CHAPTER XIV

CONCLUSION

And after this they filled the bottles with the ingredients for pickling, and each couple jumped into a separate bottle; by which effort, of course, they all died immediately, and became thoroughly pickled in a few minutes, having previously made their wills (by the assistance of the most eminent lawyers of the district), in which they left strict orders that the stoppers of the seven bottles should be carefully sealed up with the blue sealing-wax they had purchased; and that they themselves, in the bottles, should be presented to the principal museum of the city of Tosh, to be labeled with parchment or any other anti-congenial succedaneum, and to be placed on a marble table with silver-gilt legs, for the daily inspection and contemplation, and for the perpetual benefit, of the pusillanimous public.

And if you ever happen to go to Gramble-blamble, and visit that museum in the city of Tosh, look for them on the ninety-eighth table in the four hundred and twenty-seventh room of the right-hand corridor of the left wing of the central quadrangle of that magnificent building; for, if you do not, you certainly will not see them.

EDWARD LEAR.

_Wee Robin’s Yule-Song_

There was an auld gray Pussie Baudrons, and she gaed awa’ down by a waterside, and there she saw a Wee Robin Redbreast hoppin’ on a brier; and Pussie Baudrons says: “Where’s tu gaun, Wee Robin?” And Wee Robin says: “I’m gaun awa’ to the king to sing him a sang this guid Yule morning.” And Pussie Baudrons says: “Come here, Wee Robin, and I’ll let you see a bonny white ring round my neck.” But Wee Robin says: “Na, na! gray Poussie Baudrons, na, na! Ye worry’t the wee mousie, but ye’se no worry me.” So Wee Robin flew awa’ till he came to a fail fauld-dike (_turf wall_), and there he saw a gray greedy gled (_hawk_) sitting. And gray greedy gled says: “Where’s tu gaun, Wee Robin?” And Wee Robin says: “I’m gaun awa’ to the king to sing him a sang this guid Yule morning.” And gray greedy gled says: “Come here, Wee Robin, and I’ll let ye see a bonny feather in my wing.” But Wee Robin says: “Na, na! gray greedy gled, na, na! Ye pookit (_pecked_) a’ the wee lintie, but ye’se no pook me.” So Wee Robin flew awa’ till he came to the cleuch (_hollow_) o’ a craig, and there he saw slee Tod Lowrie (_sly fox_) sitting. And slee Tod Lowrie says: “Where’s tu gaun, Wee Robin?” And Wee Robin says: “I’m gaun awa’ to the king to sing him a sang this guid Yule morning.” And slee Tod Lowrie says: “Come here, Wee Robin, and I’ll let ye see a bonny spot on the tap o’ my tail.” But Wee Robin says: “Na, na! slee Tod Lowrie, na, na! Ye worry’t the wee lammie, but ye’se no worry me.” So Wee Robin flew awa’ till he came to a bonny burn-side, and there he saw a wee callant sitting. And the wee callant says: “Where’s tu gaun, Wee Robin?” And Wee Robin says: “I’m gaun awa’ to the king to sing him a sang this guid Yule morning.” And the wee callant says: “Come here, Wee Robin, and I’ll gie ye a wheen grand moolins (_crumbs_) out o’ my pooch.” But Wee Robin says: “Na, na! wee callant, na, na! Ye speldert (_knocked down_) the gowdspink (_goldfinch_), but ye’se no spelder me.” So Wee Robin flew awa’ till he came to the king; and there he sat on a winnock sole (_plowshare_), and sang the king a bonny sang. And the king says to the queen: “What’ll we gie to Wee Robin for singing us this bonny sang?” And the queen says to the king: “I think we’ll gie him the wee wran to be his wife.” So Wee Robin and the wee wran were married, and the king, and the queen, and a’ the court danced at the waddin’; syne he flew awa’ home to his ain waterside, and hoppit on a brier.

_Attributed to_ ROBERT BURNS.

_The Giant’s Shoes_

Once upon a time there was a large giant who lived in a small castle; at least he didn’t all of him live there, but he managed things in this wise. From his earliest youth up, his legs had been of a surreptitiously small size, unsuited to the rest of his body; so he sat upon the southwest wall of the castle with his legs inside, and his right foot came out of the east gate, and his left foot out of the north gate, while his gloomy but spacious coat tails covered up the south and the west gates; and in this way the castle was defended against all comers, and was deemed impregnable by the military authorities. This, however, as we shall soon see, was not the case, for the giant’s boots were inside as well as his legs, but, as he had neglected to put them on in the giddy days of his youth, he was never afterward able to do so, because there was not enough room. And in this bootless but compact manner he passed his time.

The giant slept for three weeks at a time, and two days after he woke his breakfast was brought to him, consisting of bright brown horses sprinkled on his bread and butter. Besides his boots, the giant had a pair of shoes, and in one of them his wife lived when she was at home; on other occasions she lived in the other shoe. She was a sensible, practical kind of woman, with two wooden legs and a clothes-horse; but in other respects not rich. The wooden legs were kept pointed at the end in order that, if the giant were dissatisfied with his breakfast, he might pick up any stray people that were within reach, using his wife as a fork. This annoyed the inhabitants of the district, so that they built their church in a southwestern direction from the castle behind the giant’s back, that he might not be able to pick them up as they went in. But those who stayed outside to play pitch-and-toss were exposed to great danger and sufferings.

Now, in the village there were two brothers of altogether different tastes and dispositions, and talents, and peculiarities, and accomplishments, and in this way they were discovered not to be the same person. The elder of them was most marvelously good at singing, and could sing the Old Hundredth an old hundred times without stopping. Whenever he did this, he stood on one leg and tied the other round his neck to avoid catching cold and spoiling his voice, but the neighbors fled. And he was also a rare hand at making guava dumplings out of three cats and a shoe-horn, which is an accomplishment seldom met with. But his brother was a more meager, magnanimous person, and his chief accomplishment was to eat a wagon-load of hay overnight, and wake up thatched in the morning.

The whole interest of this story depends upon the fact that the giant’s wife’s clothes-horse broke in consequence of a sudden thaw, being made of organ-pipes. So she took off her wooden legs and stuck them in the ground, tying a string from the top of one to the top of the other, and hung out her clothes to dry on that. Now, this was astutely remarked by the two brothers, who therefore went up in front of the giant after he had had his breakfast. The giant called out, “Fork! fork!” but his wife, trembling, hid herself in the more recondite toe of the second shoe. Then the singing brother began to sing, but he had not taken into account the pious disposition of the giant, who instantly joined in the psalm; and this caused the singing brother to burst his head off, but, as it was tied by the leg, he did not lose it altogether.

But the other brother, being well thatched on account of the quantity of hay he had eaten overnight, lay down between the great toe of the giant and the next, and wriggled. So the giant, being unable to bear tickling in the feet, kicked out in an orthopædal manner; whereupon the castle broke, and he fell backward, and was impaled upon the sharp steeple of the church. So they put a label on him on which was written: “Nudipes Gigantens.”

That’s all.

WILLIAM KINGDON CLIFFORD.

_The Farmer and the Money-Lender_

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

“My friend,” returned the Money-lender piously, “riches come from Ram—ask _him_.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now, this true story shows that a Farmer once got the better of a Money-lender—but only by losing one of his eyes.

_How the Sun, the Moon, and the Wind Went Out to Dinner_

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Singh Rajah and the Cunning Little Jackals_

Once upon a time, in a great jungle, there lived a great lion. He was rajah of all the country round, and every day he used to leave his den, in the deepest shadow of the rocks, and roar with a loud, angry voice; and when he roared, the other animals in the jungle, who were all his subjects, got very much frightened and ran here and there; and Singh Rajah would pounce upon them and kill them, and gobble them up for his dinner.

This went on for a long, long time until, at last, there were no living creatures left in the jungle but two little jackals—a Rajah Jackal and a Ranee Jackal—husband and wife.

A very hard time of it the poor little jackals had, running this way and that to escape the terrible Singh Rajah; and every day the little Ranee Jackal would say to her husband: “I am afraid he will catch us to-day; do you hear how he is roaring? Oh, dear! oh, dear!” And he would answer her: “Never fear; I will take care of you. Let us run on a mile or two. Come; come quick, quick, quick!” And they would both run away as fast as they could.

After some time spent in this way, they found, however, one fine day, that the lion was so close upon them that they could not escape. Then the little Ranee Jackal said: “Husband, husband, I feel much frightened. The Singh Rajah is so angry he will certainly kill us at once. What can we do?” But he answered: “Cheer up; we can save ourselves yet. Come, and I’ll show you how we may manage it.”

So what did these cunning little jackals do but they went to the great lion’s den; and, when he saw them coming, he began to roar and shake his mane, and he said: “You little wretches, come and be eaten at once! I have had no dinner for three whole days, and all that time I have been running over hill and dale to find you. Ro-a-ar! Ro-a-ar! Come and be eaten, I say!” and he lashed his tail and gnashed his teeth, and looked very terrible indeed. Then the Jackal Rajah, creeping quite close up to him, said: “Oh, great Singh Rajah, we all know you are our master, and we would have come at your bidding long ago; but, indeed, sir, there is a much bigger rajah even than you in this jungle, and he tried to catch hold of us and eat us up, and frightened us so much that we were obliged to run away.”

“What do you mean?” growled Singh Rajah. “There is no king in this jungle but me!” “Ah, sire,” answered the jackal, “in truth one would think so, for you are very dreadful. Your very voice is death. But it is as we say, for we, with our own eyes, have seen one with whom you could not compete—whose equal you can no more be than we are yours—whose face is as flaming fire, his step as thunder, and his power supreme.” “It is impossible!” interrupted the old lion; “but show me this rajah of whom you speak so much, that I may destroy him instantly!”

Then the little jackals ran on before him until they reached a great well, and, pointing down to his own reflection in the water, they said: “See, sire, there lives the terrible king of whom we spoke.” When Singh Rajah looked down the well he became very angry, for he thought he saw another lion there. He roared and shook his great mane, and the shadow lion shook his and looked terribly defiant. At last, beside himself with rage at the violence of his opponent, Singh Rajah sprang down to kill him at once, but no other lion was there—only the treacherous reflection—and the sides of the well were so steep that he could not get out again to punish the two jackals, who peeped over the top. After struggling for some time in the deep water, he sank to rise no more. And the little jackals threw stones down upon him from above, and danced round and round the well, singing: “Ao! Ao! Ao! Ao! The king of the forest is dead, is dead! We have killed the great lion who would have killed us! Ao! Ao! Ao! Ao! Ring-a-ting—ding-a-ting! Ring-a-ting—ding-a-ting! Ao! Ao! Ao!”

_Harisarman_

There was a certain Brahman in a certain village, named Harisarman. He was poor and foolish and in evil case for want of employment, and he had very many children, that he might reap the fruit of his misdeeds in a former life. 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 ghee 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 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 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, being 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 that 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 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.

_It Is Quite True_

“What a dreadful story!” exclaimed a hen; “it so frightened me that I did not dare to sleep alone in the hen-house all night. I was glad there were so many of us.” And she began to relate to the other hens who were on the roosting-perch above, the story she had heard, till their feathers stood on end, and even the cock let his comb droop, it was so dreadful.

But we will begin at the beginning, and discover what really had happened in the hen-house on the other side of the town.

One evening just before sunset the hens as usual went early to roost, and among them was a pretty hen with white feathers and short legs, who laid regularly such fine eggs that she was very valuable, and much esteemed by all her relations.

As this hen was flying up in the hen-house to the roosting-perch, she either pecked or scratched herself with her beak till one of her feathers fell off.

“There goes another,” she said good humoredly; “how beautiful I shall look if one falls off every time I scratch myself.” This white hen was not only very much esteemed, but also the merriest of all the hens in the hen-house.

But she forgot all about the fallen feather, and was soon asleep.

It became quite dark. The hens were seated side by side near each other on the perch, but one of them could not sleep, for she had partly heard what the white hen said.

The wakeful hen stayed and thought, and then said to her next neighbor: “Have you heard? I name no one, but a hen has plucked out all her feathers, and is not fit to be seen. If I were the cock, I should despise her.”

The gossiping hen soon after left the hen-house, and went to visit an owl who lived just opposite with her husband and children. The owl families have very sharp ears, and they heard every word that their neighbor the hen said, and the little ones rolled their eyes about while the mother owl fanned herself with her wings.

“To repeat just what you have been told is nothing,” continued the hen, “but I really and truly heard what was said with my own ears, and people must hear a great deal, even if they do disapprove. It is about a hen who has forgotten what was due to herself in her high position; she has pulled out all her feathers, and then allowed the world to see her in that bare condition.”

“_Prenez garde aux enfants_,” said the owl father, “all this is not fit for the children to hear.”

“I will just fly over and tell my neighbor,” said the mother owl; “she is a very highly esteemed owl, and worthy of our acquaintance.”

“Hu! hu! uhu!” howled the children, as the mother flew away and passed by her neighbors, the pigeons, who were in the pigeon-house.

“Have you heard—have you heard about the hen that has plucked off all her feathers, and is going about quite bare? She will freeze to death, if she is not dead already.”

“Ooo! Ooo!” cooed the pigeons.

“I heard of it in the neighboring farm-yard,” said another; “I have as good as seen it with my own eyes. The story is really so improper that no one cares to relate it, but it is certainly true.”

“We believe it, we believe every word,” said the pigeons, and they flew down cooing to the farm-yard, and exclaimed:

“Have you heard about the hen?”

“The hen! why, people now say there are two hens who have plucked off all their feathers; yet one of them is not like the first, who did not wish to be seen, for she has positively tried to attract the attention of everybody.”

“It was a daring game; however, they caught cold, and are both dead from a fever.”

“Wake up! wake up!” crowed the cock as he flew out of the hen-house to the palings. Sleep was still in his eyes, yet he stood and crowed lustily.

“Listen,” said the hen. “There is a cock in the next farm who has unluckily lost three of his wives; they had plucked off all their feathers, and died of cold.”

“Go away!” he exclaimed. “I will not hear it—it is an ugly story. Send it away!”

“Send it away!” hissed the bat, while the hens cackled and the cock crowed.

“Send it away! send it away!” and so the story flew from one farm-yard to another, until it came back at last to the place where the original circumstance occurred.

“There are five hens,” thus _now_ ran the story, “who have plucked off all their feathers, at least so they say; and it made the cock so unhappy that he became quite thin. And he has pecked himself so dreadfully ever since from indignation and shame that at last he has fallen down and died, covered with blood. For these hens had not only disgraced his family, but occasioned a great loss to his owner.”

And the hen who had really lost the one feather naturally could not recognize her own story, but she was a sensible, worthy hen, and she said:

“I despise these cackling hens; however, there shall be no more tittle-tattle of this sort. When people have a secret among themselves to gossip about in future, I will find it out, and send it to the newspapers, so that it may travel through the whole land and be heard of by everybody.

“This will just serve these cackling hens and their families right.”

And the newspapers took it up and so altered the wonderful story that at the last “it _was_ actually true”—“ONE LITTLE FEATHER HAD BECOME FIVE HENS!”

HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.

_Manabozho and his Toe_

Manabozho, the great wizard of the Indians, was so powerful that he began to think there was nothing he could not do. Very wonderful were many of his feats, and he grew more conceited day by day. Now, it chanced that one day he was walking about amusing himself by exercising his extraordinary powers, and at length he came to an encampment where one of the first things he noticed was a child lying in the sunshine, curled up with its toe in its mouth.

Manabozho looked at the child for some time, and wondered at its extraordinary posture.

“I have never seen a child before lie like that,” said he to himself, “but I could lie like it.”

So saying, he put himself down beside the child, and, taking his right foot in his hand, drew it toward his mouth. When he had brought it as near as he could, it was yet a considerable distance away from his lips.

“I will try the left foot,” said Manabozho. He did so, and found that he was no better off; neither of his feet could he get to his mouth. He curled and twisted, and bent his large limbs, and gnashed his teeth in rage to find that he could not get his toe to his mouth. All, however, was vain.

At length he rose, worn out with his exertions and passion, and walked slowly away in a very ill humor, which was not lessened by the sound of the child’s laughter, for Manabozho’s efforts had awakened it.

“Ah, ah!” said Manabozho, “shall I be mocked by a child?”

He did not, however, revenge himself on his victor, but on his way homeward, meeting a boy who did not treat him with proper respect, he transformed him into a cedar-tree.

“At least,” said Manabozho, “I can do something.”

_The Most Frugal of Men_

A man who was considered the most frugal of all the dwellers in a certain kingdom heard of another man who was the most frugal in the whole world. He said to his son thereupon: “We, indeed, live upon little, but if we were more frugal still, we might live upon nothing at all. It will be well worth while for us to get instructions in economy from the Most Frugal of Men.” The son agreed, and the two decided that the son should go and inquire whether the master in economic science would take pupils. An exchange of presents being a necessary preliminary to closer intercourse, the father told the son to take the smallest of coins, one farthing, and to buy a sheet of paper of the cheapest sort. The boy, by bargaining, got two sheets of paper for the farthing. The father put away one sheet, cut the other sheet in halves, and on one half drew a picture of a pig’s head. This he put into a large covered basket, as if it were the thing which it represented—the usual gift sent in token of great respect. The son took the basket, and after a long journey reached the abode of the most frugal man in the world.

The master of the house was absent, but his son received the traveler, learned his errand, and accepted the offering. Having taken from the basket the picture of the pig’s head, he said courteously to his visitor: “I am sorry that we have nothing in the house that is worthy to take the place of the pig’s head in your basket. I will, however, signify our friendly reception of it by putting in four oranges for you to take home with you.”

Thereupon the young man, without having any oranges at hand, made the motions necessary for putting the fruit into the basket. The son of the most frugal man in the kingdom then took the basket and went to his father to tell of thrift surpassing his own.

When the most frugal man in the world returned home, his son told him that a visitor had been there, having come from a great distance to take lessons in economy. The father inquired what offering he brought as an introduction, and the son showed the small outline of the pig’s head on thin brown paper. The father looked at it, and then asked his son what he had sent as a return present. The son told him he had merely made the motions necessary for transferring four oranges, and showed how he had clasped the imaginary fruit and deposited it in the visitor’s basket. The father immediately flew into a terrible rage and boxed the boy’s ears, exclaiming: “You extravagant wretch! With your fingers thus far apart you appeared to give him large oranges. Why didn’t you measure out small ones?”

_The Moon-Cake_

A little boy had a cake that a big boy coveted. Designing to get the cake without making the little boy cry so loud as to attract his mother’s attention, the big boy remarked that the cake would be prettier if it were more like the moon. The little boy thought that a cake like the moon must be desirable, and on being assured by the big boy that he had made many such, he handed over his cake for manipulation. The big boy took out a mouthful, leaving a crescent with jagged edge. The little boy was not pleased by the change, and began to whimper; whereupon the big boy pacified him by saying that he would make the cake into a half-moon. So he nibbled off the horns of the crescent, and gnawed the edge smooth; but when the half-moon was made, the little boy perceived that there was hardly any cake left, and he again began to snivel. The big boy again diverted him by telling him that, if he did not like so small a moon, he should have one that was just the size of the real orb. He then took the cake, and explained that, just before the new moon is seen, the old moon disappears. Then he swallowed the rest of the cake and ran off, leaving the little boy waiting for the new moon.

_The Ladle that Fell from the Moon_

Once there was an old woman who lived on what she got by wile from her relatives and neighbors. Her husband’s brother lived alone with his only son, in a house near hers, and when the son brought home a wife the old woman went to call on the bride. During the call she inquired of the bride whether she had not, since her arrival in the house, heard a scratching at night among the boxes containing her wedding outfit. The bride said she had not. A few days later the old woman came again, and during the visit the bride remarked that, before the matter was mentioned, she had heard no scratching among her boxes, but that since that time she had listened for it, and had heard it every night. The old woman advised her to look carefully after her clothing, saying that there were evidently many mice in the house, and that she would be likely at any time to find her best garments nibbled into shreds. The old woman knew there was no cat in the house, but she inquired whether there was one, and on hearing that there was not, she offered to lend the young woman her own black-and-white cat, saying that it would soon extirpate all the mice. The bride accepted the loan, and the old woman brought the cat, and left it in the bride’s apartment. After a few hours the cat disappeared, and the bride, supposing it to have gone home, made no search for it. It did, indeed, go home, and the old woman secretly disposed of it; but several days later she came to the young woman and said that, when she lent the cat, her house had been free from mice, but that, as soon as the cat was gone, the mice came and multiplied so fast that now everything was overrun by them, and she would be obliged to take the cat home again. The young woman told her that the cat went away the same day that it came, and she had supposed it had gone home. The old woman said it had not, and that nothing could compensate her for the loss of it, for she had reared it herself; that there was never before seen such a cat for catching mice; that a cat, spotted as that one was, was seldom found; and that it was of the rare breed which gave rise to the common saying:

A coal-black cat, with snowy loins, Is worth its weight in silver coins.

and that the weight of her cat was two hundred ounces.

The young woman was greatly surprised by this estimate of the value of the lost cat, and went to her father-in-law and related all that had occurred. The father-in-law, knowing the character of the old woman, could neither eat nor sleep, so harassed was he by the expectation that she would worry his daughter-in-law till the two hundred ounces of silver should be paid. The young woman, being a new-comer, thought but lightly of the matter, till the old woman came again and again to make mention of the cat. When it became apparent that she must defend herself, the young woman asked her father-in-law if he had ever lent anything to the old woman; and when he said he could not remember having lent anything, she begged him to think carefully, and see if he could not recall the loan of a tool, a dish, or a fagot. He finally recollected that he had lent to her an old wooden ladle, but he said it originally cost but a few farthings, and was certainly not worth speaking about.

The next time the old woman came to dun for the amount due for her cat, the young woman asked her to return the borrowed ladle. The old woman said that the ladle was old and valueless; that she had allowed the children to play with it, and that they had dropped it in the dirt, where it had lain until she had picked it up and used it for kindlings. The bride responded: “You expect to enrich yourself and your family by means of your cat. I and my family also want money. Since you cannot give back the ladle, we will both go before the magistrate and present our cases. If your cat is adjudged to be worth more than my ladle, I will pay you the excess; and if my ladle be worth more than your cat, then you must pay me.” Being sure that the cat would, by any judge, be considered of greater value than the ladle, the old woman agreed to the proposition, and the two went before the magistrate. The young woman courteously gave precedence to the elder, and allowed her to make the accusation. The old woman set forth her case, and claimed two hundred ounces of silver as a compensation for the loss of the cat. When she had concluded her statement, the judge called on the young woman for her defense. She said she could not disprove the statement, but that the claim was offset by a ladle that had been borrowed by the plaintiff. There was a common saying:

In the moon overhead, at its full, you can see The trunk, branch, and leaf of a cinnamon tree.

A branch from this tree had one night been blown down before her father-in-law’s door, and he had had a ladle made from the wood. Whatever the ladle was put into never diminished by use. Whether wine, oil, rice, or money, the bulk remained the same if no ladle beside this one were used in dipping it. A foreign innkeeper, hearing of this ladle, came and offered her father-in-law three thousand ounces of silver for it, but the offer was refused. And this ladle was the one that the plaintiff had borrowed and destroyed.

The magistrate, on hearing this defense, understood that the cat had been a pretext for extortion, and decided that the two claims offset each other, so that no payment was due from either one.

_The Young Head of the Family_

There was once a family consisting of a father, his three sons, and his two daughters-in-law. The two daughters-in-law, wives of the two elder sons, had but recently been brought into the house, and were both from one village a few miles away. Having no mother-in-law living, they were obliged to appeal to their father-in-law whenever they wished to visit their former homes, and as they were lonesome and homesick they perpetually bothered the old man by asking leave of absence.

Vexed by these constant petitions, he set himself to invent a method of putting an end to them, and at last gave them leave in this wise: “You are always begging me to allow you to go and visit your mothers, and thinking that I am very hard-hearted because I do not let you go. Now you may go, but only upon condition that when you come back you will each bring me something I want. The one shall bring me some fire wrapped in paper, and the other some wind in a paper. Unless you promise to bring me these, you are never to ask me to let you go home; and if you go, and fail to get these for me, you are never to come back.”

The old man did not suppose that these conditions would be accepted, but the girls were young and thoughtless, and in their anxiety to get away did not consider the impossibility of obtaining the articles required. So they made ready with speed, and in great glee started off on foot to visit their mothers. After they had walked a long distance, chatting about what they should do and whom they should see in their native village, the high heel of one of them slipped from under her foot, and she fell down. Owing to this mishap both stopped to adjust the misplaced footgear, and while doing this the conditions under which alone they could return to their husbands came to mind, and they began to cry.

While they sat there crying by the roadside a young girl came riding along from the fields on a water buffalo. She stopped and asked them what was the matter, and whether she could help them. They told her she could do them no good; but she persisted in offering her sympathy and inviting their confidence, till they told her their story, and then she at once said that if they would go home with her she would show them a way out of their trouble. Their case seemed so hopeless to themselves, and the child was so sure of her own power to help them, that they finally accompanied her to her father’s house, where she showed them how to comply with their father-in-law’s demand.

For the first a paper lantern only would be needed. When lighted it would be a fire, and its paper surface would compass the blaze, so that it would truly be “some fire wrapped in paper.” For the second a paper fan would suffice. When flapped, wind would issue from it, and the “wind wrapped in paper” could thus be carried to the old man.

The two young women thanked the wise child, and went on their way rejoicing. After a pleasant visit to their old homes, they took a lantern and a fan, and returned to their father-in-law’s house. As soon as he saw them he began to vent his anger at their light regard for his commands, but they assured him that they had perfectly obeyed him, and showed him that what they had brought fulfilled the conditions prescribed. Much astonished, he inquired how it was that they had suddenly become so astute, and they told him the story of their journey, and of the little girl who had so opportunely come to their relief. He inquired whether the little girl was already betrothed, and, finding that she was not, engaged a go-between to see if he could get her for a wife for his youngest son.

Having succeeded in securing the girl as a daughter-in-law, he brought her home, and told all the rest of the family that as there was no mother in the house, and as this girl had shown herself to be possessed of extraordinary wisdom, she should be the head of the household.

The wedding festivities being over, the sons of the old man made ready to return to their usual occupations on the farm; but, according to their father’s order, they came to the young bride for instructions. She told them that they were never to go to or from the fields empty-handed. When they went they must carry fertilizers of some sort for the land, and when they returned they must bring bundles of sticks for fuel. They obeyed, and soon had the land in fine condition, and so much fuel gathered that none need be bought. When there were no more sticks, roots, or weeds to bring, she told them to bring stones instead; and they soon accumulated an immense pile of stones, which were heaped in a yard near their house.

One day an expert in the discovery of precious stones came along, and saw in this pile a block of jade of great value. In order to get possession of this stone at a small cost, he undertook to buy the whole heap, pretending that he wished to use them in building. The little head of the family asked an exorbitant price for them, and, as he could not induce her to take less, he promised to pay her the sum she asked, and to come two days later to bring the money and to remove the stones. That night the girl thought about the reason for the buyer’s being willing to pay so large a sum for the stones, and concluded that the heap must contain a gem. The next morning she sent her father-in-law to invite the buyer to supper, and she instructed the men of her family in regard to his entertainment. The best of wine was to be provided, and the father-in-law was to induce him to talk of precious stones, and to cajole him into telling in what way they were to be distinguished from other stones.

The head of the family, listening behind a curtain, heard how the valuable stone in her heap could be discovered. She hastened to find and remove it from the pile; and, when her guest had recovered from the effect of the banquet, he saw that the value had departed from his purchase. He went to negotiate again with the seller, and she conducted the conference with such skill that she obtained the price originally agreed upon for the heap of stones, and a large sum besides for the one in her possession.

The family, having become wealthy, built an ancestral hall of fine design and elaborate workmanship, and put the words “No Sorrow” as an inscription over the entrance. Soon after, a mandarin passed that way, and, noticing this remarkable inscription, had his sedan-chair set down, that he might inquire who were the people that professed to have no sorrow. He sent for the head of the family, was much surprised on seeing so young a woman thus appear, and remarked: “Yours is a singular family. I have never before seen one without sorrow, nor one with so young a head. I will fine you for your impudence. Go and weave me a piece of cloth as long as this road.”

“Very well,” responded the little woman; “so soon as your Excellency shall have found the two ends of the road, and informed me as to the number of feet in its length, I will at once begin the weaving.”

Finding himself at fault, the mandarin added, “And I also fine you as much oil as there is water in the sea.”

“Certainly,” responded the woman; “as soon as you shall have measured the sea, and sent me correct information as to the number of gallons, I will at once begin to press out the oil from my beans.”

“Indeed,” said the mandarin, “since you are so sharp, perhaps you can penetrate my thoughts. If you can, I will fine you no more. I hold this pet quail in my hand; now tell me whether I mean to squeeze it to death, or to let it fly in the air.”

“Well,” said the woman, “I am an obscure commoner, and you are a famed magistrate; if you are no more knowing than I, you have no right to fine me at all. Now I stand with one foot on one side my threshold and the other foot on the other side; tell me whether I mean to go in or come out. If you cannot guess my riddle, you should not require me to guess yours.”

Being unable to guess her intention the mandarin took his departure, and the family lived long in opulence and good repute under its chosen head.

_A Dreadful Boar_

A poor old woman who lived with her one little granddaughter in a wood was out gathering sticks for fuel, and found a green stalk of sugar-cane, which she added to her bundle. She presently met an elf in the form of a wild Boar, that asked her for the cane, but she declined giving it to him, saying that, at her age, to stoop and to rise again was to earn what she picked up, and that she was going to take the cane home, and let her little granddaughter suck its sap. The Boar, angry at her refusal, said that he would, during the coming night, eat her granddaughter instead of the cane, and went off into the wood.

When the old woman reached her cabin she sat down by the door and wailed, for she knew she had no means of defending herself against the Boar. While she sat crying, a vender of needles came along and asked her what was the matter. She told him, and he said that all he could do for her was to give her a box of needles. This he did, and went on his way. The old woman stuck the needles thickly over the lower half of her door, on its outer side, and then she went on crying. Just then a man came along with a basket of crabs, heard her lamentations, and stopped to inquire what ailed her. She told him, and he said he knew no help for her, but he would do the best he could for her by giving her half his crabs. The old woman put the crabs in her water-jar, behind her door, and again sat down and cried. A farmer soon came along from the fields, leading his ox, and he also asked the cause of her distress and heard her sad story. He said he was sorry he could not think of any way of preventing the evil she expected, but that he would leave his ox to stay all night with her, as it might be a sort of company for her in her loneliness. She led the ox into her cabin, tied it to the head of her bedstead, gave it some straw, and then cried again.

A courier, returning on horseback from a neighboring town, next passed her door, and dismounted to inquire what troubled her. Having heard her tale, he said he would leave his horse to stay with her, and make the ox more contented. So she tied the horse to the foot of her bed, and, thinking how surely evil was coming upon her with the night, she burst out crying anew. A boy just then came along with a snapping-turtle that he had caught, and stopped to ask what had happened to her. On learning the cause of her weeping, he said it was of no use to contend against sprites, but that he would give her his snapping-turtle as a proof of his sympathy. She took the turtle, tied it in front of her bedstead, and continued to cry.

Some men who were carrying mill-stones then came along, inquired into her trouble, and expressed their compassion by giving her a mill-stone, which they rolled into her back yard. A little later a man arrived carrying hoes and pickax, and asked her why she was crying so hard. She told him her grief, and he said he would gladly help her if he could, but he was only a well-digger, and could do nothing for her other than to dig her a well. She pointed out a place in the middle of her back yard, and he went to work and quickly dug a well.

On his departure the old woman cried again, until a paper-seller came and inquired what was the matter. When she had told him, he gave her a large sheet of white paper, as a token of pity, and she laid it smoothly over the mouth of the well.

Nightfall came; the old woman shut and barred her door, put her granddaughter snugly on the wall-side of the bed, and then lay down beside her, to await the foe.

At midnight the Boar came, and threw himself against the door to break it in. The needles wounded him sorely, so that when he had gained an entrance he was heated and thirsty, and went to the water-jar to drink. When he thrust in his snout the crabs attacked him, clung to his bristles and pinched his ears, till he rolled over and over to disencumber himself. Then in a rage he approached the front of the bed, but the snapping-turtle nipped his tail, and made him retreat under the feet of the horse, who kicked him over to the ox, who tossed him back to the horse; and thus beset, he was glad to escape to the back yard to take a rest, and to consider the situation. Seeing a clean paper spread on the ground, he went to lie upon it, and fell into the well. The old woman heard the fall, rushed out, rolled the mill-stone down on him, and crushed him.

_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 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 tonight, 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.

_The Wonderful Tea-Kettle_

A long, long time ago, at the temple of Morinji, in the province of Kotsuke, there lived an old priest.

This old priest was very fond of the ceremonial preparing and drinking of tea known as _Chanoyu_; indeed, it was his chief interest and pleasure in life to conduct this ceremony.

One day he chanced to find in a second-hand shop a very nice-looking old Tea-kettle, which he bought and took home with him, highly pleased by its fine shape and artistic appearance.

Next day he brought out his new purchase, and sat for a long time turning it round on this side and on that, and admiring it.

“You are a regular beauty, that’s what you are,” he said; “I shall invite all my friends to the _Chanoyu_, and how astonished they will be at finding such an exquisite kettle as this!”

He placed his treasure on the top of a box where he could see it to the best advantage, and sat admiring it and planning how he should invite his guests. After a while he became drowsy and began to nod, and at last fell forward, his head on his desk, fast asleep.

Then a wonderful transformation took place. The Tea-kettle began to move. From its spout appeared a hairy head; at the other side out came a fine bushy tail; next, four feet made themselves visible, while fine fur seemed gradually to cover the surface of the kettle. At last, jumping off the box, it began capering about the room for all the world just like a badger.

Three young novices, pupils of the priest, who were at study in the next room, heard the noise; and, when one of them peeped through the sliding doors, what was his astonishment to see the Tea-kettle on four feet dancing up and down the room!

He cried out: “Oh! what a wonderful thing! The Tea-kettle is changed into a badger!”

“What!” said the second novice. “Do you mean to say that the Tea-kettle is turned into a badger? What nonsense!” So saying, he pushed his companion to one side and peeped in, but he also was terrified by what he saw, and screamed: “It’s a goblin! It’s coming at us; let us run away!”

The third novice was not so easily frightened.

“Come, this is rather fun,” said he; “how the creature does jump, to be sure! I will rouse the master, and let him see, too.”

So he went into the room and shook the priest, crying: “Wake! Master, wake! A strange thing has happened.”

“What’s the matter?” said the old man, drowsily rubbing his eyes, “what a noisy fellow you are!”

“Any one would be noisy when such a strange thing as this is going on,” said the novice. “Only look, master, your Tea-kettle has got feet, and is running about.”

“What! what! what! What’s that you say?” asked the priest again. “The kettle got feet! What’s this! Let me see!”

But by the time the old man was thoroughly roused, the Tea-kettle had turned into its ordinary shape, and stood quietly on its box again.

“What foolish young fellows you are!” said the priest. “There stands a kettle on the top of a box; surely there is nothing very strange in that. No, no, I have heard of the rolling-pin that grew a pair of wings and flew away, but, long as I have lived, never have I heard before of a tea-kettle walking about on its own feet. You will never make me believe that.”

But for all that, the priest was a little uneasy in his mind, and kept thinking of the incident all that day. When evening came, and he was alone in his room, he took down the kettle, filled it with water, and set it upon the embers to boil, intending to make some tea. But, as soon as the water began to boil, “Hot! hot!” cried the kettle, and jumped off the fire.

“Help! help!” cried the priest, terrified out of his wits. But when the novices rushed to his help, the kettle at once resumed its natural form; so one of them, seizing a stick, cried, “We’ll soon find out whether it’s alive or not,” and began beating it with might and main. There was evidently no life in the thing, and only a metallic clang! clang! responded to his lusty blows.

Then the old priest heartily repented having bought the mischievous Tea-kettle, and was debating in his own mind how he should get rid of it when who should drop in but the tinker?

“Here’s the very man,” thought the priest. A bargain was soon struck; the tinker bought the Tea-kettle for a few coppers, and carried it home, well pleased with his purchase.

Before going to bed he took another look at it, and found it still better than he had at first thought, so he went to sleep that night in the best of spirits.

In the midst of a pleasant dream the tinker suddenly started up, thinking he heard somebody moving in the room, but, when he opened his eyes and looked about, he could see nobody.

“It was only a dream, I suppose,” said he to himself as he turned over and went to sleep again.

But he was disturbed once more by some one calling: “Tinker! tinker! Get up! get up!”

This time he sprang up, wide awake, and lo and behold! there was the Tea-kettle, with the head, tail, feet, and fur of a badger strutting up and down the room!

“Goblin! goblin!” shrieked the tinker. But the Tea-kettle laughed and said:

“Don’t be frightened, my dear tinker. I am not a goblin, only a wonderful tea-kettle. My name is _Bumbuku-Chagama_, and I will bring good luck to any one who treats me well; but, of course, I don’t like to be set on the fire, and then beaten with sticks, as happened to me up at the temple yesterday.”

“How can I please you, then?” asked the tinker. “Shall I keep you in a box?”

“Oh! no, no!” answered the Tea-kettle; “I like nice sweet things to eat, and sometimes a little wine to drink, just like yourself. Will you keep me in your house and feed me? And, as I would not be a burden upon you, I will work for you in any way you like.”

To this the tinker agreed.

Next morning he provided a good feast for _Bumbuku_, who then spoke:

“I certainly am a wonderful and accomplished Tea-kettle, and my advice is that you take me round the country as a show, with accompaniments of singing and music.”

The tinker, thinking well of this advice, at once started a show, which he named the _Bumbuku-Chagama_. The lucky Tea-kettle at once made the affair a success, for not only did he walk about on four legs, but he danced the tight rope, and went through all kinds of acrobatic performances, ending by making a profound bow to the spectators, and begging for their future patronage.

The fame of these performances soon spread abroad, and the theater was filled daily to overflowing until, at length, even the princes of the land sent to order the tinker and his kettle to come to them, and the show would take place, to the great delight of the princesses and ladies of the court.

At last the tinker grew so rich that he retired from business, and, wishing his faithful kettle also to be at rest, he took it back, together with a large share of his wealth, to the temple of Morinji, where it was laid up as a precious treasure and, some say, even worshiped as a saint.

_The Wonderful Mallet_

Once upon a time there were two brothers. The elder was an honest and good man, but he was very poor, while the younger, who was dishonest and stingy, had managed to pile up a large fortune. The name of the elder was Kané, and that of the younger was Chô.

Now, one day Kané went to Chô’s house, and begged for the loan of some seed-rice and some silkworms’ eggs, for last season had been unfortunate, and he was in want of both.

Chô had plenty of good rice and excellent silkworms’ eggs, but he was such a miser that he did not want to lend them. At the same time, he felt ashamed to refuse his brother’s request, so he gave him some worm-eaten musty rice and some dead eggs, which he felt sure would never hatch.

Kané, never suspecting that his brother would play him such a shabby trick, put plenty of mulberry leaves with the eggs, to be food for the silkworms when they should appear. Appear they did, and throve and grew wonderfully, much better than those of the stingy brother, who was angry and jealous when he heard of it.

Going to Kané’s house one day, and finding his brother was out, Chô took a knife and killed all the silkworms, cutting each poor little creature in two; then he went home without having been seen by anybody.

When Kané came home he was dismayed to find his silkworms in this state, but he did not suspect who had done him this bad trick, and tried to feed them with mulberry leaves as before. The silkworms came to life again, and doubled the number, for now each half was a living worm. They grew and throve, and the silk they spun was twice as much as Kané had expected. So now he began to prosper.

The envious Chô, seeing this, cut all his own silkworms in half, but, alas! they did not come to life again, so he lost a great deal of money, and became more jealous than ever.

Kané also planted the rice-seed which he had borrowed from his brother, and it sprang up, and grew and flourished far better than Chô’s had done.

The rice ripened well, and he was just intending to cut and harvest it when a flight of thousands upon thousands of swallows came and began to devour it. Kané was much astonished, and shouted and made as much noise as he could in order to drive them away. They flew away, indeed, but came back immediately, so that he kept driving them away, and they kept flying back again.

At last he pursued them into a distant field, where he lost sight of them. He was by this time so hot and tired that he sat down to rest. By little and little his eyes closed, his head dropped upon a mossy bank, and he fell fast asleep.

Then he dreamed that a merry band of children came into the field, laughing and shouting. They sat down upon the ground in a ring, and one who seemed the eldest, a boy of fourteen or fifteen, came close to the bank on which he lay asleep, and, raising a big stone near his head, drew from under it a small wooden Mallet.

Then in his dream Kané saw this big boy stand in the middle of the ring with the Mallet in his hand, and ask the children each in turn, “What would you like the Mallet to bring you?” The first child answered, “A kite.” The big boy shook the Mallet, upon which appeared immediately a fine kite with tail and string all complete. The next cried, “A battledore.” Out sprang a splendid battledore and a shower of shuttlecocks. Then a little girl shyly whispered, “A doll.” The Mallet was shaken, and there stood a beautifully dressed doll. “I should like all the fairy-tale books that have ever been written in the whole world,” said a bright-eyed intelligent maiden, and no sooner had she spoken than piles upon piles of beautiful books appeared. And so at last the wishes of all the children were granted, and they stayed a long time in the field with the things the Mallet had given them. At last they got tired, and prepared to go home; the big boy first carefully hiding the Mallet under the stone from whence he had taken it. Then all the children went away.

Presently Kané awoke, and gradually remembered his dream. In preparing to rise he turned round, and there, close to where his head had lain, was the big stone he had seen in his dream. “How strange!” he thought, expecting he hardly knew what; he raised the stone, and there lay the Mallet!

He took it home with him, and, following the example of the children he had seen in his dream, shook it, at the same time calling out, “Gold” or “Rice,” “Silk” or “Saké.” Whatever he called for immediately flew out of the Mallet, so that he could have everything he wanted, and as much of it as he liked.

Kané being now a rich and prosperous man, Chô was of course jealous of him, and determined to find a magic mallet which would do as much for him. He came, therefore, to Kané and borrowed seed-rice, which he planted and tended with care, being impatient for it to grow and ripen soon.

It grew well and ripened soon, and now Chô watched daily for the swallows to appear. And, to be sure, one day a flight of swallows came and began to eat up the rice.

Chô was delighted at this, and drove them away, pursuing them to the distant field where Kané had followed them before. There he lay down, intending to go to sleep as his brother had done, but the more he tried to go to sleep the wider awake he seemed.

Presently the band of children came skipping and jumping, so he shut his eyes and pretended to be asleep, but all the time watched anxiously what the children would do. They sat down in a ring, as before, and the big boy came close to Chô’s head and lifted the stone. He put down his hand to lift the Mallet, but no mallet was there.

One of the children said, “Perhaps that lazy old farmer has taken our Mallet.” So the big boy laid hold of Chô’s nose, which was rather long, and gave it a good pinch, and all the other children ran up and pinched and pulled his nose, and the nose itself got longer and longer; first it hung down to his chin, then over his chest, next down to his knees, and at last to his very feet.

It was in vain that Chô protested his innocence; the children pinched and pummeled him to their hearts’ content, then capered round him, shouting and laughing, and making game of him, and so at last went away.

Now Chô was left alone, a sad and angry man. Holding his long nose painfully in both hands, he slowly took his way toward his brother Kané’s house. Here he related all that had happened to him from the very day when he had behaved so badly about the seed-rice and silkworms’ eggs. He humbly begged his brother to pardon him, and, if possible, do something to restore his unfortunate nose to its proper size.

The kind-hearted Kané pitied him, and said: “You have been dishonest and mean, and selfish and envious, and that is why you have got this punishment. If you promise to behave better for the future, I will try what can be done.”

So saying, he took the Mallet and rubbed Chô’s nose with it gently, and the nose gradually became shorter and shorter until at last it came back to its proper shape and size. But ever after, if at any time Chô felt inclined to be selfish and dishonest, as he did now and then, his nose began to smart and burn, and he fancied he felt it beginning to grow. So great was his terror of having a long nose again that these symptoms never failed to bring him back to his good behavior.

_The Tongue-Cut Sparrow_

Once upon a time a cross old woman laid some starch in a basin, intending to put it in the clothes in her washtub; but a Sparrow that a woman, her neighbor, kept as a pet, ate it up. Seeing this, the cross old woman seized the Sparrow and, saying “You hateful thing!” cut its tongue and let it go.

When the neighbor woman heard that her pet Sparrow had got its tongue cut for its offense, she was greatly grieved, and set out with her husband over mountains and plains to find where it had gone, crying: “Where does the tongue-cut Sparrow stay? Where does the tongue-cut Sparrow stay?”

At last they found its home. When the Sparrow saw that its old master and mistress had come to see it, it rejoiced, and brought them into its house and thanked them for their kindness in old times. It spread a table for them, and loaded it with _sake_ and fish till there was no more room, and made its wife and children and grandchildren all serve the table.

At last, throwing away its drinking-cup, it danced a jig called the Sparrow’s dance, and thus they spent the day. When it began to grow dark, and there was talk of going home, the Sparrow brought out two wicker baskets and said: “Will you take the heavy one, or shall I give you the light one?” The old people replied: “We are old, so give us the light one; it will be easier to carry it.” The Sparrow then gave them the light basket, and they returned with it to their home. “Let us open and see what is in it,” they said. And when they had opened it and looked, they found gold and silver and jewels and rolls of silk. They never expected anything like this. The more they took out, the more they found inside. The supply was inexhaustible, so that the house at once became rich and prosperous. When the cross old woman who had cut the Sparrow’s tongue saw this, she was filled with envy, and went and asked her neighbor where the Sparrow lived, and all about the way. “I will go, too,” she said, and at once set out on her search.

Again the Sparrow brought out two wicker baskets, and asked as before: “Will you take the heavy one, or shall I give you the light one?”

Thinking the treasure would be great in proportion to the weight of the basket, the old woman replied, “Let me have the heavy one.”

Receiving this, she started home with it on her back, the sparrows laughing at her as she went. It was as heavy as a stone, and hard to carry, but at last she got back with it to her house.

Then, when she took off the lid and looked in, a whole troop of frightful creatures came bouncing out from the inside, and at once they caught her up and flew away with her.

_Battle of the Monkey and the Crab_

A Monkey and a Crab once met when going round a mountain.

The Monkey had picked up a persimmon-seed, and the Crab had a piece of toasted rice-cake. The Monkey, seeing this, and wishing to get something that could be turned to good account at once, said, “Pray, exchange that rice-cake for this persimmon-seed.” The Crab, without a word, gave up his cake, and took the persimmon-seed and planted it. At once it sprung up, and soon became a tree so high one had to look far up to see it. The tree was full of persimmons, but the Crab had no means of climbing it, so he asked the Monkey to scramble up and get the fruit for him. The Monkey got up on a limb of the tree and began to eat the persimmons. The unripe ones he threw at the Crab, but all the ripe and good ones he put in his pouch. The Crab under the tree thus got his shell badly bruised, and only by good luck escaped into his hole, where he lay distressed with pain, and not able to get up. Now, when the relatives and household of the Crab heard how matters stood, they were surprised and angry, and declared war, and attacked the Monkey, who, leading forth a numerous following, bade defiance to the other party. The crabs, finding themselves unable to meet and cope with this force, became still more exasperated and enraged, and retreated into their hole and held a council of war. Then came a rice-mortar, a pestle, a bee, and an egg, and together they devised a deep-laid plot to be avenged.

First, they requested that peace be made with the crabs; and thus they induced the king of the monkeys to enter their hole unattended, and seated him on the hearth. The Monkey, not suspecting any plot, took the _hibashi_, or poker, to stir up the slumbering fire, when bang! went the egg, which was lying hidden in the ashes, and burned the Monkey’s arm. Surprised and alarmed, he plunged his arm into the pickle-tub in the kitchen to relieve the pain of the burn. Then the bee which was hidden near the tub stung him sharply in his face, already wet with tears. Without waiting to brush off the bee, and howling bitterly, he rushed for the back door; but just then some seaweed entangled his legs and made him slip. Then down came the pestle, tumbling on him from a shelf, and the mortar, too, came rolling down on him from the roof of the porch and broke his back, and so weakened him that he was unable to rise up. Then out came the crabs in a crowd, and brandishing on high their pinchers they pinched the Monkey so sorely that he begged them for forgiveness and promised never to repeat his meanness and treachery.

_The Cub’s Triumph_

Once upon a time there lived in a forest a badger and a mother fox with one little Cub.

There were no other beasts in the wood, because the hunters had killed them all with bows and arrows, or by setting snares. The deer, and the wild boar, the hares, the weasels, and the stoats—even the bright little squirrels—had been shot, or had fallen into traps. At last, only the badger and the fox, with her young one, were left, and they were starving, for they dared not venture from their holes for fear of the traps.

They did not know what to do, or where to turn for food. At last the badger said:

“I have thought of a plan. I will pretend to be dead. You must change yourself into a man, and take me into the town and sell me. With the money you get for me, you must buy food and bring it into the forest. When I get a chance I will run away, and come back to you, and we will eat our dinner together. Mind you wait for me, and don’t eat any of it until I come. Next week it will be your turn to be dead, and my turn to sell—do you see?”

The fox thought this plan would do very well; so, as soon as the badger had lain down and pretended to be dead, she said to her little Cub:

“Be sure not to come out of the hole until I come back. Be very good and quiet, and I will soon bring you some nice dinner.”

She then changed herself into a wood-cutter, took the badger by the heels and swung him over her shoulders, and trudged off into the town. There she sold the badger for a fair price, and with the money bought some fish, some _tofu_,[8] and some vegetables. She then ran back to the forest as fast as she could, changed herself into a fox again, and crept into her hole to see if little Cub was all right. Little Cub was there, safe enough, but very hungry, and wanted to begin upon the _tofu_ at once.

Footnote 8:

Curd made from white beans.

“No, no,” said the mother fox. “Fair play’s a jewel. We must wait for the badger.”

Soon the badger arrived, quite out of breath with running so fast.

“I hope you haven’t been eating any of the dinner,” he panted. “I could not get away sooner. The man you sold me to, brought his wife to look at me, and boasted how cheap he had bought me. You should have asked twice as much. At last they left me alone, and then I jumped up and ran away as fast as I could.”

The badger, the fox, and the Cub now sat down to dinner, and had a fine feast, the badger taking care to get the best bits for himself.

Some days after, when all the food was finished, and they had begun to get hungry again, the badger said to the fox:

“Now it’s your turn to die.” So the fox pretended to be dead, and the badger changed himself into a hunter, shouldered the fox, and went off to the town, where he made a good bargain, and sold her for a nice little sum of money.

You have seen already that the badger was greedy and selfish. What do you think he did now? He wished to have all the money, and all the food it would buy for himself, so he whispered to the man who had bought the fox:

“That fox is only pretending to be dead; take care he doesn’t run away.”

“We’ll soon settle that,” said the man, and he knocked the fox on the head with a big stick, and killed her.

The badger next laid out the money in buying all the nice things he could think of. He carried them off to the forest, and there ate them all up himself, without giving one bit to the poor little Cub, who was all alone, crying for its mother, very sad, and very hungry.

Poor little motherless Cub! But, being a clever little fox, he soon began to put two and two together, and at last felt quite sure that the badger had, in some way, caused the loss of his mother.

He made up his mind that he would punish the badger; and, as he was not big enough or strong enough to do it by force, he was obliged to try another plan.

He did not let the badger see how angry he was with him, but said in a friendly way:

“Let us have a game of changing ourselves into men. If you can change yourself so cleverly that I cannot find you out, you will have won the game; but, if I change myself so that you cannot find me out, then I shall have won the game. I will begin, if you like; and, you may be sure, I shall turn myself into somebody very grand while I am about it.”

The badger agreed. So then, instead of changing himself at all, the cunning little Cub just went and hid himself behind a tree, and watched to see what would happen. Presently there came along the bridge leading into the town a nobleman, seated in a sedan-chair, a great crowd of servants and men at arms following him.

The badger was quite sure that this must be the fox, so he ran up to the sedan-chair, put in his head, and cried:

“I’ve found you out! I’ve won the game!”

“A badger! A badger! Off with his head,” cried the nobleman.

So one of the retainers cut off the badger’s head with one blow of his sharp sword, the little Cub all the time laughing unseen behind the tree.

_The Silly Jelly-Fish_

Once upon a time the king of the dragons, who had till then lived as a bachelor, took it into his head to get married. His bride was a young dragonette just sixteen years old—lovely enough, in very sooth, to become the wife of a king. Great were the rejoicings on the occasion. The fishes, both great and small, came to pay their respects, and to offer gifts to the newly wedded pair; and for some days all was feasting and merriment.

But, alas! even dragons have their trials. Before a month had passed, the young dragon queen fell ill. The doctors dosed her with every medicine that was known to them, but all to no purpose. At last they shook their heads, declaring that there was nothing more to be done. The illness must take its course, and she would probably die. But the sick queen said to her husband:

“I know of something that will cure me. Only fetch me a live monkey’s liver to eat, and I shall get well at once.”

“A live monkey’s liver!” exclaimed the king. “What are you thinking of, my dear? Why! you forget that we dragons live in the sea, while monkeys live far away from here, among the forest trees on land. A monkey’s liver! Why! darling, you must be mad.” Hereupon the young dragon queen burst into tears. “I only ask you for one small thing,” whimpered she, “and you won’t get it for me. I always thought you didn’t really love me. Oh! I wish I had stayed at home with my own m-m-m-mama and my own papa-a-a-a!” Here her voice choked with sobs, and she could say no more.

Well, of course the dragon king did not like to have it thought that he was unkind to his beautiful young wife. So he sent for his trusty servant, the Jelly-fish, and said: “It is rather a difficult job, but what I want you to try to do is to swim across to the land, and persuade a live monkey to come here with you. In order to make the monkey willing to come, you can tell him how much nicer everything is here in dragon-land than away where he lives. But what I really want him for is to cut out his liver, and use it as medicine for your young mistress, who, as you know, is dangerously ill.”

So the Jelly-fish went off on his strange errand. In those days he was just like any other fish, with eyes, and fins, and a tail. He even had little feet, which made him able to walk on the land as well as to swim in the water. It did not take him many hours to swim across to the country where the monkeys lived; and, fortunately, there just happened to be a fine monkey skipping about among the branches of the trees near the place where he landed. So the Jelly-fish said: “Mr. Monkey, I have come to tell you of a country far more beautiful than this. It lies beyond the waves, and is called dragon-land. There is pleasant weather there all the year round; there is always plenty of ripe fruit on the trees, and there are none of those mischievous creatures called men. If you will come with me, I will take you there. Just get on my back.”

The monkey thought it would be fun to see a new country. So he leaped on to the Jelly-fish’s back, and off they started across the water. But when they had gone about half-way, he began to fear that perhaps there might be some hidden danger, for it seemed so odd to be fetched suddenly in that way by a stranger. So he said to the Jelly-fish: “What made you think of coming for me?” The Jelly-fish answered: “My master, the king of the dragons, wants you in order to cut out your liver, and give it as medicine to his wife, the queen, who is sick.”

“Oh! that’s your little game, is it?” thought the monkey. But he kept his thoughts to himself, and only said: “Nothing could please me better than to be of service to their Majesties, but it so happens that I left my liver hanging to a branch of that big chestnut-tree where you found me skipping about. A liver is a thing that weighs a good deal, so I generally take it out, and play about without it during the daytime. We must go back for it.” The Jelly-fish agreed that there was nothing else to be done under the circumstances; for, silly creature that he was, he did not see that the monkey was telling a story in order to avoid getting killed, and having his liver used as medicine for the fanciful young dragon queen.

When they reached the shore of monkey-land again, the monkey bounded off the Jelly-fish’s back, and up to the topmost branch of the chestnut-tree in less than no time. Then he said: “I do not see my liver here. Perhaps somebody has taken it away. But I will look for it. You, meantime, had better go back and tell your master what has happened. He might be anxious about you if you did not get home before dark.”

So the Jelly-fish started off a second time, and when he got home he told the dragon king everything just as it had happened. But the king flew into a passion with him for his stupidity, and hallooed to his officers, saying: “Away with this fellow! Take him, and beat him to a jelly! Don’t let a single bone remain unbroken in his body!” So the officers seized him and beat him, as the king had commanded. That is the reason why, to this very day, jelly-fishes have no bones, but are just nothing more than a mass of pulp.

As for the dragon queen, when she found she could not have the monkey’s liver, why, she made up her mind that the I only thing to do was to get well without it.

_Chin-Chin Kobakama_

Once there was a little girl who was very pretty, but also very lazy. Her parents were rich, and had a great many servants; and these servants were very fond of the little girl, and did everything for her which she ought to have been able to do for herself. Perhaps this was what made her so lazy. When she grew up into a beautiful woman she still remained lazy; but as the servants always dressed and undressed her, and arranged her hair, she looked very charming, and nobody thought about her faults.

At last she was married to a brave warrior, and went away with him to live in another house where there were but few servants. She was sorry not to have as many servants as she had had at home, because she was obliged to do several things for herself which other folks had always done for her, and it was a great deal of trouble to her to dress herself, and take care of her own clothes, and keep herself looking neat and pretty to please her husband. But as he was a warrior, and often had to be far away from home with the army, she could sometimes be just as lazy as she wished, and her husband’s parents were very old and good-natured, and never scolded her.

Well, one night while her husband was away with the army, she was awakened by queer little noises in her room. By the light of a big paper lantern she could see very well, and she saw strange things.

Hundreds of little men, dressed just like Japanese warriors, but only about one inch high, were dancing all around her pillow. They wore the same kind of dress her husband wore on holidays (_Kamishimo_, a long robe with square shoulders), and their hair was tied up in knots, and each wore two tiny swords. They all looked at her as they danced, and laughed, and they all sang the same song over and over again:

Chin-chin Kobakama, Yomo fuké sōro— Oshizumare, Hime-gimi!— Ya ton ton!—

Which meant: “We are the Chin-chin Kobakama; the hour is late; sleep, honorable, noble darling!”

The words seemed very polite, but she soon saw that the little men were only making cruel fun of her. They also made ugly faces at her.

She tried to catch some of them, but they jumped about so quickly that she could not. Then she tried to drive them away, but they would not go, and they never stopped singing:

Chin-chin Kobakama ...

and laughing at her. Then she knew they were little fairies, and became so frightened that she could not even cry out. They danced around her until morning; then they all vanished suddenly.

She was ashamed to tell anybody what had happened, because, as she was the wife of a warrior, she did not wish anybody to know how frightened she had been.

Next night, again, the little men came and danced; and they came also the night after that, and every night, always at the same hour, which the old Japanese used to call the “hour of the ox”; that is, about two o’clock in the morning by our time. At last she became very sick, through want of sleep and through fright. But the little men would not leave her alone.

When her husband came back home he was very sorry to find her sick in bed. At first she was afraid to tell him what had made her ill, for fear that he would laugh at her. But he was so kind, and coaxed her so gently, that after a while she told him what happened every night.

He did not laugh at her at all, but looked very serious for a time. Then he asked:

“At what time do they come?”

She answered, “Always at the same hour—the ‘hour of the ox.’”

“Very well,” said her husband; “to-night I shall hide, and watch for them. Do not be frightened.”

So that night the warrior hid himself in a closet in the sleeping-room, and kept watch through a chink between the sliding doors.

He waited and watched until the “hour of the ox.” Then, all at once, the little men came up through the mats, and began their dance and their song:

Chin-chin Kobakama, Yomo fuké Sōro....

They looked so queer, and danced in such a funny way, that the warrior could scarcely keep from laughing. But he saw his young wife’s frightened face; and then, remembering that nearly all Japanese ghosts and goblins are afraid of a sword, he drew his blade and rushed out of the closet, and struck at the little dancers. Immediately they all turned into—what do you think?

_Toothpicks!_

There were no more little warriors—only a lot of old toothpicks scattered over the mats.

The young wife had been too lazy to put her toothpicks away properly; and every day, after having used a new toothpick, she would stick it down between the mats on the floor, to get rid of it. So the little fairies who take care of the floor-mats became angry with her, and tormented her.

Her husband scolded her, and she was so ashamed that she did not know what to do. A servant was called, and the toothpicks were taken away and burned, and after that the little men never came back again.

_The Old Woman who Lost her Dumplings_

Long, long ago there was a funny old woman who liked to laugh and to make dumplings of rice-flour.

One day, while she was preparing some dumplings for dinner, she let one fall, and it rolled into a hole in the earthen floor of her little kitchen and disappeared. The old woman tried to reach it by putting her hand down the hole, and all at once the earth gave way, and the old woman fell in.

She fell quite a distance, but was not a bit hurt; and when she got up on her feet again, she saw that she was standing on a road just like the road before her house. It was quite light down there; and she could see plenty of rice-fields, but no one in them. How all this happened I cannot tell you, but it seems that the old woman had fallen into another country.

The road she had fallen upon sloped very much; so, after having looked for her dumpling in vain, she thought that it must have rolled farther away down the hill. She ran down the road to look, crying: “My dumpling! my dumpling! Where is that dumpling of mine?”

After a little while she saw a stone image standing by the roadside, and she said, calling it by its name:

“O _Jizō San_, did you see my dumpling?”

_Jizō_ answered:

“Yes, I saw your dumpling rolling by me down the road. But you had better not go any farther, because there is a wicked _oni_ living down there who eats people.”

But the old woman only laughed, and ran on farther down the road, crying: “My dumpling! my dumpling! Where is that dumpling of mine?” And she came to another statue of _Jizō_, and asked it:

“O kind _Jizō_, did you see my dumpling?”

And _Jizō_ said:

“Yes, I saw your dumpling go by a little while ago. But you must not run any farther, because there is a wicked _oni_ down there who eats people.”

But she only laughed and ran on, still crying out: “My dumpling! my dumpling! Where is that dumpling of mine?” And she came to a third _Jizō_, and asked it:

“O dear _Jizō_, did you see my dumpling?”

But _Jizō_ said:

“Don’t talk about your dumpling now. Here is the _oni_ coming. Squat down here behind my sleeve, and don’t make any noise.”

Presently the _oni_ came very close, and stopped and bowed to _Jizō_, and said:

“Good day, _Jizō_ San!”

_Jizō_ said good day, too, very politely.

Then the _oni_ suddenly snuffed the air two or three times in a suspicious way, and cried out: “_Jizō San, Jizō San!_ I smell a smell of mankind somewhere—don’t you?”

“Oh!” said _Jizō_, “perhaps you are mistaken.”

“No, no!” said the _oni_ after snuffing the air again; “I smell a smell of mankind.”

Then the old woman could not help laughing—“_Te-he-he!_”—and the oni immediately reached down his big hairy hand behind _Jizō’s_ sleeve, and pulled her out—still laughing, “_Te-he-he!_”

“Ah! ha!” cried the _oni_.

Then _Jizō_ said:

“What are you going to do with that good old woman? You must not hurt her.”

“I won’t,” said the _oni_; “but I will take her home with me to cook for us.”

“_Te-he-he!_” laughed the old woman.

“Very well,” said _Jizō_, “but you must really be kind to her. If you are not, I shall be very angry.”

“I won’t hurt her at all,” promised the _oni_; “and she will only have to do a little work for us every day. Good-by, _Jizō San_.”

Then the _oni_ took the old woman far down the road till they came to a wide deep river, where there was a boat. He put her into the boat, and took her across the river to his house. It was a very large house. He led her at once into the kitchen, and told her to cook some dinner for himself and the other _oni_ who lived with him. And he gave her a small wooden rice-paddle, and said:

“You must always put only one grain of rice into the pot, and, when you stir that one grain of rice in the water with this paddle, the grain will multiply until the pot is full.”

So the old woman put just one rice-grain into the pot, as the _oni_ told her, and began to stir it with the paddle; and, as she stirred, the one grain became two, then four, then eight, then sixteen, thirty-two, sixty-four, and so on. Every time she moved the paddle the rice increased in quantity, and in a few minutes the great pot was full.

After that, the funny old woman stayed a long time in the house of the _oni_, and every day cooked food for him and for all his friends. The _oni_ never hurt or frightened her, and her work was made quite easy by the magic paddle, although she had to cook a very, very great quantity of rice, because an oni eats much more than any human being eats.

But she felt lonely, and always wished very much to go back to her own little house, and make her dumplings; and one day, when the _oni_ were all out somewhere, she thought she would try to run away.

She first took the magic paddle and slipped it under her girdle, and then she went down to the river. No one saw her, and the boat was there. She got into it and pushed off, and, as she could row very well, she was soon far away from the shore.

But the river was very wide, and she had not rowed more than one-fourth of the way across when the _oni_, all of them, came back to the house.

They found that their cook was gone, and the magic paddle, too. They ran down to the river at once, and saw the old woman rowing away very fast.

Perhaps they could not swim; at all events, they had no boat, and they thought the only way they could catch the funny old woman would be to drink up all the water of the river before she got to the other bank. So they knelt down, and began to drink so fast that, before the old woman had got half-way over, the water had become quite low.

But the old woman kept on rowing until the water had got so shallow that the _oni_ stopped drinking, and began to wade across. Then she dropped her oar, took the magic paddle from her girdle, and shook it at the _oni_, and made such funny faces that the _oni_ all burst out laughing.

But, the moment they laughed, all the water came up that they had drunk, and so the river became full again. The _oni_ could not cross, and the funny old woman got safely over to the other side, and ran away up the road as fast as she could. She never stopped running until she found herself at home again.

After that she was very happy, for she could make dumplings whenever she pleased. Besides, she had the magic paddle to make rice for her. She sold her dumplings to her neighbors and passengers, and in quite a short time she became rich.

_The Three Goats_

Once upon a time there were three goats that were sent to some pasture-lands in order to be fattened, and all three happened to be named Brausewind. On their road to the pasture there was a bridge across a river which they must pass, and under the bridge lived a gigantic and horrible spirit, whose eyes were as large as two pewter plates, and whose nose was as long as the handle of a hoe.

The youngest goat Brausewind first came along, and stepped upon the bridge.

“Creak, creak!” complained the bridge.

“Who is tripping over my bridge?” cried the elf underneath.

“Oh! it is only the smallest of the goats named Brausewind,” said the goat in a very shrill voice.

“Then I shall come and fetch you,” cried the elf.

“Nay, do not come for me, for I am still so little,” said the goat; “wait a bit, till the second Brausewind comes, for he is much larger than I am.”

“Very well,” quoth the elf.

After a while the other goat Brausewind came along, and he began to go over the bridge.

“_Creaky creak!_” cried the bridge again.

“Who is tramping over my bridge?” cried the elf.

“Oh! it is only the second goat Brausewind; I am going to the pasture-lands to get a little fatter,” answered the goat, but in a less soft voice than the first.

“Then I shall come and fetch you,” said the elf.

“Nay, do not take me, but wait a bit till the large goat Brausewind comes, for he is a great deal bigger than I am.”

“Very well,” replied the elf.

It was not long before the big goat Brausewind reached the same spot.

“CREAK, CREAK!” went the bridge, as if it were going to split.

“Who comes thundering over my bridge?” cried the elf.

“The big goat Brausewind,” said the goat in a gruff voice.

“Then I shall come and fetch you,” cried the elf.

“Well, come if you like; I’ve two spears in my head, With which I can easily strike you dead. Yes, come if you like; and with thundering stones I shiver to powder your brains and your bones,”

replied the goat; and, butting at the elf, he easily broke every bone in his body, after which he threw him into the river, and followed the other goats to the pastures.

And here the goats grew so very, very, very fat that they were not able to come home again; and, unless they have grown thinner since, they are probably there still.

_The Fox Turned Shepherd_

There was once a farmer’s wife who rode out to try and find a shepherd. She happened to meet a bear on the way, and the bear inquired whither she was going.

“Oh, I’m going to hire a shepherd,” answered she.

“Will you take me for a shepherd?” asked the bear.

“Yes,” said the woman, “provided you can call the sheep properly.”

“Ho—o—y!” growled the bear.

“No,” said the woman on hearing this, “I can’t hire you,” and on she went.

Soon after she met a wolf. “Where are you going?” asked the wolf.

“Oh, I’m going to hire a shepherd,” answered the woman.

“Will you take me for a shepherd?” asked the wolf.

“Yes, if you can call the sheep properly,” replied the woman.

“Uh—uh!” howled the wolf.

“No, I can’t hire you,” said the woman.

A little farther on she met a Fox. “Where are you going?” asked he.

“Oh, I’m only going to hire a shepherd,” answered the woman.

“Will you take me for a shepherd?” asked the Fox.

“Yes, provided you can but call the sheep properly,” replied the woman.

“Dil—dal—holom!” cried the Fox in a pretty, proper tone.

“Yes, I will hire you,” said the woman; and she took him for a shepherd to watch over the cattle.

The first day, on driving the cattle to the meadows, the Fox ate up all the goats. On the second day he made a dainty meal upon the sheep, and on the third day it was the turn for the cows to be eaten.

On returning home in the evening, the woman asked him where he had left the cattle. “Their heads are in the brook, and their bones are in the bushes,” replied the Fox. The farmer’s wife was just then at the butter-tub, busy making butter; still, she wanted to go and see for herself how things stood. While she went to look, the Fox put his head into the butter-tub and drank up all the cream.

When the woman came back and saw what he had done, she was so exasperated that she seized a clot of cream that still remained in the tub and flung it at the Fox, so that it made a spot upon his tail. And this is the reason why the Fox’s tail has a white tip.

_The Seven Boys and the Monster_

It was Saturday afternoon, and Caspar, Michael, Fritz, and little Bessy were playing before their house, when presently little Hans came running toward them, and breathlessly cried:

“What have I seen? what have I seen?”

“What have you seen, then?” exclaimed all the children with one voice, collecting around him.

“A monster! a frightful monster!” answered Hans, wiping the sweat from his brow.

“You are afraid of your own shadow, fearful Hans,” said Caspar mockingly; “perhaps your neighbor’s black cat has turned her fiery eyes on you again.”

“I am not afraid of my shadow,” answered Hans angrily; “had you only been there, your ridicule would soon have vanished. A cat is not a bit like a grasshopper—a fearful great grasshopper, on which one could ride!”

At this the children wondered very much; and when Hans related that he had seen the monster in the shepherd’s hut in the field—that it had horns, and such a voice that the whole hut trembled—they almost believed him; and little Fritz thought: “Who knows if it is not one of the rhinoceroses of which Herr Gulmann told us yesterday?”

“Has the monster done you any harm?” asked little Bessy.

“No,” answered Hans; “when I screamed, it shrank back into its house.”

“But I must go and see it,” said Caspar; “and, if you will all follow, I will go now.”

The children determined to go, but little Hans said:

“I will not go unarmed!”

So Caspar mounted his horse-stick, put on his helmet, and buckled his saber to his side; Michael took his gun, Fritz the drum, and little Hans his lance.

“You must remain at home, little Bessy,” said Hans; “I won’t bear the blame if the monster hurts you.”

“But I want to go with you,” answered little Bessy, almost crying; “and, if you will not take me, I will tell my mother.”

“Let her go, then,” said Fritz; “but remember, Bessy, you must always keep ten yards behind.”

Thus, having armed themselves, they took courage, and Caspar thought: “Oh, if we could only catch the monster, dead or alive! Ah! here come Peter, and Frank, and George—they can also go with us, but they must take the great bean-pole out of the garden, that we may be able to attack the monster at a distance.”

Now the little army set itself in motion. Caspar on “Roho” (for so his horse was named) came first, as commander; then came Hans with the spear, Fritz with the drum, Michael with the gun, and lastly, Peter, Frank, and George, with the pole. Little Bessy came ten yards behind them. All were full of courage, and they sang:

The general on his horse comes first, And next the spear and drum; The soldier, with his gun; and three Armed with a bean-pole come. But Bessy marches after all, That unto her no harm may fall.

When they came to the little wood through which one must go in order to get to the great meadow where the shepherd’s cot stands, Hans cried out all at once, his flag nearly falling from his hand:

“Did you not hear a noise?”

“Yes!” cried all, trembling; but Fritz had still courage enough to say:

“Bessy must remain behind.”

Then they whispered to one another, “The monster, perhaps, has hidden here”; but they dared not run away, for fear the monster should fall on them from behind, and they resolved to lie on the ground and listen. So they laid down all apart, and presently they whispered:

“Hans trembles very much.”

After a long time Fritz asked:

“Have you heard nothing, Caspar?”

“No,” said he, and the others also said “no”; and Frank thought, perhaps, it was only the wind. At this they took courage, and, in order to show they were not afraid, they sang:

O wind, in the wood whistle all the day long, We’ll whistle as boldly, we’ll whistle as strong,

and they began to whistle, with all their strength, against the wind.

When they had come out of the wood they saw the shepherd’s hut standing quite alone; in the distance the sheep were peacefully feeding, and their little bells sounded merrily along the meadows. Only an old ram saw the young band of heroes, and it ventured nearer in order to look wonderingly. But Caspar rode against it, brandishing his sword, which made the ram bleat and gallop away.

“Now is the time!” said Caspar; “we will first walk three times round the hut, but no one must make any noise!”

“Bessy still stops behind!” cried Fritz, out of the strength of his love.

“Once more I say,” exclaimed Caspar loudly and forcibly, “no one must make a noise. We will now walk around, and when we are about to attack, Fritz shall give the signal with his drum.”

So they began to walk round the hut, but they marched round much oftener than three times, and each time they stopped at the same place.

“We cannot go round any more,” said Caspar, “we must attack the monster from some place. Do you hide first, behind the oak-tree, one behind another, that the monster may not see you; I will step on to the wheel there, and look in at the window, but—mind you are all ready at the first call.”

As they hid themselves behind the oak, he walked slowly with drawn sword to the hut, and little Hans whispered behind the tree:

“If there should be a wolf in the hut! Do you remember the story of ‘Little Red Riding-hood’?”

This made them very much afraid, and they held the faster to one another. Only Frank dared look out to see how their captain got on.

He had arrived at the hut, and, having fastened his horse to a stake, he mounted the wheel in order to look through the window. But—what a monster!—a great bearded beast with horns sprang with a loud cry at him; and Caspar, pale as death from terror, fell back, and could scarcely cry:

“Help! help!—the monster!”

As he called out, Franz said, “It has a beard and horns, and such a voice!” and Hans, who stood next to the oak, fell back on the rest, and one after the other fell to the ground.

Fritz picked himself up first, and called to Caspar from afar:

“Has he eaten you up yet, dear Caspar?”

“Who?” cried Caspar, springing up, “who?” And out of the hut sounded again the cry; it shook the door, and all fell back again. A goat came running up, with playful jumps, to our heroes.

“Herr Gulmann’s sick goat!” cried out all, “which, since the day before yesterday, we have not seen in the schoolyard.”

“Did I not say so?” cried Caspar. “But, ah, fearful Hans! where is the monster?”

“That must still be within,” protested Hans. “You also have seen it.”

“We will look again,” cried the enraged Caspar, in anger; “but, as the monster has not eaten the goat, it is no cannibal. Just come here, and stand around while Hans and I go in; and do you hold the bar of the door, that the monster may not come out.”

All were, in spite of their former terror, become courageous; still, Hans would willingly have gone back if he had not disliked to be called “fearful Hans.” He placed himself, therefore, at the door, behind Caspar, holding his banner before his eyes, and pressing it close to him. But Caspar did not remark that Hans had placed himself behind him; and Hans, on the other hand, did not see Caspar turn himself angrily and quickly round, the hut being very dark; and it so happened that he overturned Hans and fell over him.

“The monster! the monster!” cried Hans; and Caspar exclaimed, too, “The monster! the monster!” for each thought that it had overthrown him. With the quickness of lightning they sprang up again, in order to escape through the door, but those outside only held the bar faster from terror; and Hans and Caspar kicked with such violence against the wood that the others cried, “The monster! the monster!”

But this time it was not a goat, but the specter, which every one sometimes sees and feels. This our hero, Caspar, very soon found out; and springing up, he stamped thrice on the ground with his foot, and seizing poor Hans by the collar, he shook him angrily, and cried out in a voice nearly choked with rage:

“You are a coward! you are a coward!”

“Dear Caspar, let me go; I will not do it again!”

“Hans, you are a coward!” replied Caspar, for the third time shaking him.

But as little Hans said, “I will certainly show you a monster!” and as the others begged for his life, he let him loose, stamped again on the ground, and exclaimed:

“Oh, I would have commanded a band of heroes; I would have caught the monster, and led it in triumph home, but now it is gone, and you are the cause!”

But meanwhile the goat, which at first had so frightened them, approached again, and performed various playful capers to induce them to play with it. This increased Caspar’s rage, who would have seized the animal and beaten it; but it ran back, and then lowering its horns rushed against Caspar, not very softly. This excited him the more; he made a bold spring, seized the brute by the hair, and mounted it, in order the better to hold it; but, lo! the goat ran wildly away with him, with mad jumps through the wood, past shrieking Bessy, away into the village, where the people pointed their fingers at him mockingly.

Where did the goat stop?—for Caspar, while he lives, will not forget this! It easily found the way to the schoolhouse where it once joyfully fed, and flying to the yard, where the affrighted dog tried to seize it, it rushed into the school at the principal entrance, and stood suddenly in the schoolroom, where Herr Gulmann was correcting the exercises of his scholars. He heard the tremendous noise and outcry, and putting on his spectacles he discovered all!

What further happened I will omit, out of pity for Caspar, who may read this history some time. Only this must I mention: that Herr Gulmann made him read and explain on Monday morning, for a religious exercise, the history of David and Goliath, and soon after he unwillingly related the story of the Seven Suabians, who allowed themselves to be conquered by a hare, and at that seven little boys blushed very deeply. I believe, however, that seven times seven-and-seventy little boys would blush at this story I have just told if it had happened to them!

_The Story of Little Black Mingo_

Once upon a time there was a little black girl, and her name was Little Black Mingo.

She had no father and mother, so she had to live with a horrid cross old woman called Black Noggy, who used to scold her every day, and sometimes beat her with a stick, even though she had done nothing naughty.

One day Black Noggy called her, and said: “Take this chatty down to the river and fill it with water, and come back as fast as you can—_quick now_!”

So Little Black Mingo took the chatty and ran down to the river as fast as she could, and began to fill it with water, when cr-r-rrrack!!! bang!!! a horrible big mugger poked its nose up through the bottom of the chatty and said: “Ha, ha! Little Mingo, I’m going to eat you up!”

Little Black Mingo did not say anything. She turned and ran away as fast as ever she could, and the mugger ran after her. But the broken chatty round his neck caught his paws, so he could not overtake her.

But when she got back to Black Noggy, and told her how the mugger had broken the chatty, Black Noggy was fearfully angry. “You naughty girl,” she said, “you have broken the chatty yourself. I have a good mind to beat you.” And if she had not been in such a hurry for the water she _would_ have beaten her.

Then she went and fetched the great big chatty that the dhobi used to boil the clothes in. “Take this,” said she, “and mind you don’t break it, or I _will_ beat you.”

“But I can’t carry that when it is full of water,” said Little Black Mingo.

“You must go twice, and bring it half-full each time,” said Black Noggy.

So Little Black Mingo took the dhobi’s great big chatty, and started again to go to the river. But first she went to a little bank above the river, and peeped up and down to see if she could see the old mugger anywhere. But she could not see him, for he was hiding under the very bank she was standing on, and, though his tail stuck out a little, she never saw him at all.

She would have liked to run home, but she was too much afraid that Black Noggy would beat her.

So Little Black Mingo crept down to the river, and began to fill the big chatty with water. And while she was filling it the mugger came creeping softly down behind her and caught her by the leg, saying: “Aha, Little Black Mingo, now I’ve got you.”

And Little Black Mingo said: “Oh! please don’t eat me up, great big mugger!”

“What will you give me if I don’t eat you up?” said the mugger. But Little Black Mingo was so poor she had nothing to give. So the mugger caught her in his great cruel mouth and swam away with her to an island in the middle of the river, and set her down beside a huge pile of eggs.

“Those are my eggs,” said he; “to-morrow a little mugger will come out of each, and then we will have a great feast, and we will eat you up.”

Then he waddled off to catch fish for himself, and left Little Black Mingo alone beside the big pile of eggs.

And Little Black Mingo sat down on a big stone and hid her face in her hands, and cried bitterly, because she couldn’t swim, and she didn’t know how to get away.

Presently she heard a queer little squeaky noise that sounded like “Squeak, squeak, squeak!!! Oh, Little Black Mingo, help me, or I shall be drowned.” She got up and looked to see what was calling, and she saw a bush coming floating down the river with something wriggling and scrambling about in it, and as it came near she saw that it was a mongoose that was in the bush. So she waded out as far as she could, and caught hold of the bush and pulled it in, and the poor mongoose crawled up her arm on to her shoulder, and she carried him to shore.

When they got to shore the mongoose shook himself, and Little Black Mingo wrung out her petticoat, and so they both very soon got dry.

The mongoose then began to poke about for something to eat, and very soon he found the great big pile of muggers’ eggs. “Oh, joy!” said he, “what’s this?”

“Those are muggers’ eggs,” said Little Black Mingo.

“I’m not afraid of muggers!” said the mongoose; and he sat down and began to crack the eggs, and eat the little muggers as they came out. And he threw the shells into the water, so that the old mugger should not see that any one had been eating them. But he was careless, and he left one egg-shell on the edge, and he was hungry, and he ate so many that the pile got much smaller, and when the old mugger came back he saw at once that some one had been meddling with them.

So he ran to Little Black Mingo, and said, “How dare you eat my eggs?”

“Indeed, indeed, I didn’t,” said Little Black Mingo.

“Then who could it have been?” said the mugger, and he ran back to the eggs as fast as he could, and, sure enough, when he got back he found the mongoose had eaten a whole lot more!!

Then he said to himself, “I must stay beside my eggs till they are hatched into little muggers, or the mongoose will eat them all.” So he curled himself into a ring round the eggs and went to sleep.

But while he was asleep the mongoose came to eat some more of the eggs, and ate as many as he wanted, and when the mugger woke this time, oh! _what_ a rage he was in, for there were only six eggs left! He roared so loud that all the little muggers inside the shells gnashed their teeth, and tried to roar, too.

Then he said: “I know what I’ll do. I’ll fetch Little Black Mingo’s big chatty, and cover my eggs with that; then the mongoose won’t be able to get at them.” So he swam across to the shore, and fetched the dhobi’s big chatty, and covered the eggs with it. “Now, you wicked little mongoose, come and eat my eggs if you can,” said he, and he went off quite proud and happy.

By and by the mongoose came back, and he was terribly disappointed when he found the eggs all covered with the big chatty.

So he ran off to Little Black Mingo, and asked her to help him, and Little Black Mingo came and took the big chatty off the eggs, and the mongoose ate them, every one.

“Now,” said he, “there will be no little muggers to make a feast for to-morrow.”

“No,” said Little Black Mingo, “but the mugger will eat me all by himself, I am afraid.”

“No, he won’t,” said the mongoose, “for we will sail away together in the big chatty before he comes back.”

So he climbed on to the edge of the chatty, and Little Black Mingo pushed the chatty out into the water, and then she clambered into it and paddled with her two hands as hard as she could, and the big chatty just sailed beautifully.

So they got across safely, and Little Black Mingo filled the chatty half-full of water and took it on her head, and they went up the bank together.

But when the mugger came back, and found only empty egg-shells, he was fearfully angry. He roared and he raged, and he howled and he yelled, till the whole island shook, and his tears ran down his cheeks and pattered on the sand like rain.

So he started to chase Little Black Mingo and the mongoose, and he swam across the river as fast as ever he could, and when he was half-way across he saw them landing, and as he landed they hurried over the first ridge.

So he raced after them, but they ran, and just before he caught them they got into the house, and banged the door in his face. Then they shut all the windows, so he could not get in anywhere.

“All right,” said he, “you will have to come out some time, and then I will catch you both, and eat you up.”

So he hid behind the back of the house and waited.

Now, Black Noggy was just coming home from the bazaar with a tin of kerosene on her head and a box of matches in her hand.

And when he saw her the mugger rushed out and gobbled her up, kerosene tin, matches, and all!!!

When Black Noggy found herself in the mugger’s dark inside, she wanted to see where she was, so she felt for the match-box, and took out a match and lit it. But the mugger’s teeth had made holes in the kerosene tin, so that the flame of the match caught the kerosene, and BANG!! the kerosene exploded, and blew the old mugger and Black Noggy into little bits.

At the fearful noise Little Black Mingo and the mongoose came running out, and there they found Black Noggy and the old mugger all blown to bits.

So Little Black Mingo and the mongoose got the nice little house for their very own, and there they lived happy ever after. And Little Black Mingo got the mugger’s head for her seat, and the mongoose got Black Noggy’s handkerchief for his. But he was so wee he used to put it on the mugger’s nose, and there they sat, and had their tea every evening.

HELEN BANNERMAN.

_The Cock and the Crested Hen_

There was once a Cock who had a whole farm-yard of hens to look after and manage; and among them was a tiny little Crested Hen. She thought she was altogether too grand to be in company with the other hens, for they looked so old and shabby; she wanted to go out and strut about all by herself, so that people could see how fine she was, and admire her pretty crest and beautiful plumage.

So one day when all the hens were strutting about on the dust-heap and showing themselves off, and picking and clucking, as they were wont to do, this desire seized her, and she began to cry:

“Cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck, over the fence! cluck, cluck, cluck, over the fence!” and wanted to get away.

The Cock stretched his neck and shook his comb and feathers, and cried:

“Go not there!” And all the old hens cackled:

“Go-go-go-go not there!”

But she set off for all that; and was not a little proud when she got away, and could go about pluming and showing herself off quite alone.

Just then a hawk began to fly round in a circle above her, and all of a sudden he swooped down upon her. The Cock, as he stood on top of the dust-heap, stretching his neck and peering first with one eye and then with the other, had long noticed him, and cried with all his might:

“Come, come, come and help! Come, come, come and help!” till the people came running to see what was the matter. They frightened the hawk so that he let go the Hen, and had to be satisfied with her tuft and her finest feathers, which he had plucked from her. And then, you may be sure, she lost no time in running home; she stretched her neck, and tripped along, crying:

“See, see, see, see how I look! See, see, see, see how I look!”

The Cock came up to her in his dignified way, drooped one of his wings, and said:

“Didn’t I tell you?”

From that time the Hen did not consider herself too good to be in the company of the old hens on the dust-heap.

_The Old Woman and the Fish_

There was once upon a time an old woman who lived in a miserable cottage on the brow of a hill overlooking the town. Her husband had been dead for many years, and her children were in service round about the parish, so she felt rather lonely and dreary by herself, and otherwise she was not particularly well off either.

But when it has been ordained that one shall live, one cannot think of one’s funeral; and so one has to take the world as it is, and still be satisfied; and that was about all the old woman could console herself with. But that the road up which she had to carry the pails from the well should be so heavy; and that the ax should have such a blunt and rusty edge, so that it was only with the greatest difficulty that she could cut the little firewood she had; and that the stuff she was weaving was not sufficient—all this grieved her greatly, and caused her to complain from time to time.

So one day, when she had pulled the bucket up from the well, she happened to find a small pike in the bucket, which did not at all displease her.

“Such fish does not come into my pot every day,” she said; and now she could have a really grand dish, she thought. But the fish that she had got this time was no fool; it had the gift of speech, that it had.

“Let me go!” said the fish.

The old woman began to stare, you may be sure. Such a fish she had never before seen in this world.

“Are you so much better than other fish, then?” she said, “and too good to be eaten?”

“Wise is he who does not eat all he gets hold of,” said the fish; “only let me go, and you shall not remain without reward for your trouble.”

“I like a fish in the bucket better than all those frisking about free and frolicsome in the lakes,” said the old woman. “And what one can catch with one hand, one can also carry to one’s mouth,” she said.

“That may be,” said the fish; “but if you do as I tell you, you shall have three wishes.”

“Wish in one fist, and pour water in the other, and you’ll soon see which you will get filled first,” said the woman. “Promises are well enough, but keeping them is better, and I sha’n’t believe much in you till I have got you in the pot,” she said.

“You should mind that tongue of yours,” said the fish, “and listen to my words. Wish for three things, and then you’ll see what will happen,” he said.

Well, the old woman knew well enough what she wanted to wish, and there might not be so much danger in trying how far the fish would keep his word, she thought.

She then began thinking of the heavy hill up from the well.

“I would wish that the pails could go of themselves to the well and home again,” she said.

“So they shall,” said the fish.

Then she thought of the ax, and how blunt it was.

“I would wish that whatever I strike shall break right off,” she said.

“So it shall,” said the fish.

And then she remembered that the stuff she was weaving was not long enough.

“I would wish that whatever I pull shall become long,” she said.

“That it shall,” said the fish. “And now, let me down into the well again.”

Yes, that she would, and all at once the pails began to shamble up the hill.

“Dear me, did you ever see anything like it?” The old woman became so glad and pleased that she slapped herself across the knees.

Crack, crack! it sounded; and then both her legs fell off, and she was left sitting on the top of the lid over the well.

Now came a change. She began to cry and wail, and the tears started from her eyes, whereupon she began blowing her nose with her apron, and as she tugged at her nose it grew so long, so long, that it was terrible to see.

That is what she got for her wishes! Well, there she sat, and there she no doubt still sits, on the lid of the well. And if you want to know what it is to have a long nose, you had better go there and ask her, for she can tell you all about it, she can.

_The Lad and the Fox_

There was once upon a time a little lad, who was on his way to church, and when he came to a clearing in the forest he caught sight of a fox, that was lying on the top of a big stone so fast asleep that he did not know the lad had seen him.

“If I kill that fox,” said the lad, taking a heavy stone in his fist, “and sell the skin, I shall get money for it, and with that money I shall buy some rye, and that rye I shall sow in father’s corn-field at home. When the people who are on their way to church pass by my field of rye they’ll say: ‘Oh, what splendid rye that lad has got!’ Then I shall say to them: ‘I say, keep away from my rye!’ But they won’t heed me. Then I shall shout to them: ‘I say, keep away from my rye!’ But still they won’t take any notice of me. Then I shall scream with all my might: ‘Keep away from my rye!’ and then they’ll listen to me.”

But the lad screamed so loudly that the fox woke up and made off at once for the forest, so that the lad did not even get as much as a handful of his hair.

No; it’s best always to take what you can reach, for of undone deeds you should never screech, as the saying goes.

_The Old Woman and the Tramp_

There was once a tramp who went plodding his way through a forest. The distance between the houses was so great that he had little hope of finding a shelter before the night set in. But all of a sudden he saw some lights between the trees. He then discovered a cottage, where there was a fire burning on the hearth. How nice it would be to roast one’s self before that fire, and to get a bite of something, he thought; and so he dragged himself toward the cottage.

Just then an old woman came toward him.

“Good evening, and well met!” said the tramp.

“Good evening,” said the woman. “Where do you come from?”

“South of the sun, and east of the moon,” said the tramp; “and now I am on the way home again, for I have been all over the world with the exception of this parish,” he said.

“You must be a great traveler, then,” said the woman. “What may be your business here?”

“Oh, I want a shelter for the night,” he said.

“I thought as much,” said the woman; “but you may as well get away from here at once, for my husband is not at home, and my place is not an inn,” she said.

“My good woman,” said the tramp, “you must not be so cross and hard-hearted, for we are both human beings, and should help one another, as it is written.”

“Help one another?” said the woman, “help? Did you ever hear such a thing? Who’ll help me, do you think? I haven’t got a morsel in the house! No, you’ll have to look for quarters elsewhere,” she said.

But the tramp was like the rest of his kind; he did not consider himself beaten at the first rebuff. Although the old woman grumbled and complained as much as she could, he was just as persistent as ever, and went on begging and praying like a starved dog, until at last she gave in, and he got permission to lie on the floor for the night.

That was very kind, he thought, and he thanked her for it.

“Better on the floor without sleep, than suffer cold in the forest deep,” he said; for he was a merry fellow, this tramp, and was always ready with a rhyme.

When he came into the room he could see that the woman was not so badly off as she had pretended; but she was a greedy and stingy woman of the worst sort, and was always complaining and grumbling.

He now made himself very agreeable, of course, and asked her in his most insinuating manner for something to eat.

“Where am I to get it from?” said the woman. “I haven’t tasted a morsel myself the whole day.”

But the tramp was a cunning fellow, he was.

“Poor old granny, you must be starving,” he said. “Well, well, I suppose I shall have to ask you to have something with me, then?”

“Have something with you!” said the woman. “You don’t look as if you could ask any one to have anything! What have you got to offer one, I should like to know?”

“He who far and wide does roam sees many things not known at home; and he who many things has seen has wits about him and senses keen,” said the tramp. “Better dead than lose one’s head! Lend me a pot, granny!”

The old woman now became very inquisitive, as you may guess, and so she let him have a pot.

He filled it with water and put it on the fire, and then he blew with all his might till the fire was burning fiercely all round it. Then he took a four-inch nail from his pocket, turned it three times in his hand, and put it into the pot.

The woman stared with all her might.

“What’s this going to be?” she asked.

“Nail broth,” said the tramp, and began to stir the water with the porridge-stick.

“Nail broth?” asked the woman.

“Yes, nail broth,” said the tramp.

The old woman had seen and heard a good deal in her time, but that anybody could have made broth with a nail, well, she had never heard the like before.

“That’s something for poor people to know,” she said, “and I should like to learn how to make it.”

“That which is not worth having will always go a-begging,” said the tramp, but if she wanted to learn how to make it she had only to watch him, he said, and went on stirring the broth.

The old woman squatted on the ground, her hands clasping her knees, and her eyes following his hand as he stirred the broth.

“This generally makes good broth,” he said; “but this time it will very likely be rather thin, for I have been making broth the whole week with the same nail. If one only had a handful of sifted oatmeal to put in, that would make it all right,” he said. “But what one has to go without, it’s no use thinking more about,” and so he stirred the broth again.

“Well, I think I have a scrap of flour somewhere,” said the old woman, and went out to fetch some, and it was both good and fine.

The tramp began putting the flour into the broth, and went on stirring, while the woman sat staring now at him and then at the pot until her eyes nearly burst their sockets.

“This broth would be good enough for company,” he said, putting in one handful of flour after another. “If I had only a bit of salted beef and a few potatoes to put in, it would be fit for gentlefolks, however particular they might be,” he said. “But what one has to go without, it’s no use thinking more about.”

When the old woman really began to think it over, she thought she had some potatoes, and perhaps a bit of beef as well; and these she gave the tramp, who went on stirring, while she sat and stared as hard as ever.

“This will be grand enough for the best in the land,” he said.

“Well, I never!” said the woman; “and just fancy—all with a nail!”

He was really a wonderful man, that tramp! He could do more than drink a sup and turn the tankard up, he could.

“If one had only a little barley and a drop of milk, we could ask the king himself to have some of it,” he said; “for this is what he has every blessed evening—that I know, for I have been in service under the king’s cook,” he said.

“Dear me! Ask the king to have some! Well, I never!” exclaimed the woman, slapping her knees. She was quite awestruck at the tramp and his grand connections.

“But what one has to go without, it’s no use thinking more about,” said the tramp.

And then she remembered she had a little barley; and as for milk, well, she wasn’t quite out of that, she said, for her best cow had just calved. And then she went to fetch both the one and the other.

The tramp went on stirring, and the woman sat staring, one moment at him and the next at the pot.

Then all at once the tramp took out the nail.

“Now it’s ready, and now we’ll have a real good feast,” he said. “But to this kind of soup the king and the queen always take a dram or two, and one sandwich at least. And then they always have a cloth on the table when they eat,” he said. “But what one has to go without, it’s no use thinking more about.”

But by this time the old woman herself had begun to feel quite grand and fine, I can tell you; and if that was all that was wanted to make it just as the king had it, she thought it would be nice to have it exactly the same way for once, and play at being king and queen with the tramp. She went straight to a cupboard and brought out the brandy bottle, dram glasses, butter and cheese, smoked beef and veal, until at last the table looked as if it were decked out for company.

Never in her life had the old woman had such a grand feast, and never had she tasted such broth, and just fancy, made only with a nail!

She was in such a good and merry humor at having learned such an economical way of making broth that she did not know how to make enough of the tramp who had taught her such a useful thing.

So they ate and drank, and drank and ate, until they became both tired and sleepy.

The tramp was now going to lie down on the floor. But that would never do, thought the old woman; no, that was impossible. “Such a grand person must have a bed to lie in,” she said.

He did not need much pressing. “It’s just like the sweet Christmas time,” he said, “and a nicer woman I never came across. Ah, well! Happy are they who meet with such good people,” said he; and he lay down on the bed and went asleep.

And next morning, when he woke, the first thing he got was coffee and a dram.

When he was going, the old woman gave him a bright dollar piece.

“And thanks, many thanks, for what you have taught me,” she said. “Now I shall live in comfort, since I have learned how to make broth with a nail.”

“Well, it isn’t very difficult if one only has something good to add to it,” said the tramp as he went his way.

The woman stood at the door staring after him.

“Such people don’t grow on every bush,” she said.

THE END

McCLURE’S LIBRARY OF CHILDREN’S CLASSICS

“THE CRIMSON CLASSICS”

EDITED BY

Kate Douglas Wiggin

AND

Nora Archibald Smith

The problem of children’s reading is one of the greatest with which parents and teachers are confronted. It is the purpose of this series to provide the very best literature in every field for the use of children and young people of all ages,—poetry, fairy lore, fables, nursery rhymes, short entertaining stories, etc., etc. To accomplish this purpose the editors have spared no trouble and the publishers no expense, to the end that this series may take its place permanently in the home and in the school library, superseding all others less complete and less carefully selected with reference to the mental and spiritual needs and the simple æsthetic tastes of children. A full description of the five volumes already published will be found on the following pages.

PINAFORE PALACE

A BOOK OF RHYMES FOR THE NURSERY

This volume is absolutely unique in scope and conception. It is a collection of all the best nursery rhymes, nonsense verses, guessing games, lullabies and slumber songs for the delectation of the very littlest readers, just as The Posy Ring was designed for children a little older, and GOLDEN NUMBERS for their brothers and sisters who are beginning to grow up and to prepare for school and college. The editors have, as in the case of the former volumes in the series, gone through the entire field of available material, and drawn upon many sources that are remote or inaccessible for the general reader. In this way they have been able to recover many a veritable little masterpiece of nursery lore, as well as to bring together all the old favorites from Mother Goose and other collections in a form at once compact and comprehensive. Teachers of kindergartens everywhere, as well as mothers with children to entertain at home, will welcome this little book and keep it on the most convenient shelf of the nursery bookcase. “Every home, large or small, poor or rich,” writes Mrs. Wiggin in her delightful INTRODUCTION TO THE MOTHER IN PINAFORE PALACE; and, she adds later, “no greater love for a task nor happiness in doing it, no more ardent wish to please a child or meet a mother’s need, ever went into a book than has been brought into this volume.”

_$1.50_

MAGIC CASEMENTS

A SECOND FAIRY BOOK

This volume, a companion to “The Fairy Ring,” completes that volume and makes, with it, the most exhaustive collection of fairy lore available for young readers. The editors, with their unerring gift for selection which in itself amounts to genius, have gathered those stories which have in them the greatest degree of that glamour which, in the language of Keats, opens “magic casements” on the world of Fairyland. These stories are for the most part longer and more elaborate than those in the preceding volume and are designed for slightly older readers.

THE FAIRY RING

Designed by its editors to be the standard fairy book for children. The educational value of the fairy story cannot be denied in its healthy stimulation of the child’s imaginative powers. Here the collections of Grimm, Andersen, Joseph Jacobs, Laboulaye, Perrault, and Dasent have yielded their richest stores, but the editors have not confined themselves to these better-known sources. They have gone far afield, read and examined all existing books of fairy literature, sifting all the material till they have made a generous selection which is inclusive of the very best that has ever been written.

“Can hardly fail to prove the most popular anthology of its kind ever published.” _Boston Herald._

_Each volume beautifully printed and bound; about 450 pages: Gilt top; postpaid, $1.50_

GOLDEN NUMBERS

A BOOK OF VERSE FOR YOUTH

The best anthology of English verse ever prepared for young people from the ages of 12 to 17. It is composed entirely of the finest examples of English poetical literature, selected with special reference to the requirements of young people of the grammar and high school age.

“The book will charm the child for the moment; it will educate his tastes without awakening the suspicion that he is at school, and it will enrich his memory for all time to come.” _Outlook._

_With an introduction by Kate Douglas Wiggin, and interleaves. Cloth, 500 pages; postpaid, $2.17; net, $2.00_

THE POSY RING

A BOOK OF VERSE FOR CHILDREN

A companion volume to “Golden Numbers,” suitable for children from the ages of 7 to 12. The compilers have drawn largely on the works of Longfellow, Stevenson, Lewis Carroll, Eugene Field, Mary Mapes Dodge and James Whitcomb Riley. Every poem will give delight to the child, and also to the mother who would read them to the little ones.

“Into its pages have been gathered the cream of poetry for children.” _Boston Transcript._

_Printed in very large, readable type. Cloth, postpaid, $1.37; net, $1.25_

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

1. Changed ‘shall everything’ to ‘shall have everything’ on p. 25. 2. Changed ‘of in all’ to ‘of it all’ on p. 93. 3. Silently corrected typographical errors. 4. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed. 5. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.