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Title: Indian Fairy Tales

Compiler: Joseph Jacobs

Illustrator: John Dickson Batten

Release date: December 1, 2004 [eBook #7128]
                Most recently updated: May 1, 2012

Language: English

Credits: E-text prepared by Delphine Lettau, Charles Franks, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team


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[Illustration: Indian Fairy Tales]

[Illustration:]

[Illustration: PRINCESS LABAM]


INDIAN FAIRY TALES

Selected and Edited by

JOSEPH JACOBS

Editor of "Folk Lore"

Illustrated by John D. Batten

[Illustration:]






London
David Nutt, 270, 271 Strand
1892




_Only One Hundred and Sixty Copies of this
Edition on Japanese Vellum Paper have been printed,
of which One Hundred and Fifty are for Sale.

This is No. 147_


_The Illustrations in this Book were coloured by hand by
Miss Gloria Cardew._




   _TO
   MY DEAR LITTLE PHIL_




Preface


From the extreme West of the Indo-European world, we go this year to
the extreme East. From the soft rain and green turf of Gaeldom, we
seek the garish sun and arid soil of the Hindoo. In the Land of Ire,
the belief in fairies, gnomes, ogres and monsters is all but dead; in
the Land of Ind it still flourishes in all the vigour of animism.

Soils and national characters differ; but fairy tales are the same in
plot and incidents, if not in treatment. The majority of the tales in
this volume have been known in the West in some form or other, and the
problem arises how to account for their simultaneous existence in
farthest West and East. Some--as Benfey in Germany, M. Cosquin in
France, and Mr. Clouston in England--have declared that India is the
Home of the Fairy Tale, and that all European fairy tales have been
brought from thence by Crusaders, by Mongol missionaries, by Gipsies,
by Jews, by traders, by travellers. The question is still before the
courts, and one can only deal with it as an advocate. So far as my
instructions go, I should be prepared, within certain limits, to hold
a brief for India. So far as the children of Europe have their fairy
stories in common, these--and they form more than a third of the
whole--are derived from India. In particular, the majority of the
Drolls or comic tales and jingles can be traced, without much
difficulty, back to the Indian peninsula.

Certainly there is abundant evidence of the early transmission by
literary means of a considerable number of drolls and folk-tales from
India about the time of the Crusaders. The collections known in Europe
by the titles of _The Fables of Bidpai_, _The Seven Wise Masters_,
_Gesta Romanorum_, and _Barlaam and Josaphat_, were extremely popular
during the Middle Ages, and their contents passed on the one hand into
the _Exempla_ of the monkish preachers, and on the other into the
_Novelle_ of Italy, thence, after many days, to contribute their quota
to the Elizabethan Drama. Perhaps nearly one-tenth of the main
incidents of European folk-tales can be traced to this source.

There are even indications of an earlier literary contact between
Europe and India, in the case of one branch of the folk-tale, the
Fable or Beast Droll. In a somewhat elaborate discussion[1] I have
come to the conclusion that a goodly number of the fables that pass
under the name of the Samian slave, Æsop, were derived from India,
probably from the same source whence the same tales were utilised in
the Jatakas, or Birth-stories of Buddha. These Jatakas contain a large
quantity of genuine early Indian folk-tales, and form the earliest
collection of folk-tales in the world, a sort of Indian Grimm,
collected more than two thousand years before the good German brothers
went on their quest among the folk with such delightful results. For
this reason I have included a considerable number of them in this
volume; and shall be surprised if tales that have roused the laughter
and wonder of pious Buddhists for the last two thousand years, cannot
produce the same effect on English children. The Jatakas have been
fortunate in their English translators, who render with vigour and
point; and I rejoice in being able to publish the translation of two
new Jatakas, kindly done into English for this volume by Mr. W. H. D.
Rouse, of Christ's College, Cambridge. In one of these I think I have
traced the source of the Tar Baby incident in "Uncle Remus."

[Footnote 1: "History of the Æsopic Fable," the introductory volume to
my edition of Caxton's _Fables of Esope_ (London, Nutt, 1889).]

Though Indian fairy tales are the earliest in existence, yet they are
also from another point of view the youngest. For it is only about
twenty-five years ago that Miss Frere began the modern collection of
Indian folk-tales with her charming "Old Deccan Days" (London, John
Murray, 1868; fourth edition, 1889). Her example has been followed by
Miss Stokes, by Mrs. Steel, and Captain (now Major) Temple, by the
Pandit Natesa Sastri, by Mr. Knowles and Mr. Campbell, as well as
others who have published folk-tales in such periodicals as the
_Indian Antiquary_ and _The Orientalist_. The story-store of modern
India has been well dipped into during the last quarter of a century,
though the immense range of the country leaves room for any number of
additional workers and collections. Even so far as the materials
already collected go, a large number of the commonest incidents in
European folk-tales have been found in India. Whether brought there or
born there, we have scarcely any criterion for judging; but as some of
those still current among the folk in India can be traced back more
than a millennium, the presumption is in favour of an Indian origin.

From all these sources--from the Jatakas, from the Bidpai, and from
the more recent collections--I have selected those stories which throw
most light on the origin of Fable and Folk-tales, and at the same time
are most likely to attract English children. I have not, however,
included too many stories of the Grimm types, lest I should repeat
the contents of the two preceding volumes of this series. This has to
some degree weakened the case for India as represented by this book.
The need of catering for the young ones has restricted my selection
from the well-named "Ocean of the Streams of Story," _Katha-Sarit
Sagara_ of Somadeva. The stories existing in Pali and Sanskrit I have
taken from translations, mostly from the German of Benfey or the
vigorous English of Professor Rhys-Davids, whom I have to thank for
permission to use his versions of the Jatakas.

I have been enabled to make this book a representative collection of
the Fairy Tales of Ind by the kindness of the original collectors or
their publishers. I have especially to thank Miss Frere, who kindly
made an exception in my favour, and granted me the use of that fine
story, "Punchkin," and that quaint myth, "How Sun, Moon, and Wind went
out to Dinner." Miss Stokes has been equally gracious in granting me
the use of characteristic specimens from her "Indian Fairy Tales." To
Major Temple I owe the advantage of selecting from his admirable
_Wideawake Stories_, and Messrs. Kegan Paul, Trench & Co. have allowed
me to use Mr. Knowles' "Folk-tales of Kashmir," in their Oriental
Library; and Messrs. W. H. Allen have been equally obliging with
regard to Mrs. Kingscote's "Tales of the Sun." Mr. M. L. Dames has
enabled me add to the published story-store of India by granting me
the use of one from his inedited collection of Baluchi folk-tales.

I have again to congratulate myself on the co-operation of my friend
Mr. J. D. Batten in giving beautiful or amusing form to the creations
of the folk fancy of the Hindoos. It is no slight thing to embody, as
he has done, the glamour and the humour both of the Celt and of the
Hindoo. It is only a further proof that Fairy Tales are something more
than Celtic or Hindoo. They are human.

JOSEPH JACOBS.




Contents


                                                    PAGE

I.      THE LION AND THE CRANE                        1

II.     HOW THE RAJA'S SON WON THE PRINCESS LABAM     3

III.    THE LAMBIKIN                                 17

IV.     PUNCHKIN                                     21

V.      THE BROKEN POT                               38

VI.     THE MAGIC FIDDLE                             40

VII.    THE CRUEL CRANE OUTWITTED                    46

VIII.   LOVING LAILI                                 51

IX.     THE TIGER, THE BRAHMAN, AND THE JACKAL       66

X.      THE SOOTHSAYER'S SON                         70

XI.     HARISARMAN                                   85

XII.    THE CHARMED RING                             90

XIII.   THE TALKATIVE TORTOISE                      100

XIV.    A LAC OF RUPEES FOR A PIECE OF ADVICE       103

XV.     THE GOLD-GIVING SERPENT                     112

XVI.    THE SON OF SEVEN QUEENS                     115

XVII.   A LESSON FOR KINGS                          127

XVIII.  PRIDE GOETH BEFORE A FALL                   132

XIX.    RAJA RASALU                                 136

XX.     THE ASS IN THE LION'S SKIN                  150

XXI.    THE FARMER AND THE MONEY-LENDER             152

XXII.   THE BOY WHO HAD A MOON ON HIS FOREHEAD
            AND A STAR ON HIS CHIN                  156

XXIII.  THE PRINCE AND THE FAKIR                    179

XXIV.   WHY THE FISH LAUGHED                        186

XXV.    THE DEMON WITH THE MATTED HAIR              194

XXVI.   THE IVORY CITY AND ITS FAIRY PRINCESS       199

XXVII.  SUN, MOON, AND WIND GO OUT TO DINNER        218

XXVIII. HOW THE WICKED SONS WERE DUPED              221

XXIX.   THE PIGEON AND THE CROW                     223

        NOTES AND REFERENCES                        227

       *       *       *       *       *




Full-page Illustrations


PRINCESS LABAM                              _Frontispiece_

THE LION AND THE CRANE          _To face page_       2

PUNCHKIN                                 "          36

LOVING LAILI                             "          64

THE CHARMED RING                         "          96

THE SON OF SEVEN QUEENS                  "         120

RAJA RASALU                              "         146

BOY WITH MOON ON FOREHEAD                "         165

DEMON WITH MATTED HAIR                   "         196

       *       *       *       *       *

     [Plates, vignettes, initials, and cuts are from "process"
     blocks supplied by Messrs. J. C. Drummond & Co. of Covent
     Garden.]

       *       *       *       *       *




The Lion and the Crane


The Bodhisatta was at one time born in the region of Himavanta as a
white crane; now Brahmadatta was at that time reigning in Benares. Now
it chanced that as a lion was eating meat a bone stuck in his throat.
The throat became swollen, he could not take food, his suffering was
terrible. The crane seeing him, as he was perched on a tree looking
for food, asked, "What ails thee, friend?" He told him why. "I could
free thee from that bone, friend, but dare not enter thy mouth for
fear thou mightest eat me." "Don't be afraid, friend, I'll not eat
thee; only save my life." "Very well," says he, and caused him to lie
down on his left side. But thinking to himself, "Who knows what this
fellow will do," he placed a small stick upright between his two jaws
that he could not close his mouth, and inserting his head inside his
mouth struck one end of the bone with his beak. Whereupon the bone
dropped and fell out. As soon as he had caused the bone to fall, he
got out of the lion's mouth, striking the stick with his beak so that
it fell out, and then settled on a branch. The lion gets well, and
one day was eating a buffalo he had killed. The crane thinking "I will
sound him," settled on a branch just over him, and in conversation
spoke this first verse:

    "A service have we done thee
      To the best of our ability,
    King of the Beasts! Your Majesty!
      What return shall we get from thee?"

In reply the Lion spoke the second verse:

    "As I feed on blood,
      And always hunt for prey,
    'Tis much that thou art still alive
      Having once been between my teeth."

Then in reply the crane said the two other verses:

    "Ungrateful, doing no good,
      Not doing as he would be done by,
    In him there is no gratitude,
      To serve him is useless.

    "His friendship is not won
      By the clearest good deed.
    Better softly withdraw from him,
      Neither envying nor abusing."

And having thus spoken the crane flew away.

_And when the great Teacher, Gautama the Buddha, told this tale, he
used to add: "Now at that time the lion was Devadatta the Traitor, but
the white crane was I myself."_

[Illustration: THE LION AND THE CRANE]




How the Raja's Son won the Princess Labam.


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

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

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

Then the parrots all flew back to their Raja, chattering. The prince
was greatly surprised, and said, "Why, these birds can talk!" Then he
said to the parrots, "Who is the Princess Labam? Where does she live?"
But the parrots would not tell him where she lived. "You can never get
to the Princess Labam's country." That is all they would say.

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

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

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

"Then I must go and look for it," said the prince.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why do you roar like that?" said the young Raja. "What is the matter
with you?"

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

"Well," said the Raja's son, "I will take it out for you. But
perhaps, as you are a tiger, when I have made you well, you will eat
me?"

[Illustration:]

"Oh, no," said the tiger, "I won't eat you. Do make me well."

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

[Illustration:]

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

"No one hurt me," answered the husband; "but a Raja's son came and
took the thorn out of my foot."

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

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

"I won't kill him; only let me see him," answered his wife.

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

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

The four fakirs were quarrelling over these four things. One said, "I
want this;" another said, "You cannot have it, for I want it;" and so
on.

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

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

"The Princess Labam's country," they answered. Then the prince went on
till he came to a house where he saw an old woman.

"Who are you?" she said. "Where do you come from?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By this time night had come. "Aunty," said the Raja's son, "why don't
you light a lamp?"

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

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

The Raja's son watched the princess quietly, and was very happy. He
said to himself, "How lovely she is!"

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

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

Next morning all the princess's servants found the betel-leaf, and
began to eat it. "Where did you get all that betel-leaf?" asked the
princess.

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

In the morning the old woman came to the Raja's son. "Now it is
morning," she said, "and you must go; for if the king finds out all I
have done for you, he will seize me."

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

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

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

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

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

When it was morning the old woman said to the Raja's son, "Now you
must really go."

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

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

"Who are you?" she said to the prince. "Where do you come from? Why do
you come to my room?"

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

"Well," said the princess, "as you are the son of such a great Raja,
I will not have you killed, and I will tell my father and mother that
I wish to marry you."

The prince then returned to the old woman's house; and when morning
came the princess said to her mother, "The son of a great Raja has
come to this country, and I wish to marry him." Her mother told this
to the king.

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

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

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

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

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

"Be happy," said the Ant-Raja; "lie down and sleep; we will crush all
the oil out for you during the day, and to-morrow morning you shall
take it to the king." The Raja's son lay down and slept, and the ants
crushed out the oil for him. The prince was very glad when he saw the
oil.

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

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

[Illustration:]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The king said, "Now you can marry my daughter." Then the wedding took
place. All the Rajas and kings of the countries round were asked to
come to it, and there were great rejoicings. After a few days the
prince's son said to his wife, "Let us go to my father's country." The
Princess Labam's father gave them a quantity of camels and horses and
rupees and servants; and they travelled in great state to the prince's
country, where they lived happily.

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




The Lambikin


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

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

[Illustration:]

But Lambikin only gave a little frisk and said:

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

The Jackal thought this reasonable, and let Lambikin pass.

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

[Illustration:]

But Lambikin only gave a little frisk, and said:

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

The Vulture thought this reasonable, and let Lambikin pass.

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

[Illustration:]

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

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

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

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

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

[Illustration:]

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

    "Drumikin! Drumikin!
    Have you seen Lambikin?"

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

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

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

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

    "Tum-pa, tum-too;
    Tum-pa, tum-too!"

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

    "Drumikin! Drumikin!
    Have you seen Lambikin?"

And to each of them the little slyboots replied:

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

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

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

    "Drumikin! Drumikin!
    Have you seen Lambikin?"

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

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

But he never got any further, for the Jackal recognised his voice at
once, and cried: "Hullo! you've turned yourself inside out, have you?
Just you come out of that!"

Whereupon he tore open Drumikin and gobbled up Lambikin.




Punchkin

[Illustration:]


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh mother, mother, cannot you see your poor children, how unhappy we
are, and how we are starved by our cruel step-mother?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And her daughter said, "I will watch."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the second took the second;

And the third took the third;

And the fourth took the fourth;

And the fifth took the fifth;

And the sixth took the sixth;

And the seventh, and the handsomest of all, took the beautiful Balna.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why do you ask?" said he.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sir," replied the Prince, "I will not sell my parrot."

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

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

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

[Illustration: Punchkin's Prisoners are set free.]

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

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

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

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

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

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




The Broken Pot


There lived in a certain place a Brahman, whose name was
Svabhavak_ri_pa_n_a, which means "a born miser." He had collected a
quantity of rice by begging, and after having dined off it, he filled
a pot with what was left over. He hung the pot on a peg on the wall,
placed his couch beneath, and looking intently at it all the night, he
thought, "Ah, that pot is indeed brimful of rice. Now, if there should
be a famine, I should certainly make a hundred rupees by it. With this
I shall buy a couple of goats. They will have young ones every six
months, and thus I shall have a whole herd of goats. Then, with the
goats, I shall buy cows. As soon as they have calved, I shall sell the
calves. Then, with the calves, I shall buy buffaloes; with the
buffaloes, mares. When the mares have foaled, I shall have plenty of
horses; and when I sell them, plenty of gold. With that gold I shall
get a house with four wings. And then a Brahman will come to my house,
and will give me his beautiful daughter, with a large dowry. She will
have a son, and I shall call him Somasarman.

[Illustration:]

When he is old enough to be danced on his father's knee, I shall sit
with a book at the back of the stable, and while I am reading, the boy
will see me, jump from his mother's lap, and run towards me to be
danced on my knee. He will come too near the horse's hoof, and, full
of anger, I shall call to my wife, 'Take the baby; take him!' But she,
distracted by some domestic work, does not hear me. Then I get up, and
give her such a kick with my foot." While he thought this, he gave a
kick with his foot, and broke the pot. All the rice fell over him, and
made him quite white. Therefore, I say, "He who makes foolish plans
for the future will be white all over, like the father of
Somasarman."




The Magic Fiddle


Once upon a time there lived seven brothers and a sister. The brothers
were married, but their wives did not do the cooking for the family.
It was done by their sister, who stopped at home to cook. The wives
for this reason bore their sister-in-law much ill-will, and at length
they combined together to oust her from the office of cook and general
provider, so that one of themselves might obtain it. They said, "She
does not go out to the fields to work, but remains quietly at home,
and yet she has not the meals ready at the proper time." They then
called upon their Bonga, and vowing vows unto him they secured his
good-will and assistance; then they said to the Bonga, "At midday when
our sister-in-law goes to bring water, cause it thus to happen, that
on seeing her pitcher the water shall vanish, and again slowly
re-appear. In this way she will be delayed. Let the water not flow
into her pitcher, and you may keep the maiden as your own."

At noon when she went to bring water, it suddenly dried up before her,
and she began to weep. Then after a while the water began slowly to
rise. When it reached her ankles she tried to fill her pitcher, but it
would not go under the water. Being frightened she began to wail and
cry to her brother:

[Illustration:]

    "Oh! my brother, the water reaches to my ankles,
    Still, Oh! my brother, the pitcher will not dip."

The water continued to rise until it reached her knee, when she began
to wail again:

    "Oh! my brother, the water reaches to my knee,
    Still, Oh! my brother, the pitcher will not dip."

The water continued to rise, and when it reached her waist, she cried
again:

    "Oh! my brother, the water reaches to my waist,
    Still, Oh! my brother, the pitcher will not dip."

The water still rose, and when it reached her neck she kept on crying:

    "Oh! my brother, the water reaches to my neck,
    Still, Oh! my brother, the pitcher will not dip."

At length the water became so deep that she felt herself drowning,
then she cried aloud:

    "Oh! my brother, the water measures a man's height,
    Oh! my brother, the pitcher begins to fill."

The pitcher filled with water, and along with it she sank and was
drowned. The Bonga then transformed her into a Bonga like himself, and
carried her off.

After a time she re-appeared as a bamboo growing on the embankment of
the tank in which she had been drowned. When the bamboo had grown to
an immense size, a Jogi, who was in the habit of passing that way,
seeing it, said to himself, "This will make a splendid fiddle." So one
day he brought an axe to cut it down; but when he was about to begin,
the bamboo called out, "Do not cut at the root, cut higher up." When
he lifted his axe to cut high up the stem, the bamboo cried out, "Do
not cut near the top, cut at the root." When the Jogi again prepared
himself to cut at the root as requested, the bamboo said, "Do not cut
at the root, cut higher up;" and when he was about to cut higher up,
it again called out to him, "Do not cut high up, cut at the root." The
Jogi by this time felt sure that a Bonga was trying to frighten him,
so becoming angry he cut down the bamboo at the root, and taking it
away made a fiddle out of it. The instrument had a superior tone and
delighted all who heard it. The Jogi carried it with him when he went
a-begging, and through the influence of its sweet music he returned
home every evening with a full wallet.

He now and then visited, when on his rounds, the house of the Bonga
girl's brothers, and the strains of the fiddle affected them greatly.
Some of them were moved even to tears, for the fiddle seemed to wail
as one in bitter anguish. The elder brother wished to purchase it, and
offered to support the Jogi for a whole year if he would consent to
part with his wonderful instrument. The Jogi, however, knew its value,
and refused to sell it.

It so happened that the Jogi some time after went to the house of a
village chief, and after playing a tune or two on his fiddle asked for
something to eat. They offered to buy his fiddle and promised a high
price for it, but he refused to sell it, as his fiddle brought to him
his means of livelihood. When they saw that he was not to be prevailed
upon, they gave him food and a plentiful supply of liquor. Of the
latter he drank so freely that he presently became intoxicated. While
he was in this condition, they took away his fiddle, and substituted
their own old one for it. When the Jogi recovered, he missed his
instrument, and suspecting that it had been stolen asked them to
return it to him. They denied having taken it, so he had to depart,
leaving his fiddle behind him. The chief's son, being a musician, used
to play on the Jogi's fiddle, and in his hands the music it gave forth
delighted the ears of all who heard it.

When all the household were absent at their labours in the fields, the
Bonga girl used to come out of the bamboo fiddle, and prepared the
family meal. Having eaten her own share, she placed that of the
chief's son under his bed, and covering it up to keep off the dust,
re-entered the fiddle. This happening every day, the other members of
the household thought that some girl friend of theirs was in this
manner showing her interest in the young man, so they did not trouble
themselves to find out how it came about. The young chief, however,
was determined to watch, and see which of his girl friends was so
attentive to his comfort. He said in his own mind, "I will catch her
to-day, and give her a sound beating; she is causing me to be ashamed
before the others." So saying, he hid himself in a corner in a pile of
firewood. In a short time the girl came out of the bamboo fiddle, and
began to dress her hair. Having completed her toilet, she cooked the
meal of rice as usual, and having eaten some herself, she placed the
young man's portion under his bed, as before, and was about to enter
the fiddle again, when he, running out from his hiding-place, caught
her in his arms. The Bonga girl exclaimed, "Fie! Fie! you may be a
Dom, or you may be a Hadi of some other caste with whom I cannot
marry." He said, "No. But from to-day, you and I are one." So they
began lovingly to hold converse with each other. When the others
returned home in the evening, they saw that she was both a human being
and a Bonga, and they rejoiced exceedingly.

Now in course of time the Bonga girl's family became very poor, and
her brothers on one occasion came to the chief's house on a visit.

The Bonga girl recognised them at once, but they did not know who she
was. She brought them water on their arrival, and afterwards set
cooked rice before them. Then sitting down near them, she began in
wailing tones to upbraid them on account of the treatment she had been
subjected to by their wives. She related all that had befallen her,
and wound up by saying, "You must have known it all, and yet you did
not interfere to save me." And that was all the revenge she took.

[Illustration:]




The Cruel Crane Outwitted

[Illustration:]


Long ago the Bodisat was born to a forest life as the Genius of a tree
standing near a certain lotus pond.

Now at that time the water used to run short at the dry season in a
certain pond, not over large, in which there were a good many fish.
And a crane thought on seeing the fish:

"I must outwit these fish somehow or other and make a prey of them."

And he went and sat down at the edge of the water, thinking how he
should do it.

When the fish saw him, they asked him, "What are you sitting there
for, lost in thought?"

"I am sitting thinking about you," said he.

"Oh, sir! what are you thinking about us?" said they.

"Why," he replied; "there is very little water in this pond, and but
little for you to eat; and the heat is so great! So I was thinking,
'What in the world will these fish do now?'"

"Yes, indeed, sir! what _are_ we to do?" said they.

"If you will only do as I bid you, I will take you in my beak to a
fine large pond, covered with all the kinds of lotuses, and put you
into it," answered the crane.

"That a crane should take thought for the fishes is a thing unheard
of, sir, since the world began. It's eating us, one after the other,
that you're aiming at."

"Not I! So long as you trust me, I won't eat you. But if you don't
believe me that there is such a pond, send one of you with me to go
and see it."

Then they trusted him, and handed over to him one of their number--a
big fellow, blind of one eye, whom they thought sharp enough in any
emergency, afloat or ashore.

Him the crane took with him, let him go in the pond, showed him the
whole of it, brought him back, and let him go again close to the other
fish. And he told them all the glories of the pond.

And when they heard what he said, they exclaimed, "All right, sir! You
may take us with you."

Then the crane took the old purblind fish first to the bank of the
other pond, and alighted in a Varana-tree growing on the bank there.
But he threw it into a fork of the tree, struck it with his beak, and
killed it; and then ate its flesh, and threw its bones away at the
foot of the tree. Then he went back and called out:

"I've thrown that fish in; let another one come."

And in that manner he took all the fish, one by one, and ate them,
till he came back and found no more!

But there was still a crab left behind there; and the crane thought he
would eat him too, and called out:

"I say, good crab, I've taken all the fish away, and put them into a
fine large pond. Come along. I'll take you too!"

"But how will you take hold of me to carry me along?"

"I'll bite hold of you with my beak."

"You'll let me fall if you carry me like that. I won't go with you!"

"Don't be afraid! I'll hold you quite tight all the way."

Then said the crab to himself, "If this fellow once got hold of fish,
he would never let them go in a pond! Now if he should really put me
into the pond, it would be capital; but if he doesn't--then I'll cut
his throat, and kill him!" So he said to him:

"Look here, friend, you won't be able to hold me tight enough; but we
crabs have a famous grip. If you let me catch hold of you round the
neck with my claws, I shall be glad to go with you."

And the other did not see that he was trying to outwit him, and
agreed. So the crab caught hold of his neck with his claws as securely
as with a pair of blacksmith's pincers, and called out, "Off with you,
now!"

And the crane took him and showed him the pond, and then turned off
towards the Varana-tree.

"Uncle!" cried the crab, "the pond lies that way, but you are taking
me this way!"

"Oh, that's it, is it?" answered the crane. "Your dear little uncle,
your very sweet nephew, you call me! You mean me to understand, I
suppose, that I am your slave, who has to lift you up and carry you
about with him! Now cast your eye upon the heap of fish-bones lying at
the root of yonder Varana-tree. Just as I have eaten those fish, every
one of them, just so I will devour you as well!"

"Ah! those fishes got eaten through their own stupidity," answered the
crab; "but I'm not going to let you eat _me_. On the contrary, is it
_you_ that I am going to destroy. For you in your folly have not seen
that I was outwitting you. If we die, we die both together; for I will
cut off this head of yours, and cast it to the ground!" And so saying,
he gave the crane's neck a grip with his claws, as with a vice.

Then gasping, and with tears trickling from his eyes, and trembling
with the fear of death, the crane beseeched him, saying, "O my Lord!
Indeed I did not intend to eat you. Grant me my life!"

"Well, well! step down into the pond, and put me in there."

And he turned round and stepped down into the pond, and placed the
crab on the mud at its edge. But the crab cut through its neck as
clean as one would cut a lotus-stalk with a hunting-knife, and then
only entered the water!

When the Genius who lived in the Varana-tree saw this strange affair,
he made the wood resound with his plaudits, uttering in a pleasant
voice the verse:

    "The villain, though exceeding clever,
    Shall prosper not by his villainy.
    He may win indeed, sharp-witted in deceit,
    But only as the Crane here from the Crab!"

[Illustration:]




Loving Laili


Once there was a king called King Dantal, who had a great many rupees
and soldiers and horses. He had also an only son called Prince Majnun,
who was a handsome boy with white teeth, red lips, blue eyes, red
cheeks, red hair, and a white skin. This boy was very fond of playing
with the Wazir's son, Husain Mahamat, in King Dantal's garden, which
was very large and full of delicious fruits, and flowers, and trees.
They used to take their little knives there and cut the fruits and eat
them. King Dantal had a teacher for them to teach them to read and
write.

One day, when they were grown two fine young men, Prince Majnun said
to his father, "Husain Mahamat and I should like to go and hunt." His
father said they might go, so they got ready their horses and all else
they wanted for their hunting, and went to the Phalana country,
hunting all the way, but they only founds jackals and birds.

The Raja of the Phalana country was called Munsuk Raja, and he had a
daughter named Laili, who was very beautiful; she had brown eyes and
black hair.

One night, some time before Prince Majnun came to her father's
kingdom, as she slept, Khuda sent to her an angel in the form of a man
who told her that she should marry Prince Majnun and no one else, and
that this was Khuda's command to her. When Laili woke she told her
father of the angel's visit to her as she slept; but her father paid
no attention to her story. From that time she began repeating,
"Majnun, Majnun; I want Majnun," and would say nothing else. Even as
she sat and ate her food she kept saying, "Majnun, Majnun; I want
Majnun." Her father used to get quite vexed with her. "Who is this
Majnun? who ever heard of this Majnun?" he would say.

"He is the man I am to marry," said Laili. "Khuda has ordered me to
marry no one but Majnun." And she was half mad.

Meanwhile, Majnun and Husain Mahamat came to hunt in the Phalana
country; and as they were riding about, Laili came out on her horse to
eat the air, and rode behind them. All the time she kept saying,
"Majnun, Majnun; I want Majnun." The prince heard her, and turned
round. "Who is calling me?" he asked. At this Laili looked at him, and
the moment she saw him she fell deeply in love with him, and she said
to herself, "I am sure that is the Prince Majnun that Khuda says I am
to marry." And she went home to her father and said, "Father, I wish
to marry the prince who has come to your kingdom; for I know he is the
Prince Majnun I am to marry."

"Very well, you shall have him for your husband," said Munsuk Raja.
"We will ask him to-morrow." Laili consented to wait, although she was
very impatient. As it happened, the prince left the Phalana kingdom
that night, and when Laili heard he was gone, she went quite mad. She
would not listen to a word her father, or her mother, or her servants
said to her, but went off into the jungle, and wandered from jungle to
jungle, till she got farther and farther away from her own country.
All the time she kept saying, "Majnun, Majnun; I want Majnun;" and so
she wandered about for twelve years.

At the end of the twelve years she met a fakir--he was really an
angel, but she did not know this--who asked her, "Why do you always
say, 'Majnun, Majnun; I want Majnun'?" She answered, "I am the
daughter of the king of the Phalana country, and I want to find Prince
Majnun; tell me where his kingdom is."

"I think you will never get there," said the fakir, "for it is very
far from hence, and you have to cross many rivers to reach it." But
Laili said she did not care; she must see Prince Majnun. "Well," said
the fakir, "when you come to the Bhagirathi river you will see a big
fish, a Rohu; and you must get him to carry you to Prince Majnun's
country, or you will never reach it."

She went on and on, and at last she came to the Bhagirathi river.
There was a great big fish called the Rohu fish. It was yawning just
as she got up to it, and she instantly jumped down its throat into its
stomach. All the time she kept saying, "Majnun, Majnun." At this the
Rohu fish was greatly alarmed and swam down the river as fast as he
could. By degrees he got tired and went slower, and a crow came and
perched on his back, and said "Caw, caw." "Oh, Mr. Crow," said the
poor fish "do see what is in my stomach that makes such a noise."

"Very well," said the crow, "open your mouth wide, and I'll fly down
and see." So the Rohu opened his jaws and the crow flew down, but he
came up again very quickly. "You have a Rakshas in your stomach," said
the crow, and he flew away. This news did not comfort the poor Rohu,
and he swam on and on till he came to Prince Majnun's country. There
he stopped. And a jackal came down to the river to drink. "Oh,
jackal," said the Rohu, "do tell me what I have inside me."

[Illustration:]

"How can I tell?" said the jackal. "I cannot see unless I go inside
you." So the Rohu opened his mouth wide, and the jackal jumped down
his throat; but he came up very quickly, looking much frightened and
saying, "You have a Rakshas in your stomach, and if I don't run away
quickly, I am afraid it will eat me." So off he ran. After the jackal
came an enormous snake. "Oh," says the fish, "do tell me what I have
in my stomach, for it rattles about so, and keeps saying, 'Majnun,
Majnun; I want Majnun.'"

The snake said, "Open your mouth wide, and I'll go down and see what
it is." The snake went down: when he returned he said, "You have a
Rakshas in your stomach, but if you will let me cut you open, it will
come out of you." "If you do that, I shall die," said the Rohu. "Oh,
no," said the snake, "you will not, for I will give you a medicine
that will make you quite well again." So the fish agreed, and the
snake got a knife and cut him open, and out jumped Laili.

She was now very old. Twelve years she had wandered about the jungle,
and for twelve years she had lived inside her Rohu; and she was no
longer beautiful, and had lost her teeth. The snake took her on his
back and carried her into the country, and there he put her down, and
she wandered on and on till she got to Majnun's court-house, where
King Majnun was sitting. There some men heard her crying, "Majnun,
Majnun; I want Majnun," and they asked her what she wanted. "I want
King Majnun," she said.

So they went in and said to Prince Majnun, "An old woman outside says
she wants you." "I cannot leave this place," said he; "send her in
here." They brought her in and the prince asked her what she wanted.
"I want to marry you," she answered. "Twenty-four years ago you came
to my father the Phalana Raja's country, and I wanted to marry you
then; but you went away without marrying me. Then I went mad, and I
have wandered about all these years looking for you." Prince Majnun
said, "Very good."

"Pray to Khuda," said Laili, "to make us both young again, and then we
shall be married." So the prince prayed to Khuda, and Khuda said to
him, "Touch Laili's clothes and they will catch fire, and when they
are on fire, she and you will become young again." When he touched
Laili's clothes they caught fire, and she and he became young again.
And there were great feasts, and they were married, and travelled to
the Phalana country to see her father and mother.

Now Laili's father and mother had wept so much for their daughter that
they had become quite blind, and her father kept always repeating,
"Laili, Laili, Laili." When Laili saw their blindness, she prayed to
Khuda to restore their sight to them, which he did. As soon as the
father and mother saw Laili, they hugged her and kissed her, and then
they had the wedding all over again amid great rejoicings. Prince
Majnun and Laili stayed with Munsuk Raja and his wife for three years,
and then they returned to King Dantal, and lived happily for some time
with him.

They used to go out hunting, and they often went from country to
country to eat the air and amuse themselves.

One day Prince Majnun said to Laili, "Let us go through this jungle."
"No, no," said Laili; "if we go through this jungle, some harm will
happen to me." But Prince Majnun laughed, and went into the jungle.
And as they were going through it, Khuda thought, "I should like to
know how much Prince Majnun loves his wife. Would he be very sorry if
she died? And would he marry another wife? I will see." So he sent one
of his angels in the form of a fakir into the jungle; and the angel
went up to Laili, and threw some powder in her face, and instantly she
fell to the ground a heap of ashes.

Prince Majnun was in great sorrow and grief when he saw his dear Laili
turned into a little heap of ashes; and he went straight home to his
father, and for a long, long time he would not be comforted. After a
great many years he grew more cheerful and happy, and began to go
again into his father's beautiful garden with Husain Mahamat. King
Dantal wished his son to marry again. "I will only have Laili for my
wife; I will not marry any other woman," said Prince Majnun.

"How can you marry Laili? Laili is dead. She will never come back to
you," said the father.

"Then I'll not have any wife at all," said Prince Majnun.

Meanwhile Laili was living in the jungle where her husband had left
her a little heap of ashes. As soon as Majnun had gone, the fakir had
taken her ashes and made them quite clean, and then he had mixed clay
and water with the ashes, and made the figure of a woman with them,
and so Laili regained her human form, and Khuda sent life into it. But
Laili had become once more a hideous old woman, with a long, long
nose, and teeth like tusks; just such an old woman, excepting her
teeth, as she had been when she came out of the Rohu fish; and she
lived in the jungle, and neither ate nor drank, and she kept on
saying, "Majnun, Majnun; I want Majnun."

At last the angel who had come as a fakir and thrown the powder at
her, said to Khuda, "Of what use is it that this woman should sit in
the jungle crying, crying for ever, 'Majnun, Majnun; I want Majnun,'
and eating and drinking nothing? Let me take her to Prince Majnun."
"Well," said Khuda, "you may do so; but tell her that she must not
speak to Majnun if he is afraid of her when he sees her; and that if
he is afraid when he sees her, she will become a little white dog the
next day. Then she must go to the palace, and she will only regain her
human shape when Prince Majnun loves her, feeds her with his own food,
and lets her sleep in his bed."

So the angel came to Laili again as a fakir and carried her to King
Dantal's garden. "Now," he said, "it is Khuda's command that you stay
here till Prince Majnun comes to walk in the garden, and then you may
show yourself to him. But you must not speak to him, if he is afraid
of you; and should he be afraid of you, you will the next day become a
little white dog." He then told her what she must do as a little dog
to regain her human form.

Laili stayed in the garden, hidden in the tall grass, till Prince
Majnun and Husain Mahamat came to walk in the garden. King Dantal was
now a very old man, and Husain Mahamat, though he was really only as
old as Prince Majnun, looked a great deal older than the prince, who
had been made quite young again when he married Laili.

As Prince Majnun and the Wazir's son walked in the garden, they
gathered the fruit as they had done as little children, only they bit
the fruit with their teeth; they did not cut it. While Majnun was busy
eating a fruit in this way, and was talking to Husain Mahamat, he
turned towards him and saw Laili walking behind the Wazir's son. "Oh,
look, look!" he cried, "see what is following you; it is a Rakshas or
a demon, and I am sure it is going to eat us." Laili looked at him
beseechingly with all her eyes, and trembled with age and eagerness;
but this only frightened Majnun the more. "It is a Rakshas, a
Rakshas!" he cried, and he ran quickly to the palace with the Wazir's
son; and as they ran away, Laili disappeared into the jungle. They ran
to King Dantal, and Majnun told him there was a Rakshas or a demon in
the garden that had come to eat them.

"What nonsense," said his father. "Fancy two grown men being so
frightened by an old ayah or a fakir! And if it had been a Rakshas, it
would not have eaten you." Indeed King Dantal did not believe Majnun
had seen anything at all, till Husain Mahamat said the prince was
speaking the exact truth. They had the garden searched for the
terrible old woman, but found nothing, and King Dantal told his son he
was very silly to be so much frightened. However, Prince Majnun would
not walk in the garden any more.

The next day Laili turned into a pretty little dog; and in this shape
she came into the palace, where Prince Majnun soon became very fond of
her. She followed him everywhere, went with him when he was out
hunting, and helped him to catch his game, and Prince Majnun fed her
with milk, or bread, or anything else he was eating, and at night the
little dog slept in his bed.

But one night the little dog disappeared, and in its stead there lay
the little old woman who had frightened him so much in the garden; and
now Prince Majnun was quite sure she was a Rakshas, or a demon, or
some such horrible thing come to eat him; and in his terror he cried
out, "What do you want? Oh, do not eat me; do not eat me!" Poor Laili
answered, "Don't you know me? I am your wife Laili, and I want to
marry you. Don't you remember how you would go through that jungle,
though I begged and begged you not to go, for I told you that harm
would happen to me, and then a fakir came and threw powder in my face,
and I became a heap of ashes. But Khuda gave me my life again, and
brought me here, after I had stayed a long, long while in the jungle
crying for you, and now I am obliged to be a little dog; but if you
will marry me, I shall not be a little dog any more." Majnun, however,
said "How can I marry an old woman like you? how can you be Laili? I
am sure you are a Rakshas or a demon come to eat me," and he was in
great terror.

In the morning the old woman had turned into the little dog, and the
prince went to his father and told him all that had happened. "An old
woman! an old woman! always an old woman!" said his father. "You do
nothing but think of old women. How can a strong man like you be so
easily frightened?" However, when he saw that his son was really in
great terror, and that he really believed the old woman would came
back at night, he advised him to say to her, "I will marry you if you
can make yourself a young girl again. How can I marry such an old
woman as you are?"

That night as he lay trembling in bed the little old woman lay there
in place of the dog, crying "Majnun, Majnun, I want to marry you. I
have loved you all these long, long years. When I was in my father's
kingdom a young girl, I knew of you, though you knew nothing of me,
and we should have been married then if you had not gone away so
suddenly, and for long, long years I followed you." "Well," said
Majnun, "if you can make yourself a young girl again, I will marry
you."

Laili said, "Oh, that is quite easy. Khuda will make me a young girl
again. In two days' time you must go into the garden, and there you
will see a beautiful fruit. You must gather it and bring it into your
room and cut it open yourself very gently, and you must not open it
when your father or anybody else is with you, but when you are quite
alone; for I shall be in the fruit quite naked, without any clothes at
all on." In the morning Laili took her little dog's form, and
disappeared in the garden.

Prince Majnun told all this to his father, who told him to do all the
old woman had bidden him. In two days' time he and the Wazir's son
walked in the garden, and there they saw a large, lovely red fruit.
"Oh!" said the Prince, "I wonder shall I find my wife in that fruit."
Husain Mahamat wanted him to gather it and see, but he would not till
he had told his father, who said, "That must be the fruit; go and
gather it." So Majnun went back and broke the fruit off its stalk; and
he said to his father, "Come with me to my room while I open it; I am
afraid to open it alone, for perhaps I shall find a Rakshas in it that
will eat me."

"No," said King Dantal; "remember, Laili will be naked; you must go
alone and do not be afraid if, after all, a Rakshas is in the fruit,
for I will stay outside the door, and you have only to call me with a
loud voice, and I will come to you, so the Rakshas will not be able to
eat you."

Then Majnun took the fruit and began to cut it open tremblingly, for
he shook with fear; and when he had cut it, out stepped Laili, young
and far more beautiful than she had ever been. At the sight of her
extreme beauty, Majnun fell backwards fainting on the floor.

Laili took off his turban and wound it all round herself like a sari
(for she had no clothes at all on), and then she called King Dantal,
and said to him sadly, "Why has Majnun fallen down like this? Why will
he not speak to me? He never used to be afraid of me; and he has seen
me so many, many times."

King Dantal answered, "It is because you are so beautiful. You are
far, far more beautiful than you ever were. But he will be very happy
directly." Then the King got some water, and they bathed Majnun's face
and gave him some to drink, and he sat up again.

Then Laili said, "Why did you faint? Did you not see I am Laili?"

"Oh!" said Prince Majnun, "I see you are Laili come back to me, but
your eyes have grown so wonderfully beautiful, that I fainted when I
saw them." Then they were all very happy, and King Dantal had all the
drums in the place beaten, and had all the musical instruments played
on, and they made a grand wedding-feast, and gave presents to the
servants, and rice and quantities of rupees to the fakirs.

After some time had passed very happily, Prince Majnun and his wife
went out to eat the air. They rode on the same horse, and had only a
groom with them. They came to another kingdom, to a beautiful garden.
"We must go into that garden and see it," said Majnun.

"No, no," said Laili; "it belongs to a bad Raja, Chumman Basa, a very
wicked man." But Majnun insisted on going in, and in spite of all
Laili could say, he got off the horse to look at the flowers. Now, as
he was looking at the flowers, Laili saw Chumman Basa coming towards
them, and she read in his eyes that he meant to kill her husband and
seize her. So she said to Majnun, "Come, come, let us go; do not go
near that bad man. I see in his eyes, and I feel in my heart, that he
will kill you to seize me."

"What nonsense," said Majnun. "I believe he is a very good Raja.
Anyhow, I am so near to him that I could not get away."

"Well," said Laili, "it is better that you should be killed than I,
for if I were to be killed a second time, Khuda would not give me my
life again; but I can bring you to life if you are killed." Now
Chumman Basa had come quite near, and seemed very pleasant, so thought
Prince Majnun; but when he was speaking to Majnun, he drew his
scimitar and cut off the prince's head at one blow.

Laili sat quite still on her horse, and as the Raja came towards her
she said, "Why did you kill my husband?"

"Because I want to take you," he answered.

"You cannot," said Laili.

"Yes, I can," said the Raja.

"Take me, then," said Laili to Chumman Basa; so he came quite close
and put out his hand to take hers to lift her off her horse. But she
put her hand in her pocket and pulled out a tiny knife, only as long
as her hand was broad, and this knife unfolded itself in one instant
till it was such a length! and then Laili made a great sweep with her
arm and her long, long knife, and off came Chumman Basa's head at one
touch.

Then Laili slipped down off her horse, and she went to Majnun's dead
body, and she cut her little finger inside her hand straight down from
the top of her nail to her palm, and out of this gushed blood like
healing medicine. Then she put Majnun's head on his shoulders, and
smeared her healing blood all over the wound, and Majnun woke up and
said, "What a delightful sleep I have had! Why, I feel as if I had
slept for years!" Then he got up and saw the Raja's dead body by
Laili's horse.

"What's that?" said Majnun.

"That is the wicked Raja who killed you to seize me, just as I said he
would."

"Who killed him?" asked Majnun.

"I did," answered Laili, "and it was I who brought you to life."

"Do bring the poor man to life if you know how to do so," said Majnun.

"No," said Laili, "for he is a wicked man, and will try to do you
harm." But Majnun asked her for such a long time, and so earnestly to
bring the wicked Raja to life, that at least she said, "Jump up on the
horse, then, and go far away with the groom."

"What will you do," said Majnun, "if I leave you? I cannot leave you."

"I will take care of myself," said Laili; "but this man is so wicked,
he may kill you again if you are near him." So Majnun got up on the
horse, and he and the groom went a long way off and waited for Laili.
Then she set the wicked Raja's head straight on his shoulders, and
she squeezed the wound in her finger till a little blood-medicine
came out of it. Then she smeared this over the place where her knife
had passed, and just as she saw the Raja opening his eyes, she began
to run, and she ran, and ran so fast, that she outran the Raja, who
tried to catch her; and she sprang up on the horse behind her husband,
and they rode so fast, so fast, till they reached King Dantal's
palace.

[Illustration: How Loving Laili became young again]

There Prince Majnun told everything to his father, who was horrified
and angry. "How lucky for you that you have such a wife," he said.
"Why did you not do what she told you? But for her, you would be now
dead." Then he made a great feast out of gratitude for his son's
safety, and gave many, many rupees to the fakirs. And he made so much
of Laili. He loved her dearly; he could not do enough for her. Then he
built a splendid palace for her and his son, with a great deal of
ground about it, and lovely gardens, and gave them great wealth, and
heaps of servants to wait on them. But he would not allow any but
their servants to enter their gardens and palace, and he would not
allow Majnun to go out of them, nor Laili; "for," said King Dantal,
"Laili is so beautiful, that perhaps some one may kill my son to take
her away."




The Tiger, the Brahman, and the Jackal

[Illustration:]


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

By chance a poor Brahman came by. "Let me out of this cage, oh pious
one!" cried the tiger.

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

"Not at all!" swore the tiger with many oaths; "on the contrary, I
should be for ever grateful, and serve you as a slave!"

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

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

So the Brahman first asked a _pipal_ tree what it thought of the
matter, but the _pipal_ tree replied coldly, "What have you to
complain about? Don't I give shade and shelter to every one who passes
by, and don't they in return tear down my branches to feed their
cattle? Don't whimper--be a man!"

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

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

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

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

The Brahman told him all that had occurred. "How very confusing!" said
the jackal, when the recital was ended; "would you mind telling me
over again, for everything has got so mixed up?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Give me five minutes, my lord!" he pleaded, "in order that I may
explain matters to the jackal here, who is somewhat slow in his wits."

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

"Oh, my poor brain! oh, my poor brain!" cried the jackal, wringing its
paws. "Let me see! how did it all begin? You were in the cage, and the
tiger came walking by----"

"Pooh!" interrupted the tiger, "what a fool you are! _I_ was in the
cage."

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

"Yes, you shall!" returned the tiger, in a rage at the jackal's
stupidity; "I'll _make_ you understand! Look here--I am the tiger----"

"Yes, my lord!"

"And that is the Brahman----"

"Yes, my lord!"

"And that is the cage----"

"Yes, my lord!"

"And I was in the cage--do you understand?"

"Yes--no---- Please, my lord----"

"Well?" cried the tiger impatiently.

"Please, my lord!--how did you get in?"

"How!--why in the usual way, of course!"

"Oh, dear me!--my head is beginning to whirl again! Please don't be
angry, my lord, but what is the usual way?"

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

"Perfectly!" grinned the jackal, as he dexterously shut the door, "and
if you will permit me to say so, I think matters will remain as they
were!"




The Soothsayer's Son


A soothsayer when on his deathbed wrote out the horoscope of his
second son, whose name was Gangazara, and bequeathed it to him as his
only property, leaving the whole of his estate to his eldest son. The
second son thought over the horoscope, and said to himself:

"Alas! am I born to this only in the world? The sayings of my father
never failed. I have seen them prove true to the last word while he
was living; and how has he fixed my horoscope! 'FROM MY BIRTH
POVERTY!' Nor is that my only fate. 'FOR TEN YEARS, IMPRISONMENT'--a
fate harder than poverty; and what comes next? 'DEATH ON THE
SEA-SHORE'; which means that I must die away from home, far from
friends and relatives on a sea-coast. Now comes the most curious part
of the horoscope, that I am to 'HAVE SOME HAPPINESS AFTERWARDS!' What
this happiness is, is an enigma to me."

Thus thought he, and after all the funeral obsequies of his father
were over, took leave of his elder brother, and started for Benares.
He went by the middle of the Deccan, avoiding both the coasts, and
went on journeying and journeying for weeks and months, till at last
he reached the Vindhya mountains. While passing that desert he had to
journey for a couple of days through a sandy plain, with no signs of
life or vegetation. The little store of provision with which he was
provided for a couple of days, at last was exhausted. The chombu,
which he carried always full, filling it with the sweet water from the
flowing rivulet or plenteous tank, he had exhausted in the heat of the
desert. There was not a morsel in his hand to eat; nor a drop of water
to drink. Turn his eyes wherever he might he found a vast desert, out
of which he saw no means of escape. Still he thought within himself,
"Surely my father's prophecy never proved untrue. I must survive this
calamity to find my death on some sea-coast." So thought he, and this
thought gave him strength of mind to walk fast and try to find a drop
of water somewhere to slake his dry throat.

At last he succeeded; heaven threw in his way a ruined well. He
thought he could collect some water if he let down his chombu with the
string that he always carried noosed to the neck of it. Accordingly he
let it down; it went some way and stopped, and the following words
came from the well: "Oh, relieve me! I am the king of tigers, dying
here of hunger. For the last three days I have had nothing. Fortune
has sent you here. If you assist me now you will find a sure help in
me throughout your life. Do not think that I am a beast of prey. When
you have become my deliverer I will never touch you. Pray, kindly lift
me up." Gangazara thought: "Shall I take him out or not? If I take him
out he may make me the first morsel of his hungry mouth. No; that he
will not do. For my father's prophecy never came untrue. I must die on
a sea coast, and not by a tiger." Thus thinking, he asked the
tiger-king to hold tight to the vessel, which he accordingly did, and
he lifted him up slowly. The tiger reached the top of the well and
felt himself on safe ground. True to his word, he did no harm to
Gangazara. On the other hand, he walked round his patron three times,
and standing before him, humbly spoke the following words: "My
life-giver, my benefactor! I shall never forget this day, when I
regained my life through your kind hands. In return for this kind
assistance I pledge my oath to stand by you in all calamities.
Whenever you are in any difficulty just think of me. I am there with
you ready to oblige you by all the means that I can. To tell you
briefly how I came in here: Three days ago I was roaming in yonder
forest, when I saw a goldsmith passing through it. I chased him. He,
finding it impossible to escape my claws, jumped into this well, and
is living to this moment in the very bottom of it. I also jumped in,
but found myself on the first ledge of the well; he is on the last and
fourth ledge. In the second lives a serpent half-famished with hunger.
On the third lies a rat, also half-famished, and when you again begin
to draw water these may request you first to release them. In the same
way the goldsmith also may ask you. I beg you, as your bosom friend,
never assist that wretched man, though he is your relation as a human
being. Goldsmiths are never to be trusted. You can place more faith in
me, a tiger, though I feast sometimes upon men, in a serpent, whose
sting makes your blood cold the very next moment, or in a rat, which
does a thousand pieces of mischief in your house. But never trust a
goldsmith. Do not release him; and if you do, you shall surely repent
of it one day or other." Thus advising, the hungry tiger went away
without waiting for an answer.

[Illustration:]

Gangazara thought several times of the eloquent way in which the tiger
spoke, and admired his fluency of speech. But still his thirst was not
quenched. So he let down his vessel again, which was now caught hold
of by the serpent, who addressed him thus: "Oh, my protector! Lift me
up. I am the king of serpents, and the son of Adisesha, who is now
pining away in agony for my disappearance. Release me now. I shall
ever remain your servant, remember your assistance, and help you
throughout life in all possible ways. Oblige me: I am dying."
Gangazara, calling again to mind the "DEATH ON THE SEA-SHORE" of the
prophecy lifted him up. He, like the tiger-king, walked round him
thrice, and prostrating himself before him spoke thus: "Oh, my
life-giver, my father, for so I must call you, as you have given me
another birth. I was three days ago basking myself in the morning sun,
when I saw a rat running before me. I chased him. He fell into this
well. I followed him, but instead of falling on the third storey where
he is now lying, I fell into the second. I am going away now to see my
father. Whenever you are in any difficulty just think of me. I will be
there by your side to assist you by all possible means." So saying,
the Nagaraja glided away in zigzag movements, and was out of sight in
a moment.

The poor son of the Soothsayer, who was now almost dying of thirst,
let down his vessel for a third time. The rat caught hold of it, and
without discussing he lifted up the poor animal at once. But it would
not go away without showing its gratitude: "Oh, life of my life! My
benefactor! I am the king of rats. Whenever you are in any calamity
just think of me. I will come to you, and assist you. My keen ears
overheard all that the tiger-king told you about the goldsmith, who is
in the fourth storey. It is nothing but a sad truth that goldsmiths
ought never to be trusted. Therefore, never assist him as you have
done to us all. And if you do, you will suffer for it. I am hungry;
let me go for the present." Thus taking leave of his benefactor, the
rat, too, ran away.

Gangazara for a while thought upon the repeated advice given by the
three animals about releasing the goldsmith: "What wrong would there
be in my assisting him? Why should I not release him also?" So
thinking to himself, Gangazara let down the vessel again. The
goldsmith caught hold of it, and demanded help. The Soothsayer's son
had no time to lose; he was himself dying of thirst. Therefore he
lifted the goldsmith up, who now began his story. "Stop for a while,"
said Gangazara, and after quenching his thirst by letting down his
vessel for the fifth time, still fearing that some one might remain in
the well and demand his assistance, he listened to the goldsmith, who
began as follows: "My dear friend, my protector, what a deal of
nonsense these brutes have been talking to you about me; I am glad you
have not followed their advice. I am just now dying of hunger. Permit
me to go away. My name is Manikkasari. I live in the East main street
of Ujjaini, which is twenty kas to the south of this place, and so
lies on your way when you return from Benares. Do not forget to come
to me and receive my kind remembrances of your assistance, on your way
back to your country." So saying, the goldsmith took his leave, and
Gangazara also pursued his way north after the above adventures.

He reached Benares, and lived there for more than ten years, and quite
forgot the tiger, serpent, rat, and goldsmith. After ten years of
religious life, thoughts of home and of his brother rushed into his
mind. "I have secured enough merit now by my religious observances.
Let me return home." Thus thought Gangazara within himself, and very
soon he was on his way back to his country. Remembering the prophecy
of his father he returned by the same way by which he went to Benares
ten years before. While thus retracing his steps he reached the ruined
well where he had released the three brute kings and the goldsmith. At
once the old recollections rushed into his mind, and he thought of the
tiger to test his fidelity. Only a moment passed, and the tiger-king
came running before him carrying a large crown in his mouth, the
glitter of the diamonds of which for a time outshone even the bright
rays of the sun. He dropped the crown at his life-giver's feet, and,
putting aside all his pride, humbled himself like a pet cat to the
strokes of his protector, and began in the following words: "My
life-giver! How is it that you have forgotten me, your poor servant,
for such a long time? I am glad to find that I still occupy a corner
in your mind. I can never forget the day when I owed my life to your
lotus hands. I have several jewels with me of little value. This
crown, being the best of all, I have brought here as a single ornament
of great value, which you can carry with you and dispose of in your
own country." Gangazara looked at the crown, examined it over and
over, counted and recounted the gems, and thought within himself that
he would become the richest of men by separating the diamonds and
gold, and selling them in his own country. He took leave of the
tiger-king, and after his disappearance thought of the kings of
serpents and rats, who came in their turn with their presents, and
after the usual greetings and exchange of words took their leave.
Gangazara was extremely delighted at the faithfulness with which the
brute beasts behaved, and went on his way to the south. While going
along he spoke to himself thus: "These beasts have been very faithful
in their assistance. Much more, therefore, must Manikkasari be
faithful. I do not want anything from him now. If I take this crown
with me as it is, it occupies much space in my bundle. It may also
excite the curiosity of some robbers on the way. I will go now to
Ujjaini on my way. Manikkasari requested me to see him without failure
on my return journey. I shall do so, and request him to have the crown
melted, the diamonds and gold separated. He must do that kindness at
least for me. I shall then roll up these diamonds and gold ball in my
rags, and wend my way homewards." Thus thinking and thinking, he
reached Ujjaini. At once he inquired for the house of his goldsmith
friend, and found him without difficulty. Manikkasari was extremely
delighted to find on his threshold him who ten years before,
notwithstanding the advice repeatedly given him by the sage-looking
tiger, serpent, and rat, had relieved him from the pit of death.
Gangazara at once showed him the crown that he received from the
tiger-king, told him how he got it, and requested his kind assistance
to separate the gold and diamonds. Manikkasari agreed to do so, and
meanwhile asked his friend to rest himself for a while to have his
bath and meals; and Gangazara, who was very observant of his religious
ceremonies, went direct to the river to bathe.

How came the crown in the jaws of the tiger? The king of Ujjaini had a
week before gone with all his hunters on a hunting expedition. All of
a sudden the tiger-king started from the wood, seized the king, and
vanished.

When the king's attendants informed the prince about the death of his
father he wept and wailed, and gave notice that he would give half of
his kingdom to any one who should bring him news about the murderer of
his father. The goldsmith knew full well that it was a tiger that
killed the king, and not any hunter's hands, since he had heard from
Gangazara how he obtained the crown. Still, he resolved to denounce
Gangazara as the king's murderer, so, hiding the crown under his
garments, he flew to the palace. He went before the prince and
informed him that the assassin was caught, and placed the crown before
him. The prince took it into his hands, examined it, and at once gave
half the kingdom to Manikkasari, and then inquired about the murderer.
"He is bathing in the river, and is of such and such appearance," was
the reply. At once four armed soldiers flew to the river, and bound
the poor Brahman hand and foot, while he, sitting in meditation, was
without any knowledge of the fate that hung over him. They brought
Gangazara to the presence of the prince, who turned his face away from
the supposed murderer, and asked his soldiers to throw him into a
dungeon. In a minute, without knowing the cause, the poor Brahman
found himself in the dark dungeon.

It was a dark cellar underground, built with strong stone walls, into
which any criminal guilty of a capital offence was ushered to breathe
his last there without food and drink. Such was the cellar into which
Gangazara was thrust. What were his thoughts when he reached that
place? "It is of no use to accuse either the goldsmith or the prince
now. We are all the children of fate. We must obey her commands. This
is but the first day of my father's prophecy. So far his statement is
true. But how am I going to pass ten years here? Perhaps without
anything to sustain life I may drag on my existence for a day or two.
But how pass ten years? That cannot be, and I must die. Before death
comes let me think of my faithful brute friends."

So pondered Gangazara in the dark cell underground, and at that moment
thought of his three friends. The tiger-king, serpent-king, and
rat-king assembled at once with their armies at a garden near the
dungeon, and for a while did not know what to do. They held their
council, and decided to make an underground passage from the inside
of a ruined well to the dungeon. The rat raja issued an order at once
to that effect to his army. They, with their teeth, bored the ground a
long way to the walls of the prison. After reaching it they found that
their teeth could not work on the hard stones. The bandicoots were
then specially ordered for the business; they, with their hard teeth,
made a small slit in the wall for a rat to pass and repass without
difficulty. Thus a passage was effected.

The rat raja entered first to condole with his protector on his
misfortune, and undertook to supply his protector with provisions.
"Whatever sweetmeats or bread are prepared in any house, one and all
of you must try to bring whatever you can to our benefactor. Whatever
clothes you find hanging in a house, cut down, dip the pieces in
water, and bring the wet bits to our benefactor. He will squeeze them
and gather water for drink! and the bread and sweetmeats shall form
his food." Having issued these orders, the king of the rats took leave
of Gangazara. They, in obedience to their king's order, continued to
supply him with provisions and water.

The snake-king said: "I sincerely condole with you in your calamity;
the tiger-king also fully sympathises with you, and wants me to tell
you so, as he cannot drag his huge body here as we have done with our
small ones. The king of the rats has promised to do his best to
provide you with food. We would now do what we can for your release.
From this day we shall issue orders to our armies to oppress all the
subjects of this kingdom. The deaths by snake-bite and tigers shall
increase a hundredfold from this day, and day by day it shall continue
to increase till your release. Whenever you hear people near you, you
had better bawl out so as to be heard by them: 'The wretched prince
imprisoned me on the false charge of having killed his father, while
it was a tiger that killed him. From that day these calamities have
broken out in his dominions. If I were released I would save all by my
powers of healing poisonous wounds and by incantations.' Some one may
report this to the king, and if he knows it, you will obtain your
liberty." Thus comforting his protector in trouble, he advised him to
pluck up courage, and took leave of him. From that day tigers and
serpents, acting under the orders of their kings, united in killing as
many persons and cattle as possible. Every day people were carried
away by tigers or bitten by serpents. Thus passed months and years.
Gangazara sat in the dark cellar, without the sun's light falling upon
him, and feasted upon the breadcrumbs and sweetmeats that the rats so
kindly supplied him with. These delicacies had completely changed his
body into a red, stout, huge, unwieldy mass of flesh. Thus passed full
ten years, as prophesied in the horoscope.

Ten complete years rolled away in close imprisonment. On the last
evening of the tenth year one of the serpents got into the bed-chamber
of the princess and sucked her life. She breathed her last. She was
the only daughter of the king. The king at once sent for all the
snake-bite curers. He promised half his kingdom and his daughter's
hand to him who would restore her to life. Now a servant of the king
who had several times overheard Gangazara's cries, reported the matter
to him. The king at once ordered the cell to be examined. There was
the man sitting in it. How had he managed to live so long in the cell?
Some whispered that he must be a divine being. Thus they discussed,
while they brought Gangazara to the king.

The king no sooner saw Gangazara than he fell on the ground. He was
struck by the majesty and grandeur of his person. His ten years'
imprisonment in the deep cell underground had given a sort of lustre
to his body. His hair had first to be cut before his face could be
seen. The king begged forgiveness for his former fault, and requested
him to revive his daughter.

"Bring me within an hour all the corpses of men and cattle, dying and
dead, that remain unburnt or unburied within the range of your
dominions; I shall revive them all," were the only words that
Gangazara spoke.

Cartloads of corpses of men and cattle began to come in every minute.
Even graves, it is said, were broken open, and corpses buried a day or
two before were taken out and sent for their revival. As soon as all
were ready, Gangazara took a vessel full of water and sprinkled it
over them all, thinking only of his snake-king and tiger-king. All
rose up as if from deep slumber, and went to their respective homes.
The princess, too, was restored to life. The joy of the king knew no
bounds. He cursed the day on which he imprisoned him, blamed himself
for having believed the word of a goldsmith, and offered him the hand
of his daughter and the whole kingdom, instead of half, as he
promised. Gangazara would not accept anything, but asked the king to
assemble all his subjects in a wood near the town. "I shall there call
in all the tigers and serpents, and give them a general order."

When the whole town was assembled, just at the dusk of evening,
Gangazara sat dumb for a moment, and thought upon the Tiger King and
the Serpent King, who came with all their armies. People began to take
to their heels at the sight of tigers. Gangazara assured them of
safety, and stopped them.

The grey light of the evening, the pumpkin colour of Gangazara, the
holy ashes scattered lavishly over his body, the tigers and snakes
humbling themselves at his feet, gave him the true majesty of the god
Gangazara. For who else by a single word could thus command vast
armies of tigers and serpents, said some among the people. "Care not
for it; it may be by magic. That is not a great thing. That he revived
cartloads of corpses shows him to be surely Gangazara," said others.

"Why should you, my children, thus trouble these poor subjects of
Ujjaini? Reply to me, and henceforth desist from your ravages." Thus
said the Soothsayer's son, and the following reply came from the king
of the tigers: "Why should this base king imprison your honour,
believing the mere word of a goldsmith that your honour killed his
father? All the hunters told him that his father was carried away by a
tiger. I was the messenger of death sent to deal the blow on his neck.
I did it, and gave the crown to your honour. The prince makes no
inquiry, and at once imprisons your honour. How can we expect justice
from such a stupid king as that? Unless he adopt a better standard of
justice we will go on with our destruction."

The king heard, cursed the day on which he believed in the word of a
goldsmith, beat his head, tore his hair, wept and wailed for his
crime, asked a thousand pardons, and swore to rule in a just way from
that day. The serpent-king and tiger-king also promised to observe
their oath as long as justice prevailed, and took their leave. The
goldsmith fled for his life. He was caught by the soldiers of the
king, and was pardoned by the generous Gangazara, whose voice now
reigned supreme. All returned to their homes.

The king again pressed Gangazara to accept the hand of his daughter.
He agreed to do so, not then, but some time afterwards. He wished to
go and see his elder brother first, and then to return and marry the
princess. The king agreed; and Gangazara left the city that very day
on his way home.

It so happened that unwittingly he took a wrong road, and had to pass
near a sea-coast. His elder brother was also on his way up to Benares
by that very same route. They met and recognised each other, even at a
distance. They flew into each other's arms. Both remained still for a
time almost unconscious with joy. The pleasure of Gangazara was so
great that he died of joy.

The elder brother was a devout worshipper of Ganesa. That was a
Friday, a day very sacred to that god. The elder brother took the
corpse to the nearest Ganesa temple and called upon him. The god came,
and asked him what he wanted. "My poor brother is dead and gone; and
this is his corpse. Kindly keep it in your charge till I finish
worshipping you. If I leave it anywhere else the devils may snatch it
away when I am absent worshipping you; after finishing the rites I
shall burn him." Thus said the elder brother, and, giving the corpse
to the god Ganesa, he went to prepare himself for that deity's
ceremonials. Ganesa made over the corpse to his Ganas, asking them to
watch over it carefully. But instead of that they devoured it.

The elder brother, after finishing the puja, demanded his brother's
corpse of the god. The god called his Ganas, who came to the front
blinking, and fearing the anger of their master. The god was greatly
enraged. The elder brother was very angry. When the corpse was not
forthcoming he cuttingly remarked, "Is this, after all, the return for
my deep belief in you? You are unable even to return my brother's
corpse." Ganesa was much ashamed at the remark. So he, by his divine
power, gave him a living Gangazara instead of the dead corpse. Thus
was the second son of the Soothsayer restored to life.

The brothers had a long talk about each other's adventures. They both
went to Ujjaini, where Gangazara married the princess, and succeeded
to the throne of that kingdom. He reigned for a long time, conferring
several benefits upon his brother. And so the horoscope was fully
fulfilled.

[Illustration:]




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.

[Illustration:]

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 honoured by all men as a sage, and dwelt there in
happiness, honoured 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: "O 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 honour 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.




The Charmed Ring


A merchant started his son in life with three hundred rupees, and bade
him go to another country and try his luck in trade. The son took the
money and departed. He had not gone far before he came across some
herdsmen quarrelling over a dog, that some of them wished to kill.
"Please do not kill the dog," pleaded the young and tender-hearted
fellow; "I will give you one hundred rupees for it." Then and there,
of course, the bargain was concluded, and the foolish fellow took the
dog, and continued his journey. He next met with some people fighting
about a cat. Some of them wanted to kill it, but others not. "Oh!
please do not kill it," said he; "I will give you one hundred rupees
for it." Of course they at once gave him the cat and took the money.
He went on till he reached a village, where some folk were quarrelling
over a snake that had just been caught. Some of them wished to kill
it, but others did not. "Please do not kill the snake," said he; "I
will give you one hundred rupees." Of course the people agreed, and
were highly delighted.

What a fool the fellow was! What would he do now that all his money
was gone? What could he do except return to his father? Accordingly he
went home.

"You fool! You scamp!" exclaimed his father when he had heard how his
son had wasted all the money that had been given to him. "Go and live
in the stables and repent of your folly. You shall never again enter
my house."

So the young man went and lived in the stables. His bed was the grass
spread for the cattle, and his companions were the dog, the cat, and
the snake, which he had purchased so dearly. These creatures got very
fond of him, and would follow him about during the day, and sleep by
him at night; the cat used to sleep at his feet, the dog at his head,
and the snake over his body, with its head hanging on one side and its
tail on the other.

One day the snake in course of conversation said to its master, "I am
the son of Raja Indrasha. One day, when I had come out of the ground
to drink the air, some people seized me, and would have slain me had
you not most opportunely arrived to my rescue. I do not know how I
shall ever be able to repay you for your great kindness to me. Would
that you knew my father! How glad he would be to see his son's
preserver!"

"Where does he live? I should like to see him, if possible," said the
young man.

"Well said!" continued the snake. "Do you see yonder mountain? At the
bottom of that mountain there is a sacred spring. If you will come
with me and dive into that spring, we shall both reach my father's
country. Oh! how glad he will be to see you! He will wish to reward
you, too. But how can he do that? However, you may be pleased to
accept something at his hand. If he asks you what you would like, you
would, perhaps, do well to reply, 'The ring on your right hand, and
the famous pot and spoon which you possess.' With these in your
possession, you would never need anything, for the ring is such that a
man has only to speak to it, and immediately a beautiful furnished
mansion will be provided for him, while the pot and the spoon will
supply him with all manner of the rarest and most delicious foods."

Attended by his three companions the man walked to the well and
prepared to jump in, according to the snake's directions. "O master!"
exclaimed the cat and dog, when they saw what he was going to do.
"What shall we do? Where shall we go?"

"Wait for me here," he replied. "I am not going far. I shall not be
long away." On saying this, he dived into the water and was lost to
sight.

"Now what shall we do?" said the dog to the cat.

"We must remain here," replied the cat, "as our master ordered. Do not
be anxious about food. I will go to the people's houses and get plenty
of food for both of us." And so the cat did, and they both lived very
comfortably till their master came again and joined them.

The young man and the snake reached their destination in safety; and
information of their arrival was sent to the Raja. His highness
commanded his son and the stranger to appear before him. But the snake
refused, saying that it could not go to its father till it was
released from this stranger, who had saved it from a most terrible
death, and whose slave it therefore was. Then the Raja went and
embraced his son, and saluting the stranger welcomed him to his
dominions. The young man stayed there a few days, during which he
received the Raja's right-hand ring, and the pot and spoon, in
recognition of His Highness's gratitude to him for having delivered
his son. He then returned. On reaching the top of the spring he found
his friends, the dog and the cat, waiting for him. They told one
another all they had experienced since they had last seen each other,
and were all very glad. Afterwards they walked together to the river
side, where it was decided to try the powers of the charmed ring and
pot and spoon.

The merchant's son spoke to the ring, and immediately a beautiful
house and a lovely princess with golden hair appeared. He spoke to the
pot and spoon, also, and the most delicious dishes of food were
provided for them. So he married the princess, and they lived very
happily for several years, until one morning the princess, while
arranging her toilet, put the loose hairs into a hollow bit of reed
and threw them into the river that flowed along under the window. The
reed floated on the water for many miles, and was at last picked up by
the prince of that country, who curiously opened it and saw the golden
hair. On finding it the prince rushed off to the palace, locked
himself up in his room, and would not leave it. He had fallen
desperately in love with the woman whose hair he had picked up, and
refused to eat, or drink, or sleep, or move, till she was brought to
him. The king, his father, was in great distress about the matter, and
did not know what to do. He feared lest his son should die and leave
him without an heir. At last he determined to seek the counsel of his
aunt, who was an ogress. The old woman consented to help him, and
bade him not to be anxious, as she felt certain that she would succeed
in getting the beautiful woman for his son's wife.

She assumed the shape of a bee and went along buzzing, and buzzing,
and buzzing. Her keen sense of smell soon brought her to the beautiful
princess, to whom she appeared as an old hag, holding in one hand a
stick by way of support. She introduced herself to the beautiful
princess and said, "I am your aunt, whom you have never seen before,
because I left the country just after your birth." She also embraced
and kissed the princess by way of adding force to her words. The
beautiful princess was thoroughly deceived. She returned the ogress's
embrace, and invited her to come and stay in the house as long as she
could, and treated her with such honour and attention, that the ogress
thought to herself, "I shall soon accomplish my errand." When she had
been in the house three days, she began to talk of the charmed ring,
and advised her to keep it instead of her husband, because the latter
was constantly out shooting and on other such-like expeditions, and
might lose it. Accordingly the beautiful princess asked her husband
for the ring, and he readily gave it to her.

The ogress waited another day before she asked to see the precious
thing. Doubting nothing, the beautiful princess complied, when the
ogress seized the ring, and reassuming the form of a bee flew away
with it to the palace, where the prince was lying nearly on the point
of death. "Rise up. Be glad. Mourn no more," she said to him. "The
woman for whom you yearn will appear at your summons. See, here is the
charm, whereby you may bring her before you." The prince was almost
mad with joy when he heard these words, and was so desirous of seeing
the beautiful princess, that he immediately spoke to the ring, and the
house with its fair occupant descended in the midst of the palace
garden. He at once entered the building, and telling the beautiful
princess of his intense love, entreated her to be his wife. Seeing no
escape from the difficulty, she consented on the condition that he
would wait one month for her.

Meanwhile the merchant's son had returned from hunting and was
terribly distressed not to find his house and wife. There was the
place only, just as he knew it before he had tried the charmed ring
which Raja Indrasha had given him. He sat down and determined to put
an end to himself. Presently the cat and dog came up. They had gone
away and hidden themselves, when they saw the house and everything
disappear. "O master!" they said, "stay your hand. Your trial is
great, but it can be remedied. Give us one month, and we will go and
try to recover your wife and house."

"Go," said he, "and may the great God aid your efforts. Bring back my
wife, and I shall live."

So the cat and dog started off at a run, and did not stop till they
reached the place whither their mistress and the house had been taken.
"We may have some difficulty here," said the cat. "Look, the king has
taken our master's wife and house for himself. You stay here. I will
go to the house and try to see her." So the dog sat down, and the cat
climbed up to the window of the room, wherein the beautiful princess
was sitting, and entered. The princess recognised the cat, and
informed it of all that had happened to her since she had left them.

"But is there no way of escape from the hands of these people?" she
asked.

"Yes," replied the cat, "if you can tell me where the charmed ring
is."

"The ring is in the stomach of the ogress," she said.

"All right," said the cat, "I will recover it. If we once get it,
everything is ours." Then the cat descended the wall of the house, and
went and laid down by a rat's hole and pretended she was dead. Now at
that time a great wedding chanced to be going on among the rat
community of that place, and all the rats of the neighbourhood were
assembled in that one particular mine by which the cat had lain down.
The eldest son of the king of the rats was about to be married. The
cat got to know of this, and at once conceived the idea of seizing the
bridegroom and making him render the necessary help. Consequently,
when the procession poured forth from the hole squealing and jumping
in honour of the occasion, it immediately spotted the bridegroom and
pounced down on him. "Oh! let me go, let me go," cried the terrified
rat. "Oh! let him go," squealed all the company. "It is his wedding
day."

"No, no," replied the cat. "Not unless you do something for me.
Listen. The ogress, who lives in that house with the prince and his
wife, has swallowed a ring, which I very much want. If you will
procure it for me, I will allow the rat to depart unharmed. If you do
not, then your prince dies under my feet."

"Very well, we agree," said they all. "Nay, if we do not get the ring
for you, devour us all."

[Illustration: THE CHARMED RING]

This was rather a bold offer. However, they accomplished the
thing. At midnight, when the ogress was sound asleep, one of the rats
went to her bedside, climbed up on her face, and inserted its tail
into her throat; whereupon the ogress coughed violently, and the ring
came out and rolled on to the floor. The rat immediately seized the
precious thing and ran off with it to its king, who was very glad, and
went at once to the cat and released its son.

As soon as the cat received the ring, she started back with the dog to
go and tell their master the good tidings. All seemed safe now. They
had only to give the ring to him, and he would speak to it, and the
house and beautiful princess would again be with them, and everything
would go on as happily as before. "How glad master will be!" they
thought, and ran as fast as their legs could carry them. Now, on the
way they had to cross a stream. The dog swam, and the cat sat on its
back. Now the dog was jealous of the cat, so he asked for the ring,
and threatened to throw the cat into the water if it did not give it
up; whereupon the cat gave up the ring. Sorry moment, for the dog at
once dropped it, and a fish swallowed it.

"Oh! what shall I do? what shall I do?" said the dog.

"What is done is done," replied the cat. "We must try to recover it,
and if we do not succeed we had better drown ourselves in this stream.
I have a plan. You go and kill a small lamb, and bring it here to me."

"All right," said the dog, and at once ran off. He soon came back with
a dead lamb, and gave it to the cat. The cat got inside the lamb and
lay down, telling the dog to go away a little distance and keep quiet.
Not long after this a nadhar, a bird whose look can break the bones
of a fish, came and hovered over the lamb, and eventually pounced down
on it to carry it away. On this the cat came out and jumped on to the
bird, and threatened to kill it if it did not recover the lost ring.
This was most readily promised by the nadhar, who immediately flew off
to the king of the fishes, and ordered it to make inquiries and to
restore the ring. The king of the fishes did so, and the ring was
found and carried back to the cat.

"Come along now; I have got the ring," said the cat to the dog.

"No, I will not," said the dog, "unless you let me have the ring. I
can carry it as well as you. Let me have it or I will kill you." So
the cat was obliged to give up the ring. The careless dog very soon
dropped it again. This time it was picked up and carried off by a
kite.

"See, see, there it goes--away to that big tree," the cat exclaimed.

"Oh! oh! what have I done?" cried the dog.

"You foolish thing, I knew it would be so," said the cat. "But stop
your barking, or you will frighten away the bird to some place where
we shall not be able to trace it."

The cat waited till it was quite dark, and then climbed the tree,
killed the kite, and recovered the ring. "Come along," it said to the
dog when it reached the ground. "We must make haste now. We have been
delayed. Our master will die from grief and suspense. Come on."

The dog, now thoroughly ashamed of itself, begged the cat's pardon for
all the trouble it had given. It was afraid to ask for the ring the
third time, so they both reached their sorrowing master in safety and
gave him the precious charm. In a moment his sorrow was turned into
joy. He spoke to the ring, and his beautiful wife and house
reappeared, and he and everybody were as happy as ever they could be.




The Talkative Tortoise


The future Buddha was once born in a minister's family, when
Brahma-datta was reigning in Benares; and when he grew up, he became
the king's adviser in things temporal and spiritual.

Now this king was very talkative; while he was speaking, others had no
opportunity for a word. And the future Buddha, wanting to cure this
talkativeness of his, was constantly seeking for some means of doing
so.

At that time there was living, in a pond in the Himalaya mountains, a
tortoise. Two young hamsas, or wild ducks, who came to feed there,
made friends with him. And one day, when they had become very intimate
with him, they said to the tortoise:

"Friend tortoise! the place where we live, at the Golden Cave on Mount
Beautiful in the Himalaya country, is a delightful spot. Will you come
there with us?"

"But how can I get there?"

"We can take you, if you can only hold your tongue, and will say
nothing to anybody."

"Oh! that I can do. Take me with you."

"That's right," said they. And making the tortoise bite hold of a
stick, they themselves took the two ends in their teeth, and flew up
into the air.

Seeing him thus carried by the hamsas, some villagers called out, "Two
wild ducks are carrying a tortoise along on a stick!" Whereupon the
tortoise wanted to say, "If my friends choose to carry me, what is
that to you, you wretched slaves!" So just as the swift flight of the
wild ducks had brought him over the king's palace in the city of
Benares, he let go of the stick he was biting, and falling in the open
courtyard, split in two! And there arose a universal cry, "A tortoise
has fallen in the open courtyard, and has split in two!"

[Illustration:]

The king, taking the future Buddha, went to the place, surrounded by
his courtiers; and looking at the tortoise, he asked the Bodisat,
"Teacher! how comes he to be fallen here?"

The future Buddha thought to himself, "Long expecting, wishing to
admonish the king, have I sought for some means of doing so. This
tortoise must have made friends with the wild ducks; and they must
have made him bite hold of the stick, and have flown up into the air
to take him to the hills. But he, being unable to hold his tongue
when he hears any one else talk, must have wanted to say something,
and let go the stick; and so must have fallen down from the sky, and
thus lost his life." And saying, "Truly, O king! those who are called
chatter-boxes--people whose words have no end--come to grief like
this," he uttered these Verses:

    "Verily the tortoise killed himself
    Whilst uttering his voice;
    Though he was holding tight the stick,
    By a word himself he slew.

    "Behold him then, O excellent by strength!
    And speak wise words, not out of season.
    You see how, by his talking overmuch,
    The tortoise fell into this wretched plight!"

The king saw that he was himself referred to, and said, "O Teacher!
are you speaking of us?"

And the Bodisat spake openly, and said, "O great king! be it thou, or
be it any other, whoever talks beyond measure meets with some mishap
like this."

And the king henceforth refrained himself, and became a man of few
words.




A Lac of Rupees for a Bit of Advice

[Illustration:]


A poor blind Brahman and his wife were dependent on their son for
their subsistence. Every day the young fellow used to go out and get
what he could by begging. This continued for some time, till at last
he became quite tired of such a wretched life, and determined to go
and try his luck in another country. He informed his wife of his
intention, and ordered her to manage somehow or other for the old
people during the few months that he would be absent. He begged her to
be industrious, lest his parents should be angry and curse him.

One morning he started with some food in a bundle, and walked on day
after day, till he reached the chief city of the neighbouring country.
Here he went and sat down by a merchant's shop and asked alms. The
merchant inquired whence he had come, why he had come, and what was
his caste; to which he replied that he was a Brahman, and was
wandering hither and thither begging a livelihood for himself and wife
and parents. Moved with pity for the man, the merchant advised him to
visit the kind and generous king of that country, and offered to
accompany him to the court. Now at that time it happened that the king
was seeking for a Brahman to look after a golden temple which he had
just had built. His Majesty was very glad, therefore, when he saw the
Brahman and heard that he was good and honest. He at once deputed him
to the charge of this temple, and ordered fifty kharwars of rice and
one hundred rupees to be paid to him every year as wages.

Two months after this, the Brahman's wife, not having heard any news
of her husband, left the house and went in quest of him. By a happy
fate she arrived at the very place that he had reached, where she
heard that every morning at the golden temple a golden rupee was given
in the king's name to any beggar who chose to go for it. Accordingly,
on the following morning she went to the place and met her husband.

"Why have you come here?" he asked. "Why have you left my parents?
Care you not whether they curse me and I die? Go back immediately, and
await my return."

"No, no," said the woman. "I cannot go back to starve and see your old
father and mother die. There is not a grain of rice left in the
house."

"O Bhagawant!" exclaimed the Brahman. "Here, take this," he continued,
scribbling a few lines on some paper, and then handing it to her, "and
give it to the king. You will see that he will give you a lac of
rupees for it." Thus saying he dismissed her, and the woman left.

On this scrap of paper were written three pieces of advice--First, If
a person is travelling and reaches any strange place at night, let him
be careful where he puts up, and not close his eyes in sleep, lest he
close them in death. Secondly, If a man has a married sister, and
visits her in great pomp, she will receive him for the sake of what
she can obtain from him; but if he comes to her in poverty, she will
frown on him and disown him. Thirdly, If a man has to do any work, he
must do it himself, and do it with might and without fear.

On reaching her home the Brahmani told her parents of her meeting with
her husband, and what a valuable piece of paper he had given her; but
not liking to go before the king herself, she sent one of her
relations. The king read the paper, and ordering the man to be
flogged, dismissed him. The next morning the Brahmani took the paper,
and while she was going along the road to the darbar reading it, the
king's son met her, and asked what she was reading, whereupon she
replied that she held in her hands a paper containing certain bits of
advice, for which she wanted a lac of rupees. The prince asked her to
show it to him, and when he had read it gave her a parwana for the
amount, and rode on. The poor Brahmani was very thankful. That day she
laid in a great store of provisions, sufficient to last them all for a
long time.

In the evening the prince related to his father the meeting with the
woman, and the purchase of the piece of paper. He thought his father
would applaud the act. But it was not so. The king was more angry than
before, and banished his son from the country.

So the prince bade adieu to his mother and relations and friends, and
rode off on his horse, whither he did not know. At nightfall he
arrived at some place, where a man met him, and invited him to lodge
at his house. The prince accepted the invitation, and was treated like
a prince. Matting was spread for him to squat on, and the best
provisions set before him.

"Ah!" thought he, as he lay down to rest, "here is a case for the
first piece of advice that the Brahmani gave me. I will not sleep
to-night."

It was well that he thus resolved, for in the middle of the night the
man rose up, and taking a sword in his hand, rushed to the prince with
the intention of killing him. But he rose up and spoke.

"Do not slay me," he said. "What profit would you get from my death?
If you killed me you would be sorry afterwards, like that man who
killed his dog."

"What man? What dog?" he asked.

"I will tell you," said the prince, "if you will give me that sword."

So he gave him the sword, and the prince began his story:

"Once upon a time there lived a wealthy merchant who had a pet dog. He
was suddenly reduced to poverty, and had to part with his dog. He got
a loan of five thousand rupees from a brother merchant, leaving the
dog as a pledge, and with the money began business again. Not long
after this the other merchant's shop was broken into by thieves and
completely sacked. There was hardly ten rupees' worth left in the
place. The faithful dog, however, knew what was going on, and went and
followed the thieves, and saw where they deposited the things, and
then returned.

"In the morning there was great weeping and lamentation in the
merchant's house when it was known what had happened. The merchant
himself nearly went mad. Meanwhile the dog kept on running to the
door, and pulling at his master's shirt and paijamas, as though
wishing him to go outside. At last a friend suggested that, perhaps,
the dog knew something of the whereabouts of the things, and advised
the merchant to follow its leadings. The merchant consented, and went
after the dog right up to the very place where the thieves had hidden
the goods. Here the animal scraped and barked, and showed in various
ways that the things were underneath. So the merchant and his friends
dug about the place, and soon came upon all the stolen property.
Nothing was missing. There was everything just as the thieves had
taken them.

"The merchant was very glad. On returning to his house, he at once
sent the dog back to its old master with a letter rolled under the
collar, wherein he had written about the sagacity of the beast, and
begged his friend to forget the loan and to accept another five
thousand rupees as a present. When this merchant saw his dog coming
back again, he thought, 'Alas! my friend is wanting the money. How can
I pay him? I have not had sufficient time to recover myself from my
recent losses. I will slay the dog ere he reaches the threshold, and
say that another must have slain it. Thus there will be an end of my
debt. No dog, no loan.' Accordingly he ran out and killed the poor
dog, when the letter fell out of its collar. The merchant picked it up
and read it. How great was his grief and disappointment when he knew
the facts of the case!

"Beware," continued the prince, "lest you do that which afterwards you
would give your life not to have done."

By the time the prince had concluded this story it was nearly morning,
and he went away, after rewarding the man.

The prince then visited the country belonging to his brother-in-law.
He disguised himself as a jogi, and sitting down by a tree near the
palace, pretended to be absorbed in worship. News of the man and of
his wonderful piety reached the ears of the king. He felt interested
in him, as his wife was very ill; and he had sought for hakims to cure
her, but in vain. He thought that, perhaps, this holy man could do
something for her. So he sent to him. But the jogi refused to tread
the halls of a king, saying that his dwelling was the open air, and
that if his Majesty wished to see him he must come himself and bring
his wife to the place. Then the king took his wife and brought her to
the jogi. The holy man bade her prostrate herself before him, and when
she had remained in this position for about three hours, he told her
to rise and go, for she was cured.

In the evening there was great consternation in the palace, because
the queen had lost her pearl rosary, and nobody knew anything about
it. At length some one went to the jogi, and found it on the ground by
the place where the queen had prostrated herself. When the king heard
this he was very angry, and ordered the jogi to be executed. This
stern order, however, was not carried out, as the prince bribed the
men and escaped from the country. But he knew that the second bit of
advice was true.

Clad in his own clothes, the prince was walking along one day when he
saw a potter crying and laughing alternately with his wife and
children. "O fool," said he, "what is the matter? If you laugh, why do
you weep? If you weep, why do you laugh?"

"Do not bother me," said the potter. "What does it matter to you?"

"Pardon me," said the prince, "but I should like to know the reason."

"The reason is this, then," said the potter. "The king of this country
has a daughter whom he is obliged to marry every day, because all her
husbands die the first night of their stay with her. Nearly all the
young men of the place have thus perished, and our son will be called
on soon. We laugh at the absurdity of the thing--a potter's son
marrying a princess, and we cry at the terrible consequence of the
marriage. What can we do?"

"Truly a matter for laughing and weeping. But weep no more," said the
prince. "I will exchange places with your son, and will be married to
the princess instead of him. Only give me suitable garments, and
prepare me for the occasion."

So the potter gave him beautiful raiment and ornaments, and the prince
went to the palace. At night he was conducted to the apartment of the
princess. "Dread hour!" thought he; "am I to die like the scores of
young men before me?" He clenched his sword with firm grip, and lay
down on his bed, intending to keep awake all the night and see what
would happen. In the middle of the night he saw two Shahmars come out
from the nostrils of the princess. They stole over towards him,
intending to kill him, like the others who had been before him: but he
was ready for them. He laid hold of his sword, and when the snakes
reached his bed he struck at them and killed them. In the morning the
king came as usual to inquire, and was surprised to hear his daughter
and the prince talking gaily together. "Surely," said he, "this man
must be her husband, as he only can live with her."

"Where do you come from? Who are you?" asked the king, entering the
room.

"O king!" replied the prince, "I am the son of a king who rules over
such-and-such a country."

When he heard this the king was very glad, and bade the prince to
abide in his palace, and appointed him his successor to the throne.
The prince remained at the palace for more than a year, and then asked
permission to visit his own country, which was granted. The king gave
him elephants, horses, jewels, and abundance of money for the expenses
of the way and as presents for his father, and the prince started.

On the way he had to pass through the country belonging to his
brother-in-law, whom we have already mentioned. Report of his arrival
reached the ears of the king, who came with rope-tied hands and
haltered neck to do him homage. He most humbly begged him to stay at
his palace, and to accept what little hospitality could be provided.
While the prince was staying at the palace he saw his sister, who
greeted him with smiles and kisses. On leaving he told her how she and
her husband had treated him at his first visit, and how he had
escaped; and then gave them two elephants, two beautiful horses,
fifteen soldiers, and ten lacs rupees' worth of jewels.

Afterwards he went to his own home, and informed his mother and father
of his arrival. Alas! his parents had both become blind from weeping
about the loss of their son. "Let him come in," said the king, "and
put his hands upon our eyes, and we shall see again." So the prince
entered, and was most affectionately greeted by his old parents; and
he laid his hands on their eyes, and they saw again.

Then the prince told his father all that had happened to him, and how
he had been saved several times by attending to the advice that he had
purchased from the Brahmani. Whereupon the king expressed his sorrow
for having sent him away, and all was joy and peace again.




The Gold-giving Serpent


Now in a certain place there lived a Brahman named Haridatta. He was a
farmer, but poor was the return his labour brought him. One day, at
the end of the hot hours, the Brahman, overcome by the heat, lay down
under the shadow of a tree to have a doze. Suddenly he saw a great
hooded snake creeping out of an ant-hill near at hand. So he thought
to himself, "Sure this is the guardian deity of the field, and I have
not ever worshipped it. That's why my farming is in vain. I will at
once go and pay my respects to it."

When he had made up his mind, he got some milk, poured it into a bowl,
and went to the ant-hill, and said aloud: "O Guardian of this Field!
all this while I did not know that you dwelt here. That is why I have
not yet paid my respects to you; pray forgive me." And he laid the
milk down and went to his house. Next morning he came and looked, and
he saw a gold denar in the bowl, and from that time onward every day
the same thing occurred: he gave milk to the serpent and found a gold
denar.

One day the Brahman had to go to the village, and so he ordered his
son to take the milk to the ant-hill. The son brought the milk, put
it down, and went back home. Next day he went again and found a
denar, so he thought to himself: "This ant-hill is surely full
of golden denars; I'll kill the serpent, and take them all for
myself." So next day, while he was giving the milk to the serpent, the
Brahman's son struck it on the head with a cudgel. But the serpent
escaped death by the will of fate, and in a rage bit the Brahman's son
with its sharp fangs, and he fell down dead at once. His people raised
him a funeral pyre not far from the field and burnt him to ashes.

[Illustration:]

Two days afterwards his father came back, and when he learnt his son's
fate he grieved and mourned. But after a time, he took the bowl of
milk, went to the ant-hill, and praised the serpent with a loud voice.
After a long, long time the serpent appeared, but only with its head
out of the opening of the ant-hill, and spoke to the Brahman: "'Tis
greed that brings you here, and makes you even forget the loss of
your son. From this time forward friendship between us is impossible.
Your son struck me in youthful ignorance, and I have bitten him to
death. How can I forget the blow with the cudgel? And how can you
forget the pain and grief at the loss of your son?" So speaking, it
gave the Brahman a costly pearl and disappeared. But before it went
away it said: "Come back no more." The Brahman took the pearl, and
went back home, cursing the folly of his son.




The Son of Seven Queens


Once upon a time there lived a King who had seven Queens, but no
children. This was a great grief to him, especially when he remembered
that on his death there would be no heir to inherit the kingdom.

Now it happened one day that a poor old fakir came to the King, and
said, "Your prayers are heard, your desire shall be accomplished, and
one of your seven Queens shall bear a son."

The King's delight at this promise knew no bounds, and he gave orders
for appropriate festivities to be prepared against the coming event
throughout the length and breadth of the land.

Meanwhile the seven Queens lived luxuriously in a splendid palace,
attended by hundreds of female slaves, and fed to their hearts'
content on sweetmeats and confectionery.

Now the King was very fond of hunting, and one day, before he started,
the seven Queens sent him a message saying, "May it please our dearest
lord not to hunt towards the north to-day, for we have dreamt bad
dreams, and fear lest evil should befall you."

[Illustration:]

The King, to allay their anxiety, promised regard for their wishes,
and set out towards the south; but as luck would have it, although he
hunted diligently, he found no game. Nor had he more success to the
east or west, so that, being a keen sportsman, and determined not to
go home empty-handed, he forgot all about his promise, and turned to
the north. Here also he was at first unsuccessful, but just as he had
made up his mind to give up for that day, a white hind with golden
horns and silver hoofs flashed past him into a thicket. So quickly did
it pass that he scarcely saw it; nevertheless a burning desire to
capture and possess the beautiful strange creature filled his breast.
He instantly ordered his attendants to form a ring round the thicket,
and so encircle the hind; then, gradually narrowing the circle, he
pressed forward till he could distinctly see the white hind panting in
the midst. Nearer and nearer he advanced, till, just as he thought to
lay hold of the beautiful strange creature, it gave one mighty bound,
leapt clean over the King's head, and fled towards the mountains.
Forgetful of all else, the King, setting spurs to his horse, followed
at full speed. On, on he galloped, leaving his retinue far behind,
keeping the white hind in view, never drawing bridle, until, finding
himself in a narrow ravine with no outlet, he reined in his steed.
Before him stood a miserable hovel, into which, being tired after his
long, unsuccessful chase, he entered to ask for a drink of water. An
old woman, seated in the hut at a spinning-wheel, answered his request
by calling to her daughter, and immediately from an inner room came a
maiden so lovely and charming, so white-skinned and golden-haired,
that the King was transfixed by astonishment at seeing so beautiful a
sight in the wretched hovel.

She held the vessel of water to the King's lips, and as he drank he
looked into her eyes, and then it became clear to him that the girl
was no other than the white hind with the golden horns and silver feet
he had chased so far.

Her beauty bewitched him, so he fell on his knees, begging her to
return with him as his bride; but she only laughed, saying seven
Queens were quite enough even for a King to manage. However, when he
would take no refusal, but implored her to have pity on him, promising
her everything she could desire, she replied, "Give me the eyes of
your seven Queens, and then perhaps I may believe you mean what you
say."

The King was so carried away by the glamour of the white hind's
magical beauty, that he went home at once, had the eyes of his seven
Queens taken out, and, after throwing the poor blind creatures into a
noisome dungeon whence they could not escape, set off once more for
the hovel in the ravine, bearing with him his horrible offering. But
the white hind only laughed cruelly when she saw the fourteen eyes,
and threading them as a necklace, flung it round her mother's neck,
saying, "Wear that, little mother, as a keepsake, whilst I am away in
the King's palace."

Then she went back with the bewitched monarch, as his bride, and he
gave her the seven Queens' rich clothes and jewels to wear, the seven
Queens' palace to live in, and the seven Queens' slaves to wait upon
her; so that she really had everything even a witch could desire.

Now, very soon after the seven wretched hapless Queens had their eyes
torn out, and were cast into prison, a baby was born to the youngest
of the Queens. It was a handsome boy, but the other Queens were very
jealous that the youngest amongst them should be so fortunate. But
though at first they disliked the handsome little boy, he soon proved
so useful to them, that ere long they all looked on him as their son.
Almost as soon as he could walk about he began scraping at the mud
wall of their dungeon, and in an incredibly short space of time had
made a hole big enough for him to crawl through. Through this he
disappeared, returning in an hour or so laden with sweetmeats, which
he divided equally amongst the seven blind Queens.

As he grew older he enlarged the hole, and slipped out two or three
times every day to play with the little nobles in the town. No one
knew who the tiny boy was, but everybody liked him, and he was so full
of funny tricks and antics, so merry and bright, that he was sure to
be rewarded by some girdle-cakes, a handful of parched grain, or some
sweetmeats. All these things he brought home to his seven mothers, as
he loved to call the seven blind Queens, who by his help lived on in
their dungeon when all the world thought they had starved to death
ages before.

At last, when he was quite a big lad, he one day took his bow and
arrow, and went out to seek for game. Coming by chance past the palace
where the white hind lived in wicked splendour and magnificence, he
saw some pigeons fluttering round the white marble turrets, and,
taking good aim, shot one dead. It came tumbling past the very window
where the white Queen was sitting; she rose to see what was the
matter, and looked out. At the first glance of the handsome young lad
standing there bow in hand, she knew by witchcraft that it was the
King's son.

She nearly died of envy and spite, determining to destroy the lad
without delay; therefore, sending a servant to bring him to her
presence, she asked him if he would sell her the pigeon he had just
shot.

"No," replied the sturdy lad, "the pigeon is for my seven blind
mothers, who live in the noisome dungeon, and who would die if I did
not bring them food."

"Poor souls!" cried the cunning white witch; "would you not like to
bring them their eyes again? Give me the pigeon, my dear, and I
faithfully promise to show you where to find them."

Hearing this, the lad was delighted beyond measure, and gave up the
pigeon at once. Whereupon the white Queen told him to seek her mother
without delay, and ask for the eyes which she wore as a necklace.

"She will not fail to give them," said the cruel Queen, "if you show
her this token on which I have written what I want done."

So saying, she gave the lad a piece of broken potsherd, with these
words inscribed on it--"Kill the bearer at once, and sprinkle his
blood like water!"

Now, as the son of seven Queens could not read, he took the fatal
message cheerfully, and set off to find the white Queen's mother.

Whilst he was journeying he passed through a town, where every one of
the inhabitants looked so sad, that he could not help asking what was
the matter. They told him it was because the King's only daughter
refused to marry; so when her father died there would be no heir to
the throne. They greatly feared she must be out of her mind, for
though every good-looking young man in the kingdom had been shown to
her, she declared she would only marry one who was the son of seven
mothers, and who ever heard of such a thing? The King, in despair, had
ordered every man who entered the city gates to be led before the
Princess; so, much to the lad's impatience, for he was in an immense
hurry to find his mothers' eyes, he was dragged into the
presence-chamber.

No sooner did the Princess catch sight of him than she blushed, and,
turning to the King, said, "Dear father, this is my choice!"

Never were such rejoicings as these few words produced.

[Illustration: THE SON OF SEVEN MOTHERS]

The inhabitants nearly went wild with joy, but the son of seven
Queens said he would not marry the Princess unless they first let him
recover his mothers' eyes. When the beautiful bride heard his story,
she asked to see the potsherd, for she was very learned and clever.
Seeing the treacherous words, she said nothing, but taking another
similar-shaped bit of potsherd, she wrote on it these words--"Take
care of this lad, giving him all he desires," and returned it to the
son of seven Queens, who, none the wiser, set off on his quest.

Ere long he arrived at the hovel in the ravine where the white witch's
mother, a hideous old creature, grumbled dreadfully on reading the
message, especially when the lad asked for the necklace of eyes.
Nevertheless she took it off, and gave it him, saying, "There are only
thirteen of 'em now, for I lost one last week."

The lad, however, was only too glad to get any at all, so he hurried
home as fast as he could to his seven mothers, and gave two eyes
apiece to the six elder Queens; but to the youngest he gave one,
saying, "Dearest little mother!--I will be your other eye always!"

After this he set off to marry the Princess, as he had promised, but
when passing by the white Queen's palace he saw some pigeons on the
roof. Drawing his bow, he shot one, and it came fluttering past the
window. The white hind looked out, and lo! there was the King's son
alive and well.

She cried with hatred and disgust, but sending for the lad, asked him
how he had returned so soon, and when she heard how he had brought
home the thirteen eyes, and given them to the seven blind Queens, she
could hardly restrain her rage. Nevertheless she pretended to be
charmed with his success, and told him that if he would give her this
pigeon also, she would reward him with the Jogi's wonderful cow, whose
milk flows all day long, and makes a pond as big as a kingdom. The
lad, nothing loth, gave her the pigeon; whereupon, as before, she bade
him go ask her mother for the cow, and gave him a potsherd whereon was
written--"Kill this lad without fail, and sprinkle his blood like
water!"

But on the way the son of seven Queens looked in on the Princess, just
to tell her how he came to be delayed, and she, after reading the
message on the potsherd, gave him another in its stead; so that when
the lad reached the old hag's hut and asked her for the Jogi's cow,
she could not refuse, but told the boy how to find it; and bidding him
of all things not to be afraid of the eighteen thousand demons who
kept watch and ward over the treasure, told him to be off before she
became too angry at her daughter's foolishness in thus giving away so
many good things.

Then the lad did as he had been told bravely. He journeyed on and on
till he came to a milk-white pond, guarded by the eighteen thousand
demons. They were really frightful to behold, but, plucking up
courage, he whistled a tune as he walked through them, looking neither
to the right nor the left. By-and-by he came upon the Jogi's cow,
tall, white, and beautiful, while the Jogi himself, who was king of
all the demons, sat milking her day and night, and the milk streamed
from her udder, filling the milk-white tank.

The Jogi, seeing the lad, called out fiercely, "What do you want
here?"

Then the lad answered, according to the old hag's bidding, "I want
your skin, for King Indra is making a new kettle-drum, and says your
skin is nice and tough."

Upon this the Jogi began to shiver and shake (for no Jinn or Jogi
dares disobey King Indra's command), and, falling at the lad's feet,
cried, "If you will spare me I will give you anything I possess, even
my beautiful white cow!"

To this the son of seven Queens, after a little pretended hesitation,
agreed, saying that after all it would not be difficult to find a nice
tough skin like the Jogi's elsewhere; so, driving the wonderful cow
before him, he set off homewards. The seven Queens were delighted to
possess so marvellous an animal, and though they toiled from morning
till night making curds and whey, besides selling milk to the
confectioners, they could not use half the cow gave, and became richer
and richer day by day.

Seeing them so comfortably off, the son of seven Queens started with a
light heart to marry the Princess; but when passing the white hind's
palace he could not resist sending a bolt at some pigeons which were
cooing on the parapet. One fell dead just beneath the window where the
white Queen was sitting. Looking out, she saw the lad hale and hearty
standing before her, and grew whiter than ever with rage and spite.

She sent for him to ask how he had returned so soon, and when she
heard how kindly her mother had received him, she very nearly had a
fit; however, she dissembled her feelings as well as she could, and,
smiling sweetly, said she was glad to have been able to fulfil her
promise, and that if he would give her this third pigeon, she would do
yet more for him than she had done before, by giving him the
million-fold rice, which ripens in one night.

The lad was of course delighted at the very idea, and, giving up the
pigeon, set off on his quest, armed as before with a potsherd, on
which was written, "Do not fail this time. Kill the lad, and sprinkle
his blood like water!"

But when he looked in on his Princess, just to prevent her becoming
anxious about him, she asked to see the potsherd as usual, and
substituted another, on which was written, "Yet again give this lad
all he requires, for his blood shall be as your blood!"

Now when the old hag saw this, and heard how the lad wanted the
million-fold rice which ripens in a single night, she fell into the
most furious rage, but being terribly afraid of her daughter, she
controlled herself, and bade the boy go and find the field guarded by
eighteen millions of demons, warning him on no account to look back
after having plucked the tallest spike of rice, which grew in the
centre.

So the son of seven Queens set off, and soon came to the field where,
guarded by eighteen millions of demons, the million-fold rice grew. He
walked on bravely, looking neither to the right or left, till he
reached the centre and plucked the tallest ear, but as he turned
homewards a thousand sweet voices rose behind him, crying in tenderest
accents, "Pluck me too! oh, please pluck me too!" He looked back, and
lo! there was nothing left of him but a little heap of ashes!

Now as time passed by and the lad did not return, the old hag grew
uneasy, remembering the message "his blood shall be as your blood"; so
she set off to see what had happened.

Soon she came to the heap of ashes, and knowing by her arts what it
was, she took a little water, and kneading the ashes into a paste,
formed it into the likeness of a man; then, putting a drop of blood
from her little finger into its mouth, she blew on it, and instantly
the son of seven Queens started up as well as ever.

"Don't you disobey orders again!" grumbled the old hag, "or next time
I'll leave you alone. Now be off, before I repent of my kindness!"

[Illustration:]

So the son of seven Queens returned joyfully to his seven mothers,
who, by the aid of the million-fold rice, soon became the richest
people in the kingdom. Then they celebrated their son's marriage to
the clever Princess with all imaginable pomp; but the bride was so
clever, she would not rest until she had made known her husband to his
father, and punished the wicked white witch. So she made her husband
build a palace exactly like the one in which the seven Queens had
lived, and in which the white witch now dwelt in splendour. Then, when
all was prepared, she bade her husband give a grand feast to the King.
Now the King had heard much of the mysterious son of seven Queens, and
his marvellous wealth, so he gladly accepted the invitation; but what
was his astonishment when on entering the palace he found it was a
facsimile of his own in every particular! And when his host, richly
attired, led him straight to the private hall, where on royal thrones
sat the seven Queens, dressed as he had last seen them, he was
speechless with surprise, until the Princess, coming forward, threw
herself at his feet, and told him the whole story. Then the King awoke
from his enchantment, and his anger rose against the wicked white hind
who had bewitched him so long, until he could not contain himself. So
she was put to death, and her grave ploughed over, and after that the
seven Queens returned to their own splendid palace, and everybody
lived happily.




A Lesson for Kings

[Illustration:]


Once upon a time, when Brahma-datta was reigning in Benares, the
future Buddha returned to life as his son and heir. And when the day
came for choosing a name, they called him Prince Brahma-datta. He grew
up in due course; and when he was sixteen years old, went to
Takkasila, and became accomplished in all arts. And after his father
died he ascended the throne, and ruled the kingdom with righteousness
and equity. He gave judgments without partiality, hatred, ignorance,
or fear. Since he thus reigned with justice, with justice also his
ministers administered the law. Law-suits being thus decided with
justice, there were none who brought false cases. And as these ceased,
the noise and tumult of litigation ceased in the king's court. Though
the judges sat all day in the court, they had to leave without any one
coming for justice. It came to this, that the Hall of Justice would
have to be closed!

Then the future Buddha thought, "It cannot be from my reigning with
righteousness that none come for judgment; the bustle has ceased, and
the Hall of Justice will have to be closed. I must, therefore, now
examine into my own faults; and if I find that anything is wrong in
me, put that away, and practise only virtue."

Thenceforth he sought for some one to tell him his faults, but among
those around him he found no one who would tell him of any fault, but
heard only his own praise.

Then he thought, "It is from fear of me that these men speak only good
things, and not evil things," and he sought among those people who
lived outside the palace. And finding no fault-finder there, he sought
among those who lived outside the city, in the suburbs, at the four
gates. And there too finding no one to find fault, and hearing only
his own praise, he determined to search the country places.

So he made over the kingdom to his ministers, and mounted his chariot;
and taking only his charioteer, left the city in disguise. And
searching the country through, up to the very boundary, he found no
fault-finder, and heard only of his own virtue; and so he turned back
from the outer-most boundary, and returned by the high road towards
the city.

Now at that time the king of Kosala, Mallika by name, was also ruling
his kingdom with righteousness; and when seeking for some fault in
himself, he also found no fault-finder in the palace but only heard of
his own virtue! So seeking in country places, he too came to that
very spot. And these two came face to face in a low cart-track with
precipitous sides, where there was no space for a chariot to get out
of the way!

Then the charioteer of Mallika the king said to the charioteer of the
king of Benares, "Take thy chariot out of the way!"

But he said, "Take thy chariot out of the way, O charioteer! In this
chariot sitteth the lord over the kingdom of Benares, the great king
Brahma-datta."

Yet the other replied, "In this chariot, O charioteer, sitteth the
lord over the kingdom of Kosala, the great king Mallika. Take thy
carriage out of the way, and make room for the chariot of our king!"

Then the charioteer of the king of Benares thought, "They say then
that he too is a king! What _is_ now to be done?" After some
consideration, he said to himself, "I know a way. I'll find out how
old he is, and then I'll let the chariot of the younger be got out of
the way, and so make room for the elder."

And when he had arrived at that conclusion, he asked that charioteer
what the age of the king of Kosala was. But on inquiry he found that
the ages of both were equal. Then he inquired about the extent of his
kingdom, and about his army, and his wealth, and his renown, and about
the country he lived in, and his caste and tribe and family. And he
found that both were lords of a kingdom three hundred leagues in
extent; and that in respect of army and wealth and renown, and the
countries in which they lived, and their caste and their tribe and
their family, they were just on a par!

Then he thought, "I will make way for the most righteous." And he
asked, "What kind of righteousness has this king of yours?"

Then the chorister of the king of Kosala, proclaiming his king's
wickedness as goodness, uttered the First Stanza:

    "The strong he overthrows by strength,
    The mild by mildness, does Mallika;
    The good he conquers by goodness,
    And the wicked by wickedness too.
      Such is the nature of _this_ king!
      Move out of the way, O charioteer!"

But the charioteer of the king of Benares asked him, "Well, have you
told all the virtues of your king?"

"Yes," said the other.

"If these are his _virtues_, where are then his faults?" replied he.

The other said, "Well, for the nonce, they shall be faults, if you
like! But pray, then, what is the kind of goodness your king has?"

And then the charioteer of the king of Benares called unto him to
hearken, and uttered the Second Stanza:

    "Anger he conquers by calmness,
    And by goodness the wicked;
    The stingy he conquers by gifts,
    And by truth the speaker of lies.
      Such is the nature of _this_ king!
      Move out of the way, O charioteer!"

And when he had thus spoken, both Mallika the king and his charioteer
alighted from their chariot. And they took out the horses, and removed
their chariot, and made way for the king of Benares!




Pride goeth before a Fall


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

The idea that they had conquered ten men and plundered all their
property, now took possession of the robbers' minds. They seated
themselves like three monarchs before the men they had plundered, and
ordered them to dance to them before returning home. The merchants
now mourned their fate. They had lost all they had, except their
loin-cloth, and still the robbers were not satisfied, but ordered them
to dance.

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

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

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

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

[Illustration:]

[Illustration:]

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

"Enty rupees," another will reply, meaning "ten rupees."

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

[Illustration:]

[Illustration:]

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

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




Raja Rasalu.


Once there lived a great Raja, whose name was Salabhan, and he had a
Queen, by name Lona, who, though she wept and prayed at many a shrine,
had never a child to gladden her eyes. After a long time, however, a
son was promised to her.

Queen Lona returned to the palace, and when the time for the birth of
the promised son drew nigh, she inquired of three Jogis who came
begging to her gate, what the child's fate would be, and the youngest
of them answered and said, "Oh, Queen! the child will be a boy, and he
will live to be a great man. But for twelve years you must not look
upon his face, for if either you or his father see it before the
twelve years are past, you will surely die! This is what you must do;
as soon as the child is born you must send him away to a cellar
underneath the ground, and never let him see the light of day for
twelve years. After they are over, he may come forth, bathe in the
river, put on new clothes, and visit you. His name shall be Raja
Rasalu, and he shall be known far and wide."

So, when a fair young Prince was in due time born into the world, his
parents hid him away in an underground palace, with nurses, and
servants, and everything else a King's son might desire. And with him
they sent a young colt, born the same day, and sword, spear, and
shield, against the day when Raja Rasalu should go forth into the
world.

So there the child lived, playing with his colt, and talking to his
parrot, while the nurses taught him all things needful for a King's
son to know.

Young Rasalu lived on, far from the light of day, for eleven long
years, growing tall and strong, yet contented to remain playing with
his colt, and talking to his parrot; but when the twelfth year began,
the lad's heart leapt up with desire for change, and he loved to
listen to the sounds of life which came to him in his palace-prison
from the outside world.

"I must go and see where the voices come from!" he said; and when his
nurses told him he must not go for one year more, he only laughed
aloud, saying, "Nay! I stay no longer here for any man!"

Then he saddled his Arab horse Bhaunr, put on his shining armour, and
rode forth into the world; but mindful of what his nurses had oft told
him, when he came to the river, he dismounted, and, going into the
water, washed himself and his clothes.

Then, clean of raiment, fair of face, and brave of heart, he rode on
his way until he reached his father's city. There he sat down to rest
awhile by a well, where the women were drawing water in earthen
pitchers. Now, as they passed him, their full pitchers poised upon
their heads, the gay young Prince flung stones at the earthen
vessels, and broke them all. Then the women, drenched with water,
went weeping and wailing to the palace, complaining to the King that a
mighty young Prince in shining armour, with a parrot on his wrist and
a gallant steed beside him, sat by the well, and broke their pitchers.

Now, as soon as Rajah Salabhan heard this, he guessed at once that it
was Prince Rasalu come forth before the time, and, mindful of the
Jogis' words that he would die if he looked on his son's face before
twelve years were past, he did not dare to send his guards to seize
the offender and bring him to be judged. So he bade the women be
comforted, and take pitchers of iron and brass, giving new ones from
his treasury to those who did not possess any of their own.

But when Prince Rasalu saw the women returning to the well with
pitchers of iron and brass, he laughed to himself, and drew his mighty
bow till the sharp-pointed arrows pierced the metal vessels as though
they had been clay.

Yet still the King did not send for him, so he mounted his steed and
set off in the pride of his youth and strength to the palace. He
strode into the audience hall, where his father sat trembling, and
saluted him with all reverence; but Raja Salabhan, in fear of his
life, turned his back hastily and said never a word in reply.

Then Prince Rasalu called scornfully to him across the hall:

    "I came to greet thee, King, and not to harm thee!
      What have I done that thou shouldst turn away?
    Sceptre and empire have no power to charm me--
      I go to seek a worthier prize than they!"

Then he strode away, full of bitterness and anger; but, as he passed
under the palace windows, he heard his mother weeping, and the sound
softened his heart, so that his wrath died down, and a great
loneliness fell upon him, because he was spurned by both father and
mother. So he cried sorrowfully,

    "Oh heart crown'd with grief, hast thou nought
      But tears for thy son?
    Art mother of mine?  Give one thought
      To my life just begun!"

And Queen Lona answered through her tears:

    "Yea! mother am I, though I weep,
      So hold this word sure,--
    Go, reign king of all men, but keep
      Thy heart good and pure!"

So Raja Rasalu was comforted, and began to make ready for fortune. He
took with him his horse Bhaunr and his parrot, both of whom had lived
with him since he was born.

So they made a goodly company, and Queen Lona, when she saw them
going, watched them from her window till she saw nothing but a cloud
of dust on the horizon; then she bowed her head on her hands and wept,
saying:

    "Oh! son who ne'er gladdened mine eyes,
    Let the cloud of thy going arise,
    Dim the sunlight and darken the day;
    For the mother whose son is away
            Is as dust!"

Rasalu had started off to play chaupur with King Sarkap. And as he
journeyed there came a fierce storm of thunder and lightning, so that
he sought shelter, and found none save an old graveyard, where a
headless corpse lay upon the ground. So lonesome was it that even the
corpse seemed company, and Rasalu, sitting down beside it, said:

    "There is no one here, nor far nor near,
      Save this breathless corpse so cold and grim;
    Would God he might come to life again,
      'Twould be less lonely to talk to him."

And immediately the headless corpse arose and sat beside Raja Rasalu.
And he, nothing astonished, said to it:

    "The storm beats fierce and loud,
      The clouds rise thick in the west;
    What ails thy grave and shroud,
      Oh corpse! that thou canst not rest?"

Then the headless corpse replied:

    "On earth I was even as thou,
      My turban awry like a king,
    My head with the highest, I trow,
      Having my fun and my fling,
    Fighting my foes like a brave,
      Living my life with a swing.
            And, now I am dead,
            Sins, heavy as lead,
    Will give me no rest in my grave!"

So the night passed on, dark and dreary, while Rasalu sat in the
graveyard and talked to the headless corpse. Now when morning broke
and Rasalu said he must continue his journey, the headless corpse
asked him whither he was going, and when he said "to play chaupur with
King Sarkap," the corpse begged him to give up the idea saying, "I am
King Sarkap's brother, and I know his ways. Every day, before
breakfast, he cuts off the heads of two or three men, just to amuse
himself. One day no one else was at hand, so he cut off mine, and he
will surely cut off yours on some pretence or another. However, if you
are determined to go and play chaupur with him, take some of the bones
from this graveyard, and make your dice out of them, and then the
enchanted dice with which my brother plays will lose their virtue.
Otherwise he will always win."

So Rasalu took some of the bones lying about, and fashioned them into
dice, and these he put into his pocket. Then, bidding adieu to the
headless corpse, he went on his way to play chaupur with the King.

Now, as Raja Rasalu, tender-hearted and strong, journeyed along to
play chaupur with the King, he came to a burning forest, and a voice
rose from the fire saying, "Oh, traveller! for God's sake save me from
the fire!"

Then the Prince turned towards the burning forest, and, lo! the voice
was the voice of a tiny cricket. Nevertheless, Rasalu, tender-hearted
and strong, snatched it from the fire and set it at liberty. Then the
little creature, full of gratitude, pulled out one of its feelers, and
giving it to its preserver, said, "Keep this, and should you ever be
in trouble, put it into the fire, and instantly I will come to your
aid."

The Prince smiled, saying, "What help could _you_ give _me_?"
Nevertheless, he kept the hair and went on his way.

Now, when he reached the city of King Sarkap, seventy maidens,
daughters of the King, came out to meet him,--seventy fair maidens,
merry and careless, full of smiles and laughter; but one, the youngest
of them all, when she saw the gallant young Prince riding on Bhaunr
Iraqi, going gaily to his doom, was filled with pity, and called to
him saying:

    "Fair Prince, on the charger so gray,
        Turn thee back! turn thee back!
    Or lower thy lance for the fray;
    Thy head will be forfeit to-day!
    Dost love life? then, stranger, I pray,
        Turn thee back! turn thee back!"

But he, smiling at the maiden, answered lightly:

    "Fair maiden, I come from afar,
    Sworn conqueror in love and in war!
    King Sarkap my coming will rue,
    His head in four pieces I'll hew;
    Then forth as a bridegroom I'll ride,
    With you, little maid, as my bride!"

Now when Rasalu replied so gallantly, the maiden looked in his face,
and seeing how fair he was, and how brave and strong, she straightway
fell in love with him, and would gladly have followed him through the
world.

But the other sixty-nine maidens, being jealous, laughed scornfully at
her, saying, "Not so fast, oh gallant warrior! If you would marry our
sister you must first do our bidding, for you will be our younger
brother."

"Fair sisters!" quoth Rasalu gaily, "give me my task and I will
perform it."

So the sixty-nine maidens mixed a hundred-weight of millet seed with a
hundred-weight of sand, and giving it to Rasalu, bade him separate the
seed from the sand.

Then he bethought him of the cricket, and drawing the feeler from his
pocket, thrust it into the fire. And immediately there was a whirring
noise in the air, and a great flight of crickets alighted beside him,
and amongst them the cricket whose life he had saved.

Then Rasalu said, "Separate the millet seed from the sand."

"Is that all?" quoth the cricket; "had I known how small a job you
wanted me to do, I would not have assembled so many of my brethren."

With that the flight of crickets set to work, and in one night they
separated the seed from the sand.

Now when the sixty-nine fair maidens, daughters of the king saw that
Rasalu had performed his task, they set him another, bidding him swing
them all, one by one, in their swings, until they were tired.

Whereupon he laughed, saying, "There are seventy of you, counting my
little bride yonder, and I am not going to spend my life swinging
girls! Why, by the time I have given each of you a swing, the first
will be wanting another! No! if you want a swing, get in, all seventy
of you, into one swing, and then I'll see what can be done."

So the seventy maidens climbed into one swing, and Raja Rasalu,
standing in his shining armour, fastened the ropes to his mighty bow,
and drew it up to its fullest bent. Then he let go, and like an arrow
the swing shot into the air, with its burden of seventy fair maidens,
merry and careless, full of smiles and laughter.

But as it swung back again, Rasalu, standing there in his shining
armour, drew his sharp sword and severed the ropes. Then the seventy
fair maidens fell to the ground headlong; and some were bruised and
some broken, but the only one who escaped unhurt was the maiden who
loved Rasalu, for she fell out last, on the top of the others, and so
came to no harm.

After this, Rasalu strode on fifteen paces, till he came to the
seventy drums, that every one who came to play chaupur with the King
had to beat in turn; and he beat them so loudly that he broke them
all. Then he came to the seventy gongs, all in a row, and he hammered
them so hard that they cracked to pieces.

Seeing this, the youngest Princess, who was the only one who could
run, fled to her father the King in a great fright, saying:

    "A mighty Prince, Sarkap! making havoc, rides along,
    He swung us, seventy maidens fair, and threw us out headlong;
    He broke the drums you placed there and the gongs too in his pride,
    Sure, he will kill thee, father mine, and take me for his bride!"

But King Sarkap replied scornfully:

    "Silly maiden, thy words make a lot
      Of a very small matter;
    For fear of my valour, I wot,
      His armour will clatter.
    As soon as I've eaten my bread
    I'll go forth and cut off his head!"

Notwithstanding these brave and boastful words, he was in reality very
much afraid, having heard of Rasalu's renown. And learning that he was
stopping at the house of an old woman in the city, till the hour for
playing chaupur arrived, Sarkap sent slaves to him with trays of
sweetmeats and fruit, as to an honoured guest. But the food was
poisoned.

Now when the slaves brought the trays to Raja Rasalu, he rose up
haughtily, saying, "Go, tell your master I have nought to do with him
in friendship. I am his sworn enemy, and I eat not of his salt!"

So saying, he threw the sweetmeats to Raja Sarkap's dog, which had
followed the slave, and lo! the dog died.

Then Rasalu was very wroth, and said bitterly, "Go back to Sarkap,
slaves! and tell him that Rasalu deems it no act of bravery to kill
even an enemy by treachery."

Now, when evening came, Raja Rasalu went forth to play chaupur with
King Sarkap, and as he passed some potters' kilns he saw a cat
wandering about restlessly; so he asked what ailed her, that she never
stood still, and she replied, "My kittens are in an unbaked pot in the
kiln yonder. It has just been set alight, and my children will be
baked alive; therefore I cannot rest!"

Her words moved the heart of Raja Rasalu, and, going to the potter, he
asked him to sell the kiln as it was; but the potter replied that he
could not settle a fair price till the pots were burnt, as he could
not tell how many would come out whole. Nevertheless, after some
bargaining, he consented at last to sell the kiln, and Rasalu, having
searched all the pots, restored the kittens to their mother, and she,
in gratitude for his mercy, gave him one of them, saying, "Put it in
your pocket, for it will help you when you are in difficulties." So
Raja Rasalu put the kitten in his pocket, and went to play chaupur
with the King.

Now, before they sat down to play, Raja Sarkap fixed his stakes,--on
the first game, his kingdom; on the second, the wealth of the whole
world; and, on the third, his own head. So, likewise, Raja Rasalu
fixed his stakes,--on the first game, his arms; on the second, his
horse; and, on the third, his own head.

Then they began to play, and it fell to Rasalu's lot to make the first
move. Now he, forgetful of the dead man's warning, played with the
dice given him by Raja Sarkap, besides which, Sarkap let loose his
famous rat, Dhol Raja, and it ran about the board, upsetting the
chaupur pieces on the sly, so that Rasalu lost the first game, and
gave up his shining armour.

Then the second game began, and once more Dhol Raja, the rat, upset
the pieces; and Rasalu, losing the game, gave up his faithful steed.
Then Bhaunr, the Arab steed, who stood by, found voice, and cried to
his master,

        "Sea-born am I, bought with much gold;
        Dear Prince! trust me now as of old.
          I'll carry you far from these wiles--
    My flight, all unspurr'd, will be swift as a bird,
          For thousands and thousands of miles!
    Or if needs you must stay; ere the next game you play,
          Place hand in your pocket, I pray!"

Hearing this, Raja Sarkap frowned, and bade his slaves remove Bhaunr,
the Arab steed, since he gave his master advice in the game. Now, when
the slaves came to lead the faithful steed away, Rasalu could
not refrain from tears, thinking over the long years during which
Bhaunr, the Arab steed, had been his companion. But the horse cried
out again,

    "Weep not, dear Prince! I shall not eat my bread
    Of stranger hands, nor to strange stall be led.
    Take thy right hand, and place it as I said."

[Illustration: Raja Rasalu plays chaupur with Raja Sarkap.]

These words roused some recollection in Rasalu's mind, and when, just
at this moment, the kitten in his pocket began to struggle, he
remembered all about the warning, and the dice made from dead men's
bones. Then his heart rose up once more, and he called boldly to Raja
Sarkap, "Leave my horse and arms here for the present. Time enough to
take them away when you have won my head!"

Now, Raja Sarkap, seeing Rasalu's confident bearing, began to be
afraid, and ordered all the women of his palace to come forth in their
gayest attire and stand before Rasalu, so as to distract his attention
from the game. But he never even looked at them, and drawing the dice
from his pocket, said to Sarkap, "We have played with your dice all
this time; now we will play with mine."

Then the kitten went and sat at the window through which the rat Dhol
Raja used to come, and the game began.

After a while, Sarkap, seeing Raja Rasalu was winning, called to his
rat, but when Dhol Raja saw the kitten he was afraid, and would not go
further. So Rasalu won, and took back his arms. Next he played for his
horse, and once more Raja Sarkap called for his rat; but Dhol Raja,
seeing the kitten keeping watch, was afraid. So Rasalu won the second
stake, and took back Bhaunr, the Arab steed.

Then Sarkap brought all his skill to bear on the third and last game,
saying,

    "Oh moulded pieces! favour me to-day!
    For sooth this is a man with whom I play.
    No paltry risk--but life and death at stake;
    As Sarkap does, so do, for Sarkap's sake!"

But Rasalu answered back,

    "Oh moulded pieces! favour me to-day!
    For sooth it is a man with whom I play.
    No paltry risk--but life and death at stake;
    As Heaven does, so do, for Heaven's sake!"

So they began to play, whilst the women stood round in a circle, and
the kitten watched Dhol Raja from the window. Then Sarkap lost, first
his kingdom, then the wealth of the whole world, and lastly his head.

Just then, a servant came in to announce the birth of a daughter to
Raja Sarkap, and he, overcome by misfortunes, said, "Kill her at once!
for she has been born in an evil moment, and has brought her father
ill luck!"

But Rasalu rose up in his shining armour, tender-hearted and strong,
saying, "Not so, oh king! She has done no evil. Give me this child to
wife; and if you will vow, by all you hold sacred, never again to play
chaupur for another's head, I will spare yours now!"

Then Sarkap vowed a solemn vow never to play for another's head; and
after that he took a fresh mango branch, and the new-born babe, and
placing them on a golden dish gave them to Rasalu.

Now, as he left the palace, carrying with him the new-born babe and
the mango branch, he met a band of prisoners, and they called out to
him,

    "A royal hawk art thou, oh King! the rest
    But timid wild-fowl.  Grant us our request,--
    Unloose these chains, and live for ever blest!"

And Raja Rasalu hearkened to them, and bade King Sarkap set them at
liberty.

Then he went to the Murti Hills, and placed the new-born babe,
Kokilan, in an underground palace, and planted the mango branch at the
door, saying, "In twelve years the mango tree will blossom; then will
I return and marry Kokilan."

And after twelve years, the mango tree began to flower, and Raja
Rasalu married the Princess Kokilan, whom he won from Sarkap when he
played chaupur with the King.




The Ass in the Lion's Skin

[Illustration:]


At the same time, when Brahma-datta was reigning in Benares, the
future Buddha was born one of a peasant family; and when he grew up,
he gained his living by tilling the ground.

At that time a hawker used to go from place to place, trafficking in
goods carried by an ass. Now at each place he came to, when he took
the pack down from the ass's back, he used to clothe him in a lion's
skin, and turn him loose in the rice and barley fields. And when the
watchmen in the fields saw the ass, they dared not go near him, taking
him for a lion.

So one day the hawker stopped in a village; and whilst he was getting
his own breakfast cooked, he dressed the ass in a lion's skin, and
turned him loose in a barley-field. The watchmen in the field dared
not go up to him; but going home, they published the news. Then all
the villagers came out with weapons in their hands; and blowing
chanks, and beating drums, they went near the field and shouted.
Terrified with the fear of death, the ass uttered a cry--the bray of
an ass!

And when he knew him then to be an ass, the future Buddha pronounced
the First Verse:

    "This is not a lion's roaring,
    Nor a tiger's, nor a panther's;
    Dressed in a lion's skin,
      'Tis a wretched ass that roars!"

But when the villagers knew the creature to be an ass, they beat him
till his bones broke; and, carrying off the lion's skin, went away.
Then the hawker came; and seeing the ass fallen into so bad a plight,
pronounced the Second Verse:

    "Long might the ass,
    Clad in a lion's skin,
    Have fed on the barley green.
    But he brayed!
      And that moment he came to ruin."

And even whilst he was yet speaking the ass died on the spot!




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, 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 Jogi or devotee, and to
him he gave a cake, without receiving any help in return. At last, he
came upon a poor man sitting under a tree, and finding out he was
hungry, the kindly farmer gave him his last cake, and sitting 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 their
wiles!"

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

Nevertheless, the money-lender determined to have the conch by hook or
by crook, and as he was villain enough not to stick at trifles, he
waited for a favourable 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 stand-still 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!"

[Illustration:]

"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.




The Boy who had a Moon on his Forehead and a Star on his Chin


In a country were seven daughters of poor parents, who used to come
daily to play under the shady trees in the King's garden with the
gardener's daughter; and daily she used to say to them, "When I am
married I shall have a son. Such a beautiful boy as he will be has
never been seen. He will have a moon on his forehead and a star on his
chin." Then her playfellows used to laugh at her and mock her.

But one day the King heard her telling them about the beautiful boy
she would have when she was married, and he said to himself he should
like very much to have such a son; the more so that though he had
already four Queens he had no child. He went, therefore, to the
gardener and told him he wished to marry his daughter. This delighted
the gardener and his wife, who thought it would indeed be grand for
their daughter to become a princess. So they said "Yes" to the King,
and invited all their friends to the wedding. The King invited all
his, and he gave the gardener as much money as he wanted. Then the
wedding was held with great feasting and rejoicing.

A year later the day drew near on which the gardener's daughter was to
have her son; and the King's four other Queens came constantly to see
her. One day they said to her, "The King hunts every day; and the time
is soon coming when you will have your child. Suppose you fell ill
whilst he was out hunting and could therefore know nothing of your
illness, what would you do then?"

When the King came home that evening, the gardener's daughter said to
him, "Every day you go out hunting. Should I ever be in trouble or
sick while you are away, how could I send for you?" The King gave her
a kettle-drum which he placed near the door for her, and he said to
her, "Whenever you want me, beat this kettle-drum. No matter how far
away I may be, I shall hear it, and will come at once to you."

Next morning when the King had gone out to hunt, his four other Queens
came to see the gardener's daughter. She told them all about her
kettle-drum. "Oh," they said, "do drum on it just to see if the King
really will come to you."

"No, I will not," she said; "for why should I call him from his
hunting when I do not want him?"

"Don't mind interrupting his hunting," they answered. "Do try if he
really will come to you when you beat your kettle-drum." So at last,
just to please them, she beat it, and the King stood before her.

"Why have you called me?" he said. "See, I have left my hunting to
come to you."

"I want nothing," she answered; "I only wished to know if you really
would come to me when I beat my drum."

"Very well," answered the King; "but do not call me again unless you
really need me." Then he returned to his hunting.

The next day, when the King had gone out hunting as usual, the four
Queens again came to see the gardener's daughter. They begged and
begged her to beat her drum once more, "just to see if the King will
really come to see you this time." At first she refused, but at last
she consented. So she beat her drum, and the King came to her. But
when he found she was neither ill nor in trouble, he was angry, and
said to her, "Twice I have left my hunting and lost my game to come to
you when you did not need me. Now you may call me as much as you like,
but I will not come to you," and then he went away in a rage.

The third day the gardener's daughter fell ill, and she beat and beat
her kettle-drum; but the King never came. He heard her kettle-drum,
but he thought, "She does not really want me; she is only trying to
see if I will go to her."

Meanwhile the four other Queens came to her, and they said, "Here it
is the custom before a child is born to bind its mother's eyes with a
handkerchief that she may not see it just at first. So let us bind
your eyes." She answered, "Very well, bind my eyes." The four wives
then tied a handkerchief over them.

Soon after, the gardener's daughter had a beautiful little son, with a
moon on his forehead and a star on his chin, and before the poor
mother had seen him, the four wicked Queens took the boy to the nurse
and said to her, "Now you must not let this child make the least sound
for fear his mother should hear him; and in the night you must either
kill him, or else take him away, so that his mother may never see him.
If you obey our orders, we will give you a great many rupees." All
this they did out of spite. The nurse took the little child and put
him into a box, and the four Queens went back to the gardener's
daughter.

First they put a stone into her boy's little bed, and then they took
the handkerchief off her eyes and showed it her, saying, "Look! this
is your son!" The poor girl cried bitterly, and thought, "What will
the King say when he finds no child?" But she could do nothing.

When the King came home, he was furious at hearing his youngest wife,
the gardener's daughter, had given him a stone instead of the
beautiful little son she had promised him. He made her one of the
palace servants, and never spoke to her.

In the middle of the night the nurse took the box in which was the
beautiful little prince, and went out to a broad plain in the jungle.
There she dug a hole, made the fastenings of the box sure, and put the
box into the hole, although the child in it was still alive. The
King's dog, whose name was Shankar, had followed her to see what she
did with the box. As soon as she had gone back to the four Queens (who
gave her a great many rupees), the dog went to the hole in which she
had put the box, took the box out, and opened it. When he saw the
beautiful little boy, he was very much delighted and said, "If it
pleases Khuda that this child should live, I will not hurt him; I will
not eat him, but I will swallow him whole and hide him in my stomach."
This he did.

After six months had passed, the dog went by night to the jungle, and
thought, "I wonder whether the boy is alive or dead." Then he brought
the child out of his stomach and rejoiced over his beauty. The boy was
now six months old. When Shankar had caressed and loved him, he
swallowed him again for another six months. At the end of that time he
went once more by night to the broad jungle-plain. There he brought up
the child out of his stomach (the child was now a year old), and
caressed and petted him a great deal, and was made very happy by his
great beauty.

But this time the dog's keeper had followed and watched the dog; and
he saw all that Shankar did, and the beautiful little child, so he ran
to the four Queens and said to them, "Inside the King's dog there is a
child! the loveliest child! He has a moon on his forehead and a star
on his chin. Such a child has never been seen!" At this the four wives
were very much frightened, and as soon as the King came home from
hunting they said to him, "While you were away your dog came to our
rooms, and tore our clothes and knocked about all our things. We are
afraid he will kill us." "Do not be afraid," said the King. "Eat your
dinner and be happy. I will have the dog shot to-morrow morning."

Then he ordered his servants to shoot the dog at dawn, but the dog
heard him, and said to himself, "What shall I do? The King intends to
kill me. I don't care about that, but what will become of the child if
I am killed? He will die. But I will see if I cannot save him."

So when it was night, the dog ran to the King's cow, who was called
Suri, and said to her, "Suri, I want to give you something, for the
King has ordered me to be shot to-morrow. Will you take great care of
whatever I give you?"

"Let me see what it is," said Suri, "I will take care of it if I
can." Then they both went together to the wide plain, and there the
dog brought up the boy. Suri was enchanted with him. "I never saw such
a beautiful child in this country," she said. "See, he has a moon on
his forehead and a star on his chin. I will take the greatest care of
him." So saying she swallowed the little prince. The dog made her a
great many salaams, and said, "To-morrow I shall die;" and the cow
then went back to her stable.

Next morning at dawn the dog was taken to the jungle and shot.

The child now lived in Suri's stomach; and when one whole year had
passed, and he was two years old, the cow went out to the plain, and
said to herself, "I do not know whether the child is alive or dead.
But I have never hurt it, so I will see." Then she brought up the boy;
and he played about, and Suri was delighted; she loved him and
caressed him, and talked to him. Then she swallowed him, and returned
to her stable.

At the end of another year she went again to the plain and brought up
the child. He played and ran about for an hour to her great delight,
and she talked to him and caressed him. His great beauty made her very
happy. Then she swallowed him once more and returned to her stable.
The child was now three years old.

But this time the cowherd had followed Suri, and had seen the
wonderful child and all she did to it. So he ran and told the four
Queens, "The King's cow has a beautiful boy inside her. He has a moon
on his forehead and a star on his chin. Such a child has never been
seen before!"

At this the Queens were terrified. They tore their clothes and their
hair and cried. When the King came home at evening, he asked them why
they were so agitated. "Oh," they said, "your cow came and tried to
kill us; but we ran away. She tore our hair and our clothes." "Never
mind," said the King. "Eat your dinner and be happy. The cow shall be
killed to-morrow morning."

Now Suri heard the King give this order to the servants, so she said
to herself, "What shall I do to save the child?" When it was midnight,
she went to the King's horse called Katar, who was very wicked, and
quite untameable. No one had ever been able to ride him; indeed no one
could go near him with safety, he was so savage. Suri said to this
horse, "Katar, will you take care of something that I want to give
you, because the King has ordered me to be killed to-morrow?"

"Good," said Katar; "show me what it is." Then Suri brought up the
child, and the horse was delighted with him. "Yes," he said, "I will
take the greatest care of him. Till now no one has been able to ride
me, but this child shall ride me." Then he swallowed the boy, and when
he had done so, the cow made him many salaams, saying, "It is for this
boy's sake that I am to die." The next morning she was taken to the
jungle and there killed.

The beautiful boy now lived in the horse's stomach, and he stayed in
it for one whole year. At the end of that time the horse thought, "I
will see if this child is alive or dead." So he brought him up; and
then he loved him, and petted him, and the little prince played all
about the stable, out of which the horse was never allowed to go.
Katar was very glad to see the child, who was now four years old.
After he had played for some time, the horse swallowed him again. At
the end of another year, when the boy was five years old, Katar
brought him up again, caressed him, loved him, and let him play about
the stable as he had done a year before. Then the horse swallowed him
again.

But this time the groom had seen all that happened, and when it was
morning, and the King had gone away to his hunting, he went to the
four wicked Queens, and told them all he had seen, and all about the
wonderful, beautiful child that lived inside the King's horse Katar.
On hearing the groom's story the four Queens cried, and tore their
hair and clothes, and refused to eat. When the King returned at
evening and asked them why they were so miserable, they said, "Your
horse Katar came and tore our clothes, and upset all our things, and
we ran away for fear he should kill us."

"Never mind," said the King. "Only eat your dinner and be happy. I
will have Katar shot to-morrow." Then he thought that two men unaided
could not kill such a wicked horse, so he ordered his servants to bid
his troop of sepoys shoot him.

So the next day the King placed his sepoys all round the stable, and
he took up his stand with them; and he said he would himself shoot any
one who let his horse escape.

Meanwhile the horse had overheard all these orders. So he brought up
the child and said to him, "Go into that little room that leads out of
the stable, and you will find in it a saddle and bridle which you must
put on me. Then you will find in the room some beautiful clothes such
as princes wear; these you must put on yourself; and you must take the
sword and gun you will find there too. Then you must mount on my
back." Now Katar was a fairy-horse, and came from the fairies'
country, so he could get anything he wanted; but neither the King nor
any of his people knew this. When all was ready, Katar burst out of
his stable, with the prince on his back, rushed past the King himself
before the King had time to shoot him, galloped away to the great
jungle-plain, and galloped about all over it. The King saw his horse
had a boy on his back, though he could not see the boy distinctly. The
sepoys tried in vain to shoot the horse; he galloped much too fast;
and at last they were all scattered over the plain. Then the King had
to give it up and go home; and the sepoys went to their homes. The
King could not shoot any of his sepoys for letting his horse escape,
for he himself had let him do so.

[Illustration:]

Then Katar galloped away, on, and on, and on; and when night came they
stayed under a tree, he and the King's son. The horse ate grass, and
the boy wild fruits which he found in the jungle. Next morning they
started afresh, and went far, and far, till they came to a jungle in
another country, which did not belong to the little prince's father,
but to another king. Here Katar said to the boy, "Now get off my
back." Off jumped the prince. "Unsaddle me and take off my bridle;
take off your beautiful clothes and tie them all up in a bundle with
your sword and gun." This the boy did. Then the horse gave him some
poor, common clothes, which he told him to put on. As soon as he was
dressed in them the horse said, "Hide your bundle in this grass, and I
will take care of it for you. I will always stay in this jungle-plain,
so that when you want me you will always find me. You must now go away
and find service with some one in this country."

This made the boy very sad. "I know nothing about anything," he said.
"What shall I do all alone in this country?"

"Do not be afraid," answered Katar. "You will find service, and I will
always stay here to help you when you want me. So go, only before you
go, twist my right ear." The boy did so, and his horse instantly
became a donkey. "Now twist your right ear," said Katar. And when the
boy had twisted it, he was no longer a handsome prince, but a poor,
common-looking, ugly man; and his moon and star were hidden.

Then he went away further into the country, until he came to a grain
merchant of the country, who asked him who he was. "I am a poor man,"
answered the boy, "and I want service." "Good," said the grain
merchant, "you shall be my servant."

Now the grain merchant lived near the King's palace, and one night at
twelve o'clock the boy was very hot; so he went out into the King's
cool garden, and began to sing a lovely song. The seventh and youngest
daughter of the King heard him, and she wondered who it was who could
sing so deliciously. Then she put on her clothes, rolled up her hair,
and came down to where the seemingly poor common man was lying
singing. "Who are you? where do you come from?" she asked.

But he answered nothing.

"Who is this man who does not answer when I speak to him?" thought the
little princess, and she went away. On the second night the same thing
happened, and on the third night too. But on the third night, when she
found she could not make him answer her, she said to him, "What a
strange man you are not to answer me when I speak to you." But still
he remained silent, so she went away.

The next day, when he had finished his work, the young prince went to
the jungle to see his horse, who asked him, "Are you quite well and
happy?" "Yes, I am," answered the boy. "I am servant to a grain
merchant. The last three nights I have gone into the King's garden and
sung a song, and each night the youngest princess has come to me and
asked me who I am, and whence I came, and I have answered nothing.
What shall I do now?" The horse said, "Next time she asks you who you
are, tell her you are a very poor man, and came from your own country
to find service here."

The boy then went home to the grain merchant, and at night, when every
one had gone to bed, he went to the King's garden and sang his sweet
song again. The youngest princess heard him, got up, dressed, and came
to him. "Who are you? Whence do you come?" she asked.

[Illustration: THE BOY WITH THE MOON ON HIS FOREHEAD]

"I am a very poor man," he answered. "I came from my own country to
seek service here, and I am now one of the grain merchant's servants."
Then she went away. For three more nights the boy sang in the King's
garden, and each night the princess came and asked him the same
questions as before, and the boy gave her the same answers.

Then she went to her father, and said to him, "Father, I wish to be
married; but I must choose my husband myself." Her father consented to
this, and he wrote and invited all the Kings and Rajas in the land,
saying, "My youngest daughter wishes to be married, but she insists on
choosing her husband herself. As I do not know who it is she wishes to
marry, I beg you will all come on a certain day, for her to see you
and make her choice."

A great many Kings, Rajas, and their sons accepted this invitation and
came. When they had all arrived, the little princess's father said to
them, "To-morrow morning you must all sit together in my garden" (the
King's garden was very large), "for then my youngest daughter will
come and see you all, and choose her husband. I do not know whom she
will choose."

The youngest princess ordered a grand elephant to be ready for her the
next morning, and when the morning came, and all was ready, she
dressed herself in the most lovely clothes, and put on her beautiful
jewels; then she mounted her elephant, which was painted blue. In her
hand she took a gold necklace.

Then she went into the garden where the Kings, Rajas, and their sons
were seated. The boy, the grain merchant's servant, was also in the
garden: not as a suitor, but looking on with the other servants.

The princess rode all round the garden, and looked at all the Kings
and Rajas and princes, and then she hung the gold necklace round the
neck of the boy, the grain merchant's servant. At this everybody
laughed, and the Kings were greatly astonished. But then they and the
Rajas said, "What fooling is this?" and they pushed the pretended poor
man away, and took the necklace off his neck, and said to him, "Get
out of the way, you poor, dirty man. Your clothes are far too dirty
for you to come near us!" The boy went far away from them, and stood a
long way off to see what would happen.

Then the King's youngest daughter went all round the garden again,
holding her gold necklace in her hand, and once more she hung it round
the boy's neck. Every one laughed at her and said, "How can the King's
daughter think of marrying this poor, common man!" and the Kings and
the Rajas, who had come as suitors, all wanted to turn him out of the
garden. But the princess said, "Take care! take care! You must not
turn him out. Leave him alone." Then she put him on her elephant, and
took him to the palace.

The Kings and Rajas and their sons were very much astonished, and
said, "What does this mean? The princess does not care to marry one of
us, but chooses that very poor man!" Her father then stood up, and
said to them all, "I promised my daughter she should marry any one she
pleased, and as she has twice chosen that poor, common man, she shall
marry him." And so the princess and the boy were married with great
pomp and splendour: her father and mother were quite content with her
choice; and the Kings, the Rajas and their sons, all returned to their
homes.

Now the princess's six sisters had all married rich princes, and they
laughed at her for choosing such a poor ugly husband as hers seemed to
be, and said to each other, mockingly, "See! our sister has married
this poor, common man!" Their six husbands used to go out hunting
every day, and every evening they brought home quantities of all kinds
of game to their wives, and the game was cooked for their dinner and
for the King's; but the husband of the youngest princess always stayed
at home in the palace, and never went out hunting at all. This made
her very sad, and she said to herself, "My sisters' husbands hunt
every day, but my husband never hunts at all."

At last she said to him, "Why do you never go out hunting as my
sisters' husbands do every day, and every day they bring home
quantities of all kinds of game? Why do you always stay at home,
instead of doing as they do?"

One day he said to her, "I am going out to-day to eat the air."

"Very good," she answered; "go, and take one of the horses."

"No," said the young prince, "I will not ride, I will walk." Then he
went to the jungle-plain where he had left Katar, who all this time
had seemed to be a donkey, and he told Katar everything. "Listen," he
said; "I have married the youngest princess; and when we were married
everybody laughed at her for choosing me, and said, 'What a very poor,
common man our princess has chosen for her husband!' Besides, my wife
is very sad, for her six sisters' husbands all hunt every day, and
bring home quantities of game, and their wives therefore are very
proud of them. But I stay at home all day, and never hunt. To-day I
should like to hunt very much."

"Well," said Katar, "then twist my left ear;" and as soon as the boy
had twisted it, Katar was a horse again, and not a donkey any longer.
"Now," said Katar, "twist your left ear, and you will see what a
beautiful young prince you will become." So the boy twisted his own
left ear, and there he stood no longer a poor, common, ugly man, but a
grand young prince with a moon on his forehead and a star on his chin.
Then he put on his splendid clothes, saddled and bridled Katar, got on
his back with his sword and gun, and rode off to hunt.

He rode very far, and shot a great many birds and a quantity of deer.
That day his six brothers-in-law could find no game, for the beautiful
young prince had shot it all. Nearly all the day long these six
princes wandered about looking in vain for game; till at last they
grew hungry and thirsty, and could find no water, and they had no food
with them. Meanwhile the beautiful young prince had sat down under a
tree, to dine and rest, and there his six brothers-in-law found him.
By his side was some delicious water, and also some roast meat.

When they saw him the six princes said to each other, "Look at that
handsome prince. He has a moon on his forehead and a star on his chin.
We have never seen such a prince in this jungle before; he must come
from another country." Then they came up to him, and made him many
salaams, and begged him to give them some food and water. "Who are
you?" said the young prince. "We are the husbands of the six elder
daughters of the King of this country," they answered; "and we have
hunted all day, and are very hungry and thirsty." They did not
recognise their brother-in-law in the least.

"Well," said the young prince, "I will give you something to eat and
drink if you will do as I bid you." "We will do all you tell us to
do," they answered, "for if we do not get water to drink, we shall
die." "Very good," said the young prince. "Now you must let me put a
red-hot pice on the back of each of you, and then I will give you food
and water. Do you agree to this?" The six princes consented, for they
thought, "No one will ever see the mark of the pice, as it will be
covered by our clothes; and we shall die if we have no water to
drink." Then the young prince took six pice, and made them red-hot in
the fire; he laid one on the back of each of the six princes, and gave
them good food and water. They ate and drank; and when they had
finished they made him many salaams and went home.

The young prince stayed under the tree till it was evening; then he
mounted his horse and rode off to the King's palace. All the people
looked at him as he came riding along, saying, "What a splendid young
prince that is! He has a moon on his forehead and a star on his chin."
But no one recognised him. When he came near the King's palace, all
the King's servants asked him who he was; and as none of them knew
him, the gate-keepers would not let him pass in. They all wondered who
he could be, and all thought him the most beautiful prince that had
ever been seen.

At last they asked him who he was. "I am the husband of your youngest
princess," he answered.

"No, no, indeed you are not," they said; "for he is a poor,
common-looking, and ugly man."

"But I am he," answered the prince; only no one would believe him.

"Tell us the truth," said the servants; "who are you?"

"Perhaps you cannot recognise me," said the young prince, "but call
the youngest princess here. I wish to speak to her." The servants
called her, and she came. "That man is not my husband," she said at
once. "My husband is not nearly as handsome as that man. This must be
a prince from another country."

Then she said to him, "Who are you? Why do you say you are my
husband?"

"Because I am your husband. I am telling you the truth," answered the
young prince.

"No you are not, you are not telling me the truth," said the little
princess. "My husband is not a handsome man like you. I married a very
poor, common-looking man."

"That is true," he answered, "but nevertheless I am your husband. I
was the grain merchant's servant; and one hot night I went into your
father's garden and sang, and you heard me, and came and asked me who
I was and where I came from, and I would not answer you. And the same
thing happened the next night, and the next, and on the fourth I told
you I was a very poor man, and had come from my country to seek
service in yours, and that I was the grain merchant's servant. Then
you told your father you wished to marry, but must choose your own
husband; and when all the Kings and Rajas were seated in your father's
garden, you sat on an elephant and went round and looked at them all;
and then twice hung your gold necklace round my neck, and chose me.
See, here is your necklace, and here are the ring and the handkerchief
you gave me on our wedding day."

Then she believed him, and was very glad that her husband was such a
beautiful young prince. "What a strange man you are!" she said to
him. "Till now you have been poor, and ugly, and common-looking. Now
you are beautiful and look like a prince; I never saw such a handsome
man as you are before; and yet I know you must be my husband." Then
she worshipped God and thanked him for letting her have such a
husband. "I have," she said, "a beautiful husband. There is no one
like him in this country. He has a moon on his forehead and a star on
his chin." Then she took him into the palace, and showed him to her
father and mother and to every one. They all said they had never seen
any one like him, and were all very happy. And the young prince lived
as before in the King's palace with his wife, and Katar lived in the
King's stables.

One day, when the King and his seven sons-in-law were in his
court-house, and it was full of people, the young prince said to him,
"There are six thieves here in your court-house." "Six thieves!" said
the King. "Where are they? Show them to me." "There they are," said
the young prince, pointing to his six brothers-in-law. The King and
every one else in the court-house were very much astonished, and would
not believe the young prince. "Take off their coats," he said, "and
then you will see for yourselves that each of them has the mark of a
thief on his back." So their coats were taken off the six princes, and
the King and everybody in the court-house saw the mark of the red-hot
pice. The six princes were very much ashamed, but the young prince was
very glad. He had not forgotten how his brothers-in-law had laughed at
him and mocked him when he seemed a poor, common man.

Now, when Katar was still in the jungle, before the prince was
married, he had told the boy the whole story of his birth, and all
that had happened to him and his mother. "When you are married," he
said to him, "I will take you back to your father's country." So two
months after the young prince had revenged himself on his
brothers-in-law, Katar said to him, "It is time for you to return to
your father. Get the King to let you go to your own country, and I
will tell you what to do when we get there."

The prince always did what his horse told him to do; so he went to his
wife and said to her, "I wish very much to go to my own country to see
my father and mother." "Very well," said his wife; "I will tell my
father and mother, and ask them to let us go." Then she went to them,
and told them, and they consented to let her and her husband leave
them. The King gave his daughter and the young prince a great many
horses, and elephants, and all sorts of presents, and also a great
many sepoys to guard them. In this grand state they travelled to the
prince's country, which was not a great many miles off. When they
reached it they pitched their tents on the same plain in which the
prince had been left in his box by the nurse, where Shankar and Suri
had swallowed him so often.

When the King, his father, the gardener's daughter's husband, saw the
prince's camp, he was very much alarmed, and thought a great King had
come to make war on him. He sent one of his servants, therefore, to
ask whose camp it was. The young prince then wrote him a letter, in
which he said, "You are a great King. Do not fear me. I am not come to
make war on you. I am as if I were your son. I am a prince who has
come to see your country and to speak with you. I wish to give you a
grand feast, to which every one in your country must come--men and
women, old and young, rich and poor, of all castes; all the children,
fakirs, and sepoys. You must bring them all here to me for a week, and
I will feast them all."

The King was delighted with this letter, and ordered all the men,
women, and children of all castes, fakirs, and sepoys, in his country
to go to the prince's camp to a grand feast the prince would give
them. So they all came, and the King brought his four wives too. All
came, at least all but the gardener's daughter. No one had told her to
go to the feast, for no one had thought of her.

When all the people were assembled, the prince saw his mother was not
there, and he asked the King, "Has every one in your country come to
my feast?"

"Yes, every one," said the King.

"Are you sure of that?" asked the prince.

"Quite sure," answered the King.

"I am sure one woman has not come," said the prince. "She is your
gardener's daughter, who was once your wife and is now a servant in
your palace."

"True," said the King, "I had forgotten her." Then the prince told his
servants to take his finest palanquin and to fetch the gardener's
daughter. They were to bathe her, dress her in beautiful clothes and
handsome jewels, and then bring her to him in the palanquin.

While the servants were bringing the gardener's daughter, the King
thought how handsome the young prince was; and he noticed particularly
the moon on his forehead and the star on his chin, and he wondered in
what country the young prince was born.

And now the palanquin arrived bringing the gardener's daughter, and
the young prince went himself and took her out of it, and brought her
into the tent. He made her a great many salaams. The four wicked wives
looked on and were very much surprised and very angry. They remembered
that, when they arrived, the prince had made them no salaams, and
since then had not taken the least notice of them; whereas he could
not do enough for the gardener's daughter, and seemed very glad to see
her.

When they were all at dinner, the prince again made the gardener's
daughter a great many salaams, and gave her food from all the nicest
dishes. She wondered at his kindness to her, and thought, "Who is this
handsome prince, with a moon on his forehead and a star on his chin? I
never saw any one so beautiful. What country does he come from?"

Two or three days were thus passed in feasting, and all that time the
King and his people were talking about the prince's beauty, and
wondering who he was.

One day the prince asked the King if he had any children. "None," he
answered.

"Do you know who I am?" asked the prince.

"No," said the King. "Tell me who you are."

"I am your son," answered the prince, "and the gardener's daughter is
my mother."

The King shook his head sadly. "How can you be my son," he said, "when
I have never had any children?"

"But I am your son," answered the prince. "Your four wicked Queens
told you the gardener's daughter had given you a stone and not a son;
but it was they who put the stone in my little bed, and then they
tried to kill me."

The King did not believe him. "I wish you were my son," he said; "but
as I never had a child, you cannot be my son." "Do you remember your
dog Shankar, and how you had him killed? And do you remember your cow
Suri, and how you had her killed too? Your wives made you kill them
because of me. And," he said, taking the King to Katar, "do you know
whose horse that is?"

The King looked at Katar, and then said, "That is my horse Katar."
"Yes," said the prince. "Do you not remember how he rushed past you
out of his stable with me on his back?" Then Katar told the King the
prince was really his son, and told him all the story of his birth,
and of his life up to that moment; and when the King found the
beautiful prince was indeed his son, he was so glad, so glad. He put
his arms round him and kissed him and cried for joy.

"Now," said the King, "you must come with me to my palace, and live
with me always."

"No," said the prince, "that I cannot do. I cannot go to your palace.
I only came here to fetch my mother; and now that I have found her, I
will take her with me to my father-in-law's palace. I have married a
King's daughter, and we live with her father."

"But now that I have found you, I cannot let you go," said his father.
"You and your wife must come and live with your mother and me in my
palace."

"That we will never do," said the prince, "unless you will kill your
four wicked Queens with your own hand. If you will do that, we will
come and live with you."

So the King killed his Queens, and then he and his wife, the
gardener's daughter, and the prince and his wife, all went to live in
the King's palace, and lived there happily together for ever after;
and the King thanked God for giving him such a beautiful son, and for
ridding him of his four wicked wives.

Katar did not return to the fairies' country, but stayed always with
the young prince, and never left him.




The Prince and the Fakir


There was once upon a time a King who had no children. Now this King
went and laid him down to rest at a place where four roads met, so
that every one who passed had to step over him.

At last a Fakir came along, and he said to the King, "Man, why are you
lying here?"

He replied, "Fakir, a thousand men have come and passed by; you pass
on too."

But the Fakir said, "Who are you, man?"

The King replied, "I am a King, Fakir. Of goods and gold I have no
lack, but I have lived long and have no children. So I have come here,
and have laid me down at the cross-roads. My sins and offences have
been very many, so I have come and am lying here that men may pass
over me, and perchance my sins may be forgiven me, and God may be
merciful, and I may have a son."

The Fakir answered him, "Oh King! If you have children, what will you
give me?"

"Whatever you ask, Fakir," answered the King.

The Fakir said, "Of goods and gold I have no lack, but I will say a
prayer for you, and you will have two sons; one of those sons will be
mine."

[Illustration:]

Then he took out two sweetmeats and handed them to the King, and said,
"King! take these two sweetmeats and give them to your wives; give
them to the wives you love best."

The King took the sweetmeats and put them in his bosom.

Then the Fakir said, "King! in a year I will return, and of the two
sons who will be born to you one is mine and one yours."

The King said, "Well, I agree."

Then the Fakir went on his way, and the King came home and gave one
sweetmeat to each of his two wives. After some time two sons were born
to the King. Then what did the King do but place those two sons in an
underground room, which he had built in the earth.

Some time passed, and one day the Fakir appeared, and said, "King!
bring me that son of yours!"

What did the King do but bring two slave-girls' sons and present them
to the Fakir. While the Fakir was sitting there the King's sons were
sitting down below in their cellar eating their food. Just then a
hungry ant had carried away a grain of rice from their food, and was
going along with it to her children. Another stronger ant came up and
attacked her in order to get this grain of rice. The first ant said,
"O ant, why do you drag this away from me? I have long been lame in my
feet, and I have got just one grain, and am carrying it to my
children. The King's sons are sitting in the cellar eating their food;
you go and fetch a grain from there; why should you take mine from
me?" On this the second ant let go and did not rob the first, but went
off to where the King's sons were eating their food.

On hearing this the Fakir said, "King! these are not your sons; go and
bring those children who are eating their food in the cellar."

Then the King went and brought his own sons. The Fakir chose the
eldest son and took him away, and set off with him on his journey.
When he got home he told the King's son to go out to gather fuel.

So the King's son went out to gather cow-dung, and when he had
collected some he brought it in.

Then the Fakir looked at the King's son and put on a great pot, and
said, "Come round here, my pupil."

But the King's son said, "Master first, and pupil after."

The Fakir told him to come once, he told him twice, he told him three
times, and each time the King's son answered, "Master first, and pupil
after."

Then the Fakir made a dash at the King's son, thinking to catch him
and throw him into the caldron. There were about a hundred gallons of
oil in this caldron, and the fire was burning beneath it. Then the
King's son, lifting the Fakir, gave him a jerk and threw him into the
caldron, and he was burnt, and became roast meat. He then saw a key of
the Fakir's lying there; he took this key and opened the door of the
Fakir's house. Now many men were locked up in this house; two horses
were standing there in a hut of the Fakir's; two greyhounds were tied
up there; two simurgs were imprisoned, and two tigers also stood
there. So the King's son let all the creatures go, and took them out
of the house, and they all returned thanks to God. Next he let out all
the men who were in prison. He took away with him the two horses, and
he took away the two tigers, and he took away the two hounds, and he
took away the two simurgs, and with them he set out for another
country.

As he went along the road he saw above him a bald man, grazing a herd
of calves, and this bald man called out to him, "Fellow! can you fight
at all?"

The King's son replied, "When I was little I could fight a bit, and
now, if any one wants to fight, I am not so unmanly as to turn my
back. Come, I will fight you."

The bald man said, "If I throw you, you shall be my slave; and if you
throw me, I will be your slave." So they got ready and began to fight,
and the King's son threw him.

On this the King's son said, "I will leave my beasts here, my simurgs,
tigers, and dogs, and horses; they will all stay here while I go to
the city to see the sights. I appoint the tiger as guard over my
property. And you are my slave, you, too, must stay here with my
belongings." So the King's son started off to the city to see the
sights, and arrived at a pool.

He saw that it was a pleasant pool, and thought he would stop and
bathe there, and therewith he began to strip off his clothes.

Now the King's daughter, who was sitting on the roof of the palace,
saw his royal marks, and she said, "This man is a king; when I marry,
I will marry him and no other." So she said to her father, "My father;
I wish to marry."

"Good," said her father.

Then the King made a proclamation: "Let all men, great and small,
attend to-day in the hall of audience, for the King's daughter will
to-day take a husband."

All the men of the land assembled, and the traveller Prince also came,
dressed in the Fakir's clothes, saying to himself, "I must see this
ceremony to-day." He went in and sat down.

The King's daughter came out and sat in the balcony, and cast her
glance round all the assembly. She noticed that the traveller Prince
was sitting in the assembly in Fakir's attire.

The Princess said to her handmaiden, "Take this dish of henna, go to
that traveller dressed like a Fakir, and sprinkle scent on him from
the dish."

The handmaiden obeyed the Princess's order, went to him, and sprinkled
the scent over him.

Then the people said, "The slave-girl has made a mistake."

But she replied, "The slave-girl has made no mistake, 'tis her
mistress has made the mistake."

On this the King married his daughter to the Fakir, who was really no
Fakir, but a Prince.

What fate had decreed came to pass in that country, and they were
married. But the King of that city became very sad in his heart,
because when so many chiefs and nobles were sitting there his daughter
had chosen none of them, but had chosen that Fakir; but he kept these
thoughts concealed in his heart.

One day the traveller Prince said, "Let all the King's sons-in-law
come out with me to-day to hunt."

People said, "What is this Fakir that he should go a-hunting?"

However, they all set out for the hunt, and fixed their meeting-place
at a certain pool.

The newly married Prince went to his tigers, and told his tigers and
hounds to kill and bring in a great number of gazelles and hog-deer
and markhor. Instantly they killed and brought in a great number. Then
taking with him these spoils of the chase, the Prince came to the pool
settled on as a meeting-place. The other Princes, sons-in-law of the
King of that city, also assembled there; but they had brought in no
game, and the new Prince had brought a great deal. Thence they
returned home to the town, and went to the King their father-in-law,
to present their game.

Now that King had no son. Then the new Prince told him that in fact
he, too, was a Prince. At this the King, his father-in-law, was
greatly delighted and took him by the hand and embraced him. He seated
him by himself, saying, "O Prince, I return thanks that you have come
here and become my son-in-law; I am very happy at this, and I make
over my kingdom to you."




Why the Fish Laughed.

[Illustration:]


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

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

On hearing this the fish laughed aloud.

"It's a he," replied the fisherwoman, and proceeded on her rounds.

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

"Are you indisposed?" he said.

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

"A fish laugh! Impossible! You must be dreaming."

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

"Passing strange! Be it so. I will inquire concerning it."

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

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

"Don't you think it would be pleasanter if you and I sometimes gave
one another a lift?" said the youth.

"What a fool the man is!" thought the old farmer.

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

"Is this eaten or not?" said the young man.

Not understanding his meaning, the old man replied, "I don't know."

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

The old man, looking half amused and half angry, pushed back the
knife, muttering something to the effect that his friend was either a
fool himself or else trying to play the fool with him. The young man
pretended not to notice his reply, and remained almost silent till
they reached the city, a short distance outside which was the old
farmer's house. They walked about the bazaar and went to the mosque,
but nobody saluted them or invited them to come in and rest.

"What a large cemetery!" exclaimed the young man.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh yes. Well, we were passing through a corn-field, when he asked me
whether it was eaten or not."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Very well," said the farmer; "I will go and find him, and bring him
in."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Never!" said the king.

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

[Illustration:]

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

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

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




The Demon with the Matted Hair


_This story the Teacher told in Jetavana about a Brother who had
ceased striving after righteousness. Said the Teacher to him: "Is it
really true that you have ceased all striving?"--"Yes, Blessed One,"
he replied. Then the Teacher said: "O Brother, in former days wise men
made effort in the place where effort should be made, and so attained
unto royal power." And he told a story of long ago._


Once upon a time, when Brahmadatta was King of Benares, the
Bodhisatta was born as son of his chief queen. On his name-day they
asked 800 Brahmans, having satisfied them with all their desires,
about his lucky marks. The Brahmans who had skill in divining from
such marks beheld the excellence of his, and made answer:

"Full of goodness, great King, is your son, and when you die he will
become king; he shall be famous and renowned for his skill with the
five weapons, and shall be the chief man in all India." On hearing
what the Brahmans had to say, they gave him the name of the Prince of
the Five Weapons, sword, spear, bow, battle-axe, and shield.

When he came to years of discretion, and had attained the measure of
sixteen years, the King said to him:

"My son, go and complete your education."

"Who shall be my teacher?" the lad asked.

"Go, my son; in the kingdom of Candahar, in the city of Takkasila, is
a far-famed teacher from whom I wish you to learn. Take this, and give
it him for a fee." With that he gave him a thousand pieces of money,
and dismissed him.

The lad departed, and was educated by this teacher; he received the
Five Weapons from him as a gift, bade him farewell, and leaving
Takkasila, he began his journey to Benares, armed with the Five
Weapons.

On his way he came to a forest inhabited by the Demon with the Matted
Hair. At the entering in of the forest some men saw him, and cried
out:

"Hullo, young sir, keep clear of that wood! There's a Demon in it
called he of the Matted Hair: he kills every man he sees!" And they
tried to stop him. But the Bodhisatta, having confidence in himself,
went straight on, fearless as a maned lion.

When he reached mid-forest the Demon showed himself. He made himself
as tall as a palm tree; his head was the size of a pagoda, his eyes as
big as saucers, and he had two tusks all over knobs and bulbs; he had
the face of a hawk, a variegated belly, and blue hands and feet.

"Where are you going?" he shouted. "Stop! You'll make a meal for me!"

Said the Bodhisatta: "Demon, I came here trusting in myself. I advise
you to be careful how you come near me. Here's a poisoned arrow, which
I'll shoot at you and knock you down!" With this menace, he fitted to
his bow an arrow dipped in deadly poison, and let fly. The arrow stuck
fast in the Demon's hair. Then he shot and shot, till he had shot away
fifty arrows; and they all stuck in the Demon's hair. The Demon
snapped them all off short, and threw them down at his feet; then came
up to the Bodhisatta, who drew his sword and struck the Demon,
threatening him the while. His sword--it was three-and-thirty inches
long--stuck in the Demon's hair! The Bodhisatta struck him with his
spear--that stuck too! He struck him with his club--and that stuck
too!

When the Bodhisatta saw that this had stuck fast, he addressed the
Demon. "You, Demon!" said he, "did you never hear of me before--the
Prince of the Five Weapons? When I came into the forest which you live
in I did not trust to my bow and other weapons. This day will I pound
you and grind you to powder!" Thus did he declare his resolve, and
with a shout he hit at the Demon with his right hand. It stuck fast in
his hair! He hit him with his left hand--that stuck too! With his
right foot he kicked him--that stuck too; then with his left--and that
stuck too! Then he butted at him with his head, crying, "I'll pound
you to powder!" and his head stuck fast like the rest.

Thus the Bodhisatta was five times snared, caught fast in five places,
hanging suspended: yet he felt no fear--was not even nervous.

[Illustration: THE DEMON WITH THE MATTED HAIR]

Thought the Demon to himself: "Here's a lion of a man! A
noble man! More than man is he! Here he is, caught by a Demon like me;
yet he will not fear a bit. Since I have ravaged this road, I never
saw such a man. Now, why is it that he does not fear?" He was
powerless to eat the man, but asked him: "Why is it, young sir, that
you are not frightened to death?"

"Why should I fear, Demon?" replied he. "In one life a man can die but
once. Besides, in my belly is a thunderbolt; if you eat me, you will
never be able to digest it; this will tear your inwards into little
bits, and kill you: so we shall both perish. That is why I fear
nothing." (By this, the Bodhisatta meant the weapon of knowledge which
he had within him.)

When he heard this, the Demon thought: "This young man speaks the
truth. A piece of the flesh of such a lion-man as he would be too much
for me to digest, if it were no bigger than a kidney-bean. I'll let
him go!" So, being frightened to death, he let go the Bodhisatta,
saying:

"Young sir, you are a lion of a man! I will not eat you up. I set you
free from my hands, as the moon is disgorged from the jaws of Rahu
after the eclipse. Go back to the company of your friends and
relations!"

And the Bodhisatta said: "Demon, I will go, as you say. You were born
a Demon, cruel, blood-bibbing, devourer of the flesh and gore of
others, because you did wickedly in former lives. If you still go on
doing wickedly, you will go from darkness to darkness. But now that
you have seen me you will find it impossible to do wickedly. Taking
the life of living creatures causes birth, as an animal, in the world
of Petas, or in the body of an Asura, or, if one is reborn as a man,
it makes his life short." With this and the like monition he told him
the disadvantage of the five kinds of wickedness, and the profit of
the five kinds of virtue, and frightened the Demon in various ways,
discoursing to him until he subdued him and made him self-denying, and
established him in the five kinds of virtue; he made him worship the
deity to whom offerings were made in that wood; and having carefully
admonished him, departed out of it.

At the entrance of the forest he told all to the people thereabout;
and went on to Benares, armed with his five weapons. Afterwards he
became king, and ruled righteously; and after giving alms and doing
good he passed away according to his deeds.

       *       *       *       *       *

_And the Teacher, when this tale was ended, became perfectly
enlightened, and repeated this verse_:

    _Whose mind and heart from all desire is free,
    Who seeks for peace by living virtuously,
      He in due time will sever all the bonds
    That bind him fast to life, and cease to be._

_Thus the Teacher reached the summit, through sainthood and the
teaching of the law, and thereupon he declared the Four Truths. At the
end of the declaring of the Truths, this Brother also attained to
sainthood. Then the Teacher made the connexion, and gave the key to
the birth-tale, saying: "At that time Angulimala was the Demon, but
the Prince of the Five Weapons was I myself."_




The Ivory City and its Fairy Princess

[Illustration:]


One day a young prince was out practising archery with the son of his
father's chief vizier, when one of the arrows accidentally struck the
wife of a merchant, who was walking about in an upper room of a house
close by. The prince aimed at a bird that was perched on the
window-sill of that room, and had not the slightest idea that anybody
was at hand, or he would not have shot in that direction.
Consequently, not knowing what had happened, he and the vizier's son
walked away, the vizier's son chaffing him because he had missed the
bird.

Presently the merchant went to ask his wife about something, and found
her lying, to all appearance, dead in the middle of the room, and an
arrow fixed in the ground within half a yard of her head. Supposing
that she was dead, he rushed to the window and shrieked, "Thieves
thieves! They have killed my wife." The neighbours quickly gathered,
and the servants came running upstairs to see what was the matter. It
happened that the woman had fainted, and that there was only a very
slight wound in her breast where the arrow had grazed.

As soon as the woman recovered her senses she told them that two young
men had passed by the place with their bows and arrows, and that one
of them had most deliberately aimed at her as she stood by the window.

On hearing this the merchant went to the king, and told him what had
taken place. His Majesty was much enraged at such audacious
wickedness, and swore that most terrible punishment should be visited
on the offender if he could be discovered. He ordered the merchant to
go back and ascertain whether his wife could recognise the young men
if she saw them again.

"Oh yes," replied the woman, "I should know them again among all the
people in the city."

"Then," said the king, when the merchant brought back this reply,
"to-morrow I will cause all the male inhabitants of this city to pass
before your house, and your wife will stand at the window and watch
for the man who did this wanton deed."

A royal proclamation was issued to this effect. So the next day all
the men and boys of the city, from the age of ten years upwards,
assembled and marched by the house of the merchant. By chance (for
they both had been excused from obeying this order) the king's son and
the vizier's son were also in the company, and passed by in the crowd.
They came to see the tamasha.

As soon as these two appeared in front of the merchant's window they
were recognised by the merchant's wife, and at once reported to the
king.

"My own son and the son of my chief vizier!" exclaimed the king, who
had been present from the commencement. "What examples for the people!
Let them both be executed."

"Not so, your Majesty," said the vizier, "I beseech you. Let the facts
of the case be thoroughly investigated. How is it?" he continued,
turning to the two young men. "Why have you done this cruel thing?"

"I shot an arrow at a bird that was sitting on the sill of an open
window in yonder house, and missed," answered the prince. "I suppose
the arrow struck the merchant's wife. Had I known that she or anybody
had been near I should not have shot in that direction."

"We will speak of this later on," said the king, on hearing this
answer. "Dismiss the people. Their presence is no longer needed."

In the evening his Majesty and the vizier had a long and earnest talk
about their two sons. The king wished both of them to be executed; but
the vizier suggested that the prince should be banished from the
country. This was finally agreed to.

Accordingly, on the following morning, a little company of soldiers
escorted the prince out of the city. When they reached the last
custom-house the vizier's son overtook them. He had come with all
haste, bringing with him four bags of muhrs on four horses. "I am
come," he said, throwing his arms round the prince's neck, "because I
cannot let you go alone. We have lived together, we will be exiled
together, and we will die together. Turn me not back, if you love me."

"Consider," the prince answered, "what you are doing. All kinds of
trial may be before me. Why should you leave your home and country to
be with me?"

"Because I love you," he said, "and shall never be happy without you."

So the two friends walked along hand in hand as fast as they could to
get out of the country, and behind them marched the soldiers and the
horses with their valuable burdens. On reaching a place on the borders
of the king's dominions the prince gave the soldiers some gold, and
ordered them to return. The soldiers took the money and left; they did
not, however, go very far, but hid themselves behind rocks and stones,
and waited till they were quite sure that the prince did not intend to
come back.

On and on the exiles walked, till they arrived at a certain village,
where they determined to spend the night under one of the big trees of
the place. The prince made preparations for a fire, and arranged the
few articles of bedding that they had with them, while the vizier's
son went to the baniya and the baker and the butcher to get something
for their dinner. For some reason he was delayed; perhaps the tsut was
not quite ready, or the baniya had not got all the spices prepared.
After waiting half an hour the prince became impatient, and rose up
and walked about.

He saw a pretty, clear little brook running along not far from their
resting-place, and hearing that its source was not far distant, he
started off to find it. The source was a beautiful lake, which at that
time was covered with the magnificent lotus flower and other water
plants. The prince sat down on the bank, and being thirsty took up
some of the water in his hand. Fortunately he looked into his hand
before drinking, and there, to his great astonishment, he saw
reflected whole and clear the image of a beautiful fairy. He looked
round, hoping to see the reality; but seeing no person, he drank the
water, and put out his hand to take some more. Again he saw the
reflection in the water which was in his palm. He looked around as
before, and this time discovered a fairy sitting by the bank on the
opposite side of the lake. On seeing her he fell so madly in love with
her that he dropped down in a swoon.

When the vizier's son returned, and found the fire lighted, the horses
securely fastened, and the bags of muhrs lying altogether in a heap,
but no prince, he did not know what to think. He waited a little
while, and then shouted; but not getting any reply, he got up and went
to the brook. There he came across the footmarks of his friend. Seeing
these, he went back at once for the money and the horses, and bringing
them with him, he tracked the prince to the lake, where he found him
lying to all appearance dead.

"Alas! alas!" he cried, and lifting up the prince, he poured some
water over his head and face. "Alas! my brother, what is this? Oh! do
not die and leave me thus. Speak, speak! I cannot bear this!"

In a few minutes the prince, revived by the water, opened his eyes,
and looked about wildly.

"Thank God!" exclaimed the vizier's son. "But what is the matter,
brother?"

"Go away," replied the prince. "I don't want to say anything to you,
or to see you. Go away."

"Come, come; let us leave this place. Look, I have brought some food
for you, and horses, and everything. Let us eat and depart."

"Go alone," replied the prince.

"Never," said the vizier's son. "What has happened to suddenly
estrange you from me? A little while ago we were brethren, but now you
detest the sight of me."

"I have looked upon a fairy," the prince said. "But a moment I saw her
face; for when she noticed that I was looking at her she covered her
face with lotus petals. Oh, how beautiful she was! And while I gazed
she took out of her bosom an ivory box, and held it up to me. Then I
fainted. Oh! if you can get me that fairy for my wife, I will go
anywhere with you."

"Oh, brother," said the vizier's son, "you have indeed seen a fairy.
She is a fairy of the fairies. This is none other than Gulizar of the
Ivory City. I know this from the signs that she gave you. From her
covering her face with lotus petals I learn her name, and from her
showing you the ivory box I learn where she lives. Be patient, and
rest assured that I will arrange your marriage with her."

When the prince heard these encouraging words he felt much comforted,
rose up, and ate, and then went away gladly with his friend.

On the way they met two men. These two men belonged to a family of
robbers. There were eleven of them altogether. One, an elder sister,
stayed at home and cooked the food, and the other ten--all
brothers--went out, two and two, and walked about the four different
ways that ran through that part of the country, robbing those
travellers who could not resist them, and inviting others, who were
too powerful for two of them to manage, to come and rest at their
house, where the whole family attacked them and stole their goods.
These thieves lived in a kind of tower, which had several strong-rooms
in it, and under it was a great pit, wherein they threw the corpses of
the poor unfortunates who chanced to fall into their power.

The two men came forward, and, politely accosting them, begged them to
come and stay at their house for the night. "It is late," they said,
"and there is not another village within several miles."

"Shall we accept this good man's invitation, brother?" asked the
prince.

The vizier's son frowned slightly in token of disapproval; but the
prince was tired, and thinking that it was only a whim of his
friend's, he said to the men, "Very well. It is very kind of you to
ask us."

So they all four went to the robbers' tower.

Seated in a room, with the door fastened on the outside, the two
travellers bemoaned their fate.

"It is no good groaning," said the vizier's son. "I will climb to the
window, and see whether there are any means of escape. Yes! yes!" he
whispered, when he had reached the window-hole. "Below there is a
ditch surrounded by a high wall. I will jump down and reconnoitre. You
stay here, and wait till I return."

Presently he came back and told the prince that he had seen a most
ugly woman, whom he supposed was the robbers' housekeeper. She had
agreed to release them on the promise of her marriage with the prince.

So the woman led the way out of the enclosure by a secret door.

"But where are the horses and the goods?" the vizier's son inquired.

"You cannot bring them," the woman said. "To go out by any other way
would be to thrust oneself into the grave."

"All right, then; they also shall go out by this door. I have a charm,
whereby I can make them thin or fat." So the vizier's son fetched the
horses without any person knowing it, and repeating the charm, he made
them pass through the narrow doorway like pieces of cloth, and when
they were all outside restored them to their former condition. He at
once mounted his horse and laid hold of the halter of one of the other
horses, and then beckoning to the prince to do likewise, he rode off.
The prince saw his opportunity, and in a moment was riding after him,
having the woman behind him.

Now the robbers heard the galloping of the horses, and ran out and
shot their arrows at the prince and his companions. And one of the
arrows killed the woman, so they had to leave her behind.

On, on they rode, until they reached a village where they stayed the
night. The following morning they were off again, and asked for Ivory
City from every passer-by. At length they came to this famous city,
and put up at a little hut that belonged to an old woman, from whom
they feared no harm, and with whom, therefore, they could abide in
peace and comfort. At first the old woman did not like the idea of
these travellers staying in her house, but the sight of a muhr, which
the prince dropped in the bottom of a cup in which she had given him
water, and a present of another muhr from the vizier's son, quickly
made her change her mind. She agreed to let them stay there for a few
days.

As soon as her work was over the old woman came and sat down with her
lodgers. The vizier's son pretended to be utterly ignorant of the
place and people. "Has this city a name?" he asked the old woman.

"Of course it has, you stupid. Every little village, much more a city,
and such a city as this, has a name."

"What is the name of this city?"

"Ivory City. Don't you know that? I thought the name was known all
over the world."

On the mention of the name Ivory City the prince gave a deep sigh. The
vizier's son looked as much as to say, "Keep quiet, or you'll discover
the secret."

"Is there a king of this country?" continued the vizier's son.

"Of course there is, and a queen, and a princess."

"What are their names?"

"The name of the princess is Gulizar, and the name of the queen----"

The vizier's son interrupted the old woman by turning to look at the
prince, who was staring like a madman. "Yes," he said to him
afterwards, "we are in the right country. We shall see the beautiful
princess."

One morning the two travellers noticed the old woman's most careful
toilette: how careful she was in the arrangement of her hair and the
set of her kasabah and puts.

"Who is coming?" said the vizier's son.

"Nobody," the old woman replied.

"Then where are you going?"

"I am going to see my daughter, who is a servant of the Princess
Gulizar. I see her and the princess every day. I should have gone
yesterday, if you had not been here and taken up all my time."

"Ah-h-h! Be careful not to say anything about us in the hearing of the
princess." The vizier's son asked her not to speak about them at the
palace, hoping that, because she had been told not to do so, she would
mention their arrival, and thus the princess would be informed of
their coming.

On seeing her mother the girl pretended to be very angry. "Why have
you not been for two days?" she asked.

"Because, my dear," the old woman answered, "two young travellers, a
prince and the son of some great vizier, have taken up their abode in
my hut, and demand so much of my attention. It is nothing but cooking
and cleaning, and cleaning and cooking, all day long. I can't
understand the men," she added; "one of them especially appears very
stupid. He asked me the name of this country and the name of the
king. Now where can these men have come from, that they do not know
these things? However, they are very great and very rich. They each
give me a muhr every morning and every evening."

After this the old woman went and repeated almost the same words to
the princess, on the hearing of which the princess beat her severely;
and threatened her with a severer punishment if she ever again spoke
of the strangers before her.

In the evening, when the old woman had returned to her hut, she told
the vizier's son how sorry she was that she could not help breaking
her promise, and how the princess had struck her because she mentioned
their coming and all about them.

"Alas! alas!" said the prince, who had eagerly listened to every word.
"What, then, will be her anger at the sight of a man?"

"Anger?" said the vizier's son, with an astonished air. "She would be
exceedingly glad to see one man. I know this. In this treatment of the
old woman I see her request that you will go and see her during the
coming dark fortnight."

"Heaven be praised!" the prince exclaimed.

The next time the old woman went to the palace Gulizar called one of
her servants and ordered her to rush into the room while she was
conversing with the old woman; and if the old woman asked what was the
matter, she was to say that the king's elephants had gone mad, and
were rushing about the city and bazaar in every direction, and
destroying everything in their way.

The servant obeyed, and the old woman, fearing lest the elephants
should go and push down her hut and kill the prince and his friend,
begged the princess to let her depart. Now Gulizar had obtained a
charmed swing, that landed whoever sat on it at the place wherever
they wished to be. "Get the swing," she said to one of the servants
standing by. When it was brought she bade the old woman step into it
and desire to be at home.

The old woman did so, and was at once carried through the air quickly
and safely to her hut, where she found her two lodgers safe and sound.
"Oh!" she cried, "I thought that both of you would be killed by this
time. The royal elephants have got loose and are running about wildly.
When I heard this I was anxious about you. So the princess gave me
this charmed swing to return in. But come, let us get outside before
the elephants arrive and batter down the place."

"Don't believe this," said the vizier's son. "It is a mere hoax. They
have been playing tricks with you."

"You will soon have your heart's desire," he whispered aside to the
prince. "These things are signs."

Two days of the dark fortnight had elapsed, when the prince and the
vizier's son seated themselves in the swing, and wished themselves
within the grounds of the palace. In a moment they were there, and
there too was the object of their search standing by one of the palace
gates, and longing to see the prince quite as much as he was longing
to see her.

Oh, what a happy meeting it was!

"At last," said Gulizar, "I have seen my beloved, my husband."

"A thousand thanks to Heaven for bringing me to you," said the prince.

Then the prince and Gulizar betrothed themselves to one another and
parted, the one for the hut and the other for the palace, both of them
feeling happier than they had ever been before.

Henceforth the prince visited Gulizar every day and returned to the
hut every night. One morning Gulizar begged him to stay with her
always. She was constantly afraid of some evil happening to
him--perhaps robbers would slay him, or sickness attack him, and then
she would be deprived of him. She could not live without seeing him.
The prince showed her that there was no real cause for fear, and said
that he felt he ought to return to his friend at night, because he had
left his home and country and risked his life for him; and, moreover,
if it had not been for his friend's help he would never have met with
her.

Gulizar for the time assented, but she determined in her heart to get
rid of the vizier's son as soon as possible. A few days after this
conversation she ordered one of her maids to make a pilaw. She gave
special directions that a certain poison was to be mixed into it while
cooking, and as soon as it was ready the cover was to be placed on the
saucepan, so that the poisonous steam might not escape. When the pilaw
was ready she sent it at once by the hand of a servant to the vizier's
son with this message: "Gulizar, the princess, sends you an offering
in the name of her dead uncle."

On receiving the present the vizier's son thought that the prince had
spoken gratefully of him to the princess, and therefore she had thus
remembered him. Accordingly he sent back his salam and expressions of
thankfulness.

When it was dinner-time he took the saucepan of pilaw and went out to
eat it by the stream. Taking off the lid, he threw it aside on the
grass and then washed his hands. During the minute or so that he was
performing these ablutions, the green grass under the cover of the
saucepan turned quite yellow. He was astonished, and suspecting that
there was poison in the pilaw, he took a little and threw it to some
crows that were hopping about. The moment the crows ate what was
thrown to them they fell down dead.

"Heaven be praised," exclaimed the vizier's son, "who has preserved me
from death at this time!"

On the return of the prince that evening the vizier's son was very
reticent and depressed. The prince noticed this change in him, and
asked what was the reason. "Is it because I am away so much at the
palace?" The vizier's son saw that the prince had nothing to do with
the sending of the pilaw, and therefore told him everything.

"Look here," he said, "in this handkerchief is some pilaw that the
princess sent me this morning in the name of her deceased uncle. It is
saturated with poison. Thank Heaven, I discovered it in time!"

"Oh, brother! who could have done this thing? Who is there that
entertains enmity against you?"

"The Princess Gulizar. Listen. The next time you go to see her, I
entreat you to take some snow with you; and just before seeing the
princess put a little of it into both your eyes. It will provoke
tears, and Gulizar will ask you why you are crying. Tell her that you
weep for the loss of your friend, who died suddenly this morning.
Look! take, too, this wine and this shovel, and when you have feigned
intense grief at the death of your friend, bid the princess to drink a
little of the wine. It is strong, and will immediately send her into a
deep sleep. Then, while she is asleep, heat the shovel and mark her
back with it. Remember to bring back the shovel again, and also to
take her pearl necklace. This done, return. Now fear not to execute
these instructions, because on the fulfilment of them depends your
fortune and happiness. I will arrange that your marriage with the
princess shall be accepted by the king, her father, and all the
court."

The prince promised that he would do everything as the vizier's son
had advised him; and he kept his promise.

The following night, on the return of the prince from his visit to
Gulizar, he and the vizier's son, taking the horses and bags of muhrs,
went to a graveyard about a mile or so distant. It was arranged that
the vizier's son should act the part of a fakir and the prince the
part of the fakir's disciple and servant.

In the morning, when Gulizar had returned to her senses, she felt a
smarting pain in her back, and noticed that her pearl necklace was
gone. She went at once and informed the king of the loss of her
necklace, but said nothing to him about the pain in her back.

The king was very angry when he heard of the theft, and caused
proclamation concerning it to be made throughout all the city and
surrounding country.

"It is well," said the vizier's son, when he heard of this
proclamation. "Fear not, my brother, but go and take this necklace,
and try to sell it in the bazaar."

The prince took it to a goldsmith and asked him to buy it.

"How much do you want for it?" asked the man.

"Fifty thousand rupees," the prince replied.

"All right," said the man; "wait here while I go and fetch the money."

The prince waited and waited, till at last the goldsmith returned,
and with him the kotwal, who at once took the prince into custody on
the charge of stealing the princess's necklace.

"How did you get the necklace?" the kotwal asked.

"A fakir, whose servant I am, gave it to me to sell in the bazaar,"
the prince replied. "Permit me, and I will show you where he is."

The prince directed the kotwal and the policeman to the place where he
had left the vizier's son, and there they found the fakir with his
eyes shut and engaged in prayer. Presently, when he had finished his
devotions, the kotwal asked him to explain how he had obtained
possession of the princess's necklace.

"Call the king hither," he replied, "and then I will tell his Majesty
face to face."

On this some men went to the king and told him what the fakir had
said. His Majesty came, and seeing the fakir so solemn and earnest in
his devotions, he was afraid to rouse his anger, lest peradventure the
displeasure of Heaven should descend on him, and so he placed his
hands together in the attitude of a supplicant, and asked, "How did
you get my daughter's necklace?"

"Last night," replied the fakir, "we were sitting here by this tomb
worshipping Khuda, when a ghoul, dressed as a princess, came and
exhumed a body that had been buried a few days ago, and began to eat
it. On seeing this I was filled with anger, and beat her back with a
shovel, which lay on the fire at the time. While running away from me
her necklace got loose and dropped. You wonder at these words, but
they are not difficult to prove. Examine your daughter, and you will
find the marks of the burn on her back. Go, and if it is as I say,
send the princess to me, and I will punish her."

The king went back to the palace, and at once ordered the princess's
back to be examined.

"It is so," said the maid-servant; "the burn is there."

"Then let the girl be slain immediately," the king shouted.

"No, no, your Majesty," they replied. "Let us send her to the fakir
who discovered this thing, that he may do whatever he wishes with
her."

The king agreed, and so the princess was taken to the graveyard.

"Let her be shut up in a cage, and be kept near the grave whence she
took out the corpse," said the fakir.

This was done, and in a little while the fakir and his disciple and
the princess were left alone in the graveyard. Night had not long cast
its dark mantle over the scene when the fakir and his disciple threw
off their disguise, and taking their horses and luggage, appeared
before the cage. They released the princess, rubbed some ointment over
the scars on her back, and then sat her upon one of their horses
behind the prince. Away they rode fast and far, and by the morning
were able to rest and talk over their plans in safety. The vizier's
son showed the princess some of the poisoned pilaw that she had sent
him, and asked whether she had repented of her ingratitude. The
princess wept, and acknowledged that he was her greatest helper and
friend.

A letter was sent to the chief vizier telling him of all that had
happened to the prince and the vizier's son since they had left their
country. When the vizier read the letter he went and informed the
king. The king caused a reply to be sent to the two exiles, in which
he ordered them not to return, but to send a letter to Gulizar's
father, and inform him of everything. Accordingly they did this; the
prince wrote the letter at the vizier's son's dictation.

On reading the letter Gulizar's father was much enraged with his
viziers and other officials for not discovering the presence in his
country of these illustrious visitors, as he was especially anxious to
ingratiate himself in the favour of the prince and the vizier's son.
He ordered the execution of some of the viziers on a certain date.

"Come," he wrote back to the vizier's son, "and stay at the palace.
And if the prince desires it, I will arrange for his marriage with
Gulizar as soon as possible."

The prince and the vizier's son most gladly accepted the invitation,
and received a right noble welcome from the king. The marriage soon
took place, and then after a few weeks the king gave them presents of
horses and elephants, and jewels and rich cloths, and bade them start
for their own land; for he was sure that the king would now receive
them. The night before they left the viziers and others, whom the king
intended to have executed as soon as his visitors had left, came and
besought the vizier's son to plead for them, and promised that they
each would give him a daughter in marriage. He agreed to do so, and
succeeded in obtaining their pardon.

Then the prince, with his beautiful bride Gulizar, and the vizier's
son, attended by a troop of soldiers, and a large number of camels and
horses bearing very much treasure, left for their own land. In the
midst of the way they passed the tower of the robbers, and with the
help of the soldiers they razed it to the ground, slew all its
inmates, and seized the treasure which they had been amassing there
for several years.

At length they reached their own country, and when the king saw his
son's beautiful wife and his magnificent retinue he was at once
reconciled, and ordered him to enter the city and take up his abode
there.

Henceforth all was sunshine on the path of the prince. He became a
great favourite, and in due time succeeded to the throne, and ruled
the country for many, many years in peace and happiness.




How Sun, Moon, and Wind went out to Dinner

[Illustration:]


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

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

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

Then Star turned to Sun and spoke thus, "Because you went out to amuse
yourself with your friends, and feasted and enjoyed yourself, without
any thought of 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 Wind and said, "You also who forgot your mother in
the midst of your selfish pleasures--hear your doom. You shall always
blow in the hot dry weather, and shall parch and shrivel all living
things. And men shall detest and avoid you from this very time."

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

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

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




How the Wicked Sons were Duped.


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

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

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

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




The Pigeon and the Crow

[Illustration:]


Once upon a time the Bodhisatta was a Pigeon, and lived in a
nest-basket which a rich man's cook had hung up in the kitchen, in
order to earn merit by it. A greedy Crow, flying near, saw all sorts
of delicate food lying about in the kitchen, and fell a-hungering
after it. "How in the world can I get some?" thought he? At last he
hit upon a plan.

When the Pigeon went to search for food, behind him, following,
following, came the Crow.

"What do you want, Mr. Crow? You and I don't feed alike."

"Ah, but I like you and your ways! Let me be your chum, and let us
feed together."

The Pigeon agreed, and they went on in company. The Crow pretended to
feed along with the Pigeon, but ever and anon he would turn back, peck
to bits some heap of cow-dung, and eat a fat worm. When he had got a
bellyful of them, up he flies, as pert as you like:

"Hullo, Mr. Pigeon, what a time you take over your meal! One ought to
draw the line somewhere. Let's be going home before it is too late."
And so they did.

The cook saw that his Pigeon had brought a friend, and hung up another
basket for him.

A few days afterwards there was a great purchase of fish which came to
the rich man's kitchen. How the Crow longed for some! So there he lay,
from early morn, groaning and making a great noise. Says the Pigeon to
the Crow:

"Come, Sir Crow, and get your breakfast!"

"Oh dear! oh dear! I have such a fit of indigestion!" says he.

"Nonsense! Crows never have indigestion," said the Pigeon. "If you eat
a lamp-wick, that stays in your stomach a little while; but anything
else is digested in a trice, as soon as you eat it. Now do what I tell
you; don't behave in this way just for seeing a little fish."

"Why do you say that, master? I have indigestion."

"Well, be careful," said the Pigeon, and flew away.

The cook prepared all the dishes, and then stood at the kitchen door,
wiping the sweat off his body. "Now's my time!" thought Mr. Crow, and
alighted on a dish containing some dainty food. Click! The cook heard
it, and looked round. Ah! he caught the Crow, and plucked all the
feathers out of his head, all but one tuft; he powdered ginger and
cummin, mixed it up with butter-milk, and rubbed it well all over the
bird's body.

"That's for spoiling my master's dinner and making me throw it away!"
said he, and threw him into his basket. Oh, how it hurt!

By-and-by the Pigeon came in, and saw the Crow lying there, making a
great noise. He made great game of him, and repeated a verse of
poetry:

    "Who is this tufted crane I see
    Lying where he's no right to be?
    Come out! my friend, the crow is near,
    And he may do you harm, I fear!"

To this the Crow answered with another:

    "No tufted crane am I--no, no!
    I'm nothing but a greedy crow.
    I would not do as I was told,
    So now I'm plucked, as you behold."

And the Pigeon rejoined with a third verse:

    "You'll come to grief again, I know--
    It is your nature to do so;
    If people make a dish of meat,
    'Tis not for little birds to eat."

Then the Pigeon flew away, saying: "I can't live with this creature
any longer." And the Crow lay there groaning till he died.




Notes and References


The story literature of India is in a large measure the outcome of the
moral revolution of the peninsula connected with the name of Gautama
Buddha. As the influence of his life and doctrines grew, a tendency
arose to connect all the popular stories of India round the great
teacher. This could be easily effected owing to the wide spread of the
belief in metempsychosis. All that was told of the sages of the past
could be interpreted of the Buddha by representing them as
pre-incarnations of him. Even with Fables, or beast-tales, this could
be done, for the Hindoos were Darwinists long before Darwin, and
regarded beasts as cousins of men and stages of development in the
progress of the soul through the ages. Thus, by identifying the Buddha
with the heroes of all folk-tales and the chief characters in the
beast-drolls, the Buddhists were enabled to incorporate the whole of
the story-store of Hindostan in their sacred books, and enlist on
their side the tale-telling instincts of men.

In making Buddha the centre figure of the popular literature of India,
his followers also invented the Frame as a method of literary art. The
idea of connecting a number of disconnected stories familiar to us
from _The Arabian Nights_, Boccaccio's _Decamerone_, Chaucer's
_Canterbury Tales_, or even _Pickwick_, is directly traceable to the
plan of making Buddha the central figure of India folk-literature.
Curiously enough, the earliest instance of this in Buddhist literature
was intended to be a Decameron, ten tales of Buddha's previous births,
told of each of the ten Perfections. Asvagosha, the earlier Boccaccio,
died when he had completed thirty-four of the Birth-Tales. But other
collections were made, and at last a corpus of the JATAKAS, or
Birth-Tales of the Buddha, was carried over to Ceylon, possibly as
early as the first introduction of Buddhism, 241 B.C. There they have
remained till the present day, and have at last been made accessible
in a complete edition in the original Pali by Prof. Fausböll.

These JATAKAS, as we now have them, are enshrined in a commentary on
the _gathas_, or moral verses, written in Ceylon by one of
Buddhaghosa's school in the fifth century A.D. They invariably begin
with a "Story of the Present," an incident in Buddha's life which
calls up to him a "Story of the Past," a folk-tale in which he had
played a part during one of his former incarnations. Thus the fable of
the Lion and the Crane, which opens the present collection, is
introduced by a "Story of the Present" in the following words:--

"A service have we done thee" [the opening words of the _gatha_ or
moral verse]. "This the Master told while living at Jetavana
concerning Devadatta's treachery. Not only now, O Bhickkus, but in a
former existence was Devadatta ungrateful. And having said this he
told a tale." Then follows the tale as given above (pp. 1, 2), and the
commentary concludes: "The Master, having given the lesson, summed up
the Jataka thus: 'At that time, the Lion was Devadatta, and the Crane
was I myself.'" Similarly, with each story of the past the Buddha
identifies himself, or is mentioned as identical with, the virtuous
hero of the folk-tale. These Jatakas are 550 in number, and have been
reckoned to include some 2000 tales. Some of these had been translated
by Mr. Rhys-Davids (_Buddhist Birth Stories, I._, Trübner's Oriental
Library, 1880), Prof. Fausböll (_Five Jatakas_, Copenhagen), and Dr.
R. Morris (_Folk-Lore Journal_, vols. ii.-v.). A few exist sculptured
on the earliest Buddhist Stupas. Thus several of the circular figure
designs on the reliefs from Amaravati, now on the grand staircase of
the British Museum, represent Jatakas, or previous births of the
Buddha.

Some of the Jatakas bear a remarkable resemblance to some of the most
familiar FABLES OF ÆSOP. So close is the resemblance, indeed, that it
is impossible not to surmise an historical relation between the two.
What this relation is I have discussed at considerable length in the
"History of the Æsopic Fable," which forms the introductory volume to
my edition of Caxton's _Esope_ (London, D. Nutt, "Bibliothèque de
Carabas," 1889). In this place I can only roughly summarise my
results. I conjecture that a collection of fables existed in India
before Buddha and independently of the Jatakas, and connected with the
name of Kasyapa, who was afterwards made by the Buddhists into the
latest of the twenty-seven pre-incarnations of the Buddha. This
collection of the Fables of Kasyapa was brought to Europe with a
deputation from the Cingalese King Chandra Muka Siwa (obiit 52 A.D.)
to the Emperor Claudius about 50 A.D., and was done into Greek as the
[Greek: Logoi Lybikoi] of "Kybises." These were utilised by
Babrius (from whom the Greek Æsop is derived) and Avian, and so came
into the European Æsop. I have discussed all those that are to be
found in the Jatakas in the "History" before mentioned, i. pp. 54-72
(see Notes i. xv. xx.). In these Notes henceforth I refer to this
"History" as my _Æsop_.

There were probably other Buddhist collections of a similar nature to
the Jatakas with a framework. When the Hindu reaction against Buddhism
came, the Brahmins adapted these, with the omission of Buddha as the
central figure. There is scarcely any doubt that the so-called FABLES
OF BIDPAI were thus derived from Buddhistic sources. In its Indian
form this is now extant as a _Panchatantra_ or Pentateuch, five books
of tales connected by a Frame. This collection is of special interest
to us in the present connection, as it has come to Europe in various
forms and shapes. I have edited Sir Thomas North's English version of
an Italian adaptation of a Spanish translation of a Latin version of a
Hebrew translation of an Arabic adaptation of the Pehlevi version of
the Indian original (_Fables of Bidpai_, London, D. Nutt,
"Bibliothèque de Carabas," 1888). In this I give a genealogical table
of the various versions, from which I calculate that the tales have
been translated into thirty-eight languages in 112 different versions,
twenty different ones in English alone. Their influence on European
folk-tales has been very great: it is probable that nearly one-tenth
of these can be traced to the Bidpai literature. (See Notes v. ix. x.
xiii. xv.)

Other collections of a similar character, arranged in a frame, and
derived ultimately from Buddhistic sources, also reached Europe and
formed popular reading in the Middle Ages. Among these may be
mentioned THE TALES OF SINDIBAD, known to Europe as _The Seven Sages
of Rome:_ from this we get the Gellert story (_cf. Celtic Fairy
Tales_), though it also occurs in the Bidpai. Another popular
collection was that associated with the life of St. Buddha, who has
been canonised as St. Josaphat: BARLAAM AND JOSAPHAT tells of his
conversion and much else besides, including the tale of the Three
Caskets, used by Shakespeare in the _Merchant of Venice_.

Some of the Indian tales reached Europe at the time of the Crusades,
either orally or in collections no longer extant. The earliest
selection of these was the _Disciplina Clericalis_ of Petrus Alphonsi,
a Spanish Jew converted about 1106: his tales were to be used as
seasoning for sermons, and strong seasoning they must have proved.
Another Spanish collection of considerably later date was entitled _El
Conde Lucanor_ (Eng. trans. by W. York): this contains the fable of
_The Man, his Son, and their Ass_, which they ride or carry as the
popular voice decides. But the most famous collection of this kind
was that known as GESTA ROMANORUM, much of which was certainly derived
from Oriental and ultimately Indian sources, and so might more
appropriately be termed _Gesta Indorum_.

All these collections, which reached Europe in the twelfth and
thirteenth centuries, became very popular, and were used by monks and
friars to enliven their sermons as EXEMPLA. Prof. Crane has given a
full account of this very curious phenomenon in his erudite edition of
the _Exempla of Jacques de Vitry_ (Folk Lore Society, 1890). The
Indian stories were also used by the Italian _Novellieri_, much of
Boccaccio and his school being derived from this source. As these
again gave material for the Elizabethan Drama, chiefly in W. Painter's
_Palace of Pleasure_, a collection of translated _Novelle_ which I
have edited (Lond., 3 vols. 1890), it is not surprising that we can at
times trace portions of Shakespeare back to India. It should also be
mentioned that one-half of La Fontaine's Fables (Bks. vii.-xii.) are
derived from Indian sources. (_See_ Note on No. v.)

In India itself the collection of stories in frames went on and still
goes on. Besides those already mentioned there are the stories of
_Vikram and the Vampire_ (Vetala), translated among others by the late
Sir Richard Burton, and the seventy stories of a parrot (_Suka
Saptati_). The whole of this literature was summed up by Somadeva, c.
1200 A.D. in a huge compilation entitled _Katha Sarit Sagara_ ("Ocean
of the Stream of Stories"). Of this work, written in very florid
style, Mr. Tawney has produced a translation in two volumes in the
_Bibliotheca Indica_. Unfortunately, there is a Divorce Court
atmosphere about the whole book, and my selections from it have been
accordingly restricted. (Notes, No. xi.)

So much for a short sketch of Indian folk-tales so far as they have
been reduced to writing in the native literature.[2] The Jatakas are
probably the oldest collection of such tales in literature, and the
greater part of the rest are demonstrably more than a thousand years
old. It is certain that much (perhaps one-fifth) of the popular
literature of modern Europe is derived from those portions of this
large bulk which came west with the Crusades through the medium of
Arabs and Jews. In his elaborate _Einleitung_ to the _Pantschatantra_,
the Indian version of the Fables of Bidpai, Prof. Benfey contended
with enormous erudition that the majority of folk-tale incidents were
to be found in the Bidpai literature. His introduction consisted of
over 200 monographs on the spread of Indian tales to Europe. He wrote
in 1859, before the great outburst of folk-tale collection in Europe,
and he had not thus adequate materials to go about in determining the
extent of Indian influence on the popular mind of Europe. But he made
it clear that for beast-tales and for drolls, the majority of those
current in the mouths of occidental people were derived from Eastern
and mainly Indian sources. He was not successful, in my opinion, in
tracing the serious fairy tale to India. Few of the tales in the
Indian literary collections could be dignified by the name of fairy
tales, and it was clear that if these were to be traced to India, an
examination of the contemporary folk-tales of the peninsula would have
to be attempted.

[Footnote 2: An admirable and full account of this literature was
given by M. A. Barth in _Mélusine_, t. iv. No. 12, and t. v. No. 1.
See also Table i. of Prof. Rhys-Davids' _Birth Stories_.]

The collection of current Indian folk-tales has been the work of the
last quarter of a century, a work, even after what has been achieved,
still in its initial stages. The credit of having begun the process is
due to Miss Frere, who, while her father was Governor of the Bombay
Presidency, took down from the lips of her _ayah_, Anna de Souza, one
of a Lingaet family from Goa who had been Christian for three
generations, the tales she afterwards published with Mr. Murray in
1868, under the title, "_Old Deccan Days, or, Indian Fairy Legends
current in Southern India, collected from oral tradition by M. Frere,
with an introduction and notes by Sir Bartle Frere_." Her example was
followed by Miss Stokes in her _Indian Fairy Tales_ (London, Ellis &
White, 1880), who took down her tales from two _ayahs_ and a
_Khitmatgar_, all of them Bengalese--the _ayahs_ Hindus, and the man a
Mohammedan. Mr. Ralston introduced the volume with some remarks which
dealt too much with sun-myths for present-day taste. Another
collection from Bengal was that of Lal Behari Day, a Hindu gentleman,
in his _Folk-Tales of Bengal_ (London, Macmillan, 1883). The Panjab
and the Kashmir then had their turn: Mrs. Steel collected, and Captain
(now Major) Temple edited and annotated, their _Wideawake Stories_
(London, Trübner, 1884), stories capitally told and admirably
annotated. Captain Temple increased the value of this collection by a
remarkable analysis of all the incidents contained in the two hundred
Indian folk-tales collected up to this date. It is not too much to say
that this analysis marks an onward step in the scientific study of the
folk-tale: there is such a thing, derided as it may be. I have
throughout the Notes been able to draw attention to Indian parallels
by a simple reference to Major Temple's Analysis.

Major Temple has not alone himself collected: he has been the cause
that many others have collected. In the pages of the _Indian
Antiquary_, edited by him, there have appeared from time to time
folk-tales collected from all parts of India. Some of these have been
issued separately. Sets of tales from Southern India, collected by the
Pandit Natesa Sastri, have been issued under the title _Folk-Lore of
Southern India_, three fascicules of which have been recently
re-issued by Mrs. Kingscote under the title, _Tales of the Sun_ (W. H.
Allen, 1891): it would have been well if the identity of the two works
had been clearly explained. The largest addition to our knowledge of
the Indian folk-tale that has been made since _Wideawake Stories_ is
that contained in Mr. Knowles' _Folk-Tales of Kashmir_ (Trübner's
Oriental Library, 1887), sixty-three stories, some of great length.
These, with Mr. Campbell's _Santal Tales_ (1892); Ramaswami Raju's
_Indian Fables_ (London, Sonnenschein, n.d.); M. Thornhill, _Indian
Fairy Tales_ (London, 1889); and E. J. Robinson, _Tales of S. India_
(1885), together with those contained in books of travel like
Thornton's _Bannu_ or Smeaton's _Karens of Burmah_ bring up the list
of printed Indian folk-tales to over 350--a respectable total indeed,
but a mere drop in the ocean of the stream of stories that must exist
in such a huge population as that of India: the Central Provinces in
particular are practically unexplored. There are doubtless many
collections still unpublished. Col. Lewin has large numbers, besides
the few published in his _Lushai Grammar_; and Mr. M. L. Dames has a
number of Baluchi tales which I have been privileged to use.
Altogether, India now ranks among the best represented countries for
printed folk-tales, coming only after Russia (1500), Germany (1200),
Italy and France (1000 each.)[3] Counting the ancient with the modern,
India has probably some 600 to 700 folk-tales printed and translated
in accessible form. There should be enough material to determine the
vexed question of the relations between the European and the Indian
collections.

[Footnote 3: Finland boasts of 12,000, but most of these lie unprinted
among the archives of the Helsingfors Literary Society.]

This question has taken a new departure with the researches of M.
Emanuel Cosquin in his _Contes populaires de Lorraine_ (Paris, 1886,
2^e tirage, 1890), undoubtedly the most important contribution to the
scientific study of the folk-tale since the Grimms. M. Cosquin gives
in the annotations to the eighty-four tales which he has collected in
Lorraine a mass of information as to the various forms which the tales
take in other countries of Europe and in the East. In my opinion, the
work he has done for the European folk-tale is even more valuable than
the conclusions he draws from it as to the relations with India. He
has taken up the work which Wilhelm Grimm dropped in 1859, and shown
from the huge accumulations of folk-tales that have appeared during
the last thirty years that there is a common fund of folk-tales which
every country of Europe without exception possesses, though this does
not of course preclude them from possessing others that are not shared
by the rest. M. Cosquin further contends that the whole of these have
come from the East, ultimately from India, not by literary
transmission, as Benfey contended, but by oral transmission. He has
certainly shown that very many of the most striking incidents common
to European folk-tales are also to be found in Eastern _mährchen_.
What, however, he has failed to show is that some of these may not
have been carried out to the Eastern world by Europeans. Borrowing
tales is a mutual process, and when Indian meets European, European
meets Indian; which borrowed from which, is a question which we have
very few criteria to decide. It should be added that Mr W. A. Clouston
has in England collected with exemplary industry a large number of
parallels between Indian and European folk-tale incidents in his
_Popular Tales and Fictions_ (Edinburgh, 2 vols., 1887) and _Book of
Noodles_ (London, 1888). Mr Clouston has not openly expressed his
conviction that all folk-tales are Indian in origin: he prefers to
convince us _non vi sed sæpe cadendo_. He has certainly made out a
good case for tracing all European drolls, or comic folk-tales, from
the East.

With the fairy tale strictly so called--_i.e._, the serious folk-tale
of romantic adventure--I am more doubtful. It is mainly a modern
product in India as in Europe, so far as literary evidence goes. The
vast bulk of the Jatakas does not contain a single example worthy the
name, nor does the Bidpai literature. Some of Somadeva's tales,
however, approach the nature of fairy tales, but there are several
Celtic tales which can be traced to an earlier date than his (1200
A.D.) and are equally near to fairy tales. Yet it is dangerous to
trust to mere non-appearance in literature as proof of non-existence
among the folk. To take our own tales here in England, there is not a
single instance of a reference to _Jack and the Beanstalk_ for the
last three hundred years, yet it is undoubtedly a true folk-tale. And
it is indeed remarkable how many of the _formulæ_ of fairy tales have
been found of recent years in India. Thus, the _Magic Fiddle_, found
among the Santals by Mr. Campbell in two variants (see Notes on vi.),
contains the germ idea of the wide-spread story represented in Great
Britain by the ballad of _Binnorie_ (see _English Fairy Tales_, No.
ix.). Similarly, Mr. Knowles' collection has added considerably to the
number of Indian variants of European "formulæ" beyond those noted by
M. Cosquin.

It is still more striking as regards _incidents_. In a paper read
before the Folk-Lore Congress of 1891, and reprinted in the
_Transactions_, pp. 76 _seq._, I have drawn up a list of some 630
incidents found in common among European folk-tales (including
drolls). Of these, I reckon that about 250 have been already found
among Indian folk-tales, and the number is increased by each new
collection that is made or printed. The moral of this is, that India
belongs to a group of peoples who have a common store of stories;
India belongs to Europe for purposes of comparative folk-tales.

Can we go further and say that India is the source of all the
incidents that are held in common by European children? I think we may
answer "Yes" as regards droll incidents, the travels of many of which
we can trace, and we have the curious result that European children
owe their earliest laughter to Hindu wags. As regards the serious
incidents further inquiry is needed. Thus, we find the incident of an
"external soul" (Life Index, Captain Temple very appropriately named
it) in Asbjornsen's _Norse Tales_ and in Miss Frere's _Old Deccan
Days_ (see Notes on _Punchkin_). Yet the latter is a very suspicious
source, since Miss Frere derived her tales from a Christian _ayah_
whose family had been in Portuguese Goa for a hundred years. May they
not have got the story of the giant with his soul outside his body
from some European sailor touching at Goa? This is to a certain extent
negatived by the fact of the frequent occurrence of the incident in
Indian folk-tales (Captain Temple gave a large number of instances in
_Wideawake Stories_, pp. 404-5). On the other hand, Mr. Frazer in his
_Golden Bough_ has shown the wide spread of the idea among all savage
or semi-savage tribes. (See Note on No. iv.)

In this particular case we may be doubtful; but in others, again--as
the incident of the rat's tail up nose (see Notes on _The Charmed
Ring_)--there can be little doubt of the Indian origin. And generally,
so far as the incidents are marvellous and of true fairy-tale
character, the presumption is in favour of India, because of the
vitality of animism or metempsychosis in India throughout all historic
time. No Hindu would doubt the fact of animals speaking or of men
transformed into plants and animals. The European may once have had
these beliefs, and may still hold them implicitly as "survivals"; but
in the "survival" stage they cannot afford material for artistic
creation, and the fact that the higher minds of Europe for the last
thousand years have discountenanced these beliefs has not been
entirely without influence. Of one thing there is practical certainty:
the fairy tales that are common to the Indo-European world were
invented once for all in a certain locality, and thence spread to all
the countries in culture contact with the original source. The mere
fact that contiguous countries have more similarities in their story
store than distant ones is sufficient to prove this: indeed, the fact
that any single country has spread throughout it a definite set of
folk-tales as distinctive as its flora and fauna, is sufficient to
prove it. It is equally certain that not all folk-tales have come from
one source, for each country has tales peculiar to itself. The
question is as to the source of the tales that are common to all
European children, and increasing evidence seems to show that this
common nucleus is derived from India and India alone. The Hindus have
been more successful than others, because of two facts: they have had
the appropriate "atmosphere" of metempsychosis, and they have also had
spread among the people sufficient literary training and mental grip
to invent plots. The Hindu tales have ousted the native European,
which undoubtedly existed independently; indeed, many still survive,
especially in Celtic lands. Exactly in the same way, Perrault's tales
have ousted the older English folk-tales, and it is with the utmost
difficulty that one can get true English fairy tales because _Red
Riding Hood_, _Cinderella_, _Blue Beard_, _Puss in Boots_ and the
rest, have survived in the struggle for existence among English
folk-tales. So far as Europe has a common store of fairy tales, it
owes this to India.

I do not wish to be misunderstood. I do not hold with Benfey that all
European folk-tales are derived from the Bidpai literature and similar
literary products, nor with M. Cosquin that they are all derived from
India. The latter scholar has proved that there is a nucleus of
stories in every European land which is common to all. I calculate
that this includes from 30 to 50 per cent. of the whole, and it is
this common stock of Europe that I regard as coming from India mainly
at the time of the Crusades, and chiefly by oral transmission. It
includes all the beast tales and most of the drolls, but evidence is
still lacking about the more serious fairy tales, though it is
increasing with every fresh collection of folk-tales in India, the
great importance of which is obvious from the above considerations.

In the following Notes I give, as on the two previous occasions, the
_source_ whence I derived the tale, then _parallels_, and finally
_remarks_. For Indian _parallels_ I have been able to refer to Major
Temple's remarkable Analysis of Indian Folk-tale incidents at the end
of _Wideawake Stories_ (pp. 386-436), for European ones to my
alphabetical List of Incidents, with bibliographical references, in
_Transactions of Folk-Lore Congress_, 1892, pp. 87-98. My _remarks_
have been mainly devoted to tracing the relation between the Indian
and the European tales, with the object of showing that the latter
have been derived from the former. I have, however, to some extent
handicapped myself, as I have avoided giving again the Indian versions
of stories already given in _English Fairy Tales_ or _Celtic Fairy
Tales_.


I. THE LION AND THE CRANE.

_Source._--V. Fausböll, _Five Jatakas_, Copenhagen, 1861, pp. 35-8,
text and translation of the _Javasakuna Jataka_. I have ventured
to English Prof. Fausböll's version, which was only intended as a
"crib" to the Pali. For the omitted Introduction, see _supra_.

_Parallels._--I have given a rather full collection of parallels,
running to about a hundred numbers, in my _Æsop_, pp. 232-4. The chief
of these are: (1) for the East, the Midrashic version ("Lion and
Egyptian Partridge"), in the great Rabbinic commentary on Genesis
(_Bereshith-rabba_, c. 64); (2) in classical antiquity, Phædrus, i. 8
("Wolf and Crane"), and Babrius, 94 ("Wolf and Heron"), and the Greek
proverb Suidas, ii. 248 ("Out of the Wolf's Mouth"); (3) in the Middle
Ages, the so-called Greek _Æsop_, ed. Halm, 276 _b_, really prose
versions of Babrius and "Romulus," or prose of Phædrus, i. 8, also the
Romulus of Ademar (fl. 1030), 64; it occurs also on the Bayeux
Tapestry, in Marie de France, 7, and in Benedict of Oxford's _Mishle
Shualim_ (Heb.), 8; (4) Stainhöwel took it from the "Romulus" into his
German Æsop (1480), whence all the modern European Æsops are derived.

_Remarks._--I have selected _The Wolf and the Crane_ as my typical
example in my "History of the Æsopic Fable," and can only give here a
rough summary of the results I there arrived at concerning the fable,
merely premising that these results are at present no more than
hypotheses. The similarity of the Jataka form with that familiar to
us, and derived by us in the last resort from Phædrus, is so striking
that few will deny some historical relation between them. I conjecture
that the Fable originated in India, and came West by two different
routes. First, it came by oral tradition to Egypt, as one of the
Libyan Fables which the ancients themselves distinguished from the
Æsopic Fables. It was, however, included by Demetrius Phalereus,
tyrant of Athens, and founder of the Alexandrian library c. 300 B.C.,
in his _Assemblies of Æsopic Fables_, which I have shown to be the
source of Phædrus' Fables c. 30 A.D. Besides this, it came from Ceylon
in the Fables of Kybises--_i.e._, Kasyapa the Buddha--c. 50 A.D., was
adapted into Hebrew, and used for political purposes, by Rabbi Joshua
ben Chananyah in a harangue to the Jews c. 120 A.D., begging them to be
patient while within the jaws of Rome. The Hebrew form uses the lion,
not the wolf, as the ingrate, which enables us to decide on the Indian
_provenance_ of the Midrashic version. It may be remarked that the use
of the lion in this and other Jatakas is indirectly a testimony to
their great age, as the lion has become rarer and rarer in India
during historic times, and is now confined to the Gir forest of
Kathiáwar, where only a dozen specimens exist, and are strictly
preserved.

The verses at the end are the earliest parts of the Jataka, being in
more archaic Pali than the rest: the story is told by the commentator
(c. 400 A.D.) to illustrate them. It is probable that they were
brought over on the first introduction of Buddhism into Ceylon, c. 241
B.C. This would give them an age of over two thousand years, nearly
three hundred years earlier than Phædrus, from whom comes our _Wolf
and Crane_.


II. PRINCESS LABAM.

_Source._--Miss Stokes, _Indian Fairy Tales_, No. xxii. pp. 153-63,
told by Múniyá, one of the ayahs. I have left it unaltered, except
that I have replaced "God" by "Khuda," the word originally used (see
Notes _l. c._, p. 237).

_Parallels._--The tabu, as to a particular direction, occurs in other
Indian stories as well as in European folk-tales (see notes on Stokes, p.
286). The _grateful animals_ theme occurs in "The Soothsayer's Son"
(_infra_, No. x.), and frequently in Indian folk-tales (see Temple's
Analysis, III. i. 5-7; _Wideawake Stories_, pp. 412-3). The thorn in the
tiger's foot is especially common (Temple, _l. c._, 6, 9), and recalls the
story of Androclus, which occurs in the derivates of Phædrus, and may thus
be Indian in origin (see Benfey, _Panschatantra_, i. 211, and the parallels
given in my _Æsop_, Ro. iii. I. p. 243). The theme is, however, equally
frequent in European folk-tales: see my List of Incidents, _Proc. Folk-Lore
Congress_, p. 91, s.v. "Grateful Animals" and "Gifts by Grateful Animals."
Similarly, the "Bride Wager" incident at the end is common to a large
number of Indian and European folk-tales (Temple, Analysis, p. 430; my
List, _l.c. sub voce_). The tasks are also equally common (_cf._ "Battle
of the Birds" in _Celtic Fairy Tales_), though the exact forms as given in
"Princess Labam" are not known in Europe.

_Remarks._--We have here a concrete instance of the relation of Indian
and European fairy-tales. The human mind may be the same everywhere,
but it is not likely to hit upon the sequence of incidents, _Direction
tabu_--_Grateful Animals_--_Bride-wager_--_Tasks_, by accident, or
independently: Europe must have borrowed from India, or India from
Europe. As this must have occurred within historic times, indeed
within the last thousand years, when even European peasants are not
likely to have _invented_, even if they believed, in the incident of
the grateful animals, the probability is in favour of borrowing from
India, possibly through the intermediation of Arabs at the time of
the Crusades. It is only a probability, but we cannot in any case
reach more than probability in this matter, just at present.


III. LAMBIKIN.

_Source._--Steel-Temple, _Wideawake Stories_, pp. 69-72, originally
published in _Indian Antiquary_, xii. 175. The droll is common
throughout the Panjab.

_Parallels._--The similarity of the concluding episode with the finish
of the "Three Little Pigs" (_Eng. Fairy Tales_, No. xiv.) In my notes
on that droll I have pointed out that the pigs were once goats or kids
with "hair on their chinny chin chin." This brings the tale a stage
nearer to the Lambikin.

_Remarks._--The similarity of Pig No. 3 rolling down hill in the churn
and the Lambikin in the Drumikin can scarcely be accidental, though,
it must be confessed, the tale has undergone considerable modification
before it reached England.


IV. PUNCHKIN.

_Source._--Miss Frere, _Old Deccan Days_, pp. 1-16, from her ayah,
Anna de Souza, of a Lingaet family settled and Christianised at Goa
for three generations. I should perhaps add that a Prudhan is a Prime
Minister, or Vizier; Punts are the same, and Sirdars, nobles.

_Parallels._--The son of seven mothers is a characteristic Indian
conception, for which see Notes on "The Son of Seven Queens" in this
collection, No. xvi. The mother transformed, envious stepmother, ring
recognition, are all incidents common to East and West;
bibliographical references for parallels may be found under these
titles in my List of Incidents. The external soul of the ogre has been
studied by Mr. E. Clodd in _Folk-Lore Journal_, vol. ii., "The
Philosophy of Punchkin," and still more elaborately in the section,
"The External Soul in Folk-tales," in Mr. Frazer's _Golden Bough_, ii.
pp. 296-326. See also Major Temple's Analysis, II. iii., _Wideawake
Stories_, pp. 404-5, who there gives the Indian parallels.

_Remarks._--Both Mr. Clodd and Mr. Frazer regard the essence of the
tale to consist in the conception of an external soul or "life-index,"
and they both trace in this a "survival" of savage philosophy, which
they consider occurs among all men at a certain stage of culture. But
the most cursory examination of the sets of tales containing these
incidents in Mr. Frazer's analyses shows that many, indeed the
majority, of these tales cannot be independent of one another; for
they contain not alone the incident of an external materialised soul,
but the further point that this is contained in something else, which
is enclosed in another thing, which is again surrounded by a wrapper.
This Chinese ball arrangement is found in the Deccan ("Punchkin"); in
Bengal (Day, _Folk-Tales of Bengal_); in Russia (Ralston, p. 103
_seq._, "Koschkei the Deathless," also in Mr. Lang's _Red Fairy
Book_); in Servia (Mijatovics, _Servian Folk-Lore_, p. 172); in South
Slavonia (Wratislaw, p. 225); in Rome (Miss Busk, p. 164); in Albania
(Dozon, p. 132 _seq._); in Transylvania (Haltrich, No. 34); in
Schleswig-Holstein (Müllenhoff, p. 404); in Norway (Asbjörnsen, No.
36, _ap._ Dasent, _Pop. Tales_, p. 55, "The Giant who had no Heart in
his Body"); and finally, in the Hebrides (Campbell, _Pop. Tales_, p.
10, _cf. Celtic Fairy Tales_, No. xvii., "Sea Maiden"). Here we have
the track of this remarkable idea of an external soul enclosed in a
succession of wrappings, which we can trace from Hindostan to the
Hebrides.

It is difficult to imagine that we have not here the actual migration
of the tale from East to West. In Bengal we have the soul "in a
necklace, in a box, in the heart of a _boal_ fish, in a tank"; in
Albania "it is in a pigeon, in a hare, in the silver tusk of a wild
boar"; in Rome it is "in a stone, in the head of a bird, in the head
of a leveret, in the middle head of a seven-headed hydra"; in Russia
"it is in an egg, in a duck, in a hare, in a casket, in an oak"; in
Servia it is "in a board, in the heart of a fox, in a mountain"; in
Transylvania "it is in a light, in an egg, in a duck, in a pond, in a
mountain"; in Norway it is "in an egg, in a duck, in a well, in a
church, on an island, in a lake"; in the Hebrides it is "in an egg, in
the belly of a duck, in the belly of a wether, under a flagstone on
the threshold." It is impossible to imagine the human mind
independently imagining such bizarre convolutions. They were borrowed
from one nation to the other, and till we have reason shown to the
contrary, the original lender was a Hindu. I should add that the mere
conception of an external soul occurs in the oldest Egyptian tale of
"The Two Brothers," but the wrappings are absent.


V. THE BROKEN POT.

_Source._--_Pantschatantra_, V. ix., tr. Benfey, ii. 345-6.

_Parallels._--Benfey, in § 209 of his _Einleitung_, gives
bibliographical references to most of those which are given at length
in Prof. M. Müller's brilliant essay on "The Migration of Fables"
(_Selected Essays_, i. 500-76), which is entirely devoted to the
travels of the fable from India to La Fontaine. See also Mr.
Clouston, _Pop. Tales_, ii. 432 _seq._ I have translated the Hebrew
version in my essay, "Jewish Influence on the Diffusion of
Folk-Tales," pp. 6-7. Our proverb, "Do not count your chickens before
they are hatched," is ultimately to be derived from India.

_Remarks._--The stories of Alnaschar, the Barber's fifth brother in
the _Arabian Nights_, and of La Perette, who counted her chickens
before they were hatched, in La Fontaine, are demonstrably derived
from the same Indian original from which our story was obtained. The
travels of the "Fables of Bidpai" from India to Europe are well known
and distinctly traceable. I have given a rough summary of the chief
critical results in the introduction to my edition of the earliest
English version of the _Fables of Bidpai_, by Sir Thomas North, of
Plutarch fame (London, D. Nutt, "Bibliothèque de Carabas," 1888),
where I have given an elaborate genealogical table of the
multitudinous versions. La Fontaine's version, which has rendered the
fable so familiar to us all, comes from Bonaventure des Periers,
_Contes et Nouvelles_, who got it from the _Dialogus Creaturarum_ of
Nicholaus Pergamenus, who derived it from the _Sermones_ of Jacques de
Vitry (see Prof. Crane's edition, No. li.), who probably derived it
from the _Directorium Humanæ Vitæ_ of John of Capua, a converted Jew,
who translated it from the Hebrew version of the Arabic _Kalilah wa
Dimnah_, which was itself derived from the old Syriac version of a
Pehlevi translation of the original Indian work, probably called after
Karataka and Damanaka, the names of two jackals who figure in the
earlier stories of the book. Prof. Rhys-Davids informs me that these
names are more akin to Pali than to Sanskrit, which makes it still
more probable that the whole literature is ultimately to be derived
from a Buddhist source.

The theme of La Perette is of interest as showing the _literary_
transmission of tales from Orient to Occident. It also shows the
possibility of an influence of literary on oral tradition, as is shown
by our proverb, and by the fact, which Benfey mentions, that La
Fontaine's story has had influence on two of Grimm's tales, Nos. 164,
168.


VI. THE MAGIC FIDDLE.

_Source._--A. Campbell, _Santal Folk-Tales_, 1892, pp. 52-6, with some
verbal alterations. A Bonga is the presiding spirit of a certain kind
of rice land; Doms and Hadis are low-caste aborigines, whose touch is
considered polluting. The Santals are a forest tribe, who live in the
Santal Parganas, 140 miles N.W. of Calcutta (Sir W. W. Hunter, _The
Indian Empire_, 57-60).

_Parallels._--Another version occurs in Campbell, p. 106 _seq._, which
shows that the story is popular among the Santals. It is obvious,
however, that neither version contains the real finish of the story,
which must have contained the denunciation of the magic fiddle of the
murderous sisters. This would bring it under the formula of _The
Singing Bone_, which M. Monseur has recently been studying with a
remarkable collection of European variants in the Bulletin of the
Wallon Folk-Lore Society of Liège (_cf. Eng. Fairy Tales_, No. ix.).
There is a singing bone in Steel-Temple's _Wideawake Stories_, pp. 127
_seq._ ("Little Anklebone").

_Remarks._--Here we have another theme of the common store of European
folk-tales found in India. Unfortunately, the form in which it occurs
is mutilated, and we cannot draw any definite conclusion from it.


VII. THE CRUEL CRANE OUTWITTED.

_Source._--The Baka-Jataka, Fausböll, No. 38, tr. Rhys-Davids, pp.
315-21. The Buddha this time is the Genius of the Tree.

[Illustration:]

_Parallels._--This Jataka got into the Bidpai literature, and
occurs in all its multitudinous offshoots (_see_ Benfey, _Einleitung_,
§ 60) among others in the earliest English translation by North (my
edition, pp. 118-22), where the crane becomes "a great Paragone of
India (of those that liue a hundredth yeares and neuer mue their
feathers)." The crab, on hearing the ill news "called to Parliament
all the Fishes of the Lake," and before all are devoured destroys the
Paragon, as in the Jataka, and returned to the remaining fishes, who
"all with one consent gave hir many a thanke."

_Remarks._--An interesting point, to which I have drawn attention in
my Introduction to North's Bidpai, is the probability that the
illustrations of the tales as well as the tales themselves, were
translated, so to speak, from one country to another. We can trace
them in Latin, Hebrew, and Arabic MSS., and a few are extant on
Buddhist Stupas. Under these circumstances, it may be of interest to
compare with Mr. Batten's conception of the Crane and the Crab
(_supra_, p. 50) that of the German artist who illustrated the first
edition of the Latin Bidpai, probably following the traditional
representations of the MS., which itself could probably trace back to
India.


VIII. LOVING LAILI.

_Source._--Miss Stokes, _Indian Fairy Tales_, pp. 73-84. Majnun and
Laili are conventional names for lovers, the Romeo and Juliet of
Hindostan.

_Parallels._--Living in animals' bellies occurs elsewhere in Miss
Stokes' book, pp. 66, 124; also in Miss Frere's, 188. The restoration
of beauty by fire occurs as a frequent theme (Temple, Analysis, III.
vi. f. p. 418). Readers will be reminded of the _dénouement_ of Mr.
Rider Haggard's _She_. Resuscitation from ashes has been used very
effectively by Mr. Lang in his delightful _Prince Prigio_.

_Remarks._--The white skin and blue eyes of Prince Majnun deserve
attention. They are possibly a relic of the days of Aryan conquest,
when the fair-skinned, fair-haired Aryan conquered the swarthier
aboriginals. The name for caste in Sanskrit is _varna_, "colour"; and
one Hindu cannot insult another more effectually than by calling him a
black man. _Cf._ Stokes, pp. 238-9, who suggests that the red hair is
something solar, and derived from myths of the solar hero.


IX. THE TIGER, THE BRAHMAN, AND THE JACKAL.

_Source._--Steel-Temple, _Wideawake Stories_, pp. 116-20; first
published in _Indian Antiquary_, xii. p. 170 _seq._

_Parallels._--No less than 94 parallels are given by Prof. K. Krohn in
his elaborate discussion of this fable in his dissertation, _Mann und
Fuchs_, (Helsingfors, 1891), pp. 38-60; to which may be added three
Indian variants, omitted by him, but mentioned by Capt. Temple, _l.
c._, p. 324, in the _Bhâgavata Purâna_, the _Gul Bakâolî_ and _Ind.
Ant._ xii. 177; and a couple more in my _Æsop_, p. 253: add Smeaton,
_Karens_, p. 126.

_Remarks._--Prof. Krohn comes to the conclusion that the majority of
the oral forms of the tale come from literary versions (p. 47),
whereas the _Reynard_ form has only had influence on a single variant.
He reduces the century of variants to three type forms. The first
occurs in two Egyptian versions collected in the present day, as well
as in Petrus Alphonsi in the twelfth century, and the _Fabulæ
Extravagantes_ of the thirteenth or fourteenth: here the ingrate
animal is a crocodile, which asks to be carried away from a river
about to dry up, and there is only one judge. The second is that
current in India and represented by the story in the present
collection: here the judges are three. The third is that current among
Western Europeans, which has spread to S. Africa and N. and S.
America: also three judges. Prof. K. Krohn counts the first the
original form, owing to the single judge and the naturalness of the
opening, by which the critical situation is brought about. The further
question arises, whether this form, though found in Egypt now, is
indigenous there, and if so, how it got to the East. Prof. Krohn
grants the possibility of the Egyptian form having been invented in
India and carried to Egypt, and he allows that the European forms have
been influenced by the Indian. The "Egyptian" form is found in Burmah
(Smeaton, _l. c._, p. 128), as well as the Indian, a fact of which
Prof. K. Krohn was unaware though it turns his whole argument. The
evidence we have of other folk-tales of the beast-epic emanating from
India improves the chances of this also coming from that source. One
thing at least is certain: all these hundred variants come ultimately
from one source. The incident "Inside again" of the _Arabian Nights_
(the Djinn and the bottle) and European tales is also a secondary
derivate.


X. THE SOOTHSAYER'S SON.

_Source._--Mrs. Kingscote, _Tales of the Sun_ (p. 11 _seq._), from
Pandit Natesa Sastri's _Folk-Lore of Southern India_, pt. ii.,
originally from _Ind. Antiquary_. I have considerably condensed and
modified the somewhat Babu English of the original.

_Parallels._--See Benfey, _Pantschatantra_, § 71, i. pp. 193-222, who
quotes the _Karma Jataka_ as the ultimate source: it also occurs in
the _Saccankira Jataka_ (Fausböll, No. 73), trans. Rev. R. Morris,
_Folk-Lore Jour._ iii. 348 _seq._ The story of the ingratitude of man
compared with the gratitude of beasts came early to the West, where it
occurs in the _Gesta Romanorum_, c. 119. It was possibly from an early
form of this collection that Richard Coeur de Lion got the story,
and used it to rebuke the ingratitude of the English nobles on his
return in 1195. Matthew Paris tells the story, _sub anno_ (it is an
addition of his to Ralph Disset), _Hist. Major_, ed. Luard, ii. 413-6,
how a lion and a serpent and a Venetian named Vitalis were saved from
a pit by a woodman, Vitalis promising him half his fortune, fifty
talents. The lion brings his benefactor a leveret, the serpent "gemmam
pretiosam," probably "the precious jewel in his head" to which
Shakespeare alludes (_As You Like It_, ii. I., _cf._ Benfey, _l. c._,
p. 214, _n._), but Vitalis refuses to have anything to do with him,
and altogether repudiates the fifty talents. "Hæc referebat Rex
Richardus munificus, ingratos redarguendo."

_Remarks._--Apart from the interest of its wide travels, and its
appearance in the standard mediæval History of England by Matthew
Paris, the modern story shows the remarkable persistence of folk-tales
in the popular mind. Here we have collected from the Hindu peasant of
to-day a tale which was probably told before Buddha, over two thousand
years ago, and certainly included among the Jatakas before the
Christian era. The same thing has occurred with _The Tiger, Brahman,
and Jackal_ (No. ix. _supra_).


XI. HARISARMAN.

_Source._--Somadeva, _Katha-Sarit-Sagara_, trans. Tawney (Calcutta,
1880), i. pp. 272-4. I have slightly toned down the inflated style of
the original.

_Parallels _--Benfey has collected and discussed a number in _Orient
and Occident_, i. 371 _seq._; see also Tawney, _ad loc_. The most
remarkable of the parallels is that afforded by the Grimms' "Doctor
Allwissend" (No. 98), which extends even to such a minute point as his
exclamation, "Ach, ich armer Krebs," whereupon a crab is discovered
under a dish. The usual form of discovery of the thieves is for the
Dr. Knowall to have so many days given him to discover the thieves,
and at the end of the first day he calls out, "There's one of them,"
meaning the days, just as one of the thieves peeps through at him.
Hence the title and the plot of C. Lever's _One of Them_.


XII. THE CHARMED RING.

_Source._--Knowles, _Folk-Tales of Kashmir_, pp. 20-8.

_Parallels._--The incident of the Aiding Animals is frequent in
folk-tales: see bibliographical references, _sub voce_, in my List of
Incidents, _Trans. Folk-Lore Congress_, p. 88; also Knowles, 21,
_n._; and Temple, _Wideawake Stories_, pp. 401, 412. The Magic Ring
is also "common form" in folk-tales; _cf._ Köhler _ap._ Marie de
France, _Lais_, ed. Warncke, p. lxxxiv. And the whole story is to be
found very widely spread from India (_Wideawake Stories_, pp. 196-206)
to England (_Eng. Fairy Tales_, No. xvii, "Jack and his Golden
Snuff-box," _cf._ Notes, _ibid._), the most familiar form of it being
"Aladdin and the Wonderful Lamp."

_Remarks._--M. Cosquin has pointed out (_Contes de Lorraine_, p. xi.
_seq._) that the incident of the rat's-tail-up-nose to recover the
ring from the stomach of an ogress, is found among Arabs, Albanians,
Bretons, and Russians. It is impossible to imagine that
incident--occurring in the same series of incidents--to have been
invented more than once, and if that part of the story has been
borrowed from India, there is no reason why the whole of it should not
have arisen in India, and have been spread to the West. The English
variant was derived from an English Gipsy, and suggests the
possibility that for this particular story the medium of transmission
has been the Gipsies. This contains the incident of the loss of the
ring by the faithful animal, which again could not have been
independently invented.


XIII. THE TALKATIVE TORTOISE.

[Illustration:]

_Source._--The _Kacchapa Jataka_, Fausböll, No. 215; also in his
_Five Jatakas_, pp. 16, 41, tr. Rhys-Davids, pp. viii-x.

_Parallels._--It occurs also in the Bidpai literature, in nearly all
its multitudinous offshoots. See Benfey, _Einleitung_, §84; also my
_Bidpai_, E, 4 _a_; and North's text, pp. 170-5, where it is the
taunts of the other birds that cause the catastrophe: "O here is a
brave sight, looke, here is a goodly ieast, what bugge haue we here,"
said some. "See, see, she hangeth by the throte, and therefor she
speaketh not," saide others; "and the beast flieth not like a beast;"
so she opened her mouth and "pashte hir all to pieces."

_Remarks._--I have reproduced in my edition the original illustration
of the first English Bidpai, itself derived from the Italian block.
A replica of it here may serve to show that it could be used
equally well to illustrate the Pali original as its English
great-great-great-great-great-great grand-child.


XIV. LAC OF RUPEES.

_Source._--Knowles, _Folk-Tales of Kashmir_, pp. 32-41. I have reduced
the pieces of advice to three, and curtailed somewhat.

_Parallels._--See _Celtic Fairy Tales_, No. xxii., "Tale of Ivan,"
from the old Cornish, now extinct, and notes _ibid._ Mr. Clouston
points out (_Pop. Tales_, ii. 319) that it occurs in Buddhist
literature, in "Buddaghoshas Parables," as "The Story of Kulla
Pauthaka."

_Remarks._--It is indeed curious to find the story better told in
Cornwall than in the land of its birth, but there can be little doubt
that the Buddhist version is the earliest and original form of the
story. The piece of advice was originally a charm, in which a youth
was to say to himself, "Why are you busy? Why are you busy?" He does
so when thieves are about, and so saves the king's treasures, of which
he gets an appropriate share. It would perhaps be as well if many of
us should say to ourselves "_Ghatesa, ghatesa, kim kárana?_"


XV. THE GOLD-GIVING SERPENT.

_Source._--_Pantschatantra_, III. v., tr. Benfey, ii. 244-7.

_Parallels_ given in my _Æsop_, Ro. ii. 10, p. 40. The chief points
about them are--(1) though the tale does not exist in either Phædrus
or Babrius, it occurs in prose derivates from the Latin by Ademar, 65,
and "Romulus," ii. 10, and from Greek, in Gabrias, 45, and the prose
_Æsop_, ed. Halm, 96; Gitlbauer has restored the Babrian form in his
edition of Babrius, No. 160. (2) The fable occurs among folk-tales,
Grimm, 105; Woycicki, _Poln. Mähr._ 105; Gering, _Islensk. Ævent._ 59,
possibly derived from La Fontaine, x. 12.

_Remarks._--Benfey has proved most ingeniously and conclusively
(_Einl._ i. 359) that the Indian fable is the source of both Latin and
Greek fables. I may borrow from my _Æsop_, p. 93, parallel abstracts
of the three versions, putting Benfey's results in a graphic form,
series of bars indicating the passages where the classical fables have
failed to preserve the original.

           BIDPAI.                |       PHÆDRINE.

 A Brahmin once observed a snake  |----A good man had become
 in his field, and thinking it    |friendly with the snake, who
 the tutelary spirit of the       |came into his house and brought
 field, he offered it a libation  |luck with it, so that the man
 of milk in a bowl. Next day he   |became rich through it.----One
 finds a piece of gold in the     |day he struck the serpent, which
 bowl, and he receives this each  |disappeared, and with it the
 day after offering the libation. |man's riches. The good man tries
 One day he had to go elsewhere,  |to make it up, but the serpent
 and he sent his son with the     |declares their friendship at an
 libation. The son sees the gold, |end, as it could not forget the
 and thinking the serpent's hole  |blow.----
 full of treasure determines to   |
 slay the snake. He strikes at    |Phæd. Dressl. VII. 28 (Rom. II. xi.)
 its head with a cudgel, and the  |
 enraged serpent stings him to    |            BABRIAN.
 death. The Brahmin mourns his    |A serpent stung a farmer's son
 son's death, but next morning as |to death. The father pursued the
 usual brings the libation of     |serpent with an axe, and struck
 milk (in the hope of getting the |off part of its tail. Afterwards
 gold as before). The serpent     |fearing its vengeance he brought
 appears after a long delay at    |food and honey to its lair, and
 the mouth of its lair, and       |begged reconciliation. The
 declares their friendship at an  |serpent, however, declares
 end, as it could not forget the  |friendship impossible, as it
 blow of the Brahmin's son, nor   |could not forget the blow----nor
 the Brahmin his son's death from |the farmer his son's death from
 the bite of the snake.           |the bite of the snake.
                                  |
_Pants._ III. v. (Benf. 244-7).   |Æsop, Halm 96^b (Babrius-Gitlb. 160).
                                  |

In the Indian fable every step of the action is thoroughly justified,
whereas the Latin form does not explain why the snake was friendly in
the first instance, or why the good man was enraged afterwards; and
the Greek form starts abruptly, without explaining why the serpent had
killed the farmer's son. Make a composite of the Phædrine and Babrian
forms, and you get the Indian one, which is thus shown to be the
original of both.


XVI. THE SON OF SEVEN QUEENS.

_Source._--Steel-Temple, _Wideawake Stories_, pp. 98-110, originally
published in _Ind. Antiq._ x. 147 _seq._

_Parallels._--A long variant follows in _Ind. Antiq._, _l. c._ M.
Cosquin refers to several Oriental variants, _l. c._ p. xxx. _n._ For
the direction tabu, see Note on Princess Labam, _supra_, No. ii. The
"letter to kill bearer" and "letter substituted" are frequent in both
European (see my List _s. v._) and Indian Folk-Tales (Temple,
Analysis, II. iv. _b_, 6, p. 410). The idea of a son of seven mothers
could only arise in a polygamous country. It occurs in "Punchkin,"
_supra_, No. iv.; Day, _Folk-Tales of Bengal_, 117 _seq._; _Ind.
Antiq._ i. 170 (Temple, _l. c._, 398).

_Remarks._--M. Cosquin (_Contes de Lorraine_, p. xxx.) points out how,
in a Sicilian story, Gonzenbach (_Sizil. Mähr._ No. 80), the seven
co-queens are transformed into seven step-daughters of the envious
witch who causes their eyes to be taken out. It is thus probable,
though M. Cosquin does not point this out, that the "envious
step-mother" of folk-tales (see my List, _s. v._) was originally an
envious co-wife. But there can be little doubt of what M. Cosquin
_does_ point out--viz., that the Sicilian story is derived from the
Indian one.


XVII. A LESSON FOR KINGS.

_Source._--_Rajovada Jataka_, Fausböll, No. 151, tr.
Rhys-Davids, pp. xxii.-vi.

_Remarks._--This is one of the earliest of moral allegories in
existence. The moralising tone of the Jatakas must be conspicuous to
all reading them. Why, they can moralise even the Tar Baby (see
_infra_, Note on "Demon with the Matted Hair," No. xxv.).


XVIII. PRIDE GOETH BEFORE A FALL.

_Source._--Kingscote, _Tales of the Sun_. I have changed the Indian
mercantile numerals into those of English "back-slang," which make a
very good parallel.


XIX. RAJA RASALU.

_Source._--Steel-Temple, _Wideawake Stories_, pp. 247-80, omitting
"How Raja Rasalu was Born," "How Raja Rasalu's Friends Forsook Him,"
"How Raja Rasalu Killed the Giants," and "How Raja Rasalu became a
Jogi." A further version in Temple, _Legends of Panjab_, vol. i.
_Chaupur_, I should explain, is a game played by two players with
eight men, each on a board in the shape of a cross, four men to each
cross covered with squares. The moves of the men are decided by the
throws of a long form of dice. The object of the game is to see which
of the players can first move all his men into the black centre square
of the cross (Temple, _l. c._, p. 344, and _Legends of Panjab_, i.
243-5). It is sometimes said to be the origin of chess.

_Parallels._--Rev. C. Swynnerton, "Four Legends about Raja Rasalu," in
_Folk-Lore Journal_, p. 158 _seq._, also in separate book much
enlarged, _The Adventures of Raja Rasalu_, Calcutta, 1884. Curiously
enough, the real interest of the story comes after the end of our part
of it, for Kokilan, when she grows up, is married to Raja Rasalu, and
behaves as sometimes youthful wives behave to elderly husbands. He
gives her her lover's heart to eat, _à la_ Decameron, and she dashes
herself over the rocks. For the parallels of this part of the legend
see my edition of Painter's _Palace of Pleasure_, tom. i. Tale 39, or,
better, the _Programm_ of H. Patzig, _Zur Geschichte der Herzmäre_
(Berlin, 1891). Gambling for life occurs in Celtic and other
folk-tales; _cf._ my List of Incidents, _s. v._ "Gambling for Magic
Objects."

_Remarks._--Raja Rasalu is possibly a historic personage, according to
Capt. Temple, _Calcutta Review_, 1884, p. 397, flourishing in the
eighth or ninth century. There is a place called Sirikap ka-kila in
the neighbourhood of Sialkot, the traditional seat of Rasalu on the
Indus, not far from Atlock.

Herr Patzig is strongly for the Eastern origin of the romance, and
finds its earliest appearance in the West in the Anglo-Norman
troubadour, Thomas' _Lai Guirun_, where it becomes part of the Tristan
cycle. There is, so far as I know, no proof of the earliest part of
the Rasalu legend (_our_ part) coming to Europe, except the existence
of the gambling incidents of the same kind in Celtic and other
folk-tales.


XX. THE ASS IN THE LION'S SKIN.

_Source._--The _Siha Camma Jataka_, Fausböll, No. 189, trans.
Rhys-Davids, pp. v. vi.

_Parallels._--It also occurs in Somadeva, _Katha Sarit Sagara_, ed.
Tawney, ii. 65, and _n_. For Æsopic parallels _cf._ my _Æsop_, Av. iv.
It is in Babrius, ed. Gitlbaur, 218 (from Greek prose Æsop, ed. Halm,
No. 323), and Avian, ed. Ellis, 5, whence it came into the modern
Æsop.

_Remarks._--Avian wrote towards the end of the third century, and put
into Latin mainly those portions of Babrius which are unparalleled by
Phædrus. Consequently, as I have shown, he has a much larger
proportion of Eastern elements than Phædrus. There can be little doubt
that the Ass in the Lion's Skin is from India. As Prof. Rhys-Davids
remarks, the Indian form gives a plausible motive for the masquerade
which is wanting in the ordinary Æsopic version.


XXI. THE FARMER AND THE MONEY-LENDER.

_Source._--Steel-Temple, _Wideawake Stories_, pp. 215-8.

_Parallels_ enumerated in my _Æsop_, Av. xvii. See also Jacques de
Vitry, _Exempla_, ed. Crane, No. 196 (see notes, p. 212), and Bozon,
_Contes moralisés_, No. 112. It occurs in Avian, ed. Ellis, No. 22.
Mr. Kipling has a very similar tale in his _Life's Handicap_.

_Remarks._--Here we have collected in modern India what one cannot
help thinking is the Indian original of a fable of Avian. The
preceding number showed one of his fables existing among the Jatakas,
probably before the Christian era. This makes it likely that we shall
find an earlier Indian original of the fable of the Avaricious and
Envious, perhaps among the Jatakas still untranslated.


XXII. THE BOY WITH MOON ON FOREHEAD.

_Source._--Miss Stokes' _Indian Fairy Tales_, No. 20, pp. 119-137.

_Parallels_ to heroes and heroines in European fairy tales, with stars
on their foreheads, are given with some copiousness in Stokes, _l.
c._, pp. 242-3. This is an essentially Indian trait; almost all Hindus
have some tribal or caste mark on their bodies or faces. The choice of
the hero disguised as a menial is also common property of Indian and
European fairy tales: see Stokes, _l. c._, p. 231, and my List of
Incidents (_s. v._ "Menial Disguise.")


XXIII. THE PRINCE AND THE FAKIR.

_Source._--Kindly communicated by Mr. M. L. Dames from his unpublished
collection of Baluchi tales.

_Remarks._--Unholy fakirs are rather rare. See Temple, Analysis, I.
ii. _a_, p. 394.


XXIV. WHY THE FISH LAUGHED.

_Source._--Knowles, _Folk-Tales of Kashmir_, pp. 484-90.

_Parallels._--The latter part is the formula of the Clever Lass who
guesses riddles. She has been bibliographised by Prof. Child, _Eng.
and Scotch Ballads_, i. 485; see also Benfey, _Kl. Schr._ ii. 156
_seq._ The sex test at the end is different from any of those
enumerated by Prof. Köhler on Gonzenbach, _Sezil. Mähr._ ii. 216.

_Remarks._--Here we have a further example of a whole formula, or
series of incidents, common to most European collections, found in
India, and in a quarter, too, where European influence is little
likely to penetrate. Prof. Benfey, in an elaborate dissertation ("Die
Kluge Dirne," in _Ausland_, 1859, Nos. 20-25, now reprinted in _Kl.
Schr._ ii. 156 _seq._), has shown the wide spread of the theme both in
early Indian literature (though probably there derived from the folk)
and in modern European folk literature.


XXV. THE DEMON WITH THE MATTED HAIR.

_Source._--The _Pancavudha-Jataka_, Fausböll, No. 55, kindly
translated for this book by Mr. W. H. D. Rouse, of Christ's College,
Cambridge. There is a brief abstract of the Jataka in Prof. Estlin
Carpenter's sermon, _Three Ways of Salvation_, 1884, p. 27, where my
attention was first called to this Jataka.

_Parallels._--Most readers of these Notes will remember the central
episode of Mr. J. C. Harris' _Uncle Remus_, in which Brer Fox, annoyed
at Brer Rabbit's depredations, fits up "a contrapshun, what he calls a
Tar Baby." Brer Rabbit, coming along that way, passes the time of day
with Tar Baby, and, annoyed at its obstinate silence, hits it with
right fist and with left, with left fist and with right, which
successively stick to the "contrapshun," till at last he butts with
his head, and that sticks too, whereupon Brer Fox, who all this time
had "lain low," saunters out, and complains of Brer Rabbit that he is
too stuck up. In the sequel Brer Rabbit begs Brer Fox that he may
"drown me as deep ez you please, skin me, scratch out my eyeballs,
t'ar out my years by the roots, en cut off my legs, but do don't fling
me in dat brier patch;" which, of course, Brer Fox does, only to be
informed by the cunning Brer Rabbit that he had been "bred en bawn in
a brier patch." The story is a favourite one with the negroes: it
occurs in Col. Jones' _Negro Myths of the Georgia Coast_ (Uncle Remus
is from S. Carolina), also among those of Brazil (Romero, _Contos do
Brazil_), and in the West Indian Islands (Mr. Lang, "At the Sign of
the Ship," _Longman's Magazine_, Feb. 1889). We can trace it to
Africa, where it occurs in Cape Colony (_South African Folk-Lore
Journal_, vol. i.).

_Remarks._--The five-fold attack on the Demon and the Tar Baby is so
preposterously ludicrous that it cannot have been independently
invented, and we must therefore assume that they are causally
connected, and the existence of the variant in South Africa clinches
the matter, and gives us a landing-stage between India and America.
There can be little doubt that the Jataka of Prince Five Weapons came
to Africa, possibly by Buddhist missionaries, spread among the
negroes, and then took ship in the holds of slavers for the New World,
where it is to be found in fuller form than any yet discovered in the
home of its birth. I say Buddhist missionaries, because there is a
certain amount of evidence that the negroes have Buddhistic symbols
among them, and we can only explain the identification of Brer Rabbit
with Prince Five Weapons, and so with Buddha himself, by supposing the
change to have originated among Buddhists, where it would be quite
natural. For one of the most celebrated metempsychoses of Buddha is
that detailed in the _Sasa Jataka_ (Fausböll, No. 316, tr. R.
Morris, _Folk-Lore Journal_, ii. 336), in which the Buddha, as a hare,
performs a sublime piece of self-sacrifice, and as a reward is
translated to the moon, where he can be seen to this day as "the hare
in the moon." Every Buddhist is reminded of the virtue of
self-sacrifice whenever the moon is full, and it is easy to understand
how the Buddha became identified as the Hare or Rabbit. A striking
confirmation of this, in connection with our immediate subject, is
offered by Mr. Harris' sequel volume, _Nights with Uncle Remus_. Here
there is a whole chapter (xxx.) on "Brer Rabbit and his famous Foot,"
and it is well known how the worship of Buddha's foot developed in
later Buddhism. No wonder Brer Rabbit is so 'cute: he is nothing less
than an incarnation of Buddha. Among the Karens of Burmah, where
Buddhist influence is still active, the Hare holds exactly the same
place in their folk-lore as Brer Rabbit among the negroes. The sixth
chapter of Mr. Smeaton's book on them is devoted to "Fireside
Stories," and is entirely taken up with adventures of the Hare, all of
which can be parallelled from _Uncle Remus_.

Curiously enough, the negro form of the five-fold attack--"fighting
with _five_ fists," Mr. Barr would call it--is probably nearer to the
original legend than that preserved in the Jataka, though 2000 years
older. For we may be sure that the thunderbolt of Knowledge did not
exist in the original, but was introduced by some Buddhist Mr. Barlow,
who, like Alice's Duchess, ended all his tales with: "And the moral of
that is----" For no well-bred demon would have been taken in by so
simple a "sell" as that indulged in by Prince Five-Weapons in our
Jataka, and it is probable, therefore, that _Uncle Remus_ preserves a
reminiscence of the original Indian reading of the tale. On the other
hand, it is probable that Carlyle's Indian god with the fire in his
belly was derived from Prince Five-Weapons.

The negro variant has also suggested to Mr. Batten an explanation of
the whole story which is extremely plausible, though it introduces a
method of folk-lore exegesis which has been overdriven to death. The
_Sasa Jataka_ identifies the Brer Rabbit Buddha with the hare in
the moon. It is well known that Easterns explain an eclipse of the
moon as due to its being swallowed up by a Dragon or Demon. May not,
asks Mr. Batten, the _Pancavudha Jataka_ be an idealised account of
an eclipse of the moon? This suggestion receives strong confirmation
from the Demon's reference to Rahu, who does, in Indian myth swallow
the moon at times of eclipse. The Jataka accordingly contains the
Buddhist explanation why the moon--_i.e._ the hare in the moon, _i.e._
Buddha--is not altogether swallowed up by the Demon of Eclipse, the
Demon with the Matted Hair. Mr. Batten adds that in imagining what
kind of Demon the Eclipse Demon was, the Jataka writer was probably
aided by recollections of some giant octopus, who has saucer eyes and
a kind of hawk's beak, knobs on its "tusks," and a very variegated
belly (gasteropod). It is obviously unfair of Mr. Batten both to
illustrate and also to explain so well the Tar Baby Jataka--taking the
scientific bread, so to speak, out of a poor folk-lorist's mouth--but
his explanations seem to me so convincing that I cannot avoid
including them in these Notes.

I am, however, not so much concerned with the original explanation of
the Jataka as to trace its travels across the continents of Asia,
Africa, and America. I think I have done this satisfactorily, and will
have thereby largely strengthened the case for less extensive travels
of other tales. I have sufficient confidence of the method employed to
venture on that most hazardous of employments, scientific prophecy. I
venture to predict that the Tar Baby story will be found in Madagascar
in a form nearer the Indian than Uncle Remus, and I will go further,
and say that it will _not_ be found in the grand Helsingfors
collection of folk-tales, though this includes 12,000, of which 1000
are beast-tales.


XXVI. THE IVORY PALACE.

_Source._--Knowles, _Folk-Tales of Kashmir_, pp. 211-25, with some
slight omissions. Gulizar is Persian for rosy-cheeked.

_Parallels._--Stokes, _Indian Fairy Tales_, No. 27. "Panwpatti Rani,"
pp. 208-15, is the same story. Another version in the collection
_Baital Pachisi_, No. 1.

_Remarks._--The themes of love by mirror, and the faithful friend, are
common European, though the calm attempt at poisoning is perhaps
characteristically Indian, and reads like a page from Mr. Kipling.


XXVII. SUN, MOON, AND WIND.

_Source._--Miss Frere, _Old Deccan Days_, No. 10, pp. 153-5.

_Remarks._--Miss Frere observes that she has not altered the
traditional mode of the Moon's conveyance of dinner to her mother the
Star, though it must, she fears, impair the value of the story as a
moral lesson in the eyes of all instructors of youth.


XXVIII. HOW WICKED SONS WERE DUPED.

_Source._--Knowles. _Folk-Tales of Kashmir_, pp. 241-2.

_Parallels._--A Gaelic parallel was given by Campbell in _Trans.
Ethnol. Soc._, ii. p. 336; an Anglo-Latin one from the Middle Ages by
T. Wright in _Latin Stories_ (Percy Soc.), No. 26; and for these and
points of anthropological interest in the Celtic variant see Mr.
Gomme's article in _Folk-Lore_, i. pp. 197-206, "A Highland Folk-Tale
and its Origin in Custom."

_Remarks._--Mr. Gomme is of opinion that the tale arose from certain
rhyming formulæ occurring in the Gaelic and Latin tales as written on
a mallet left by the old man in the box opened after his death. The
rhymes are to the effect that a father who gives up his wealth to his
children in his own lifetime deserves to be put to death with the
mallet. Mr. Gomme gives evidence that it was an archaic custom to put
oldsters to death after they had become helpless. He also points out
that it was customary for estates to be divided and surrendered during
the owners' lifetime, and generally he connects a good deal of
primitive custom with our story. I have already pointed out in
_Folk-Lore_, p. 403, that the existence of the tale in Kashmir without
any reference to the mallet makes it impossible for the rhymes on the
mallet to be the source of the story. As a matter of fact, it is a
very embarrassing addition to it, since the rhyme tells against the
parent, and the story is intended to tell against the ungrateful
children. The existence of the tale in India renders it likely enough
that it is not indigenous to the British Isles, but an Oriental
importation. It is obvious, therefore, that it cannot be used as
anthropological evidence of the existence of the primitive customs to
be found in it. The whole incident, indeed, is a striking example of
the dangers of the anthropological method of dealing with folk-tales
before some attempt is made to settle the questions of origin and
diffusion.


XXIX. THE PIGEON AND THE CROW.

_Source._--The _Lola Jataka_, Fausböll, No. 274, kindly translated
and slightly abridged for this book by Mr. W. H. D. Rouse.

_Remarks._--We began with an animal Jataka, and may appropriately
finish with one which shows how effectively the writers of the Jatakas
could represent animal folk, and how terribly moral they invariably
were in their tales. I should perhaps add that the Bodhisat is not
precisely the Buddha himself but a character which is on its way to
becoming perfectly enlightened, and so may be called a future Buddha.





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