.” So
she went to find her.

“Where is Proserpina, you naughty sea-children?” she asked;
“tell me, have you taken her to your home under the sea?”

“Oh no, Mother Ceres,” they said, “she left us early in the
day to gather flowers for a wreath, and we have seen nothing of
her since.”

Ceres hurried off to ask all the neighbors. A poor fisherman
had seen her little footprints in the sand as he went home with
his basket of fish.

A man in the fields had noticed her gathering flowers.

Several persons had heard the rattling of chariot wheels
[pg 37] or the rumbling of distant
thunder: and one old woman had heard a scream, but supposed
it was only merriment, and had not even looked up.

None of the neighbors knew where Proserpina was, and Mother
Ceres decided she must seek her daughter further from home.

By this time it was night, so she lit a torch and set off,
telling the neighbors she would never come back till Proserpina
was found. In her hurry she quite forgot her chariot with the
dragons; may be she thought she could search better on
foot.

So she started on her sad journey, holding her torch in
front of her, and looking carefully along every road and round
every corner.

She had not gone very far before she found one of the
wonderful flowers which Proserpina had pulled from the poison
bush.

“Ha!” said Mother Ceres, examining it carefully, “there is
mischief in this flower: it did not grow in the earth by any
help of mine; it is the work of magic, and perhaps it has
poisoned my poor child.” And she hid it in her bosom.

All night long Ceres sought for her daughter. She knocked at
the doors of farm-houses where the people were all asleep, and
they came to see who was there, rubbing their eyes and yawning.
They were very sorry for the poor mother when they heard her
tale—but they knew nothing about Proserpina.

At every palace door, too, she knocked, so loudly that the
servants ran quickly, expecting to find a great queen, and when
they saw only a sad lonely woman with a burning torch in her
hand, and a wreath of withered poppies on her head, they were
angry and drove her rudely away.

But nobody had seen Proserpina, and Mother Ceres wandered
about till the night was passed, without sitting down to rest,
and without taking any food. She did not even remember to put
out her torch, and it looked very pale and small in the bright
morning sunshine.

It must have been a magic torch, for it burned dimly all
day, and then when night came it shone with a beautiful red
[pg 38] light, and neither the wind
nor the rain put it out through all these weary days while
Ceres sought for Proserpina.

It was not only men and women that Mother Ceres questioned
about her daughter. In the woods and by the streams she met
other creatures whose way of talking she could understand, and
who knew many things that we have never learned.

Sometimes she tapped with her finger against an oak tree,
and at once its rough bark would open and a beautiful maiden
would appear: she was the spirit of the oak, living inside it,
and as happy as could be when its green leaves danced in the
breeze.

Then another time Ceres would find a spring bubbling out of
a little hole in the earth, and she would play with her fingers
in the water. Immediately up through the sandy bed a nymph with
dripping hair would rise and float half out of the water,
looking at Mother Ceres, and swaying up and down with the water
bubbles.

But when the mother asked whether her poor lost child had
stopped to drink of the fountain, the nymph with weeping eyes
would answer “No,” in a murmuring voice which was just like the
sound of a running stream.

Often, too, she met fauns. These were little people with
brown faces who looked as if they had played a great deal in
the sun. They had hairy ears and little horns on their brows,
and their legs were like goats’ legs on which they danced
merrily about the woods and fields. They were very kind
creatures, and were very sorry for Mother Ceres when they heard
that her daughter was lost.

And once she met a rude band of satyrs who had faces like
monkeys and who had horses’ tails behind; they were dancing and
shouting in a rough, noisy manner, and they only laughed when
Ceres told them how unhappy she was.

One day while she was crossing a lonely sheep-field she saw
the god Pan: he was sitting at the foot of a tall rock, making
music on a shepherd’s flute. He too had horns on his brow, and
hairy ears, and goat’s feet. He knew Mother Ceres and answered
her questions kindly, and he gave her some milk and honey to
drink out of a wooden bowl. But he knew nothing of
Proserpina.

And so Mother Ceres went wandering about for nine long days
and nights. Now and then she found a withered flower, and these
she picked up and put in her bosom, because she fancied they
might have fallen from her daughter’s hand. All day she went on
through the hot sunshine, and at night the flame of her torch
would gleam on the pathway, and she would continue her weary
search without ever sitting down to rest.

On the tenth day she came to the mouth of a cave. It was
dark inside, but a torch was burning dimly and lit up half of
the gloomy place. Ceres peeped in and held up her own torch
before her, and then she saw what looked like a woman, sitting
on a heap of withered leaves, which the wind had blown into the
cave. She was a very strange-looking woman: her head was shaped
like a dog’s, and round it she had a wreath of snakes.

As soon as she saw her, Mother Ceres knew that this was a
queer kind of person who was always grumbling and unhappy. Her
name was Hecate, and she would never say a word to other people
unless they were unhappy too. “I am sad enough,” thought poor
Ceres, “to talk with Hecate:” so she stepped into the cave and
sat down on the withered leaves beside the dog-headed
woman.

“O Hecate,” she said, “if ever you lose a daughter you will
know what sorrow is. Tell me, for pity’s sake, have you seen my
poor child Proserpina pass by the mouth of your cave?”

“No, Mother Ceres,” answered Hecate. “I have seen nothing of
your daughter. But my ears, you know, are made so that all
cries of distress or fright all over the world are heard by
them. And nine days ago, as I sat in my cave, I heard the voice
of a young girl sobbing as if in great distress. As well as I
could judge, some dragon was carrying her away.”

“You kill me by saying so,” cried Mother Ceres, almost ready
to faint; “where was the sound, and which way did it seem to
go?”

“It passed along very quickly,” said Hecate, “and there was
a rumbling of wheels to the eastward. I cannot tell you any
more. I advise you just to come and live here with me, and we
will be the two most unhappy women in all the
world.”

“Not yet, dark Hecate,” replied Ceres. “Will you first come
with your torch and help me to seek for my child. When there is
no more hope of finding her, then I will come back with you to
your dark cave. But till I know that Proserpina is dead, I will
not allow myself time to sorrow.”

Hecate did not much like the idea of going abroad into the
sunshine, but at last she agreed to go, and they set out
together, each carrying a torch, although it was broad daylight
and the sun was shining. Any people they met ran away without
waiting to be spoken to, as soon as they caught sight of
Hecate’s wreath of snakes.

As the sad pair wandered on, a thought struck Ceres. “There
is one person,” she exclaimed, “who must have seen my child and
can tell me what has become of her. Why did I not think of him
sooner? It is Phoebus.”

“What!” said Hecate, “the youth that always sits in the
sunshine! Oh! pray do not think of going near him: he is a gay
young fellow that will only smile in your face. And, besides,
there is such a glare of sunshine about him that he will quite
blind my poor eyes, which are weak with so much weeping.”

“You have promised to be my companion,” answered Ceres.
“Come, let us make haste, or the sunshine will be gone and
Phoebus along with it.”

So they set off in search of Phoebus, both sighing a great
deal, and after a long journey they came to the sunniest spot
in the whole world. There they saw a young man with curly
golden hair which seemed to be made of sunbeams.

His clothes were like light summer clouds, and the smile on
his face was so bright that Hecate held her hands before her
eyes and muttered that she wished he would wear a veil! Phoebus
had a lyre in his hands and was playing very sweet music, at
the same time singing a merry song.

As Ceres and her dismal companion came near, Phoebus smiled
on them so cheerfully that Hecate’s wreath of snakes gave a
spiteful hiss and Hecate wished she was back in her dark
cave.

But Ceres was too unhappy to know whether Phoebus smiled or
looked angry.

“Phoebus” she said, “I am in great trouble and have come to
you for help. Can you tell me what has become of my little
daughter Proserpina?”

“Proserpina, Proserpina did you call her?” answered Phoebus,
trying to remember. He had so many pleasant ideas in his head
that he sometimes forgot what had happened no longer ago than
yesterday.

“Ah yes! I remember now—a very lovely little girl. I
am happy to tell you that I did see Proserpina not many days
ago. You may be quite easy about her. She is safe and in good
hands.”

“Oh, where is my dear child?” cried Ceres, clasping her
hands and flinging herself at his feet.

“Why,” replied Phoebus, “as the little girl was gathering
flowers she was snatched up by King Pluto and carried off to
his kingdom. I have never been there myself, but I am told the
royal palace is splendidly built. Proserpina will have gold and
silver and diamonds to play with, and I am sure even although
there is no sunshine, she will have a very happy life.”

“Hush! do not say such a thing,” said Ceres. “What has she
got to love? What are all these splendors if she has no one to
care for? I must have her back. Good Phoebus, will you come
with me to demand my daughter from this wicked Pluto?”

“Pray excuse me,” answered Phoebus, with a bow. “I certainly
wish you success, and I am sorry I am too busy to go with you.
Besides, King Pluto does not care much for me. To tell you the
truth, his dog with the three heads would never let me pass the
gateway. I always carry a handful of sunbeams with me, and
those, you know, are not allowed within King Pluto’s
kingdom.”

So the poor mother said good-by and hastened away along with
Hecate.

Ceres had now found out what had become of her daughter, but
she was not any happier than before. Indeed, her trouble seemed
worse than ever. So long as Proserpina was above-ground there
was some hope of getting her home again. But now that the poor
child was shut up behind King Pluto’s iron
[pg 42] gates, with the three-headed
Cerberus on guard beside them, there seemed no hope of her
escape.

The dismal Hecate, who always looked on the darkest side of
things, told Ceres she had better come back with her to the
cave and spend the rest of her life in being miserable. But
Ceres answered that Hecate could go back if she wished, but
that for her part she would wander about all the world looking
for the entrance to King Pluto’s kingdom. So Hecate hurried off
alone to her beloved cave, frightening a great many little
children with her dog’s face as she went.

Poor Mother Ceres! It is sad to think of her all alone,
holding up her never-dying torch and wandering up and down the
wide, wide world. So much did she suffer that in a very short
time she began to look quite old. She wandered about with her
hair hanging down her back, and she looked so wild that people
took her for some poor mad woman, and never thought that this
was Mother Ceres who took care of every seed which was sown in
the ground and of all the fruit and flowers.

Now she gave herself no trouble about seedtime or harvest;
there was nothing in which she seemed to feel any interest,
except the children she saw at play or gathering flowers by the
wayside. Then, indeed, she would stand and look at them with
tears in her eyes.

And the children seemed to understand her sorrow and would
gather in a little group about her knees and look up lovingly
into her face, and Ceres, after giving them a kiss all round,
would lead them home and advise their mothers never to let them
stray out of sight. “For if they do,” said she, “it may happen
to you as it has happened to me: the iron-hearted King Pluto
may take a liking to your darlings and carry them away in his
golden chariot.”

At last, in her despair, Ceres made up her mind that not a
stalk of grain, nor a blade of grass, not a potato, nor a
turnip, nor any vegetable that is good for man or beast, should
be allowed to grow till her daughter was sent back. She was so
unhappy that she even forbade the flowers to bloom.

Now you can see what a terrible misfortune had fallen on
[pg 43] the earth. The farmer plowed
the ground and planted his seed, as usual, and there lay the
black earth without a single green blade to be seen. The
fields looked as brown in the sunny months of spring as ever
they did in winter. The rich man’s garden and the
flower-plot in front of the laborer’s cottage were both
empty; even the children’s gardens showed nothing but
withered stalks. It was very sad to see the poor starving
sheep and cattle that followed behind Ceres, bleating and
lowing as if they knew that she could help them.

All the people begged her at least to let the grass grow,
but Mother Ceres was too miserable to care for any one’s
trouble. “Never,” she said. “If the earth is ever to be green
again, it must grow along the path by which my daughter comes
back to me.”

At last, as there seemed to be no other way out of it,
Mercury, the favorite messenger of the gods, was sent to King
Pluto in the hope that he would set everything right again by
giving up Proserpina.

Mercury went as quickly as he could to the great iron gates,
and with the help of the wings on his shoes, he took a flying
leap right over Cerberus with his three heads, and very soon he
stood at the door of King Pluto’s palace.

The servants all knew him, as he had often been there in his
short cloak, and cap, and shoes with the wings, and with his
curious staff which had two snakes twisted round it.

He asked to see the King immediately, and Pluto, who had
heard his voice from the top of the stairs, called out to him
to come up at once, for he was always glad to listen to
Mercury’s cheery talk.

And while they are laughing together we must find out what
Proserpina had been doing since we last heard about her.

You will remember that Proserpina had said she would not
taste food so long as she was kept a prisoner in King Pluto’s
palace.

It was now six months since she had been carried off from
her home, and not a mouthful had she eaten, not even when the
cook had made all kinds of sweet things and had ordered all the
dainties which children usually like
best.

Proserpina was naturally a bright, merry little girl, and
all this time she was not so unhappy as you may have
thought.

In the big palace were a thousand rooms, and each was full
of wonderful and beautiful things. It is true there was never
any sunshine in these rooms, and Proserpina used to fancy that
the shadowy light which came from the jeweled lamps was alive:
it seemed to float before her as she walked between the golden
pillars, and to close softly behind her in the echo of her
footsteps.

And Proserpina knew that all the glitter of these precious
stones was not worth a single sunbeam, nor could the rubies and
emeralds which she played with ever be as dear to her as the
daisies and buttercups she had gathered among the soft green
grass.

King Pluto felt how much happier his palace was since
Proserpina came, and so did all his servants. They loved to
hear her childish voice laughing as she ran from room to room,
and they felt less old and tired when they saw again how glad
little children can be.

“My own little Proserpina,” King Pluto used to say, “I wish
you would like me a little better. Although I look rather a sad
man, I am really fond of children, and if you would stay here
with me always, it would make me happier than having hundreds
of palaces like this.”

“Ah,” said Proserpina, “you should have tried to make me
like you first before carrying me off, and now the best thing
you can do is to let me go again; then I might remember you
sometimes and think that you were as kind as you knew how to
be. Perhaps I might come back to pay you a visit one day.”

“No, no,” answered Pluto, with his gloomy smile, “I will not
trust you for that. You are too fond of living in the sunshine
and gathering flowers. What an idle, childish thing to do! Do
you not think that these diamonds which I have had dug out of
the mine for you are far prettier than violets?”

“No, oh no! not half so pretty,” said Proserpina, snatching
them from Pluto’s hand, and flinging them to the other end of
the room. “O my sweet purple violets, shall I ever see you
again?” and she began to cry
bitterly.

But like most children, she soon stopped crying, and in a
short time she was running up and down the rooms as when she
had played on the sands with the sea-children. And King Pluto,
sad and lonely, watched her and wished that he too was a child,
and when Proserpina turned and saw the great King standing
alone in his splendid hall, so grand and so lonely, with no one
to love him, she felt sorry for him. She ran back and for the
first time in all those six months she put her small hand in
his. “I love you a little,” she whispered, looking up into his
face.

“Do you really, dear child?” cried Pluto, bending down his
dark face to kiss her. But Proserpina was a little afraid, he
was so dark and severe-looking, and she shrank back.

“Well,” said Pluto, “it is just what I deserve after keeping
you a prisoner all these months, and starving you besides. Are
you not dreadfully hungry, is there nothing I can get you to
eat?”

In asking this Pluto was very cunning, as you will remember
that if Proserpina once tasted any food in his kingdom, she
would never again be able to go home.

“No, indeed,” said Proserpina. “Your poor fat little cook is
always making me all kinds of good things which I do not want.
The one thing I should like to eat would be a slice of bread
baked by my own mother, and a pear out of her garden.”

When Pluto heard this he began to see that he had made a
mistake in his way of trying to tempt Proserpina to eat. He
wondered why he had never thought of this before, and he at
once sent a servant with a large basket to get some of the
finest and juiciest pears in the whole world.

But this was just at the time when, as we know, Mother Ceres
in her despair had forbidden any flowers or fruit to grow on
the earth, and the only thing King Pluto’s servant could find,
after seeking all over the world was a single dried-up
pomegranate, so dried up as to be hardly worth eating. Still,
since there was no better to be had, he brought it back to the
palace, put it on a magnificent gold plate, and carried it to
Proserpina.

Now it just happened that as the servant was bringing the
[pg 46] pomegranate in at the back
door of the palace, Mercury had gone up to the front steps
with his message to King Pluto about Proserpina.

As soon as Proserpina saw the pomegranate on the golden
plate, she told the servant to take it away again. “I shall not
touch it, I can assure you,” she said. “If I were ever so
hungry, I should not think of eating such a dried-up miserable
pomegranate as that.”

“It is the only one in the world,” said the servant, and he
set down the plate and went away.

When he had gone, Proserpina could not help coming close to
the table and looking at the dried-up pomegranate with
eagerness. To tell the truth, when she saw something that
really suited her taste, she felt all her six months’ hunger
come back at once.

To be sure it was a very poor-looking pomegranate, with no
more juice in it than in an oyster-shell. But there was no
choice of such things in King Pluto’s palace, and this was the
first fresh fruit Proserpina had ever seen there, and the last
she was ever likely to see, and unless she ate it up at once,
it would only get drier and drier and be quite unfit to
eat.

“At least I may smell it,” she thought, so she took up the
pomegranate and held it to her nose, and somehow, being quite
near to her mouth, the fruit found its way into that little red
cave.

Before Proserpina knew what she was about, her teeth had
actually bitten it of their own accord.

Just as this fatal deed was done, the door of the hall
opened and King Pluto came in, followed by Mercury, who had
been begging him to let his little prisoner go.

At the first noise of their coming, Proserpina took the
pomegranate from her mouth.

Mercury, who saw things very quickly, noticed that
Proserpina looked a little uncomfortable, and when he saw the
gold plate empty, he was sure she had been eating
something.

As for King Pluto, he never guessed the secret.

“My dear little Proserpina,” said the King, sitting down and
drawing her gently between his knees, “here is Mercury,
[pg 47] who tells me that a great
many sad things have happened to innocent people because I
have kept you a prisoner down here. And to confess the truth
I have been thinking myself that I really had no right to
take you away from your mother. It was very stupid of me,
but I thought this palace was so dull, and that I should be
much happier if I just had a merry little girl to play in
it, and I hoped you would take my crown for a toy and let me
be your playmate. It was very foolish of me, I know.”

“No, it was not foolish,” said Proserpina, “you have been
very kind to me, and I have often been quite happy here with
you.”

“Thank you, dear,” said King Pluto, “but I cannot help
seeing that you think my palace a dark prison and me the
hard-hearted jailor, and I should, indeed, be hard-hearted if I
were to keep you longer than six months. So I give you your
liberty. Go back, dear, with Mercury, to your mother.”

Now, although you might not think so, Proserpina found it
impossible to say good-by to King Pluto without being sorry,
and she felt she ought to tell him about tasting the
pomegranate. She even cried a little when she thought how
lonely and dull the great palace with its jeweled lamps would
be after she had left.

She would like to have thanked him many times, but Mercury
hurried her away. “Come along quickly,” he said, “as King Pluto
may change his mind, and take care above all things that you
say nothing about the pomegranate which the servant brought you
on the gold plate.”

In a short time they had passed the great gateway with the
golden pillars, leaving Cerberus barking and growling with all
his three heads at once, and beating his dragon tail on the
ground. Along the dark, rocky road they went very quickly, and
soon they reached the upper world again.

You can guess how excited and happy Proserpina was to see
the bright sunshine. She noticed how green the grass grew on
the path behind and on each side of her. Wherever she set her
foot at once there rose a flower: violets and roses bloomed
along the wayside; the grass and the corn began to
[pg 48] grow with ten times their
usual quickness to make up for the dreary months when Mother
Ceres had forbidden them to appear above ground.

The hungry cattle began to eat, and went on eating all day
after their long fast. And, I can assure you, it was a busy
time with all the farmers when they found that summer was
coming with a rush.

As to the birds, they hopped about from tree to tree among
the fresh, sweet blossoms, and sang for joy that the dreary
days were over and the world was green and young again.

Mother Ceres had gone back to her empty cottage, and was
sitting very sadly on the doorstep with her burning torch in
her hand. She had been looking wearily at the flame for some
moments, when all at once it flickered and went out.

“What does this mean?” she thought. “It was a magic torch,
and should have gone on burning till Proserpina was found.”

She looked up, and was surprised to see the bare brown
fields suddenly turning green, just as you sometimes see them
turn golden when the sun comes from behind a dark cloud.

“Does the Earth dare to disobey me?” exclaimed Mother Ceres
angrily. “Did I not forbid it to be green until my child should
be sent back to me?”

“Then open your arms, mother dear,” cried a well-known
voice, “and take me back again.” And Proserpina came running
along the pathway and flung herself on her mother’s bosom.

It would be impossible to tell how happy they were; so happy
that they cried a little, for people cry when they are very
glad as well as when they are unhappy.

After a little while Mother Ceres looked anxiously at
Proserpina. “My child,” she said, “did you taste any food while
you were in King Pluto’s palace?”

“Dearest mother,” answered Proserpina, “I will tell you the
whole truth. Until this morning not a morsel of food had passed
my lips. But a servant brought me a pomegranate on a
golden-plate, a very dry pomegranate, with no juice inside,
nothing but seeds and skin; and I was so hungry, and had not
[pg 49] tasted any food for such a
long time, that I took just one bite. The moment I tasted it
King Pluto and Mercury came into the room. I had not
swallowed a morsel, but O mother! I hope it was no harm, six
pomegranate seeds remained in my mouth and I swallowed
them.”

“O miserable me!” said Mother Ceres. “For each of these six
pomegranate seeds you must spend a month every year in King
Pluto’s palace. You are only half restored to me; you will be
six months with me and then six months with the King of
Darkness!”

“Do not be so vexed, mother dear,” said Proserpina. “It was
very unkind of King Pluto to carry me off, but then, as he
says, it was such a dismal life for him to lead in that great
palace all alone: and he says he has been much happier since he
had me to run about the big rooms and to play beside him. If
only he will let me spend six months every year with you, I
think I can bear to spend the other six months beside him.
After all, he was as kind as he knew how to be, but I am very
glad he cannot keep me the whole year round.”

THE STORY OF ATALANTA

ADAPTED BY ANNA KLINGENSMITH

Atalanta was a maiden whose face you might truly say was
boyish for a girl, yet too girlish for a boy. Her fortune had
been told, and it was to this effect: “Atalanta, do not marry;
marriage will be your ruin.” Terrified by this oracle, she fled
the society of men, and devoted herself to the sports of the
chase. To all suitors (for she had many) she imposed a
condition which was generally effectual in relieving her of
their persecutions, “I will be the prize of him who shall
conquer me in the race; but death must be the penalty of all
who try and fail.” In spite of this hard condition some would
try. Hippomenes was to be judge of the race. “Can
[pg 50] it be possible that any will
be so rash as to risk so much for a wife?” said he. But when
he saw her ravishing beauty as she prepared for the race, he
changed his mind, and said, “Pardon me, youths, I knew not
the prize you were competing for.” As he surveyed them he
wished them all to be beaten, and swelled with envy of
anyone that seemed at all likely to win. While such were his
thoughts, the virgin darted forward. As she ran she looked
more beautiful than ever. The breezes seemed to give wings
to her feet; her hair flew over her shoulders, and the gay
fringe of her garment fluttered behind her. A ruddy hue
tinged the whiteness of her skin, such as a crimson curtain
casts on a marble wall. All her competitors were distanced,
and were put to death without mercy. Hippomenes, not daunted
by this result, fixing his eyes on the virgin, said, “Why
boast of beating those laggards? I offer myself for the
contest.” Atalanta looked at him with a pitying countenance,
and hardly knew whether she would rather conquer him or not.
“What god can tempt one so young and handsome to throw
himself away? I pity him, not for his beauty (yet he is
beautiful), but for his youth. I wish he would give up the
race, or if he will be so mad, I hope he may outrun me.”
While she hesitates, revolving these thoughts, the
spectators grow impatient for the race, and her father
prompts her to prepare. Then Hippomenes addressed a prayer
to Venus: “Help me, Venus, for you have led me on.” Venus
heard and was propitious.

In the garden of her temple, in her own island of Cyprus, is
a tree with yellow leaves and yellow branches and golden fruit.
Hence she gathered three golden apples, and, unseen by any one
else, gave them to Hippomenes, and told him how to use them.
The signal is given; each starts from the goal and skims over
the sand. So light their tread, you would almost have thought
they might run over the river surface or over the waving grain
without sinking. The cries of the spectators cheered
Hippomenes,—”Now, now, do your best! haste, haste! you
gain on her! relax not! one more effort!” It was doubtful
whether the youth or the maiden heard these cries with the
greater pleasure. But his breath began to fail him, his throat
was dry, the goal yet far off. At that moment he
[pg 51] threw down one of the golden
apples. The virgin was all amazement. She stopped to pick it
up. Hippomenes shot ahead. Shouts burst forth from all
sides. She redoubled her efforts, and soon overtook him.
Again he threw an apple. She stopped again, but again came
up with him. The goal was near; one chance only remained.
“Now, goddess,” said he, “prosper your gift!” and threw the
last apple off at one side. She looked at it, and hesitated;
Venus impelled her to turn aside for it. She did so, and was
vanquished. The youth carried off his prize.

PYRAMUS AND THISBE

ADAPTED BY ALICE ZIMMERN

In Babylon, the great and wonderful city on the Euphrates,
there lived in two adjoining houses a youth and a maiden named
Pyramus and Thisbe. Hardly a day passed without their meeting,
and at last they came to know and love one another. But when
Pyramus sought Thisbe in marriage, the parents would not hear
of it, and even forbade the lovers to meet or speak to each
other any more. But though they could no longer be openly
together, they saw each other at a distance and sent messages
by signs and tokens.

One day to their great delight they discovered a tiny crack
in the wall between the two houses, through which they could
hear each other speak. But a few words whispered through a
chink in the wall could not satisfy two ardent lovers, and they
tried to arrange a meeting. They would slip away one night
unnoticed and meet somewhere outside the city. A spot near the
tomb of Ninus was chosen, where a mulberry tree grew near a
pleasant spring of water.

At nightfall Thisbe put on a thick veil, slipped out of the
house unobserved and made her way in haste to the city gates.
She was first at the trysting-place and sat down under the tree
to wait for her lover. A strange noise made her look up, and
[pg 52] she saw by the clear
moonlight a lioness with bloody jaws coming to drink at the
spring. Thisbe sprang up, and dropping her cloak in her
haste ran to hide herself in a neighboring cave. The
lioness, who had already eaten, did not care to pursue her,
but finding the cloak lying on the ground, pulled it to bits
and left the marks of blood on the torn mantle. Now Pyramus
in his turn came to the place and found no Thisbe, but only
her torn and bloodstained cloak. “Surely,” he thought, “some
beast must have devoured her, for here lies her cloak, all
mangled and bloodstained. Alas, that I came too late! Her
love for me led Thisbe to brave the perils of night and
danger, and I was not here to protect and save her. She dies
a victim to her love, but she shall not perish alone. One
same night will see the end of both lovers. Come, ye lions,
and devour me too, ’tis my one prayer. Yet ’tis a coward’s
part to pray for death when his own hands can give it.”

With these words he drew Thisbe’s cloak towards him, and
covered it with kisses. “My blood too shall stain you,” he
cried, and plunged his sword with true aim in his breast. The
blood spouted forth as from a fountain and stained the white
fruit of the mulberry overhead.

While Pyramus lay dying under the tree, Thisbe had recovered
from her fright, and now stole forth from her hiding-place,
hoping that her lover might be at hand. What was her dismay
when she saw Pyramus stretched lifeless on the ground. Kneeling
down beside him, she washed his wound with her tears, and
kissed his cold lips, calling on him in vain to speak. “Speak
to me, Pyramus,” she cried, “’tis your beloved Thisbe that
calls.”

At the sound of her voice Pyramus opened his failing eyes,
and gave his love one last look, then he closed them for ever.
When Thisbe saw her own cloak and the empty sheath, she guessed
that, thinking her dead, he had sought death himself.

“‘Twas by your own hand you fell,” she cried, “a victim to
love, and love will give my hand strength to do the like. Since
those who were parted in life are united in death, perhaps our
sorrowing parents will grant us the boon of a common tomb. May
we rest side by side, even as we have fallen, and may this
[pg 53] tree, which has witnessed our
despair and our death, bear the traces for evermore. Let its
fruit be clothed in mourning garb for the death of two
hapless lovers.”

With these words she threw herself on the sword of Pyramus.
Her last prayer was granted, for one urn held the ashes of the
faithful pair. And since that night the mulberry tree bears
purple fruit to recall to all generations of lovers the cruel
fate of Pyramus and Thisbe.

ORPHEUS

ADAPTED BY ALICE ZIMMERN

Orpheus, the Thracian singer, was the most famous of all the
musicians of Greece. Apollo himself had given him his golden
harp, and on it he played music of such wondrous power and
beauty that rocks, trees and beasts would follow to hear him.
Jason had persuaded Orpheus to accompany the Argonauts when
they went to fetch back the golden fleece, for he knew that the
perils of the way would be lightened by song. To the sound of
his lyre the Argo had floated down to the sea, and he played so
sweetly when they passed the rocks of the Sirens that the
dreadful monsters sang their most alluring strains in vain.

Orpheus wedded the fair nymph Eurydice, whom he loved
dearly, and who returned his love. But at their marriage the
omens were not favorable. Hymen, the marriage god, came to it
with a gloomy countenance and the wedding torches smoked and
would not give forth a cheerful flame.

Indeed the happiness of Orpheus and Eurydice was to be but
short-lived. For as the new-made bride wandered through the
woods with the other nymphs a poisonous serpent stung her heel,
and no remedy availed to save her. Orpheus was thrown into most
passionate grief at his wife’s death. He could not believe that
he had lost her for ever, but prayed day and
[pg 54] night without ceasing to the
gods above to restore her to him. When they would not
listen, he resolved to make one last effort to win her back.
He would go down to the Lower World and seek her among the
dead, and try whether any prayer or persuasion could move
Pluto to restore his beloved.

Near Tænarum, in Laconia, was a cave among dark and
gloomy rocks, through which led one of the entrances to the
Lower World. This was the road by which Hercules descended when
he went to carry off Cerberus, the three-headed dog that guards
the threshold of Pluto. Undaunted by the terrors of the place,
Orpheus passed through this gate and down a dark and dismal
road to the kingdom of the dead. Here he came in safety through
the crowd of ghosts and phantoms, and stood at last before the
throne of Pluto and Proserpina. Then he touched the chords of
his lyre and chanted these words:

“Great lords of the world below the earth, to which all we
mortals must one day come, grant me to tell a simple tale and
declare unto you the truth. Not to look upon the blackness of
Tartarus have I come hither, nor yet to bind in chains the
snaky heads on Cerberus. It is my wife I seek. A viper’s sting
has robbed her of the years that were her due. I should have
borne my loss, indeed I tried to bear it, but I was overcome by
Love, a god well known in the world above, and I think not
without honor in your kingdom, unless the story of Proserpina’s
theft be a lying tale. I beseech you, by the realms of the
dead, by mighty Chaos and the silence of your vast kingdom,
revoke the untimely doom of Eurydice. All our lives are forfeit
to you. ‘Tis but a short delay, and late or soon we all hasten
towards one goal. Hither all our footsteps tend. This is our
last home, yours is the sole enduring rule over mankind. She
too, when she shall have lived her allotted term of years, will
surely come under your sway. Till then, I implore you, let her
be mine. But if the Fates refuse a husband’s prayers, I am
resolved never to return hence. My death shall give you a
double boon.”

 

ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE.

Thus he prayed and touched his harp in tune with his words.
All around him the lifeless ghosts came flocking, and
[pg 55] as they heard they wept.
Tantalus forgot his hunger and thirst. Ixion’s wheel stood
still, the Danaids set aside their leaky urns and Sisyphus
sat on his stone to listen. Never yet had such sweet strains
been heard in the world of gloom. Then, for the first time,
tears moistened the cheeks of the Furies, and even the king
and queen of the dead were moved to pity. They summoned
Eurydice, and she came, yet halting from her recent
wound.

“Take her,” says Pluto, “and lead her back to the light. But
she must follow you at a distance, nor must you once turn round
to look upon her till you have passed beyond these realms. Else
the boon we grant you will be but vain.”

A steep path led upward from the realm of darkness, and the
way was hard to find through the gloom. In silence Orpheus led
on, till the goal was close at hand and the welcoming light of
the upper air began to penetrate the darkness. Then a sudden
fear struck his heart. Had Eurydice really followed his steps,
or had she turned back, and was all his toil in vain? Tom with
anxiety and longing, he turned to gaze on his beloved. Dimly he
saw her, but for the last time, for a power she could not
resist drew her back. Orpheus stretched out his arms and tried
to seize her, but he only clasped the empty air. “Farewell, a
last farewell,” she murmured, and vanished from his sight.

In vain Orpheus tried to follow her, in vain he besought
Charon to carry him a second time across the waters of Acheron.
Seven days he sat on the further bank without food or drink,
nourished by his tears and grief. Then at last he knew that the
gods below were pitiless; and full of sorrow he returned to the
upper earth.

For three years he wandered among the mountains of Thrace,
finding his only consolation in the music of his lyre, for he
shunned all men and women and would have no bride after
Eurydice.

One day he sat down to rest on a grassy hill in the
sunshine, and played and sang to beguile his sorrow. As he
played, the coolness of shady branches seemed all about him,
and looking up he found himself in the midst of a wood. Oak,
poplar, lime, beech, laurel, ash, pine, plane and maple and
[pg 56] many another tree had
gathered together here, drawn from their distant forest
homes by the sounds of Orpheus’s lyre. Yes, and the beasts
and the birds of the field came too, and Orpheus sat in
their midst and sang and played the tunes of sorrow.

Suddenly a great noise was heard of laughter and shouting
and merry-making. For this was one of the feasts of Bacchus,
and the women were celebrating his rites, wandering over the
mountains with dance and revel. When they saw Orpheus they set
up a shout of derision. “See,” they cried, “the wretched singer
who mocks at women and will have no bride but the dead. Come,
let us kill him, and show that no man shall despise us
unpunished.”

With these words they began to throw wands and stones at
him, but even the lifeless objects were softened by the music,
and fell harmlessly to the ground. Then the women raised a wild
shout and made such a clamor with trumpets and cymbals, that
the soft tones of the harp were drowned by the noise. Now at
last the shots took effect, and in their fury the women fell
upon him, dealing blow on blow. Orpheus fell lifeless to the
ground.

But he was not to die unwept. The little birds of the forest
mourned for him, even the stony rocks wept, the trees shed
their leaves with grief, and the dryads and naiads tore their
hair and put on the garb of sorrow. Only the pitiless revelers
knew no remorse. They seized the singer’s head and threw it
with his lyre into the river Hebrus. There it floated down
stream and, strange to tell, the chords gave forth a lament,
and the lifeless tongue uttered words. “Eurydice, Eurydice,” it
cried, till head and lyre were carried down to the sea, and on
to Lesbos, the isle of sweet song, where in after years Alcaeus
and Sappho tuned afresh the lyre of Orpheus.

But the shade of the dead singer went down to Hades, and
found entrance at last. Thus Orpheus and Eurydice were
re-united, and won in death the bliss that was denied them in
life.

MYTHS OF SCANDINAVIA

BALDUR

ADAPTED FROM A, AND E. KEARY’S VERSION

I

THE DREAM

Upon a summer’s afternoon it happened that Baldur the Bright
and Bold, beloved of men and the gods, found himself alone in
his palace of Broadblink. Thor was walking among the valleys,
his brow heavy with summer heat; Frey and Gerda sported on
still waters in their cloud-leaf ship; Odin, for once, slept on
the top of Air Throne; a noon-day stillness pervaded the whole
earth; and Baldur in Broadblink, most sunlit of palaces,
dreamed a dream.

The dream of Baldur was troubled. He knew not whence nor
why; but when he awoke he found that a new and weighty care was
within him. It was so heavy that Baldur could scarcely carry
it, and yet he pressed it closely to his heart and said, “Lie
there, and do not fall on any one but me.” Then he rose up and
walked out from the splendor of his hall, that he might seek
his own mother, Frigga, and tell her what had happened. He
found her in her crystal saloon, calm and kind, and ready to
sympathize; so he walked up to her, his hands pressed closely
on his heart, and lay down at her feet sighing.

“What is the matter, dear Baldur?” asked Frigga, gently.

“I do not know, mother,” answered he. “I do not know what
the matter is; but I have a shadow in my heart.”

“Take it out, then, my son, and let me look at it,” replied
Frigga.

“But I fear, mother, that if I do it will cover the whole
earth.”

Then Frigga laid her hand upon the heart of her son that she
might feel the shadow’s shape. Her brow became clouded as she
felt it; her parted lips grew pale, and she cried out, “Oh!
Baldur, my beloved son! the shadow is the shadow of death!”

Then said Baldur, “I will die bravely, my mother.”

But Frigga answered, “You shall not die at all; for I will
not sleep to-night until everything on earth has sworn to me
that it will neither kill nor harm you.”

So Frigga stood up, and called to her everything on earth
that had power to hurt or slay. First she called all metals to
her; and heavy iron-ore came lumbering up the hill into the
crystal hall, brass and gold, copper, silver, lead, and steel,
and stood before the Queen, who lifted her right hand high in
the air, saying, “Swear to me that you will not injure Baldur”;
and they all swore, and went. Then she called to her all
stones; and huge granite came with crumbling sandstone, and
white lime, and the round, smooth stones of the seashore, and
Frigga raised her arm, saying, “Swear that you will not injure
Baldur”; and they swore, and went. Then Frigga called to her
the trees; and wide-spreading oak trees, with tall ash and
sombre firs, came rushing up the hill, and Frigga raised her
hand, and said, “Swear that you will not hurt Baldur”; and they
said, “We swear,” and went. After this Frigga called to her the
diseases, who came blown by poisonous winds on wings of pain to
the sound of moaning. Frigga said to them, “Swear”; and they
sighed, “We swear,” then flew away. Then Frigga called to her
all beasts, birds, and venomous snakes, who came to her and
swore, and disappeared. Then she stretched out her hand to
Baldur, while a smile spread over her face, saying, “Now, my
son, you cannot die.”

Just then Odin came in, and when he had heard from Frigga
the whole story, he looked even more mournful than she had
done; neither did the cloud pass from his face when he was told
of the oaths that had been taken.

“Why do you look so grave, my lord?” demanded Frigga at
last. “Baldur cannot die
now.”

But Odin asked very gravely, “Is the shadow gone out of our
son’s heart, or is it still there?”

“It cannot be there,” said Frigga, turning away her head
resolutely, and folding her hands before her.

But Odin looked at Baldur, and saw how it was. The hands
pressed to the heavy heart, the beautiful brow grown dim. Then
immediately he arose, saddled Sleipnir, his eight-footed steed,
mounted him, and, turning to Frigga, said, “I know of a dead
prophetess, Frigga, who, when she was alive, could tell what
was going to happen; her grave lies on the east side of
Helheim, and I am going there to awake her, and ask whether any
terrible grief is really coming upon us.”

So saying Odin shook the bridle in his hand, and the
eight-footed, with a bound, leaped forth, rushed like a
whirlwind down the mountain of Asgard, and then dashed into a
narrow defile between rocks.

Sleipnir went on through the defile a long way, until he
came to a place where the earth opened her mouth. There Odin
rode in and down a broad, steep, slanting road which led him to
the cavern Gnipa, and the mouth of the cavern Gnipa yawned upon
Niflheim. Then thought Odin to himself, “My journey is already
done.” But just as Sleipnir was about to leap through the jaws
of the pit, Garm, the voracious dog who was chained to the
rock, sprang forward, and tried to fasten himself upon Odin.
Three times Odin shook him off, and still Garm, as fierce as
ever, went on with the fight. At last Sleipnir leaped, and Odin
thrust just at the same moment; then horse and rider cleared
the entrance, and turned eastward towards the dead prophetess’s
grave, dripping blood along the road as they went; while the
beaten Garm stood baying in the cavern’s mouth.

When Odin came to the grave he got off his horse, and stood
with his face northward, looking through barred enclosures into
the city of Helheim itself. The servants of Hela were very busy
there making preparations for some new guest—hanging
gilded couches with curtains of anguish and splendid misery
upon the walls. Then Odin’s heart died within him, and he began
to repeat mournful runes in a low
tone.

The dead prophetess turned heavily in her grave at the sound
of his voice, and sat bolt upright. “What man is this,” she
asked, “who dares disturb my sleep?”

Then Odin, for the first time in his life, said what was not
true; the shadow of Baldur dead fell upon his lips, and he made
answer, “My name is Vegtam, the son of Valtam.”

“And what do you want of me?” asked the prophetess.

“I want to know,” replied Odin, “for whom Hela is making
ready that gilded couch in Helheim?”

“That is for Baldur the Beloved,” answered the prophetess.
“Now go away and let me sleep again, for my eyes are
heavy.”

But Odin said, “Only one word more. Is Baldur going to
Helheim?”

“Yes, I’ve told you that he is,” was the answer.

“Will he never come back to Asgard again?”

“If everything on earth should weep for him,” said she, “he
will go back; if not, he will remain in Helheim.”

Then Odin covered his face with his hands and looked into
darkness.

“Do go away,” said the prophetess, “I’m so sleepy; I cannot
keep my eyes open any longer.”

But Odin raised his head and said again, “Only tell me one
thing. Just now, as I looked into darkness, it seemed to me
that I saw one on earth who would not weep for Baldur. Who was
it?”

At this she grew very angry and said, “How couldst
thou see in darkness? I know of only one who, by giving
away his eye, gained light. No Vegtam art thou but Odin, chief
of men.”

At her angry words Odin became angry, too, and called out as
loudly as he could, “No prophetess nor wise woman, but rather
the mother of three giants.”

“Go, go!” answered the prophetess, falling back in her
grave; “no man shall waken me again until Loki have burst his
chains and the Twilight of the Gods be come.” After this Odin
mounted the eight-footed once more and rode thoughtfully
home.

II

THE PEACESTEAD

When Odin came back to Asgard, Hermod took the bridle from
his father’s hand and told him that the rest of the gods were
gone to the Peacestead—a broad, green plain which lay
just outside the city. This was the playground of the gods,
where they practised trials of skill and held tournaments and
sham fights. These last were always conducted in the gentlest
and most honorable manner; for the strongest law of the
Peacestead was, that no angry blow should be struck, or
spiteful word spoken, upon the sacred field; and for this
reason some have thought it might be well if children also had
a Peacestead to play in.

Odin was too tired from his journey to go to the Peacestead
that afternoon; so he turned away and shut himself up in his
palace of Gladsheim. But when he was gone, Loki came into the
city by another way, and hearing from Hermod where the gods
were, set off to join them.

When he got to the Peacestead, Loki found that the gods were
standing round in a circle shooting at something, and he peeped
between the shoulders of two of them to find out what it was.
To his surprise he saw Baldur standing in the midst, erect and
calm, whilst his friends and brothers were aiming their weapons
at him. Some hewed at him with their swords,—others threw
stones at him—some shot arrows pointed with steel, and
Thor continually swung his great hammer at his head. “Well,”
said Loki to himself, “if this is the sport of Asgard, what
must that of Jötunheim be? I wonder what Father Odin and
Mother Frigga would say if they were here?” But as Loki still
looked, he became even more surprised, for the sport went on,
and Baldur was not hurt. Arrows aimed at his very heart glanced
back again untinged with blood. The stones fell down from his
broad, bright brow, and left no bruises there. Swords clave,
but did not wound him; Thor’s hammer struck him, and he was not
crushed. At this Loki grew perfectly furious with envy and
hatred. “And why is Baldur to be so honored,” said
[pg 62] he “that even steel and stone
shall not hurt him?” Then Loki changed himself into a
little, dark, bent old woman, with a stick, and hobbled away
from the Peacestead to Frigga’s crystal saloon. At the door
he knocked with the stick.

“Come in!” said the kind voice of Frigga, and Loki lifted
the latch.

Now when Frigga saw, from the other end of the hall, a
little, bent, crippled old woman come hobbling up her crystal
floor, she got up with true queenliness and met her halfway,
holding out her hand and saying in the kindest manner, “Pray
sit down, my poor old friend; for it seems to me that you have
come from a great distance.”

“That I have, indeed,” answered Loki in a tremulous,
squeaking voice.

“And did you happen to see anything of the gods,” asked
Frigga, “as you came?”

“Just now I passed by the Peacestead and saw them at
play.”

“What were they doing?”

“Shooting at Baldur.”

Then Frigga bent over her work with a pleased smile on her
face. “And nothing hurt him?”

“Nothing,” answered Loki, looking keenly at her.

“No, no thing,” murmured Frigga, still looking down and
speaking half musingly to herself; “for all things have sworn
to me that they will not.”

“Sworn!” exclaimed Loki, eagerly; “what is that you say? Has
everything sworn then?”

“Everything,” answered she, “excepting the little shrub
mistletoe, which grows, you know, on the west side of Valhalla,
and to which I said nothing, because I thought it was too young
to swear.”

“Excellent!” thought Loki, and then he got up.

“You’re not going yet, are you?” said Frigga, stretching out
her hand and looking up at last into the eyes of the old
woman.

“I’m quite rested now, thank you,” answered Loki in his
squeaky voice, and then he hobbled out at the door, which
[pg 63] clapped after him, and sent a
cold gust into the room. Frigga shuddered, and thought that
a serpent was gliding down the back of her neck.

When Loki had left the presence of Frigga, he changed
himself back to his proper shape and went straight to the west
side of Valhalla, where the mistletoe grew. Then he opened his
knife and cut off a large bunch, saying these words, “Too young
for Frigga’s oaths, but not too weak for Loki’s work.” After
which he set off for the Peacestead once more, the mistletoe in
his hand. When he got there he found that the gods were still
at their sport, standing round, taking aim, and talking
eagerly, and Baldur did not seem tired.

But there was one who stood alone, leaning against a tree,
and who took no part in what was going on. This was Hödur,
Baldur’s blind twin-brother; he stood with his head bent
downwards, silent while the others were speaking, doing nothing
when they were most eager; and Loki thought that there was a
discontented expression on his face, just as if he were saying
to himself, “Nobody takes any notice of me.” So Loki went up to
him and put his hand upon his shoulder.

“And why are you standing here all alone, my brave friend?”
said he. “Why don’t you throw something at Baldur? Hew
at him with a sword, or show him some attention of that
sort.”

“I haven’t a sword,” answered Hödur, with an impatient
gesture; “and you know as well as I do, Loki, that Father Odin
does not approve of my wearing warlike weapons, or joining in
sham fights, because I am blind.”

“Oh! is that it?” said Loki. Well, I only know I
shouldn’t like to be left out of everything. However, I’ve got
a twig of mistletoe here which I’ll lend you if you like; a
harmless little twig enough, but I shall be happy to guide your
arm if you would like to throw it, and Baldur might take it as
a compliment from his twin-brother.”

“Let me feel it,” said Hödur, stretching out his
groping hands.

“This way, this way, my dear friend,” said Loki, giving him
the twig. “Now, as hard as ever you can, to do him
honor; throw!”

Hödur threw—Baldur fell, and the shadow of death
covered the whole earth.

III

BALDUR DEAD

One after another they turned and left the Peacestead, the
friends and brothers of the slain. One after another they
turned and went towards the city; crushed hearts, heavy
footsteps, no word amongst them, a shadow upon all. The shadow
was in Asgard, too—had walked through Frigga’s hall and
seated itself upon the threshold of Gladsheim. Odin had just
come out to look at it, and Frigga stood by in mute despair as
the gods came up.

“Loki did it! Loki did it!” they said at last in confused,
hoarse whispers, and they looked from one to
another,—upon Odin, upon Frigga, upon the shadow which
they saw before them, and which they felt within. “Loki did it!
Loki, Loki!” they went on saying; but it was of no use to
repeat the name of Loki over and over again when there was
another name they were too sad to utter but which filled all
their hearts—Baldur. Frigga said it first, and then they
all went to look at him lying down so peacefully on the
grass—dead, dead.

“Carry him to the funeral pyre!” said Odin, at length; and
four of the gods stooped down and lifted their dead
brother.

Noiselessly they carried the body tenderly to the seashore
and laid it upon the deck of the majestic ship, Ringhorn, which
had been his. Then they stood waiting to see who would
come to the funeral. Odin came, and on his shoulders sat his
two ravens, whose croaking drew clouds down over the Asa’s
face, for Thought and Memory sang the same sad song that day.
Frigga came,—Frey, Gerda, Freyja, Thor, Hoenir, Bragi,
and Idun. Heimdall came sweeping over the tops of the mountains
on Golden Mane, his swift, bright steed. Ægir the Old
groaned from under the deep, and sent his daughters up to mourn
around the dead. Frost-giants and mountain-giants came crowding
round the rimy shores of Jötunheim to look
[pg 65] across the sea upon the
funeral of an Asa. Nanna came, Baldur’s fair young wife; but
when she saw the dead body of her husband, her own heart
broke with grief, and the gods laid her beside him on the
stately ship. After this Odin stepped forward and placed a
ring on the breast of his son, whispering something at the
same time in his ear; but when he and the rest of the gods
tried to push Ringhorn into the sea before setting fire to
it, they found their hearts too heavy to do it. So they
beckoned to the giantess Hyrrokin to come over from
Jötunheim and help them. She, with a single push, set
the ship floating, and then, whilst Thor stood up holding
his hammer high in the air, Odin lighted the funeral pile of
Baldur and of Nanna.

So Ringhorn went floating towards the deep sea and the
funeral fire burnt on. Its broad red flame burst forth
heavenward, but when the smoke would have gone upward too, the
winds came sobbing and carried it away.

IV

HELHEIM

When at last the ship Ringhorn had floated out so far to sea
that it looked like a dull red lamp on the horizon, Frigga
turned round and said, “Will any one of you, my children,
perform a noble action and win my love forever?”

“I will,” cried Hermod, before any one else had time to open
his lips.

“Go, then, Hermod,” answered Frigga, “saddle Sleipnir with
all speed and ride down to Helheim; there seek out Hela, the
stern mistress of the dead, and entreat her to send our beloved
back to us again.”

Hermod was gone in the twinkling of an eye, not in at the
mouth of the earth and through the steep cavern down which Odin
went to the dead prophetess’s grave; he chose another way,
though not a better one; for, go to Helheim as you will, the
best is but a downward road, and so Hermod found
it—downward, slanting, slippery, dark, and very cold. At
last he came to [pg 66] the Giallar Bru—that
sounding river which flows between the living and the dead,
and to the bridge over it which is paved with stones of
glittering gold. Hermod was surprised to see gold in such a
place; but as he rode over the bridge, and looked down
carefully at the stones, he saw that they were only tears
which had been shed round the beds of the dying—only
tears, and yet they made the way seem brighter. But when
Hermod reached the other end of the bridge, he found the
courageous woman who, for ages and ages, had been sitting
there to watch the dead go by, and she stopped him
saying:

“What a noise you make! Who are you? Yesterday five troops
of dead men went over the Giallar Bridge and did not shake it
so much as you have done. Besides,” she added, looking more
closely at Hermod, “you are not a dead man at all. Your lips
are neither cold nor blue. Why, then, do you ride on the way to
Helheim?”

“I seek Baldur,” answered Hermod. “Tell me, have you seen
him pass?”

“Baldur,” she said, “has ridden over the bridge; but there
below, towards the north, lies the way to the Abodes of
Death.”

So Hermod went on the way until he came to the barred gates
of Helheim itself. There he alighted, tightened his
saddle-girths, remounted, clapped both spurs to his horse, and
cleared the gate by one tremendous leap. Then Hermod found
himself in a place where no living man had ever been
before—the City of the Dead. Perhaps you think there is a
great silence there, but you are mistaken. Hermod thought he
had never in his life heard so much noise; for the echoes of
all words were speaking together—words, some newly
uttered and some ages old; but the dead men did not hear who
flitted up and down the dark streets, for their ears had been
stunned and become cold long since. Hermod rode on through the
city until he came to the palace of Hela, which stood in the
midst. Precipice was its threshold, the entrance-hall, Wide
Storm, and yet Hermod was not too much afraid to seek the
innermost rooms; so he went on to the banqueting hall, where
Hela sat at the head of her table serving her new guests.
Baldur, alas! sat [pg 67] at her right hand, and on her
left his pale young wife. When Hela saw Hermod coming up the
hall she smiled grimly, but beckoned to him at the same time
to sit down, and told him that he might sup that night with
her. It was a strange supper for a living man to sit down
to. Hunger was the table; Starvation, Hela’s knife; Delay,
her man; Slowness, her maid; and Burning Thirst, her wine.
After supper Hela led the way to the sleeping apartments.
“You see,” she said, turning to Hermod, “I am very anxious
about the comfort of my guests. Here are beds of unrest
provided for all, hung with curtains of Weariness, and look
how all the walls are furnished with Despair.”

So saying she strode away, leaving Hermod and Baldur
together. The whole night they sat on those unquiet couches and
talked. Hermod could speak of nothing but the past, and as he
looked anxiously round the room his eyes became dim with tears.
But Baldur seemed to see a light far off, and he spoke of what
was to come.

The next morning Hermod went to Hela, and entreated her to
let Baldur return to Asgard. He even offered to take his place
in Helheim if she pleased; but Hela only laughed at this and
said: “You talk a great deal about Baldur, and boast how much
every one loves him; I will prove now if what you have told me
be true. Let everything on earth, living or dead, weep for
Baldur, and he shall go home again; but if one thing
only refuse to weep, then let Helheim hold its own; he shall
not go.”

“Every one will weep willingly,” said Hermod, as he mounted
Sleipnir and rode towards the entrance of the city. Baldur went
with him as far as the gate and began to send messages to all
his friends in Asgard, but Hermod would not listen to many of
them.

“You will soon come back to us,” he said, “there is no use
in sending messages.”

So Hermod darted homewards, and Baldur watched him through
the bars of Helheim’s gateway as he flew along.

“Not soon, not soon,” said the dead Asa; but still he saw
the light far off, and thought of what was to
come.

V

WEEPING

“Well, Hermod, what did she say?” asked the gods from the
top of the hill as they saw him coming; “make haste and tell us
what she said.” And Hermod came up.

“Oh! is that all?” they cried, as soon as he had delivered
his message. “Nothing can be more easy,” and then they all
hurried off to tell Frigga. She was weeping already, and in
five minutes there was not a tearless eye in Asgard.

“But this is not enough,” said Odin; “the whole earth must
know of our grief that it may weep with us.”

Then the father of the gods called to him his messenger
maidens—the beautiful Valkyries—and sent them out
into all worlds with these three words on their lips, “Baldur
is dead!” But the words were so dreadful that at first the
messenger maidens could only whisper them in low tones as they
went along, “Baldur is dead!” The dull, sad sounds flowed back
on Asgard like a new river of grief, and it seemed to the gods
as if they now wept for the first time—”Baldur is
dead!”

“What is that the Valkyries are saying?” asked the men and
women in all the country round, and when they heard rightly,
men left their labor and lay down to weep—women dropped
the buckets they were carrying to the well, and, leaning their
faces over them, filled them with tears. The children crowded
upon the doorsteps, or sat down at the corners of the streets,
crying as if their own mothers were dead.

The Valkyries passed on. “Baldur is dead!” they said to the
empty fields; and straightway the grass and the wild
field-flowers shed tears.

“Baldur is dead!” said the messenger maidens to the rocks
and stones; and the very stones began to weep. “Baldur is
dead!” the Valkyries cried; and even the old mammoth’s bones
which had lain for centuries under the hills, burst into tears,
so that small rivers gushed forth from every mountain’s side.
“Baldur is dead!” said the messenger maidens as they swept over
silent sands; and all the shells wept pearls. “Baldur is dead!”
they cried to the sea, and to Jötunheim across the sea;
[pg 69] and when the giants
understood it, even they wept, while the sea rained spray to
heaven. After this the Valkyries stepped from one stone to
another until they reached a rock that stood alone in the
middle of the sea; then, all together, they bent forward
over the edge of it, stooped down and peeped over, that they
might tell the monsters of the deep. “Baldur is dead!” they
said, and the sea monsters and the fish wept. Then the
messenger maidens looked at one another and said, “Surely
our work is done.” So they twined their arms round one
another’s waists, and set forth on the downward road to
Helheim, there to claim Baldur from among the dead.

After he had sent forth his messenger maidens, Odin had
seated himself on the top of Air Throne that he might see how
the earth received his message. At first he watched the
Valkyries as they stepped forth north and south, and east and
west; but soon the whole earth’s steaming tears rose up like a
great cloud and hid everything from him. Then he looked down
through the cloud and said, “Are you all weeping?” The
Valkyries heard the sound of his voice as they went all
together down the slippery road, and they turned round,
stretching out their arms towards Air Throne, their long hair
falling back, while, with choked voices and streaming eyes,
they answered, “The world weeps, Father Odin; the world and
we.”

After this they went on their way until they came to the end
of the cave Gnipa, where Garm was chained, and which yawned
over Niflheim. “The world weeps,” they said one to another by
way of encouragement, for here the road was so dreadful; but
just as they were about to pass through the mouth of Gnipa they
came upon a haggard witch named Thaukt, who sat in the entrance
with her back to them, and her face toward the abyss. “Baldur
is dead! Weep, weep!” said the messenger maidens, as they tried
to pass her; but Thaukt made answer:

And with these words leaped into Niflheim with a yell of
triumph.

“Surely that cry was the cry of Loki,” said one of the
maidens; but another pointed towards the city of Helheim, and
there they saw the stern face of Hela looking over the
wall.

“One has not wept,” said the grim Queen, “and Helheim holds
its own.” So saying she motioned the maidens away with her
long, cold hand.

Then the Valkyries turned and fled up the steep way to the
foot of Odin’s throne, like a pale snowdrift that flies before
the storm.

THOR’S ADVENTURES AMONG THE JÖTUNS

ADAPTED BY JULIA GODDARD

Once upon a time Thor set out upon his travels, taking Loki
with him, for despite Loki’s spirit of mischief he often aided
Thor, who doubtless, in the present expedition, felt that Loki
might be of use to him.

So they set off together in Thor’s chariot, drawn by its two
strong he-goats, and as night drew nigh, stopped at the hut of
a peasant, where they asked food and shelter.

“Food I have none to give you,” said the peasant. “I am a
poor man and not able even to give supper to my children, but
if you like to rest under my roof you are welcome to do
so.”

“Never mind the food; I can manage that,” said Thor,
dismounting from the chariot and entering the hut.

It was a poor place, and not at all fitted to receive one of
the Asi, but Thor was glad enough to meet with it, wretched as
it was.

“You can kill the goats,” said he; “they will make us an
excellent meal.”

The peasant could not help thinking that it was a pity to
kill two such fine animals; but wisely thinking that this was
no affair of his, and that the stranger had a right to do as he
pleased with his own, he set himself to obey Thor’s orders, and
with the help of his daughter Raska soon spread a savory repast
before the hungry god and his attendant.

“Sit down, all of you,” said Thor; “there is enough and to
spare.”

So they all sat down, and the peasant and his children
shared a more plentiful meal than had fallen to their lot
lately. Thor and Loki also did ample justice to the food, and
when supper was over the thunder-god bade the peasant gather
the bones and place them in the goatskins, and making them into
a bundle he left them on the floor until the next morning.

When the morning came and the early sun shone in through the
crevices, Thor raised his hammer, and instead of the bundle of
bones the peasant and his son and daughter saw the two goats
standing as fresh and lively as if nothing had happened to
them, saving that one of them halted a little in his walk.

When they sought to learn why this should be, it was found
that Thialfe, the boy, in getting the marrow out of one of the
bones, had broken it, and it was this that caused the goat to
go lame.

Thor was very angry, and was very near killing not only
Thialfe but also the peasant and his daughter Raska, but they
begged so hard for their lives that he consented to spare them
on condition that the boy and girl should follow him in his
travels.

To this they agreed, and Thor, leaving the chariot and goats
in the peasant’s care, went on his journey, giving Thialfe, who
was a very swift runner, his wallet to carry.

On and on they journeyed until they came to a great sea.

“How are we to get over this?” asked Loki.

“Swim across it,” replied Thor.

And in they all plunged, for Thialfe and Raska were used to
a hardy life, and so were able to swim with scarcely more
weariness than Thor and Loki, and were not long in reaching the
opposite shore.

“The country does not improve,” said Loki, looking round
upon the desolate plain that lay outstretched between them and
the borders of a dark forest, which they could just see in the
far distance. One or two huge rocks thrust their jagged points
high into the air, and great blocks of stone were scattered
about, but there was no sign of herbage and not a tree to be
seen nearer than the forest belt bounding the horizon. Heavy
gray clouds were drawing nearer and nearer to the dreary earth,
and twilight was fast approaching. “It looks not well,”
answered Thor, “but we must push on and perhaps may find it
better as we go onward. Besides, night is drawing nigh, and as
there are no dwellings to be seen we must try to gain the
shelter of the forest before it is too dark to see where we are
going.”

So they pushed on, and though they looked to the right hand
and to the left, soon found that they were in a land where no
men lived. There was, therefore, nothing to be done but to
quicken their speed, in order to reach the shelter of the
forest. But though they strove to the utmost, the twilight
deepened into darkness and the darkness became so deep by the
time they reached the forest, that they only knew they had
arrived there by Loki’s striking his head against a low branch,
and soon after this Thor cried out:

“Good luck! I have found a house. Follow close after me and
we will make ourselves comfortable for the night.”

For Thor in groping along had come to what he supposed to be
a wall of solid masonry.

“Where are you?” asked Loki, “for it is so dark that I
cannot see you.”

“Here,” answered Thor, stretching out his hand; “take hold
and follow me.”

So Loki clutched Thor’s arm, and Thialfe in turn seized the
arm of Loki, whilst Raska clung to her brother and wished
herself safe at home in her father’s hut.

And thus they groped their way along the wall, seeking to
find an entrance to the house.

At last Thor found a huge entrance opening into a wide,
hall, and passing through this they turned to the left into a
[pg 73] large room which was quite
empty, and here, after eating some food, they stretched
themselves upon the hard floor and wearied out with the
day’s march, soon fell asleep.

But they did not sleep long. Their slumbers were broken by a
rumbling sound as of a coming earthquake; the walls of the
house shook, and peals of thunder echoed through the lofty
chamber.

Thor sprang up. “We are scarcely safe here,” he said; “let
us seek some other room.” Loki jumped up speedily, as did also
Thialfe and Raska, who were in a great fright, wondering what
dreadful thing was going to happen to them. They willingly
followed Thor, hoping to find a safer place.

To the right they saw another room like a long gallery with
a huge doorway, and into this Loki, Thialfe, and Raska crept,
choosing the farthest corner of it; but Thor took his stand at
the doorway to be on the watch if any fresh danger should
threaten them.

After a somewhat uncomfortable rest, Loki, Thialfe, and
Raska were not sorry to find that the day had dawned, though as
there were no windows in the house, they only knew it by
hearing the cock crow.

Thor was better off, for the doorway was so wide that the
sunlight came pouring in without hindrance. Indeed the huge
size of the doorway made Thor think that the builder must have
given up all hope of ever finding a door large enough to fit
into it.

He strolled away from the house, and the first thing that he
saw was a huge giant fast asleep upon the greensward; and now
he knew that the thunder that had so frightened them in the
night had been nothing more or less than the loud snoring of
the giant.

So wroth was Thor at the thought that such a thing should
have made him afraid, that he fastened on his belt of strength
and drew his sword and made towards the giant as though he
would kill him on the spot.

But the giant, opening his great round eyes, stared so
steadily at Thor that the god became mazed and could do nothing
but stare in return.

At last, however, he found voice to ask, “What is your
name?”

“My name,” said the giant, raising himself on one elbow,
thereby causing his head to rise so high into the air that Thor
thought it was taking flight altogether, “is Skrymner; you, I
believe, are the god Thor?”

“I am,” answered the god.

“Do you happen to have picked up my glove?” asked the giant
carelessly.

Then Thor knew that what he and his companions had taken for
a large house was only the giant’s glove, and from this we may
judge how huge a giant Skrymner must have been.

Thor made no answer, and Skrymner next asked whither Thor
was traveling; and when he found that he was journeying to
Utgard, offered to bear him company, as he too was going to the
same place.

Thor accepted the giant’s offer, and after eating a hearty
meal, all were ready for another day’s march.

Skrymner showed himself a kindly giant, and insisted upon
carrying Thor’s bag of meal, putting it into his own wallet,
which he slung across his broad shoulders.

It must have been a strange sight, indeed, to see the great
giant stalking along with his smaller companions at his heels;
and we may well marvel how they managed to keep pace with him,
or how Thor was able to raise his voice to such a pitch as to
reach the giant’s ears.

Nevertheless all went well, and they trudged cheerfully
along, never flagging in their talk.

Once Skrymner took Raska on his shoulder, but the height
made her so giddy that she was glad to come down again and walk
quietly by the side of Thialfe.

When night overtook them they encamped under one of the
great oak-trees, for they were not yet out of the bounds of the
forest. Skrymner, to judge by his loud snoring, fell asleep the
moment he lay down upon the ground, but Thor and his comrades
were not so tired as to forget that they had tasted nothing
since breakfast time. Accordingly they set to work
[pg 75] to open the wallet that
Skrymner had given into their hands before closing his
eyes.

But it was no easy task, and with all their efforts they
failed to open it. Not a knot could they untie, and their
fingers were chafed and aching.

Neither were they more able to awaken Skyrmner, and Thor’s
anger waxed exceedingly fierce. “You shall pay for this,” said
he, flinging his hammer at the giant.

Skrymner half opened the eye nearest to Thor, and said in a
very sleepy voice, “Why will the leaves drop off the trees?”
And then he snored as loudly as before.

Thor picked up his hammer, and approaching nearer drove it
into the hinder part of the giant’s head, who again, half
waking up, muttered, “How troublesome the dust is!”

Thor was exceedingly astonished at this, but thought
nevertheless that he would once more make trial of his power;
so coming up close to Skrymner he struck with such force as to
drive the hammer up to the handle in the giant’s cheek.

Then Skrymner opened both eyes, and lazily lifting his
finger to his face said, “I suppose there are birds about, for
I fancied I felt a feather fall.”

Now was Thor fairly disconcerted; and the next morning, when
the giant told him that they must now part, as his road led him
another way, he was by no means ill-pleased, and he let
Skrymner go without so much as bidding him “good speed.”
Skrymner, however, seemed not to notice that Thor was glad to
be quit of his company, and gave him some very friendly advice
before he left him.

“If you will take my advice,” said the giant, “you will give
up this thought of visiting Utgard. The people there are all
giants of greater stature even than I, and they make nothing of
little men, such as you are. Nay, more, you yourself are likely
to fare but badly amongst them, for I see that you are rather
apt to think too much of yourself and to take too much upon
you. Be wise while there is time, think of what I say, and
don’t go near the city.”

“But I will go there,” shouted Thor, almost choked with
rage; “I will go in spite of all the Jötuns of
Jötunheim. None [pg 76] shall hinder me, and the
giants shall see and wonder at the mighty power of the god
Thor.”

And as he spoke the rising sun fell full upon the city of
Utgard, whose huge brazen gates glittered in the sunlight. Even
though they were so far away, Thor could see how high they
were; and as he drew nearer, their vast size filled him with
amazement; but when he reached them his wonder was beyond all
words, for he and his companions seemed no larger than
grasshoppers, in comparison with their height.

The gates were not open, for it was yet early; so Thor and
his comrades crept through the bars, and entered the city. As
they passed along the streets the houses were so tall that it
was only by crossing to the opposite side of the broad road
that they were able to see the windows in the topmost stories.
And the streets were so wide that it was quite a journey across
them.

Once a mouse darted out of a hole, and Raska screamed, for
she thought it was a grisly bear. The mouse also shrieked and
made much more noise than Raska, as well it might, for a cat so
huge that Thialfe half thought it must be the monster of
Midgard seized it, and giving it a pat with one of its paws
laid it dead on the pavement.

As for the horses, their hoofs were terrible to look at, and
Thialfe and Raska must have climbed up ladders if they wished
to see their heads.

The people were quite as large as Skrymner had described and
Thor and his companions were obliged to be very careful lest
they should get trodden upon, as it was very doubtful if the
people even saw them.

Still Thor walked along with the proud consciousness that he
was the god Thor; and feeling that though he was so small he
was yet a person of some importance, made his way to the
palace, and desired to see the King.

After some little time he and his fellow travelers were
ushered into the presence of Utgarda Loke, the King of the
country. And Utgarda Loke, hearing the door open, raised his
eyes, thinking to see some great courtier enter, but he knew
nothing of the bows and greetings of Thor, until happening to
[pg 77] cast his eyes to the ground,
he saw a little man with his companions saluting him with
much ceremony.

The King had never seen such small men before, and there was
something so absurd to him in the sight, that he burst out
laughing.

And then all the courtiers laughed also, pretending that
they had not seen the little creatures before.

It was some time before they all left off laughing, but at
length there was a pause, and Thor essayed to make himself
heard.

“Though we are but small in comparison with the
Jötuns,” said he angrily, “we are by no means to be
despised, but are gifted with powers that may surprise
you.”

“Really!” answered Utgarda Loke, raising his eyebrows. And
then he and his courtiers laughed louder than before.

At last there was another pause in their merriment, and the
King added: “However, we are willing to give the strangers a
fair trial in order to prove the truth of what their spokesman,
whom I take to be the god Thor, says. How say you? What can
this one do?” And he pointed to Loki.

“Please your Majesty, I am very great at eating,” returned
Loki.

“Nay,” answered Utgarda Loke, “you must grow a little before
you are great at anything.”

At which speech the courtiers again shouted with laughter;
but Utgarda Loke, turning to his servants, bade them make trial
of Loki’s powers. So they brought a great trough full of food,
and Loki was placed at one end, and a courtier named Loge at
the other. They both fell to work to devour what was before
them, and met at the middle of the trough. But it was found
that while Loki had eaten the flesh of his portion, Loge had
eaten, not only the flesh, but the bones also. Therefore Loki,
was, of course, vanquished.

Then Utgarda Loke turned to Thialfe. “And pray, in what may
this youth be specially skilled?” he asked.

“I am a swift skater,” answered Thialfe.

“Try him,” said the King.

And Thialfe was led to a plain of ice, as smooth as glass,
and one named Hugr was set to run against him. But though
[pg 78] Thialfe was the swiftest
skater ever known in the world, yet Hugr glided past him so
fleetly that he had returned to the starting-post before
Thialfe had done more than a quarter of the distance.

Three times did Thialfe match his speed against Hugr, and,
three times beaten, withdrew from the contest as disconsolate
as Loki.

“And now may I ask what you can do yourself?” said the King
to Thor.

“I can drain a wine-cup with any one,” replied the god.

“Try him,” said Utgarda Loke.

And forthwith the royal cupbearer presented a drinking-horn
to Thor.

“If you are as great as you pretend to be,” said the King,
“you will drain it at one draught. Some people take two pulls
at it, but the weakest among us can manage it in three.”

Thor took up the horn, and, being very thirsty, took a
steady pull at it. He thought he had done very well, but on
removing it from his lips he marveled to see how little had
gone.

A second time he took a draught, but the horn was far from
being emptied.

Again a third time he essayed to drain it, but it was full
almost to the brim.

Therefore he set it down in despair, and confessed himself
unable to drain it.

“I am disappointed in you,” said Utgarda Loke; “you are not
half the man I took you for. I see it is no use asking you to
do warrior’s feats; I must try you in a simpler way, in a
child’s play that we have amongst us. You shall try to lift my
cat from the ground.”

Thor turned quite scarlet, and then became white with
rage.

“Are you afraid?” asked Utgarde Loke; “you look so
pale.”

And a large gray cat came leaping along, and planted itself
firmly before Thor, showing its sharp claws, and glaring upon
him with its fiery eyes.

Thor seized it, but in spite of all his efforts he was only
able to raise one of the cat’s paws from the ground.

“Pooh! pooh!” exclaimed Utgarda Loke, “you are a mere baby,
fit only for the nursery. I believe that my old nurse
[pg 79] Hela would be more than a
match for you. Here, Hela, come and wrestle with the mighty
god Thor.”

And Utgarda Loke laughed disdainfully.

Forth stepped a decrepit old woman, with lank cheeks and
toothless jaws. Her eyes were sunken, her brow furrowed, and
her scanty locks were white as snow.

She advanced towards Thor, and tried to throw him to the
ground; but though he put forth his whole strength to withstand
her, he was surprised to find how powerful she was, and that it
needed all his efforts to keep his feet. For a long time he was
successful, but at length she brought him down upon one knee,
and Thor was obliged to acknowledge himself conquered.

Ashamed and mortified, he and his companions withdrew to a
lodging for the night, and in the morning were making ready to
leave the city quietly, when Utgarda Loke sent for them.

He made them a splendid feast, and afterwards went with them
beyond the city gates.

“Now tell me honestly,” said he to Thor, “what do you think
of your success?”

“I am beyond measure astounded and ashamed,” replied the
god.

“Ha! ha!” laughed Utgarda Loke. “I knew that you were.
However, as we are well out of the city I don’t mind telling
you a secret or two. Doubtless you will receive a little
comfort from my doing so, as you confess that your coming
hither has been to no purpose.

“In the first place, you have been deceived by enchantments
ever since you came within the borders of Jötunheim. I am
the giant you met with on your way hither, and if I had known
as much of your power then as I do now, you would never have
found your way within the walls of Utgard.

“Certainly I had had some slight experience of it, for the
three blows you gave me would have killed me had they fallen
upon me. But it was not I, but a huge mountain that you struck
at; and if you visit it again, you will find three valleys
cleft in the rocks by the strokes of your hammer.

“As for the wallet, I had fastened it with a magic chain, so
that you need not wonder that you could not open
it.

“Loge, with whom Loki strove, was no courtier, but a subtle
devouring flame that consumed all before it.”

Here Loki uttered an exclamation of delight, but Thor bade
him be silent, and Utgarda Loke went on:

“Thialfe’s enemy was Hugr, or Thought, and let man work away
as hard as he pleases, Thought will still outrun him.

“As for yourself, the end of the drinking-horn, though you
did not see it, reached the sea, and as fast as you emptied it,
it filled again, so that you never could have drained it dry.
But the next time that you stand upon the seashore, you will
find how much less the ocean is by your draughts.

“The gray cat was no cat, but the great Serpent of Midgard,
that twines round the world, and you lifted him so high that we
were all quite frightened.

“But your last feat was the most wonderful of all, for Hela
was none other than Death. And never did I see any one before
over whom Death had so little power.

“And now, my friend, go your way, and don’t come near my
city again, for I tell you plainly I do not want you there, and
I shall use all kinds of enchantment to keep you out of
it.”

As he ended his speech, Thor raised his hammer, but Utgarda
Loke had vanished.

“I will return to the city, and be avenged,” said Thor.

But lo! the giant city was nowhere to be seen. A fair
pasture-land spread itself out around him, and through its
midst a broad river flowed peacefully along.

So Thor and his companions, musing upon their wonderful
adventures, turned their steps homewards.

THE APPLES OF IDUN

ADAPTED BY HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE

Once upon a time Odin, Loki, and Hoenir started on a
journey. They had often traveled together before on all sorts
of errands, for they had a great many things to look
[pg 81] after, and more than once
they had fallen into trouble through the prying, meddlesome,
malicious spirit of Loki, who was never so happy as when he
was doing wrong. When the gods went on a journey they
traveled fast and hard, for they were strong, active spirits
who loved nothing so much as hard work, hard blows, storm,
peril, and struggle. There were no roads through the country
over which they made their way, only high mountains to be
climbed by rocky paths, deep valleys into which the sun
hardly looked during half the year, and swift-rushing
streams, cold as ice, and treacherous to the surest foot and
the strongest arm. Not a bird flew through the air, not an
animal sprang through the trees. It was as still as a
desert. The gods walked on and on, getting more tired and
hungry at every step. The sun was sinking low over the
steep, pine-crested mountains, and the travelers had neither
breakfasted nor dined. Even Odin was beginning to feel the
pangs of hunger, like the most ordinary mortal, when
suddenly, entering a little valley, the famished gods came
upon a herd of cattle. It was the work of a minute to kill a
great ox and to have the carcass swinging in a huge pot over
a roaring fire.

But never were gods so unlucky before! In spite of their
hunger, the pot would not boil. They piled on the wood until
the great flames crackled and licked the pot with their fiery
tongues, but every time the cover was lifted there was the meat
just as raw as when it was put in. It is easy to imagine that
the travelers were not in very good humor. As they were talking
about it, and wondering how it could be, a voice called out
from the branches of the oak overhead, “If you will give me my
fill, I’ll make the pot boil.”

The gods looked first at each other and then into the tree,
and there they discovered a great eagle. They were glad enough
to get their supper on almost any terms, so they told the eagle
he might have what he wanted if he would only get the meat
cooked. The bird was as good as his word, and in less time than
it takes to tell it supper was ready. Then the eagle flew down
and picked out both shoulders and both legs. This was a pretty
large share, it must be confessed, and Loki, who was always
angry when anybody got more than he, no sooner saw
[pg 82] what the eagle had taken,
than he seized a great pole and began to beat the rapacious
bird unmercifully. Whereupon a very singular thing happened,
as singular things always used to happen when the gods were
concerned: the pole stuck fast in the huge talons of the
eagle at one end, and Loki stuck fast at the other end.
Struggle as he might, he could not get loose, and as the
great bird sailed away over the tops of the trees, Loki went
pounding along on the ground, striking against rocks and
branches until he was bruised half to death.

The eagle was not an ordinary bird by any means, as Loki
soon found when he begged for mercy. The giant Thjasse happened
to be flying abroad in his eagle plumage when the hungry
travelers came under the oak and tried to cook the ox. It was
into his hands that Loki had fallen, and he was not to get away
until he had promised to pay roundly for his freedom.

If there was one thing which the gods prized above their
other treasures in Asgard, it was the beautiful fruit of Idun,
kept by the goddess in a golden casket and given to the gods to
keep them forever young and fair. Without these Apples all
their power could not have kept them from getting old like the
meanest of mortals. Without these Apples of Idun, Asgard itself
would have lost its charm; for what would heaven be without
youth and beauty forever shining through it?

Thjasse told Loki that he could not go unless he would
promise to bring the Apples of Idun. Loki was wicked enough for
anything; but when it came to robbing the gods of their
immortality, even he hesitated. And while he hesitated the
eagle dashed hither and thither, flinging him against the sides
of the mountains and dragging him through the great tough
boughs of the oaks until his courage gave out entirely, and he
promised to steal the Apples out of Asgard and give them to the
giant.

Loki was bruised and sore enough when he got on his feet
again to hate the giant who handled him so roughly, with all
his heart, but he was not unwilling to keep his promise to
steal the Apples, if only for the sake of tormenting the other
gods. But how was it to be done? Idun guarded the golden fruit
of immortality with sleepless watchfulness. No one ever touched
[pg 83] it but herself, and a
beautiful sight it was to see her fair hands spread it forth
for the morning feasts in Asgard. The power which Loki
possessed lay not so much in his own strength, although he
had a smooth way of deceiving people, as in the goodness of
others who had no thought of his doing wrong because they
never did wrong themselves.

Not long after all this happened, Loki came carelessly up to
Idun as she was gathering her Apples to put them away in the
beautiful carven box which held them.

“Good morning, goddess,” said he. “How fair and golden your
Apples are!

“Yes,” answered Idun; “the bloom of youth keeps them always
beautiful.”

“I never saw anything like them,” continued Loki slowly, as
if he were talking about a matter of no importance, “until the
other day.”

Idun looked up at once with the greatest interest and
curiosity in her face. She was very proud of her Apples, and
she knew no earthly trees, however large and fair, bore the
immortal fruit.

“Where have you seen any Apples like them?” she asked.

“Oh, just outside the gates,” said Loki indifferently. “If
you care to see them I’ll take you there. It will keep you but
a moment. The tree is only a little way off.”

Idun was anxious to go at once.

“Better take your Apples with you, to compare them with the
others,” said the wily god, as she prepared to go.

Idun gathered up the golden Apples and went out of Asgard,
carrying with her all that made it heaven. No sooner was she
beyond the gates than a mighty rushing sound was heard, like
the coming of a tempest, and before she could think or act, the
giant Thjasse, in his eagle plumage, was bearing her swiftly
away through the air to his desolate, icy home in Thrymheim,
where, after vainly trying to persuade her to let him eat the
Apples and be forever young like the gods, he kept her a lonely
prisoner.

Loki, after keeping his promise and delivering Idun into the
hands of the giant, strayed back into Asgard as if nothing
[pg 84] had happened. The next
morning, when the gods assembled for their feast, there was
no Idun. Day after day went past, and still the beautiful
goddess did not come. Little by little the light of youth
and beauty faded from the home of the gods, and they
themselves became old and haggard. Their strong, young faces
were lined with care and furrowed by age, their raven locks
passed from gray to white, and their flashing eyes became
dim and hollow. Bragi, the god of poetry, could make no
music while his beautiful wife was gone he knew not
whither.

Morning after morning the faded light broke on paler and
ever paler faces, until even in heaven the eternal light of
youth seemed to be going out forever.

Finally the gods could bear the loss of power and joy no
longer. They made rigorous inquiry. They tracked Loki on that
fair morning when he led Idun beyond the gates; they seized him
and brought him into solemn council, and when he read in their
haggard faces the deadly hate which flamed in all their hearts
against his treachery, his courage failed, and he promised to
bring Idun back to Asgard if the goddess Freyja would lend him
her falcon guise. No sooner said than done; and with eager gaze
the gods watched him as he flew away, becoming at last only a
dark moving speck against the sky.

After long and weary flight Loki came to Thrymheim, and was
glad enough to find Thjassa gone to sea and Idun alone in his
dreary house. He changed her instantly into a nut, and taking
her thus disguised in his talons, flew away as fast as his
falcon wings could carry him. And he had need of all his speed,
for Thjasse, coming suddenly home and finding Idun and her
precious fruit gone, guessed what had happened, and, putting on
his eagle plumage, flew forth in a mighty rage, with vengeance
in his heart. Like the rushing wings of a tempest, his mighty
pinions beat the air and bore him swiftly onward. From mountain
peak to mountain peak he measured his wide course, almost
grazing at times the murmuring pine forests, and then sweeping
high in mid-air with nothing above but the arching sky, and
nothing beneath but the tossing sea.

At last he sees the falcon far ahead, and now his flight
becomes like the flash of the lightning for swiftness, and like
[pg 85] the rushing of clouds for
uproar. The haggard faces of the gods line the walls of
Asgard and watch the race with tremulous eagerness. Youth
and immortality are staked upon the winning of Loki. He is
weary enough and frightened enough, too, as the eagle sweeps
on close behind him; but he makes desperate efforts to widen
the distance between them. Little by little the eagle gains
on the falcon. The gods grow white with fear; they rush off
and prepare great fires upon the walls. With fainting,
drooping wing the falcon passes over and drops exhausted by
the wall. In an instant the fires have been lighted, and the
great flames roar to heaven. The eagle sweeps across the
fiery line a second later and falls, maimed and burned to
the ground; where a dozen fierce hands smite the life out of
him, and the great giant Thjasse perishes among his
foes.

Idun resumes her natural form as Bragi rushes to meet her.
The gods crowd round her. She spreads the feast, the golden
Apples gleaming with unspeakable lustre in the eyes of the
gods. They eat; and once more their faces glow with the beauty
of immortal youth, their eyes flash with the radiance of divine
power, and, while Idun stands like a star for beauty among the
throng, the song of Bragi is heard once more; for poetry and
immortality are wedded again.

THE GIFTS OF THE DWARFS

Thor was, you may know, the strongest and noblest of the
great giants of the north. He was tall in stature and had fiery
brown eyes, from which the light flashed like lightning, while
his long red beard waved through the sky as he drove in his
goat-drawn chariot. Brilliant sparks flew from the hoofs and
teeth of the two goats, while a crown of bright stars shone
above Thor’s head. When he was angered the wheels of his
chariot rumbled and crashed their passage through the air,
until men trembled and hid, telling each other that
[pg 86] Thor had gone to battle with
the Rime-giants or other of his enemies.

Now Thor’s wife was named Sib, and she was most beautiful to
look upon. Her soft, browny-gold hair was so long and thick
that it would cover her from the crown of her head to her
little feet, and her deep brown eyes looked into the faces of
her friends as those of a mother look into the face of her
child. Loki, the mischief-maker among the giants, often looked
at Sib and longed to do her some evil, for he was jealous,
thinking that it was not right that she should be praised and
loved by everyone; go where he would he could find no one who
did not speak well of her.

It happened one day when the summer was nearly gone that
Loki found Sib alone and sleeping on a bank near the river, so
he drew his knife, and creeping softly nearer and nearer, cut
off her beautiful flowing hair quite close to her head. Then he
joyfully rushed away and strewed it far and wide over the whole
earth, so that it became no longer living and golden but faded
and turned a dull color as the winds blew it about and the
rains beat upon it, and crushed it in between the rocks and
stones. When Sib awoke and was about to push the hair from her
face, she felt that something was wrong. Wonderingly she ran to
the water and looking at her reflection in the clear depths,
saw that nothing but a short stubble stood up all over her
head. All her lovely hair was gone! Only one would have dared
to treat her so badly, and in her grief and anger she called
upon Thor to come to her aid.

Loki had of course fled and was hiding far away in another
country among the rocks when he heard the distant rumblings of
thunder, and tried to shrink deeper into the crevices between
the great stones, but the awful sound grew louder, and at last
the angry flash from Thor’s eyes darted to the very spot where
the mischievous one lay. Then Thor pulled him out and shook him
from side to side in his enormous hands, and would have crushed
his bones upon the hard rocks had not Loki in great terror
asked what good his death would do, for it certainly would not
bring Sib’s hair back. Then Thor set the mischief-maker on his
feet, though still keeping a tight hold
[pg 87] on him, and asked what he
would do to repair the evil which he had done. Loki promptly
answered that he would go down into the mountains to the
dwarfs, and get Iwald’s sons to make some golden hair for
Sib, as good as that which he had destroyed. Now Iwald had
had seven sons, and these all lived deep below the earth in
the great caverns which lie below the mountains, and these
sons were small and dark; they did not like the daylight for
they were dwarfs who could see best without the sun to
dazzle their eyes; they knew where gold and silver grew, and
they could tell where to find beautiful shining stones,
which were red, and white, and yellow, and green; they knew
the way all over the world by running through caverns and
passages under the mountains, and wherever they could find
precious stones or metals they built a furnace, and made an
anvil, and hammer and bellows, and everything that was
wanted in a smithy; for they knew how to fashion the most
wonderful things from gold and iron and stone, and they had
knowledge which made them more powerful than the people who
lived above the ground.

Thor let the mischief-maker go to get the help of the dwarfs
to repair the wrong which he had done, and Loki sought about
the mountain-side until he found a hole which would lead him
into Iwald’s cave, and then he promptly dropped into it. There
in a dark cave gleaming with many sparkling lights he went to
the two cleverest dwarfs who were named Sindri and Brok, and
told them what it was he wanted, adding that he would be in
sore trouble with Thor if they could not help him. Now Sindri
and Brok knew all about Loki perfectly well; they knew all
about his mischievous ways and the evil he so often wrought,
but as they liked Thor and Sib they were willing to give the
help which was asked of them. Thus without more ado, for these
dwarfs never wasted their words, Sindri and Brok began their
work.

Huge blocks of earth-brown stone were cast into the furnace
until they were in a white heat, when drop by drop red gold
trickled from them into the ashes. This was all gathered
together, and the glistening heap taken to the dwarf women,
who, crushing it in their hands before it had hardened, drew it
[pg 88] out upon their wheels, and
spun it into fine soft hair. While they were doing this Brok
sought amongst his treasures until he found the blue of the
ocean and the tough inner pith of an underground tree;
these, with other things, were cast into the furnace, and
afterwards beaten with his hammer. As the rhythmic strokes
fell, the women sang a song which was like the voice of a
strong, steady wind. Then when this work was finished, the
smith drew forth a little ship, which was carefully placed
on one side. The third time the dwarf went to a dark corner,
and brought out an ugly bent bar of iron, and this, with two
feathers from the wings of the wind, was heated to melting
whiteness, and wrought with great cunning and extreme care,
for it was to be a spear for Odin himself, the greatest of
all the heroes.

Then Brok and Sindri called Loki to them and giving him
these three things bade him hasten back to the gods at Asgard
and appease their wrath. Loki, however, was already beginning
to feel sorry that he had been so successful; he liked teasing
folk but he did not like having to atone for his mischief
afterwards. He turned the marvelous gifts over scornfully in
his hands, and said that he did not see anything very wonderful
in them; then, looking at Sindri he added, “However,
Brok has hammered them very skilfully, and I will wager my head
that you could not make anything better.”

Now the brother dwarfs had not by any means expected
gratitude, but neither had they expected any such rudeness as
this, so Sindri determined to give Loki a lesson. Going to one
corner of the smithy he picked up a pig-skin and taking the
hammer in his hands, told his brother to blow steadily, neither
to falter nor to fail until he passed the word that the work
was done. Then with strength and gentleness he wrought with his
tools, having cast nothing into the heat but the pig-skin; with
mighty blows and delicate touches he brought thickness and
substance into it, until a board looked at him from the flames.
Loki, fearing for his head, changed himself into an enormous
forest fly, and settling upon Brok’s hand, stung with vicious
fury; but the dwarf would not trouble to brush the fly away,
and steadily moved the bellows until his brother called
[pg 89] to him to stop, when they
drew forth a strong flexible boar whose bristles were of the
finest gold.

Then without saying anything or paying any attention to the
spiteful words which Loki kept uttering, Sindri chose from a
heap of gold the most solid lump he could find and flung it
into the white flames. Thrice it was heated and cooled, and the
dark elf turned it and worked it with wonderful skill, and in
the glow Loki saw a broad red ring, which seemed to live and
move. Again he tried to spoil the work as a fly, and bit deeply
into Brok’s neck, but Brok would not so much as raise his hand
to rid him of the pain. When the ring was finally laid to cool,
so marvelously had it been wrought that from it each ninth
night would fall eight rings as beautiful as itself.

Now came the last test of Sindri’s cunning. He cast into the
furnace a piece of fine iron, and told Brok his hand must
neither tremble nor stay, or the whole of their work would be
useless. Then with wild songs of strength upon his lips he
hammered and tapped, until those who were in the cave felt that
they were out among the roaring waves; they could hear the ice
mountains grind and crash to pieces, and the thunder of Thor’s
chariot wheels rushing through the heavens. A frenzied horror
seized upon Loki’s mind. If these wretched dwarfs were going to
make anything to add to Thor’s strength he knew that it would
be his own ruin. So, changing himself to a hornet, he sprang
upon the forehead of Brok, and dug so fiercely into his eyelids
that the blood trickled down and blinded him. Then the dwarf
let go of the bellows for one moment to clear his eyes, and
Sindri cried out that what lay in the furnace came near to
being spoiled, and with that he took a red-hot hammer up with
his tongs. It was neither pretty, nor particularly large, while
the handle was an inch too short because of Loki’s spite.

Then Brok and Loki set out for Asgard, Loki carrying the
three wonderful things which had been given to him, while Brok
carried the three marvels which Sindri had so cunningly wrought
and accompanied the mischief-maker, that the gods might judge
who had won the wager so rashly offered by
[pg 90] Loki. When they reached
Asgard the gods seated themselves on their high seats
agreeing among themselves that Odin, Thor and Frey should be
judges in this case.

First, Loki offered to Odin the spear Gungner which was so
wonderfully made that it never failed to hit the thing at which
it was thrown, and it always sped back to the hand which had
thrown it. Later, when Odin carried this spear in battle, if he
shook it over his enemies they became so frightened that they
all wanted to run away, but if he shook it over his friends
they were so filled with courage that they could not be
conquered. Then Thor received the hair, and when it was placed
upon Sib’s head it grew to her like living tresses, curling and
waving in the wind. To Frey the ship was given, and though it
was so small that it could be folded and carried in his pocket,
when it was placed upon the waves it would grow large enough to
hold an army of warriors with all their war gear; besides, as
soon as the sails were hoisted, the wind would blow it
whithersoever it was desired that the ship should go.

Brok then made his offerings, and to Odin he gave the ring
Drapnir which had been made with such magic skill that every
ninth night eight other rings dropped off it, though no one
could see how they came; this the greatest of the gods ever
wore upon his arm, until the death of his beautiful son Baldur,
when, as token of his great love he placed it upon the dead
youth’s breast as he lay on his funeral pyre. To Frey was given
the golden boar, which would run faster than any horse, over
the sea or through the air, and wherever it went, there it
would be light, because the bristles shone so brightly. To Thor
Brok gave the dull-looking hammer, saying, that whatever he
struck with it would be destroyed; that no blow could be hard
enough to hurt it; that if he threw it, it would return to him
so that he could never lose it; and that as he wished so would
its size be—yet there was one fault about it, and that
was that the handle was an inch too short.

It was with great joy that Thor took this treasure, knowing
that in it he had something to help him in fighting the evil
Rime-giants who were always trying to get the whole world for
themselves until driven back by
him.

Then the gods decided that of all the gifts the hammer was
the best, and that, therefore, Loki had lost his wager and must
lose his head. Loki offered to give all sorts of things to save
himself, but the dwarf would not listen to any of them. “Catch
me, then!” cried the mischievous one; but when Brok stretched
his hand upon him Loki had gone, for he wore shoes which would
carry him over the sea or through the air.

“Catch him!” cried the ugly little dwarf piteously to Thor,
and in an instant Loki stood before them, trembling in Thor’s
strong grasp. Then the clever one argued that it was his head
only which had been wagered, and that not one little tiny bit
of his neck might be taken, or the dwarf would have more than
his bargain. At this Brok cried impatiently that the head of a
wicked person was of no use to him, all that he wanted was to
stop Loki’s tongue so that he could work less evil, and he took
a knife and thread and tried to pierce holes in Loki’s lips,
but Loki bewitched the knife so that it would not cut.

“If only I had Sindri’s awl,” sighed the dwarf, and
instantly his brother’s awl was in his hand. Swiftly it pierced
the lips of the mischief-maker, and swiftly Brok sewed them
together and broke off the thread at the end of the sewing.

Then the gods gave presents for the dwarfs in return for
their wonderful things, and Brok returned to his cave. As for
Loki, it was not long before he loosed his lips and returned to
his mischief-making.

THE PUNISHMENT OF LOKI

ADAPTED FROM A. AND E. KEARY’S VERSION

After the death of Baldur, Loki never again ventured to
intrude himself into the presence of the gods. He knew well
enough that he had now done what could never be forgiven him,
and that, for the future, he must bend all his cunning and
vigilance to the task of hiding himself from the
[pg 92] gaze of those whom he had so
injured, and escaping the just punishment he had brought
upon himself.

“The world is large, and I am very clever,” said Loki to
himself, as he turned his back upon Asgard, and wandered out
into Manheim; “there is no end to the thick woods, and no
measure for the deep waters; neither is there any possibility
of counting the various forms under which I shall disguise
myself. Odin will never be able to find me; I have no cause to
fear.” But though Loki repeated this over and over again to
himself, he was afraid.

He wandered far into the thick woods, and covered himself
with the deep waters; he climbed to the tops of misty hills,
and crouched in the dark of hollow caves; but above the wood,
and through the water, and down into the darkness, a single ray
of calm, clear light seemed always to follow him, and he knew
that it came from the eye of Odin who was watching him from Air
Throne.

Then he tried to escape the watchful eye by disguising
himself under various shapes. Sometimes he was an eagle on a
lonely mountain-crag; sometimes he hid himself as one among a
troop of timid reindeer; sometimes he lay in the nest of a
wood-pigeon; sometimes he swam, a bright-spotted fish, in the
sea; but, wherever he was, among living creatures, or alone
with dead nature, everything seemed to know him, and to find a
voice in which to say to him, “You are Loki, and you have
killed Baldur.” Air, earth, or water, there was no rest for him
anywhere.

Tired at last of seeking what he could nowhere find, Loki
built himself a house near a narrow, glittering river which,
lower down flashed from a high rock into the sea below. He took
care that his house should have four doors in it, that he might
look out on every side and catch the first glimpse of the gods
when they came, as he knew they would come, to take him away.
Here his wife, Siguna, and his two sons, Ali and Nari, came to
live with him.

Siguna was a kind woman, far too good and kind for Loki. She
felt sorry for him now that she saw he was in great fear, and
that every living thing had turned against him, and she would
[pg 93] have hidden him from the just
anger of the gods if she could; but the two sons cared
little about their father’s dread and danger; they spent all
their time in quarreling with each other; and their loud,
angry voices, sounding above the waterfall, would speedily
have betrayed the hiding-place, even if Odin’s piercing eye
had not already found it out.

At last, one day when he was sitting in the middle of his
house looking alternately out of all the four doors and amusing
himself as well as he could by making a fishing-net, he spied
in the distance the whole company of the gods approaching his
house. The sight of them coming all together—beautiful,
and noble, and free—pierced Loki with a pang that was
worse than death. He rose without daring to look again, threw
his net on a fire that burned on the floor, and, rushing to the
side of the little river, he turned himself into a salmon, swam
down to the deepest, stillest pool at the bottom, and hid
himself between two stones. The gods entered the house, and
looked all round in vain for Loki, till Kvasir, one of Odin’s
sons, famous for his keen sight, spied out the remains of the
fishing-net in the fire; then Odin knew at once that there was
a river near, and that it was there where Loki had hidden
himself. He ordered his sons to make a new net, and to cast it
into the water, and drag out whatever living thing they could
find there. It was done as he desired. Thor held one end of the
net, and all the rest of the gods drew the other through the
water. When they pulled it up the first time, however, it was
empty, and they would have gone away disappointed had not
Kvasir, looking earnestly at the meshes of the net, saw that
something living had certainly touched them. They then added a
weight to the net, and threw it with such force that it reached
the bottom of the river, and dragged up the stones in the
pool.

Loki now saw the danger he was in of being caught in the
net, and, as there was no other way of escape, he rose to the
surface, swam down the river as quickly as he could, and leaped
over the net into the waterfall. He swam and leaped quick as a
flash of lightning, but not so quickly but that the gods saw
him, knew him through his disguise, and resolved that he should
no longer escape. They themselves divided into two bands.
[pg 94] Thor waded down the river to
the waterfall; the other gods stood in a group below. Loki
swam backwards and forwards between them. First he thought
he would dart out into the sea, and then that he would
spring over the net back again into the river. This last
seemed the easiest way of escape, and with the greatest
speed he attempted it. Thor, however, was watching for him,
and as soon as Loki leaped out of the water he stretched out
his hand and caught him while he was yet turning in the air.
Loki wriggled his slippery, slimy length through Thor’s
fingers; but the Thunderer grasped him tightly by the tail,
and, holding him in this manner in this hand, waded to the
shore. There Father Odin and the other gods met him; and, at
Odin’s first searching look, Loki was obliged to drop his
disguise, and, cowering and frightened, to assume his proper
shape before the assembled lords. One by one they turned
their faces from him; for, in looking at him, they seemed to
see over again the death of Baldur the Beloved.

You were told that there were high rocks looking over the
sea near Loki’s house. One of these, higher than the rest, had
midway four projecting stones, and to these the gods resolved
to bind Loki so that he should never again be able to torment
the inhabitants of Manheim or Asgard by his evil-doings. Thor
proposed to return to Asgard, to bring a chain with which to
bind the prisoner; but Odin assured him that he had no need to
take such a journey. “Loki,” he said, “has already forged for
himself a chain stronger than any you can make. While we have
been occupied in catching him, his two sons, Ali and Nari,
transformed into wolves by their evil passions, have fought
with and destroyed each other. With their sinews we must make a
chain to bind their father, and from that he can never
escape.”

It was done as Asa Odin said. A rope was made of the dead
wolves’ sinews, and as soon as it touched Loki’s body it turned
into bands of iron and bound him immovably to the rock. Secured
in this manner the gods left him.

 

THE PUNISHMENT OF LOKI.

But his punishment did not end here. A snake, whose fangs
dropped poison, glided to the top of the rock and leaned his
head over to peer at Loki. The eyes of the two met and
[pg 95] fixed each other. The serpent
could never move away afterwards; but every moment a burning
drop from his tongue fell down on Loki’s shuddering
face.

In all the world there was only one who pitied him. His kind
wife ever afterwards stood beside him and held a cup over his
head to catch the poison. When the cup was full, she was
obliged to turn away to empty it, and the deadly drops fell
again on Loki’s face. He shuddered and shrank from them, and
the whole earth trembled. So will he lie bound till the
Twilight of the Gods be here.

MYTHS OF INDIA

THE BLIND MAN, THE DEAF MAN, AND THE DONKEY

ADAPTED BY M. FRERE

A Blind Man and a Deaf Man once entered into partnership.
The Deaf Man was to see for the Blind Man, and the Blind Man
was to hear for the Deaf Man.

One day they went together to an entertainment where there
was music and dancing. The Deaf Man said: “The dancing is very
good, but the music is not worth listening to”; and the Blind
Man said: “On the contrary, I think the music very good, but
the dancing is not worth looking at.”

After this they went together for a walk in the jungle, and
there found a washerman’s Donkey that had strayed away from its
owner, and a great big kettle (such as washermen boil clothes
in), which the Donkey was carrying with him.

The Deaf Man said to the Blind Man: “Brother, here are a
Donkey and a washerman’s great big kettle, with nobody to own
them! Let us take them with us—they may be useful to us
some day.” “Very well,” said the Blind Man; “we will take them
with us.” So the Blind Man and the Deaf Man went on their way,
taking the Donkey and the great big kettle with them. A little
farther on they came to an ant’s nest, and the Deaf Man said to
the Blind Man: “Here are a number of very fine black ants, much
larger than any I ever saw before. Let us take some of them
home to show our friends.” “Very well,” answered the Blind Man;
“we will take them as a present to our friends.” So the Deaf
Man took a silver snuff-box out of his pocket, and put four or
five of the finest black ants into it; which done, they
continued their
journey.

But before they had gone very far a terrible storm came on.
It thundered and lightened and rained and blew with such fury
that it seemed as if the whole heavens’ and earth were at war.
“Oh dear! oh dear!” cried the Deaf Man, “how dreadful this
lightning is! Let us make haste and get to some place of
shelter.” “I don’t see that it’s dreadful at all,” answered the
blind Man; “but the thunder is very terrible; we had better
certainly seek some place of shelter.”

Now, not far off was a lofty building, which looked exactly
like a fine temple. The Deaf Man saw it, and he and the Blind
Man resolved to spend the night there; and having reached the
place, they went in and shut the door, taking the Donkey and
the great big kettle with them. But this building, which they
mistook for a temple was in truth no temple at all, but the
house of a very powerful Rakshas or ogre; and hardly had the
Blind Man, the Deaf Man, and the Donkey got inside and fastened
the door, than the Rakshas, who had been out, returned home. To
his surprise, he found the door fastened and heard people
moving about inside his house. “Ho! ho!” cried he to himself,
“some men have got in here, have they? I’ll soon make
mince-meat of them.” So he began to roar in a voice louder than
the thunder, and to cry: “Let me into my house this minute, you
wretches; let me in, let me in, I say,” and to kick the door
and batter it with his great fists. But though his voice was
very powerful, his appearance was still more alarming, insomuch
that the Deaf Man, who was peeping at him through a chink in
the wall, felt so frightened that he did not know what to do.
But the Blind Man was very brave (because he couldn’t see), and
went up to the door and called out: “Who are you, and what do
you mean by coming battering at the door in this way at this
time of night?”

“I’m a Rakshas,” answered the Rakshas angrily, “and this is
my house. Let me in this instant or I’ll kill you.” All this
time the Deaf Man, who was watching the Rakshas, was shivering
and shaking in a terrible fright, but the Blind Man was very
brave (because he couldn’t see), and he called out again: “Oh,
you’re a Rakshas, are you? Well, if you’re Rakshas, I’m
Bakshas; and Bakshas is as good as
Rakshas.”

“Bakshas!” roared the Rakshas. “Bakshas! Bakshas! What
nonsense is this? There is no such creature as a Bakshas!” “Go
away,” replied the Blind Man, “and don’t dare to make any
further disturbance, lest I punish you with a vengeance; for
know that I’m Bakshas, and Bakshas is Rakshas’s father.” “My
father?” answered the Rakshas. “Heavens and earth! Bakshas, and
my father! I never heard such an extraordinary thing in my
life. You my father; and in there! I never knew my father was
called Bakshas!”

“Yes,” replied the Blind Man; “go away instantly, I command
you, for I am your father Bakshas.” “Very well,” answered the
Rakshas (for he began to get puzzled and frightened); “but if
you are my father, let me first see your face.” (For he
thought: “Perhaps they are deceiving me.”) The Blind Man and
the Deaf Man didn’t know what to do; but at last they opened
the door a very tiny chink and poked the Donkey’s nose out.
When the Rakshas saw it he thought to himself: “Bless me, what
a terribly ugly face my father Bakshas has!” He then called
out: “O father Bakshas, you have a very big, fierce face; but
people have sometimes very big heads and very little bodies.
Pray let me see your body as well as head before I go away.”
Then the Blind Man and the Deaf Man rolled the washerman’s
great big kettle with a thundering noise past the chink in the
door, and the Rakshas, who was watching attentively, was very
much surprised when he saw this great black thing rolling along
the floor, and he thought: “In truth, my father Bakshas has a
very big body as well as a big head. He’s big enough to eat me
up altogether. I’d better go away.” But still he could not help
being a little doubtful, so he cried: “O Bakshas, father
Bakshas! you have indeed got a very big head and a very big
body; but do, before I go away, let me hear you scream,” for
all Rakshas scream fearfully. Then the cunning Deaf Man (who
was getting less frightened) pulled the silver snuff-box out of
his pocket, and took the black ants out of it, and put one
black ant in the Donkey’s right ear, and another black ant in
the Donkey’s left ear, and another and another. The ants
pinched the poor Donkey’s ears dreadfully, and the Donkey was
so hurt and frightened he began to
[pg 99] bellow as loud as he could:
“Eh augh! eh augh! eh augh! augh! augh!” and at this
terrible noise the Rakshas fled away in a great fright,
saying: “Enough, enough, father Bakshas! the sound of your
voice would make the most refractory obedient.” And no
sooner had he gone than the Deaf Man took the ants out of
the Donkey’s ears, and he and the Blind Man spent the rest
of the night in peace and comfort.

Next morning the Deaf Man woke the Blind Man early, saying:
“Awake, brother, awake: here we are indeed in luck! The whole
floor is covered with heaps of gold and silver and precious
stones.” And so it was, for the Rakshas owned a vast amount of
treasure, and the whole house was full of it. “That is a good
thing,” said the Blind Man. “Show me where it is and I will
help you to collect it.” So they collected as much treasure as
possible and made four great bundles of it. The Blind Man took
one great bundle, the Deaf Man took another, and, putting the
other two great bundles on the Donkey, they started off to
return home. But the Rakshas, whom they had frightened away the
night before, had not gone very far off, and was waiting to see
what his father Bakshas might look like by daylight. He saw the
door of his house open and watched attentively, when out
walked—only a Blind Man, a Deaf Man, and a Donkey, who
were all three laden with large bundles of his treasure. The
Blind Man carried one bundle, the Deaf Man carried another
bundle, and two bundles were on the Donkey.

The Rakshas was extremely angry, and immediately called six
of his friends to help him kill the Blind Man, the Deaf Man,
and the Donkey, and recover the treasure.

The Deaf Man saw them coming (seven great Rakshas, with hair
a yard long and tusks like an elephant’s), and was dreadfully
frightened; but the Blind Man was very brave (because he
couldn’t see), and said: “Brother, why do you lag behind in
that way?” “Oh!” answered the Deaf Man, “there are seven great
Rakshas with tusks like an elephant’s coming to kill us! What
can we do?” “Let us hide the treasure in the bushes,” said the
Blind Man; “and do you lead me to a tree; then I will climb up
first, and you shall climb up afterward, and
[pg 100] so we shall be out of their
way.” The Deaf Man thought this good advice; so he pushed
the Donkey and the bundles of treasure into the bushes, and
led the Blind Man to a high soparee-tree that grew close by;
but he was a very cunning man, this Deaf Man, and instead of
letting the Blind Man climb up first and following him, he
got up first and let the Blind Man clamber after, so that he
was farther out of harm’s way than his friend.

When the Rakshas arrived at the place and saw them both
perched out of reach in the soparee-tree, he said to his
friends: “Let us get on each other’s shoulders; we shall then
be high enough to pull them down.” So one Rakshas stooped down,
and the second got on his shoulders, and the third on his, and
the fourth on his, and the fifth on his, and the sixth on his;
and the seventh and the last Rakshas (who had invited all the
others) was just climbing up when the Deaf Man (who was looking
over the Blind Man’s shoulder) got so frightened that in his
alarm he caught hold of his friend’s arm, crying: “They’re
coming, they’re coming!” The Blind Man was not in a very secure
position, and was sitting at his ease, not knowing how close
the Rakshas were. The consequence was, that when the Deaf Man
gave him this unexpected push, he lost his balance and tumbled
down on to the neck of the seventh Rakshas, who was just then
climbing up. The Blind Man had no idea where he was, but
thought he had got on to the branch of some other tree; and,
stretching out his hand for something to catch hold of, caught
hold of the Rakshas’s two great ears, and pinched them very
hard in his surprise and fright. The Rakshas couldn’t think
what it was that had come tumbling down upon him; and the
weight of the Blind Man upsetting his balance, down he also
fell to the ground, knocking down in their turn the sixth,
fifth, fourth, third, second, and first Rakshas, who all rolled
one over another, and lay in a confused heap at the foot of the
tree together.

Meanwhile the Blind Man called out to his friend: “Where am
I? What has happened? Where am I? Where am I?” The Deaf Man
(who was safe up in the tree) answered: “Well done, brother!
never fear! never fear! You’re all right, only
[pg 101] hold on tight. I’m coming
down to help you.” But he had not the least intention of
leaving his place of safety. However, he continued to call
out: “Never mind, brother; hold on as tight as you can. I’m
coming, I’m coming,” and the more he called out, the harder
the Blind Man pinched the Rakshas’s ears, which he mistook
for some kind of palm branches.

The six other Rakshas, who had succeeded, after a good deal
of kicking, in extricating themselves from their unpleasant
position, thought they had had quite enough of helping their
friend, and ran away as fast as they could; and the seventh,
thinking from their going that the danger must be greater than
he imagined, and being, moreover, very much afraid of the
mysterious creature that sat on his shoulders, put his hands to
the back of his ears and pushed off the Blind Man, and then,
(without staying to see who or what he was) followed his six
companions as fast as he could.

As soon as all the Rakshas were out of sight, the Deaf Man
came down from the tree, and, picking up the Blind Man,
embraced him, saying: “I could not have done better myself. You
have frightened away all our enemies, but you see I came to
help you as fast as possible.” He then dragged the Donkey and
the bundles of treasure out of the bushes, gave the Blind Man
one bundle to carry, took the second himself, and put the
remaining two on the Donkey, as before. This done, the whole
party set off to return home. But when they had got nearly out
of the jungle the Deaf Man said to the Blind Man: “We are now
close to the village; but if we take all this treasure home
with us, we shall run great risk of being robbed. I think our
best plan would be to divide it equally; then you can take care
of your half and I will take care of mine, and each one can
hide his share here in the jungle, or wherever pleases him
best.” “Very well,” said the Blind Man; “do you divide what we
have in the bundles into two equal portions, keeping one half
yourself and giving me the other.” The cunning Deaf Man,
however, had no intention of giving up half of the treasure to
the Blind Man; so he first took his own bundle of treasure and
hid it in the bushes, and then he took the two bundles off the
Donkey and hid them in the
[pg 102] bushes; and he took a good
deal of treasure out of the Blind Man’s bundle, which he
also hid. Then, taking the small quantity that remained, he
divided it into two equal portions, and placing half before
the Blind Man and half in front of himself, said: “There,
brother, is your share to do what you please with.” The
Blind Man put out his hand, but when he felt what a very
little heap of treasure it was, he got very angry, and
cried: “This is not fair—you are deceiving me; you
have kept almost all the treasure for yourself and only
given me a very little.” “Oh, oh! how can you think so?”
answered the Deaf Man; “but if you will not believe me, feel
for yourself. See, my heap of treasure is no larger than
yours.”

The Blind Man put out his hands again to feel how much his
friend had kept; but in front of the Deaf Man lay only a very
small heap, no larger than what he had himself received. At
this he got very cross, and said: “Come, come, this won’t do.
You think you can cheat me in this way because I am blind; but
I’m not so stupid as all that, I carried a great bundle of
treasure, you carried a great bundle of treasure, and there
were two great bundles on the Donkey. Do you mean to pretend
that all that made no more treasure than these two little
heaps! No, indeed; I know better than that.” “Stuff and
nonsense!” answered the Deaf Man. “Stuff or no stuff,”
continued the other, “you are trying to take me in, and I won’t
be taken in by you.” “No, I’m not,” said the Deaf Man. “Yes,
you are,” said the Blind Man; and so they went on bickering,
scolding, growling, contradicting, until the Blind Man got so
enraged that he gave the Deaf Man a tremendous box on the ear.
The blow was so violent that it made the Deaf Man hear! The
Deaf Man, very angry, gave his neighbor in return so hard a
blow in the face that it opened the Blind Man’s eyes!

So the Deaf Man could hear as well as see, and the Blind Man
could see as well as hear! This astonished them both so much
that they became good friends at once. The Deaf Man confessed
to have hidden the bulk of the treasure, which he thereupon
dragged forth from its place of concealment,
[pg 103] and having divided it
equally, they went home and enjoyed themselves.

HARISARMAN

There was in a certain village, a certain Brahman named
Harisarman. He was poor and foolish and unhappy for want of
employment, and he had very many children. He wandered about
begging with his family, and at last he reached a certain city,
and entered the service of a rich householder called
Sthuladatta. His sons became keepers of Sthuladatta’s cows and
other property, and his wife a servant to him, and he himself
lived near his house, performing the duty of an attendant. One
day there was a feast on account of the marriage of the
daughter of Sthuladatta, largely attended by many friends of
the bridegroom and merry-makers. Harisarman hoped that he would
be able to fill himself up to the throat with oil and flesh and
other dainties, and get the same for his family, in the house
of his patron. While he was anxiously expecting to be fed, no
one thought of him.

Then he was distressed at getting nothing to eat, and he
said to his wife at night: “It is owing to my poverty and
stupidity that I am treated with such disrespect here; so I
will pretend by means of an artifice to possess a knowledge of
magic, so that I may become an object of respect to this
Sthuladatta; so, when you get an opportunity, tell him that I
possess magical knowledge.” He said this to her, and after
turning the matter over in his mind, while people were asleep
he took away from the house of Sthuladatta a horse on which his
master’s son-in-law rode. He placed it in concealment at some
distance, and in the morning the friends of the bridegroom
could not find the horse, though they searched in every
direction. Then, while Sthuladatta was distressed at the evil
omen, and searching for the thieves who had carried off the
horse, the wife of Harisarman came and said to him: “My husband
is a wise man, skilled in astrology and magical
[pg 104] sciences; he can get the
horse back for you—why do you not ask him?” When
Sthuladatta heard that, he called Harisarman, who said,
“Yesterday I was forgotten, but to-day, now the horse is
stolen, I am called to mind;” and Sthuladatta then
propitiated the Brahman with these words: “I forgot you,
forgive me,” and asked him to tell him who had taken away
their horse. Then Harisarman drew all kinds of pretended
diagrams, and said: “The horse has been placed by thieves on
the boundary line south from this place. It is concealed
there, and before it is carried off to a distance, as it
will be at close of day, go quickly and bring it.” When they
heard that, many men ran and brought the horse quickly,
praising the discernment of Harisarman. Then Harisarman was
honored by all men as a sage, and dwelt there in happiness,
honored by Sthuladatta.

Now, as days went on, much treasure, both of gold and
jewels, had been stolen by a thief from the palace of the King.
As the thief was not known, the King quickly summoned
Harisarman on account of his reputation for knowledge of magic.
And he, when summoned, tried to gain time, and said: “I will
tell you to-morrow,” and then he was placed in a chamber by the
King and carefully guarded. And he was sad because he had
pretended to have knowledge. Now, in that palace there was a
maid named Jihva (which means Tongue), who, with the assistance
of her brother, had stolen that treasure from the interior of
the palace. She, being alarmed at Harisarman’s knowledge, went
at night and applied her ear to the door of that chamber in
order to find out what he was about. And Harisarman, who was
alone inside, was at that very moment blaming his own tongue,
that had made a vain assumption of knowledge. He said: “Oh,
tongue, what is this that you have done through your
greediness? Wicked one, you will soon receive punishment in
full.” When Jihva heard this, she thought, in her terror, that
she had been discovered by this wise man, and she managed to
get in where he was, and, falling at his feet, she said to the
supposed wizard: “Brahman, here I am, that Jihva whom you have
discovered to be the thief of the treasure, and after I took it
I buried it in [pg 105] the earth in a garden
behind the palace, under a pomegranate tree. So spare me,
and receive the small quantity of gold which is in my
possession.”

When Harisarman heard that, he said to her proudly: “Depart,
I know all this; I know the past, present, and future, but I
will not denounce you, a miserable creature that has implored
my protection. But whatever gold is in your possession you must
give back to me.” When he said this to the maid, she consented,
and departed quickly. But Harisarman reflected in his
astonishment: “Fate brings about, as if in sport, things
impossible; for, when calamity was so near, who would have
thought chance would have brought us success? While I was
blaming my jihva, the thief Jihva suddenly flung herself at my
feet. Secret crimes manifest themselves by means of fear.” Thus
thinking, he passed the night happily in the chamber. And in
the morning he brought the King, by some skilful parade of
pretended knowledge, into the garden and led him up to the
treasure, which was buried under the pomegranate tree, and said
the thief had escaped with a part of it. Then the King was
pleased, and gave him the revenue of many villages.

But the minister, named Devajnanin, whispered in the King’s
ear: “How can a man possess such knowledge unattainable by men
without having studied the books of magic? You may be certain
that this is a specimen of the way he makes a dishonest
livelihood, by having a secret intelligence with thieves. It
will be much better to test him by some new artifice.” Then the
King of his own accord brought a covered pitcher into which he
had thrown a frog, and said to Harisarman: “Brahman, if you can
guess what there is in this pitcher, I will do you great honor
to-day.” When the Brahman Harisarman heard that, he thought
that his last hour had come, and he called to mind the pet name
of “Froggie,” which his father had given him in his childhood
in sport; and, impelled by luck, he called to himself by his
pet name, lamenting his hard fate, and suddenly called out:
“This is a fine pitcher for you, Froggie; it will soon become
the swift destroyer of your helpless self.” The people there,
when they heard him say that, raised a shout of applause,
because his speech chimed in so
[pg 106] well with the object
presented to him, and murmured: “Ah! a great sage; he knows
even about the frog!” Then the King, thinking that this was
all due to knowledge of divination, was highly delighted,
and gave Harisarman the revenue of more villages, with gold,
an umbrella, and state carriages of all kinds. So Harisarman
prospered in the world.

WHY THE FISH LAUGHED

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 have 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 months, on pain of death.
The vizier promised to do his best, though he felt
[pg 107] almost certain of failure.
For five months he labored indefatigably to find a reason
for the laughter of the fish. He sought everywhere and from
every one. 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. Among 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 fate 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 you think it would be pleasanter if you and I
sometimes gave each other 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 trying 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
[pg 108] 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 graveyard where
a few people were praying beside a tomb and distributing
chapatis 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 when 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 corn-field, 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 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 the 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 chapatis 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 the
dead, you were saluted by kind friends and provided with
bread.”

“True, true!” said the astonished farmer. “Then, just
[pg 110] now, when we were crossing
the stream, he waded through it without taking off his shoes
and pajamas.”

“I admire his wisdom,” replied the 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 the 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
chapatis, and a jar of milk, and the following message:
“O friend, the 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 find only eleven months 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 if he were the son of a great man,
although his humble host knew nothing of his origin. At length
he 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
[pg 111] 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 to
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 the pit dug, and commanded all the maids
belonging to the palace to try to jump over 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.

MUCHIE LAL

ADAPTED BY M. FRERE

Once upon a time there were a Rajah and Ranee who had no
children. Long had they wished and prayed that the gods would
send them a son, but it was all in vain—their prayers
were not granted. One day a number of fish were brought into
the royal kitchen to be cooked for the Rajah’s dinner, and
[pg 112] amongst them was one little
fish that was not dead, but all the rest were dead. One of
the palace maid-servants, seeing this, took the little fish
and put him in a basin of water. Shortly afterward the Ranee
saw him, and thinking him very pretty, kept him as a pet;
and because she had no children she lavished all her
affection on the fish and loved him as a son; and the people
called him Muchie Rajah (the Fish Prince).

In a little while Muchie Rajah had grown too long to live in
the small basin, so they put him into a larger one, and then
(when he grew too long for that) into a big tub. In time,
however, Muchie Rajah became too large for even the big tub to
hold him; so the Ranee had a tank made for him, in which he
lived very happily, and twice a day she fed him with boiled
rice. Now, though the people fancied Muchie Rajah was only a
fish, this was not the case. He was, in truth, a young Rajah
who had angered the gods, and been by them turned into a fish
and thrown into the river as a punishment.

One morning, when the Ranee brought him his daily meal of
boiled rice, Muchie Rajah called out to her and said, “Queen
Mother, Queen Mother, I am so lonely here all by myself! Cannot
you get me a wife?” The Ranee promised to try, and sent
messengers to all the people she knew, to ask if they would
allow one of their children to marry her son, the Fish Prince.
But they all answered: “We cannot give one of our dear little
daughters to be devoured by a great fish, even though he is the
Muchie Rajah and so high in your Majesty’s favor.”

At news of this the Ranee did not know what to do. She was
so foolishly fond of Muchie Rajah, however, that she resolved
to get him a wife at any cost. Again she sent out messengers,
but this time she gave them a great bag containing a lac of
gold mohurs, and said to them: “Go into every land until you
find a wife for my Muchie Rajah, and to whoever will give you a
child to be the Muchie Ranee you shall give this bag of gold
mohurs.” The messengers started on their search, but for some
time they were unsuccessful; not even the beggars were to be
tempted to sell their children, fearing the great fish would
devour them. At last one day the messengers came to a village
where there lived a Fakeer, who had lost his first wife
[pg 113] and married again. His
first wife had had one little daughter, and his second wife
also had a daughter. As it happened, the Fakeer’s second
wife hated her little stepdaughter, always gave her the
hardest work to do and the least food to eat, and tried by
every means in her power to get her out of the way, in order
that the child might not rival her own daughter. When she
heard of the errand on which the messengers had come, she
sent for them when the Fakeer was out, and said to them:
“Give me the bag of gold mohurs, and you shall take my
little daughter to marry the Muchie Rajah.” (“For,” she
thought to herself, “the great fish will certainly eat the
girl, and she will thus trouble us no more.”) Then, turning
to her stepdaughter, she said: “Go down to the river and
wash your saree, that you may be fit to go with these
people, who will take you to the Ranee’s court.” At these
words the poor girl went down to the river very sorrowful,
for she saw no hope of escape, as her father was from home.
As she knelt by the river-side, washing her saree and
crying bitterly, some of her tears fell into the hole of an
old Seven-headed Cobra, who lived on the river-bank. This
Cobra was a very wise animal, and seeing the maiden, he put
his head out of his hole, and said to her: “Little girl, why
do you cry?” “Oh, sir,” she answered, “I am very unhappy;
for my father is from home, and my stepmother has sold me to
the Ranee’s people to be the wife of the Muchie Rajah, that
great fish, and I know he will eat me up.” “Do not be
afraid, my daughter,” said the Cobra; “but take with you
these three stones and tie them up in the corner of your
saree;” and so saying, he gave her three little round
pebbles. “The Muchie Rajah, whose wife you are to be, is not
really a fish, but a Rajah who has been enchanted. Your home
will be a little room which the Ranee has had built in the
tank wall. When you are taken there, wait and be sure you
don’t go to sleep, or the Muchie Rajah will certainly come
and eat you up. But as you hear him coming rushing through
the water, be prepared, and as soon as you see him, throw
this first stone at him; he will then sink to the bottom of
the tank. The second time he comes, throw the second stone,
when the same thing will happen. The third time he comes,
throw this third stone,
[pg 114] and he will immediately
resume his human shape.” So saying, the old Cobra dived down
again into his hole. The Fakeer’s daughter took the stones
and determined to do as the Cobra had told her, though she
hardly believed it would have the desired effect.

When she reached the palace the Ranee spoke kindly to her,
and said to the messengers: “You have done your errand well;
this is a dear little girl.” Then she ordered that she should
be let down the side of the tank in a basket to a little room
which had been prepared for her. When the Fakeer’s daughter got
there, she thought she had never seen such a pretty place in
her life (for the Ranee had caused the little room to be very
nicely decorated for the wife of her favorite); and she would
have felt very happy away from her cruel stepmother and all the
hard work she had been made to do, had it not been for the dark
water that lay black and unfathomable below the door and the
fear of the terrible Muchie Rajah.

After waiting some time she heard a rushing sound, and
little waves came dashing against the threshold; faster they
came and faster, and the noise got louder and louder, until she
saw a great fish’s head above the water—Muchie Rajah was
coming toward her open-mouthed. The Fakeer’s daughter seized
one of the stones that the Cobra had given her and threw it at
him, and down he sank to the bottom of the tank; a second time
he rose and came toward her, and she threw the second stone at
him, and he again sank down; a third time he came more fiercely
than before, when, seizing a third stone, she threw it with all
her force. No sooner did it touch him than the spell was
broken, and there, instead of a fish, stood a handsome young
Prince. The poor little Fakeer’s daughter was so startled that
she began to cry. But the Prince said to her: “Pretty maiden,
do not be frightened. You have rescued me from a horrible
thraldom, and I can never thank you enough; but if you will be
the Muchie Ranee, we will be married to-morrow.” Then he sat
down on the doorstep, thinking over his strange fate and
watching for the dawn.

Next morning early several inquisitive people came to see if
the Muchie Rajah had eaten up his poor little wife, as they
[pg 115] feared he would; what was
their astonishment, on looking over the tank wall, to see,
not the Muchie Rajah, but a magnificent Prince! The news
soon spread to the palace. Down came the Rajah, down came
the Ranee, down came all their attendants, and dragged
Muchie Rajah and the Fakeer’s daughter up the side of the
tank in a basket; and when they heard their story there were
great and unparalleled rejoicings. The Ranee said, “So I
have indeed found a son at last!” And the people were so
delighted, so happy and so proud of the new Prince and
Princess, that they covered all their path with damask from
the tank to the palace, and cried to their fellows, “Come
and see our new Prince and Princess! Were ever any so
divinely beautiful? Come see a right royal couple,—a
pair of mortals like the gods!” And when they reached the
palace the prince was married to the Fakeer’s daughter.

There they lived very happily for some time. The Muchie
Ranee’s stepmother, hearing what had happened, came often to
see her stepdaughter, and pretended to be delighted at her good
fortune; and the Ranee was so good that she quite forgave all
her stepmother’s former cruelty, and always received her very
kindly. At last, one day, the Muchie Ranee said to her husband,
“It is a weary while since I saw my father. If you will give me
leave, I should much like to visit my native village and see
him again.” “Very well,” he replied, “you may go. But do not
stay away long; for there can be no happiness for me till you
return.” So she went, and her father was delighted to see her;
but her stepmother, though she pretended to be very kind, was
in reality only glad to think she had got the Ranee into her
power, and determined, if possible, never to allow her to
return to the palace again. One day, therefore, she said to her
own daughter, “It is hard that your stepsister should have
become Ranee of all the land instead of being eaten up by the
great fish, while we gained no more than a lac of gold mohurs.
Do now as I bid you, that you may become Ranee in her stead.”
She then went on to instruct her that she must invite the Ranee
down to the river-bank, and there beg her to let her try on her
jewels, and while putting them on give her a push and drown her
in the river.

The girl consented, and standing by the river-bank, said to
her stepsister, “Sister, may I try on your jewels?—how
pretty they are!” “Yes,” said the Ranee, “and we shall be able
to see in the river how they look.” So, undoing her necklaces,
she clasped them round the other’s neck. But while she was
doing so her stepsister gave her a push, and she fell backward
into the water. The girl watched to see that the body did not
rise, and then, running back, said to her mother, “Mother, here
are all the jewels, and she will trouble us no more.” But it
happened that just when her stepsister pushed the Ranee into
the river her old friend the Seven-headed Cobra chanced to be
swimming across it, and seeing the little Ranee likely to be
drowned, he carried her on his back until he reached his hole,
into which he took her safely. Now this hole, in which the
Cobra and his wife and all his little ones lived, had two
entrances,—the one under the water and leading to the
river, and the other above water, leading out into the open
fields. To this upper end of his hole the Cobra took the Muchie
Ranee, where he and his wife took care of her; and there she
lived with them for some time. Meanwhile, the wicked Fakeer’s
wife, having dressed up her own daughter in all the Ranee’s
jewels, took her to the palace, and said to the Muchie Rajah,
“See, I have brought your wife, my dear daughter, back safe and
well.” The Rajah looked at her, and thought, “This does not
look like my wife.” However, the room was dark and the girl was
cleverly disguised, and he thought he might be mistaken. Next
day he said again: “My wife must be sadly changed or this
cannot be she, for she was always bright and cheerful. She had
pretty loving ways and merry words, while this woman never
opens her lips.” Still, he did not like to seem to mistrust his
wife, and comforted himself by saying, “Perhaps she is tired
with the long journey.” On the third day, however, he could
bear the uncertainty no longer, and tearing off her jewels,
saw, not the face of his own little wife, but another woman.
Then he was very angry and turned her out of doors, saying,
“Begone; since you are but the wretched tool of others, I spare
your life.” But of the Fakeer’s wife he said to his guards,
“Fetch that woman here instantly; for
[pg 117] unless she can tell me
where my wife is, I will have her hanged.” It chanced,
however, that the Fakeer’s wife had heard of the Muchie
Rajah having turned her daughter out of doors; so, fearing
his anger, she hid herself, and was not to be found.

Meantime, the Muchie Ranee, not knowing how to get home,
continued to live in the great Seven-headed Cobra’s hole, and
he and his wife and all his family were very kind to her, and
loved her as if she had been one of them; and there her little
son was born, and she called him Muchie Lal, after the Muchie
Rajah, his father. Muchie Lal was a lovely child, merry and
brave, and his playmates all day long were the young Cobras.
When he was about three years old a bangle-seller came by that
way, and the Muchie Ranee bought some bangles from him and put
them on her boy’s wrists and ankles; but by the next day, in
playing, he had broke them all. Then, seeing the bangle-seller,
the Ranee called him again and bought some more, and so on
every day until the bangle-seller got quite rich from selling
so many bangles for the Muchie Lal; for the Cobra’s hole was
full of treasure, and he gave the Muchie Ranee as much money to
spend every day as she liked. There was nothing she wished for
he did not give her, only he would not let her try to get home
to her husband, which she wished more than all. When she asked
him he would say: “No, I will not let you go. If your husband
comes here and fetches you, it is well; but I will not allow
you to wander in search of him through the land alone.”

And so she was obliged to stay where she was.

All this time the poor Muchie Rajah was hunting in every
part of the country for his wife, but he could learn no tidings
of her. For grief and sorrow at losing her he had gone almost
distracted, and did nothing but wander from place to place,
crying, “She is gone! she is gone!” Then, when he had long
inquired without avail of all the people in her native village
about her, he one day met a bangle-seller and said to him,
“Whence do you come?” The bangle-seller answered, “I have just
been selling bangles to some people who live in a Cobra’s hole
in the river-bank.” “People! What people?” asked the Rajah.
“Why,” answered the bangle-seller, “a
[pg 118] woman and a child; the
child is the most beautiful I ever saw. He is about three
years old, and of course, running about, is always breaking
his bangles and his mother buys him new ones every day.” “Do
you know what the child’s name is?” said the Rajah. “Yes,”
answered the bangle-seller carelessly, “for the lady always
calls him her Muchie Lal.” “Ah,” thought the Muchie Rajah,
“this must be my wife.” Then he said to him again, “Good
bangle-seller, I would see these strange people of whom you
speak; cannot you take me there?” “Not to-night,” replied
the bangle-seller; “daylight has gone, and we should only
frighten them; but I shall be going there again to-morrow,
and then you may come too. Meanwhile, come and rest at my
house for the night, for you look faint and weary.” The
Rajah consented. Next morning, however, very early, he woke
the bangle-seller, saying, “Pray let us go now and see the
people you spoke about yesterday.” “Stay,” said the
bangle-seller; “it is much too early. I never go till after
breakfast.” So the Rajah had to wait till the bangle-seller
was ready to go. At last they started off, and when they
reached the Cobra’s hole the first thing the Rajah saw was a
fine little boy playing with the young Cobras.

As the bangle-seller came along, jingling his bangles, a
gentle voice from inside the hole called out, “Come here, my
Muchie Lal, and try on your bangles.” Then the Muchie Rajah,
kneeling down at the mouth of the hole, said, “Oh, lady, show
your beautiful face to me.” At the sound of his voice the Ranee
ran out, crying, “Husband, husband! have you found me again?”
And she told him how her sister had tried to drown her, and how
the good Cobra had saved her life and taken care of her and her
child. Then he said, “And will you now come home with me?” And
she told him how the Cobra would never let her go, and said, “I
will first tell him of your coming; for he has been a father to
me.” So she called out, “Father Cobra, father Cobra, my husband
has come to fetch me; will you let me go?” “Yes,” he said, “if
your husband has come to fetch you, you may go.” And his wife
said, “Farewell, dear lady, we are loath to lose you, for we
have loved you as a daughter.” And all the little Cobras were
very [pg 119] sorrowful to think that
they must lose their playfellow, the young Prince. Then the
Cobra gave the Muchie Rajah and the Muchie Ranee and Muchie
Lal all the most costly gifts he could find in his
treasure-house; and so they went home, where they lived very
happy ever after.

HOW THE RAJAH’S SON WON THE PRINCESS LABAM

ADAPTED BY JOSEPH JACOBS

In a country there was a Rajah who had an only son who every
day went out to hunt. One day the Ranee his mother, said to
him, “You can hunt wherever you like on these three sides; but
you must never go to the fourth side.” This she said because
she knew if he went on the fourth side he would hear of the
beautiful Princess Labam, and that then he would leave his
father and mother and seek for the Princess.

The young Prince listened to his mother, and obeyed her for
some time; but one day, when he was hunting on the three sides
where he was allowed to go, he remembered what she had said to
him about the fourth side, and he determined to go and see why
she had forbidden him to hunt on that side. When he got there,
he found himself in a jungle, and nothing in the jungle but a
quantity of parrots, who lived in it. The young Rajah shot at
some of them, and at once they all flew away up to the sky.
All, that is, but one, and this was their Rajah, who was called
Hiraman parrot.

When Hiraman parrot found himself left alone, he called out
to the other parrots, “Don’t fly away and leave me alone when
the Rajah’s son shoots. If you desert me like this, I will tell
the Princess Labam.”

Then the parrots all flew back to their Rajah, chattering.
The Prince was greatly surprised, and said, “Why, these birds
[pg 120] can talk!” Then he said to
the parrots, “Who is the Princess Labam? Where does she
live?” But the parrots would not tell him where she lived.
“You can never get to the Princess Labam’s country.” That is
all they would say.

The Prince grew very sad when they would not tell him
anything more; and he threw his gun away and went home. When he
got home, he would not speak or eat, but lay on his bed for
four or five days, and seemed very ill.

At last he told his father and mother that he wanted to go
and see the Princess Labam. “I must go,” he said; “I must see
what she is like. Tell me where her country is.”

“We do not know where it is,” answered his father and
mother.

“Then I must go and look for it,” said the Prince.

“No, no,” they said, “you must not leave us. You are our
only son. Stay with us. You will never find the Princess
Labam.”

“I must try and find her,” said the Prince. “Perhaps God
will show me the way. If I live and I find her, I will come
back to you; but perhaps I shall die, and then I shall never
see you again. Still I must go.”

So they had to let him go, though they cried very much at
parting with him. His father gave him fine clothes to wear, and
a fine horse. And he took his gun, and his bow and arrows, and
a great many other weapons; “for,” he said, “I may want them.”
His father, too, gave him plenty of rupees.

Then he himself got his horse all ready for the journey, and
he said good-by to his father and mother; and his mother took
her handkerchief and wrapped some sweetmeats in it, and gave it
to her son. “My child,” she said to him, “when you are hungry
eat some of these sweetmeats.”

He then set out on his journey, and rode on and on till he
came to a jungle in which were a tank and shady trees. He
bathed himself and his horse in the tank, and then sat down
under a tree. “Now,” he said to himself, “I will eat some of
the sweetmeats my mother gave me, and I will drink some water,
and then I will continue my journey.” He opened his
handkerchief and took out a sweetmeat. He found an ant in
[pg 121] it. He took out another.
There was an ant in that one too. So he laid the two
sweetmeats on the ground, and he took out another, and
another, and another, until he had taken them all out; but
in each he found an ant. “Never mind,” he said, “I won’t eat
the sweetmeats; the ants shall eat them.” Then the Ant-Rajah
came and stood before him and said, “You have been good to
us. If ever you are in trouble, think of me and we will come
to you.”

The Rajah’s son thanked him, mounted his horse and continued
his journey. He rode on and on until he came to another jungle,
and there he saw a tiger who had a thorn in his foot, and was
roaring loudly from the pain.

“Why do you roar like that?” said the young Rajah. “What is
the matter with you?”

“I have had a thorn in my foot for twelve years,” answered
the tiger, “and it hurts me so; that is why I roar.”

“Well,” said the Rajah’s son, “I will take it out for you.
But perhaps, as you are a tiger, when I have made you well, you
will eat me?”

“Oh no,” said the tiger, “I won’t eat you. Do make me
well.”

Then the Prince took a little knife from his pocket and cut
the thorn out of the tiger’s foot; but when he cut, the tiger
roared louder than ever—so loud that his wife heard him
in the next jungle, and came bounding along to see what was the
matter. The tiger saw her coming, and hid the Prince in the
jungle, so that she should not see him.

“What man hurt you that you roared so loud?” said the
wife.

“No one hurt me,” answered the husband; “but a Rajah’s son
came and took the thorn out of my foot.”

“Where is he? Show him to me,” said his wife.

“If you promise not to kill him, I will call him,” said the
tiger.

“I won’t kill him; only let me see him,” answered his
wife.

Then the tiger called the Rajah’s son, and when he came the
tiger and his wife made him a great many salaams. Then they
gave him a good dinner, and he stayed with them for
[pg 122] three days. Every day he
looked at the tiger’s foot, and the third day it was quite
healed. Then he said good-by to the tigers, and the tiger
said to him, “If ever you are in trouble, think of me, and
we will come to you.”

The Rajah’s son rode on and on till he came to a third
jungle. Here he found four fakeers whose teacher and master had
died, and had left four things,—a bed, which carried
whoever sat on it whithersoever he wished to go; a bag, that
gave its owner whatever he wanted, jewels, food or clothes; a
stone bowl that gave its owner as much water as he wanted, no
matter how far he might be from a tank; and a stick and rope,
to which its owner had only to say, if any one came to make war
on him, “Stick, beat as many men and soldiers as are here,” and
the stick would beat them and the rope would tie them up.

The four fakeers were quarreling over these four things. One
said, “I want this;” another said, “You cannot have it, for I
want it;” and so on.

The Rajah’s son said to them, “Do not quarrel for these
things. I will shoot four arrows in four different directions.
Whichever of you gets to my first arrow, shall have the first
thing—the bed. Whosoever gets to the second arrow, shall
have the second thing—the bag. He who gets to the third
arrow, shall have the third thing—the bowl. And he who
gets to the fourth arrow, shall have the last things—the
stick and rope.” To this they agreed. And the Prince shot off
his first arrow. Away raced the fakeers to get it. When they
brought it back to him he shot off the second, and when they
had found and brought it to him he shot off his third, and when
they had brought him the third he shot off the fourth.

While they were away looking for the fourth arrow the
Rajah’s son let his horse loose in the jungle and sat on the
bed, taking the bowl, the stick and rope, and the bag with him.
Then he said, “Bed, I wish to go to the Princess Labam’s
country.” The little bed instantly rose up into the air and
began to fly, and it flew and flew till it came to the Princess
Labam’s country, where it settled on the ground. The Rajah’s
son asked some men he saw, “Whose country is this?”

“The Princess Labam’s country,” they answered. Then
[pg 123] the Prince went on till he
came to a house where he saw an old woman.

“Who are you?” she said. “Where do you come from?”

“I come from a far country,” he said; “do let me stay with
you to-night.”

“No,” she answered, “I cannot let you stay with me; for our
King has ordered that men from other countries may not stay in
his country. You cannot stay in my house.”

“You are my aunty,” said the Prince; “let me remain with you
for this one night. You see it is evening, and if I go into the
jungle, then the wild beasts will eat me.”

“Well,” said that old woman, “you may stay here to-night;
but to-morrow morning you must go away, for if the King hears
you have passed the night in my house, he will have me seized
and put into prison.”

Then she took him into her house, and the Rajah’s son was
very glad. The old woman began preparing dinner, but he stopped
her. “Aunty,” he said, “I will give you food.” He put his hand
into his bag, saying, “Bag, I want some dinner,” and the bag
gave him instantly a delicious dinner, served up on two gold
plates. The old woman and the Rajah’s son then dined
together.

When they had finished eating, the old woman said, “Now I
will fetch some water.”

“Don’t go,” said the Prince. “You shall have plenty of water
directly.” So he took his bowl and said to it, “Bowl, I want
some water,” and then it filled with water. When it was full,
the Prince cried out, “Stop, bowl!” and the bowl stopped
filling. “See, aunty,” he said, “with this bowl I can always
get as much water as I want.”

By this time night had come. “Aunty,” said the Rajah’s son,
“why don’t you light a lamp?”

“There is no need,” she said. “Our king has forbidden the
people in his country to light any lamps; for, as soon as it is
dark, his daughter, the Princess Labam, comes and sits on her
roof, and she shines so that she lights up all the country and
our houses, and we can see to do our work as if it were
day.”

When it was quite black night the Princess got up. She
dressed herself in her rich clothes and jewels, and rolled up
her hair, and across her head she put a band of diamonds and
pearls. Then she shone like the moon and her beauty made night
day. She came out of her room and sat on the roof of her
palace. In the daytime she never came out of her house; she
only came out at night. All the people in her father’s country
then went about their work and finished it.

The Rajah’s son, watched the Princess quietly, and was very
happy. He said to himself, “How lovely she is!”

At midnight, when everybody had gone to bed, the Princess
came down from her roof and went to her room; and when she was
in bed and asleep, the Rajah’s son got up softly and sat on his
bed. “Bed,” he said to it, “I want to go to the Princess
Labam’s bed-room.” So the little bed carried him to the room
where she lay fast asleep.

The young Rajah took his bag and said, “I want a great deal
of betel-leaf,” and it at once gave him quantities of
betel-leaf. This he laid near the Princess’s bed, and then his
little bed carried him back to the old woman’s house.

Next morning all the Princess’s servants found the
betel-leaf, and began to eat it. “Where did you get all that
betel-leaf?” asked the Princess.

“We found it near your bed,” answered the servants. Nobody
knew the Prince had come in the night and put it all there.

In the morning the old woman came to the Rajah’s son. “Now
it is morning,” she said, “and you must go; for if the King
finds out all I have done for you, he will seize me.”

“I am ill to-day, dear aunty,” said the Prince; “do let me
stay till to-morrow morning.”

“Good,” said the old woman. So he stayed, and they took
their dinner out of the bag, and the bowl gave them water.

 

THE PRINCESS LABAM … SHINES SO THAT SHE
LIGHTS UP ALL THE COUNTRY.

When night came the Princess got up and sat on her roof, and
at twelve o’clock, when every one was in bed, she went to her
bed-room, and was soon fast asleep. Then the Rajah’s son sat on
his bed, and it carried him to the Princess. He took his bag
and said, “Bag, I want a most lovely shawl.” It
[pg 125] gave him a splendid shawl,
and he spread it over the Princess as she lay asleep. Then
he went back to the old woman’s house and slept till
morning.

In the morning, when the Princess saw the shawl she was
delighted. “See, mother,” she said; “Khuda must have given me
this shawl, it is so beautiful.” Her mother was very glad
too.

“Yes, my child,” she said; “Khuda must have given you this
splendid shawl.”

When it was morning the old woman said to the Rajah’s son,
“Now you must really go.”

“Aunty,” he answered, “I am not well enough yet. Let me stay
a few days longer. I will remain hidden in your house, so that
no one may see me.” So the old woman let him stay.

When it was black night, the Princess put on her lovely
clothes and jewels and sat on her roof. At midnight she went to
her room and went to sleep. Then the Rajah’s son sat on his bed
and flew to her bed-room. There he said to his bag, “Bag, I
want a very, very beautiful ring.” The bag gave him a glorious
ring. Then he took the Princess Labam’s hand gently to put on
the ring, and she started up very much frightened.

“Who are you?” she said to the Prince. “Where do you come
from? Why do you come to my room?”

“Do not be afraid, Princess,” he said; “I am no thief. I am
a great Rajah’s son. Hiraman parrot, who lives in the jungle
where I went to hunt, told me your name, and then I left my
father and mother and came to see you.”

“Well,” said the Princess, “as you are the son of such a
great Rajah, I will not have you killed, and I will tell my
father and mother that I wish to marry you.”

The Prince then returned to the old woman’s house; and when
morning came the Princess said to her mother, “The son of a
great Rajah has come to this country, and I wish to marry him.”
Her mother told this to the King.

“Good,” said the King; “but if this Rajah’s son wishes to
marry my daughter, he must first do whatever I bid him. If he
fails I will kill him. I will give him eighty pounds weight of
mustard seed, and out of this he must crush the oil in one day.
If he cannot do this he shall
die.”

In the morning the Rajah’s son told the old woman that he
intended to marry the Princess. “Oh,” said the old woman, “go
away from this country, and do not think of marrying her. A
great many Rajahs and Rajahs’ sons have come here to marry her,
and her father has had them all killed. He says whoever wishes
to marry his daughter must first do whatever he bids him. If he
can, then he shall marry the Princess; if he cannot, the King
will have him killed. But no one can do the things the King
tells him to do; so all the Rajahs and Rajahs’ sons who have
tried have been put to death. You will be killed too, if you
try. Do go away.” But the Prince would not listen to anything
she said.

The King sent for the Prince to the old woman’s house, and
his servants brought the Rajah’s son to the King’s court-house
to the King. There the King gave him eighty pounds of mustard
seed, and told him to crush all the oil out of it that day, and
bring it next morning to him to the court-house. “Whoever
wishes to marry my daughter,” he said to the Prince, “must
first do all I tell him. If he cannot, then I have him killed.
So if you cannot crush all the oil out of this mustard seed you
will die.”

The Prince was very sorry when he heard this. “How can I
crush the oil out of all this mustard seed in one day?” he said
to himself; “and if I do not, the King will kill me.” He took
the mustard seed to the old woman’s house, and did not know
what to do. At last he remembered the Ant-Rajah, and the moment
he did so, the Ant-Rajah and his ants came to him. “Why do you
look so sad?” said the Ant-Rajah.

The Prince showed him the mustard seed, and said to him,
“How can I crush the oil out of all this mustard seed in one
day? And if I do not take the oil to the King to-morrow
morning, he will kill me.”

“Be happy,” said the Ant-Rajah; “lie down and sleep; we will
crush all the oil out for you during the day, and to-morrow
morning you shall take it to the King.” The Rajah’s son lay
down and slept, and the ants crushed out the oil for him. The
Prince was very glad when he saw the oil.

The next morning he took it to the court-house to the King.
[pg 127] But the King said, “You
cannot yet marry my daughter. If you wish to do so, you must
fight with my two demons, and kill them.” The King a long
time ago had caught two demons, and then, as he did not know
what to do with them, he had shut them up in a cage. He was
afraid to let them loose for fear they would eat up all the
people in his country; and he did not know how to kill them.
So all the Rajahs and Rajahs’ sons who wanted to marry the
Princess Labam had to fight with these demons; “for,” said
the King to himself, “perhaps the demons may be killed, and
then I shall be rid of them.”

When he heard of the demons the Rajah’s son was very sad.
“What can I do?” he said to himself. “How can I fight with
these two demons?” Then he thought of his tiger: and the tiger
and his wife came to him and said, “Why are you so sad?” The
Rajah’s son answered, “The King has ordered me to fight with
his two demons and kill them. How can I do this?” “Do not be
frightened,” said the tiger. “Be happy. I and my wife will
fight with them for you.”

Then the Rajah’s son took out of his bag two splendid coats.
They were all gold and silver, and covered with pearls and
diamonds. These he put on the tigers to make them beautiful,
and he took them to the King, and said to him, “May these
tigers fight your demons for me?” “Yes,” said the King, who did
not care in the least who killed his demons, provided they were
killed. “Then call your demons,” said the Rajah’s son, “and
these tigers will fight them.” The King did so, and the tigers
and the demons fought and fought until the tigers had killed
the demons.

“That is good,” said the King. “But you must do something
else before I give you my daughter. Up in the sky I have a
kettle-drum. You must go and beat it. If you cannot do this, I
will kill you.”

The Rajah’s son thought of his little bed; so he went to the
old woman’s house and sat on his bed. “Little bed,” he said,
“up in the sky is the King’s kettle-drum. I want to go to it.”
The bed flew up with him, and the Rajah’s son beat the drum,
and the King heard him. Still, when he came down, the King
would not give him his daughter. “You have,” he said to the
Prince, [pg 128] “done the three things I
told you to do; but you must do one thing more.” “If I can,
I will,” said the Rajah’s son.

Then the King showed him the trunk of a tree that was lying
near his court-house. It was a very, very thick trunk. He gave
the Prince a wax hatchet, and said, “To-morrow morning you must
cut this trunk in two with this wax hatchet.”

The Rajah’s son went back to the old woman’s house. He was
very sad, and thought that now the Rajah would certainly kill
him. “I had his oil crushed out by the ants,” he said to
himself. “I had his demons killed by the tigers. My bed helped
to beat this kettle-drum. But now what can I do? How can I cut
that thick tree-trunk in two with a wax hatchet?”

At night he went on his bed to see the Princess.
“To-morrow,” he said to her, “your father will kill me.” “Why?”
asked the Princess.

“He has told me to cut a thick tree-trunk in two with a wax
hatchet. How can I ever do that?” said the Rajah’s son. “Do not
be afraid,” said the Princess; “do as I bid you, and you will
cut it in two quite easily.”

Then she pulled out a hair from her head and gave it to the
Prince. “To-morrow,” she said, “when no one is near you, you
must say to the tree-trunk, ‘The Princess Labam commands you to
let yourself be cut in two by this hair.’ Then stretch the hair
down the edge of the wax hatchet’s blade.”

The Prince next day did exactly as the Princess had told
him; and the minute the hair that was stretched down the edge
of the hatchet blade touched the tree-trunk it split into two
pieces.

The King said, “Now you can marry my daughter.” Then the
wedding took place. All the Rajahs and Kings of the countries
round were asked to come to it, and there were great
rejoicings. After a few days the bridegroom said to his bride
“Let us go to my father’s country.” The Princess Labam’s father
gave them a quantity of camels and horses and rupees and
servants; and they traveled in great state to the distant
country, where they lived happily.

The prince always kept his bag, bowl, bed, stick and rope;
only, as no one ever came to make war on him, he never needed
to use the stick or rope.

MYTHS OF JAPAN

THE JELLYFISH AND THE MONKEY

ADAPTED BY YEI THEODORA OZAKI

Long, long ago, in old Japan, the Kingdom of the Sea was
governed by a wonderful King. He was called Rin Jin, or the
Dragon King of the Sea. His power was immense, for he was the
ruler of all sea creatures both great and small, and in his
keeping were the Jewels of the Ebb and Flow of the Tide. The
Jewel of the Ebbing Tide when thrown into the ocean caused the
sea to recede from the land, and the Jewel of the Flowing Tide
made the waves to rise mountains high and to flow in upon the
shore like a tidal wave.

The palace of Rin Jin was at the bottom of the sea, and was
so beautiful that no one has ever seen anything like it even in
dreams. The walls were of coral, the roof of jadestone and
chalcedony, and the floors were of the finest mother-of-pearl.
But the Dragon King, in spite of his wide-spreading kingdom,
his beautiful palace and all its wonders, and his power, which
none disputed throughout the whole sea, was not at all happy,
for he reigned alone. At last he thought that if he married he
would not only be happier, but also more powerful. So he
decided to take a wife. Calling all his fish retainers
together, he chose several of them as ambassadors to go through
the sea and seek for a young Dragon Princess who would be his
bride.

At last they returned to the palace bringing with them a
lovely young dragon. Her scales were of a glittering green like
the wings of summer beetles, her eyes threw out glances of
fire, and she was dressed in gorgeous robes. All the jewels of
the sea worked in with embroidery adorned them.

The King fell in love with her at once, and the wedding
[pg 130] ceremony was celebrated
with great splendor. Every living thing in the sea, from the
great whales down to the little shrimps, came in shoals to
offer their congratulations to the bride and bridegroom and
to wish them a long and prosperous life. Never had there
been such an assemblage or such gay festivities in the
Fish-World before. The train of bearers who carried the
bride’s possessions to her new home seemed to reach across
the waves from one end of the sea to the other. Each fish
carried a phosphorescent lantern and was dressed in
ceremonial robes, gleaming blue and pink and silver; and the
waves as they rose and fell and broke that night seemed to
be rolling masses of white and green fire, for the
phosphorus shone with double brilliancy in honor of the
event.

Now for a time the Dragon King and his bride lived very
happily. They loved each other dearly, and the bridegroom day
after day took delight in showing his bride all the wonders and
treasures of his coral palace, and she was never tired of
wandering with him through its vast halls and gardens. Life
seemed to them both like a long summer’s day.

Two months passed in this happy way, and then the Dragon
Queen fell ill and was obliged to stay in bed. The King was
sorely troubled when he saw his precious bride so ill, and at
once sent for the fish doctor to come and give her some
medicine. He gave special orders to the servants to nurse her
carefully and to wait upon her with diligence, but in spite of
all the nurses’ assiduous care and the medicine that the doctor
prescribed, the young Queen showed no signs of recovery, but
grew daily worse.

Then the Dragon King interviewed the doctor and blamed him
for not curing the Queen. The doctor was alarmed at Rin Jin’s
evident displeasure, and excused his want of skill by saying
that although he knew the right kind of medicine to give the
invalid, it was impossible to find it in the sea.

“Do you mean to tell me that you can’t get the medicine
here?” asked the Dragon King.

“It is just as you say!” said the doctor.

“Tell me what it is you want for the Queen?” demanded Rin
Jin.

“I want the liver of a live monkey!” answered the
doctor.

“The liver of a live monkey! Of course that will be most
difficult to get,” said the King.

“If we could only get that for the Queen, her Majesty would
soon recover,” said the doctor.

“Very well, that decides it; we must get it somehow
or other. But where are we most likely to find a monkey?” asked
the King.

Then the doctor told the Dragon King that some distance to
the south there was a Monkey Island where a great many monkeys
lived.

“If only you could capture one of those monkeys?” said the
doctor.

“How can any of my people capture a monkey?” said the Dragon
King, greatly puzzled. “The monkeys live on dry land, while we
live in the water; and out of our element we are quite
powerless! I don’t see what we can do!”

“That has been my difficulty too,” said the doctor. “But
amongst your innumerable servants, you surely can find one who
can go on shore for that express purpose!”

“Something must be done,” said the King, and calling his
chief steward he consulted him on the matter.

The chief steward thought for some time, and then, as if
struck by a sudden thought, said joyfully:

“I know what we must do! There is the kurage
(jellyfish). He is certainly ugly to look at, but he is proud
of being able to walk on land with his four legs like a
tortoise. Let us send him to the Island of Monkeys to catch
one.”

The jellyfish was then summoned to the King’s presence, and
was told by his Majesty what was required of him.

The jellyfish, on being told of the unexpected mission which
was to be entrusted to him, looked very troubled, and said that
he had never been to the island in question, and as he had
never had any experience in catching monkeys he was afraid that
he would not be able to get one.

“Well,” said the chief steward, “if you depend on your
strength or dexterity you will never catch a monkey. The only
way is to play a trick on
one!”

“How can I play a trick on a monkey? I don’t know how to do
it,” said the perplexed jellyfish.

“This is what you must do,” said the wily chief steward.
“When you approach the Island of Monkeys and meet some of them,
you must try to get very friendly with one. Tell him that you
are a servant of the Dragon King, and invite him to come and
visit you and see the Dragon King’s palace. Try and describe to
him as vividly as you can the grandeur of the palace and the
wonders of the sea so as to arouse his curiosity and make him
long to see it all!”

“But how am I to get the monkey here? You know monkeys don’t
swim!” said the reluctant jellyfish.

“You must carry him on your back. What is the use of your
shell if you can’t do that!” said the chief steward.

“Won’t he be very heavy?” queried kurage again.

“You mustn’t mind that, for you are working for the Dragon
King!” replied the chief steward.

“I will do my best then,” said the jellyfish, and he swam
away from the palace and started off towards the Monkey Island.
Swimming swiftly he reached his destination in a few hours, and
was landed by a convenient wave upon the shore. On looking
round he saw not far away a big pine-tree with drooping
branches and on one of those branches was just what he was
looking for—a live monkey.

“I’m in luck!” thought the jellyfish. “Now I must flatter
the creature and try to entice him to come back with me to the
palace, and my part will be done!”

So the jellyfish slowly walked towards the pine-tree. In
those ancient days the jellyfish had four legs and a hard shell
like a tortoise. When he got to the pine-tree he raised his
voice and said:

“How do you do, Mr. Monkey? Isn’t it a lovely day?”

“A very fine day,” answered the monkey from the tree. “I
have never seen you in this part of the world before. Where
have you come from and what is your name?”

“My name is kurage or jellyfish. I am one of the
servants of the Dragon King. I have heard so much of your
beautiful island that I have come on purpose to see it,”
answered the
jellyfish.

“I am very glad to see you,” said the monkey.

“By-the-bye,” said the jellyfish, “have you ever seen the
palace of the Dragon King of the Sea where I live?”

“I have often heard of it, but I have never seen it!”
answered the monkey.

“Then you ought most surely to come. It is a great pity for
you to go through life without seeing it. The beauty of the
palace is beyond all description—it is certainly to my
mind the most lovely place in the world,” said the
jellyfish.

“Is it so beautiful as all that?” asked the monkey in
astonishment.

Then the jellyfish saw his chance, and went on describing to
the best of his ability the beauty and grandeur of the Sea
King’s palace, and the wonders of the garden with its curious
trees of white, pink and red coral, and the still more curious
fruits like great jewels hanging on the branches. The monkey
grew more and more interested, and as he listened he came down
the tree step by step so as not to lose a word of the wonderful
story.

“I have got him at last!” thought the jellyfish, but aloud
he said:

“Mr. Monkey, I must now go back. As you have never seen the
palace of the Dragon King, won’t you avail yourself of this
splendid opportunity by coming with me? I shall then be able to
act as guide and show you all the sights of the sea, which will
be even more wonderful to you—a land-lubber.”

“I should love to go,” said the monkey, “but how am I to
cross the water? I can’t swim, as you surely know!”

“There is no difficulty about that. I can carry you on my
back.”

“That will be troubling you too much,” said the monkey.

“I can do it quite easily. I am stronger than I look, so you
needn’t hesitate,” said the jellyfish, and taking the monkey on
his back he stepped into the sea.

“Keep very still, Mr. Monkey,” said the jellyfish. “You
mustn’t fall into the sea; I am responsible for your safe
arrival at the King’s
palace.”

“Please don’t go so fast, or I am sure I shall fall off,”
said the monkey.

Thus they went along, the jellyfish skimming through the
waves with the monkey sitting on his back. When they were about
halfway, the jellyfish, who knew very little of anatomy, began
to wonder if the monkey had his liver with him or not!

“Mr. Monkey, tell me, have you such a thing as a liver with
you?”

The monkey was very much surprised at this queer question,
and asked what the jellyfish wanted with a liver.

“That is the most important thing of all,” said the stupid
jellyfish, “so as soon as I recollected it, I asked you if you
had yours with you?”

“Why is my liver so important to you?” asked the monkey.

“Oh! you will learn the reason later,” said the
jellyfish.

The monkey grew more and more curious and suspicious, and
urged the jellyfish to tell him for what his liver was wanted,
and ended up by appealing to his hearer’s feelings by saying
that he was very troubled at what he had been told.

Then the jellyfish, seeing how anxious the monkey looked,
was sorry for him, and told everything. How the Dragon Queen
had fallen ill, and how the doctor had said that only the liver
of a live monkey would cure her, and how the Dragon King had
sent him to find one.

“Now I have done as I was told, and as soon as we arrive at
the palace the doctor will want your liver, so I feel sorry for
you!” said the silly jellyfish.

The poor monkey was horrified when he learnt all this, and
very angry at the trick played upon him. He trembled with fear
at the thought of what was in store for him.

But the monkey was a clever animal, and he thought it the
wisest plan not to show any sign of the fear he felt, so he
tried to calm himself and to think of some way by which he
might escape.

“The doctor means to cut me open and then take my liver out!
Why I shall die!” thought the monkey. At last a bright thought
struck him, so he said quite cheerfully to the
jellyfish:

“What a pity it was, Mr. Jellyfish, that you did not speak
of this before we left the island!”

“If I had told you why I wanted you to accompany me you
would certainly have refused to come,” answered the
jellyfish.

“You are quite mistaken,” said the monkey. “Monkeys can very
well spare a liver or two, especially when it is wanted for the
Dragon Queen of the Sea. If I had only guessed of what you were
in need, I should have presented you with one without waiting
to be asked. I have several livers. But the greatest pity is,
that as you did not speak in time, I have left all my livers
hanging on the pine-tree.”

“Have you left your liver behind you?” asked the
jellyfish.

“Yes,” said the cunning monkey, “during the daytime I
usually leave my liver hanging up on the branch of a tree, as
it is very much in the way when I am climbing about from tree
to tree. To-day, listening to your interesting conversation, I
quite forgot it, and left it behind when I came off with you.
If only you had spoken in time I should have remembered it, and
should have brought it along with me!”

The jellyfish was very disappointed when he heard this, for
he believed every word the monkey said. The monkey was of no
good without a liver. Finally the jellyfish stopped and told
the monkey so.

“Well,” said the monkey, “that is soon remedied. I am really
sorry to think of all your trouble; but if you will only take
me back to the place where you found me, I shall soon be able
to get my liver.”

The jellyfish did not at all like the idea of going all the
way back to the island again; but the monkey assured him that
if he would be so kind as to take him back he would get his
very best liver, and bring it with him the next time. Thus
persuaded, the jellyfish turned his course towards the Monkey
Island once more.

No sooner had the jellyfish reached the shore than the sly
monkey landed, and getting up into the pine-tree where the
jellyfish had first seen him, he cut several capers amongst
[pg 136] the branches with joy at
being safe home again, and then looking down at the
jellyfish said:

“So many thanks for all the trouble you have taken! Please
present my compliments to the Dragon King on your return!”

The jellyfish wondered at this speech and the mocking tone
in which it was uttered. Then he asked the monkey if it wasn’t
his intention to come with him at once after getting his
liver.

The monkey replied laughingly that he couldn’t afford to
lose his liver; it was too precious.

“But remember your promise!” pleaded the jellyfish, now very
discouraged.

“That promise was false, and anyhow it is now broken!”
answered the monkey. Then he began to jeer at the jellyfish and
told him that he had been deceiving him the whole time; that he
had no wish to lose his life, which he certainly would have
done had he gone on to the Sea King’s Palace to the old doctor
waiting for him, instead of persuading the jellyfish to return
under false pretences.

“Of course, I won’t give you my liver, but come and
get it if you can!” added the monkey mockingly from the
tree.

There was nothing for the jellyfish to do now but to repent
of his stupidity, and return to the Dragon King of the Sea and
confess his failure, so he started sadly and slowly to swim
back. The last thing he heard as he glided away, leaving the
island behind him, was the monkey laughing at him.

Meanwhile the Dragon King, the doctor, the chief steward,
and all the servants were waiting impatiently for the return of
the jellyfish. When they caught sight of him approaching the
palace, they hailed him with delight. They began to thank him
profusely for all the trouble he had taken in going to Monkey
Island, and then they asked him where the monkey was.

Now the day of reckoning had come for the jellyfish. He
quaked all over as he told his story. How he had brought the
monkey half way over the sea, and then had stupidly let out the
secret of his commission; how the monkey had deceived him by
making him believe that he had left his liver behind
him.

The Dragon King’s wrath was great, and he at once gave
orders that the jellyfish was to be severely punished. The
punishment was a horrible one. All the bones were to be drawn
out from his living body, and he was to be beaten with
sticks.

The poor jellyfish, humiliated and horrified beyond all
words, cried out for pardon. But the Dragon King’s order had to
be obeyed. The servants of the palace forthwith each brought
out a stick and surrounded the jellyfish, and after pulling out
his bones they beat him to a flat pulp, and then took him out
beyond the palace gates and threw him into the water. Here he
was left to suffer and repent his foolish chattering, and to
grow accustomed to his new state of bonelessness.

From this story it is evident that in former times the
jellyfish once had a shell and bones something like a tortoise,
but, ever since the Dragon King’s sentence was carried out on
the ancestor of the jelly fishes, his descendants have all been
soft and boneless just as you see them to-day thrown up by the
waves high upon the shores of Japan.

THE OLD MAN AND THE DEVILS

A long time ago there was an old man who had a big lump on
the right side of his face. One day he went into the mountain
to cut wood, when the rain began to pour and the wind to blow
so very hard that, finding it impossible to return home, and
filled with fear, he took refuge in the hollow of an old tree.
While sitting there doubled up and unable to sleep, he heard
the confused sound of many voices in the distance gradually
approaching to where he was. He said to himself: “How strange!
I thought I was all alone in the mountain, but I hear the
voices of many people.” So, taking courage, he peeped out, and
saw a great crowd of strange-looking
[pg 138] beings. Some were red, and
dressed in green clothes; others were black, and dressed in
red clothes; some had only one eye; others had no mouth;
indeed, it is quite impossible to describe their varied and
strange looks. They kindled a fire, so that it became as
light as day. They sat down in two cross-rows, and began to
drink wine and make merry just like human beings. They
passed the wine cup around so often that many of them soon
drank too much. One of the young devils got up and began to
sing a merry song and to dance; so also many others; some
danced well, others badly. One said: “We have had uncommon
fun to-night, but I would like to see something new.”

Then the old man, losing all fear, thought he would like to
dance, and saying, “Let come what will, if I die for it, I will
have a dance, too,” crept out of the hollow tree and, with his
cap slipped over his nose and his ax sticking in his belt,
began to dance. The devils in great surprise jumped up, saying,
“Who is this?” but the old man advancing and receding, swaying
to and fro, and posturing this way and that way, the whole
crowd laughed and enjoyed the fun, saying: “How well the old
man dances! You must always come and join us in our sport; but,
for fear you might not come, you must give us a pledge that you
will.” So the devils consulted together, and, agreeing that the
lump on his face, which was a token of wealth, was what he
valued most highly, demanded that it should be taken. The old
man replied: “I have had this lump many years, and would not
without good reason part with it; but you may have it, or an
eye, or my nose either if you wish.” So the devils laid hold of
it, twisting and pulling, and took it off without giving him
any pain, and put it away as a pledge that he would come back.
Just then the day began to dawn, and the birds to sing, so the
devils hurried away.

The old man felt his face and found it quite smooth, and not
a trace of the lump left. He forgot all about cutting wood, and
hastened home. His wife, seeing him, exclaimed in great
surprise, “What has happened to you?” So he told her all that
had befallen him.

Now, among the neighbors there was another old man who had a
big lump on the left side of his face. Hearing all about how
the first old man had got rid of his misfortune, he determined
that he would also try the same plan. So he went and crept into
the hollow tree, and waited for the devils to come. Sure
enough, they came just as he was told, and they sat down, drank
wine, and made merry just as they did before. The second old
man, afraid and trembling, crept out of the hollow tree. The
devils welcomed him, saying: “The old man has come; now let us
see him dance.” This old fellow was awkward, and did not dance
as well as the other, so the devils cried out: “You dance
badly, and are getting worse and worse; we will give you back
the lump which we took from you as a pledge.” Upon this, one of
the devils brought the lump, and stuck it on the other side of
his face; so the poor old fellow returned home with a lump on
each side.

AUTUMN AND SPRING

ADAPTED BY FRANK HINDER

A fair maiden lay asleep in a rice field. The sun was at its
height, and she was weary. Now a god looked down upon the rice
field. He knew that the beauty of the maiden came from within,
that it mirrored the beauty of heavenly dreams. He knew that
even now, as she smiled, she held converse with the spirit of
the wind or the flowers.

The god descended and asked the dream-maiden to be his
bride. She rejoiced, and they were wed. A wonderful red jewel
came of their happiness.

Long, long afterwards, the stone was found by a farmer, who
saw that it was a very rare jewel. He prized it highly, and
always carried it about with him. Sometimes, as he looked at it
in the pale light of the moon, it seemed to him that he could
[pg 140] discern eyes in its depths.
Again, in the stillness of the night, he would awaken and
think that a clear soft voice called him by name.

One day, the farmer had to carry the midday meal to his
workers in the field. The sun was very hot, so he loaded a cow
with the bowls of rice, the millet dumplings, and the beans.
Suddenly, Prince Ama-boko stood in the path. He was angry, for
he thought that the farmer was about to kill the cow. The
Prince would hear no word of denial; his wrath increased. The
farmer became more and more terrified, and, finally, took the
precious stone from his pocket and presented it as a
peace-offering to the powerful Prince. Ama-boko marveled at the
brilliancy of the jewel, and allowed the man to continue his
journey.

The Prince returned to his home. He drew forth the treasure,
and it was immediately transformed into a goddess of surpassing
beauty. Even as she rose before him, he loved her, and ere the
moon waned they were wed. The goddess ministered to his every
want. She prepared delicate dishes, the secret of which is
known only to the gods. She made wine from the juice of a
myriad herbs, wine such as mortals never taste.

But, after a time, the Prince became proud and overbearing.
He began to treat his faithful wife with cruel contempt. The
goddess was sad, and said: “You are not worthy of my love. I
will leave you and go to my father.” Ama-boko paid no heed to
these words, for he did not believe that the threat would be
fulfilled. But the beautiful goddess was in earnest. She
escaped from the palace and fled to Naniwa, where she is still
honored as Akaru-hime, the Goddess of Light.

Now the Prince was wroth when he heard that the goddess had
left him, and set out in pursuit of her. But when he neared
Naniwa, the gods would not allow his vessel to enter the haven.
Then he knew that his priceless red jewel was lost to him
forever. He steered his ship towards the north coast of Japan,
and landed at Tajima. Here he was well received, and highly
esteemed on account of the treasures which he brought with
[pg 141] him. He had costly strings
of pearls, girdles of precious stones, and a mirror which
the wind and the waves obeyed. Prince Ama-boko remained at
Tajima, and was the father of a mighty race.

Among his children’s children was a Princess so renowned for
her beauty that eighty suitors sought her hand. One after the
other returned sorrowfully home, for none found favor in her
eyes. At last, two brothers came before her, the young God of
the Autumn, and the young God of the Spring. The elder of the
two, the God of Autumn, first urged his suit. But the Princess
refused him. He went to his younger brother and said, “The
Princess does not love me, neither will you be able to win her
heart.”

But the Spring God was full of hope, and replied, “I will
give you a cask of rice wine if I do not win her, but if she
consents to be my bride, you shall give a cask of
saké to me.”

Now the God of Spring went to his mother, and told her all.
She promised to aid him. Thereupon she wove, in a single night,
a robe and sandals from the unopened buds of the lilac and
white wistaria. Out of the same delicate flowers she fashioned
a bow and arrows. Thus clad, the God of Spring made his way to
the beautiful Princess.

As he stepped before the maiden, every bud unfolded, and
from the heart of each blossom came a fragrance that filled the
air. The Princess was overjoyed, and gave her hand to the God
of Spring.

The elder brother, the God of Autumn, was filled with rage
when he heard how his brother had obtained the wondrous robe.
He refused to give the promised cask of saké.
When the mother learned that the god had broken his word, she
placed stones and salt in the hollow of a bamboo cane, wrapped
it round with bamboo leaves, and hung it in the smoke. Then she
uttered a curse upon her first-born: “As the leaves wither and
fade, so must you. As the salt sea ebbs, so must you. As the
stone sinks, so must you.”

The terrible curse fell upon her son. While the God of
Spring remains ever young, ever fragrant, ever full of mirth,
the God of Autumn is old, and withered, and
sad.

THE VISION OF TSUNU

ADAPTED BY FRANK RINDER

When the five tall pine-trees on the windy heights of
Mionoseki were but tiny shoots, there lived in the Kingdom of
the Islands a pious man. His home was in a remote hamlet
surrounded by mountains and great forests of pine. Tsunu had a
wife and sons and daughters. He was a woodman, and his days
were spent in the forest and on the hillsides. In summer he was
up at cock-crow, and worked patiently, in the soft light under
the pines, until nightfall. Then, with his burden of logs and
branches, he went slowly homeward. After the evening meal, he
would tell some old story or legend. Tsunu was never weary of
relating the wondrous tales of the Land of the Gods. Best of
all he loved to speak of Fuji-yama, the mountain that stood so
near his home.

In times gone by, there was no mountain where now the sacred
peak reaches up to the sky; only a far-stretching plain bathed
in sunlight all day. The peasants in the district were
astonished, one morning, to behold a mighty hill where before
had been the open plain. It had sprung up in a single night,
while they slept. Flames and huge stones were hurled from its
summit; the peasants feared that the demons from the
under-world had come to wreak vengeance upon them. But for many
generations there have been peace and silence on the heights.
The good Sun-Goddess loves Fuji-yama. Every evening she lingers
on his summit, and when at last she leaves him, his lofty crest
is bathed in soft purple light. In the evening the Matchless
Mountain seems to rise higher and higher into the skies, until
no mortal can tell the place of his rest. Golden clouds enfold
Fuji-yama in the early morning. Pilgrims come from far and
near, to gain blessing and health for themselves and their
families from the sacred mountain.

On the self-same night that Fuji-yama rose out of the earth,
a strange thing happened in the mountainous district near
Kyoto. The inhabitants were awakened by a terrible roar,
[pg 143] which continued throughout
the night. In the morning every mountain had disappeared;
not one of the hills that they loved was to be seen. A blue
lake lay before them. It was none other than the lute-shaped
Lake Biwa. The mountains had, in truth, traveled under the
earth for more than a hundred miles, and now form the sacred
Fuji-yama.

As Tsunu stepped out of his hut in the morning, his eyes
sought the Mountain of the Gods. He saw the golden clouds, and
the beautiful story was in his mind as he went to his work.

One day the woodman wandered farther than usual into the
forest. At noon he was in a very lonely spot. The air was soft
and sweet, the sky so blue that he looked long at it, and then
took a deep breath. Tsunu was happy.

Now his eye fell on a little fox who watched him curiously
from the bushes. The creature ran away when it saw that the
man’s attention had been attracted. Tsunu thought, “I will
follow the little fox and see where she goes.” Off he started
in pursuit. He soon came to a bamboo thicket. The smooth,
slender stems waved dreamily, the pale green leaves still
sparkled with the morning dew. But it was not this which caused
the woodman to stand spellbound. On a plot of mossy grass
beyond the thicket, sat two maidens of surpassing beauty. They
were partly shaded by the waving bamboos, but their faces were
lit up by the sunlight. Not a word came from their lips, yet
Tsunu knew that the voices of both must be sweet as the cooing
of the wild dove. The maidens were graceful as the slender
willow, they were fair as the blossom of the cherry-tree.
Slowly they moved the chessmen which lay before them on the
grass. Tsunu hardly dared to breathe, lest he should disturb
them. The breeze caught their long hair, the sunlight played
upon it…. The sun still shone…. The chessmen were still
slowly moved to and fro…. The woodman gazed enraptured.

“But now,” thought Tsunu, “I must return, and tell those at
home of the beautiful maidens.” Alas, his knees were stiff and
weak. “Surely I have stood here for many hours,” he said. He
leaned for support upon his axe; it crumbled into dust. Looking
down he saw that a flowing white beard hung from his
chin.

For many hours the poor woodman tried in vain to reach his
home. Fatigued and wearied, he came at last to a hut. But all
was changed. Strange faces peered curiously at him. The speech
of the people was unfamiliar. “Where are my wife and my
children?” he cried. But no one knew his name.

Finally, the poor woodman came to understand that seven
generations had passed since he bade farewell to his dear ones
in the early morning. While he had gazed at the beautiful
maidens, his wife, his children, and his children’s children
had lived and died.

The few remaining years of Tsunu’s life were spent as a
pious pilgrim to Fuji-yama, his well-loved mountain.

Since his death he has been honored as a saint who brings
prosperity to the people of his native country.

THE STAR-LOVERS

ADAPTED BY FRANK RINDER

Shokujo, daughter of the Sun, dwelt with her father on the
banks of the Silver River of Heaven, which we call the Milky
Way. She was a lovely maiden, graceful and winsome, and her
eyes were tender as the eyes of a dove. Her loving father, the
Sun, was much troubled because Shokujo did not share in the
youthful pleasures of the daughters of the air. A soft
melancholy seemed to brood over her, but she never wearied of
working for the good of others, and especially did she busy
herself at her loom; indeed she came to be called the Weaving
Princess.

The Sun bethought him that if he could give his daughter in
marriage, all would be well; her dormant love would be kindled
into a flame that would illumine her whole being and drive out
the pensive spirit which oppressed her. Now there lived, hard
by, a right honest herdsman, named Kingen, who
[pg 145] tended his cows on the
borders of the Heavenly Stream. The Sun-King proposed to
bestow his daughter on Kingen, thinking in this way to
provide for her happiness and at the same time keep her near
him. Every star beamed approval, and there was joy in the
heavens.

The love that bound Shokujo and Kingen to one another was a
great love. With its awakening, Shokujo forsook her former
occupations, nor did she any longer labor industriously at the
loom, but laughed, and danced, and sang, and made merry from
morn till night. The Sun-King was sorely grieved, for he had
not foreseen so great a change. Anger was in his eyes, and he
said, “Kingen is surely the cause of this, therefore I will
banish him to the other side of the River of Stars.”

When Shokujo and Kingen heard that they were to be parted,
and could thenceforth, in accordance with the King’s decree,
meet but once a year, and that upon the seventh night of the
seventh month, their hearts were heavy. The leave-taking
between them was a sad one, and great tears stood in Shokujo’s
eyes as she bade farewell to her lover-husband. In answer to
the behest of the Sun-King, myriads of magpies flocked
together, and, outspreading their wings, formed a bridge on
which Kingen crossed the River of Heaven. The moment that his
foot touched the opposite bank, the birds dispersed with noisy
chatter, leaving poor Kingen a solitary exile. He looked
wistfully towards the weeping figure of Shokujo, who stood on
the threshold of her now desolate home.

Long and weary were the succeeding days, spent as they were
by Kingen in guiding his oxen and by Shokujo in plying her
shuttle. The Sun-King was gladdened by his daughter’s industry.
When night fell and the heavens were bright with countless
lights, the lovers were wont, standing on the banks of the
celestial stream, to waft across it sweet and tender messages,
while each uttered a prayer for the speedy coming of the
wondrous night.

The long-hoped-for month and day drew nigh, and the hearts
of the lovers were troubled lest rain should fall; for the
Silver River, full at all times, is at that season often in
flood, and the bird-bridge might be swept
away.

The day broke cloudlessly bright. It waxed and waned, and
one by one the lamps of heaven were lighted. At nightfall the
magpies assembled, and Shokujo, quivering with delight, crossed
the slender bridge and fell into the arms of her lover. Their
transport of joy was as the joy of the parched flower, when the
raindrop falls upon it; but the moment of parting soon came,
and Shokujo sorrowfully retraced her steps.

Year follows year, and the lovers still meet in that far-off
land on the seventh night of the seventh month, save when rain
has swelled the Silver River and rendered the crossing
impossible. The hope of a permanent reunion still fills the
hearts of the Star-Lovers, and is to them as a sweet fragrance
and a beautiful vision.

MYTHS OF THE SLAVS

THE TWO BROTHERS

ADAPTED BY ALEXANDER CHODSKO

Once upon a time there were two brothers whose father had
left them but a small fortune. The eldest grew very rich, but
at the same time cruel and wicked, whereas there was nowhere a
more honest or kinder man than the younger. But he remained
poor, and had many children, so that at times they could
scarcely get bread to eat. At last, one day there was not even
this in the house, so he went to his rich brother and asked him
for a loaf of bread. Waste of time! His rich brother only
called him beggar and vagabond, and slammed the door in his
face.

The poor fellow, after this brutal reception, did not know
which way to turn. Hungry, scantily clad, shivering with cold,
his legs could scarcely carry him along. He had not the heart
to go home, with nothing for the children, so he went towards
the mountain forest. But all he found there were some wild
pears that had fallen to the ground. He had to content himself
with eating these, though they set his teeth on edge. But what
was he to do to warm himself, for the east wind with its chill
blast pierced him through and through. “Where shall I go?” he
said; “what will become of us in the cottage? There is neither
food nor fire, and my brother has driven me from his door.” It
was just then he remembered having heard that the top of the
mountain in front of him was made of crystal, and had a fire
forever burning upon it. “I will try and find it,” he said,
“and then I may be able to warm myself a little.” So he went on
climbing higher and higher till he reached the top, when he was
startled to see twelve [pg 148] strange beings sitting
round a huge fire. He stopped for a moment, but then said to
himself, “What have I to lose? Why should I fear? God is
with me. Courage!”

So he advanced towards the fire, and bowing respectfully,
said: “Good people, take pity on my distress. I am very poor,
no one cares for me, I have not even a fire in my cottage; will
you let me warm myself at yours?” They all looked kindly at
him, and one of them said: “My son, come sit down with us and
warm yourself.”

So he sat down, and felt warm directly he was near them. But
he dared not speak while they were silent. What astonished him
most was that they changed seats one after another, and in such
a way that each one passed round the fire and came back to his
own place. When he drew near the fire an old man with long
white beard and bald head arose from the flames and spoke to
him thus:

“Man, waste not thy life here; return to thy cottage, work,
and live honestly. Take as many embers as thou wilt, we have
more than we need.”

And having said this he disappeared. Then the twelve filled
a large sack with embers, and, putting it on the poor man’s
shoulders, advised him to hasten home.

Humbly thanking them, he set off. As he went he wondered why
the embers did not feel hot, and why they should weigh no more
than a sack of paper. He was thankful that he should be able to
have a fire, but imagine his astonishment when on arriving home
he found the sack to contain as many gold pieces as there had
been embers; he almost went out of his mind with joy at the
possession of so much money. With all his heart he thanked
those who had been so ready to help him in his need.

He was now rich, and rejoiced to be able to provide for his
family. Being curious to find out how many gold pieces there
were, and not knowing how to count, he sent his wife to his
rich brother for the loan of a quart measure.

This time the brother was in a better temper, so he lent
what was asked of him, but said mockingly, “What can such
beggars as you have to
measure?”

The wife replied, “Our neighbor owes us some wheat; we want
to be sure he returns us the right quantity.”

The rich brother was puzzled, and suspecting something he,
unknown to his sister-in-law, put some grease inside the
measure. The trick succeeded, for on getting it back he found a
piece of gold sticking to it. Filled with astonishment, he
could only suppose his brother had joined a band of robbers: so
he hurried to his brother’s cottage, and threatened to bring
him before the justice of the peace if he did not confess where
the gold came from. The poor man was troubled, and, dreading to
offend his brother, told the story of his journey to the
Crystal Mountain.

Now the elder brother had plenty of money for himself, yet
he was envious of the brother’s good fortune, and became
greatly displeased when he found that his brother won every
one’s esteem by the good use he made of his wealth. At last, he
too determined to visit the Crystal Mountain.

“I may meet with as good luck as my brother,” said he to
himself.

Upon reaching the Crystal Mountain he found the twelve
seated round the fire as before, and thus addressed them:

“I beg of you, good people, to let me warm myself, for it is
bitterly cold, and I am poor and homeless.”

But one of them replied: “My son, the hour of thy birth was
favorable; thou art rich, but a miser; thou art wicked, for
thou hast dared to lie to us. Well dost thou deserve thy
punishment.”

Amazed and terrified he stood silent, not daring to speak.
Meanwhile the twelve changed places one after another, each at
last returning to his own seat. Then from the midst of the
flames arose the white-bearded old man and spoke thus sternly
to the rich man:

“Woe unto the willful! Thy brother is virtuous, therefore
have I blessed him. As for thee, thou are wicked, and so shalt
not escape our vengeance.”

At these words the twelve arose. The first seized the
unfortunate man, struck him, and passed him on to the second;
the second also struck him and passed him on to the third;
[pg 150] and so did they all in
their turn, until he was given up to the old man, who
disappeared with him into the fire.

Days, weeks, months went by, but the rich man never
returned, and none knew what had become of him. I think,
between you and me, the younger brother had his suspicions but
he very wisely kept them to himself.

THE TWELVE MONTHS

ADAPTED BY ALEXANDER CHODSKO

There was once a widow who had two daughters, Helen, her own
child by her dead husband, and Marouckla, his daughter by his
first wife. She loved Helen, but hated the poor orphan, because
she was far prettier than her own daughter. Marouckla did not
think about her good looks, and could not understand why her
stepmother should be angry at the sight of her. The hardest
work fell to her share; she cleaned out the rooms, cooked,
washed, sewed, spun, wove, brought in the hay, milked the cow,
and all this without any help. Helen, meanwhile, did nothing
but dress herself in her best clothes and go to one amusement
after another. But Marouckla never complained; she bore the
scoldings and bad temper of mother and sister with a smile on
her lips, and the patience of a lamb. But this angelic behavior
did not soften them. They became even more tyrannical and
grumpy, for Marouckla grew daily more beautiful while Helen’s
ugliness increased. So the stepmother determined to get rid of
Marouckla, for she knew that while she remained her own
daughter would have no suitors. Hunger, every kind of
privation, abuse, every means was used to make the girl’s life
miserable. The most wicked of men could not have been more
mercilessly cruel than these two vixens. But in spite of it all
Marouckla grew ever sweeter and more
charming.

One day in the middle of winter Helen wanted some
wood-violets.

“Listen,” cried she to Marouckla; “you must go up the
mountain and find me some violets, I want some to put in my
gown; they must be fresh and sweet-scented—do you
hear?”

“But, my dear sister, who ever heard of violets blooming in
the snow?” said the poor orphan.

“You wretched creature! Do you dare to disobey me?” said
Helen. “Not another word; off with you. If you do not bring me
some violets from the mountain forest, I will kill you.”

The stepmother also added her threats to those of Helen, and
with vigorous blows they pushed Marouckla outside and shut the
door upon her. The weeping girl made her way to the mountain.
The snow lay deep, and there was no trace of any human being.
Long she wandered hither and thither, and lost herself in the
wood. She was hungry, and shivered with cold, and prayed to
die. Suddenly she saw a light in the distance, and climbed
towards it, till she reached the top of the mountain. Upon the
highest peak burnt a large fire, surrounded by twelve blocks of
stone, on which sat twelve strange beings. Of these the first
three had white hair, three were not quite so old, three were
young and handsome, and the rest still younger.

There they all sat silently looking at the fire. They were
the twelve months of the year. The great Setchène
(January) was placed higher than the others; his hair and
mustache were white as snow, and in his hand he held a wand. At
first Marouckla was afraid, but after a while her courage
returned and drawing near she said:

“Men of God, may I warm myself at your fire? I am chilled by
the winter cold.”

The great Setchène raised his head and answered:

“What brings thee here, my daughter? What dost thou
seek?”

“I am looking for violets,” replied the maiden.

“This is not the season for violets; dost thou not see the
snow everywhere?” said Setchène.

“I know well, but my sister Helen and my stepmother
[pg 152] have ordered me to bring
them violets from your mountain: if I return without them
they will kill me. I pray you, good shepherds, tell me where
they may be found?”

Here the great Setchène arose and went over to the
youngest of the months, and placing his wand in his hand,
said:

“Brother Brezène (March), do thou take the highest
place.”

Brezène obeyed, at the same time waving his wand over
the fire. Immediately the flames rose towards the sky, the snow
began to melt and the tress and shrubs to bud; the grass became
green, and from between its blades peeped the pale primrose. It
was Spring, and the meadows were blue with violets.

“Gather them quickly, Marouckla,” said Brezène.

Joyfully she hastened to pick the flowers, and having soon a
large bunch she thanked them and ran home. Helen and the
stepmother were amazed at the sight of the flowers, the scent
of which filled the house.

“Where did you find them?” asked Helen.

“Under the trees on the mountain slope,” said Marouckla.

Helen kept the flowers for herself and her mother; she did
not even thank her stepsister for the trouble she had taken.
The next day she desired Marouckla to fetch her
strawberries.

“Run,” said she, “and fetch me strawberries from the
mountain: they must be very sweet and ripe.”

“But who ever heard of strawberries ripening in the snow?”
exclaimed Marouckla.

“Hold your tongue, worm; don’t answer me; if I don’t have my
strawberries I will kill you.”

Then the stepmother pushed her into the yard and bolted the
door. The unhappy girl made her way towards the mountain and to
the large fire round which sat the twelve months. The great
Setchène occupied the highest place.

“Men of God, may I warm myself at your fire? The winter cold
chills me,” said she, drawing near.

The great Setchène raised his head and asked:

“Why comest thou here? What dost thou seek?”

“I am looking for strawberries,” said she.

“We are in the midst of winter,” replied Setchène;
strawberries do not grow in the
snow.”

“I know,” said the girl sadly, “but my sister and stepmother
have ordered me to bring them strawberries; if I do not they
will kill me. Pray, good shepherds, tell me where to find
them.”

The great Setchène arose, crossed over to the month
opposite him, and putting the wand into his hand, said:

“Brother Tchervène (June), do thou take the highest
place.”

Tchervène obeyed, and as he waved his wand over the
fire the flames leapt towards the sky. Instantly the snow
melted, the earth was covered with verdure, trees were clothed
with leaves, birds began to sing, and various flowers blossomed
in the forest. It was summer. Under the bushes masses of
star-shaped flowers changed into ripening strawberries. Before
Marouckla had time to cross herself they covered the glade,
making it look like a sea of blood.

“Gather them quickly, Marouckla,” said Tchervène.

Joyfully she thanked the months, and having filled her apron
ran happily home. Helen and her mother wondered at seeing the
strawberries, which filled the house with their delicious
fragrance.

“Wherever did you find them?” asked Helen crossly.

“Right up among the mountains; those from under the beech
trees are not bad.”

Helen gave a few to her mother and ate the rest herself; not
one did she offer to her stepsister. Being tired of
strawberries, on the third day she took a fancy for some fresh
red apples.

“Run, Marouckla,” said she, “and fetch me fresh red apples
from the mountain.”

“Apples in winter, sister? why, the trees have neither
leaves nor fruit.”

“Idle creature, go this minute,” said Helen; “unless you
bring back apples we will kill you.”

As before, the stepmother seized her roughly and turned her
out of the house. The poor girl went weeping up the mountain,
across the deep snow upon which lay no human footprint, and on
towards the fire round which were the twelve
[pg 154] months. Motionless sat
they, and on the highest stone was the great
Setchène.

“Men of God, may I warm myself at your fire? The winter cold
chills me,” said she, drawing near.

The great Setchène raised his head.

“Why com’st thou here? What dost thou seek?” asked he.

“I am come to look for red apples,” replied Marouckla.

“But this is winter, and not the season for red apples,”
observed the great Setchène.

“I know,” answered the girl, “but my sister and stepmother,
sent me to fetch red apples from the mountain; if I return
without them they will kill me.”

Thereupon the great Setchène arose and went over to
one of the elderly months, to whom he handed the wand,
saying:

“Brother Zarè (September), do thou take the highest
place.”

Zarè moved to the highest stone and waved his wand
over the fire. There was a flare of red flames, the snow
disappeared, but the fading leaves which trembled on the trees
were sent by a cold northeast wind in yellow masses to the
glade. Only a few flowers of autumn were visible, such as the
fleabane and red gillyflower, autumn colchicums in the ravine,
and under the beeches bracken and tufts of northern heather. At
first Marouckla looked in vain for red apples. Then she espied
a tree which grew at a great height, and from the branches of
this hung the bright red fruit. Zarè ordered her to
gather some quickly. The girl was delighted and shook the tree.
First one apple fell, then another.

“That is enough,” said Zarè, “hurry home.”

Thanking the months, she returned joyfully. Helen marveled
and the stepmother wondered at seeing the fruit.

“Where did you gather them?” asked the stepsister.

“There are more on the mountain top,” answered
Marouckla.

“Then why did you not bring more?” said Helen angrily; “you
must have eaten them on your way back, you wicked girl.”

“No, dear sister, I have not even tasted them,” said
Marouckla. [pg 155] “I shook the tree twice;
one apple fell each time. I was not allowed to shake it
again, but was told to return home.”

“May God smite you with his thunderbolt,” said Helen,
striking her.

Marouckla prayed to die rather than suffer such
ill-treatment. Weeping bitterly, she took refuge in the
kitchen. Helen and her mother found the apples more delicious
than any they had ever tasted, and when they had eaten both
longed for more.

“Listen, mother,” said Helen. “Give me my cloak; I will
fetch some more apples myself, or else that good-for-nothing
wretch will eat them all on the way. I shall be able to find
the mountain and the tree. The shepherds may cry ‘Stop,’ but I
shall not leave go till I have shaken down all the apples.”

In spite of her mother’s advice she put on her cloak,
covered her head with a warm hood, and took the road to the
mountain. The mother stood and watched her till she was lost in
the distance.

Snow covered everything, not a human footprint was to be
seen on its surface. Helen lost herself and wandered hither and
thither. After a while she saw a light above her, and following
in its direction reached the mountain top. There was the
flaming fire, the twelve blocks of stone, and the twelve
months. At first she was frightened and hesitated; then she
came nearer and warmed her hands. She did not ask permission,
nor did she speak one polite word.

“What has brought thee here? What dost thou seek?” said the
great Setchène severely.

“I am not obliged to tell you, old graybeard; what business
is it of yours?” she replied disdainfully, turning her back on
the fire and going towards the forest.

The great Setchène frowned, and waved his wand over
his head. Instantly the sky became covered with clouds, the
fire went down, snow fell in large flakes, an icy wind howled
round the mountain. Amid the fury of the storm Helen added
curses against her stepsister. The cloak failed to warm her
benumbed limbs. The mother kept on waiting for her; she
[pg 156] looked from the window, she
watched from the doorstep, but her daughter came not. The
hours passed slowly, but Helen did not return.

“Can it be that the apples have charmed her from her home?”
thought the mother. Then she clad herself in hood and shawl and
went in search of her daughter. Snow fell in huge masses; it
covered all things, it lay untouched by human footsteps. For
long she wandered hither and thither; the icy northeast wind
whistled in the mountain, but no voice answered her cries.

Day after day Marouckla worked and prayed, and waited; but
neither stepmother nor sister returned, they had been frozen to
death on the mountain. The inheritance of a small house, a
field, and a cow fell to Marouckla. In course of time an honest
farmer came to share them with her, and their lives were happy
and peaceful.

THE SUN; OR, THE THREE GOLDEN HAIRS OF THE OLD MAN
VSÉVÈDE

ADAPTED BY ALEXANDER CHODSKO

Can this be a true story? It is said that once there was a
King who was exceedingly fond of hunting the wild beasts in his
forests. One day he followed a stag so far and so long that he
lost his way. Alone and overtaken by night, he was glad to find
himself near a small thatched cottage in which lived a
charcoal-burner.

“Will you kindly show me the way to the highroad? You shall
be handsomely rewarded.”

“I would willingly,” said the charcoal-burner, “But God is
going to send my wife a little child, and I cannot leave her
alone. Will you pass the night under our roof? There is a truss
of sweet hay in the loft where you may rest, and to-morrow
morning I will be your
guide.”

The King accepted the invitation and went to bed in the
loft. Shortly after a son was born to the charcoal-burner’s
wife. But the King could not sleep. At midnight he heard noises
in the house, and looking through a crack in the flooring he
saw the charcoal-burner asleep, his wife almost in a faint, and
by the side of the newly-born babe three old women dressed in
white, each holding a lighted taper in her hand, and all
talking together. Now these were the three Soudiché or
Fates, you must know.

The first said, “On this boy I bestow the gift of
confronting great dangers.”

The second said, “I bestow the power of happily escaping all
these dangers, and of living to a good old age.”

The third said, “I bestow upon him for wife the Princess
born at the self-same hour as he, and daughter of the very King
sleeping above in the loft.”

At these words the lights went out and silence reigned
around.

Now the King was greatly troubled, and wondered exceedingly;
he felt as if he had received a sword-thrust in the chest. He
lay awake all night thinking how to prevent the words of the
Fates from coming true.

With the first glimmer of morning light the baby began to
cry. The charcoal-burner, on going over to it, found that his
wife was dead.

“Poor little orphan,” he said sadly, “what will become of
thee without a mother’s care?”

“Confide this child to me,” said the King, “I will look
after it. He shall be well provided for. You shall be given a
sum of money large enough to keep you without having to burn
charcoal.”

The poor man gladly agreed, and the King went away promising
to send some one for the child. The Queen and the courtiers
thought it would be an agreeable surprise for the King to hear
that a charming little Princess had been born on the night he
was away. But instead of being pleased he frowned and calling
one of his servants, said to him, “Go to the charcoal-burner’s
cottage in the, forest, and give the man this purse in exchange
for a new-born infant. On your way back drown
[pg 158] the child. See well that he
is drowned, for if he should in any way escape, you yourself
shall suffer in his place.”

The servant was given the child in a basket, and on reaching
the center of a narrow bridge that stretched across a wide and
deep river, he threw both basket and baby into the water.

“A prosperous journey to you, Mr. Son-in-Law,” said the
King, on hearing the servant’s story; for he fully believed the
child was drowned. But it was far from being the case; the
little one was floating happily along in its basket cradle, and
slumbering as sweetly as if his mother had sung him to sleep.
Now it happened that a fisherman, who was mending his nets
before his cottage door, saw the basket floating down the
river. He jumped at once into his boat, picked it up, and ran
to tell his wife the good news.

“Look,” said he, “you have always longed for a son; here is
a beautiful little boy the river has sent us.”

The woman was delighted, and took the infant and loved it as
her own child. They named him Plavacek (the floater),
because he had come to them floating on the water.

The river flowed on. Years passed away. The little baby grew
into a handsome youth; in all the villages round there were
none to compare with him. Now it happened that one summer day
the King was riding unattended, and the heat being very great
he reined in his horse before the fisherman’s door to ask for a
drink of water. Plavacek brought the water. The King looked at
him attentively, then turning to the fisherman, said, “That is
a good-looking lad; is he your son?”

“He is and he isn’t,” replied the fisherman. “I found him,
when he was quite a tiny baby, floating down the stream in a
basket. So we adopted him and brought him up as our own
son.”

The King turned as pale as death, for he guessed that he was
the same child he had ordered to be drowned. Then recovering
himself he got down from his horse and said: “I want a trusty
messenger to take a message to the palace, could you send him
with it?”

“With pleasure! Your Majesty may be sure of its safe
delivery.”

Thereupon the King wrote to the Queen as follows:

“The man who brings you this letter is the most dangerous of
all my enemies. Have his head cut off at once; no delay, no
pity, he must be executed before my return. Such is my will and
pleasure.”

This he carefully folded and sealed with the royal seal.

Plavacek took the letter and set off immediately. But the
forest through which he had to pass was so large, and the trees
so thick, that he missed the path and was overtaken by the
darkness before the journey was nearly over. In the midst of
his trouble he met an old woman who said, “Where are you going,
Plavacek? Where are you going?”

“I am the bearer of a letter from the King to the Queen, but
have missed the path to the palace. Could you, good mother, put
me on the right road?”

“Impossible to-day, my child; it is getting dark, and you
would not have time to get there. Stay with me to-night. You
will not be with strangers, for I am your godmother.”

Plavacek agreed. Thereupon they entered a pretty little
cottage that seemed suddenly to sink into the earth. Now while
he slept the old woman changed his letter for another, which
ran thus:

“Immediately upon the receipt of this letter introduce the
bearer to the Princess our daughter, I have chosen this young
man for my son-in-law, and it is my wish they should be married
before my return to the palace. Such is my pleasure.”

The letter was duly delivered, and when the Queen had read
it, she ordered everything to be prepared for the wedding. Both
she and her daughter greatly enjoyed Plavacek’s society, and
nothing disturbed the happiness of the newly married pair.

Within a few days the King returned, and on hearing what had
taken place was very angry with the Queen.

“But you expressly bade me have the wedding before your
return. Come, read your letter again, here it is,” said
she.

He closely examined the letter; the paper, handwriting,
seal—all were undoubtedly his. He then called his
son-in-law, and questioned him about his journey. Plavacek hid
[pg 160] nothing: he told how he had
lost his way, and how he had passed the night in a cottage
in the forest.

“What was the old woman like?” asked the King.

From Plavacek’s description the King knew it was the very
same who, twenty years before, had foretold the marriage of the
Princess with the charcoal-burner’s son. After some moments’
thought the King said: “What is done is done. But you will not
become my son-in-law so easily. No, i’ faith! As a wedding
present you must bring me three golden hairs from the head of
Dède-Vsévède.”

In this way he thought to get rid of his son-in-law, whose
very presence was distasteful to him. The young fellow took
leave of his wife and set off. “I know not which way to go,”
said he to himself, “but my godmother the witch will surely
help me.”

But he found the way easily enough. He walked on and on and
on for a long time over mountain, valley, and river, until he
reached the shores of the Black Sea. There he found a boat and
boatman.

“May God bless you, old boatman,” said he.

“And you, too, my young traveler. Where are you going?”

“To Dède-Vsévède’s castle for three of
his golden hairs.”

“Ah, then you are very welcome. For a long weary while I
have been waiting for such a messenger as you. I have been
ferrying passengers across for these twenty years, and not one
of them has done anything to help me. If you will promise to
ask Dède-Vsévède when I shall be released
from my toil I will row you across.”

Plavacek promised, and was rowed to the opposite bank. He
continued his journey on foot until he came in sight of a large
town half in ruins, near which was passing a funeral
procession. The King of that country was following his father’s
coffin, and with the tears running down his cheeks.

“May God comfort you in your distress,” said Plavacek.

“Thank you, good traveler. Where are you going?”

“To the house of Dède-Vsévède in quest
of three of his golden hairs.”

“To the house of Dède-Vsévède? Indeed!
What a pity [pg 161] you did not come sooner, we
have long been expecting such a messenger as you. Come and
see me by-and-by.”

When Plavacek presented himself at court the King said to
him:

“We understand you are on your way to the house of
Dède-Vsévède! Now we have an apple-tree
here that bears the fruit of everlasting youth. One of these
apples eaten by a man, even though he be dying, will cure him
and make him young again. For the last twenty years neither
fruit nor flower has been found on this tree. Will you ask
Dède-Vsévède the cause of it?”

“That I will, with pleasure.”

Then Plavacek continued his journey, and as he went he came
to a large and beautiful city where all was sad and silent.
Near the gate was an old man who leaned on a stick and walked
with difficulty.

“May God bless you, good old man.”

“And you, too, my handsome young traveler. Where are you
going?”

“To Dède-Vsévède’s palace in search of
three of his golden hairs.”

“Ah, you are the very messenger I have so long waited for.
Allow me to take you to my master the King.”

On their arrival at the palace, the King said, “I hear you
are an ambassador to Dède-Vsévède. We have
here a well, the water of which renews itself. So wonderful are
its effects that invalids are immediately cured on drinking it,
while a few drops sprinkled on a corpse will bring it to life
again. For the past twenty years this well has remained dry: if
you will ask old Dède-Vsévède how the flow
of water may be restored I will reward you royally.”

Plavacek promised to do so, and was dismissed with good
wishes. He then traveled through deep dark forests, in the
midst of which might be seen a large meadow: out of it grew
lovely flowers, and in the center stood a castle built of gold.
It was the home of Dède-Vsévède. So
brilliant with light was it that it seemed to be built of fire.
When he entered there was no one there but an old woman
spinning.

“Greeting, Plavacek, I am well pleased to see you.”

She was his godmother, who had given him shelter in her
cottage when he was the bearer of the King’s letter.

“Tell me what brings you here from such a distance,” she
went on.

“The King would not have me for his son-in-law, unless I
first got him three golden hairs from the head of
Dède-Vsévède. So he sent me here to fetch
them.”

The Fate laughed. “Dède-Vsévède indeed!
Why, I am his mother, it is the shining sun himself. He is a
child at morning time, a grown man at midday, a decrepit old
man, looking as if he had lived a hundred years, at eventide.
But I will see that you have the three hairs from his head; I
am not your godmother for nothing. All the same you must not
remain here. My son is a good lad, but when he comes home he is
hungry, and would very probably order you to be roasted for his
supper. Now I will turn this empty bucket upside down, and you
shall hide underneath it.”

Plavacek begged the Fate to obtain from
Dède-Vsévède the answers to the three
questions he had been asked.

“I will do so certainly, but you must listen to what he
says.”

Suddenly a blast of wind howled round the palace, and the
Sun entered by a western window. He was an old man with golden
hair.

“I smell human flesh,” cried he, “I am sure of it. Mother,
you have some one here.”

“Star of day,” she replied, “whom could I have here that you
would not see sooner than I? The fact is that in your daily
journeys the scent of human flesh is always with you, so when
you come home at evening it clings to you still.”

The old man said nothing, and sat down to supper. When he
had finished he laid his golden head on the Fate’s lap and went
to sleep. Then she pulled out a hair and threw it on the
ground. It fell with a metallic sound like the vibration of a
guitar string.

“What do you want, mother?” asked he.

“Nothing, my son; I was sleeping, and had a strange
dream.”

“What was it, mother?”

“I thought I was in a place where there was a well, and the
well was fed from a spring, the water of which cured all
diseases. Even the dying were restored to health on drinking
that water, and the dead who were sprinkled with it came to
life again. For the last twenty years the well has run dry.
What must be done to restore the flow of water?”

“That is very simple. A frog has lodged itself in the
opening of the spring, this prevents the flow of water. Kill
the frog, and the water will return to the well.”

He slept again, and the old woman pulled out another golden
hair, and threw it on the ground.

“Mother, what do you want?”

“Nothing, my son, nothing; I was dreaming. In my dream I saw
a large town, the name of which I have forgotten. And there
grew an apple-tree the fruit of which had the power to make the
old young again. A single apple eaten by an old man would
restore to him the vigor and freshness of youth. For twenty
years this tree has not borne fruit. What can be done to make
it fruitful?”

“The means are not difficult. A snake hidden among the roots
destroys the sap. Kill the snake, transplant the tree, and the
fruit will grow as before.”

He again fell asleep, and the old woman pulled out another
golden hair.

“Now mother, why will you not let me sleep?” said the old
man, really vexed; and he would have got up.

“Lie down, my darling son, do not disturb yourself. I am
sorry I awoke you, but I have had a very strange dream. It
seemed that I saw a boatman on the shores of the Black Sea, and
he complained that he had been toiling at the ferry for twenty
years without any one having come to take his place. For how
much longer must this poor old man continue to row?”

“He is a silly fellow. He has but to place his oars in the
hands of the first comer and jump ashore. Who ever receives the
oars will replace him as ferryman. But leave me in peace now,
mother, and do not wake me again. I have to rise very
[pg 164] early, and must first dry
the eyes of a Princess. The poor thing spends all night
weeping for her husband who has been sent by the King to get
three of my golden hairs.”

Next morning the wind whistled round
Dède-Vsévède’s palace, and instead of an
old man, a beautiful child with golden hair awoke on the old
woman’s lap. It was the glorious sun. He bade her good-by, and
flew out of the eastern window. The old woman turned up the
bucket and said to Plavacek: “Look, here are the three golden
hairs. You now know the answers to your questions. May God
direct you and send you a prosperous journey. You will not see
me again, for you will have no further need of me.”

He thanked her gratefully and left her. On arriving at the
town with the dried-up well, he was questioned by the King as
to what news he had brought.

“Have the well carefully cleaned out,” said he, “kill the
frog that obstructs the spring, and the wonderful water will
flow again.”

The King did as he was advised, and rejoiced to see the
water return. He gave Plavacek twelve swan-white horses, and as
much gold and silver as they could carry.

On reaching the second town and being asked by the King what
news he had brought, he replied, “Excellent; one could not wish
for better. Dig up your apple-tree, kill the snake that lies
among the roots, transplant the tree, and it will produce
apples like those of former times.”

And all turned out as he had said, for no sooner was the
tree replanted than it was covered with blossoms that gave it
the appearance of a sea of roses. The delighted King gave him
twelve raven-black horses, laden with as much wealth as they
could carry. He then journeyed to the shores of the Black Sea.
There the boatman questioned him as to what news he had brought
respecting his release. Plavacek first crossed with his
twenty-four horses to the opposite bank, and then replied that
the boatman might gain his freedom by placing the oars in the
hands of the first traveler who wished to be ferried over.

Plavacek’s royal father-in-law could not believe his eyes
when he saw Dède-Vsévède’s three golden
hairs. As for the [pg 165] Princess, his young wife,
she wept tears, but of joy, not sadness, to see her dear one
again, and she said to him, “How did you get such splendid
horses and so much wealth, dear husband?”

And he answered her, “All this represents the price paid for
the weariness of spirit I have felt; it is the ready money for
hardships endured and services given. Thus, I showed one King
how to regain possession of the Apples of Youth: to another I
told the secret of reopening the spring of water that gives
health and life.”

“Apples of Youth! Water of Life!” interrupted the King. “I
will certainly go and find these treasures for myself. Ah, what
joy! having eaten of these apples I shall become young again;
having drunk of the Water of Immortality, I shall live
forever.”

And he started off in search of these treasures. But he has
not yet returned from his search.

A MYTH OF AMERICA

HIAWATHA

ADAPTED FROM H.R. SCHOOLCRAFT’s VERSION

Hiawatha was living with his grandmother near the edge of a
wide prairie. On this prairie he first saw animals and birds of
every kind. He there also saw exhibitions of divine power in
the sweeping tempests, in the thunder and lightning, and the
various shades of light and darkness which form a never ending
scene for observation. Every new sight he beheld in the heavens
was a subject of remark; every new animal or bird an object of
deep interest; and every sound uttered by the animal creation a
new lesson, which he was expected to learn. He often trembled
at what he heard and saw. To this scene his grandmother sent
him at an early age to watch. The first sound he heard was that
of an owl, at which he was greatly terrified, and quickly
descending the tree he had climbed, he ran with alarm to the
lodge. “Noko! Noko!” (grandma) he cried, “I have heard a
momendo.” 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.” She told him that he was young and foolish; that
what he had heard was only a bird, deriving its name from the
noise it made.

He went back and continued his watch. While there, 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. At length his
grandmother asked him, “Hiawatha, what is the matter
[pg 167] with you?” He answered, “I
wish you would tell me whether I have any parents living and
who my relatives are.” Knowing that he was of a wicked and
revengeful disposition, she dreaded telling him the story of
his parentage, but he insisted on her compliance. “Yes,” she
said, “you have a father and three brothers living. Your
mother is dead. She was taken without the consent of her
parents by your father the West. Your brothers are the
North, East, and South, and, being older than yourself, your
father has given them great power with the winds, according
to their names. You are the youngest of his children. I have
nourished you from your infancy, for your mother died in
giving you birth, owing to the ill-treatment of your father.
I have no relations besides you this side of the planet on
which I was born, and from which I was precipitated by
female jealousy. Your mother was my only child, and you are
my only hope.”

He appeared to be rejoiced to hear that his father was
living, for he had already thought in his heart to try and kill
him. He told his grandmother he should set out in the morning
to visit him. She said it was a long distance to the place
where The West lived. But that had no effect to stop him for he
had now attained manhood, possessed a giant’s height, and was
endowed by nature with a giant’s strength and power. He set out
and soon reached the place, for every step he took covered a
large surface of ground. The meeting took place on a high
mountain in the West. His father appeared very happy to see
him. They spent some days in talking with each other.

One evening Hiawatha asked his father what he was most
afraid of on earth. He replied, “Nothing.” “But is there not
something you dread here? Tell me.” At last his father said,
yielding, “Yes, there is a black stone found in such a place.
It is the only earthly thing I am afraid of; for if it should
hit me, or any part of my body, it would injure me very much.”
He said this as a secret, and in return asked his son the same
question. Knowing each other’s power, although the son’s was
limited, the father feared him on account of his great
strength. Hiawatha answered, “Nothing!” intending to avoid the
question, or to refer to some harmless object
[pg 168] as the one of which he was
afraid. He was asked again, and again, and answered,
“Nothing!” But the West said, “There must be something you
are afraid of.” “Well! I will tell you,” said Hiawatha,
“what it is.” But, before he would pronounce the word, he
affected great dread.
“Ie-ee—Ie-ee—it is—it is,”
said he, “yeo! yeo! I cannot name it; I am seized with a
dread.” The West told him to banish his fears. He commenced
again, in a strain of mock sensitiveness repeating the same
words; at last he cried out, “It is the root of the
bulrush.” He appeared to be exhausted by the effort of
pronouncing the word, in all this skilfully acting a studied
part.

Some time after he observed, “I will get some of the black
rock;” the West said, “Far be it from you; do not so, my son.”
He still persisted. “Well,” said the father, “I will also get
the bulrush root.” Hiawatha immediately cried out, “Do
not—do not,” affecting as before, to be in great dread of
it, but really wishing, by this course, to urge on the West to
procure it, that he might draw him into combat. He went out and
got a large piece of the black rock, and brought it home. The
West also took care to bring the dreaded root.

In the course of conversation he asked his father whether he
had been the cause of his mother’s death. The answer was “Yes!”
He then took up the rock and struck him. Blow led to blow, and
here commenced an obstinate and furious combat, which continued
several days. Fragments of the rock, broken off under
Hiawatha’s blows, can be seen in various places to this day.
The root did not prove as mortal a weapon as his well-acted
fears had led his father to expect, although he suffered
severely from the blows. This battle commenced on the
mountains. The West was forced to give ground. Hiawatha drove
him across rivers, and over mountains and lakes, and at last he
came to the brink of this world.

“Hold!” cried he, “my son; you know my power, and that it is
impossible to kill me. Desist, 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 this earth, which is infested with
large serpents, beasts, and monsters, who make great
[pg 169] havoc among the
inhabitants. Go and do good. You have the power now to do
so, and your fame with the beings of this earth 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 in the north.”

From The “Cosmopolitan Magazine” By Permission.

 

HIAWATHA IN HIS CANOE.

Hiawatha was pacified. He returned to his lodge, where he
was confined by the wounds he had received. But owing to his
grandmother’s skill in medicine he was soon recovered. She told
him that his grandfather, who had come to the earth in search
of her, had been killed by Meg-gis-sog-won, who lived on the
opposite side of the great lake. “When he was alive,” she
continued, “I was never without oil to put on my head, but now
my hair is fast falling off for the want of it.”

“Well!” said he, “Noko, get cedar bark and make me a line,
while I make a canoe.” When all was ready, he went out to the
middle of the lake to fish. He put his line down, saying,
“Me-she-nah-ma-gwai (the name of the kingfish), take hold of my
bait.” He kept repeating this for some time. At last the king
of the fishes said, “Hiawatha troubles me. Here, Trout, take
hold of his line,” which was very heavy, so that his canoe
stood nearly perpendicular; but he kept crying out, “Wha-ee-he!
wha-ee-he!” till he could see the trout. As soon as he saw him,
he spoke to him. “Why did you take hold of my hook? Shame,
shame you ugly fish.” The trout, being thus rebuked, let
go.

Hiawatha put his line again in the water, saying, “King of
fishes, take hold of my line.” But the king of fishes told a
monstrous sunfish to take hold of it; for Hiawatha was tiring
him with his incessant calls. He again drew up his line with
difficulty, saying as before, “Wha-ee-he! wha-ee-he!” while his
canoe was turning in swift circles. When he saw the sunfish, he
cried, “Shame, shame you odious fish! why did you dirty my hook
by taking it in your mouth? Let go, I say, let go.” The sunfish
did so, and told the king of fishes what Hiawatha said. Just at
that moment the bait came near the king, and hearing Hiawatha
continually crying out, “Me-she-nah-ma-gwai, take hold of my
hook,” at last he did so, and allowed himself to be drawn up to
the surface, which he had no sooner
[pg 170] reached than, at one
mouthful, he took Hiawatha and his canoe down. When he came
to himself, he found that he was in the fish’s belly, and
also his canoe. He now turned his thoughts to the way of
making his escape. Looking in his canoe, he saw his
war-club, with which he immediately struck the heart of the
fish. He then felt a sudden motion, as if he were moving
with great velocity. The fish observed to the others, “I am
sick at stomach for having swallowed this dirty fellow,
Hiawatha.” Just at this moment he received another severe
blow on the heart. Hiawatha thought, “If I am thrown up in
the middle of the lake, I shall be drowned; so I must
prevent it.” He drew his canoe and placed it across the
fish’s throat, and just as he had finished the fish
commenced vomiting, but to no effect. In this he was aided
by a squirrel, who had accompanied him unperceived until
that moment. This animal had taken an active part in helping
him to place his canoe across the fish’s throat. For this
act he named him, saying, “For the future, boys shall always
call you Ajidaumo [Upside Down]!”

He then renewed his attack upon the fish’s heart, and
succeeded, by repeated blows, in killing him, which he first
knew by the loss of motion, and by the sound of the beating of
the body against the shore. He waited a day longer to see what
would happen. He heard birds scratching on the body, and all at
once the rays of light broke in. He could see the heads of
gulls, who were looking in by the opening they had made. “Oh!”
cried Hiawatha, “my younger brothers, make the opening larger,
so that I can get out.” They told each other that their brother
Hiawatha was inside of the fish. They immediately set about
enlarging the orifice, and in a short time liberated him. After
he got out he said to the gulls, “For the future you shall be
called Kayoshk [Noble Scratchers]!”

The spot where the fish happened to be driven ashore was
near his lodge. He went up and told his grandmother to go and
prepare as much oil as she wanted. All besides, he informed
her, he should keep for himself.

Some time after this, he commenced making preparations
[pg 171] for a war excursion against
the Pearl Feather, the Manito who lived on the opposite side
of the great lake, who had killed his grandfather. The abode
of his spirit was defended, first, by fiery serpents, who
hissed fire so that no one could pass them; and, in the
second place, by a large mass of gummy matter lying on the
water, so soft and adhesive, that whoever attempted to pass,
or whatever came in contact with it, was sure to stick
there.

He continued making bows and arrows without number, but he
had no heads for his arrows. At last Noko told him that an old
man who lived at some distance could make them. He sent her to
get some. She soon returned with her conaus, or wrapper, full.
Still he told her he had not enough, and sent her again. She
returned with as many more. He thought to himself, “I must find
out the way of making these heads.” Cunning and curiosity
prompted him to make the discovery. But he deemed it necessary
to deceive his grandmother in so doing. “Noko,” said he, “while
I take my drum and rattle, and sing my war-songs, go and try to
get me some larger heads for my arrows, for those you brought
me are all of the same size. Go and see whether the old man
cannot make some a little larger.” He followed her as she went,
keeping at a distance, and saw the old artificer at work, and
so discovered his process. He also beheld the old man’s
daughter, and perceived that she was very beautiful. He felt
his breast beat with a new emotion, but said nothing. He took
care to get home before his grandmother, and commenced singing
as if he had never left his lodge. When the old woman came
near, she heard his drum and rattle, without any suspicion that
he had followed her. She delivered him the arrow-heads.

One evening the old woman said, “My son, you ought to fast
before you go to war, as your brothers frequently do, to find
out whether you will be successful or not.” He said he had no
objection, and immediately commenced a fast for several days.
He would retire every day from the lodge so far as to be out of
the reach of his grandmother’s voice.

After having finished his term of fasting and sung his
war-song from which the Indians of the present day derive their
[pg 172] custom—he embarked in
his canoe, fully prepared for war. In addition to the usual
implements, he had a plentiful 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. He stopped to view them. He saw they were some
distance apart, and that the flame only which issued from
them reached across the pass. He commenced talking as a
friend to them; but they answered, “We know you, Hiawatha,
you cannot pass.” He then thought of some expedient to
deceive them, and hit upon this. He pushed his canoe as near
as possible. All at once he cried out, with a loud and
terrified voice, “What is that behind you?” The serpents
instantly turned their heads, when, at a single word, he
passed them. “Well!” said he, placidly, after he had got by,
“how do you like my exploit?” He then took up his bow and
arrows, and with deliberate aim shot them, which was easily
done, for the serpents were stationary, and could not move
beyond a certain spot. They were of enormous length and of a
bright color.

Having overcome the sentinel serpents, he went on in his
magic canoe till he came to a soft gummy portion of the lake,
called Pigiu-wagumee or Pitchwater. He took the oil and rubbed
it on his canoe, and then pushed into it. The oil softened the
surface and enabled him to slip through it with ease, although
it required frequent rubbing, and a constant re-application of
the oil. Just as his oil failed, he extricated himself from
this impediment, and was the first person who ever succeeded in
overcoming it.

He now came in view of land, on which he debarked in safety,
and could see the lodge of the Shining Manito, situated on a
hill. He commenced preparing for the fight, putting his arrows
and clubs in order, and just at the dawn of day began his
attack, yelling and shouting, and crying with triple voices,
“Surround him! surround him! run up! run up!” making it appear
that he had many followers. He advanced crying out, “It was you
that killed my grandfather,” and with this shot his arrows.

The combat continued all day. Hiawatha’s arrows had
[pg 173] no effect, for his
antagonist was clothed with pure wampum. He was now reduced
to three arrows, and it was only by extraordinary agility
that he could escape the blows which the Manito kept making
at him. At that moment a large woodpecker (the ma-ma) flew
past, and lit on a tree. “Hiawatha” he cried, “your
adversary has a vulnerable point; shoot at the lock of hair
on the crown of his head.” He shot his first arrow so as
only to draw blood from that part. The Manito made one or
two unsteady steps, but recovered himself. He began to
parley, but, in the act, received a second arrow, which
brought him to his knees. But he again recovered. In so
doing, however, he exposed his head, and gave his adversary
a chance to fire his third arrow, which penetrated deep, and
brought him a lifeless corpse to the ground. Hiawatha
uttered his saw-saw-quan, and taking his scalp as a trophy,
he called the woodpecker to come and receive a reward for
his information. He took the blood of the Manito and rubbed
it on the woodpecker’s head, the feathers of which are red
to this day.

After this victory he returned home, singing songs of
triumph and beating his drum. When his grandmother heard him,
she came to the shore and welcomed him with songs and dancing.
Glory fired his mind. He displayed the trophies he had brought
in the most conspicuous manner, and felt an unconquerable
desire for other adventures. He felt himself urged by the
consciousness of his power to new trials of bravery, skill, and
necromantic prowess. He had destroyed the Manito of Wealth, and
killed his guardian serpents, and eluded all his charms. He did
not long remain inactive.

His next adventure was upon the water, and proved him the
prince of fishermen. He captured a fish of such a monstrous
size, that the fat and oil he obtained from it formed a small
lake. He therefore invited all the animals and fowls to a
banquet, and he made the order in which they partook of this
repast the measure of their fatness. As fast as they arrived,
he told them to plunge in. The bear came first, and was
followed by the deer, opossum, and such other animals as are
noted for their peculiar fatness at certain seasons. The moose
and bison came tardily. The partridge looked on till
[pg 174] the reservoir was nearly
exhausted. The hare and marten came last, and these animals
have consequently no fat.

When this ceremony was over, he told the assembled animals
and birds to dance, taking up his drum and crying, “New songs
from the south, come, brothers, dance.” He directed them to
pass in a circle around him, and to shut their eyes. They did
so. When he saw a fat fowl pass by him, he adroitly wrung off
its head, at the same time beating his drum and singing with
greater vehemence, to drown the noise of the fluttering, and
crying out, in a tone of admiration, “That’s the way, my
brothers, that’s the way.” At last a small duck [the
diver], thinking there was something wrong, opened one eye and
saw what he was doing. Giving a spring and crying, “Ha-ha-a!
Hiawatha is killing us,” he made for the water. Hiawatha
followed him, and, just as the duck was getting into the water,
gave him a kick, which is the cause of his back being flattened
and his legs being straightened out backward, so that when he
gets on land he cannot walk, and his tail feathers are few.
Meantime the other birds flew off, and the animals ran into the
woods.

After this Hiawatha, set out to travel. He wished to outdo
all others, and to see new countries. But after walking over
America and encountering many adventures he became satisfied as
well as fatigued. He had heard of great feats in hunting, and
felt a desire to try his power in that way. One evening, as he
was walking along the shores of a great lake, weary and hungry,
he encountered a great magician in the form of an old wolf,
with six young ones, coming towards him. The wolf, as soon as
he saw him, told his whelps to keep out of the way of Hiawatha,
“for I know,” continued he, “that it is he that we see yonder.”
The young wolves were in the act of running off, when Hiawatha
cried out, “My grandchildren, where are you going? Stop, and I
will go with you.” He appeared rejoiced to see the old wolf,
and asked him whither he was journeying. Being told that they
were looking for a place where they could find most game, and
where they might pass the winter, he said he would like to go
with them, and addressed the old wolf in the following words:
“Brother, I have a passion
[pg 175] for the chase; are you
willing to change me into a wolf?” He was answered
favorably, and his transformation immediately effected.

Hiawatha was fond of novelty. He found himself a wolf
corresponding in size with the others, but he was not quite
satisfied with the change, crying out, “Oh, make me a little
larger.” They did so. “A little larger still,” he exclaimed.
They said, “Let us humor him,” and granted his request. “Well,”
said he, “that will do.” He looked at his tail. “Oh!”
cried he, “do make my tail a little longer and more bushy.”
They did so. They then all started off in company, dashing up a
ravine. After getting into the woods some distance, they fell
in with the tracks of moose. The young ones went after them,
Hiawatha and the old wolf following at their leisure. “Well,”
said the wolf, “whom 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 the fastest, to be sure.”
“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.”

They then came to the place where the boys had started in
chase. One had dropped his small bundle. “Take that, Hiawatha,”
said the old wolf. “Esa,” he replied, “what will I do with a
dirty dogskin?” The wolf took it up; it was a beautiful robe.
“Oh, I will carry it now,” said Hiawatha. “Oh no,” replied the
wolf, who at the moment exerted his magic power; “it is a robe
of pearls!” And from this moment he omitted no occasion to
display his superiority, both in the art of the hunter and the
magician above his conceited companion. 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 wolf,
“this moose is poor. I know by the tracks, for I can always
tell whether they are fat or not.” They next came to a place
where one of the wolves had bit at the moose, and had broken
one of his teeth on a tree. “Hiawatha,” said the wolf, “one of
your grandchildren has shot at the game. Take his arrow; there
it is.” “No,” he replied; “what will I do with a dirty dog’s
tooth!” The old wolf took it up, and
[pg 176] behold! it was a beautiful
silver arrow. When they overtook the youngsters, they had
killed a very fat moose.

Hiawatha was extremely hungry; but, alas! such is the power
of enchantment, he saw nothing but the bones picked quite
clean. He thought to himself, “Just as I expected, dirty,
greedy fellows!” However, he sat down without saying a word. At
length the old wolf spoke to one of the young ones, saying,
“Give some meat to your grandfather.” One of them obeyed, and,
coming near to Hiawatha, opened his mouth as if he was about to
snarl. Hiawatha jumped up saying, “You filthy dog, you have
eaten so much that your stomach refuses to hold it. Get you
gone into some other place.” The old wolf, hearing the abuse,
went a little to one side to see, and behold, a heap of fresh
ruddy meat, with the fat lying all ready prepared. He was
followed by Hiawatha, who, having the enchantment instantly
removed, put on a smiling face. “Amazement!” said he; “how fine
the meat is.” “Yes,” replied the wolf; “it is always so with
us; we know our work, and always get the best. It is not a long
tail that makes a hunter.” Hiawatha bit his lip.

They then commenced fixing their winter quarters, while the
youngsters went out in search of game, and soon brought in a
large supply. One day, during the absence of the young wolves,
the old one amused himself in cracking the large bones of a
moose. “Hiawatha,” said he, “cover your head with the robe, and
do not look at me while I am at these bones, for a piece may
fly in your eye.” He did as he was told; but, looking through a
rent that was in the robe, he saw what the other was about.
Just at that moment a piece flew off and hit him on the eye. He
cried out, “Tyau, why do you strike me, you old dog?” The wolf
said, “You must have been looking at me.” But deception
commonly leads to falsehood. “No, no,” he said, “why should I
want to look at you?” “Hiawatha,” said the wolf, “you
must have been looking, or you would not have been
hurt.” “No, no,” he replied again, “I was not. I will repay the
saucy wolf this,” thought he to himself. So, next day, taking
up a bone to obtain the marrow, he said to the wolf, “Cover
your head and don’t look at me, for I fear
[pg 177] a piece may fly in your
eye.” The wolf did so. He then took the leg-bone of the
moose, and looking first to see if the wolf was well
covered, he hit him a blow with all his might. The wolf
jumped up, cried out, and fell prostrate from the effects of
the blow. “Why,” said he, “do you strike me so?” “Strike
you!” he replied; “no, you must have been looking at me.”
“No,” answered the wolf, “I say I have not.” But he
persisted in the assertion, and the poor magician had to
give up.

Hiawatha was an expert hunter when he earnestly tried to be.
He went out one day and killed a fat moose. He was very hungry,
and sat down to eat. But immediately he fell into great doubts
as to the proper point to begin. “Well,” said he, “I do not
know where to begin. At the head? No! People will laugh, and
say ‘he ate him backwards!'” He went to the side. “No!” said
he, “they will say I ate him sideways.” He then went to the
hind-quarter. “No!” said he, “they will say I ate him toward
the head. I will begin here, say what they will.” He
took a delicate piece from the rump, and was just ready to put
it in his mouth, when a tree close by made a creaking sound,
caused by the rubbing of one large branch against another. This
annoyed him. “Why!” he exclaimed, “I cannot eat while I hear
such a noise. Stop! stop!” said he to the tree. He was putting
the morsel again to his mouth, when the noise was repeated. He
put it down, exclaiming, “I cannot eat in such
confusion,” and immediately left the meat, although very
hungry, to go and put a stop to the racket. He climbed the tree
and was pulling at the limb, when his arm was caught between
two branches so that he could not extricate himself. While thus
held fast, he saw a pack of wolves coming in the direction
towards his meat. “Go that way! go that way!” he cried out;
“why do you come here?” The wolves talked among themselves and
said, “Hiawatha must have something here, or he would not tell
us to go another way.” “I begin to know him,” said an old wolf,
“and all his tricks. Let us go forward and see.” They came on
and finding the moose, soon made away with the whole carcass.
Hiawatha looked on wistfully to see them eat till they were
fully satisfied, and they left him nothing but the bare bones.
The next heavy blast [pg 178] of wind opened the branches
and liberated him. He went home, thinking to himself, “See
the effect of meddling with frivolous things when I already
had valuable possessions.”

Next day the old wolf addressed him thus: “My brother, I am
going to separate from you, but I will leave behind me one of
the young wolves to be your hunter.” He then departed. In this
act Hiawatha was disenchanted, and again resumed his mortal
shape. He was sorrowful and dejected, but soon resumed his
wonted air of cheerfulness. The young wolf that was left with
him was a good hunter, and never failed to keep the lodge well
supplied with meat. One day he addressed him as follows: “My
grandson, I had a dream last night, and it does not portend
good. It is of the large lake which lies in that
direction. You must be careful never to cross it, even if the
ice should appear good. If you should come to it at night weary
or hungry, you must make the circuit of it.” Spring commenced,
and the snow was melting fast before the rays of the sun, when
one evening the wolf came to the lake weary with the day’s
chase. He disliked the journey of making its circuit. “Hwooh!”
he exclaimed, “there can be no great harm in trying the ice, as
it appears to be sound. Nesho, my grandfather, is over cautious
on this point.” He had gone but half way across when the ice
gave way, and falling in, he was immediately seized by the
serpents, who knowing he was Hiawatha’s grandson, were
thirsting for revenge upon him. Meanwhile Hiawatha sat
pensively in his lodge.

Night came on, but no grandson returned. The second and
third night passed, but he did not appear. Hiawatha became very
desolate and sorrowful. “Ah!” said he, “he must have disobeyed
me, and has lost his life in that lake I told him of. Well!”
said he at last, “I must mourn for him.” So he took coal and
blackened his face. But he was much perplexed as to the right
mode of mourning. “I wonder,” said he, “how I must do it? I
will cry ‘Oh! my grandson! Oh! my grandson!'” He burst out
laughing. “No! no! that won’t do. I will try ‘Oh! my heart! Oh!
my heart! ha! ha! ha!’ That won’t do either. I will cry, ‘Oh my
drowned grandson.'”

This satisfied him, and he remained in his lodge and fasted,
[pg 179] till his days of mourning
were over. “Now,” said he, “I will go in search of him.” He
set out and traveled till he came to the great lake. He then
raised the lamentation for his grandson which had pleased
him, sitting down near a small brook that emptied itself
into the lake, and repeating his cries. Soon a bird called
Ke-ske-mun-i-see came near to him. The bird inquired, “What
are you doing here?” “Nothing,” Hiawatha replied; “but can
you tell me whether any one lives in this lake, and what
brings you here yourself?” “Yes!” responded the bird; “the
Prince of Serpents lives here, and I am watching to see
whether the body of Hiawatha’s grandson will not drift
ashore, for he was killed by the serpents last spring. But
are you not Hiawatha himself?” “No,” was the reply, with his
usual deceit; “how do you think he could get to this
place? But tell me, do the serpents ever appear? When?
Where? Tell me all about their habits.” “Do you see that
beautiful white sandy beach?” said the bird. “Yes!” he
answered. “It is there,” continued the bird, “that they bask
in the sun. Before they come out, the lake will appear
perfectly calm; not even a ripple will appear. After midday
you will see them.”

“Thank you,” he replied; “I am Hiawatha. I have come in
search of the body of my grandson, and to seek my revenge. Come
near me that I may put a medal round your neck as a reward for
your information.” The bird unsuspectingly came near, and
received a white medal, which can be seen to this day. While
bestowing the medal, he attempted slyly to wring the bird’s
head off, but it escaped him, with only a disturbance of the
crown feathers of its head, which are rumpled backward. He had
found out all he wanted to know, and then desired to conceal
the knowledge obtained by killing his informant.

He went to the sandy beach indicated, and transformed
himself into an oak stump. He had not been there long before
the lake became perfectly calm. Soon hundreds of monstrous
serpents came crawling on the beach. One of the number was
beautifully white. He was the Prince. The others were red and
yellow. The Prince spoke to those about him as follows: “I
never saw that black stump standing there before.
[pg 180] It may be Hiawatha. There
is no knowing but that he may be somewhere about here. He
has the power of an evil genius, and we should be on our
guard against his wiles.” One of the large serpents
immediately went and twisted himself around it to the top,
and pressed it very hard. The greatest pressure happened to
be on his throat; he was just ready to cry out when the
serpent let go. Eight of them went in succession and did the
like, but always let go at the moment he was ready to cry
out. “It cannot be he,” they said. “He is too great a
weak-heart for that.” They then coiled themselves in a
circle about their Prince. It was a long time before they
fell asleep. When they did so, Hiawatha, took his bow and
arrows, and cautiously stepping over the serpents till he
came to the Prince, drew up his arrow with the full strength
of his arm, and shot him in the left side. He then gave a
saw-saw-quan and ran off at full speed.

The sound uttered by the snakes on seeing their Prince
mortally wounded, was horrible. They cried, “Hiawatha has
killed our Prince; go in chase of him.” Meantime he ran over
hill and valley, to gain the interior of the country, with all
his strength and speed, treading a mile at a step. But his
pursuers were also spirits, and he could hear that something
was approaching him fast. He made for the highest mountain, and
climbed the highest tree on its summit, when, dreadful to
behold, the whole lower country was seen to be overflowed, and
the water was gaining rapidly on the highlands. He saw it reach
to the foot of the mountains, and at length it came up to the
foot of the tree, but there was no abatement.

The flood rose steadily and perceptibly. He soon felt the
lower part of his body to be immersed in it. He addressed the
tree; “Grandfather, stretch yourself.” The tree did so. But the
waters still rose. He repeated his request, and was again
obeyed. He asked a third time, and was again obeyed; but the
tree replied, “It is the last time; I cannot get any higher.”
The waters continued to rise till they reached up to his chin,
at which point they stood, and soon began to abate. Hope
revived in his heart. He then cast his eyes around the
illimitable expanse, and spied a loon. “Dive down, my brother,”
[pg 181] he said to him, “and fetch
up some earth, so that I can make a new earth.” The bird
obeyed, but rose up to the surface a lifeless form. He then
saw a muskrat. “Dive!” said he, “and if you succeed, you may
hereafter live either on land or water, as you please; or I
will give you a chain of beautiful little lakes, surrounded
with rushes, to inhabit.” He dove down, but floated up
senseless. He took the body and breathed in his nostrils,
which restored him to life. “Try again,” said he. The
muskrat did so. He came up senseless the second time, but
clutched a little earth in one of his paws, from which,
together with the carcass of the dead loon, he created a new
earth as large as the former had been, with all living
animals, fowls, and plants.

As he was walking to survey the new earth, he heard some one
singing. He went to the place, and found a female spirit, in
the disguise of an old woman, singing these words, and crying
at every pause:

“Noko,” said he, “what is the matter?” “Matter!” said she,
“where have you been, that you have not heard how Hiawatha shot
my son, the Prince of serpents, in revenge for the loss of his
grandson, and how the earth was overflowed, and created anew?
So I brought my son here, that he might kill and destroy the
inhabitants, as he did on the former earth. But,” she
continued, casting a scrutinizing glance, “N’yau! indego
Hiawatha! hub! ub! ub! ub! Oh, I am afraid you are Hiawatha!”
He burst out into a laugh to quiet her fears. “Ha! ha! ha! how
can that be? Has not the old world perished, and all that was
in it?” “Impossible! impossible!” “But, Noko,” he continued,
“what do you intend doing with all that cedar cord on your
back?” “Why,” said she, “I am fixing a snare for Hiawatha, if
he should be on this earth; and, in the mean time, I am looking
for herbs to heal my son. I am the only
[pg 182] person that can do him any
good. He always gets better when I sing:

Having found out, by conversation with her, all he wished,
he put her to death. He then took off her skin, and assuming
this disguise, took the cedar cord on his back, and limped away
singing her songs. He completely aped the gait and voice of the
old woman. He was met by one who told him to make haste; that
the Prince was worse. At the lodge, limping and muttering, he
took notice that they had his grandson’s hide to hang over the
door. “Oh dogs!” said he; “the evil dogs!” He sat down near the
door, and commenced sobbing like an aged woman. One observed,
“Why don’t you attend the sick, and not sit there making such a
noise?” He took up the poker and laid it on them, mimicking the
voice of the old woman. “Dogs that you are! why do you laugh at
me? You know very well that I am so sorry that I am nearly out
of my head.”

With that he approached the Prince, singing the songs of the
old woman, without exciting any suspicion. He saw that his
arrow had gone in about one half its length. He pretended to
make preparations for extracting it, but only made ready to
finish his victim; and giving the dart a sudden thrust, he put
a period to the Prince’s life. He performed this act with the
power of a giant, bursting the old woman’s skin, and at the
same moment rushing through the door, the serpents following
him, hissing and crying out, “Perfidy! murder! vengeance! it is
Hiawatha.” He immediately transformed himself into a wolf, and
ran over the plain with all his speed, aided by his father the
West Wind. When he got to the mountains he saw a badger.
“Brother,” said he, “make a hole quick, for the serpents are
after me.” The badger obeyed. They both went in, and the badger
threw all the earth backward, so that it filled up the way
behind.

The serpents came to the badger’s burrow, and decided to
[pg 183] watch, “We will starve him
out,” said they; so they continue watching. Hiawatha told
the badger to make an opening on the other side of the
mountain, from which he could go out and hunt, and bring
meat in. Thus they lived some time. One day the badger came
in his way and displeased him. He immediately put him to
death, and threw out his carcass, saying, “I don’t like you
to be getting in my way so often.”

After living in this confinement for some time alone, he
decided to go out. He immediately did so; and after making the
circuit of the mountain, came to the corpse of the Prince, who
had been deserted by the serpents to pursue his destroyer. He
went to work and skinned him. He then drew on his skin, in
which there were great virtues, took up his war-club, and set
out for the place where he first went in the ground. He found
the serpents still watching. When they saw the form of their
dead Prince advancing towards them, fear and dread took hold of
them. Some fled. Those who remained Hiawatha killed. Those who
fled went towards the South.

Having accomplished the victory over the reptiles, Hiawatha
returned to his former place of dwelling and married the
arrow-maker’s daughter.

LEGENDARY HEROES OF MANY COUNTRIES

HEROES OF GREECE AND ROME

PERSEUS

ADAPTED BY MARY MACGREGOR

I

PERSEUS AND HIS MOTHER

Once upon a time there were two Princes who were twins. They
lived in a pleasant vale far away in Hellas. They had fruitful
meadows and vineyards, sheep and oxen, great herds of horses,
and all that men could need to make them blest. And yet they
were wretched, because they were jealous of each other.

From the moment they were born they began to quarrel, and
when they grew up, each tried to take away the other’s share of
the kingdom and keep all for himself.

And there came a prophet to one of the hard-hearted Princes
and said, “Because you have risen up against your own family,
your own family shall rise up against you. Because you have
sinned against your kindred, by your kindred shall you be
punished. Your daughter Danæ shall bear a son, and by
that son’s hands you shall die. So the gods have said, and it
shall surely come to pass.”

At that the hard-hearted Prince was very much afraid, but he
did not mend his ways. For when he became King, he shut up his
fair daughter Danæ in a cavern underground, lined
[pg 188] with brass, that no one
might come near her. So he fancied himself more cunning than
the gods.

Now it came to pass that in time Danæ bore a son, so
beautiful a babe that any but the King would have had pity on
it. But he had no pity, for he took Danæ and her babe
down to the seashore, and put them into a great chest and
thrust them out to sea, that the winds and the waves might
carry them whithersoever they would.

And away and out to sea before the northwest wind floated
the mother and her babe, while all who watched them wept, save
that cruel King.

So they floated on and on, and the chest danced up and down
upon the billows, and the babe slept in its mother’s arms. But
the poor mother could not sleep, but watched and wept, and she
sang to her babe as they floated.

Now they are past the last blue headland and in the open
sea. There is nothing round them but waves, and the sky and the
wind. But the waves are gentle and the sky is clear, and the
breeze is tender and low.

So a night passed and a day, and a long day it was to
Danæ, and another night and day beside, till Danæ
was faint with hunger and weeping, and yet no land
appeared.

And all the while the babe slept quietly, and at last poor
Danæ drooped her head and fell asleep likewise, with her
cheek against her babe’s.

After a while she was awakened suddenly, for the chest was
jarring and grinding, and the air was full of sound. She looked
up, and over her head were mighty cliffs, and around her rocks
and breakers and flying flakes of foam.

She clasped her hands together and shrieked aloud for help.
And when she cried, help met her, for now there came over the
rocks a tall and stately man, and looked down wondering upon
poor Danæ, tossing about in the chest among the
waves.

He wore a rough cloak, and on his head a broad hat to shade
his face, and in his hand he carried a trident, which is a
three-pronged fork for spearing fish, and over his shoulder was
a casting net.

 

SO DANAE WAS COMFORTED AND WENT HOME WITH
DICTYS.

But Danæ could see that he was no common man by his
[pg 189] height and his walk, and
his flowing golden hair and beard, and by the two servants
who came behind him carrying baskets for his fish.

She had hardly time to look at him, before he had laid aside
his trident and leapt down the rocks, and thrown his casting
net so surely over Danæ and the chest, that he drew it
and her and the babe safe upon a ledge of rock.

Then the fisherman took Danæ by the hand and lifted
her out of the chest and said, “O beautiful damsel, what
strange chance has brought you to this island in so frail a
ship? Who are you, and whence? Surely you are some king’s
daughter, and this boy belongs to the gods.” And as he spoke he
pointed to the babe, for its face shone like the morning
star.

But Danæ only held down her head and sobbed out, “Tell
me to what land I have come, and among what men I have
fallen.”

And he said, “Polydectes is King of this isle, and he is my
brother. Men call me Dictys the Netter, because I catch the
fish of the shore.”

Then Danæ fell down at his feet and embraced his knees
and cried, “O Sir, have pity upon a stranger, whom cruel doom
has driven to your land, and let me live in your house as a
servant. But treat me honorably, for I was once a king’s
daughter, and this my boy is of no common race. I will not be a
charge to you, or eat the bread of idleness, for I am more
skilful in weaving and embroidery than all the maidens of my
land.”

And she was going on, but Dictys stopped her and raised her
up and said, “My daughter, I am old, and my hairs are growing
gray, while I have no children to make my home cheerful. Come
with me, then, and you shall be a daughter to me and to my
wife, and this babe shall be our grandchild.”

So Danæ was comforted and went home with Dictys, the
good fisherman, and was a daughter to him and to his wife, till
fifteen years were past.

II

HOW PERSEUS VOWED A RASH VOW

Fifteen years were past and gone, and the babe was now grown
to be a tall lad and a
sailor.

His mother called him Perseus, but all the people in the
isle called him the King of the Immortals.

For though he was but fifteen, Perseus was taller by a head
than any man in the island. And he was brave and truthful, and
gentle and courteous, for good old Dictys had trained him well,
and well it was for Perseus that he had done so. For now
Danæ and her son fell into great danger, and Perseus had
need of all his strength to defend his mother and himself.

Polydectes, the King of the island, was not a good man like
his brother Dictys, but he was greedy and cunning and
cruel.

And when he saw fair Danæ, he wanted to marry her. But
she would not, for she did not love him, and cared for no one
but her boy.

At last Polydectes became furious, and while Perseus was
away at sea, he took poor Danæ away from Dictys, saying,
“If you will not be my wife, you shall be my slave.”

So Danæ was made a slave, and had to fetch water from
the well, and grind in the mill.

But Perseus was far away over the seas, little thinking that
his mother was in great grief and sorrow.

Now one day, while the ship was lading, Perseus wandered
into a pleasant wood to get out of the sun, and sat down on the
turf and fell asleep. And as he slept a strange dream came to
him, the strangest dream he had ever had in his life.

There came a lady to him through the wood, taller than he,
or any mortal man, but beautiful exceedingly, with great gray
eyes, clear and piercing, but strangely soft and mild. On her
head was a helmet, and in her hand a spear. And over her
shoulder, above her long blue robes, hung a goat-skin, which
bore up a mighty shield of brass, polished like a mirror.

She stood and looked at him with her clear gray eyes. And
Perseus dropped his eyes, trembling and blushing, as the
wonderful lady spoke. “Perseus, you must do an errand for
me.”

“Who are you, lady? And how do you know my name?”

Then the strange lady, whose name was Athene, laughed, and
held up her brazen shield, and cried, “See here, Perseus, dare
you face such a monster as this and slay it, that I may place
its head upon this
shield?”

And in the mirror of the shield there appeared a face, and
as Perseus looked on it his blood ran cold. It was the face of
a beautiful woman, but her cheeks were pale, and her lips were
thin. Instead of hair, vipers wreathed about her temples and
shot out their forked tongues, and she had claws of brass.

Perseus looked awhile and then said, “If there is anything
so fierce and ugly on earth, it were a noble deed to kill it.
Where can I find the monster?”

Then the strange lady smiled again and said, “You are too
young, for this is Medusa the Gorgon. Return to your home, and
when you have done the work that awaits you there, you may be
worthy to go in search of the monster.”

Perseus would have spoken, but the strange lady vanished,
and he awoke, and behold it was a dream.

So he returned home, and the first thing he heard was that
his mother was a slave in the house of Polydectes.

Grinding his teeth with rage, he went out, and away to the
King’s palace, and through the men’s rooms and the women’s
rooms, and so through all the house, till he found his mother
sitting on the floor turning the stone hand-mill, and weeping
as she turned it.

And he lifted her up and kissed her, and bade her follow him
forth. But before they could pass out of the room Polydectes
came in.

When Perseus saw the King, he flew upon him and cried,
“Tyrant! is this thy mercy to strangers and widows? Thou shalt
die.” And because he had no sword he caught up the stone
hand-mill, and lifted it to dash out Polydectes’s brains.

But his mother clung to him, shrieking, and good Dictys too
entreated him to remember that the cruel King was his
brother.

Then Perseus lowered his hand, and Polydectes, who had been
trembling all this while like a coward, let Perseus and his
mother pass.

So Perseus took his mother to the temple of Athené,
and there the priestess made her one of the temple sweepers.
And there they knew that she would be safe, for not even
Polydectes would dare to drag her out of the temple. And there
Perseus [pg 192] and the good Dictys and his
wife came to visit her every day.

As for Polydectes, not being able to get Danæ by
force, he cast about how he might get her by cunning. He was
sure he could never get back Danæ as long as Perseus was
in the island, so he made a plot to get rid of him. First he
pretended to have forgiven Perseus, and to have forgotten
Danæ, so that for a while all went smoothly. Next he
proclaimed a great feast and invited to it all the chiefs and
the young men of the island, and among them Perseus, that they
might all do him homage as their King, and eat of his banquet
in his hall.

On the appointed day they all came, and as the custom was
then, each guest brought with him a present for the King. One
brought a horse, another a shawl, or a ring, or a sword, and
some brought baskets of grapes, but Perseus brought nothing,
for he had nothing to bring, being only a poor sailor lad.

He was ashamed, however, to go into the King’s presence
without a gift. So he stood at the door, sorrowfully watching
the rich men go in, and his face grew very red as they pointed
at him and smiled and whispered, “And what has Perseus to
give?”