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VOLUME II: MYTHS AND LEGENDARY HEROES
HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE, Editor
from:
YOUNG FOLKS' TREASURY
In 12 Volumes
HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE, Editor
EDWARD EVERETT HALE, Associate Editor
New York
The University Society Inc.
Publishers
[Illustration: JASON SNATCHED OFF HIS HELMET AND HURLED IT.]
PARTIAL LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS, ASSISTANT EDITORS AND ADVISERS
HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE
Editor
EDWARD EVERETT HALE
Associate Editor
NICHOLAS MURRAY BUTLER, President Columbia University.
WILLIAM R. HARPER, Late President Chicago University.
HON. THEODORE ROOSEVELT, Ex-President of the United States.
HON. GROVER CLEVELAND, Late President of the United States.
JAMES CARDINAL GIBBONS, American Roman Catholic prelate.
ROBERT C. OGDEN, Partner of John Wanamaker.
HON. GEORGE F. HOAR, Late Senator from Massachusetts.
EDWARD W. BOK, Editor "Ladies' Home Journal."
HENRY VAN DYKE, Author, Poet, and Professor of English
Literature, Princeton University.
LYMAN ABBOTT, Author, Editor of "The Outlook."
CHARLES G.D. ROBERTS, Writer of Animal Stories.
JACOB A. RIIS, Author and Journalist.
EDWARD EVERETT HALE, Jr., English Professor at Union College.
JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS, Late Author and Creator of "Uncle Remus."
GEORGE GARY EGGLESTON, Novelist and Journalist.
RAY STANNARD BAKER, Author and Journalist.
WILLIAM BLAIKIE, Author of "How to Get Strong and How to Stay So."
WILLIAM DAVENPORT HULBERT, Writer of Animal Stories.
JOSEPH JACOBS, Folklore Writer and Editor of the "Jewish
Encyclopedia."
MRS. VIRGINIA TERHUNE ("Marion Harland"), Author of "Common Sense in
the Household," etc.
MARGARET E. SANGSTER, Author of "The Art of Home-Making," etc.
SARAH K. BOLTON, Biographical Writer.
ELLEN VELVIN, Writer of Animal Stories.
REV. THEODORE WOOD, F.E.S., Writer on Natural History.
W.J. BALTZELL, Editor of "The Musician."
HERBERT T. WADE, Editor and Writer on Physics.
JOHN H. CLIFFORD, Editor and Writer.
ERNEST INGERSOLL, Naturalist and Author.
DANIEL E. WHEELER, Editor and Writer.
IDA PRENTICE WHITCOMB, Author of "Young People's Story of Music,"
"Heroes of History," etc.
MARK HAMBOURG, Pianist and Composer.
MME. BLANCHE MARCHESI, Opera Singer and Teacher.
CONTENTS
Introduction
MYTHS OF GREECE AND ROME
Baucis and Philemon
Adapted by C.E. Smith
Pandora
Adapted by C.E. Smith
Midas
Adapted by C.E. Smith
Cadmus
Adapted by C.E. Smith
Proserpina
Adapted by C.E. Smith
The Story of Atalanta
Adapted by Anna Klingensmith
Pyramus and Thisbe
Adapted by Alice Zimmern
Orpheus
Adapted by Alice Zimmern
MYTHS OF SCANDINAVIA
Baldur
Adapted from A. and E. Keary's version
Thor's Adventure among the Jotuns
Adapted by Julia Goddard
The Apples of Idun
Adapted by Hamilton Wright Mabie
The Gifts of the Dwarfs
The Punishment of Loki
Adapted from A. and E. Keary's version
MYTHS OF INDIA
The Blind Man, The Deaf Man, and the Donkey
Adapted by M. Frere
Harisarman
Why the Fish Laughed
Muchie Lal
Adapted by M. Frere
How the Rajah's Son Won the Princess Labam
Adapted by Joseph Jacobs
MYTHS OF JAPAN
The Jellyfish and the Monkey
Adapted by Yei Theodora Ozaki
The Old Man and-the Devils
Autumn and Spring
Adapted by Frank Kinder
The Vision of Tsunu
Adapted by Frank Kinder
The Star-Lovers
Adapted by Frank Kinder
MYTHS OF THE SLAVS
The Two Brothers
Adapted by Alexander Chodsko
The Twelve Months
Adapted by Alexander Chodsko
The Sun; or, the Three Golden Hairs of the Old Man
Vesevde
Adapted by Alexander Chodsko
A MYTH OF AMERICA
Hiawatha
Adapted from H.R. Schoolcraft's version
HEROES OF GREECE AND ROME
Perseus
Adapted by Mary Macgregor
Odysseus
Adapted by Jeanie Lang
The Argonauts
Adapted by Mary Macgregor
Theseus
Adapted by Mary Macgregor
Hercules
Adapted by Thomas Cartwright
The Perilous Voyage of AEneas
Adapted by Alice Zimmern
How Horatius Held the Bridge
Adapted by Alfred J. Church
How Cincinnatus Saved Rome
Adapted by Alfred J. Church
HEROES OF GREAT BRITAIN
Beowulf
Adapted by H.E. Marshall
How King Arthur Conquered Rome
Adapted by E. Edwardson
Sir Galahad and the Sacred Cup
Adapted by Mary Macgregor
The Passing of Arthur
Adapted by Mary Macgregor
Robin Hood
Adapted by H.E. Marshall
Guy of Warwick
Adapted by H.E. Marshall
Whittington and His Cat
Adapted by Ernest Rhys
Tom Hickathrift
Adapted by Ernest Rhys
HEROES OF SCANDINAVIA
The Story of Frithiof
Adapted by Julia Goddard
Havelok
Adapted by George W. Cox and E.H. Jones
The Vikings
Adapted by Mary Macgregor
HERO OF GERMANY
Siegfried
Adapted by Mary Macgregor
HERO OF FRANCE
Roland
Adapted by H.E. Marshall
HERO OF SPAIN
The Cid
Adapted by Robert Southey
HERO OF SWITZERLAND
William Tell
Adapted by H.E. Marshall
HERO OF PERSIA
Rustem
Adapted by Alfred J. Church
ILLUSTRATIONS
JASON SNATCHED OFF HIS HELMET AND HURLED IT (Frontispiece)
OUT FLEW A BRIGHT, SMILING FAIRY
HE CAUGHT HER IN HIS ARMS AND SPRANG INTO THE CHARIOT
ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE
THE PUNISHMENT OF LOKI
THE PRINCESS LABAM ... SHINES SO THAT SHE LIGHTS
UP ALL THE COUNTRY
HIAWATHA IN HIS CANOE
SO DANAE WAS COMFORTED AND WENT HOME WITH DICTYS
ORPHEUS SANG TILL HIS VOICE DROWNED THE SONG OF THE SIRENS
THEY LEAPT ACROSS THE POOL AND CAME TO HIM
THESEUS LOOKED UP INTO HER FAIR FACE
SIR GALAHAD
ROBIN HOOD IN AN ENCOUNTER
THE HERO'S SHINING SWORD PIERCED THE HEART OF THE MONSTER
WILLIAM TELL AND HIS FRIENDS
(Many of the illustrations in this volume are reproduced by special
permission of E.P. Dutton & Company, owners of American rights.)
INTRODUCTION
With such a table of contents in front of this little foreword, I am
quite sure that few will pause to consider my prosy effort. Nor can I
blame any readers who jump over my head, when they may sit beside kind
old Baucis, and drink out of her miraculous milk-pitcher, and hear
noble Philemon talk; or join hands with Pandora and Epimetheus in
their play before the fatal box was opened; or, in fact, be in the
company of even the most awe-inspiring of our heroes and heroines.
For ages the various characters told about in the following pages have
charmed, delighted, and inspired the people of the world. Like fairy
tales, these stories of gods, demigods, and wonderful men were
the natural offspring of imaginative races, and from generation
to generation they were repeated by father and mother to son and
daughter. And if a brave man had done a big deed he was immediately
celebrated in song and story, and quite as a matter of course, the
deed grew with repetition of these. Minstrels, gleemen, poets, and
skalds (a Scandinavian term for poets) took up these rich themes and
elaborated them. Thus, if a hero had killed a serpent, in time it
became a fiery dragon, and if he won a great battle, the enthusiastic
reciters of it had him do prodigious feats--feats beyond belief. But
do not fancy from this that the heroes were every-day persons. Indeed,
they were quite extraordinary and deserved highest praise of their
fellow-men.
So, in ancient and medieval Europe the wandering poet or minstrel
went from place to place repeating his wondrous narratives, adding
new verses to his tales, changing his episodes to suit locality or
occasion, and always skilfully shaping his fascinating romances. In
court and cottage he was listened to with breathless attention. He
might be compared to a living novel circulating about the country, for
in those days books were few or entirely unknown. Oriental countries,
too, had their professional story-spinners, while our American Indians
heard of the daring exploits of their heroes from the lips of old men
steeped in tradition. My youngest reader can then appreciate how myths
and legends were multiplied and their incidents magnified. We all know
how almost unconsciously we color and change the stories we repeat,
and naturally so did our gentle and gallant singers through the
long-gone centuries of chivalry and simple faith.
Every reader can feel the deep significance underlying the myths we
present--the poetry and imperishable beauty of the Greek, the strange
and powerful conceptions of the Scandinavian mind, the oddity and
fantasy of the Japanese, Slavs, and East Indians, and finally the
queer imaginings of our own American Indians. Who, for instance, could
ever forget poor Proserpina and the six pomegranate seeds, the death
of beautiful Baldur, the luminous Princess Labam, the stupid jellyfish
and shrewd monkey, and the funny way in which Hiawatha remade the
earth after it had been destroyed by flood?
Then take our legendary heroes: was ever a better or braver company
brought together--Perseus, Hercules, Siegfried, Roland, Galahad,
Robin Hood, and a dozen others? But stop, I am using too many
question-marks. There is no need to query heroes known and admired the
world over.
As true latter-day story-tellers, both Hawthorne and Kingsley retold
many of these myths and legends, and from their classic pages we have
adapted a number of our tales, and made them somewhat simpler and
shorter in form. By way of apology for this liberty (if some should
so consider it), we humbly offer a paragraph from a preface to the
"Wonder Book" written by its author:
"A great freedom of treatment was necessary but it will be observed
by every one who attempts to render these legends malleable in his
intellectual furnace, that they are marvelously independent of all
temporary modes and circumstances. They remain essentially the same,
after changes that would affect the identity of almost anything else."
Now to those who have not jumped over my head, or to those who, having
done so, may jump back to this foreword, I trust my few remarks will
have given some additional interest in our myths and heroes of lands
far and near.
DANIEL EDWIN WHEELER
MYTHS OF MANY COUNTRIES
MYTHS OF GREECE AND ROME
BAUCIS AND PHILEMON
ADAPTED BY C.E. SMITH
One evening, in times long ago, old Philemon and his wife Baucis sat
at their cottage door watching the sunset. They had eaten their supper
and were enjoying a quiet talk about their garden, and their cow, and
the fruit trees on which the pears and apples were beginning to ripen.
But their talk was very much disturbed by rude shouts and laughter
from the village children, and by the fierce barking of dogs.
"I fear," said Philemon, "that some poor traveler is asking for a bed
in the village, and that these rough people have set the dogs on him."
"Well, I never," answered old Baucis. "I do wish the neighbors would
be kinder to poor wanderers; I feel that some terrible punishment will
happen to this village if the people are so wicked as to make fun of
those who are tired and hungry. As for you and me, so long as we have
a crust of bread, let us always be willing to give half of it to any
poor homeless stranger who may come along."
"Indeed, that we will," said Philemon.
These old folks, you must know, were very poor, and had to work hard
for a living. They seldom had anything to eat except bread and milk,
and vegetables, with sometimes a little honey from their beehives, or
a few ripe pears and apples from their little garden. But they were
two of the kindest old people in the world, and would have gone
without their dinner any day, rather than refuse a slice of bread or a
cupful of milk to the weary traveler who might stop at the door.
Their cottage stood on a little hill a short way from the village,
which lay in a valley; such a pretty valley, shaped like a cup, with
plenty of green fields and gardens, and fruit trees; it was a pleasure
just to look at it. But the people who lived in this lovely place
were selfish and hard-hearted; they had no pity for the poor, and were
unkind to those who had no home, and they only laughed when Philemon
said it was right to be gentle to people who were sad and friendless.
These wicked villagers taught their children to be as bad as
themselves. They used to clap their hands and make fun of poor
travelers who were tramping wearily from one village to another, and
they even taught the dogs to snarl and bark at strangers if their
clothes were shabby. So the village was known far and near as an
unfriendly place, where neither help nor pity was to be found.
What made it worse, too, was that when rich people came in their
carriages, or riding on fine horses, with servants to attend to them,
the village people would take off their hats and be very polite and
attentive: and if the children were rude they got their ears boxed;
as to the dogs--if a single dog dared to growl at a rich man he was
beaten and then tied up without any supper.
So now you can understand why old Philemon spoke sadly when he heard
the shouts of the children, and the barking of the dogs, at the far
end of the village street.
He and Baucis sat shaking their heads while the noise came nearer and
nearer, until they saw two travelers coming along the road on foot.
A crowd of rude children were following them, shouting and throwing
stones, and several dogs were snarling at the travelers' heels.
They were both very plainly dressed, and looked as if they might not
have enough money to pay for a night's lodging.
"Come, wife," said Philemon, "let us go and meet these poor people and
offer them shelter."
"You go," said Baucis, "while I make ready some supper," and she
hastened indoors.
Philemon went down the road, and holding out his hand to the two men,
he said, "Welcome, strangers, welcome."
"Thank you," answered the younger of the two travelers. "Yours is a
kind welcome, very different from the one we got in the village; pray
why do you live in such a bad place?"
"I think," answered Philemon, "that Providence put me here just to
make up as best I can for other people's unkindness."
The traveler laughed heartily, and Philemon was glad to see him in
such good spirits. He took a good look at him and his companion. The
younger man was very thin, and was dressed in an odd kind of way.
Though it was a summer evening, he wore a cloak which was wrapped
tightly about him; and he had a cap on his head, the brim of which
stuck out over both ears. There was something queer too about his
shoes, but as it was getting dark, Philemon could not see exactly what
they were like.
One thing struck Philemon very much, the traveler was so wonderfully
light and active that it seemed as if his feet were only kept close to
the ground with difficulty. He had a staff in his hand which was the
oddest-looking staff Philemon had seen. It was made of wood and had a
little pair of wings near the top. Two snakes cut into the wood were
twisted round the staff, and these were so well carved that Philemon
almost thought he could see them wriggling.
The older man was very tall, and walked calmly along, taking no notice
either of naughty children or yelping dogs.
When they reached the cottage gate, Philemon said, "We are very poor
folk, but you are welcome to whatever we have in the cupboard. My wife
Baucis has gone to see what you can have for supper."
They sat down on the bench, and the younger stranger let his staff
fall as he threw himself down on the grass, and then a strange thing
happened. The staff seemed to get up from the ground of its own
accord, and it opened a little pair of wings and half-hopped,
half-flew and leaned itself against the wall of the cottage.
Philemon was so amazed that he feared he had been dreaming, but before
he could ask any questions, the elder stranger said: "Was there not a
lake long ago covering the spot where the village now stands?"
"Never in my day," said old Philemon, "nor in my father's, nor my
grandfather's: there were always fields and meadows just as there are
now, and I suppose there always will be."
"That I am not so sure of," replied the stranger. "Since the people in
that village have forgotten how to be loving and gentle, maybe it were
better that the lake should be rippling over the cottages again," and
he looked very sad and stern.
He was a very important-looking man, Philemon felt, even though his
clothes were old and shabby; maybe he was some great learned stranger
who did not care at all for money or clothes, and was wandering about
the world seeking wisdom and knowledge. Philemon was quite sure he
was not a common person. But he talked so kindly to Philemon, and
the younger traveler made such funny remarks, that they were all
constantly laughing.
"Pray, my young friend, what is your name?" Philemon asked.
"Well," answered the younger man, "I am called Mercury, because I am
so quick."
"What a strange name!" said Philemon; "and your friend, what is he
called?"
"You must ask the thunder to tell you that," said Mercury, "no other
voice is loud enough."
Philemon was a little confused at this answer, but the stranger looked
so kind and friendly that he began to tell them about his good old
wife, and what fine butter and cheese she made, and how happy they
were in their little garden; and how they loved each other very dearly
and hoped they might live together till they died. And the stern
stranger listened with a sweet smile on his face.
Baucis had now got supper ready; not very much of a supper, she told
them. There was only half a brown loaf and a bit of cheese, a pitcher
with some milk, a little honey, and a bunch of purple grapes. But she
said, "Had we only known you were coming, my goodman and I would have
gone without anything in order to give you a better supper."
"Do not trouble," said the elder stranger kindly. "A hearty welcome
is better than the finest of food, and we are so hungry that what you
have to offer us seems a feast." Then they all went into the cottage.
And now I must tell you something that will make your eyes open. You
remember that Mercury's staff was leaning against the cottage wall?
Well, when its owner went in at the door, what should this wonderful
staff do but spread its little wings and go hop-hop, flutter-flutter
up the steps; then it went tap-tap across the kitchen floor and did
not stop till it stood close behind Mercury's chair. No one noticed
this, as Baucis and her husband were too busy attending to their
guests.
Baucis filled up two bowls of milk from the pitcher, while her husband
cut the loaf and the cheese. "What delightful milk, Mother Baucis,"
said Mercury, "may I have some more? This has been such a hot day that
I am very thirsty."
"Oh dear, I am so sorry and ashamed," answered Baucis, "but the truth
is there is hardly another drop of milk in the pitcher."
"Let me see," said Mercury, starting up and catching hold of the
handles, "why here is certainly more milk in the pitcher." He poured
out a bowlful for himself and another for his companion. Baucis could
scarcely believe her eyes. "I suppose I must have made a mistake," she
thought, "at any rate the pitcher must be empty now after filling both
bowls twice over."
"Excuse me, my kind hostess," said Mercury in a little while, "but
your milk is so good that I should very much like another bowlful."
Now Baucis was perfectly sure that the pitcher was empty, and in order
to show Mercury that there was not another drop in it, she held it
upside down over his bowl. What was her surprise when a stream of
fresh milk fell bubbling into the bowl and overflowed on to the table,
and the two snakes that were twisted round Mercury's staff stretched
out their heads and began to lap it up.
"And now, a slice of your brown loaf, pray Mother Baucis, and a little
honey," asked Mercury.
Baucis handed the loaf, and though it had been rather a hard and dry
loaf when she and her husband ate some at tea-time, it was now as soft
and new as if it had just come from the oven. As to the honey, it had
become the color of new gold and had the scent of a thousand flowers,
and the small grapes in the bunch had grown larger and richer, and
each one seemed bursting with ripe juice.
Although Baucis was a very simple old woman, she could not help
thinking that there was something rather strange going on. She sat
down beside Philemon and told him in a whisper what she had seen.
"Did you ever hear anything so wonderful?" she asked.
"No, I never did," answered Philemon, with a smile. "I fear you have
been in a dream, my dear old wife."
He knew Baucis could not say what was untrue, but he thought that she
had not noticed how much milk there had really been in the pitcher
at first. So when Mercury once more asked for a little milk, Philemon
rose and lifted the pitcher himself. He peeped in and saw that there
was not a drop in it; then all at once a little white fountain gushed
up from the bottom, and the pitcher was soon filled to the brim
with delicious milk.
Philemon was so amazed that he nearly let the jug fall. "Who are ye,
wonder-working strangers?" he cried.
"Your guests, good Philemon, and your friends," answered the elder
traveler, "and may the pitcher never be empty for kind Baucis and
yourself any more than for the hungry traveler."
The old people did not like to ask any more questions; they gave the
guests their own sleeping-room, and then they lay down on the hard
floor in the kitchen. It was long before they fell asleep, not because
they thought how hard their bed was, but because there was so much to
whisper to each other about the wonderful strangers and what they had
done.
They all rose with the sun next morning. Philemon begged the visitors
to stay a little till Baucis should milk the cow and bake some bread
for breakfast. But the travelers seemed to be in a hurry and wished
to start at once, and they asked Baucis and Philemon to go with them a
short distance to show them the way.
So they all four set out together, and Mercury was so full of fun and
laughter, and made them feel so happy and bright, that they would have
been glad to keep him in their cottage every day and all day long.
"Ah me," said Philemon, "if only our neighbors knew what a pleasure
it was to be kind to strangers, they would tie up all their dogs and
never allow the children to fling another stone."
"It is a sin and shame for them to behave so," said Baucis, "and I
mean to go this very day and tell some of them how wicked they are."
"I fear," said Mercury, smiling, "that you will not find any of them
at home."
The old people looked at the elder traveler and his face had grown
very grave and stern. "When men do not feel towards the poorest
stranger as if he were a brother," he said, in a deep, grave voice,
"they are not worthy to remain on the earth, which was made just to be
the home for the whole family of the human race of men and women and
children."
"And, by the bye," said Mercury, with a look of fun and mischief in
his eyes, "where is this village you talk about? I do not see anything
of it."
Philemon and his wife turned towards the valley, where at sunset only
the day before they had seen the trees and gardens, and the houses,
and the streets with the children playing in them. But there was no
longer any sign of the village. There was not even a valley. Instead,
they saw a broad lake which filled all the great basin from brim to
brim, and whose waters glistened and sparkled in the morning sun.
The village that had been there only yesterday was now gone!
"Alas! what has become of our poor neighbors?" cried the kind-hearted
old people.
"They are not men and women any longer," answered the elder traveler,
in a deep voice like distant thunder. "There was no beauty and no use
in lives such as theirs, for they had no love for one another, and no
pity in their hearts for those who were poor and weary. Therefore the
lake that was here in the old, old days has flowed over them, and they
will be men and women no more."
"Yes," said Mercury, with his mischievous smile, "these foolish people
have all been changed into fishes because they had cold blood which
never warmed their hearts, just as the fishes have."
"As for you, good Philemon, and you, kind Baucis," said the elder
traveler, "you, indeed, gave a hearty welcome to the homeless
strangers. You have done well, my dear old friends, and whatever wish
you have most at heart will be granted."
Philemon and Baucis looked at one another, and then I do not know
which spoke, but it seemed as if the voice came from them both. "Let
us live together while we live, and let us die together, at the same
time, for we have always loved one another."
"Be it so," said the elder stranger, and he held out his hands as if
to bless them. The old couple bent their heads and fell on their knees
to thank him, and when they lifted their eyes again, neither Mercury
nor his companion was to be seen.
So Philemon and Baucis returned to the cottage, and to every traveler
who passed that way they offered a drink of milk from the wonderful
pitcher, and if the guest was a kind, gentle soul, he found the milk
the sweetest and most refreshing he had ever tasted. But if a cross,
bad-tempered fellow took even a sip, he found the pitcher full of sour
milk, which made him twist his face with dislike and disappointment.
Baucis and Philemon lived a great, great many years and grew very
old. And one summer morning when their friends came to share their
breakfast, neither Baucis nor Philemon was to be found!
The guests looked everywhere, and all in vain. Then suddenly one of
them noticed two beautiful trees in the garden, just in front of
the door. One was an oak tree and the other a linden tree, and their
branches were twisted together so that they seemed to be embracing.
No one had ever seen these trees before, and while they were all
wondering how such fine trees could possibly have grown up in a single
night, there came a gentle wind which set the branches moving, and
then a mysterious voice was heard coming from the oak tree. "I am
old Philemon," it said; and again another voice whispered, "And I am
Baucis." And the people knew that the good old couple would live for a
hundred years or more in the heart of these lovely trees. And oh, what
a pleasant shade they flung around! Some kind soul built a seat under
the branches, and whenever a traveler sat down to rest he heard a
pleasant whisper of the leaves over his head, and he wondered why the
sound should seem to say, "Welcome, dear traveler, welcome."
PANDORA
ADAPTED BY C.E. SMITH
Long, long ago, when this old world was still very young, there lived
a child named Epimetheus. He had neither father nor mother, and to
keep him company, a little girl, who was fatherless and motherless
like himself, was sent from a far country to live with him and be his
playfellow. This child's name was Pandora.
The first thing that Pandora saw, when she came to the cottage where
Epimetheus lived, was a great wooden box. "What have you in that box,
Epimetheus?" she asked.
"That is a secret," answered Epimetheus, "and you must not ask any
questions about it; the box was left here for safety, and I do not
know what is in it."
"But who gave it you?" asked Pandora, "and where did it come from?"
"That is a secret too," answered Epimetheus.
"How tiresome!" exclaimed Pandora, pouting her lip. "I wish the great
ugly box were out of the way;" and she looked very cross.
"Come along, and let us play games," said Epimetheus; "do not let
us think any more about it;" and they ran out to play with the other
children, and for a while Pandora forgot all about the box.
But when she came back to the cottage, there it was in front of her,
and instead of paying no heed to it, she began to say to herself:
"Whatever can be inside it? I wish I just knew who brought it! Dear
Epimetheus, do tell me; I know I cannot be happy till you tell me all
about it."
Then Epimetheus grew a little angry. "How can I tell you, Pandora?" he
said, "I do not know any more than you do."
"Well, you could open it," said Pandora, "and we could see for
ourselves!"
But Epimetheus looked so shocked at the very idea of opening a box
that had been given to him in trust, that Pandora saw she had better
not suggest such a thing again.
"At least you can tell me how it came here," she said.
"It was left at the door," answered Epimetheus, "just before you came,
by a queer person dressed in a very strange cloak; he had a cap that
seemed to be partly made of feathers; it looked exactly as if he had
wings."
"What kind of a staff had he?" asked Pandora.
"Oh, the most curious staff you ever saw," cried Epimetheus: "it
seemed like two serpents twisted round a stick."
"I know him," said Pandora thoughtfully. "It was Mercury, and he
brought me here as well as the box. I am sure he meant the box for me,
and perhaps there are pretty clothes in it for us to wear, and toys
for us both to play with."
"It may be so," answered Epimetheus, turning away; "but until Mercury
comes back and tells us that we may open it, neither of us has any
right to lift the lid;" and he went out of the cottage.
"What a stupid boy he is!" muttered Pandora, "I do wish he had a
little more spirit." Then she stood gazing at the box. She had called
it ugly a hundred times, but it was really a very handsome box, and
would have been an ornament in any room.
It was made of beautiful dark wood, so dark and so highly polished
that Pandora could see her face in it. The edges and the corners were
wonderfully carved. On these were faces of lovely women, and of the
prettiest children, who seemed to be playing among the leaves and
flowers. But the most beautiful face of all was one which had a wreath
of flowers about its brow. All around it was the dark, smooth-polished
wood with this strange face looking out from it, and some days Pandora
thought it was laughing at her, while at other times it had a very
grave look which made her rather afraid.
The box was not fastened with a lock and key like most boxes, but with
a strange knot of gold cord. There never was a knot so queerly
tied; it seemed to have no end and no beginning, but was twisted so
cunningly, with so many ins and outs, that not even the cleverest
fingers could undo it.
Pandora began to examine the knot just to see how it was made. "I
really believe," she said to herself, "that I begin to see how it is
done. I am sure I could tie it up again after undoing it. There could
be no harm in that; I need not open the box even if I undo the knot."
And the longer she looked at it, the more she wanted just to try.
So she took the gold cord in her fingers and examined it very
closely. Then she raised her head, and happening to glance at the
flower-wreathed face, she thought it was grinning at her. "I wonder
whether it is smiling because I am doing wrong," thought Pandora, "I
have a good mind to leave the box alone and run away."
But just at that moment, as if by accident, she gave the knot a little
shake, and the gold cord untwisted itself as if by magic, and there
was the box without any fastening.
"This is the strangest thing I have ever known," said Pandora, rather
frightened, "What will Epimetheus say? How can I possibly tie it up
again?"
She tried once or twice, but the knot would not come right. It had
untied itself so suddenly she could not remember in the least how the
cord had been twisted together. So there was nothing to be done but to
let the box remain unfastened until Epimetheus should come home.
"But," thought Pandora; "when he finds the knot untied he will know
that I have done it; how shall I ever make him believe that I have not
looked into the box?" And then the naughty thought came into her head
that, as Epimetheus would believe that she had looked into the box,
she might just as well have a little peep.
She looked at the face with the wreath, and it seemed to smile at her
invitingly, as much as to say: "Do not be afraid, what harm can there
possibly be in raising the lid for a moment?" And then she thought
she heard voices inside, tiny voices that whispered: "Let us out, dear
Pandora, do let us out; we want very much to play with you if you will
only let us out?"
"What can it be?" said Pandora. "Is there something alive in the box?
Yes, I must just see, only one little peep and the lid will be shut
down as safely as ever. There cannot really be any harm in just one
little peep."
All this time Epimetheus had been playing with the other children in
the fields, but he did not feel happy. This was the first time he had
played without Pandora, and he was so cross and discontented that the
other children could not think what was the matter with him. You see,
up to this time everybody in the world had always been happy, no one
had ever been ill, or naughty, or miserable; the world was new and
beautiful, and the people who lived in it did not know what trouble
meant. So Epimetheus could not understand what was the matter with
himself, and he stopped trying to play games and went back to Pandora.
On the way home he gathered a bunch of lovely roses, and lilies, and
orange-blossoms, and with these he made a wreath to give Pandora, who
was very fond of flowers. He noticed there was a great black cloud in
the sky, which was creeping nearer and nearer to the sun, and just as
Ejpimetheus reached the cottage door the cloud went right over the sun
and made everything look dark and sad.
Epimetheus went in quietly, for he wanted to surprise Pandora with the
wreath of flowers. And what do you think he saw? The naughty little
girl had put her hand on the lid of the box and was just going to open
it. Epimetheus saw this quite well, and if he had cried out at once it
would have given Pandora such a fright she would have let go the lid.
But Epimetheus was very naughty too. Although he had said very little
about the box, he was just as curious as Pandora was to see what was
inside: if they really found anything pretty or valuable in it, he
meant to take half of it for himself; so that he was just as naughty,
and nearly as much to blame as his companion.
When Pandora raised the lid, the cottage had grown very dark, for the
black cloud now covered the sun entirely and a heavy peal of thunder
was heard. But Pandora was too busy and excited to notice this: she
lifted the lid right up, and at once a swarm of creatures with wings
flew out of the box, and a minute after she heard Epimetheus crying
loudly: "Oh, I am stung, I am stung! You naughty Pandora, why did you
open this wicked box?"
Pandora let the lid fall with a crash and started up to find out what
had happened to her playmate. The thunder-cloud had made the room so
dark that she could scarcely see, but she heard a loud buzz-buzzing,
as if a great many huge flies had flown in, and soon she saw a crowd
of ugly little shapes darting about, with wings like bats and with
terribly long stings in their tails. It was one of these that had
stung Epimetheus, and it was not long before Pandora began to
scream with pain and fear. An ugly little monster had settled on
her forehead, and would have stung her badly had not Epimetheus run
forward and brushed it away.
Now I must tell you that these ugly creatures with stings, which had
escaped from the box, were the whole family of earthly troubles. There
were evil tempers, and a great many kinds of cares: and there were
more than a hundred and fifty sorrows, and there were diseases in many
painful shapes. In fact all the sorrows and worries that hurt people
in the world to-day had been shut up in the magic-box, and given
to Epimetheus and Pandora to keep safely, in order that the happy
children in the world might never be troubled by them. If only these
two had obeyed Mercury and had left the box alone as he told them, all
would have gone well.
But you see what mischief they had done. The winged troubles flew out
at the window and went all over the world: and they made people so
unhappy that no one smiled for a great many days. It was very strange,
too, that from this day flowers began to fade, and after a short time
they died, whereas in the old times, before Pandora opened the box,
they had been always fresh and beautiful.
Meanwhile Pandora and Epimetheus remained in the cottage: they were
very miserable and in great pain, which made them both exceedingly
cross. Epimetheus sat down sullenly in a corner with his back to
Pandora, while Pandora flung herself on the floor and cried bitterly,
resting her head on the lid of the fatal box.
Suddenly, she heard a gentle tap-tap inside. "What can that be?" said
Pandora, raising her head; and again came the tap, tap. It sounded
like the knuckles of a tiny hand knocking lightly on the inside of the
box.
"Who are you?" asked Pandora.
A sweet little voice came from inside: "Only lift the lid and you will
see."
But Pandora was afraid to lift the lid again. She looked across
to Epimetheus, but he was so cross that he took no notice. Pandora
sobbed: "No, no, I am afraid; there are so many troubles with stings
flying about that we do not want any more?"
"Ah, but I am not one of these," the sweet voice said, "they are no
relations of mine. Come, come, dear Pandora, I am sure you will let me
out."
The voice sounded so kind and cheery that it made Pandora feel better
even to listen to it. Epimetheus too had heard the voice. He stopped
crying. Then he came forward, and said: "Let me help you, Pandora, as
the lid is very heavy."
So this time both the children opened the box, and out flew a bright,
smiling little fairy, who brought light and sunshine with her. She
flew to Epimetheus and with her finger touched his brow where the
trouble had stung him, and immediately the pain was gone.
Then she kissed Pandora, and her hurt was better at once.
[Illustration: OUT FLEW A BRIGHT SMILING LITTLE FAIRY.]
"Pray who are you, kind fairy?" Pandora asked.
"I am called Hope," answered the sunshiny figure. "I was shut up in
the box so that I might be ready to comfort people when the family of
troubles got loose in the world."
"What lovely wings you have! They are just like a rainbow. And will
you stay with us," asked Epimetheus, "for ever and ever?"
"Yes," said Hope, "I shall stay with you as long as you live.
Sometimes you will not be able to see me, and you may think I am dead,
but you will find that I come back again and again when you have given
up expecting me, and you must always trust my promise that I will
never really leave you."
"Yes, we do trust you," cried both children. And all the rest of their
lives when the troubles came back and buzzed about their heads and
left bitter stings of pain, Pandora and Epimetheus would remember
whose fault it was that the troubles had ever come into the world
at all, and they would then wait patiently till the fairy with the
rainbow wings came back to heal and comfort them.
MIDAS
ADAPTED BY C.E. SMITH
Once upon a time there lived a very rich King whose name was Midas,
and he had a little daughter whom he loved very dearly. This King was
fonder of gold than of anything else in the whole world: or if he did
love anything better, it was the one little daughter who played so
merrily beside her father's footstool.
But the more Midas loved his daughter, the more he wished to be rich
for her sake. He thought, foolish man, that the best thing he could do
for his child was to leave her the biggest pile of yellow glittering
gold that had ever been heaped together since the world began. So he
gave all his thoughts and all his time to this purpose.
When he worked in his garden, he used to wish that the roses had
leaves made of gold, and once when his little daughter brought him
a handful of yellow buttercups, he exclaimed, "Now if these had only
been real gold they would have been worth gathering." He very soon
forgot how beautiful the flowers, and the grass, and the trees were,
and at the time my story begins Midas could scarcely bear to see or to
touch anything that was not made of gold.
Every day he used to spend a great many hours in a dark, ugly room
underground: it was here that he kept all his money, and whenever
Midas wanted to be very happy he would lock himself into this
miserable room and would spend hours and hours pouring the glittering
coins out of his money-bags. Or he would count again and again the
bars of gold which were kept in a big oak chest with a great iron lock
in the lid, and sometimes he would carry a boxful of gold dust from
the dark corner where it lay, and would look at the shining heap by
the light that came from a tiny window.
To his greedy eyes there never seemed to be half enough; he was quite
discontented. "What a happy man I should be," he said one day, "if
only the whole world could be made of gold, and if it all belonged to
me!"
Just then a shadow fell across the golden pile, and when Midas looked
up he saw a young man with a cheery rosy face standing in the thin
strip of sunshine that came through the little window. Midas was
certain that he had carefully locked the door before he opened his
money-bags, so he knew that no one, unless he were more than a mortal,
could get in beside him. The stranger seemed so friendly and pleasant
that Midas was not in the least afraid.
"You are a rich man, friend Midas," the visitor said. "I doubt if any
other room in the whole world has as much gold in it as this."
"May be," said Midas in a discontented voice, "but I wish it were much
more; and think how many years it has taken me to gather it all! If
only I could live for a thousand years, then I might be really rich.
"Then you are not satisfied?" asked the stranger. Midas shook his
head.
"What would satisfy you?" the stranger said.
Midas looked at his visitor for a minute, and then said, "I am tired
of getting money with so much trouble. I should like everything I
touch to be changed into gold."
The stranger smiled, and his smile seemed to fill the room like a
flood of sunshine. "Are you quite sure, Midas, that you would never be
sorry if your wish were granted?" he asked.
"Quite sure," said Midas: "I ask nothing more to make me perfectly
happy."
"Be it as you wish, then," said the stranger: "from to-morrow at
sunrise you will have your desire--everything you touch will be
changed into gold."
The figure of the stranger then grew brighter and brighter, so that
Midas had to close his eyes, and when he opened them again he saw
only a yellow sunbeam in the room, and all around him glittered the
precious gold which he had spent his life in gathering.
How Midas longed for the next day to come! He scarcely slept that
night, and as soon as it was light he laid his hand on the chair
beside his bed; then he nearly cried when he saw that nothing
happened: the chair remained just as it was. "Could the stranger have
made a mistake," he wondered, "or had it been a dream?"
He lay still, getting angrier and angrier each minute until at
last the sun rose, and the first rays shone through his window and
brightened the room. It seemed to Midas that the bright yellow sunbeam
was reflected very curiously from the covering of his bed, and he sat
up and looked more closely.
What was his delight when he saw that the bedcover on which his hands
rested had become a woven cloth of the purest and brightest gold!
He started up and caught hold of the bed-post--instantly it became a
golden pillar. He pulled aside the window-curtain and the tassel grew
heavy in his hand--it was a mass of gold! He took up a book from
the table, and at his first touch it became a bundle of thin golden
leaves, in which no reading could be seen.
Midas was delighted with his good fortune. He took his spectacles from
his pocket and put them on, so that he might see more distinctly what
he was about. But to his surprise he could not possibly see through
them: the clear glasses had turned into gold, and, of course, though
they were worth a great deal of money, they were of no more use as
spectacles.
Midas thought this was rather troublesome, but he soon forgot all
about it. He went downstairs, and how he laughed with pleasure when he
noticed that the railing became a bar of shining gold as he rested his
hand on it; even the rusty iron latch of the garden door turned yellow
as soon as his fingers pressed it.
How lovely the garden was! In the old days Midas had been very fond of
flowers, and had spent a great deal of money in getting rare trees and
flowers with which to make his garden beautiful.
Red roses in full bloom scented the air: purple and white violets
nestled under the rose-bushes, and birds were singing happily in the
cherry-trees, which were covered with snow-white blossoms. But since
Midas had become so fond of gold he had lost all pleasure in his
garden: this morning he did not even see how beautiful it was.
He was thinking of nothing but the wonderful gift the stranger had
brought him, and he was sure he could make the garden of far more
value than it had ever been. So he went from bush to bush and touched
the flowers. And the beautiful pink and red color faded from the
roses: the violets became stiff, and then glittered among bunches of
hard yellow leaves: and showers of snow-white blossoms no longer fell
from the cherry-trees; the tiny petals were all changed into flakes
of solid gold, which glittered so brightly in the sunbeams that Midas
could not bear to look at them.
But he was quite satisfied with his morning's work, and went back to
the palace for breakfast feeling very happy.
Just then he heard his little daughter crying bitterly, and she came
running into the room sobbing as if her heart would break. "How
now, little lady," he said, "pray what is the matter with you this
morning?"
"Oh dear, oh dear, such a dreadful thing has happened!" answered the
child. "I went to the garden to gather you some roses, and they are
all spoiled; they have grown quite ugly, and stiff, and yellow, and
they have no scent. What can be the matter?" and she cried bitterly.
Midas was ashamed to confess that he was to blame, so he said nothing,
and they sat down at the table. The King was very hungry, and he
poured out a cup of coffee and helped himself to some fish, but the
instant his lips touched the coffee it became the color of gold, and
the next moment it hardened into a solid lump. "Oh dear me!" exclaimed
the King, rather surprised.
"What is the matter, father?" asked his little daughter.
"Nothing, child, nothing," he answered; "eat your bread and milk
before it gets cold."
Then he looked at the nice little fish on his plate, and he gently
touched its tail with his finger. To his horror it at once changed
into gold. He took one of the delicious hot cakes, and he had scarcely
broken it when the white flour changed into yellow crumbs which shone
like grains of hard sea-sand.
"I do not see how I am going to get any breakfast," he said to
himself, and he looked with envy at his little daughter, who had dried
her tears and was eating her bread and milk hungrily. "I wonder if it
will be the same at dinner," he thought, "and if so, how am I going to
live if all my food is to be turned into gold?"
Midas began to get very anxious and to think about many things he
had never thought of before. Here was the very richest breakfast that
could be set before a King, and yet there was nothing that he could
eat! The poorest workman sitting down to a crust of bread and a cup of
water was better off than King Midas, whose dainty food was worth its
weight in gold.
He began to doubt whether, after all, riches were the only good thing
in the world, and he was so hungry that he gave a groan.
His little daughter noticed that her father ate nothing, and at first
she sat still looking at him and trying to find out what was the
matter. Then she got down from her chair, and running to her father,
she threw her arms lovingly round his knees.
Midas bent down and kissed her. He felt that his little daughter's
love was a thousand times more precious than all the gold he had
gained since the stranger came to visit him. "My precious, precious
little girl!" he said, but there was no answer.
Alas! what had he done? The moment that his lips had touched his
child's forehead, a change took place. Her sweet, rosy face, so full
of love and happiness, hardened and became a glittering yellow color;
her beautiful brown curls hung like wires of gold from the small head,
and her soft, tender little figure grew stiff in his arms.
Midas had often said to people that his little daughter was worth her
weight in gold, and it had become really true. Now when it was too
late, he felt how much more precious was the warm tender heart that
loved him than all the gold that could be piled up between the earth
and sky.
He began to wring his hands and to wish that he was the poorest man in
the wide world, if the loss of all his money might bring back the rosy
color to his dear child's face.
While he was in despair he suddenly saw a stranger standing near the
door, the same visitor he had seen yesterday for the first time in his
treasure-room, and who had granted his wish.
"Well, friend Midas," he said, "pray how are you enjoying your new
power?"
Midas shook his head. "I am very miserable," he said.
"Very miserable, are you?" exclaimed the stranger. "And how does that
happen: have I not faithfully kept my promise; have you not everything
that your heart desired?"
"Gold is not everything," answered Midas, "and I have lost all that my
heart really cared for."
"Ah!" said the stranger, "I see you have made some discoveries since
yesterday. Tell me truly, which of these things do you really think
is most worth--a cup of clear cold water and a crust of bread, or
the power of turning everything you touch into gold; your own little
daughter, alive and loving, or that solid statue of a child which
would be valued at thousands of dollars?"
"O my child, my child!" sobbed Midas, wringing his hands. "I would not
have given one of her curls for the power of changing all the world
into gold, and I would give all I possess for a cup of cold water and
a crust of bread."
"You are wiser than you were, King Midas," said the stranger. "Tell
me, do you really wish to get rid of your fatal gift?"
"Yes," said Midas, "it is hateful to me."
"Go then," said the stranger, "and plunge into the river that flows at
the bottom of the garden: take also a pitcher of the same water, and
sprinkle it over anything that you wish to change back again from gold
to its former substance."
King Midas bowed low, and when he lifted his head the stranger was
nowhere to be seen.
You may easily believe that King Midas lost no time in getting a
big pitcher, then he ran towards the river. On reaching the water
he jumped in without even waiting to take off his shoes. "How
delightful!" he said, as he came out with his hair all dripping, "this
is really a most refreshing bath, and surely it must have washed away
the magic gift."
Then he dipped the pitcher into the water, and how glad he was to see
that it became just a common earthen pitcher and not a golden one as
it had been five minutes before! He was conscious, also of a change in
himself: a cold, heavy weight seemed to have gone, and he felt light,
and happy, and human once more. Maybe his heart had been changing into
gold too, though he could not see it, and now it had softened again
and become gentle and kind.
Midas hurried back to the palace with the pitcher of water, and the
first thing he did was to sprinkle it by handfuls all over the golden
figure of his little daughter. You would have laughed to see how the
rosy color came back to her cheeks, and how she began to sneeze and
choke, and how surprised she was to find herself dripping wet and her
father still throwing water over her.
You see she did not know that she had been a little golden statue, for
she could not remember anything from the moment when she ran to kiss
her father.
King Midas then led his daughter into the garden, where he sprinkled
all the rest of the water over the rose-bushes, and the grass, and the
trees; and in a minute they were blooming as freshly as ever, and the
air was laden with the scent of the flowers.
There were two things left, which, as long as he lived, used to remind
King Midas of the stranger's fatal gift. One was that the sands at
the bottom of the river always sparkled like grains of gold: and the
other, that his little daughter's curls were no longer brown. They had
a golden tinge which had not been there before that miserable day when
he had received the fatal gift, and when his kiss had changed them
into gold.
CADMUS
ADAPTED BY C.E. SMITH
Cadmus, Phoenix, and Cilix, the three sons of King Agenor, were
playing near the seashore in their father's kingdom of Phoenicia, and
their little sister Europa was beside them.
They had wandered to some distance from the King's palace and were now
in a green field, on one side of which lay the sea, sparkling brightly
in the sunshine, and with little waves breaking on the shore.
The three boys were very happy gathering flowers and making wreaths
for their sister Europa. The little girl was almost hidden under the
flowers and leaves, and her rosy face peeped merrily out among them.
She was really the prettiest flower of them all.
While they were busy and happy, a beautiful butterfly came flying
past, and the three boys, crying out that it was a flower with wings,
set off to try to catch it.
Europa did not run after them. She was a little tired with playing all
day long, so she sat still on the green grass and very soon she closed
her eyes.
For a time she listened to the sea, which sounded, she thought, just
like a voice saying, "Hush, hush," and telling her to go to sleep. But
if she slept at all it was only for a minute. Then she heard something
tramping on the grass and, when she looked up, there was a snow-white
bull quite close to her!
Where could he have come from? Europa was very frightened, and she
started up from among the tulips and lilies and cried out, "Cadmus,
brother Cadmus, where are you? Come and drive this bull away." But her
brother was too far off to hear her, and Europa was so frightened that
her voice did not sound very loud; so there she stood with her blue
eyes big with fear, and her pretty red mouth wide open, and her face
as pale as the lilies that were lying on her golden hair.
As the bull did not touch her she began to peep at him, and she saw
that he was a very beautiful animal; she even fancied he looked quite
a kind bull. He had soft, tender, brown eyes, and horns as smooth
and white as ivory: and when he breathed you could feel the scent of
rosebuds and clover blossoms in the air.
The bull ran little races round Europa and allowed her to stroke his
forehead with her small hands, and to hang wreaths of flowers on his
horns. He was just like a pet lamb, and very soon Europa quite forgot
how big and strong he really was and how frightened she had been.
She pulled some grass and he ate it out of her hand and seemed quite
pleased to be friends. He ran up and down the field as lightly as a
bird hopping in a tree; his hoofs scarcely seemed to touch the grass,
and once when he galloped a good long way Europa was afraid she would
not see him again, and she called out, "Come back, you dear bull, I
have got you a pink clover-blossom." Then he came running and bowed
his head before Europa as if he knew she was a King's daughter, and
knelt down at her feet, inviting her to get on his back and have a
ride.
At first Europa was afraid: then she thought there could surely be no
danger in having just one ride on the back of such a gentle animal,
and the more she thought about it, the more she wanted to go.
What a surprise it would be to Cadmus, and Phoenix, and Cilix if they
met her riding across the green field, and what fun it would be if
they could all four ride round and round the field on the back of this
beautiful white bull that was so tame and kind!
"I think I will do it," she said, and she looked round the field.
Cadmus and his brothers were still chasing the butterfly away at the
far end. "If I got on the bull's back I should soon be beside them,"
she thought. So she moved nearer, and the gentle white creature looked
so pleased, and so kind, she could not resist any longer, and with a
light bound she sprang up on his back: and there she sat holding an
ivory horn in each hand to keep her steady.
"Go very gently, good bull," she said, and the animal gave a little
leap in the air and came down as lightly as a feather. Then he began a
race to that part of the field where the brothers were, and where they
had just caught the splendid butterfly. Europa shouted with delight,
and how surprised the brothers were to see their sister mounted on the
back of a white bull!
They stood with their mouths wide open, not sure whether to be
frightened or not. But the bull played round them as gently as a
kitten, and Europa looked down all rosy and laughing, and they were
quite envious. Then when he turned to take another gallop round the
field, Europa waved her hand and called out "Good-by," as if she was
off for a journey, and Cadmus, Phoenix, and Cilix shouted "Good-by"
all in one breath. They all thought it such good fun.
And then, what do you think happened? The white bull set off as
quickly as before, and ran straight down to the seashore. He scampered
across the sand, then he took a big leap and plunged right in among
the waves. The white spray rose in a shower all over him and Europa,
and the poor child screamed with fright. The brothers ran as fast as
they could to the edge of the water, but it was too late.
The white bull swam very fast and was soon far away in the wide blue
sea, with only his snowy head and tail showing above the water. Poor
Europa was holding on with one hand to the ivory horn and stretching
the other back towards her dear brothers.
And there stood Cadmus and Phoenix and Cilix looking after her and
crying bitterly, until they could no longer see the white head among
the waves that sparkled in the sunshine.
Nothing more could be seen of the white bull, and nothing more of
their beautiful sister.
This was a sad tale for the three boys to carry back to their parents.
King Agenor loved his little girl Europa more than his kingdom or
anything else in the world, and when Cadmus came home crying and told
how a white bull had carried off his sister, the King was very angry
and full of grief.
"You shall never see my face again," he cried, "unless you bring back
my little Europa. Begone, and enter my presence no more till you come
leading her by the hand;" and his eyes flashed fire and he looked so
terribly angry that the poor boys did not even wait for supper, but
stole out of the palace wondering where they should go first.
While they were standing at the gate, the Queen came hurrying after
them. "Dear children," she said, "I will come with you."
"Oh no, mother," the boys answered, "it is a dark night, and there is
no knowing what troubles we may meet with; the blame is ours, and we
had better go alone."
"Alas!" said the poor Queen, weeping, "Europa is lost, and if I should
lose my three sons as well, what would become of me? I must go with my
children."
The boys tried to persuade her to stay at home, but the Queen cried so
bitterly that they had to let her go with them.
Just as they were about to start, their playfellow Theseus came
running to join them. He loved Europa very much, and longed to search
for her too. So the five set off together: the Queen, and Cadmus,
and Phoenix, and Cilix, and Theseus, and the last they heard was King
Agenor's angry voice saying, "Remember this, never may you come up
these steps again, till you bring back my little daughter."
The Queen and her young companions traveled many a weary mile: the
days grew to months, and the months became years, and still they found
no trace of the lost Princess. Their clothes were worn and shabby, and
the peasant people looked curiously at them when they asked, "Have you
seen a snow-white bull with a little Princess on its back, riding as
swiftly as the wind?"
And the farmers would answer, "We have many bulls in our fields, but
none that would allow a little Princess to ride on its back: we have
never seen such a sight."
At last Phoenix grew weary of the search. "I do not believe Europa
will ever be found, and I shall stay here," he said one day when they
came to a pleasant spot. So the others helped him to build a small hut
to live in, then they said good-by and went on without him.
Then Cilix grew tired too. "It is so many years now since Europa was
carried away that she would not know me if I found her. I shall wait
here," he said. So Cadmus and Theseus built a hut for him too, and
then said good-by.
After many long months Theseus broke his ankle, and he too had to
be left behind, and once more the Queen and Cadmus wandered on to
continue the search.
The poor Queen was worn and sad, and she leaned very heavily on her
son's arm. "Cadmus," she said one day, "I must stay and rest."
"Why, yes, mother, of course you shall, a long, long rest you must
have, and I will sit beside you and watch."
But the Queen knew she could go no further. "Cadmus," she said, "you
must leave me here, and, go to the wise woman at Delphi and ask her
what you must do next. Promise me you will go!"
And Cadmus promised. The tired Queen lay down to rest, and in the
morning Cadmus found that she was dead, and he must journey on alone.
He wandered for many days till he came in sight of a high mountain
which the people told him was called Parnassus, and on the steep
side of this mountain was the famous city of Delphi for which he was
looking. The wise woman lived far up the mountain-side, in a hut like
those he had helped his brothers to build by the roadside.
When he pushed aside the branches he found himself in a low cave, with
a hole in the wall through which a strong wind was blowing. He bent
down and put his mouth to the hole and said, "O sacred goddess, tell
me where I must look now for my dear sister Europa, who was carried
off so long ago by a bull?"
At first there was no answer. Then a voice said softly, three times,
"Seek her no more, seek her no more, seek her no more."
"What shall I do, then?" said Cadmus. And the answer came, in a hoarse
voice, "Follow the cow, follow the cow, follow the cow."
"But what cow," cried Cadmus, "and where shall I follow?"
And once more the voice came, "Where the stray cow lies down, there is
your home;" and then there was silence.
"Have I been dreaming?" Cadmus thought, "or did I really hear a
voice?" and he went away thinking he was very little wiser for having
done as the Queen had told him.
I do not know how far he had gone when just before him he saw a
brindled cow. She was lying down by the wayside, and as Cadmus came
along she got up and began to move slowly along the path, stopping now
and then to crop a mouthful of grass.
Cadmus wondered if this could be the cow he was to follow, and he
thought he would look at her more closely, so he walked a little
faster; but so did the cow. "Stop, cow," he cried, "hey brindle,
stop," and he began to run; and much to his surprise so did the cow,
and though he ran as hard as possible, he could not overtake her.
So he gave it up. "I do believe this may be the cow I was told about,"
he thought. "Any way, I may as well follow her and surely she will lie
down somewhere."
On and on they went. Cadmus thought the cow would never stop, and
other people who had heard the strange story began to follow too, and
they were all very tired and very far away from home when at last the
cow lay down. His companions were delighted and began to cut down wood
to make a fire, and some ran to a stream to get water. Cadmus lay
down to rest close beside the cow. He was wishing that his mother
and brothers and Theseus had been with him now, when suddenly he was
startled by cries and shouts and screams.
He ran towards the stream, and there he saw the head of a big serpent
or dragon, with fiery eyes and with wide open jaws which showed rows
and rows of horrible sharp teeth. Before Cadmus could reach it, the
monster had killed all his poor companions and was busy devouring
them. The stream was an enchanted one, and the dragon had been told to
guard it so that no mortal might ever touch the water, and the people
round about knew this, so that for a hundred years none of them had
ever come near the spot.
The dragon had been asleep and was very hungry, and when he saw Cadmus
he opened his huge jaws again, ready to devour him too. But Cadmus was
very angry at the death of all his companions, and drawing his sword
he rushed at the monster. With one big bound he leaped right into the
dragon's mouth, so far down that the two rows of terrible teeth could
not close on him or do him any harm. The dragon lashed with his tail
furiously, but Cadmus stabbed him again and again, and in a short time
the great monster lay dead.
"What shall I do now?" he said aloud. All his companions were dead,
and he was alone once more. "Cadmus," said a voice, "pluck out the
dragon's teeth and plant them in the earth."
Cadmus looked round and there was nobody to be seen. But he set to
work and cut out the huge teeth with his sword, and then he made
little holes in the ground and planted the teeth. In a few minutes the
earth was covered with rows of armed men, fierce-looking soldiers with
swords and helmets who stood looking at Cadmus in silence.
"Throw a stone among these men," came the voice again, and Cadmus
obeyed. At once all the men began to fight, and they cut and stabbed
each other so furiously that in a short time only five remained alive
out of all the hundreds that had stood before him. "Cadmus," said
the voice once more, "tell these men to stop fighting and help you
to build a palace." And as soon as Cadmus spoke, the five big men
sheathed their swords, and they began to carry stones, and to carve
these for Cadmus, as if they had never thought of such a thing as
fighting each other!
They built a house for each of themselves, and there was a beautiful
palace for Cadmus made of marble, and of fine kinds of red and green
stone, and there was a high tower with a flag floating from a tall
gold flag-post.
When everything was ready, Cadmus went to take possession of his new
house, and, as he entered the great hall, he saw a lady coming slowly
towards him. She was very lovely and she wore a royal robe which shone
like sunbeams, with a crown of stars on her golden hair, and round her
neck was a string of the fairest pearls.
Cadmus was full of delight. Could this be his long lost sister Europa
coming to make him happy after all these weary years of searching and
wandering?
How much he had to tell her about Phoenix, and Cilix, and dear Theseus
and of the poor Queen's lonely grave in the wilderness! But as he went
forward to meet the beautiful lady he saw she was a stranger. He
was thinking what he should say to her, when once again he heard the
unknown voice speak.
"No, Cadmus," it said, "this is not your dear sister whom you have
sought so faithfully all over the wide world. This is Harmonia,
a daughter of the sky, who is given to you instead of sister and
brother, and friend and mother. She is your Queen, and will make happy
the home which you have won by so much suffering."
So King Cadmus lived in the palace with his beautiful Queen, and
before many years passed there were rosy little children playing in
the great hall, and on the marble steps of the palace, and running
joyfully to meet King Cadmus as he came home from looking after his
soldiers and his workmen.
And the five old soldiers that sprang from the dragon's teeth grew
very fond of these little children, and they were never tired of
showing them how to play with wooden swords and to blow on a penny
trumpet, and beat a drum and march like soldiers to battle.
PROSERPINA
ADAPTED BY C.E. SMITH
Mother Ceres was very fond of her little daughter Proserpina. She did
not of ten let her go alone into the fields for fear she should be
lost. But just at the time when my story begins she was very busy.
She had to look after the wheat and the corn, and the apples and the
pears, all over the world, and as the weather had been bad day after
day she was afraid none of them would be ripe when harvest-time came.
So this morning Mother Ceres put on her turban made of scarlet poppies
and got into her car. This car was drawn by a pair of winged dragons
which went very fast, and Mother Ceres was just ready to start, when
Proserpina said, "Dear mother, I shall be very lonely while you are
away, may I run down to the sands, and ask some of the sea-children to
come out of the water to play with me?"
"Yes, child, you may," answered Mother Ceres, "but you must take care
not to stray away from them, and you are not to play in the fields by
yourself with no one to take care of you."
Proserpina promised to remember what her mother said, and by the time
the dragons with their big wings had whirled the car out of sight she
was already on the shore, calling to the sea-children to come to play
with her.
They knew Proserpina's voice and came at once: pretty children with
wavy sea-green hair and shining faces, and they sat down on the wet
sand where the waves could still break over them, and began to make a
necklace for Proserpina of beautiful shells brought from their home at
the bottom of the sea.
Proserpina was so delighted when they hung the necklace round her neck
that she wanted to give them something in return. "Will you come with
me into the fields," she asked, "and I will gather flowers and make
you each a wreath?"
"Oh no, dear Proserpina," said the sea-children, "we may not go with
you on the dry land. We must keep close beside the sea and let the
waves wash over us every minute or two. If it were not for the salt
water we should soon look like bunches of dried sea-weed instead of
sea-children."
"That is a great pity," said Proserpina, "but if you wait for me
here, I will run to the fields and be back again with my apron full
of flowers before the waves have broken over you ten times. I long
to make you some wreaths as beautiful as this necklace with all its
colored shells."
"We will wait, then," said the sea-children: "we will lie under
the water and pop up our heads every few minutes to see if you are
coming."
Proserpina ran quickly to a field where only the day before she had
seen a great many flowers; but the first she came to seemed rather
faded, and forgetting what Mother Ceres had told her, she strayed
a little farther into the fields. Never before had she found such
beautiful flowers! Large sweet-scented violets, purple and white; deep
pink roses; hyacinths with the biggest of blue bells; as well as many
others she did not know. They seemed to grow up under her feet, and
soon her apron was so full that the flowers were falling out of the
corners.
Proserpina was just going to turn back to the sands to make the
wreaths for the sea-children, when she cried out with delight. Before
her was a bush covered with the most wonderful flowers in the world.
"What beauties!" said Proserpina, and then she thought, "How strange!
I looked at that spot only a moment ago; why did I not see the
flowers?"
They were such lovely ones too. More than a hundred different kinds
grew on the one bush: the brightest, gayest flowers Proserpina had
ever seen. But there was a shiny look about them and about the leaves
which she did not quite like. Somehow it made her wonder if this was
a poison plant, and to tell the truth she was half inclined to turn
round and run away.
"How silly I am!" she thought, taking courage: "it is really the most
beautiful bush I ever saw. I will pull it up by the roots and carry it
home to plant in mother's garden."
Holding her apron full of flowers with one hand, Proserpina seized the
large shrub with the other and pulled and pulled.
What deep roots that bush had! She pulled again with all her might,
and the earth round the roots began to stir and crack, so she gave
another big pull, and then she let go. She thought there was a
rumbling noise right below her feet, and she wondered if the roots
went down to some dragon's cave. Then she tried once again, and up
came the bush so quickly that Proserpina nearly fell backwards. There
she stood, holding the stem in her hand and looking at the big hole
which its roots had left in the earth.
To her surprise this hole began to grow wider and wider, and deeper
and deeper, and a rumbling noise came out of it. Louder and louder it
grew, nearer and nearer it came, just like the tramp of horses' feet
and the rattling of wheels.
Proserpina was too frightened now to run away, and soon she saw a
wonderful thing. Two black horses, with smoke coming out of their
nostrils and with long black tails and flowing black manes, came
tearing their way out of the earth, and a splendid golden chariot was
rattling at their heels.
The horses leaped out of the hole, chariot and all, and came close to
the spot where Proserpina stood.
Then she saw there was a man in the chariot. He was very richly
dressed, with a crown on his head all made of diamonds which sparkled
like fire. He was a very handsome man, but looked rather cross and
discontented, and he kept rubbing his eyes and covering them with his
hand, as if he did not care much for the bright sunshine.
As soon as he saw Proserpina, the man waved to her to come a little
nearer. "Do not be afraid," he said. "Come! would you not like to ride
a little way with me in my beautiful chariot?"
But Proserpina was very frightened, and no wonder. The stranger did
not look a very kind or pleasant man. His voice was so gruff and deep,
and sounded just like the rumbling Proserpina had heard underneath the
earth.
She at once began to cry out, "Mother, mother! O Mother Ceres, come
quickly and save me!"
[Illustration: HE CAUGHT HER IN HIS ARMS AND SPRANG INTO THE CHARIOT.]
But her voice was very shaky and too faint for Mother Ceres to hear,
for by this time she was many thousands of miles away making the corn
grow in another country.
No sooner did Proserpina begin to cry out than the strange man leaped
to the ground; he caught her in his arms and sprang into the chariot,
then he shook the reins and shouted to the two black horses to set
off. They began to gallop so fast that it was just like flying, and in
less than a minute Proserpina had lost sight of the sunny fields where
she and her mother had always lived.
She screamed and screamed and all the beautiful flowers fell out of
her apron to the ground.
But Mother Ceres was too far away to know what was happening to her
little daughter.
"Why are you so frightened, my little girl?" said the strange man, and
he tried to soften his rough voice. "I promise not to do you any harm.
I see you have been gathering flowers? Wait till we come to my palace
and I will give you a garden full of prettier flowers than these, all
made of diamonds and pearls and rubies. Can you guess who I am? They
call me Pluto, and I am the King of the mines where all the diamonds
and rubies and all the gold and silver are found: they all belong to
me. Do you see this lovely crown on my head? I will let you have it
to play with. Oh, I think we are going to be very good friends when we
get out of this troublesome sunshine."
"Let me go home," sobbed Proserpina, "let me go home."
"My home is better than your mother's," said King Pluto. "It is a
palace made of gold, with crystal windows and with diamond lamps
instead of sunshine; and there is a splendid throne; if you like
you may sit on it and be my little Queen, and I will sit on the
footstool."
"I do not care for golden palaces and thrones," sobbed Proserpina. "O
mother, mother! Take me back to my mother."
But King Pluto only shouted to his horses to go faster.
"You are very foolish, Proserpina," he said, rather crossly. "I am
doing all I can to make you happy, and I want very much to have a
merry little girl to run upstairs and downstairs in my palace and make
it brighter with her laughter. This is all I ask you to do for King
Pluto."
"Never" answered Proserpina, looking very miserable. "I shall never
laugh again, till you take me back to my mother's cottage."
And the horses galloped on, and the wind whistled past the chariot,
and Proserpina cried and cried till her poor little voice was almost
cried away, and nothing was left but a whisper.
The road now began to get very dull and gloomy. On each side were
black rocks and very thick trees and bushes that looked as if they
never got any sunshine. It got darker and darker, as if night was
coming, and still the black horses rushed on leaving the sunny home of
Mother Ceres far behind.
But the darker it grew, the happier King Pluto seemed to be.
Proserpina began to peep at him, she thought he might not be such a
wicked man after all.
"Is it much further," she asked, "and will you carry me back when I
have seen your palace?"
"We will talk of that by and by," answered Pluto. "Do you see these
big gates? When we pass these we are at home; and look! there is my
faithful dog at the door! Cerberus; Cerberus, come here, good dog."
Pluto pulled the horses' reins, and the chariot stopped between two
big tall pillars. The dog got up and stood on his hind legs, so that
he could put his paws on the chariot wheel. What a strange dog he was!
A big, rough, ugly-looking monster, with three heads each fiercer than
the other.
King Pluto patted his heads and the dog wagged his tail with delight.
Proserpina was much afraid when she saw that his tail was a live
dragon, with fiery eyes and big poisonous teeth.
"Will the dog bite me?" she asked, creeping closer to King Pluto. "How
very ugly he is."
"Oh, never fear," Pluto answered; "he never bites people unless they
try to come in here when I do not want them. Down, Cerberus. Now,
Proserpina, we will drive on."
The black horses started again and King Pluto seemed very happy to
find himself once more at home.
All along the road Proserpina could see diamonds, and rubies and
precious stones sparkling, and there were bits of real gold among the
rocks. It was a very rich place.
Not far from the gateway they came to an iron bridge. Pluto stopped
the chariot and told Proserpina to look at the river which ran
underneath. It was very black and muddy, and flowed slowly, very
slowly, as if it had quite forgotten which way it wanted to go, and
was in no hurry to flow anywhere.
"This is the river Lethe," said King Pluto; "do you not think it a
very pleasant stream?"
"I think it is very dismal," said Proserpina.
"Well, I like it," answered Pluto, who got rather cross when any one
did not agree with him. "It is a strange kind of river. If you drink
only a little sip of the water, you will at once forget all your care
and sorrow. When we reach the palace, you shall have some in a golden
cup, and then you will not cry any more for your mother, and will be
perfectly happy with me."
"Oh no, oh no!" said Proserpina, sobbing again. "O mother, mother,
I will never forget you; I do not want to be happy by forgetting all
about you."
"We shall see," said King Pluto; "you do not know what good times we
will have in my palace. Here we are, just at the gate. Look at the big
pillars; they are all made of solid gold."
He got out of the chariot and carried Proserpina in his arms up a long
stair into the great hall of the palace. It was beautifully lit by
hundreds of diamonds and rubies which shone like lamps. It was very
rich and splendid to look at, but it was cold and lonely and Pluto
must have longed for some one to keep him company; perhaps that was
why he had stolen Proserpina from her sunny home.
King Pluto sent for his servants and told them to get ready a grand
supper with all kinds of dainty food and sweet things such as children
like. "And be sure not to forget a golden cup filled with the water of
Lethe," he said to the servant.
"I will not eat anything," said Proserpina, "nor drink a single drop,
even if you keep me for ever in your palace."
"I should be sorry for that," replied King Pluto. He really wished to
be kind if he had only known how. "Wait till you see the nice things
my cook will make for you, and then you will be hungry."
Now King Pluto had a secret reason why he wanted Proserpina to eat
some food. You must understand that when people are carried off to the
land of magic, if once they taste any food they can never go back to
their friends.
If King Pluto had offered Proserpina some bread and milk she would
very likely have taken it as soon as she was hungry, but all the
cook's fine pastries and sweets were things she had never seen at
home, and, instead of making her hungry, she was afraid to touch them.
But now my story must leave King Pluto's palace, and we must see what
Mother Ceres has been about.
You remember she had gone off in her chariot with the winged dragons
to the other side of the world to see how the corn and fruit were
growing. And while she was busy in a field she thought she heard
Proserpina's voice calling her. She was sure her little daughter
could not possibly be anywhere near, but the idea troubled her: and
presently she left the fields before her work was half done and,
ordering her dragons with the chariot, she drove off.
In less than an hour Mother Ceres got down at the door of her cottage.
It was empty! At first she thought "Oh, Proserpina will still be
playing on the shore with the sea-children." So she went to find her.
"Where is Proserpina, you naughty sea-children?" she asked; "tell me,
have you taken her to your home under the sea?"
"Oh no, Mother Ceres," they said, "she left us early in the day to
gather flowers for a wreath, and we have seen nothing of her since."
Ceres hurried off to ask all the neighbors. A poor fisherman had seen
her little footprints in the sand as he went home with his basket of
fish.
A man in the fields had noticed her gathering flowers.
Several persons had heard the rattling of chariot wheels or the
rumbling of distant thunder: and one old woman had heard a scream, but
supposed it was only merriment, and had not even looked up.
None of the neighbors knew where Proserpina was, and Mother Ceres
decided she must seek her daughter further from home.
By this time it was night, so she lit a torch and set off, telling the
neighbors she would never come back till Proserpina was found. In
her hurry she quite forgot her chariot with the dragons; may be she
thought she could search better on foot.
So she started on her sad journey, holding her torch in front of her,
and looking carefully along every road and round every corner.
She had not gone very far before she found one of the wonderful
flowers which Proserpina had pulled from the poison bush.
"Ha!" said Mother Ceres, examining it carefully, "there is mischief in
this flower: it did not grow in the earth by any help of mine; it is
the work of magic, and perhaps it has poisoned my poor child." And she
hid it in her bosom.
All night long Ceres sought for her daughter. She knocked at the doors
of farm-houses where the people were all asleep, and they came to see
who was there, rubbing their eyes and yawning. They were very sorry
for the poor mother when they heard her tale--but they knew nothing
about Proserpina.
At every palace door, too, she knocked, so loudly that the servants
ran quickly, expecting to find a great queen, and when they saw only
a sad lonely woman with a burning torch in her hand, and a wreath of
withered poppies on her head, they were angry and drove her rudely
away.
But nobody had seen Proserpina, and Mother Ceres wandered about till
the night was passed, without sitting down to rest, and without taking
any food. She did not even remember to put out her torch, and it
looked very pale and small in the bright morning sunshine.
It must have been a magic torch, for it burned dimly all day, and then
when night came it shone with a beautiful red light, and neither the
wind nor the rain put it out through all these weary days while Ceres
sought for Proserpina.
It was not only men and women that Mother Ceres questioned about her
daughter. In the woods and by the streams she met other creatures
whose way of talking she could understand, and who knew many things
that we have never learned.
Sometimes she tapped with her finger against an oak tree, and at once
its rough bark would open and a beautiful maiden would appear: she was
the spirit of the oak, living inside it, and as happy as could be when
its green leaves danced in the breeze.
Then another time Ceres would find a spring bubbling out of a little
hole in the earth, and she would play with her fingers in the water.
Immediately up through the sandy bed a nymph with dripping hair would
rise and float half out of the water, looking at Mother Ceres, and
swaying up and down with the water bubbles.
But when the mother asked whether her poor lost child had stopped to
drink of the fountain, the nymph with weeping eyes would answer
"No," in a murmuring voice which was just like the sound of a running
stream.
Often, too, she met fauns. These were little people with brown faces
who looked as if they had played a great deal in the sun. They had
hairy ears and little horns on their brows, and their legs were like
goats' legs on which they danced merrily about the woods and fields.
They were very kind creatures, and were very sorry for Mother Ceres
when they heard that her daughter was lost.
And once she met a rude band of satyrs who had faces like monkeys
and who had horses' tails behind; they were dancing and shouting in
a rough, noisy manner, and they only laughed when Ceres told them how
unhappy she was.
One day while she was crossing a lonely sheep-field she saw the god
Pan: he was sitting at the foot of a tall rock, making music on a
shepherd's flute. He too had horns on his brow, and hairy ears, and
goat's feet. He knew Mother Ceres and answered her questions kindly,
and he gave her some milk and honey to drink out of a wooden bowl. But
he knew nothing of Proserpina.
And so Mother Ceres went wandering about for nine long days and
nights. Now and then she found a withered flower, and these she picked
up and put in her bosom, because she fancied they might have fallen
from her daughter's hand. All day she went on through the hot
sunshine, and at night the flame of her torch would gleam on the
pathway, and she would continue her weary search without ever sitting
down to rest.
On the tenth day she came to the mouth of a cave. It was dark inside,
but a torch was burning dimly and lit up half of the gloomy place.
Ceres peeped in and held up her own torch before her, and then she saw
what looked like a woman, sitting on a heap of withered leaves, which
the wind had blown into the cave. She was a very strange-looking
woman: her head was shaped like a dog's, and round it she had a wreath
of snakes.
As soon as she saw her, Mother Ceres knew that this was a queer kind
of person who was always grumbling and unhappy. Her name was Hecate,
and she would never say a word to other people unless they were
unhappy too. "I am sad enough," thought poor Ceres, "to talk with
Hecate:" so she stepped into the cave and sat down on the withered
leaves beside the dog-headed woman.
"O Hecate," she said, "if ever you lose a daughter you will know
what sorrow is. Tell me, for pity's sake, have you seen my poor child
Proserpina pass by the mouth of your cave?"
"No, Mother Ceres," answered Hecate. "I have seen nothing of your
daughter. But my ears, you know, are made so that all cries of
distress or fright all over the world are heard by them. And nine days
ago, as I sat in my cave, I heard the voice of a young girl sobbing
as if in great distress. As well as I could judge, some dragon was
carrying her away."
"You kill me by saying so," cried Mother Ceres, almost ready to faint;
"where was the sound, and which way did it seem to go?"
"It passed along very quickly," said Hecate, "and there was a rumbling
of wheels to the eastward. I cannot tell you any more. I advise
you just to come and live here with me, and we will be the two most
unhappy women in all the world."
"Not yet, dark Hecate," replied Ceres. "Will you first come with your
torch and help me to seek for my child. When there is no more hope
of finding her, then I will come back with you to your dark cave. But
till I know that Proserpina is dead, I will not allow myself time to
sorrow."
Hecate did not much like the idea of going abroad into the sunshine,
but at last she agreed to go, and they set out together, each carrying
a torch, although it was broad daylight and the sun was shining. Any
people they met ran away without waiting to be spoken to, as soon as
they caught sight of Hecate's wreath of snakes.
As the sad pair wandered on, a thought struck Ceres. "There is one
person," she exclaimed, "who must have seen my child and can tell
me what has become of her. Why did I not think of him sooner? It is
Phoebus."
"What!" said Hecate, "the youth that always sits in the sunshine! Oh!
pray do not think of going near him: he is a gay young fellow that
will only smile in your face. And, besides, there is such a glare of
sunshine about him that he will quite blind my poor eyes, which are
weak with so much weeping."
"You have promised to be my companion," answered Ceres. "Come, let us
make haste, or the sunshine will be gone and Phoebus along with it."
So they set off in search of Phoebus, both sighing a great deal,
and after a long journey they came to the sunniest spot in the whole
world. There they saw a young man with curly golden hair which seemed
to be made of sunbeams.
His clothes were like light summer clouds, and the smile on his face
was so bright that Hecate held her hands before her eyes and muttered
that she wished he would wear a veil! Phoebus had a lyre in his hands
and was playing very sweet music, at the same time singing a merry
song.
As Ceres and her dismal companion came near, Phoebus smiled on them
so cheerfully that Hecate's wreath of snakes gave a spiteful hiss and
Hecate wished she was back in her dark cave.
But Ceres was too unhappy to know whether Phoebus smiled or looked
angry.
"Phoebus" she said, "I am in great trouble and have come to you
for help. Can you tell me what has become of my little daughter
Proserpina?"
"Proserpina, Proserpina did you call her?" answered Phoebus, trying to
remember. He had so many pleasant ideas in his head that he sometimes
forgot what had happened no longer ago than yesterday.
"Ah yes! I remember now--a very lovely little girl. I am happy to tell
you that I did see Proserpina not many days ago. You may be quite easy
about her. She is safe and in good hands."
"Oh, where is my dear child?" cried Ceres, clasping her hands and
flinging herself at his feet.
"Why," replied Phoebus, "as the little girl was gathering flowers she
was snatched up by King Pluto and carried off to his kingdom. I have
never been there myself, but I am told the royal palace is splendidly
built. Proserpina will have gold and silver and diamonds to play with,
and I am sure even although there is no sunshine, she will have a very
happy life."
"Hush! do not say such a thing," said Ceres. "What has she got to
love? What are all these splendors if she has no one to care for? I
must have her back. Good Phoebus, will you come with me to demand my
daughter from this wicked Pluto?"
"Pray excuse me," answered Phoebus, with a bow. "I certainly wish you
success, and I am sorry I am too busy to go with you. Besides, King
Pluto does not care much for me. To tell you the truth, his dog with
the three heads would never let me pass the gateway. I always carry
a handful of sunbeams with me, and those, you know, are not allowed
within King Pluto's kingdom."
So the poor mother said good-by and hastened away along with Hecate.
Ceres had now found out what had become of her daughter, but she was
not any happier than before. Indeed, her trouble seemed worse than
ever. So long as Proserpina was above-ground there was some hope of
getting her home again. But now that the poor child was shut up behind
King Pluto's iron gates, with the three-headed Cerberus on guard
beside them, there seemed no hope of her escape.
The dismal Hecate, who always looked on the darkest side of things,
told Ceres she had better come back with her to the cave and spend the
rest of her life in being miserable. But Ceres answered that Hecate
could go back if she wished, but that for her part she would wander
about all the world looking for the entrance to King Pluto's kingdom.
So Hecate hurried off alone to her beloved cave, frightening a great
many little children with her dog's face as she went.
Poor Mother Ceres! It is sad to think of her all alone, holding up her
never-dying torch and wandering up and down the wide, wide world. So
much did she suffer that in a very short time she began to look quite
old. She wandered about with her hair hanging down her back, and she
looked so wild that people took her for some poor mad woman, and never
thought that this was Mother Ceres who took care of every seed which
was sown in the ground and of all the fruit and flowers.
Now she gave herself no trouble about seedtime or harvest; there was
nothing in which she seemed to feel any interest, except the children
she saw at play or gathering flowers by the wayside. Then, indeed, she
would stand and look at them with tears in her eyes.
And the children seemed to understand her sorrow and would gather in
a little group about her knees and look up lovingly into her face, and
Ceres, after giving them a kiss all round, would lead them home and
advise their mothers never to let them stray out of sight. "For if
they do," said she, "it may happen to you as it has happened to me:
the iron-hearted King Pluto may take a liking to your darlings and
carry them away in his golden chariot."
At last, in her despair, Ceres made up her mind that not a stalk
of grain, nor a blade of grass, not a potato, nor a turnip, nor any
vegetable that is good for man or beast, should be allowed to grow
till her daughter was sent back. She was so unhappy that she even
forbade the flowers to bloom.
Now you can see what a terrible misfortune had fallen on the earth.
The farmer plowed the ground and planted his seed, as usual, and
there lay the black earth without a single green blade to be seen. The
fields looked as brown in the sunny months of spring as ever they did
in winter. The rich man's garden and the flower-plot in front of the
laborer's cottage were both empty; even the children's gardens showed
nothing but withered stalks. It was very sad to see the poor starving
sheep and cattle that followed behind Ceres, bleating and lowing as if
they knew that she could help them.
All the people begged her at least to let the grass grow, but Mother
Ceres was too miserable to care for any one's trouble. "Never," she
said. "If the earth is ever to be green again, it must grow along the
path by which my daughter comes back to me."
At last, as there seemed to be no other way out of it, Mercury, the
favorite messenger of the gods, was sent to King Pluto in the hope
that he would set everything right again by giving up Proserpina.
Mercury went as quickly as he could to the great iron gates, and with
the help of the wings on his shoes, he took a flying leap right over
Cerberus with his three heads, and very soon he stood at the door of
King Pluto's palace.
The servants all knew him, as he had often been there in his short
cloak, and cap, and shoes with the wings, and with his curious staff
which had two snakes twisted round it.
He asked to see the King immediately, and Pluto, who had heard his
voice from the top of the stairs, called out to him to come up at
once, for he was always glad to listen to Mercury's cheery talk.
And while they are laughing together we must find out what Proserpina
had been doing since we last heard about her.
You will remember that Proserpina had said she would not taste food so
long as she was kept a prisoner in King Pluto's palace.
It was now six months since she had been carried off from her home,
and not a mouthful had she eaten, not even when the cook had made all
kinds of sweet things and had ordered all the dainties which children
usually like best.
Proserpina was naturally a bright, merry little girl, and all this
time she was not so unhappy as you may have thought.
In the big palace were a thousand rooms, and each was full of
wonderful and beautiful things. It is true there was never any
sunshine in these rooms, and Proserpina used to fancy that the shadowy
light which came from the jeweled lamps was alive: it seemed to float
before her as she walked between the golden pillars, and to close
softly behind her in the echo of her footsteps.
And Proserpina knew that all the glitter of these precious stones was
not worth a single sunbeam, nor could the rubies and emeralds which
she played with ever be as dear to her as the daisies and buttercups
she had gathered among the soft green grass.
King Pluto felt how much happier his palace was since Proserpina came,
and so did all his servants. They loved to hear her childish voice
laughing as she ran from room to room, and they felt less old and
tired when they saw again how glad little children can be.
"My own little Proserpina," King Pluto used to say, "I wish you would
like me a little better. Although I look rather a sad man, I am really
fond of children, and if you would stay here with me always, it would
make me happier than having hundreds of palaces like this."
"Ah," said Proserpina, "you should have tried to make me like you
first before carrying me off, and now the best thing you can do is to
let me go again; then I might remember you sometimes and think that
you were as kind as you knew how to be. Perhaps I might come back to
pay you a visit one day."
"No, no," answered Pluto, with his gloomy smile, "I will not trust
you for that. You are too fond of living in the sunshine and gathering
flowers. What an idle, childish thing to do! Do you not think that
these diamonds which I have had dug out of the mine for you are far
prettier than violets?"
"No, oh no! not half so pretty," said Proserpina, snatching them from
Pluto's hand, and flinging them to the other end of the room. "O my
sweet purple violets, shall I ever see you again?" and she began to
cry bitterly.
But like most children, she soon stopped crying, and in a short time
she was running up and down the rooms as when she had played on the
sands with the sea-children. And King Pluto, sad and lonely, watched
her and wished that he too was a child, and when Proserpina turned and
saw the great King standing alone in his splendid hall, so grand and
so lonely, with no one to love him, she felt sorry for him. She ran
back and for the first time in all those six months she put her small
hand in his. "I love you a little," she whispered, looking up into his
face.
"Do you really, dear child?" cried Pluto, bending down his dark face
to kiss her. But Proserpina was a little afraid, he was so dark and
severe-looking, and she shrank back.
"Well," said Pluto, "it is just what I deserve after keeping you
a prisoner all these months, and starving you besides. Are you not
dreadfully hungry, is there nothing I can get you to eat?"
In asking this Pluto was very cunning, as you will remember that if
Proserpina once tasted any food in his kingdom, she would never again
be able to go home.
"No, indeed," said Proserpina. "Your poor fat little cook is always
making me all kinds of good things which I do not want. The one thing
I should like to eat would be a slice of bread baked by my own mother,
and a pear out of her garden."
When Pluto heard this he began to see that he had made a mistake in
his way of trying to tempt Proserpina to eat. He wondered why he had
never thought of this before, and he at once sent a servant with a
large basket to get some of the finest and juiciest pears in the whole
world.
But this was just at the time when, as we know, Mother Ceres in her
despair had forbidden any flowers or fruit to grow on the earth, and
the only thing King Pluto's servant could find, after seeking all
over the world was a single dried-up pomegranate, so dried up as to
be hardly worth eating. Still, since there was no better to be had, he
brought it back to the palace, put it on a magnificent gold plate, and
carried it to Proserpina.
Now it just happened that as the servant was bringing the pomegranate
in at the back door of the palace, Mercury had gone up to the front
steps with his message to King Pluto about Proserpina.
As soon as Proserpina saw the pomegranate on the golden plate, she
told the servant to take it away again. "I shall not touch it, I can
assure you," she said. "If I were ever so hungry, I should not think
of eating such a dried-up miserable pomegranate as that."
"It is the only one in the world," said the servant, and he set down
the plate and went away.
When he had gone, Proserpina could not help coming close to the table
and looking at the dried-up pomegranate with eagerness. To tell the
truth, when she saw something that really suited her taste, she felt
all her six months' hunger come back at once.
To be sure it was a very poor-looking pomegranate, with no more juice
in it than in an oyster-shell. But there was no choice of such things
in King Pluto's palace, and this was the first fresh fruit Proserpina
had ever seen there, and the last she was ever likely to see, and
unless she ate it up at once, it would only get drier and drier and be
quite unfit to eat.
"At least I may smell it," she thought, so she took up the pomegranate
and held it to her nose, and somehow, being quite near to her mouth,
the fruit found its way into that little red cave.
Before Proserpina knew what she was about, her teeth had actually
bitten it of their own accord.
Just as this fatal deed was done, the door of the hall opened and King
Pluto came in, followed by Mercury, who had been begging him to let
his little prisoner go.
At the first noise of their coming, Proserpina took the pomegranate
from her mouth.
Mercury, who saw things very quickly, noticed that Proserpina looked
a little uncomfortable, and when he saw the gold plate empty, he was
sure she had been eating something.
As for King Pluto, he never guessed the secret.
"My dear little Proserpina," said the King, sitting down and drawing
her gently between his knees, "here is Mercury, who tells me that a
great many sad things have happened to innocent people because I have
kept you a prisoner down here. And to confess the truth I have been
thinking myself that I really had no right to take you away from your
mother. It was very stupid of me, but I thought this palace was so
dull, and that I should be much happier if I just had a merry little
girl to play in it, and I hoped you would take my crown for a toy and
let me be your playmate. It was very foolish of me, I know."
"No, it was not foolish," said Proserpina, "you have been very kind to
me, and I have often been quite happy here with you."
"Thank you, dear," said King Pluto, "but I cannot help seeing that you
think my palace a dark prison and me the hard-hearted jailor, and I
should, indeed, be hard-hearted if I were to keep you longer than six
months. So I give you your liberty. Go back, dear, with Mercury, to
your mother."
Now, although you might not think so, Proserpina found it impossible
to say good-by to King Pluto without being sorry, and she felt she
ought to tell him about tasting the pomegranate. She even cried a
little when she thought how lonely and dull the great palace with its
jeweled lamps would be after she had left.
She would like to have thanked him many times, but Mercury hurried
her away. "Come along quickly," he said, "as King Pluto may change his
mind, and take care above all things that you say nothing about the
pomegranate which the servant brought you on the gold plate."
In a short time they had passed the great gateway with the golden
pillars, leaving Cerberus barking and growling with all his three
heads at once, and beating his dragon tail on the ground. Along the
dark, rocky road they went very quickly, and soon they reached the
upper world again.
You can guess how excited and happy Proserpina was to see the bright
sunshine. She noticed how green the grass grew on the path behind and
on each side of her. Wherever she set her foot at once there rose a
flower: violets and roses bloomed along the wayside; the grass and the
corn began to grow with ten times their usual quickness to make up for
the dreary months when Mother Ceres had forbidden them to appear above
ground.
The hungry cattle began to eat, and went on eating all day after their
long fast. And, I can assure you, it was a busy time with all the
farmers when they found that summer was coming with a rush.
As to the birds, they hopped about from tree to tree among the fresh,
sweet blossoms, and sang for joy that the dreary days were over and
the world was green and young again.
Mother Ceres had gone back to her empty cottage, and was sitting very
sadly on the doorstep with her burning torch in her hand. She had been
looking wearily at the flame for some moments, when all at once it
flickered and went out.
"What does this mean?" she thought. "It was a magic torch, and should
have gone on burning till Proserpina was found."
She looked up, and was surprised to see the bare brown fields suddenly
turning green, just as you sometimes see them turn golden when the sun
comes from behind a dark cloud.
"Does the Earth dare to disobey me?" exclaimed Mother Ceres angrily.
"Did I not forbid it to be green until my child should be sent back to
me?"
"Then open your arms, mother dear," cried a well-known voice, "and
take me back again." And Proserpina came running along the pathway and
flung herself on her mother's bosom.
It would be impossible to tell how happy they were; so happy that they
cried a little, for people cry when they are very glad as well as when
they are unhappy.
After a little while Mother Ceres looked anxiously at Proserpina.
"My child," she said, "did you taste any food while you were in King
Pluto's palace?"
"Dearest mother," answered Proserpina, "I will tell you the whole
truth. Until this morning not a morsel of food had passed my lips.
But a servant brought me a pomegranate on a golden-plate, a very dry
pomegranate, with no juice inside, nothing but seeds and skin; and I
was so hungry, and had not tasted any food for such a long time, that
I took just one bite. The moment I tasted it King Pluto and Mercury
came into the room. I had not swallowed a morsel, but O mother! I
hope it was no harm, six pomegranate seeds remained in my mouth and I
swallowed them."
"O miserable me!" said Mother Ceres. "For each of these six
pomegranate seeds you must spend a month every year in King Pluto's
palace. You are only half restored to me; you will be six months with
me and then six months with the King of Darkness!"
"Do not be so vexed, mother dear," said Proserpina. "It was very
unkind of King Pluto to carry me off, but then, as he says, it was
such a dismal life for him to lead in that great palace all alone: and
he says he has been much happier since he had me to run about the big
rooms and to play beside him. If only he will let me spend six months
every year with you, I think I can bear to spend the other six months
beside him. After all, he was as kind as he knew how to be, but I am
very glad he cannot keep me the whole year round."
THE STORY OF ATALANTA
ADAPTED BY ANNA KLINGENSMITH
Atalanta was a maiden whose face you might truly say was boyish for a
girl, yet too girlish for a boy. Her fortune had been told, and it was
to this effect: "Atalanta, do not marry; marriage will be your ruin."
Terrified by this oracle, she fled the society of men, and devoted
herself to the sports of the chase. To all suitors (for she had many)
she imposed a condition which was generally effectual in relieving her
of their persecutions, "I will be the prize of him who shall conquer
me in the race; but death must be the penalty of all who try and
fail." In spite of this hard condition some would try. Hippomenes was
to be judge of the race. "Can it be possible that any will be so rash
as to risk so much for a wife?" said he. But when he saw her ravishing
beauty as she prepared for the race, he changed his mind, and said,
"Pardon me, youths, I knew not the prize you were competing for." As
he surveyed them he wished them all to be beaten, and swelled with
envy of anyone that seemed at all likely to win. While such were
his thoughts, the virgin darted forward. As she ran she looked more
beautiful than ever. The breezes seemed to give wings to her feet;
her hair flew over her shoulders, and the gay fringe of her garment
fluttered behind her. A ruddy hue tinged the whiteness of her skin,
such as a crimson curtain casts on a marble wall. All her competitors
were distanced, and were put to death without mercy. Hippomenes, not
daunted by this result, fixing his eyes on the virgin, said, "Why
boast of beating those laggards? I offer myself for the contest."
Atalanta looked at him with a pitying countenance, and hardly knew
whether she would rather conquer him or not. "What god can tempt one
so young and handsome to throw himself away? I pity him, not for his
beauty (yet he is beautiful), but for his youth. I wish he would give
up the race, or if he will be so mad, I hope he may outrun me." While
she hesitates, revolving these thoughts, the spectators grow impatient
for the race, and her father prompts her to prepare. Then Hippomenes
addressed a prayer to Venus: "Help me, Venus, for you have led me on."
Venus heard and was propitious.
In the garden of her temple, in her own island of Cyprus, is a tree
with yellow leaves and yellow branches and golden fruit. Hence she
gathered three golden apples, and, unseen by any one else, gave them
to Hippomenes, and told him how to use them. The signal is given; each
starts from the goal and skims over the sand. So light their tread,
you would almost have thought they might run over the river surface
or over the waving grain without sinking. The cries of the spectators
cheered Hippomenes,--"Now, now, do your best! haste, haste! you gain
on her! relax not! one more effort!" It was doubtful whether the youth
or the maiden heard these cries with the greater pleasure. But his
breath began to fail him, his throat was dry, the goal yet far off. At
that moment he threw down one of the golden apples. The virgin was all
amazement. She stopped to pick it up. Hippomenes shot ahead. Shouts
burst forth from all sides. She redoubled her efforts, and soon
overtook him. Again he threw an apple. She stopped again, but again
came up with him. The goal was near; one chance only remained. "Now,
goddess," said he, "prosper your gift!" and threw the last apple off
at one side. She looked at it, and hesitated; Venus impelled her to
turn aside for it. She did so, and was vanquished. The youth carried
off his prize.
PYRAMUS AND THISBE
ADAPTED BY ALICE ZIMMERN
In Babylon, the great and wonderful city on the Euphrates, there lived
in two adjoining houses a youth and a maiden named Pyramus and Thisbe.
Hardly a day passed without their meeting, and at last they came to
know and love one another. But when Pyramus sought Thisbe in marriage,
the parents would not hear of it, and even forbade the lovers to meet
or speak to each other any more. But though they could no longer be
openly together, they saw each other at a distance and sent messages
by signs and tokens.
One day to their great delight they discovered a tiny crack in the
wall between the two houses, through which they could hear each other
speak. But a few words whispered through a chink in the wall could not
satisfy two ardent lovers, and they tried to arrange a meeting. They
would slip away one night unnoticed and meet somewhere outside the
city. A spot near the tomb of Ninus was chosen, where a mulberry tree
grew near a pleasant spring of water.
At nightfall Thisbe put on a thick veil, slipped out of the house
unobserved and made her way in haste to the city gates. She was first
at the trysting-place and sat down under the tree to wait for her
lover. A strange noise made her look up, and she saw by the clear
moonlight a lioness with bloody jaws coming to drink at the spring.
Thisbe sprang up, and dropping her cloak in her haste ran to hide
herself in a neighboring cave. The lioness, who had already eaten,
did not care to pursue her, but finding the cloak lying on the ground,
pulled it to bits and left the marks of blood on the torn mantle. Now
Pyramus in his turn came to the place and found no Thisbe, but only
her torn and bloodstained cloak. "Surely," he thought, "some beast
must have devoured her, for here lies her cloak, all mangled and
bloodstained. Alas, that I came too late! Her love for me led Thisbe
to brave the perils of night and danger, and I was not here to protect
and save her. She dies a victim to her love, but she shall not perish
alone. One same night will see the end of both lovers. Come, ye lions,
and devour me too, 'tis my one prayer. Yet 'tis a coward's part to
pray for death when his own hands can give it."
With these words he drew Thisbe's cloak towards him, and covered it
with kisses. "My blood too shall stain you," he cried, and plunged his
sword with true aim in his breast. The blood spouted forth as from a
fountain and stained the white fruit of the mulberry overhead.
While Pyramus lay dying under the tree, Thisbe had recovered from her
fright, and now stole forth from her hiding-place, hoping that her
lover might be at hand. What was her dismay when she saw Pyramus
stretched lifeless on the ground. Kneeling down beside him, she washed
his wound with her tears, and kissed his cold lips, calling on him in
vain to speak. "Speak to me, Pyramus," she cried, "'tis your beloved
Thisbe that calls."
At the sound of her voice Pyramus opened his failing eyes, and gave
his love one last look, then he closed them for ever. When Thisbe saw
her own cloak and the empty sheath, she guessed that, thinking her
dead, he had sought death himself.
"'Twas by your own hand you fell," she cried, "a victim to love, and
love will give my hand strength to do the like. Since those who were
parted in life are united in death, perhaps our sorrowing parents will
grant us the boon of a common tomb. May we rest side by side, even as
we have fallen, and may this tree, which has witnessed our despair and
our death, bear the traces for evermore. Let its fruit be clothed in
mourning garb for the death of two hapless lovers."
With these words she threw herself on the sword of Pyramus. Her last
prayer was granted, for one urn held the ashes of the faithful pair.
And since that night the mulberry tree bears purple fruit to recall to
all generations of lovers the cruel fate of Pyramus and Thisbe.
ORPHEUS
ADAPTED BY ALICE ZIMMERN
Orpheus, the Thracian singer, was the most famous of all the musicians
of Greece. Apollo himself had given him his golden harp, and on it he
played music of such wondrous power and beauty that rocks, trees
and beasts would follow to hear him. Jason had persuaded Orpheus
to accompany the Argonauts when they went to fetch back the golden
fleece, for he knew that the perils of the way would be lightened by
song. To the sound of his lyre the Argo had floated down to the sea,
and he played so sweetly when they passed the rocks of the Sirens that
the dreadful monsters sang their most alluring strains in vain.
Orpheus wedded the fair nymph Eurydice, whom he loved dearly, and who
returned his love. But at their marriage the omens were not favorable.
Hymen, the marriage god, came to it with a gloomy countenance and the
wedding torches smoked and would not give forth a cheerful flame.
Indeed the happiness of Orpheus and Eurydice was to be but
short-lived. For as the new-made bride wandered through the woods with
the other nymphs a poisonous serpent stung her heel, and no remedy
availed to save her. Orpheus was thrown into most passionate grief at
his wife's death. He could not believe that he had lost her for ever,
but prayed day and night without ceasing to the gods above to restore
her to him. When they would not listen, he resolved to make one last
effort to win her back. He would go down to the Lower World and seek
her among the dead, and try whether any prayer or persuasion could
move Pluto to restore his beloved.
Near Taenarum, in Laconia, was a cave among dark and gloomy rocks,
through which led one of the entrances to the Lower World. This
was the road by which Hercules descended when he went to carry off
Cerberus, the three-headed dog that guards the threshold of Pluto.
Undaunted by the terrors of the place, Orpheus passed through this
gate and down a dark and dismal road to the kingdom of the dead. Here
he came in safety through the crowd of ghosts and phantoms, and stood
at last before the throne of Pluto and Proserpina. Then he touched the
chords of his lyre and chanted these words:
"Great lords of the world below the earth, to which all we mortals
must one day come, grant me to tell a simple tale and declare unto
you the truth. Not to look upon the blackness of Tartarus have I come
hither, nor yet to bind in chains the snaky heads on Cerberus. It is
my wife I seek. A viper's sting has robbed her of the years that were
her due. I should have borne my loss, indeed I tried to bear it, but I
was overcome by Love, a god well known in the world above, and I think
not without honor in your kingdom, unless the story of Proserpina's
theft be a lying tale. I beseech you, by the realms of the dead, by
mighty Chaos and the silence of your vast kingdom, revoke the untimely
doom of Eurydice. All our lives are forfeit to you. 'Tis but a short
delay, and late or soon we all hasten towards one goal. Hither all our
footsteps tend. This is our last home, yours is the sole enduring rule
over mankind. She too, when she shall have lived her allotted term of
years, will surely come under your sway. Till then, I implore you,
let her be mine. But if the Fates refuse a husband's prayers, I am
resolved never to return hence. My death shall give you a double
boon."
[Illustration: ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE.]
Thus he prayed and touched his harp in tune with his words. All around
him the lifeless ghosts came flocking, and as they heard they wept.
Tantalus forgot his hunger and thirst. Ixion's wheel stood still, the
Danaids set aside their leaky urns and Sisyphus sat on his stone to
listen. Never yet had such sweet strains been heard in the world of
gloom. Then, for the first time, tears moistened the cheeks of the
Furies, and even the king and queen of the dead were moved to pity.
They summoned Eurydice, and she came, yet halting from her recent
wound.
"Take her," says Pluto, "and lead her back to the light. But she must
follow you at a distance, nor must you once turn round to look upon
her till you have passed beyond these realms. Else the boon we grant
you will be but vain."
A steep path led upward from the realm of darkness, and the way was
hard to find through the gloom. In silence Orpheus led on, till the
goal was close at hand and the welcoming light of the upper air began
to penetrate the darkness. Then a sudden fear struck his heart. Had
Eurydice really followed his steps, or had she turned back, and was
all his toil in vain? Tom with anxiety and longing, he turned to gaze
on his beloved. Dimly he saw her, but for the last time, for a power
she could not resist drew her back. Orpheus stretched out his arms and
tried to seize her, but he only clasped the empty air. "Farewell, a
last farewell," she murmured, and vanished from his sight.
In vain Orpheus tried to follow her, in vain he besought Charon to
carry him a second time across the waters of Acheron. Seven days he
sat on the further bank without food or drink, nourished by his tears
and grief. Then at last he knew that the gods below were pitiless; and
full of sorrow he returned to the upper earth.
For three years he wandered among the mountains of Thrace, finding his
only consolation in the music of his lyre, for he shunned all men and
women and would have no bride after Eurydice.
One day he sat down to rest on a grassy hill in the sunshine, and
played and sang to beguile his sorrow. As he played, the coolness of
shady branches seemed all about him, and looking up he found himself
in the midst of a wood. Oak, poplar, lime, beech, laurel, ash, pine,
plane and maple and many another tree had gathered together here,
drawn from their distant forest homes by the sounds of Orpheus's lyre.
Yes, and the beasts and the birds of the field came too, and Orpheus
sat in their midst and sang and played the tunes of sorrow.
Suddenly a great noise was heard of laughter and shouting and
merry-making. For this was one of the feasts of Bacchus, and the women
were celebrating his rites, wandering over the mountains with dance
and revel. When they saw Orpheus they set up a shout of derision.
"See," they cried, "the wretched singer who mocks at women and will
have no bride but the dead. Come, let us kill him, and show that no
man shall despise us unpunished."
With these words they began to throw wands and stones at him, but even
the lifeless objects were softened by the music, and fell harmlessly
to the ground. Then the women raised a wild shout and made such a
clamor with trumpets and cymbals, that the soft tones of the harp were
drowned by the noise. Now at last the shots took effect, and in their
fury the women fell upon him, dealing blow on blow. Orpheus fell
lifeless to the ground.
But he was not to die unwept. The little birds of the forest mourned
for him, even the stony rocks wept, the trees shed their leaves with
grief, and the dryads and naiads tore their hair and put on the garb
of sorrow. Only the pitiless revelers knew no remorse. They seized the
singer's head and threw it with his lyre into the river Hebrus. There
it floated down stream and, strange to tell, the chords gave forth a
lament, and the lifeless tongue uttered words. "Eurydice, Eurydice,"
it cried, till head and lyre were carried down to the sea, and on
to Lesbos, the isle of sweet song, where in after years Alcaeus and
Sappho tuned afresh the lyre of Orpheus.
But the shade of the dead singer went down to Hades, and found
entrance at last. Thus Orpheus and Eurydice were re-united, and won in
death the bliss that was denied them in life.
MYTHS OF SCANDINAVIA
BALDUR
ADAPTED FROM A, AND E. KEARY'S VERSION
I
THE DREAM
Upon a summer's afternoon it happened that Baldur the Bright and Bold,
beloved of men and the gods, found himself alone in his palace of
Broadblink. Thor was walking among the valleys, his brow heavy
with summer heat; Frey and Gerda sported on still waters in their
cloud-leaf ship; Odin, for once, slept on the top of Air Throne; a
noon-day stillness pervaded the whole earth; and Baldur in Broadblink,
most sunlit of palaces, dreamed a dream.
The dream of Baldur was troubled. He knew not whence nor why; but when
he awoke he found that a new and weighty care was within him. It was
so heavy that Baldur could scarcely carry it, and yet he pressed it
closely to his heart and said, "Lie there, and do not fall on any one
but me." Then he rose up and walked out from the splendor of his
hall, that he might seek his own mother, Frigga, and tell her what had
happened. He found her in her crystal saloon, calm and kind, and ready
to sympathize; so he walked up to her, his hands pressed closely on
his heart, and lay down at her feet sighing.
"What is the matter, dear Baldur?" asked Frigga, gently.
"I do not know, mother," answered he. "I do not know what the matter
is; but I have a shadow in my heart."
"Take it out, then, my son, and let me look at it," replied Frigga.
"But I fear, mother, that if I do it will cover the whole earth."
Then Frigga laid her hand upon the heart of her son that she might
feel the shadow's shape. Her brow became clouded as she felt it; her
parted lips grew pale, and she cried out, "Oh! Baldur, my beloved son!
the shadow is the shadow of death!"
Then said Baldur, "I will die bravely, my mother."
But Frigga answered, "You shall not die at all; for I will not sleep
to-night until everything on earth has sworn to me that it will
neither kill nor harm you."
So Frigga stood up, and called to her everything on earth that had
power to hurt or slay. First she called all metals to her; and heavy
iron-ore came lumbering up the hill into the crystal hall, brass and
gold, copper, silver, lead, and steel, and stood before the Queen, who
lifted her right hand high in the air, saying, "Swear to me that you
will not injure Baldur"; and they all swore, and went. Then she called
to her all stones; and huge granite came with crumbling sandstone, and
white lime, and the round, smooth stones of the seashore, and Frigga
raised her arm, saying, "Swear that you will not injure Baldur";
and they swore, and went. Then Frigga called to her the trees; and
wide-spreading oak trees, with tall ash and sombre firs, came rushing
up the hill, and Frigga raised her hand, and said, "Swear that you
will not hurt Baldur"; and they said, "We swear," and went. After this
Frigga called to her the diseases, who came blown by poisonous
winds on wings of pain to the sound of moaning. Frigga said to them,
"Swear"; and they sighed, "We swear," then flew away. Then Frigga
called to her all beasts, birds, and venomous snakes, who came to her
and swore, and disappeared. Then she stretched out her hand to Baldur,
while a smile spread over her face, saying, "Now, my son, you cannot
die."
Just then Odin came in, and when he had heard from Frigga the whole
story, he looked even more mournful than she had done; neither did the
cloud pass from his face when he was told of the oaths that had been
taken.
"Why do you look so grave, my lord?" demanded Frigga at last. "Baldur
cannot die now."
But Odin asked very gravely, "Is the shadow gone out of our son's
heart, or is it still there?"
"It cannot be there," said Frigga, turning away her head resolutely,
and folding her hands before her.
But Odin looked at Baldur, and saw how it was. The hands pressed to
the heavy heart, the beautiful brow grown dim. Then immediately he
arose, saddled Sleipnir, his eight-footed steed, mounted him, and,
turning to Frigga, said, "I know of a dead prophetess, Frigga, who,
when she was alive, could tell what was going to happen; her grave
lies on the east side of Helheim, and I am going there to awake her,
and ask whether any terrible grief is really coming upon us."
So saying Odin shook the bridle in his hand, and the eight-footed,
with a bound, leaped forth, rushed like a whirlwind down the mountain
of Asgard, and then dashed into a narrow defile between rocks.
Sleipnir went on through the defile a long way, until he came to a
place where the earth opened her mouth. There Odin rode in and down a
broad, steep, slanting road which led him to the cavern Gnipa, and the
mouth of the cavern Gnipa yawned upon Niflheim. Then thought Odin to
himself, "My journey is already done." But just as Sleipnir was about
to leap through the jaws of the pit, Garm, the voracious dog who was
chained to the rock, sprang forward, and tried to fasten himself upon
Odin. Three times Odin shook him off, and still Garm, as fierce as
ever, went on with the fight. At last Sleipnir leaped, and Odin thrust
just at the same moment; then horse and rider cleared the entrance,
and turned eastward towards the dead prophetess's grave, dripping
blood along the road as they went; while the beaten Garm stood baying
in the cavern's mouth.
When Odin came to the grave he got off his horse, and stood with his
face northward, looking through barred enclosures into the city of
Helheim itself. The servants of Hela were very busy there making
preparations for some new guest--hanging gilded couches with curtains
of anguish and splendid misery upon the walls. Then Odin's heart died
within him, and he began to repeat mournful runes in a low tone.
The dead prophetess turned heavily in her grave at the sound of his
voice, and sat bolt upright. "What man is this," she asked, "who dares
disturb my sleep?"
Then Odin, for the first time in his life, said what was not true; the
shadow of Baldur dead fell upon his lips, and he made answer, "My name
is Vegtam, the son of Valtam."
"And what do you want of me?" asked the prophetess.
"I want to know," replied Odin, "for whom Hela is making ready that
gilded couch in Helheim?"
"That is for Baldur the Beloved," answered the prophetess. "Now go
away and let me sleep again, for my eyes are heavy."
But Odin said, "Only one word more. Is Baldur going to Helheim?"
"Yes, I've told you that he is," was the answer.
"Will he never come back to Asgard again?"
"If everything on earth should weep for him," said she, "he will go
back; if not, he will remain in Helheim."
Then Odin covered his face with his hands and looked into darkness.
"Do go away," said the prophetess, "I'm so sleepy; I cannot keep my
eyes open any longer."
But Odin raised his head and said again, "Only tell me one thing.
Just now, as I looked into darkness, it seemed to me that I saw one on
earth who would not weep for Baldur. Who was it?"
At this she grew very angry and said, "How couldst _thou_ see in
darkness? I know of only one who, by giving away his eye, gained
light. No Vegtam art thou but Odin, chief of men."
At her angry words Odin became angry, too, and called out as loudly
as he could, "No prophetess nor wise woman, but rather the mother of
three giants."
"Go, go!" answered the prophetess, falling back in her grave; "no man
shall waken me again until Loki have burst his chains and the Twilight
of the Gods be come." After this Odin mounted the eight-footed once
more and rode thoughtfully home.
II
THE PEACESTEAD
When Odin came back to Asgard, Hermod took the bridle from his
father's hand and told him that the rest of the gods were gone to the
Peacestead--a broad, green plain which lay just outside the city. This
was the playground of the gods, where they practised trials of skill
and held tournaments and sham fights. These last were always conducted
in the gentlest and most honorable manner; for the strongest law of
the Peacestead was, that no angry blow should be struck, or spiteful
word spoken, upon the sacred field; and for this reason some have
thought it might be well if children also had a Peacestead to play in.
Odin was too tired from his journey to go to the Peacestead that
afternoon; so he turned away and shut himself up in his palace of
Gladsheim. But when he was gone, Loki came into the city by another
way, and hearing from Hermod where the gods were, set off to join
them.
When he got to the Peacestead, Loki found that the gods were standing
round in a circle shooting at something, and he peeped between the
shoulders of two of them to find out what it was. To his surprise he
saw Baldur standing in the midst, erect and calm, whilst his friends
and brothers were aiming their weapons at him. Some hewed at him with
their swords,--others threw stones at him--some shot arrows pointed
with steel, and Thor continually swung his great hammer at his head.
"Well," said Loki to himself, "if this is the sport of Asgard, what
must that of Joetunheim be? I wonder what Father Odin and Mother Frigga
would say if they were here?" But as Loki still looked, he became even
more surprised, for the sport went on, and Baldur was not hurt. Arrows
aimed at his very heart glanced back again untinged with blood. The
stones fell down from his broad, bright brow, and left no bruises
there. Swords clave, but did not wound him; Thor's hammer struck him,
and he was not crushed. At this Loki grew perfectly furious with envy
and hatred. "And why is Baldur to be so honored," said he "that even
steel and stone shall not hurt him?" Then Loki changed himself into a
little, dark, bent old woman, with a stick, and hobbled away from the
Peacestead to Frigga's crystal saloon. At the door he knocked with the
stick.
"Come in!" said the kind voice of Frigga, and Loki lifted the latch.
Now when Frigga saw, from the other end of the hall, a little, bent,
crippled old woman come hobbling up her crystal floor, she got up with
true queenliness and met her halfway, holding out her hand and saying
in the kindest manner, "Pray sit down, my poor old friend; for it
seems to me that you have come from a great distance."
"That I have, indeed," answered Loki in a tremulous, squeaking voice.
"And did you happen to see anything of the gods," asked Frigga, "as
you came?"
"Just now I passed by the Peacestead and saw them at play."
"What were they doing?"
"Shooting at Baldur."
Then Frigga bent over her work with a pleased smile on her face. "And
nothing hurt him?"
"Nothing," answered Loki, looking keenly at her.
"No, no thing," murmured Frigga, still looking down and speaking half
musingly to herself; "for all things have sworn to me that they will
not."
"Sworn!" exclaimed Loki, eagerly; "what is that you say? Has
everything sworn then?"
"Everything," answered she, "excepting the little shrub mistletoe,
which grows, you know, on the west side of Valhalla, and to which I
said nothing, because I thought it was too young to swear."
"Excellent!" thought Loki, and then he got up.
"You're not going yet, are you?" said Frigga, stretching out her hand
and looking up at last into the eyes of the old woman.
"I'm quite rested now, thank you," answered Loki in his squeaky voice,
and then he hobbled out at the door, which clapped after him, and
sent a cold gust into the room. Frigga shuddered, and thought that a
serpent was gliding down the back of her neck.
When Loki had left the presence of Frigga, he changed himself back to
his proper shape and went straight to the west side of Valhalla,
where the mistletoe grew. Then he opened his knife and cut off a large
bunch, saying these words, "Too young for Frigga's oaths, but not too
weak for Loki's work." After which he set off for the Peacestead once
more, the mistletoe in his hand. When he got there he found that
the gods were still at their sport, standing round, taking aim, and
talking eagerly, and Baldur did not seem tired.
But there was one who stood alone, leaning against a tree, and who
took no part in what was going on. This was Hoedur, Baldur's blind
twin-brother; he stood with his head bent downwards, silent while the
others were speaking, doing nothing when they were most eager; and
Loki thought that there was a discontented expression on his face,
just as if he were saying to himself, "Nobody takes any notice of me."
So Loki went up to him and put his hand upon his shoulder.
"And why are you standing here all alone, my brave friend?" said he.
"Why don't _you_ throw something at Baldur? Hew at him with a sword,
or show him some attention of that sort."
"I haven't a sword," answered Hoedur, with an impatient gesture; "and
you know as well as I do, Loki, that Father Odin does not approve of
my wearing warlike weapons, or joining in sham fights, because I am
blind."
"Oh! is that it?" said Loki. Well, I only know _I_ shouldn't like to
be left out of everything. However, I've got a twig of mistletoe here
which I'll lend you if you like; a harmless little twig enough, but
I shall be happy to guide your arm if you would like to throw it, and
Baldur might take it as a compliment from his twin-brother."
"Let me feel it," said Hoedur, stretching out his groping hands.
"This way, this way, my dear friend," said Loki, giving him the twig.
"Now, as hard as ever you can, to do _him honor_; throw!"
Hoedur threw--Baldur fell, and the shadow of death covered the whole
earth.
III
BALDUR DEAD
One after another they turned and left the Peacestead, the friends and
brothers of the slain. One after another they turned and went towards
the city; crushed hearts, heavy footsteps, no word amongst them, a
shadow upon all. The shadow was in Asgard, too--had walked through
Frigga's hall and seated itself upon the threshold of Gladsheim. Odin
had just come out to look at it, and Frigga stood by in mute despair
as the gods came up.
"Loki did it! Loki did it!" they said at last in confused, hoarse
whispers, and they looked from one to another,--upon Odin, upon
Frigga, upon the shadow which they saw before them, and which they
felt within. "Loki did it! Loki, Loki!" they went on saying; but it
was of no use to repeat the name of Loki over and over again when
there was another name they were too sad to utter but which filled all
their hearts--Baldur. Frigga said it first, and then they all went to
look at him lying down so peacefully on the grass--dead, dead.
"Carry him to the funeral pyre!" said Odin, at length; and four of the
gods stooped down and lifted their dead brother.
Noiselessly they carried the body tenderly to the seashore and laid
it upon the deck of the majestic ship, Ringhorn, which had been _his_.
Then they stood waiting to see who would come to the funeral. Odin
came, and on his shoulders sat his two ravens, whose croaking drew
clouds down over the Asa's face, for Thought and Memory sang the same
sad song that day. Frigga came,--Frey, Gerda, Freyja, Thor, Hoenir,
Bragi, and Idun. Heimdall came sweeping over the tops of the mountains
on Golden Mane, his swift, bright steed. AEgir the Old groaned from
under the deep, and sent his daughters up to mourn around the dead.
Frost-giants and mountain-giants came crowding round the rimy shores
of Joetunheim to look across the sea upon the funeral of an Asa. Nanna
came, Baldur's fair young wife; but when she saw the dead body of her
husband, her own heart broke with grief, and the gods laid her beside
him on the stately ship. After this Odin stepped forward and placed a
ring on the breast of his son, whispering something at the same
time in his ear; but when he and the rest of the gods tried to push
Ringhorn into the sea before setting fire to it, they found their
hearts too heavy to do it. So they beckoned to the giantess Hyrrokin
to come over from Joetunheim and help them. She, with a single push,
set the ship floating, and then, whilst Thor stood up holding his
hammer high in the air, Odin lighted the funeral pile of Baldur and of
Nanna.
So Ringhorn went floating towards the deep sea and the funeral fire
burnt on. Its broad red flame burst forth heavenward, but when the
smoke would have gone upward too, the winds came sobbing and carried
it away.
IV
HELHEIM
When at last the ship Ringhorn had floated out so far to sea that it
looked like a dull red lamp on the horizon, Frigga turned round and
said, "Will any one of you, my children, perform a noble action and
win my love forever?"
"I will," cried Hermod, before any one else had time to open his lips.
"Go, then, Hermod," answered Frigga, "saddle Sleipnir with all speed
and ride down to Helheim; there seek out Hela, the stern mistress of
the dead, and entreat her to send our beloved back to us again."
Hermod was gone in the twinkling of an eye, not in at the mouth of the
earth and through the steep cavern down which Odin went to the dead
prophetess's grave; he chose another way, though not a better one;
for, go to Helheim as you will, the best is but a downward road, and
so Hermod found it--downward, slanting, slippery, dark, and very cold.
At last he came to the Giallar Bru--that sounding river which flows
between the living and the dead, and to the bridge over it which is
paved with stones of glittering gold. Hermod was surprised to see
gold in such a place; but as he rode over the bridge, and looked down
carefully at the stones, he saw that they were only tears which had
been shed round the beds of the dying--only tears, and yet they made
the way seem brighter. But when Hermod reached the other end of the
bridge, he found the courageous woman who, for ages and ages, had been
sitting there to watch the dead go by, and she stopped him saying:
"What a noise you make! Who are you? Yesterday five troops of dead men
went over the Giallar Bridge and did not shake it so much as you have
done. Besides," she added, looking more closely at Hermod, "you are
not a dead man at all. Your lips are neither cold nor blue. Why, then,
do you ride on the way to Helheim?"
"I seek Baldur," answered Hermod. "Tell me, have you seen him pass?"
"Baldur," she said, "has ridden over the bridge; but there below,
towards the north, lies the way to the Abodes of Death."
So Hermod went on the way until he came to the barred gates of Helheim
itself. There he alighted, tightened his saddle-girths, remounted,
clapped both spurs to his horse, and cleared the gate by one
tremendous leap. Then Hermod found himself in a place where no living
man had ever been before--the City of the Dead. Perhaps you think
there is a great silence there, but you are mistaken. Hermod thought
he had never in his life heard so much noise; for the echoes of all
words were speaking together--words, some newly uttered and some ages
old; but the dead men did not hear who flitted up and down the dark
streets, for their ears had been stunned and become cold long since.
Hermod rode on through the city until he came to the palace of
Hela, which stood in the midst. Precipice was its threshold, the
entrance-hall, Wide Storm, and yet Hermod was not too much afraid to
seek the innermost rooms; so he went on to the banqueting hall, where
Hela sat at the head of her table serving her new guests. Baldur,
alas! sat at her right hand, and on her left his pale young wife. When
Hela saw Hermod coming up the hall she smiled grimly, but beckoned to
him at the same time to sit down, and told him that he might sup that
night with her. It was a strange supper for a living man to sit down
to. Hunger was the table; Starvation, Hela's knife; Delay, her man;
Slowness, her maid; and Burning Thirst, her wine. After supper Hela
led the way to the sleeping apartments. "You see," she said, turning
to Hermod, "I am very anxious about the comfort of my guests. Here are
beds of unrest provided for all, hung with curtains of Weariness, and
look how all the walls are furnished with Despair."
So saying she strode away, leaving Hermod and Baldur together. The
whole night they sat on those unquiet couches and talked. Hermod could
speak of nothing but the past, and as he looked anxiously round the
room his eyes became dim with tears. But Baldur seemed to see a light
far off, and he spoke of what was to come.
The next morning Hermod went to Hela, and entreated her to let Baldur
return to Asgard. He even offered to take his place in Helheim if she
pleased; but Hela only laughed at this and said: "You talk a great
deal about Baldur, and boast how much every one loves him; I will
prove now if what you have told me be true. Let everything on earth,
living or dead, weep for Baldur, and he shall go home again; but if
_one_ thing only refuse to weep, then let Helheim hold its own; he
shall _not_ go."
"Every one will weep willingly," said Hermod, as he mounted Sleipnir
and rode towards the entrance of the city. Baldur went with him as far
as the gate and began to send messages to all his friends in Asgard,
but Hermod would not listen to many of them.
"You will soon come back to us," he said, "there is no use in sending
messages."
So Hermod darted homewards, and Baldur watched him through the bars of
Helheim's gateway as he flew along.
"Not soon, not soon," said the dead Asa; but still he saw the light
far off, and thought of what was to come.
V
WEEPING
"Well, Hermod, what did she say?" asked the gods from the top of the
hill as they saw him coming; "make haste and tell us what she said."
And Hermod came up.
"Oh! is that all?" they cried, as soon as he had delivered his
message. "Nothing can be more easy," and then they all hurried off to
tell Frigga. She was weeping already, and in five minutes there was
not a tearless eye in Asgard.
"But this is not enough," said Odin; "the whole earth must know of our
grief that it may weep with us."
Then the father of the gods called to him his messenger maidens--the
beautiful Valkyries--and sent them out into all worlds with these
three words on their lips, "Baldur is dead!" But the words were so
dreadful that at first the messenger maidens could only whisper them
in low tones as they went along, "Baldur is dead!" The dull, sad
sounds flowed back on Asgard like a new river of grief, and it seemed
to the gods as if they now wept for the first time--"Baldur is dead!"
"What is that the Valkyries are saying?" asked the men and women in
all the country round, and when they heard rightly, men left their
labor and lay down to weep--women dropped the buckets they were
carrying to the well, and, leaning their faces over them, filled them
with tears. The children crowded upon the doorsteps, or sat down at
the corners of the streets, crying as if their own mothers were dead.
The Valkyries passed on. "Baldur is dead!" they said to the empty
fields; and straightway the grass and the wild field-flowers shed
tears.
"Baldur is dead!" said the messenger maidens to the rocks and stones;
and the very stones began to weep. "Baldur is dead!" the Valkyries
cried; and even the old mammoth's bones which had lain for centuries
under the hills, burst into tears, so that small rivers gushed forth
from every mountain's side. "Baldur is dead!" said the messenger
maidens as they swept over silent sands; and all the shells wept
pearls. "Baldur is dead!" they cried to the sea, and to Joetunheim
across the sea; and when the giants understood it, even they wept,
while the sea rained spray to heaven. After this the Valkyries stepped
from one stone to another until they reached a rock that stood alone
in the middle of the sea; then, all together, they bent forward over
the edge of it, stooped down and peeped over, that they might tell
the monsters of the deep. "Baldur is dead!" they said, and the sea
monsters and the fish wept. Then the messenger maidens looked at one
another and said, "Surely our work is done." So they twined their
arms round one another's waists, and set forth on the downward road to
Helheim, there to claim Baldur from among the dead.
After he had sent forth his messenger maidens, Odin had seated himself
on the top of Air Throne that he might see how the earth received his
message. At first he watched the Valkyries as they stepped forth north
and south, and east and west; but soon the whole earth's steaming
tears rose up like a great cloud and hid everything from him. Then
he looked down through the cloud and said, "Are you all weeping?" The
Valkyries heard the sound of his voice as they went all together down
the slippery road, and they turned round, stretching out their arms
towards Air Throne, their long hair falling back, while, with choked
voices and streaming eyes, they answered, "The world weeps, Father
Odin; the world and we."
After this they went on their way until they came to the end of the
cave Gnipa, where Garm was chained, and which yawned over Niflheim.
"The world weeps," they said one to another by way of encouragement,
for here the road was so dreadful; but just as they were about to
pass through the mouth of Gnipa they came upon a haggard witch named
Thaukt, who sat in the entrance with her back to them, and her face
toward the abyss. "Baldur is dead! Weep, weep!" said the messenger
maidens, as they tried to pass her; but Thaukt made answer:
"What she doth hold,
Let Hela keep;
For naught care I,
Though the world weep,
O'er Baldur's bale.
Live he or die
With tearless eye,
Old Thaukt shall wail."
And with these words leaped into Niflheim with a yell of triumph.
"Surely that cry was the cry of Loki," said one of the maidens; but
another pointed towards the city of Helheim, and there they saw the
stern face of Hela looking over the wall.
"One has not wept," said the grim Queen, "and Helheim holds its own."
So saying she motioned the maidens away with her long, cold hand.
Then the Valkyries turned and fled up the steep way to the foot of
Odin's throne, like a pale snowdrift that flies before the storm.
THOR'S ADVENTURES AMONG THE JOETUNS
ADAPTED BY JULIA GODDARD
Once upon a time Thor set out upon his travels, taking Loki with
him, for despite Loki's spirit of mischief he often aided Thor, who
doubtless, in the present expedition, felt that Loki might be of use
to him.
So they set off together in Thor's chariot, drawn by its two strong
he-goats, and as night drew nigh, stopped at the hut of a peasant,
where they asked food and shelter.
"Food I have none to give you," said the peasant. "I am a poor man and
not able even to give supper to my children, but if you like to rest
under my roof you are welcome to do so."
"Never mind the food; I can manage that," said Thor, dismounting from
the chariot and entering the hut.
It was a poor place, and not at all fitted to receive one of the Asi,
but Thor was glad enough to meet with it, wretched as it was.
"You can kill the goats," said he; "they will make us an excellent
meal."
The peasant could not help thinking that it was a pity to kill two
such fine animals; but wisely thinking that this was no affair of his,
and that the stranger had a right to do as he pleased with his own, he
set himself to obey Thor's orders, and with the help of his daughter
Raska soon spread a savory repast before the hungry god and his
attendant.
"Sit down, all of you," said Thor; "there is enough and to spare."
So they all sat down, and the peasant and his children shared a more
plentiful meal than had fallen to their lot lately. Thor and Loki
also did ample justice to the food, and when supper was over the
thunder-god bade the peasant gather the bones and place them in the
goatskins, and making them into a bundle he left them on the floor
until the next morning.
When the morning came and the early sun shone in through the crevices,
Thor raised his hammer, and instead of the bundle of bones the peasant
and his son and daughter saw the two goats standing as fresh and
lively as if nothing had happened to them, saving that one of them
halted a little in his walk.
When they sought to learn why this should be, it was found that
Thialfe, the boy, in getting the marrow out of one of the bones, had
broken it, and it was this that caused the goat to go lame.
Thor was very angry, and was very near killing not only Thialfe but
also the peasant and his daughter Raska, but they begged so hard for
their lives that he consented to spare them on condition that the boy
and girl should follow him in his travels.
To this they agreed, and Thor, leaving the chariot and goats in the
peasant's care, went on his journey, giving Thialfe, who was a very
swift runner, his wallet to carry.
On and on they journeyed until they came to a great sea.
"How are we to get over this?" asked Loki.
"Swim across it," replied Thor.
And in they all plunged, for Thialfe and Raska were used to a hardy
life, and so were able to swim with scarcely more weariness than Thor
and Loki, and were not long in reaching the opposite shore.
"The country does not improve," said Loki, looking round upon the
desolate plain that lay outstretched between them and the borders of a
dark forest, which they could just see in the far distance. One or
two huge rocks thrust their jagged points high into the air, and great
blocks of stone were scattered about, but there was no sign of herbage
and not a tree to be seen nearer than the forest belt bounding the
horizon. Heavy gray clouds were drawing nearer and nearer to the
dreary earth, and twilight was fast approaching. "It looks not well,"
answered Thor, "but we must push on and perhaps may find it better
as we go onward. Besides, night is drawing nigh, and as there are no
dwellings to be seen we must try to gain the shelter of the forest
before it is too dark to see where we are going."
So they pushed on, and though they looked to the right hand and to the
left, soon found that they were in a land where no men lived. There
was, therefore, nothing to be done but to quicken their speed, in
order to reach the shelter of the forest. But though they strove
to the utmost, the twilight deepened into darkness and the darkness
became so deep by the time they reached the forest, that they only
knew they had arrived there by Loki's striking his head against a low
branch, and soon after this Thor cried out:
"Good luck! I have found a house. Follow close after me and we will
make ourselves comfortable for the night."
For Thor in groping along had come to what he supposed to be a wall of
solid masonry.
"Where are you?" asked Loki, "for it is so dark that I cannot see
you."
"Here," answered Thor, stretching out his hand; "take hold and follow
me."
So Loki clutched Thor's arm, and Thialfe in turn seized the arm of
Loki, whilst Raska clung to her brother and wished herself safe at
home in her father's hut.
And thus they groped their way along the wall, seeking to find an
entrance to the house.
At last Thor found a huge entrance opening into a wide, hall, and
passing through this they turned to the left into a large room which
was quite empty, and here, after eating some food, they stretched
themselves upon the hard floor and wearied out with the day's march,
soon fell asleep.
But they did not sleep long. Their slumbers were broken by a rumbling
sound as of a coming earthquake; the walls of the house shook, and
peals of thunder echoed through the lofty chamber.
Thor sprang up. "We are scarcely safe here," he said; "let us seek
some other room." Loki jumped up speedily, as did also Thialfe and
Raska, who were in a great fright, wondering what dreadful thing was
going to happen to them. They willingly followed Thor, hoping to find
a safer place.
To the right they saw another room like a long gallery with a huge
doorway, and into this Loki, Thialfe, and Raska crept, choosing the
farthest corner of it; but Thor took his stand at the doorway to be on
the watch if any fresh danger should threaten them.
After a somewhat uncomfortable rest, Loki, Thialfe, and Raska were not
sorry to find that the day had dawned, though as there were no windows
in the house, they only knew it by hearing the cock crow.
Thor was better off, for the doorway was so wide that the sunlight
came pouring in without hindrance. Indeed the huge size of the doorway
made Thor think that the builder must have given up all hope of ever
finding a door large enough to fit into it.
He strolled away from the house, and the first thing that he saw was
a huge giant fast asleep upon the greensward; and now he knew that the
thunder that had so frightened them in the night had been nothing more
or less than the loud snoring of the giant.
So wroth was Thor at the thought that such a thing should have made
him afraid, that he fastened on his belt of strength and drew his
sword and made towards the giant as though he would kill him on the
spot.
But the giant, opening his great round eyes, stared so steadily at
Thor that the god became mazed and could do nothing but stare in
return.
At last, however, he found voice to ask, "What is your name?"
"My name," said the giant, raising himself on one elbow, thereby
causing his head to rise so high into the air that Thor thought it was
taking flight altogether, "is Skrymner; you, I believe, are the god
Thor?"
"I am," answered the god.
"Do you happen to have picked up my glove?" asked the giant
carelessly.
Then Thor knew that what he and his companions had taken for a large
house was only the giant's glove, and from this we may judge how huge
a giant Skrymner must have been.
Thor made no answer, and Skrymner next asked whither Thor was
traveling; and when he found that he was journeying to Utgard, offered
to bear him company, as he too was going to the same place.
Thor accepted the giant's offer, and after eating a hearty meal, all
were ready for another day's march.
Skrymner showed himself a kindly giant, and insisted upon carrying
Thor's bag of meal, putting it into his own wallet, which he slung
across his broad shoulders.
It must have been a strange sight, indeed, to see the great giant
stalking along with his smaller companions at his heels; and we may
well marvel how they managed to keep pace with him, or how Thor was
able to raise his voice to such a pitch as to reach the giant's ears.
Nevertheless all went well, and they trudged cheerfully along, never
flagging in their talk.
Once Skrymner took Raska on his shoulder, but the height made her so
giddy that she was glad to come down again and walk quietly by the
side of Thialfe.
When night overtook them they encamped under one of the great
oak-trees, for they were not yet out of the bounds of the forest.
Skrymner, to judge by his loud snoring, fell asleep the moment he lay
down upon the ground, but Thor and his comrades were not so tired
as to forget that they had tasted nothing since breakfast time.
Accordingly they set to work to open the wallet that Skrymner had
given into their hands before closing his eyes.
But it was no easy task, and with all their efforts they failed to
open it. Not a knot could they untie, and their fingers were chafed
and aching.
Neither were they more able to awaken Skyrmner, and Thor's anger waxed
exceedingly fierce. "You shall pay for this," said he, flinging his
hammer at the giant.
Skrymner half opened the eye nearest to Thor, and said in a very
sleepy voice, "Why will the leaves drop off the trees?" And then he
snored as loudly as before.
Thor picked up his hammer, and approaching nearer drove it into the
hinder part of the giant's head, who again, half waking up, muttered,
"How troublesome the dust is!"
Thor was exceedingly astonished at this, but thought nevertheless
that he would once more make trial of his power; so coming up close
to Skrymner he struck with such force as to drive the hammer up to the
handle in the giant's cheek.
Then Skrymner opened both eyes, and lazily lifting his finger to his
face said, "I suppose there are birds about, for I fancied I felt a
feather fall."
Now was Thor fairly disconcerted; and the next morning, when the giant
told him that they must now part, as his road led him another way, he
was by no means ill-pleased, and he let Skrymner go without so much as
bidding him "good speed." Skrymner, however, seemed not to notice
that Thor was glad to be quit of his company, and gave him some very
friendly advice before he left him.
"If you will take my advice," said the giant, "you will give up this
thought of visiting Utgard. The people there are all giants of greater
stature even than I, and they make nothing of little men, such as
you are. Nay, more, you yourself are likely to fare but badly amongst
them, for I see that you are rather apt to think too much of yourself
and to take too much upon you. Be wise while there is time, think of
what I say, and don't go near the city."
"But I will go there," shouted Thor, almost choked with rage; "I will
go in spite of all the Joetuns of Joetunheim. None shall hinder me, and
the giants shall see and wonder at the mighty power of the god Thor."
And as he spoke the rising sun fell full upon the city of Utgard,
whose huge brazen gates glittered in the sunlight. Even though they
were so far away, Thor could see how high they were; and as he drew
nearer, their vast size filled him with amazement; but when he reached
them his wonder was beyond all words, for he and his companions seemed
no larger than grasshoppers, in comparison with their height.
The gates were not open, for it was yet early; so Thor and his
comrades crept through the bars, and entered the city. As they passed
along the streets the houses were so tall that it was only by crossing
to the opposite side of the broad road that they were able to see the
windows in the topmost stories. And the streets were so wide that it
was quite a journey across them.
Once a mouse darted out of a hole, and Raska screamed, for she thought
it was a grisly bear. The mouse also shrieked and made much more noise
than Raska, as well it might, for a cat so huge that Thialfe half
thought it must be the monster of Midgard seized it, and giving it a
pat with one of its paws laid it dead on the pavement.
As for the horses, their hoofs were terrible to look at, and Thialfe
and Raska must have climbed up ladders if they wished to see their
heads.
The people were quite as large as Skrymner had described and Thor and
his companions were obliged to be very careful lest they should get
trodden upon, as it was very doubtful if the people even saw them.
Still Thor walked along with the proud consciousness that he was the
god Thor; and feeling that though he was so small he was yet a person
of some importance, made his way to the palace, and desired to see the
King.
After some little time he and his fellow travelers were ushered into
the presence of Utgarda Loke, the King of the country. And Utgarda
Loke, hearing the door open, raised his eyes, thinking to see some
great courtier enter, but he knew nothing of the bows and greetings of
Thor, until happening to cast his eyes to the ground, he saw a little
man with his companions saluting him with much ceremony.
The King had never seen such small men before, and there was something
so absurd to him in the sight, that he burst out laughing.
And then all the courtiers laughed also, pretending that they had not
seen the little creatures before.
It was some time before they all left off laughing, but at length
there was a pause, and Thor essayed to make himself heard.
"Though we are but small in comparison with the Joetuns," said he
angrily, "we are by no means to be despised, but are gifted with
powers that may surprise you."
"Really!" answered Utgarda Loke, raising his eyebrows. And then he and
his courtiers laughed louder than before.
At last there was another pause in their merriment, and the King
added: "However, we are willing to give the strangers a fair trial in
order to prove the truth of what their spokesman, whom I take to be
the god Thor, says. How say you? What can this one do?" And he pointed
to Loki.
"Please your Majesty, I am very great at eating," returned Loki.
"Nay," answered Utgarda Loke, "you must grow a little before you are
great at anything."
At which speech the courtiers again shouted with laughter; but Utgarda
Loke, turning to his servants, bade them make trial of Loki's powers.
So they brought a great trough full of food, and Loki was placed at
one end, and a courtier named Loge at the other. They both fell to
work to devour what was before them, and met at the middle of the
trough. But it was found that while Loki had eaten the flesh of his
portion, Loge had eaten, not only the flesh, but the bones also.
Therefore Loki, was, of course, vanquished.
Then Utgarda Loke turned to Thialfe. "And pray, in what may this youth
be specially skilled?" he asked.
"I am a swift skater," answered Thialfe.
"Try him," said the King.
And Thialfe was led to a plain of ice, as smooth as glass, and one
named Hugr was set to run against him. But though Thialfe was the
swiftest skater ever known in the world, yet Hugr glided past him so
fleetly that he had returned to the starting-post before Thialfe had
done more than a quarter of the distance.
Three times did Thialfe match his speed against Hugr, and, three times
beaten, withdrew from the contest as disconsolate as Loki.
"And now may I ask what you can do yourself?" said the King to Thor.
"I can drain a wine-cup with any one," replied the god.
"Try him," said Utgarda Loke.
And forthwith the royal cupbearer presented a drinking-horn to Thor.
"If you are as great as you pretend to be," said the King, "you will
drain it at one draught. Some people take two pulls at it, but the
weakest among us can manage it in three."
Thor took up the horn, and, being very thirsty, took a steady pull at
it. He thought he had done very well, but on removing it from his lips
he marveled to see how little had gone.
A second time he took a draught, but the horn was far from being
emptied.
Again a third time he essayed to drain it, but it was full almost to
the brim.
Therefore he set it down in despair, and confessed himself unable to
drain it.
"I am disappointed in you," said Utgarda Loke; "you are not half the
man I took you for. I see it is no use asking you to do warrior's
feats; I must try you in a simpler way, in a child's play that we have
amongst us. You shall try to lift my cat from the ground."
Thor turned quite scarlet, and then became white with rage.
"Are you afraid?" asked Utgarde Loke; "you look so pale."
And a large gray cat came leaping along, and planted itself firmly
before Thor, showing its sharp claws, and glaring upon him with its
fiery eyes.
Thor seized it, but in spite of all his efforts he was only able to
raise one of the cat's paws from the ground.
"Pooh! pooh!" exclaimed Utgarda Loke, "you are a mere baby, fit only
for the nursery. I believe that my old nurse Hela would be more than a
match for you. Here, Hela, come and wrestle with the mighty god Thor."
And Utgarda Loke laughed disdainfully.
Forth stepped a decrepit old woman, with lank cheeks and toothless
jaws. Her eyes were sunken, her brow furrowed, and her scanty locks
were white as snow.
She advanced towards Thor, and tried to throw him to the ground;
but though he put forth his whole strength to withstand her, he was
surprised to find how powerful she was, and that it needed all his
efforts to keep his feet. For a long time he was successful, but at
length she brought him down upon one knee, and Thor was obliged to
acknowledge himself conquered.
Ashamed and mortified, he and his companions withdrew to a lodging
for the night, and in the morning were making ready to leave the city
quietly, when Utgarda Loke sent for them.
He made them a splendid feast, and afterwards went with them beyond
the city gates.
"Now tell me honestly," said he to Thor, "what do you think of your
success?"
"I am beyond measure astounded and ashamed," replied the god.
"Ha! ha!" laughed Utgarda Loke. "I knew that you were. However, as
we are well out of the city I don't mind telling you a secret or two.
Doubtless you will receive a little comfort from my doing so, as you
confess that your coming hither has been to no purpose.
"In the first place, you have been deceived by enchantments ever since
you came within the borders of Joetunheim. I am the giant you met with
on your way hither, and if I had known as much of your power then as
I do now, you would never have found your way within the walls of
Utgard.
"Certainly I had had some slight experience of it, for the three blows
you gave me would have killed me had they fallen upon me. But it was
not I, but a huge mountain that you struck at; and if you visit it
again, you will find three valleys cleft in the rocks by the strokes
of your hammer.
"As for the wallet, I had fastened it with a magic chain, so that you
need not wonder that you could not open it.
"Loge, with whom Loki strove, was no courtier, but a subtle devouring
flame that consumed all before it."
Here Loki uttered an exclamation of delight, but Thor bade him be
silent, and Utgarda Loke went on:
"Thialfe's enemy was Hugr, or Thought, and let man work away as hard
as he pleases, Thought will still outrun him.
"As for yourself, the end of the drinking-horn, though you did not see
it, reached the sea, and as fast as you emptied it, it filled again,
so that you never could have drained it dry. But the next time that
you stand upon the seashore, you will find how much less the ocean is
by your draughts.
"The gray cat was no cat, but the great Serpent of Midgard, that
twines round the world, and you lifted him so high that we were all
quite frightened.
"But your last feat was the most wonderful of all, for Hela was none
other than Death. And never did I see any one before over whom Death
had so little power.
"And now, my friend, go your way, and don't come near my city again,
for I tell you plainly I do not want you there, and I shall use all
kinds of enchantment to keep you out of it."
As he ended his speech, Thor raised his hammer, but Utgarda Loke had
vanished.
"I will return to the city, and be avenged," said Thor.
But lo! the giant city was nowhere to be seen. A fair pasture-land
spread itself out around him, and through its midst a broad river
flowed peacefully along.
So Thor and his companions, musing upon their wonderful adventures,
turned their steps homewards.
THE APPLES OF IDUN
ADAPTED BY HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE
Once upon a time Odin, Loki, and Hoenir started on a journey. They had
often traveled together before on all sorts of errands, for they had
a great many things to look after, and more than once they had fallen
into trouble through the prying, meddlesome, malicious spirit of Loki,
who was never so happy as when he was doing wrong. When the gods went
on a journey they traveled fast and hard, for they were strong, active
spirits who loved nothing so much as hard work, hard blows, storm,
peril, and struggle. There were no roads through the country over
which they made their way, only high mountains to be climbed by rocky
paths, deep valleys into which the sun hardly looked during half the
year, and swift-rushing streams, cold as ice, and treacherous to the
surest foot and the strongest arm. Not a bird flew through the air,
not an animal sprang through the trees. It was as still as a desert.
The gods walked on and on, getting more tired and hungry at every
step. The sun was sinking low over the steep, pine-crested mountains,
and the travelers had neither breakfasted nor dined. Even Odin was
beginning to feel the pangs of hunger, like the most ordinary mortal,
when suddenly, entering a little valley, the famished gods came upon a
herd of cattle. It was the work of a minute to kill a great ox and to
have the carcass swinging in a huge pot over a roaring fire.
But never were gods so unlucky before! In spite of their hunger, the
pot would not boil. They piled on the wood until the great flames
crackled and licked the pot with their fiery tongues, but every time
the cover was lifted there was the meat just as raw as when it was
put in. It is easy to imagine that the travelers were not in very good
humor. As they were talking about it, and wondering how it could be,
a voice called out from the branches of the oak overhead, "If you will
give me my fill, I'll make the pot boil."
The gods looked first at each other and then into the tree, and there
they discovered a great eagle. They were glad enough to get their
supper on almost any terms, so they told the eagle he might have what
he wanted if he would only get the meat cooked. The bird was as good
as his word, and in less time than it takes to tell it supper was
ready. Then the eagle flew down and picked out both shoulders and both
legs. This was a pretty large share, it must be confessed, and Loki,
who was always angry when anybody got more than he, no sooner saw what
the eagle had taken, than he seized a great pole and began to beat the
rapacious bird unmercifully. Whereupon a very singular thing happened,
as singular things always used to happen when the gods were concerned:
the pole stuck fast in the huge talons of the eagle at one end, and
Loki stuck fast at the other end. Struggle as he might, he could not
get loose, and as the great bird sailed away over the tops of the
trees, Loki went pounding along on the ground, striking against rocks
and branches until he was bruised half to death.
The eagle was not an ordinary bird by any means, as Loki soon found
when he begged for mercy. The giant Thjasse happened to be flying
abroad in his eagle plumage when the hungry travelers came under the
oak and tried to cook the ox. It was into his hands that Loki had
fallen, and he was not to get away until he had promised to pay
roundly for his freedom.
If there was one thing which the gods prized above their other
treasures in Asgard, it was the beautiful fruit of Idun, kept by the
goddess in a golden casket and given to the gods to keep them forever
young and fair. Without these Apples all their power could not have
kept them from getting old like the meanest of mortals. Without these
Apples of Idun, Asgard itself would have lost its charm; for what
would heaven be without youth and beauty forever shining through it?
Thjasse told Loki that he could not go unless he would promise to
bring the Apples of Idun. Loki was wicked enough for anything;
but when it came to robbing the gods of their immortality, even he
hesitated. And while he hesitated the eagle dashed hither and thither,
flinging him against the sides of the mountains and dragging him
through the great tough boughs of the oaks until his courage gave out
entirely, and he promised to steal the Apples out of Asgard and give
them to the giant.
Loki was bruised and sore enough when he got on his feet again to hate
the giant who handled him so roughly, with all his heart, but he was
not unwilling to keep his promise to steal the Apples, if only for
the sake of tormenting the other gods. But how was it to be done? Idun
guarded the golden fruit of immortality with sleepless watchfulness.
No one ever touched it but herself, and a beautiful sight it was to
see her fair hands spread it forth for the morning feasts in Asgard.
The power which Loki possessed lay not so much in his own strength,
although he had a smooth way of deceiving people, as in the goodness
of others who had no thought of his doing wrong because they never did
wrong themselves.
Not long after all this happened, Loki came carelessly up to Idun as
she was gathering her Apples to put them away in the beautiful carven
box which held them.
"Good morning, goddess," said he. "How fair and golden your Apples
are!
"Yes," answered Idun; "the bloom of youth keeps them always
beautiful."
"I never saw anything like them," continued Loki slowly, as if he were
talking about a matter of no importance, "until the other day."
Idun looked up at once with the greatest interest and curiosity in her
face. She was very proud of her Apples, and she knew no earthly trees,
however large and fair, bore the immortal fruit.
"Where have you seen any Apples like them?" she asked.
"Oh, just outside the gates," said Loki indifferently. "If you care to
see them I'll take you there. It will keep you but a moment. The tree
is only a little way off."
Idun was anxious to go at once.
"Better take your Apples with you, to compare them with the others,"
said the wily god, as she prepared to go.
Idun gathered up the golden Apples and went out of Asgard, carrying
with her all that made it heaven. No sooner was she beyond the gates
than a mighty rushing sound was heard, like the coming of a tempest,
and before she could think or act, the giant Thjasse, in his eagle
plumage, was bearing her swiftly away through the air to his desolate,
icy home in Thrymheim, where, after vainly trying to persuade her to
let him eat the Apples and be forever young like the gods, he kept her
a lonely prisoner.
Loki, after keeping his promise and delivering Idun into the hands of
the giant, strayed back into Asgard as if nothing had happened. The
next morning, when the gods assembled for their feast, there was no
Idun. Day after day went past, and still the beautiful goddess did not
come. Little by little the light of youth and beauty faded from the
home of the gods, and they themselves became old and haggard. Their
strong, young faces were lined with care and furrowed by age, their
raven locks passed from gray to white, and their flashing eyes became
dim and hollow. Bragi, the god of poetry, could make no music while
his beautiful wife was gone he knew not whither.
Morning after morning the faded light broke on paler and ever paler
faces, until even in heaven the eternal light of youth seemed to be
going out forever.
Finally the gods could bear the loss of power and joy no longer. They
made rigorous inquiry. They tracked Loki on that fair morning when he
led Idun beyond the gates; they seized him and brought him into solemn
council, and when he read in their haggard faces the deadly hate which
flamed in all their hearts against his treachery, his courage failed,
and he promised to bring Idun back to Asgard if the goddess Freyja
would lend him her falcon guise. No sooner said than done; and with
eager gaze the gods watched him as he flew away, becoming at last only
a dark moving speck against the sky.
After long and weary flight Loki came to Thrymheim, and was glad
enough to find Thjassa gone to sea and Idun alone in his dreary house.
He changed her instantly into a nut, and taking her thus disguised in
his talons, flew away as fast as his falcon wings could carry him. And
he had need of all his speed, for Thjasse, coming suddenly home and
finding Idun and her precious fruit gone, guessed what had happened,
and, putting on his eagle plumage, flew forth in a mighty rage, with
vengeance in his heart. Like the rushing wings of a tempest, his
mighty pinions beat the air and bore him swiftly onward. From mountain
peak to mountain peak he measured his wide course, almost grazing at
times the murmuring pine forests, and then sweeping high in mid-air
with nothing above but the arching sky, and nothing beneath but the
tossing sea.
At last he sees the falcon far ahead, and now his flight becomes like
the flash of the lightning for swiftness, and like the rushing of
clouds for uproar. The haggard faces of the gods line the walls
of Asgard and watch the race with tremulous eagerness. Youth and
immortality are staked upon the winning of Loki. He is weary enough
and frightened enough, too, as the eagle sweeps on close behind him;
but he makes desperate efforts to widen the distance between them.
Little by little the eagle gains on the falcon. The gods grow white
with fear; they rush off and prepare great fires upon the walls. With
fainting, drooping wing the falcon passes over and drops exhausted
by the wall. In an instant the fires have been lighted, and the great
flames roar to heaven. The eagle sweeps across the fiery line a second
later and falls, maimed and burned to the ground; where a dozen fierce
hands smite the life out of him, and the great giant Thjasse perishes
among his foes.
Idun resumes her natural form as Bragi rushes to meet her. The gods
crowd round her. She spreads the feast, the golden Apples gleaming
with unspeakable lustre in the eyes of the gods. They eat; and once
more their faces glow with the beauty of immortal youth, their eyes
flash with the radiance of divine power, and, while Idun stands like
a star for beauty among the throng, the song of Bragi is heard once
more; for poetry and immortality are wedded again.
THE GIFTS OF THE DWARFS
Thor was, you may know, the strongest and noblest of the great giants
of the north. He was tall in stature and had fiery brown eyes, from
which the light flashed like lightning, while his long red beard
waved through the sky as he drove in his goat-drawn chariot. Brilliant
sparks flew from the hoofs and teeth of the two goats, while a crown
of bright stars shone above Thor's head. When he was angered the
wheels of his chariot rumbled and crashed their passage through the
air, until men trembled and hid, telling each other that Thor had gone
to battle with the Rime-giants or other of his enemies.
Now Thor's wife was named Sib, and she was most beautiful to look
upon. Her soft, browny-gold hair was so long and thick that it would
cover her from the crown of her head to her little feet, and her deep
brown eyes looked into the faces of her friends as those of a mother
look into the face of her child. Loki, the mischief-maker among the
giants, often looked at Sib and longed to do her some evil, for he was
jealous, thinking that it was not right that she should be praised and
loved by everyone; go where he would he could find no one who did not
speak well of her.
It happened one day when the summer was nearly gone that Loki found
Sib alone and sleeping on a bank near the river, so he drew his knife,
and creeping softly nearer and nearer, cut off her beautiful flowing
hair quite close to her head. Then he joyfully rushed away and strewed
it far and wide over the whole earth, so that it became no longer
living and golden but faded and turned a dull color as the winds blew
it about and the rains beat upon it, and crushed it in between the
rocks and stones. When Sib awoke and was about to push the hair from
her face, she felt that something was wrong. Wonderingly she ran to
the water and looking at her reflection in the clear depths, saw that
nothing but a short stubble stood up all over her head. All her lovely
hair was gone! Only one would have dared to treat her so badly, and in
her grief and anger she called upon Thor to come to her aid.
Loki had of course fled and was hiding far away in another country
among the rocks when he heard the distant rumblings of thunder, and
tried to shrink deeper into the crevices between the great stones, but
the awful sound grew louder, and at last the angry flash from Thor's
eyes darted to the very spot where the mischievous one lay. Then Thor
pulled him out and shook him from side to side in his enormous hands,
and would have crushed his bones upon the hard rocks had not Loki
in great terror asked what good his death would do, for it certainly
would not bring Sib's hair back. Then Thor set the mischief-maker on
his feet, though still keeping a tight hold on him, and asked what he
would do to repair the evil which he had done. Loki promptly answered
that he would go down into the mountains to the dwarfs, and get
Iwald's sons to make some golden hair for Sib, as good as that which
he had destroyed. Now Iwald had had seven sons, and these all
lived deep below the earth in the great caverns which lie below the
mountains, and these sons were small and dark; they did not like the
daylight for they were dwarfs who could see best without the sun to
dazzle their eyes; they knew where gold and silver grew, and they
could tell where to find beautiful shining stones, which were red, and
white, and yellow, and green; they knew the way all over the world by
running through caverns and passages under the mountains, and wherever
they could find precious stones or metals they built a furnace, and
made an anvil, and hammer and bellows, and everything that was wanted
in a smithy; for they knew how to fashion the most wonderful things
from gold and iron and stone, and they had knowledge which made them
more powerful than the people who lived above the ground.
Thor let the mischief-maker go to get the help of the dwarfs to repair
the wrong which he had done, and Loki sought about the mountain-side
until he found a hole which would lead him into Iwald's cave, and then
he promptly dropped into it. There in a dark cave gleaming with many
sparkling lights he went to the two cleverest dwarfs who were named
Sindri and Brok, and told them what it was he wanted, adding that he
would be in sore trouble with Thor if they could not help him. Now
Sindri and Brok knew all about Loki perfectly well; they knew all
about his mischievous ways and the evil he so often wrought, but as
they liked Thor and Sib they were willing to give the help which was
asked of them. Thus without more ado, for these dwarfs never wasted
their words, Sindri and Brok began their work.
Huge blocks of earth-brown stone were cast into the furnace until they
were in a white heat, when drop by drop red gold trickled from them
into the ashes. This was all gathered together, and the glistening
heap taken to the dwarf women, who, crushing it in their hands before
it had hardened, drew it out upon their wheels, and spun it into
fine soft hair. While they were doing this Brok sought amongst his
treasures until he found the blue of the ocean and the tough inner
pith of an underground tree; these, with other things, were cast into
the furnace, and afterwards beaten with his hammer. As the rhythmic
strokes fell, the women sang a song which was like the voice of a
strong, steady wind. Then when this work was finished, the smith drew
forth a little ship, which was carefully placed on one side. The third
time the dwarf went to a dark corner, and brought out an ugly bent bar
of iron, and this, with two feathers from the wings of the wind,
was heated to melting whiteness, and wrought with great cunning and
extreme care, for it was to be a spear for Odin himself, the greatest
of all the heroes.
Then Brok and Sindri called Loki to them and giving him these three
things bade him hasten back to the gods at Asgard and appease their
wrath. Loki, however, was already beginning to feel sorry that he had
been so successful; he liked teasing folk but he did not like having
to atone for his mischief afterwards. He turned the marvelous gifts
over scornfully in his hands, and said that he did not see anything
very wonderful in _them;_ then, looking at Sindri he added, "However,
Brok has hammered them very skilfully, and I will wager my head that
you could not make anything better."
Now the brother dwarfs had not by any means expected gratitude,
but neither had they expected any such rudeness as this, so Sindri
determined to give Loki a lesson. Going to one corner of the smithy
he picked up a pig-skin and taking the hammer in his hands, told
his brother to blow steadily, neither to falter nor to fail until
he passed the word that the work was done. Then with strength and
gentleness he wrought with his tools, having cast nothing into the
heat but the pig-skin; with mighty blows and delicate touches he
brought thickness and substance into it, until a board looked at him
from the flames. Loki, fearing for his head, changed himself into an
enormous forest fly, and settling upon Brok's hand, stung with vicious
fury; but the dwarf would not trouble to brush the fly away, and
steadily moved the bellows until his brother called to him to stop,
when they drew forth a strong flexible boar whose bristles were of the
finest gold.
Then without saying anything or paying any attention to the spiteful
words which Loki kept uttering, Sindri chose from a heap of gold the
most solid lump he could find and flung it into the white flames.
Thrice it was heated and cooled, and the dark elf turned it and worked
it with wonderful skill, and in the glow Loki saw a broad red ring,
which seemed to live and move. Again he tried to spoil the work as a
fly, and bit deeply into Brok's neck, but Brok would not so much as
raise his hand to rid him of the pain. When the ring was finally laid
to cool, so marvelously had it been wrought that from it each ninth
night would fall eight rings as beautiful as itself.
Now came the last test of Sindri's cunning. He cast into the furnace
a piece of fine iron, and told Brok his hand must neither tremble
nor stay, or the whole of their work would be useless. Then with wild
songs of strength upon his lips he hammered and tapped, until those
who were in the cave felt that they were out among the roaring waves;
they could hear the ice mountains grind and crash to pieces, and
the thunder of Thor's chariot wheels rushing through the heavens. A
frenzied horror seized upon Loki's mind. If these wretched dwarfs were
going to make anything to add to Thor's strength he knew that it would
be his own ruin. So, changing himself to a hornet, he sprang upon the
forehead of Brok, and dug so fiercely into his eyelids that the blood
trickled down and blinded him. Then the dwarf let go of the bellows
for one moment to clear his eyes, and Sindri cried out that what lay
in the furnace came near to being spoiled, and with that he took
a red-hot hammer up with his tongs. It was neither pretty, nor
particularly large, while the handle was an inch too short because of
Loki's spite.
Then Brok and Loki set out for Asgard, Loki carrying the three
wonderful things which had been given to him, while Brok carried the
three marvels which Sindri had so cunningly wrought and accompanied
the mischief-maker, that the gods might judge who had won the wager
so rashly offered by Loki. When they reached Asgard the gods seated
themselves on their high seats agreeing among themselves that Odin,
Thor and Frey should be judges in this case.
First, Loki offered to Odin the spear Gungner which was so wonderfully
made that it never failed to hit the thing at which it was thrown, and
it always sped back to the hand which had thrown it. Later, when Odin
carried this spear in battle, if he shook it over his enemies they
became so frightened that they all wanted to run away, but if he shook
it over his friends they were so filled with courage that they could
not be conquered. Then Thor received the hair, and when it was placed
upon Sib's head it grew to her like living tresses, curling and waving
in the wind. To Frey the ship was given, and though it was so small
that it could be folded and carried in his pocket, when it was placed
upon the waves it would grow large enough to hold an army of warriors
with all their war gear; besides, as soon as the sails were hoisted,
the wind would blow it whithersoever it was desired that the ship
should go.
Brok then made his offerings, and to Odin he gave the ring Drapnir
which had been made with such magic skill that every ninth night eight
other rings dropped off it, though no one could see how they came;
this the greatest of the gods ever wore upon his arm, until the death
of his beautiful son Baldur, when, as token of his great love he
placed it upon the dead youth's breast as he lay on his funeral pyre.
To Frey was given the golden boar, which would run faster than any
horse, over the sea or through the air, and wherever it went, there it
would be light, because the bristles shone so brightly. To Thor Brok
gave the dull-looking hammer, saying, that whatever he struck with it
would be destroyed; that no blow could be hard enough to hurt it; that
if he threw it, it would return to him so that he could never lose it;
and that as he wished so would its size be--yet there was one fault
about it, and that was that the handle was an inch too short.
It was with great joy that Thor took this treasure, knowing that in it
he had something to help him in fighting the evil Rime-giants who were
always trying to get the whole world for themselves until driven back
by him.
Then the gods decided that of all the gifts the hammer was the best,
and that, therefore, Loki had lost his wager and must lose his head.
Loki offered to give all sorts of things to save himself, but the
dwarf would not listen to any of them. "Catch me, then!" cried the
mischievous one; but when Brok stretched his hand upon him Loki had
gone, for he wore shoes which would carry him over the sea or through
the air.
"Catch him!" cried the ugly little dwarf piteously to Thor, and in an
instant Loki stood before them, trembling in Thor's strong grasp.
Then the clever one argued that it was his head only which had been
wagered, and that not one little tiny bit of his neck might be taken,
or the dwarf would have more than his bargain. At this Brok cried
impatiently that the head of a wicked person was of no use to him, all
that he wanted was to stop Loki's tongue so that he could work less
evil, and he took a knife and thread and tried to pierce holes in
Loki's lips, but Loki bewitched the knife so that it would not cut.
"If only I had Sindri's awl," sighed the dwarf, and instantly his
brother's awl was in his hand. Swiftly it pierced the lips of the
mischief-maker, and swiftly Brok sewed them together and broke off the
thread at the end of the sewing.
Then the gods gave presents for the dwarfs in return for their
wonderful things, and Brok returned to his cave. As for Loki, it
was not long before he loosed his lips and returned to his
mischief-making.
THE PUNISHMENT OF LOKI
ADAPTED FROM A. AND E. KEARY'S VERSION
After the death of Baldur, Loki never again ventured to intrude
himself into the presence of the gods. He knew well enough that he had
now done what could never be forgiven him, and that, for the future,
he must bend all his cunning and vigilance to the task of hiding
himself from the gaze of those whom he had so injured, and escaping
the just punishment he had brought upon himself.
"The world is large, and I am very clever," said Loki to himself, as
he turned his back upon Asgard, and wandered out into Manheim; "there
is no end to the thick woods, and no measure for the deep waters;
neither is there any possibility of counting the various forms under
which I shall disguise myself. Odin will never be able to find me; I
have no cause to fear." But though Loki repeated this over and over
again to himself, he _was_ afraid.
He wandered far into the thick woods, and covered himself with the
deep waters; he climbed to the tops of misty hills, and crouched in
the dark of hollow caves; but above the wood, and through the water,
and down into the darkness, a single ray of calm, clear light seemed
always to follow him, and he knew that it came from the eye of Odin
who was watching him from Air Throne.
Then he tried to escape the watchful eye by disguising himself under
various shapes. Sometimes he was an eagle on a lonely mountain-crag;
sometimes he hid himself as one among a troop of timid reindeer;
sometimes he lay in the nest of a wood-pigeon; sometimes he swam, a
bright-spotted fish, in the sea; but, wherever he was, among living
creatures, or alone with dead nature, everything seemed to know him,
and to find a voice in which to say to him, "You are Loki, and you
have killed Baldur." Air, earth, or water, there was no rest for him
anywhere.
Tired at last of seeking what he could nowhere find, Loki built
himself a house near a narrow, glittering river which, lower down
flashed from a high rock into the sea below. He took care that his
house should have four doors in it, that he might look out on every
side and catch the first glimpse of the gods when they came, as he
knew they would come, to take him away. Here his wife, Siguna, and his
two sons, Ali and Nari, came to live with him.
Siguna was a kind woman, far too good and kind for Loki. She felt
sorry for him now that she saw he was in great fear, and that every
living thing had turned against him, and she would have hidden him
from the just anger of the gods if she could; but the two sons cared
little about their father's dread and danger; they spent all their
time in quarreling with each other; and their loud, angry voices,
sounding above the waterfall, would speedily have betrayed the
hiding-place, even if Odin's piercing eye had not already found it
out.
At last, one day when he was sitting in the middle of his house
looking alternately out of all the four doors and amusing himself as
well as he could by making a fishing-net, he spied in the distance
the whole company of the gods approaching his house. The sight of them
coming all together--beautiful, and noble, and free--pierced Loki
with a pang that was worse than death. He rose without daring to look
again, threw his net on a fire that burned on the floor, and, rushing
to the side of the little river, he turned himself into a salmon,
swam down to the deepest, stillest pool at the bottom, and hid himself
between two stones. The gods entered the house, and looked all round
in vain for Loki, till Kvasir, one of Odin's sons, famous for his keen
sight, spied out the remains of the fishing-net in the fire; then Odin
knew at once that there was a river near, and that it was there where
Loki had hidden himself. He ordered his sons to make a new net, and to
cast it into the water, and drag out whatever living thing they could
find there. It was done as he desired. Thor held one end of the net,
and all the rest of the gods drew the other through the water. When
they pulled it up the first time, however, it was empty, and they
would have gone away disappointed had not Kvasir, looking earnestly at
the meshes of the net, saw that something living had certainly touched
them. They then added a weight to the net, and threw it with such
force that it reached the bottom of the river, and dragged up the
stones in the pool.
Loki now saw the danger he was in of being caught in the net, and, as
there was no other way of escape, he rose to the surface, swam down
the river as quickly as he could, and leaped over the net into the
waterfall. He swam and leaped quick as a flash of lightning, but not
so quickly but that the gods saw him, knew him through his disguise,
and resolved that he should no longer escape. They themselves divided
into two bands. Thor waded down the river to the waterfall; the other
gods stood in a group below. Loki swam backwards and forwards between
them. First he thought he would dart out into the sea, and then that
he would spring over the net back again into the river. This last
seemed the easiest way of escape, and with the greatest speed he
attempted it. Thor, however, was watching for him, and as soon as Loki
leaped out of the water he stretched out his hand and caught him
while he was yet turning in the air. Loki wriggled his slippery, slimy
length through Thor's fingers; but the Thunderer grasped him tightly
by the tail, and, holding him in this manner in this hand, waded
to the shore. There Father Odin and the other gods met him; and, at
Odin's first searching look, Loki was obliged to drop his disguise,
and, cowering and frightened, to assume his proper shape before the
assembled lords. One by one they turned their faces from him; for, in
looking at him, they seemed to see over again the death of Baldur the
Beloved.
You were told that there were high rocks looking over the sea near
Loki's house. One of these, higher than the rest, had midway four
projecting stones, and to these the gods resolved to bind Loki so that
he should never again be able to torment the inhabitants of Manheim or
Asgard by his evil-doings. Thor proposed to return to Asgard, to bring
a chain with which to bind the prisoner; but Odin assured him that
he had no need to take such a journey. "Loki," he said, "has already
forged for himself a chain stronger than any you can make. While
we have been occupied in catching him, his two sons, Ali and Nari,
transformed into wolves by their evil passions, have fought with and
destroyed each other. With their sinews we must make a chain to bind
their father, and from that he can never escape."
It was done as Asa Odin said. A rope was made of the dead wolves'
sinews, and as soon as it touched Loki's body it turned into bands of
iron and bound him immovably to the rock. Secured in this manner the
gods left him.
[Illustration: THE PUNISHMENT OF LOKI.]
But his punishment did not end here. A snake, whose fangs dropped
poison, glided to the top of the rock and leaned his head over to peer
at Loki. The eyes of the two met and fixed each other. The serpent
could never move away afterwards; but every moment a burning drop from
his tongue fell down on Loki's shuddering face.
In all the world there was only one who pitied him. His kind wife ever
afterwards stood beside him and held a cup over his head to catch the
poison. When the cup was full, she was obliged to turn away to empty
it, and the deadly drops fell again on Loki's face. He shuddered and
shrank from them, and the whole earth trembled. So will he lie bound
till the Twilight of the Gods be here.
MYTHS OF INDIA
THE BLIND MAN, THE DEAF MAN, AND THE DONKEY
ADAPTED BY M. FRERE
A Blind Man and a Deaf Man once entered into partnership. The Deaf Man
was to see for the Blind Man, and the Blind Man was to hear for the
Deaf Man.
One day they went together to an entertainment where there was music
and dancing. The Deaf Man said: "The dancing is very good, but the
music is not worth listening to"; and the Blind Man said: "On the
contrary, I think the music very good, but the dancing is not worth
looking at."
After this they went together for a walk in the jungle, and there
found a washerman's Donkey that had strayed away from its owner, and a
great big kettle (such as washermen boil clothes in), which the Donkey
was carrying with him.
The Deaf Man said to the Blind Man: "Brother, here are a Donkey and
a washerman's great big kettle, with nobody to own them! Let us take
them with us--they may be useful to us some day." "Very well," said
the Blind Man; "we will take them with us." So the Blind Man and the
Deaf Man went on their way, taking the Donkey and the great big kettle
with them. A little farther on they came to an ant's nest, and the
Deaf Man said to the Blind Man: "Here are a number of very fine black
ants, much larger than any I ever saw before. Let us take some of them
home to show our friends." "Very well," answered the Blind Man; "we
will take them as a present to our friends." So the Deaf Man took a
silver snuff-box out of his pocket, and put four or five of the finest
black ants into it; which done, they continued their journey.
But before they had gone very far a terrible storm came on. It
thundered and lightened and rained and blew with such fury that it
seemed as if the whole heavens' and earth were at war. "Oh dear! oh
dear!" cried the Deaf Man, "how dreadful this lightning is! Let us
make haste and get to some place of shelter." "I don't see that it's
dreadful at all," answered the blind Man; "but the thunder is very
terrible; we had better certainly seek some place of shelter."
Now, not far off was a lofty building, which looked exactly like a
fine temple. The Deaf Man saw it, and he and the Blind Man resolved to
spend the night there; and having reached the place, they went in and
shut the door, taking the Donkey and the great big kettle with them.
But this building, which they mistook for a temple was in truth no
temple at all, but the house of a very powerful Rakshas or ogre; and
hardly had the Blind Man, the Deaf Man, and the Donkey got inside and
fastened the door, than the Rakshas, who had been out, returned home.
To his surprise, he found the door fastened and heard people moving
about inside his house. "Ho! ho!" cried he to himself, "some men have
got in here, have they? I'll soon make mince-meat of them." So he
began to roar in a voice louder than the thunder, and to cry: "Let me
into my house this minute, you wretches; let me in, let me in, I say,"
and to kick the door and batter it with his great fists. But though
his voice was very powerful, his appearance was still more alarming,
insomuch that the Deaf Man, who was peeping at him through a chink in
the wall, felt so frightened that he did not know what to do. But the
Blind Man was very brave (because he couldn't see), and went up to
the door and called out: "Who are you, and what do you mean by coming
battering at the door in this way at this time of night?"
"I'm a Rakshas," answered the Rakshas angrily, "and this is my house.
Let me in this instant or I'll kill you." All this time the Deaf Man,
who was watching the Rakshas, was shivering and shaking in a terrible
fright, but the Blind Man was very brave (because he couldn't see),
and he called out again: "Oh, you're a Rakshas, are you? Well, if
you're Rakshas, I'm Bakshas; and Bakshas is as good as Rakshas."
"Bakshas!" roared the Rakshas. "Bakshas! Bakshas! What nonsense is
this? There is no such creature as a Bakshas!" "Go away," replied the
Blind Man, "and don't dare to make any further disturbance, lest I
punish you with a vengeance; for know that I'm Bakshas, and Bakshas
is Rakshas's father." "My father?" answered the Rakshas. "Heavens and
earth! Bakshas, and my father! I never heard such an extraordinary
thing in my life. You my father; and in there! I never knew my father
was called Bakshas!"
"Yes," replied the Blind Man; "go away instantly, I command you, for
I am your father Bakshas." "Very well," answered the Rakshas (for he
began to get puzzled and frightened); "but if you are my father, let
me first see your face." (For he thought: "Perhaps they are deceiving
me.") The Blind Man and the Deaf Man didn't know what to do; but at
last they opened the door a very tiny chink and poked the Donkey's
nose out. When the Rakshas saw it he thought to himself: "Bless me,
what a terribly ugly face my father Bakshas has!" He then called out:
"O father Bakshas, you have a very big, fierce face; but people have
sometimes very big heads and very little bodies. Pray let me see your
body as well as head before I go away." Then the Blind Man and the
Deaf Man rolled the washerman's great big kettle with a thundering
noise past the chink in the door, and the Rakshas, who was watching
attentively, was very much surprised when he saw this great black
thing rolling along the floor, and he thought: "In truth, my father
Bakshas has a very big body as well as a big head. He's big enough to
eat me up altogether. I'd better go away." But still he could not help
being a little doubtful, so he cried: "O Bakshas, father Bakshas! you
have indeed got a very big head and a very big body; but do, before
I go away, let me hear you scream," for all Rakshas scream fearfully.
Then the cunning Deaf Man (who was getting less frightened) pulled the
silver snuff-box out of his pocket, and took the black ants out of it,
and put one black ant in the Donkey's right ear, and another black ant
in the Donkey's left ear, and another and another. The ants pinched
the poor Donkey's ears dreadfully, and the Donkey was so hurt and
frightened he began to bellow as loud as he could: "Eh augh! eh augh!
eh augh! augh! augh!" and at this terrible noise the Rakshas fled away
in a great fright, saying: "Enough, enough, father Bakshas! the sound
of your voice would make the most refractory obedient." And no sooner
had he gone than the Deaf Man took the ants out of the Donkey's ears,
and he and the Blind Man spent the rest of the night in peace and
comfort.
Next morning the Deaf Man woke the Blind Man early, saying: "Awake,
brother, awake: here we are indeed in luck! The whole floor is covered
with heaps of gold and silver and precious stones." And so it was, for
the Rakshas owned a vast amount of treasure, and the whole house was
full of it. "That is a good thing," said the Blind Man. "Show me where
it is and I will help you to collect it." So they collected as much
treasure as possible and made four great bundles of it. The Blind Man
took one great bundle, the Deaf Man took another, and, putting the
other two great bundles on the Donkey, they started off to return
home. But the Rakshas, whom they had frightened away the night before,
had not gone very far off, and was waiting to see what his father
Bakshas might look like by daylight. He saw the door of his house open
and watched attentively, when out walked--only a Blind Man, a Deaf
Man, and a Donkey, who were all three laden with large bundles of
his treasure. The Blind Man carried one bundle, the Deaf Man carried
another bundle, and two bundles were on the Donkey.
The Rakshas was extremely angry, and immediately called six of his
friends to help him kill the Blind Man, the Deaf Man, and the Donkey,
and recover the treasure.
The Deaf Man saw them coming (seven great Rakshas, with hair a yard
long and tusks like an elephant's), and was dreadfully frightened;
but the Blind Man was very brave (because he couldn't see), and said:
"Brother, why do you lag behind in that way?" "Oh!" answered the Deaf
Man, "there are seven great Rakshas with tusks like an elephant's
coming to kill us! What can we do?" "Let us hide the treasure in the
bushes," said the Blind Man; "and do you lead me to a tree; then I
will climb up first, and you shall climb up afterward, and so we shall
be out of their way." The Deaf Man thought this good advice; so he
pushed the Donkey and the bundles of treasure into the bushes, and led
the Blind Man to a high soparee-tree that grew close by; but he was a
very cunning man, this Deaf Man, and instead of letting the Blind Man
climb up first and following him, he got up first and let the Blind
Man clamber after, so that he was farther out of harm's way than his
friend.
When the Rakshas arrived at the place and saw them both perched out of
reach in the soparee-tree, he said to his friends: "Let us get on each
other's shoulders; we shall then be high enough to pull them down." So
one Rakshas stooped down, and the second got on his shoulders, and
the third on his, and the fourth on his, and the fifth on his, and the
sixth on his; and the seventh and the last Rakshas (who had invited
all the others) was just climbing up when the Deaf Man (who was
looking over the Blind Man's shoulder) got so frightened that in his
alarm he caught hold of his friend's arm, crying: "They're coming,
they're coming!" The Blind Man was not in a very secure position, and
was sitting at his ease, not knowing how close the Rakshas were. The
consequence was, that when the Deaf Man gave him this unexpected push,
he lost his balance and tumbled down on to the neck of the seventh
Rakshas, who was just then climbing up. The Blind Man had no idea
where he was, but thought he had got on to the branch of some other
tree; and, stretching out his hand for something to catch hold of,
caught hold of the Rakshas's two great ears, and pinched them very
hard in his surprise and fright. The Rakshas couldn't think what it
was that had come tumbling down upon him; and the weight of the Blind
Man upsetting his balance, down he also fell to the ground, knocking
down in their turn the sixth, fifth, fourth, third, second, and first
Rakshas, who all rolled one over another, and lay in a confused heap
at the foot of the tree together.
Meanwhile the Blind Man called out to his friend: "Where am I? What
has happened? Where am I? Where am I?" The Deaf Man (who was safe up
in the tree) answered: "Well done, brother! never fear! never fear!
You're all right, only hold on tight. I'm coming down to help you."
But he had not the least intention of leaving his place of safety.
However, he continued to call out: "Never mind, brother; hold on as
tight as you can. I'm coming, I'm coming," and the more he called out,
the harder the Blind Man pinched the Rakshas's ears, which he mistook
for some kind of palm branches.
The six other Rakshas, who had succeeded, after a good deal of
kicking, in extricating themselves from their unpleasant position,
thought they had had quite enough of helping their friend, and ran
away as fast as they could; and the seventh, thinking from their going
that the danger must be greater than he imagined, and being, moreover,
very much afraid of the mysterious creature that sat on his shoulders,
put his hands to the back of his ears and pushed off the Blind Man,
and then, (without staying to see who or what he was) followed his six
companions as fast as he could.
As soon as all the Rakshas were out of sight, the Deaf Man came down
from the tree, and, picking up the Blind Man, embraced him, saying:
"I could not have done better myself. You have frightened away all our
enemies, but you see I came to help you as fast as possible." He then
dragged the Donkey and the bundles of treasure out of the bushes, gave
the Blind Man one bundle to carry, took the second himself, and put
the remaining two on the Donkey, as before. This done, the whole party
set off to return home. But when they had got nearly out of the jungle
the Deaf Man said to the Blind Man: "We are now close to the village;
but if we take all this treasure home with us, we shall run great risk
of being robbed. I think our best plan would be to divide it equally;
then you can take care of your half and I will take care of mine, and
each one can hide his share here in the jungle, or wherever pleases
him best." "Very well," said the Blind Man; "do you divide what we
have in the bundles into two equal portions, keeping one half yourself
and giving me the other." The cunning Deaf Man, however, had no
intention of giving up half of the treasure to the Blind Man; so he
first took his own bundle of treasure and hid it in the bushes,
and then he took the two bundles off the Donkey and hid them in the
bushes; and he took a good deal of treasure out of the Blind Man's
bundle, which he also hid. Then, taking the small quantity that
remained, he divided it into two equal portions, and placing half
before the Blind Man and half in front of himself, said: "There,
brother, is your share to do what you please with." The Blind Man put
out his hand, but when he felt what a very little heap of treasure
it was, he got very angry, and cried: "This is not fair--you are
deceiving me; you have kept almost all the treasure for yourself and
only given me a very little." "Oh, oh! how can you think so?" answered
the Deaf Man; "but if you will not believe me, feel for yourself. See,
my heap of treasure is no larger than yours."
The Blind Man put out his hands again to feel how much his friend
had kept; but in front of the Deaf Man lay only a very small heap, no
larger than what he had himself received. At this he got very cross,
and said: "Come, come, this won't do. You think you can cheat me in
this way because I am blind; but I'm not so stupid as all that, I
carried a great bundle of treasure, you carried a great bundle of
treasure, and there were two great bundles on the Donkey. Do you mean
to pretend that all that made no more treasure than these two little
heaps! No, indeed; I know better than that." "Stuff and nonsense!"
answered the Deaf Man. "Stuff or no stuff," continued the other, "you
are trying to take me in, and I won't be taken in by you." "No, I'm
not," said the Deaf Man. "Yes, you are," said the Blind Man; and so
they went on bickering, scolding, growling, contradicting, until the
Blind Man got so enraged that he gave the Deaf Man a tremendous box on
the ear. The blow was so violent that it made the Deaf Man hear! The
Deaf Man, very angry, gave his neighbor in return so hard a blow in
the face that it opened the Blind Man's eyes!
So the Deaf Man could hear as well as see, and the Blind Man could see
as well as hear! This astonished them both so much that they became
good friends at once. The Deaf Man confessed to have hidden the bulk
of the treasure, which he thereupon dragged forth from its place of
concealment, and having divided it equally, they went home and enjoyed
themselves.
HARISARMAN
There was in a certain village, a certain Brahman named Harisarman.
He was poor and foolish and unhappy for want of employment, and he had
very many children. He wandered about begging with his family, and
at last he reached a certain city, and entered the service of a
rich householder called Sthuladatta. His sons became keepers of
Sthuladatta's cows and other property, and his wife a servant to
him, and he himself lived near his house, performing the duty of an
attendant. One day there was a feast on account of the marriage of
the daughter of Sthuladatta, largely attended by many friends of the
bridegroom and merry-makers. Harisarman hoped that he would be able to
fill himself up to the throat with oil and flesh and other dainties,
and get the same for his family, in the house of his patron. While he
was anxiously expecting to be fed, no one thought of him.
Then he was distressed at getting nothing to eat, and he said to his
wife at night: "It is owing to my poverty and stupidity that I am
treated with such disrespect here; so I will pretend by means of an
artifice to possess a knowledge of magic, so that I may become
an object of respect to this Sthuladatta; so, when you get an
opportunity, tell him that I possess magical knowledge." He said this
to her, and after turning the matter over in his mind, while people
were asleep he took away from the house of Sthuladatta a horse on
which his master's son-in-law rode. He placed it in concealment at
some distance, and in the morning the friends of the bridegroom could
not find the horse, though they searched in every direction. Then,
while Sthuladatta was distressed at the evil omen, and searching for
the thieves who had carried off the horse, the wife of Harisarman came
and said to him: "My husband is a wise man, skilled in astrology and
magical sciences; he can get the horse back for you--why do you not
ask him?" When Sthuladatta heard that, he called Harisarman, who said,
"Yesterday I was forgotten, but to-day, now the horse is stolen, I
am called to mind;" and Sthuladatta then propitiated the Brahman with
these words: "I forgot you, forgive me," and asked him to tell him
who had taken away their horse. Then Harisarman drew all kinds of
pretended diagrams, and said: "The horse has been placed by thieves
on the boundary line south from this place. It is concealed there, and
before it is carried off to a distance, as it will be at close of
day, go quickly and bring it." When they heard that, many men ran and
brought the horse quickly, praising the discernment of Harisarman.
Then Harisarman was honored by all men as a sage, and dwelt there in
happiness, honored by Sthuladatta.
Now, as days went on, much treasure, both of gold and jewels, had been
stolen by a thief from the palace of the King. As the thief was
not known, the King quickly summoned Harisarman on account of his
reputation for knowledge of magic. And he, when summoned, tried to
gain time, and said: "I will tell you to-morrow," and then he was
placed in a chamber by the King and carefully guarded. And he was sad
because he had pretended to have knowledge. Now, in that palace there
was a maid named Jihva (which means Tongue), who, with the assistance
of her brother, had stolen that treasure from the interior of the
palace. She, being alarmed at Harisarman's knowledge, went at night
and applied her ear to the door of that chamber in order to find out
what he was about. And Harisarman, who was alone inside, was at that
very moment blaming his own tongue, that had made a vain assumption
of knowledge. He said: "Oh, tongue, what is this that you have done
through your greediness? Wicked one, you will soon receive punishment
in full." When Jihva heard this, she thought, in her terror, that she
had been discovered by this wise man, and she managed to get in where
he was, and, falling at his feet, she said to the supposed wizard:
"Brahman, here I am, that Jihva whom you have discovered to be the
thief of the treasure, and after I took it I buried it in the earth in
a garden behind the palace, under a pomegranate tree. So spare me, and
receive the small quantity of gold which is in my possession."
When Harisarman heard that, he said to her proudly: "Depart, I
know all this; I know the past, present, and future, but I will not
denounce you, a miserable creature that has implored my protection.
But whatever gold is in your possession you must give back to me."
When he said this to the maid, she consented, and departed quickly.
But Harisarman reflected in his astonishment: "Fate brings about, as
if in sport, things impossible; for, when calamity was so near, who
would have thought chance would have brought us success? While I was
blaming my jihva, the thief Jihva suddenly flung herself at my feet.
Secret crimes manifest themselves by means of fear." Thus thinking, he
passed the night happily in the chamber. And in the morning he brought
the King, by some skilful parade of pretended knowledge, into the
garden and led him up to the treasure, which was buried under the
pomegranate tree, and said the thief had escaped with a part of it.
Then the King was pleased, and gave him the revenue of many villages.
But the minister, named Devajnanin, whispered in the King's ear: "How
can a man possess such knowledge unattainable by men without having
studied the books of magic? You may be certain that this is a specimen
of the way he makes a dishonest livelihood, by having a secret
intelligence with thieves. It will be much better to test him by
some new artifice." Then the King of his own accord brought a covered
pitcher into which he had thrown a frog, and said to Harisarman:
"Brahman, if you can guess what there is in this pitcher, I will do
you great honor to-day." When the Brahman Harisarman heard that, he
thought that his last hour had come, and he called to mind the pet
name of "Froggie," which his father had given him in his childhood in
sport; and, impelled by luck, he called to himself by his pet name,
lamenting his hard fate, and suddenly called out: "This is a fine
pitcher for you, Froggie; it will soon become the swift destroyer of
your helpless self." The people there, when they heard him say that,
raised a shout of applause, because his speech chimed in so well with
the object presented to him, and murmured: "Ah! a great sage; he knows
even about the frog!" Then the King, thinking that this was all due to
knowledge of divination, was highly delighted, and gave Harisarman the
revenue of more villages, with gold, an umbrella, and state carriages
of all kinds. So Harisarman prospered in the world.
WHY THE FISH LAUGHED
As a certain fisherwoman passed by a palace crying her fish, the Queen
appeared at one of the windows and beckoned her to come near and
show what she had. At that moment a very big fish jumped about in the
bottom of the basket.
"Is it a he or a she?" inquired the Queen. "I wish to purchase a
she-fish."
On hearing this the fish laughed aloud.
"It's a he," replied the fisherwoman, and proceeded on her rounds.
The Queen returned to her room in a great rage; and on coming to see
her in the evening, the King noticed that something had disturbed her.
"Are you indisposed?" he said.
"No; but I am very much annoyed at the strange behavior of a fish. A
woman brought me one to-day, and on my inquiring whether it was a male
or female, the fish laughed most rudely."
"A fish laugh! Impossible! You must be dreaming."
"I am not a fool. I speak of what I have seen with my own eyes and
have heard with my own ears."
"Passing strange! Be it so. I will inquire concerning it."
On the morrow the King repeated to his vizier what his wife had
told him, and bade him investigate the matter, and be ready with a
satisfactory answer within six months, on pain of death. The vizier
promised to do his best, though he felt almost certain of failure. For
five months he labored indefatigably to find a reason for the laughter
of the fish. He sought everywhere and from every one. The wise and
learned, and they who were skilled in magic and in all manner of
trickery, were consulted. Nobody, however, could explain the matter;
and so he returned broken-hearted to his house, and began to arrange
his affairs in prospect of certain death, for he had had sufficient
experience of the King to know that his Majesty would not go back from
his threat. Among other things, he advised his son to travel for a
time, until the King's anger should have somewhat cooled.
The young fellow, who was both clever and handsome, started off
whithersoever fate might lead him. He had been gone some days, when
he fell in with an old farmer, who also was on a journey to a certain
village. Finding the old man very pleasant, he asked him if he might
accompany him, professing to be on a visit to the same place. The old
farmer agreed, and they walked along together. The day was hot, and
the way was long and weary.
"Don't you think it would be pleasanter if you and I sometimes gave
each other a lift?" said the youth.
"What a fool the man is!" thought the old farmer.
Presently they passed through a field of corn ready for the sickle,
and looking like a sea of gold as it waved to and fro in the breeze.
"Is this eaten or not?" said the young man.
Not understanding his meaning, the old man replied, "I don't know."
After a little while the two travelers arrived at a big village, where
the young man gave his companion a clasp-knife, and said, "Take this,
friend, and get two horses with it; but mind and bring it back, for it
is very precious."
The old man, looking half amused and half angry, pushed back the
knife, muttering something to the effect that his friend was either a
fool himself, or else trying to play the fool with him. The young man
pretended not to notice his reply, and remained almost silent till
they reached the city, a short distance outside which was the old
farmer's house. They walked about the bazaar and went to the mosque,
but nobody saluted them or invited them to come in and rest.
"What a large cemetery!" exclaimed the young man.
"What does the man mean," thought the old farmer, "calling this
largely populated city a cemetery?"
On leaving the city their way led through a graveyard where a few
people were praying beside a tomb and distributing _chapatis_ and
_kulchas_ to passers-by, in the name of their beloved dead. They
beckoned to the two travelers and gave them as much as they would.
"What a splendid city this is!" said the young man.
"Now, the man must surely be demented!" thought the old farmer. "I
wonder what he will do next? He will be calling the land water, and
the water land; and be speaking of light where there is darkness,
and of darkness when it is light." However, he kept his thoughts to
himself.
Presently they had to wade through a stream that ran along the edge
of the cemetery. The water was rather deep, so the old farmer took
off his shoes and pajamas and crossed over; but the young man waded
through it with his shoes and pajamas on.
"Well! I never did see such a perfect fool, both in word and in deed,"
said the old man to himself.
However, he liked the fellow; and thinking that he would amuse his
wife and daughter, he invited him to come and stay at his house as
long as he had occasion to remain in the village.
"Thank you very much," the young man replied; "but let me first
inquire, if you please, whether the beam of your house is strong."
The old farmer left him in despair, and entered his house laughing.
"There is a man in yonder field," he said, after returning their
greetings. "He has come the greater part of the way with me, and I
wanted him to put up here as long as he had to stay in this village.
But the fellow is such a fool that I cannot make anything out of him.
He wants to know if the beam of this house is all right. The man must
be mad!" and saying this, he burst into a fit of laughter.
"Father," said the farmer's daughter, who was a very sharp and wise
girl, "this man, whosoever he is, is no fool, as you deem him. He only
wishes to know if you can afford to entertain him."
"Oh, of course," replied the farmer. "I see. Well, perhaps you can
help me to solve some of his other mysteries. While we were walking
together he asked whether he should carry me or I should carry him, as
he thought that would be a pleasanter mode of proceeding."
"Most assuredly," said the girl; "he meant that one of you should tell
a story to beguile the time."
"Oh yes. Well, we were passing through a corn-field, when he asked me
whether it was eaten or not."
"And didn't you know the meaning of this, father? He simply wished to
know if the man was in debt or not; because, if the owner of the field
was in debt, then the produce of the field was as good as eaten to
him; that is, it would have to go to his creditors."
"Yes, yes, yes, of course! Then, on entering a certain village, he
bade me take his clasp-knife and get two horses with it, and bring
back the knife to him."
"Are not two stout sticks as good as two horses for helping one
along on the road? He only asked you to cut a couple of sticks and be
careful not to lose his knife."
"I see," said the farmer. "While we were walking over the city we
did not see anybody that we knew, and not a soul gave us a scrap of
anything to eat, till we were passing the cemetery; but there some
people called to us and put into our hands some _chapatis_ and
_kulchas_, so my companion called the city a cemetery, and the
cemetery a city."
"This also is to be understood, father, if one thinks of the city
as the place where everything is to be obtained, and of inhospitable
people as worse than the dead. The city, though crowded with people,
was as if dead, as far as you were concerned; while, in the cemetery,
which is crowded with the dead, you were saluted by kind friends and
provided with bread."
"True, true!" said the astonished farmer. "Then, just now, when we
were crossing the stream, he waded through it without taking off his
shoes and pajamas."
"I admire his wisdom," replied the girl. "I have often thought how
stupid people were to venture into that swiftly flowing stream and
over those sharp stones with bare feet. The slightest stumble and they
would fall, and be wetted from head to foot. This friend of yours is a
most wise man. I should like to see him and speak to him."
"Very well," said the farmer; "I will go and find him, and bring him
in."
"Tell him, father, that our beams are strong enough, and then he will
come in. I'll send on ahead a present to the man, to show him that we
can afford to have him for our guest."
Accordingly she called a servant and sent him to the young man with
a present of a basin of _ghee_, twelve _chapatis_, and a jar of milk,
and the following message: "O friend, the moon is full; twelve months
make a year, and the sea is overflowing with water."
Half-way the bearer of this present and message met his little son,
who, seeing what was in the basket, begged his father to give him some
of the food. His father foolishly complied. Presently he saw the young
man, and gave him the rest of the present and the message.
"Give your mistress my salaam," he replied, "and tell her that the
moon is new, and that I can find only eleven months in the year, and
the sea is by no means full."
Not understanding the meaning of these words, the servant repeated
them word for word, as he had heard them, to his mistress; and thus
his theft was discovered, and he was severely punished. After a little
while the young man appeared with the old farmer. Great attention was
shown to him, and he was treated in every way as if he were the son of
a great man, although his humble host knew nothing of his origin. At
length he told them everything--about the laughing of the fish, his
father's threatened execution, and his own banishment--and asked their
advice as to what he should do.
"The laughing of the fish," said the girl, "which seems to have been
the cause of all this trouble, indicates that there is a man in the
palace who is plotting against the King's life."
"Joy, joy!" exclaimed the vizier's son. "There is yet time for me to
return and save my father from an ignominious and unjust death, and
the King from danger."
The following day he hastened back to his own country, taking with him
the farmer's daughter. Immediately on arrival he ran to the palace and
informed his father of what he had heard. The poor vizier, now almost
dead from the expectation of death, was at once carried to the King,
to whom he repeated the news that his son had just brought.
"Never!" said the King.
"But it must be so, your Majesty," replied the vizier; "and in order
to prove the truth of what I have heard, I pray you to call together
all the maids in your palace and order them to jump over a pit, which
must be dug. We'll soon find out whether there is any man there."
The King had the pit dug, and commanded all the maids belonging to
the palace to try to jump over it. All of them tried, but only one
succeeded. That one was found to be a man!
Thus was the Queen satisfied, and the faithful old vizier saved.
Afterward, as soon as could be, the vizier's son married the old
farmer's daughter; and a most happy marriage it was.
MUCHIE LAL
ADAPTED BY M. FRERE
Once upon a time there were a Rajah and Ranee who had no children.
Long had they wished and prayed that the gods would send them a son,
but it was all in vain--their prayers were not granted. One day a
number of fish were brought into the royal kitchen to be cooked for
the Rajah's dinner, and amongst them was one little fish that was not
dead, but all the rest were dead. One of the palace maid-servants,
seeing this, took the little fish and put him in a basin of water.
Shortly afterward the Ranee saw him, and thinking him very pretty,
kept him as a pet; and because she had no children she lavished all
her affection on the fish and loved him as a son; and the people
called him Muchie Rajah (the Fish Prince).
In a little while Muchie Rajah had grown too long to live in the small
basin, so they put him into a larger one, and then (when he grew too
long for that) into a big tub. In time, however, Muchie Rajah became
too large for even the big tub to hold him; so the Ranee had a tank
made for him, in which he lived very happily, and twice a day she fed
him with boiled rice. Now, though the people fancied Muchie Rajah was
only a fish, this was not the case. He was, in truth, a young Rajah
who had angered the gods, and been by them turned into a fish and
thrown into the river as a punishment.
One morning, when the Ranee brought him his daily meal of boiled rice,
Muchie Rajah called out to her and said, "Queen Mother, Queen Mother,
I am so lonely here all by myself! Cannot you get me a wife?" The
Ranee promised to try, and sent messengers to all the people she knew,
to ask if they would allow one of their children to marry her son, the
Fish Prince. But they all answered: "We cannot give one of our dear
little daughters to be devoured by a great fish, even though he is the
Muchie Rajah and so high in your Majesty's favor."
At news of this the Ranee did not know what to do. She was so
foolishly fond of Muchie Rajah, however, that she resolved to get him
a wife at any cost. Again she sent out messengers, but this time she
gave them a great bag containing a lac of gold mohurs, and said to
them: "Go into every land until you find a wife for my Muchie Rajah,
and to whoever will give you a child to be the Muchie Ranee you shall
give this bag of gold mohurs." The messengers started on their search,
but for some time they were unsuccessful; not even the beggars were to
be tempted to sell their children, fearing the great fish would devour
them. At last one day the messengers came to a village where there
lived a Fakeer, who had lost his first wife and married again. His
first wife had had one little daughter, and his second wife also had
a daughter. As it happened, the Fakeer's second wife hated her little
stepdaughter, always gave her the hardest work to do and the least
food to eat, and tried by every means in her power to get her out of
the way, in order that the child might not rival her own daughter.
When she heard of the errand on which the messengers had come, she
sent for them when the Fakeer was out, and said to them: "Give me the
bag of gold mohurs, and you shall take my little daughter to marry the
Muchie Rajah." ("For," she thought to herself, "the great fish will
certainly eat the girl, and she will thus trouble us no more.") Then,
turning to her stepdaughter, she said: "Go down to the river and wash
your _saree_, that you may be fit to go with these people, who will
take you to the Ranee's court." At these words the poor girl went down
to the river very sorrowful, for she saw no hope of escape, as her
father was from home. As she knelt by the river-side, washing her
_saree_ and crying bitterly, some of her tears fell into the hole of
an old Seven-headed Cobra, who lived on the river-bank. This Cobra was
a very wise animal, and seeing the maiden, he put his head out of his
hole, and said to her: "Little girl, why do you cry?" "Oh, sir,"
she answered, "I am very unhappy; for my father is from home, and my
stepmother has sold me to the Ranee's people to be the wife of the
Muchie Rajah, that great fish, and I know he will eat me up." "Do
not be afraid, my daughter," said the Cobra; "but take with you these
three stones and tie them up in the corner of your _saree_;" and so
saying, he gave her three little round pebbles. "The Muchie Rajah,
whose wife you are to be, is not really a fish, but a Rajah who has
been enchanted. Your home will be a little room which the Ranee has
had built in the tank wall. When you are taken there, wait and be sure
you don't go to sleep, or the Muchie Rajah will certainly come and
eat you up. But as you hear him coming rushing through the water, be
prepared, and as soon as you see him, throw this first stone at him;
he will then sink to the bottom of the tank. The second time he comes,
throw the second stone, when the same thing will happen. The third
time he comes, throw this third stone, and he will immediately resume
his human shape." So saying, the old Cobra dived down again into his
hole. The Fakeer's daughter took the stones and determined to do as
the Cobra had told her, though she hardly believed it would have the
desired effect.
When she reached the palace the Ranee spoke kindly to her, and said to
the messengers: "You have done your errand well; this is a dear little
girl." Then she ordered that she should be let down the side of the
tank in a basket to a little room which had been prepared for her.
When the Fakeer's daughter got there, she thought she had never seen
such a pretty place in her life (for the Ranee had caused the little
room to be very nicely decorated for the wife of her favorite); and
she would have felt very happy away from her cruel stepmother and all
the hard work she had been made to do, had it not been for the dark
water that lay black and unfathomable below the door and the fear of
the terrible Muchie Rajah.
After waiting some time she heard a rushing sound, and little waves
came dashing against the threshold; faster they came and faster, and
the noise got louder and louder, until she saw a great fish's head
above the water--Muchie Rajah was coming toward her open-mouthed. The
Fakeer's daughter seized one of the stones that the Cobra had given
her and threw it at him, and down he sank to the bottom of the tank;
a second time he rose and came toward her, and she threw the second
stone at him, and he again sank down; a third time he came more
fiercely than before, when, seizing a third stone, she threw it with
all her force. No sooner did it touch him than the spell was broken,
and there, instead of a fish, stood a handsome young Prince. The poor
little Fakeer's daughter was so startled that she began to cry. But
the Prince said to her: "Pretty maiden, do not be frightened. You have
rescued me from a horrible thraldom, and I can never thank you enough;
but if you will be the Muchie Ranee, we will be married to-morrow."
Then he sat down on the doorstep, thinking over his strange fate and
watching for the dawn.
Next morning early several inquisitive people came to see if the
Muchie Rajah had eaten up his poor little wife, as they feared he
would; what was their astonishment, on looking over the tank wall,
to see, not the Muchie Rajah, but a magnificent Prince! The news soon
spread to the palace. Down came the Rajah, down came the Ranee, down
came all their attendants, and dragged Muchie Rajah and the Fakeer's
daughter up the side of the tank in a basket; and when they heard
their story there were great and unparalleled rejoicings. The Ranee
said, "So I have indeed found a son at last!" And the people were so
delighted, so happy and so proud of the new Prince and Princess, that
they covered all their path with damask from the tank to the palace,
and cried to their fellows, "Come and see our new Prince and Princess!
Were ever any so divinely beautiful? Come see a right royal couple,--a
pair of mortals like the gods!" And when they reached the palace the
prince was married to the Fakeer's daughter.
There they lived very happily for some time. The Muchie Ranee's
stepmother, hearing what had happened, came often to see her
stepdaughter, and pretended to be delighted at her good fortune; and
the Ranee was so good that she quite forgave all her stepmother's
former cruelty, and always received her very kindly. At last, one day,
the Muchie Ranee said to her husband, "It is a weary while since I saw
my father. If you will give me leave, I should much like to visit my
native village and see him again." "Very well," he replied, "you may
go. But do not stay away long; for there can be no happiness for me
till you return." So she went, and her father was delighted to see
her; but her stepmother, though she pretended to be very kind, was in
reality only glad to think she had got the Ranee into her power, and
determined, if possible, never to allow her to return to the palace
again. One day, therefore, she said to her own daughter, "It is hard
that your stepsister should have become Ranee of all the land instead
of being eaten up by the great fish, while we gained no more than a
lac of gold mohurs. Do now as I bid you, that you may become Ranee in
her stead." She then went on to instruct her that she must invite the
Ranee down to the river-bank, and there beg her to let her try on her
jewels, and while putting them on give her a push and drown her in the
river.
The girl consented, and standing by the river-bank, said to her
stepsister, "Sister, may I try on your jewels?--how pretty they are!"
"Yes," said the Ranee, "and we shall be able to see in the river how
they look." So, undoing her necklaces, she clasped them round the
other's neck. But while she was doing so her stepsister gave her a
push, and she fell backward into the water. The girl watched to
see that the body did not rise, and then, running back, said to her
mother, "Mother, here are all the jewels, and she will trouble us no
more." But it happened that just when her stepsister pushed the Ranee
into the river her old friend the Seven-headed Cobra chanced to be
swimming across it, and seeing the little Ranee likely to be drowned,
he carried her on his back until he reached his hole, into which he
took her safely. Now this hole, in which the Cobra and his wife and
all his little ones lived, had two entrances,--the one under the water
and leading to the river, and the other above water, leading out into
the open fields. To this upper end of his hole the Cobra took the
Muchie Ranee, where he and his wife took care of her; and there she
lived with them for some time. Meanwhile, the wicked Fakeer's wife,
having dressed up her own daughter in all the Ranee's jewels, took her
to the palace, and said to the Muchie Rajah, "See, I have brought your
wife, my dear daughter, back safe and well." The Rajah looked at her,
and thought, "This does not look like my wife." However, the room was
dark and the girl was cleverly disguised, and he thought he might be
mistaken. Next day he said again: "My wife must be sadly changed or
this cannot be she, for she was always bright and cheerful. She had
pretty loving ways and merry words, while this woman never opens
her lips." Still, he did not like to seem to mistrust his wife, and
comforted himself by saying, "Perhaps she is tired with the long
journey." On the third day, however, he could bear the uncertainty
no longer, and tearing off her jewels, saw, not the face of his own
little wife, but another woman. Then he was very angry and turned her
out of doors, saying, "Begone; since you are but the wretched tool of
others, I spare your life." But of the Fakeer's wife he said to his
guards, "Fetch that woman here instantly; for unless she can tell me
where my wife is, I will have her hanged." It chanced, however, that
the Fakeer's wife had heard of the Muchie Rajah having turned her
daughter out of doors; so, fearing his anger, she hid herself, and was
not to be found.
Meantime, the Muchie Ranee, not knowing how to get home, continued to
live in the great Seven-headed Cobra's hole, and he and his wife and
all his family were very kind to her, and loved her as if she had been
one of them; and there her little son was born, and she called him
Muchie Lal, after the Muchie Rajah, his father. Muchie Lal was a
lovely child, merry and brave, and his playmates all day long were the
young Cobras. When he was about three years old a bangle-seller came
by that way, and the Muchie Ranee bought some bangles from him and put
them on her boy's wrists and ankles; but by the next day, in playing,
he had broke them all. Then, seeing the bangle-seller, the Ranee
called him again and bought some more, and so on every day until the
bangle-seller got quite rich from selling so many bangles for the
Muchie Lal; for the Cobra's hole was full of treasure, and he gave the
Muchie Ranee as much money to spend every day as she liked. There was
nothing she wished for he did not give her, only he would not let her
try to get home to her husband, which she wished more than all.
When she asked him he would say: "No, I will not let you go. If your
husband comes here and fetches you, it is well; but I will not allow
you to wander in search of him through the land alone."
And so she was obliged to stay where she was.
All this time the poor Muchie Rajah was hunting in every part of the
country for his wife, but he could learn no tidings of her. For
grief and sorrow at losing her he had gone almost distracted, and did
nothing but wander from place to place, crying, "She is gone! she is
gone!" Then, when he had long inquired without avail of all the people
in her native village about her, he one day met a bangle-seller and
said to him, "Whence do you come?" The bangle-seller answered, "I have
just been selling bangles to some people who live in a Cobra's hole
in the river-bank." "People! What people?" asked the Rajah. "Why,"
answered the bangle-seller, "a woman and a child; the child is the
most beautiful I ever saw. He is about three years old, and of course,
running about, is always breaking his bangles and his mother buys him
new ones every day." "Do you know what the child's name is?" said the
Rajah. "Yes," answered the bangle-seller carelessly, "for the lady
always calls him her Muchie Lal." "Ah," thought the Muchie
Rajah, "this must be my wife." Then he said to him again, "Good
bangle-seller, I would see these strange people of whom you speak;
cannot you take me there?" "Not to-night," replied the bangle-seller;
"daylight has gone, and we should only frighten them; but I shall be
going there again to-morrow, and then you may come too. Meanwhile,
come and rest at my house for the night, for you look faint and
weary." The Rajah consented. Next morning, however, very early, he
woke the bangle-seller, saying, "Pray let us go now and see the people
you spoke about yesterday." "Stay," said the bangle-seller; "it is
much too early. I never go till after breakfast." So the Rajah had to
wait till the bangle-seller was ready to go. At last they started off,
and when they reached the Cobra's hole the first thing the Rajah saw
was a fine little boy playing with the young Cobras.
As the bangle-seller came along, jingling his bangles, a gentle voice
from inside the hole called out, "Come here, my Muchie Lal, and try
on your bangles." Then the Muchie Rajah, kneeling down at the mouth
of the hole, said, "Oh, lady, show your beautiful face to me." At the
sound of his voice the Ranee ran out, crying, "Husband, husband! have
you found me again?" And she told him how her sister had tried to
drown her, and how the good Cobra had saved her life and taken care of
her and her child. Then he said, "And will you now come home with me?"
And she told him how the Cobra would never let her go, and said, "I
will first tell him of your coming; for he has been a father to me."
So she called out, "Father Cobra, father Cobra, my husband has come
to fetch me; will you let me go?" "Yes," he said, "if your husband
has come to fetch you, you may go." And his wife said, "Farewell, dear
lady, we are loath to lose you, for we have loved you as a daughter."
And all the little Cobras were very sorrowful to think that they
must lose their playfellow, the young Prince. Then the Cobra gave the
Muchie Rajah and the Muchie Ranee and Muchie Lal all the most costly
gifts he could find in his treasure-house; and so they went home,
where they lived very happy ever after.
HOW THE RAJAH'S SON WON THE PRINCESS LABAM
ADAPTED BY JOSEPH JACOBS
In a country there was a Rajah who had an only son who every day went
out to hunt. One day the Ranee his mother, said to him, "You can hunt
wherever you like on these three sides; but you must never go to the
fourth side." This she said because she knew if he went on the fourth
side he would hear of the beautiful Princess Labam, and that then he
would leave his father and mother and seek for the Princess.
The young Prince listened to his mother, and obeyed her for some
time; but one day, when he was hunting on the three sides where he was
allowed to go, he remembered what she had said to him about the fourth
side, and he determined to go and see why she had forbidden him to
hunt on that side. When he got there, he found himself in a jungle,
and nothing in the jungle but a quantity of parrots, who lived in it.
The young Rajah shot at some of them, and at once they all flew away
up to the sky. All, that is, but one, and this was their Rajah, who
was called Hiraman parrot.
When Hiraman parrot found himself left alone, he called out to the
other parrots, "Don't fly away and leave me alone when the Rajah's son
shoots. If you desert me like this, I will tell the Princess Labam."
Then the parrots all flew back to their Rajah, chattering. The Prince
was greatly surprised, and said, "Why, these birds can talk!" Then he
said to the parrots, "Who is the Princess Labam? Where does she live?"
But the parrots would not tell him where she lived. "You can never get
to the Princess Labam's country." That is all they would say.
The Prince grew very sad when they would not tell him anything more;
and he threw his gun away and went home. When he got home, he would
not speak or eat, but lay on his bed for four or five days, and seemed
very ill.
At last he told his father and mother that he wanted to go and see the
Princess Labam. "I must go," he said; "I must see what she is like.
Tell me where her country is."
"We do not know where it is," answered his father and mother.
"Then I must go and look for it," said the Prince.
"No, no," they said, "you must not leave us. You are our only son.
Stay with us. You will never find the Princess Labam."
"I must try and find her," said the Prince. "Perhaps God will show
me the way. If I live and I find her, I will come back to you; but
perhaps I shall die, and then I shall never see you again. Still I
must go."
So they had to let him go, though they cried very much at parting with
him. His father gave him fine clothes to wear, and a fine horse.
And he took his gun, and his bow and arrows, and a great many other
weapons; "for," he said, "I may want them." His father, too, gave him
plenty of rupees.
Then he himself got his horse all ready for the journey, and he said
good-by to his father and mother; and his mother took her handkerchief
and wrapped some sweetmeats in it, and gave it to her son. "My child,"
she said to him, "when you are hungry eat some of these sweetmeats."
He then set out on his journey, and rode on and on till he came to a
jungle in which were a tank and shady trees. He bathed himself and his
horse in the tank, and then sat down under a tree. "Now," he said to
himself, "I will eat some of the sweetmeats my mother gave me, and I
will drink some water, and then I will continue my journey." He opened
his handkerchief and took out a sweetmeat. He found an ant in it. He
took out another. There was an ant in that one too. So he laid the two
sweetmeats on the ground, and he took out another, and another, and
another, until he had taken them all out; but in each he found an ant.
"Never mind," he said, "I won't eat the sweetmeats; the ants shall
eat them." Then the Ant-Rajah came and stood before him and said, "You
have been good to us. If ever you are in trouble, think of me and we
will come to you."
The Rajah's son thanked him, mounted his horse and continued his
journey. He rode on and on until he came to another jungle, and there
he saw a tiger who had a thorn in his foot, and was roaring loudly
from the pain.
"Why do you roar like that?" said the young Rajah. "What is the matter
with you?"
"I have had a thorn in my foot for twelve years," answered the tiger,
"and it hurts me so; that is why I roar."
"Well," said the Rajah's son, "I will take it out for you. But
perhaps, as you are a tiger, when I have made you well, you will eat
me?"
"Oh no," said the tiger, "I won't eat you. Do make me well."
Then the Prince took a little knife from his pocket and cut the thorn
out of the tiger's foot; but when he cut, the tiger roared louder than
ever--so loud that his wife heard him in the next jungle, and came
bounding along to see what was the matter. The tiger saw her coming,
and hid the Prince in the jungle, so that she should not see him.
"What man hurt you that you roared so loud?" said the wife.
"No one hurt me," answered the husband; "but a Rajah's son came and
took the thorn out of my foot."
"Where is he? Show him to me," said his wife.
"If you promise not to kill him, I will call him," said the tiger.
"I won't kill him; only let me see him," answered his wife.
Then the tiger called the Rajah's son, and when he came the tiger
and his wife made him a great many salaams. Then they gave him a good
dinner, and he stayed with them for three days. Every day he looked at
the tiger's foot, and the third day it was quite healed. Then he said
good-by to the tigers, and the tiger said to him, "If ever you are in
trouble, think of me, and we will come to you."
The Rajah's son rode on and on till he came to a third jungle. Here
he found four fakeers whose teacher and master had died, and had left
four things,--a bed, which carried whoever sat on it whithersoever he
wished to go; a bag, that gave its owner whatever he wanted, jewels,
food or clothes; a stone bowl that gave its owner as much water as
he wanted, no matter how far he might be from a tank; and a stick and
rope, to which its owner had only to say, if any one came to make war
on him, "Stick, beat as many men and soldiers as are here," and the
stick would beat them and the rope would tie them up.
The four fakeers were quarreling over these four things. One said, "I
want this;" another said, "You cannot have it, for I want it;" and so
on.
The Rajah's son said to them, "Do not quarrel for these things. I will
shoot four arrows in four different directions. Whichever of you gets
to my first arrow, shall have the first thing--the bed. Whosoever gets
to the second arrow, shall have the second thing--the bag. He who gets
to the third arrow, shall have the third thing--the bowl. And he who
gets to the fourth arrow, shall have the last things--the stick and
rope." To this they agreed. And the Prince shot off his first arrow.
Away raced the fakeers to get it. When they brought it back to him he
shot off the second, and when they had found and brought it to him he
shot off his third, and when they had brought him the third he shot
off the fourth.
While they were away looking for the fourth arrow the Rajah's son let
his horse loose in the jungle and sat on the bed, taking the bowl, the
stick and rope, and the bag with him. Then he said, "Bed, I wish to
go to the Princess Labam's country." The little bed instantly rose up
into the air and began to fly, and it flew and flew till it came to
the Princess Labam's country, where it settled on the ground. The
Rajah's son asked some men he saw, "Whose country is this?"
"The Princess Labam's country," they answered. Then the Prince went on
till he came to a house where he saw an old woman.
"Who are you?" she said. "Where do you come from?"
"I come from a far country," he said; "do let me stay with you
to-night."
"No," she answered, "I cannot let you stay with me; for our King has
ordered that men from other countries may not stay in his country. You
cannot stay in my house."
"You are my aunty," said the Prince; "let me remain with you for this
one night. You see it is evening, and if I go into the jungle, then
the wild beasts will eat me."
"Well," said that old woman, "you may stay here to-night; but
to-morrow morning you must go away, for if the King hears you have
passed the night in my house, he will have me seized and put into
prison."
Then she took him into her house, and the Rajah's son was very glad.
The old woman began preparing dinner, but he stopped her. "Aunty," he
said, "I will give you food." He put his hand into his bag, saying,
"Bag, I want some dinner," and the bag gave him instantly a delicious
dinner, served up on two gold plates. The old woman and the Rajah's
son then dined together.
When they had finished eating, the old woman said, "Now I will fetch
some water."
"Don't go," said the Prince. "You shall have plenty of water
directly." So he took his bowl and said to it, "Bowl, I want some
water," and then it filled with water. When it was full, the Prince
cried out, "Stop, bowl!" and the bowl stopped filling. "See, aunty,"
he said, "with this bowl I can always get as much water as I want."
By this time night had come. "Aunty," said the Rajah's son, "why don't
you light a lamp?"
"There is no need," she said. "Our king has forbidden the people
in his country to light any lamps; for, as soon as it is dark, his
daughter, the Princess Labam, comes and sits on her roof, and she
shines so that she lights up all the country and our houses, and we
can see to do our work as if it were day."
When it was quite black night the Princess got up. She dressed herself
in her rich clothes and jewels, and rolled up her hair, and across her
head she put a band of diamonds and pearls. Then she shone like the
moon and her beauty made night day. She came out of her room and sat
on the roof of her palace. In the daytime she never came out of her
house; she only came out at night. All the people in her father's
country then went about their work and finished it.
The Rajah's son, watched the Princess quietly, and was very happy. He
said to himself, "How lovely she is!"
At midnight, when everybody had gone to bed, the Princess came down
from her roof and went to her room; and when she was in bed and
asleep, the Rajah's son got up softly and sat on his bed. "Bed," he
said to it, "I want to go to the Princess Labam's bed-room." So the
little bed carried him to the room where she lay fast asleep.
The young Rajah took his bag and said, "I want a great deal of
betel-leaf," and it at once gave him quantities of betel-leaf. This he
laid near the Princess's bed, and then his little bed carried him back
to the old woman's house.
Next morning all the Princess's servants found the betel-leaf, and
began to eat it. "Where did you get all that betel-leaf?" asked the
Princess.
"We found it near your bed," answered the servants. Nobody knew the
Prince had come in the night and put it all there.
In the morning the old woman came to the Rajah's son. "Now it is
morning," she said, "and you must go; for if the King finds out all I
have done for you, he will seize me."
"I am ill to-day, dear aunty," said the Prince; "do let me stay till
to-morrow morning."
"Good," said the old woman. So he stayed, and they took their dinner
out of the bag, and the bowl gave them water.
[Illustration: THE PRINCESS LABAM ... SHINES SO THAT SHE LIGHTS UP ALL
THE COUNTRY.]
When night came the Princess got up and sat on her roof, and at twelve
o'clock, when every one was in bed, she went to her bed-room, and was
soon fast asleep. Then the Rajah's son sat on his bed, and it carried
him to the Princess. He took his bag and said, "Bag, I want a most
lovely shawl." It gave him a splendid shawl, and he spread it over the
Princess as she lay asleep. Then he went back to the old woman's house
and slept till morning.
In the morning, when the Princess saw the shawl she was delighted.
"See, mother," she said; "Khuda must have given me this shawl, it is
so beautiful." Her mother was very glad too.
"Yes, my child," she said; "Khuda must have given you this splendid
shawl."
When it was morning the old woman said to the Rajah's son, "Now you
must really go."
"Aunty," he answered, "I am not well enough yet. Let me stay a few
days longer. I will remain hidden in your house, so that no one may
see me." So the old woman let him stay.
When it was black night, the Princess put on her lovely clothes and
jewels and sat on her roof. At midnight she went to her room and
went to sleep. Then the Rajah's son sat on his bed and flew to
her bed-room. There he said to his bag, "Bag, I want a very, very
beautiful ring." The bag gave him a glorious ring. Then he took the
Princess Labam's hand gently to put on the ring, and she started up
very much frightened.
"Who are you?" she said to the Prince. "Where do you come from? Why do
you come to my room?"
"Do not be afraid, Princess," he said; "I am no thief. I am a great
Rajah's son. Hiraman parrot, who lives in the jungle where I went to
hunt, told me your name, and then I left my father and mother and came
to see you."
"Well," said the Princess, "as you are the son of such a great Rajah,
I will not have you killed, and I will tell my father and mother that
I wish to marry you."
The Prince then returned to the old woman's house; and when morning
came the Princess said to her mother, "The son of a great Rajah has
come to this country, and I wish to marry him." Her mother told this
to the King.
"Good," said the King; "but if this Rajah's son wishes to marry my
daughter, he must first do whatever I bid him. If he fails I will kill
him. I will give him eighty pounds weight of mustard seed, and out of
this he must crush the oil in one day. If he cannot do this he shall
die."
In the morning the Rajah's son told the old woman that he intended
to marry the Princess. "Oh," said the old woman, "go away from this
country, and do not think of marrying her. A great many Rajahs and
Rajahs' sons have come here to marry her, and her father has had them
all killed. He says whoever wishes to marry his daughter must first do
whatever he bids him. If he can, then he shall marry the Princess; if
he cannot, the King will have him killed. But no one can do the things
the King tells him to do; so all the Rajahs and Rajahs' sons who have
tried have been put to death. You will be killed too, if you try. Do
go away." But the Prince would not listen to anything she said.
The King sent for the Prince to the old woman's house, and his
servants brought the Rajah's son to the King's court-house to the
King. There the King gave him eighty pounds of mustard seed, and told
him to crush all the oil out of it that day, and bring it next morning
to him to the court-house. "Whoever wishes to marry my daughter," he
said to the Prince, "must first do all I tell him. If he cannot, then
I have him killed. So if you cannot crush all the oil out of this
mustard seed you will die."
The Prince was very sorry when he heard this. "How can I crush the oil
out of all this mustard seed in one day?" he said to himself; "and if
I do not, the King will kill me." He took the mustard seed to the old
woman's house, and did not know what to do. At last he remembered the
Ant-Rajah, and the moment he did so, the Ant-Rajah and his ants came
to him. "Why do you look so sad?" said the Ant-Rajah.
The Prince showed him the mustard seed, and said to him, "How can I
crush the oil out of all this mustard seed in one day? And if I do not
take the oil to the King to-morrow morning, he will kill me."
"Be happy," said the Ant-Rajah; "lie down and sleep; we will crush all
the oil out for you during the day, and to-morrow morning you shall
take it to the King." The Rajah's son lay down and slept, and the ants
crushed out the oil for him. The Prince was very glad when he saw the
oil.
The next morning he took it to the court-house to the King. But the
King said, "You cannot yet marry my daughter. If you wish to do so,
you must fight with my two demons, and kill them." The King a long
time ago had caught two demons, and then, as he did not know what to
do with them, he had shut them up in a cage. He was afraid to let them
loose for fear they would eat up all the people in his country; and he
did not know how to kill them. So all the Rajahs and Rajahs' sons who
wanted to marry the Princess Labam had to fight with these demons;
"for," said the King to himself, "perhaps the demons may be killed,
and then I shall be rid of them."
When he heard of the demons the Rajah's son was very sad. "What can I
do?" he said to himself. "How can I fight with these two demons?" Then
he thought of his tiger: and the tiger and his wife came to him and
said, "Why are you so sad?" The Rajah's son answered, "The King has
ordered me to fight with his two demons and kill them. How can I do
this?" "Do not be frightened," said the tiger. "Be happy. I and my
wife will fight with them for you."
Then the Rajah's son took out of his bag two splendid coats. They were
all gold and silver, and covered with pearls and diamonds. These he
put on the tigers to make them beautiful, and he took them to the
King, and said to him, "May these tigers fight your demons for me?"
"Yes," said the King, who did not care in the least who killed his
demons, provided they were killed. "Then call your demons," said the
Rajah's son, "and these tigers will fight them." The King did so,
and the tigers and the demons fought and fought until the tigers had
killed the demons.
"That is good," said the King. "But you must do something else before
I give you my daughter. Up in the sky I have a kettle-drum. You must
go and beat it. If you cannot do this, I will kill you."
The Rajah's son thought of his little bed; so he went to the old
woman's house and sat on his bed. "Little bed," he said, "up in the
sky is the King's kettle-drum. I want to go to it." The bed flew up
with him, and the Rajah's son beat the drum, and the King heard him.
Still, when he came down, the King would not give him his daughter.
"You have," he said to the Prince, "done the three things I told you
to do; but you must do one thing more." "If I can, I will," said the
Rajah's son.
Then the King showed him the trunk of a tree that was lying near his
court-house. It was a very, very thick trunk. He gave the Prince a wax
hatchet, and said, "To-morrow morning you must cut this trunk in two
with this wax hatchet."
The Rajah's son went back to the old woman's house. He was very sad,
and thought that now the Rajah would certainly kill him. "I had his
oil crushed out by the ants," he said to himself. "I had his demons
killed by the tigers. My bed helped to beat this kettle-drum. But now
what can I do? How can I cut that thick tree-trunk in two with a wax
hatchet?"
At night he went on his bed to see the Princess. "To-morrow," he said
to her, "your father will kill me." "Why?" asked the Princess.
"He has told me to cut a thick tree-trunk in two with a wax hatchet.
How can I ever do that?" said the Rajah's son. "Do not be afraid,"
said the Princess; "do as I bid you, and you will cut it in two quite
easily."
Then she pulled out a hair from her head and gave it to the Prince.
"To-morrow," she said, "when no one is near you, you must say to the
tree-trunk, 'The Princess Labam commands you to let yourself be cut
in two by this hair.' Then stretch the hair down the edge of the wax
hatchet's blade."
The Prince next day did exactly as the Princess had told him; and the
minute the hair that was stretched down the edge of the hatchet blade
touched the tree-trunk it split into two pieces.
The King said, "Now you can marry my daughter." Then the wedding took
place. All the Rajahs and Kings of the countries round were asked
to come to it, and there were great rejoicings. After a few days the
bridegroom said to his bride "Let us go to my father's country." The
Princess Labam's father gave them a quantity of camels and horses and
rupees and servants; and they traveled in great state to the distant
country, where they lived happily.
The prince always kept his bag, bowl, bed, stick and rope; only, as no
one ever came to make war on him, he never needed to use the stick or
rope.
MYTHS OF JAPAN
THE JELLYFISH AND THE MONKEY
ADAPTED BY YEI THEODORA OZAKI
Long, long ago, in old Japan, the Kingdom of the Sea was governed by a
wonderful King. He was called Rin Jin, or the Dragon King of the Sea.
His power was immense, for he was the ruler of all sea creatures both
great and small, and in his keeping were the Jewels of the Ebb and
Flow of the Tide. The Jewel of the Ebbing Tide when thrown into the
ocean caused the sea to recede from the land, and the Jewel of the
Flowing Tide made the waves to rise mountains high and to flow in upon
the shore like a tidal wave.
The palace of Rin Jin was at the bottom of the sea, and was so
beautiful that no one has ever seen anything like it even in dreams.
The walls were of coral, the roof of jadestone and chalcedony, and
the floors were of the finest mother-of-pearl. But the Dragon King, in
spite of his wide-spreading kingdom, his beautiful palace and all its
wonders, and his power, which none disputed throughout the whole sea,
was not at all happy, for he reigned alone. At last he thought that if
he married he would not only be happier, but also more powerful. So
he decided to take a wife. Calling all his fish retainers together,
he chose several of them as ambassadors to go through the sea and seek
for a young Dragon Princess who would be his bride.
At last they returned to the palace bringing with them a lovely young
dragon. Her scales were of a glittering green like the wings of summer
beetles, her eyes threw out glances of fire, and she was dressed in
gorgeous robes. All the jewels of the sea worked in with embroidery
adorned them.
The King fell in love with her at once, and the wedding ceremony was
celebrated with great splendor. Every living thing in the sea, from
the great whales down to the little shrimps, came in shoals to offer
their congratulations to the bride and bridegroom and to wish them a
long and prosperous life. Never had there been such an assemblage or
such gay festivities in the Fish-World before. The train of bearers
who carried the bride's possessions to her new home seemed to reach
across the waves from one end of the sea to the other. Each fish
carried a phosphorescent lantern and was dressed in ceremonial robes,
gleaming blue and pink and silver; and the waves as they rose and fell
and broke that night seemed to be rolling masses of white and green
fire, for the phosphorus shone with double brilliancy in honor of the
event.
Now for a time the Dragon King and his bride lived very happily. They
loved each other dearly, and the bridegroom day after day took delight
in showing his bride all the wonders and treasures of his coral
palace, and she was never tired of wandering with him through its vast
halls and gardens. Life seemed to them both like a long summer's day.
Two months passed in this happy way, and then the Dragon Queen fell
ill and was obliged to stay in bed. The King was sorely troubled when
he saw his precious bride so ill, and at once sent for the fish doctor
to come and give her some medicine. He gave special orders to the
servants to nurse her carefully and to wait upon her with diligence,
but in spite of all the nurses' assiduous care and the medicine that
the doctor prescribed, the young Queen showed no signs of recovery,
but grew daily worse.
Then the Dragon King interviewed the doctor and blamed him for
not curing the Queen. The doctor was alarmed at Rin Jin's evident
displeasure, and excused his want of skill by saying that although he
knew the right kind of medicine to give the invalid, it was impossible
to find it in the sea.
"Do you mean to tell me that you can't get the medicine here?" asked
the Dragon King.
"It is just as you say!" said the doctor.
"Tell me what it is you want for the Queen?" demanded Rin Jin.
"I want the liver of a live monkey!" answered the doctor.
"The liver of a live monkey! Of course that will be most difficult to
get," said the King.
"If we could only get that for the Queen, her Majesty would soon
recover," said the doctor.
"Very well, that decides it; we _must_ get it somehow or other. But
where are we most likely to find a monkey?" asked the King.
Then the doctor told the Dragon King that some distance to the south
there was a Monkey Island where a great many monkeys lived.
"If only you could capture one of those monkeys?" said the doctor.
"How can any of my people capture a monkey?" said the Dragon King,
greatly puzzled. "The monkeys live on dry land, while we live in the
water; and out of our element we are quite powerless! I don't see what
we can do!"
"That has been my difficulty too," said the doctor. "But amongst your
innumerable servants, you surely can find one who can go on shore for
that express purpose!"
"Something must be done," said the King, and calling his chief steward
he consulted him on the matter.
The chief steward thought for some time, and then, as if struck by a
sudden thought, said joyfully:
"I know what we must do! There is the _kurage_ (jellyfish). He is
certainly ugly to look at, but he is proud of being able to walk on
land with his four legs like a tortoise. Let us send him to the Island
of Monkeys to catch one."
The jellyfish was then summoned to the King's presence, and was told
by his Majesty what was required of him.
The jellyfish, on being told of the unexpected mission which was to
be entrusted to him, looked very troubled, and said that he had never
been to the island in question, and as he had never had any experience
in catching monkeys he was afraid that he would not be able to get
one.
"Well," said the chief steward, "if you depend on your strength or
dexterity you will never catch a monkey. The only way is to play a
trick on one!"
"How can I play a trick on a monkey? I don't know how to do it," said
the perplexed jellyfish.
"This is what you must do," said the wily chief steward. "When you
approach the Island of Monkeys and meet some of them, you must try
to get very friendly with one. Tell him that you are a servant of the
Dragon King, and invite him to come and visit you and see the Dragon
King's palace. Try and describe to him as vividly as you can the
grandeur of the palace and the wonders of the sea so as to arouse his
curiosity and make him long to see it all!"
"But how am I to get the monkey here? You know monkeys don't swim!"
said the reluctant jellyfish.
"You must carry him on your back. What is the use of your shell if you
can't do that!" said the chief steward.
"Won't he be very heavy?" queried _kurage_ again.
"You mustn't mind that, for you are working for the Dragon King!"
replied the chief steward.
"I will do my best then," said the jellyfish, and he swam away from
the palace and started off towards the Monkey Island. Swimming
swiftly he reached his destination in a few hours, and was landed by a
convenient wave upon the shore. On looking round he saw not far away a
big pine-tree with drooping branches and on one of those branches was
just what he was looking for--a live monkey.
"I'm in luck!" thought the jellyfish. "Now I must flatter the creature
and try to entice him to come back with me to the palace, and my part
will be done!"
So the jellyfish slowly walked towards the pine-tree. In those ancient
days the jellyfish had four legs and a hard shell like a tortoise.
When he got to the pine-tree he raised his voice and said:
"How do you do, Mr. Monkey? Isn't it a lovely day?"
"A very fine day," answered the monkey from the tree. "I have never
seen you in this part of the world before. Where have you come from
and what is your name?"
"My name is _kurage_ or jellyfish. I am one of the servants of the
Dragon King. I have heard so much of your beautiful island that I have
come on purpose to see it," answered the jellyfish.
"I am very glad to see you," said the monkey.
"By-the-bye," said the jellyfish, "have you ever seen the palace of
the Dragon King of the Sea where I live?"
"I have often heard of it, but I have never seen it!" answered the
monkey.
"Then you ought most surely to come. It is a great pity for you to go
through life without seeing it. The beauty of the palace is beyond all
description--it is certainly to my mind the most lovely place in the
world," said the jellyfish.
"Is it so beautiful as all that?" asked the monkey in astonishment.
Then the jellyfish saw his chance, and went on describing to the best
of his ability the beauty and grandeur of the Sea King's palace, and
the wonders of the garden with its curious trees of white, pink and
red coral, and the still more curious fruits like great jewels hanging
on the branches. The monkey grew more and more interested, and as he
listened he came down the tree step by step so as not to lose a word
of the wonderful story.
"I have got him at last!" thought the jellyfish, but aloud he said:
"Mr. Monkey, I must now go back. As you have never seen the palace of
the Dragon King, won't you avail yourself of this splendid opportunity
by coming with me? I shall then be able to act as guide and show you
all the sights of the sea, which will be even more wonderful to you--a
land-lubber."
"I should love to go," said the monkey, "but how am I to cross the
water? I can't swim, as you surely know!"
"There is no difficulty about that. I can carry you on my back."
"That will be troubling you too much," said the monkey.
"I can do it quite easily. I am stronger than I look, so you needn't
hesitate," said the jellyfish, and taking the monkey on his back he
stepped into the sea.
"Keep very still, Mr. Monkey," said the jellyfish. "You mustn't fall
into the sea; I am responsible for your safe arrival at the King's
palace."
"Please don't go so fast, or I am sure I shall fall off," said the
monkey.
Thus they went along, the jellyfish skimming through the waves with
the monkey sitting on his back. When they were about halfway, the
jellyfish, who knew very little of anatomy, began to wonder if the
monkey had his liver with him or not!
"Mr. Monkey, tell me, have you such a thing as a liver with you?"
The monkey was very much surprised at this queer question, and asked
what the jellyfish wanted with a liver.
"That is the most important thing of all," said the stupid jellyfish,
"so as soon as I recollected it, I asked you if you had yours with
you?"
"Why is my liver so important to you?" asked the monkey.
"Oh! you will learn the reason later," said the jellyfish.
The monkey grew more and more curious and suspicious, and urged the
jellyfish to tell him for what his liver was wanted, and ended up by
appealing to his hearer's feelings by saying that he was very troubled
at what he had been told.
Then the jellyfish, seeing how anxious the monkey looked, was sorry
for him, and told everything. How the Dragon Queen had fallen ill,
and how the doctor had said that only the liver of a live monkey would
cure her, and how the Dragon King had sent him to find one.
"Now I have done as I was told, and as soon as we arrive at the palace
the doctor will want your liver, so I feel sorry for you!" said the
silly jellyfish.
The poor monkey was horrified when he learnt all this, and very angry
at the trick played upon him. He trembled with fear at the thought of
what was in store for him.
But the monkey was a clever animal, and he thought it the wisest plan
not to show any sign of the fear he felt, so he tried to calm himself
and to think of some way by which he might escape.
"The doctor means to cut me open and then take my liver out! Why I
shall die!" thought the monkey. At last a bright thought struck him,
so he said quite cheerfully to the jellyfish:
"What a pity it was, Mr. Jellyfish, that you did not speak of this
before we left the island!"
"If I had told you why I wanted you to accompany me you would
certainly have refused to come," answered the jellyfish.
"You are quite mistaken," said the monkey. "Monkeys can very well
spare a liver or two, especially when it is wanted for the Dragon
Queen of the Sea. If I had only guessed of what you were in need, I
should have presented you with one without waiting to be asked. I have
several livers. But the greatest pity is, that as you did not speak in
time, I have left all my livers hanging on the pine-tree."
"Have you left your liver behind you?" asked the jellyfish.
"Yes," said the cunning monkey, "during the daytime I usually leave
my liver hanging up on the branch of a tree, as it is very much in the
way when I am climbing about from tree to tree. To-day, listening to
your interesting conversation, I quite forgot it, and left it behind
when I came off with you. If only you had spoken in time I should have
remembered it, and should have brought it along with me!"
The jellyfish was very disappointed when he heard this, for he
believed every word the monkey said. The monkey was of no good without
a liver. Finally the jellyfish stopped and told the monkey so.
"Well," said the monkey, "that is soon remedied. I am really sorry to
think of all your trouble; but if you will only take me back to the
place where you found me, I shall soon be able to get my liver."
The jellyfish did not at all like the idea of going all the way back
to the island again; but the monkey assured him that if he would be so
kind as to take him back he would get his very best liver, and bring
it with him the next time. Thus persuaded, the jellyfish turned his
course towards the Monkey Island once more.
No sooner had the jellyfish reached the shore than the sly monkey
landed, and getting up into the pine-tree where the jellyfish had
first seen him, he cut several capers amongst the branches with joy at
being safe home again, and then looking down at the jellyfish said:
"So many thanks for all the trouble you have taken! Please present my
compliments to the Dragon King on your return!"
The jellyfish wondered at this speech and the mocking tone in which
it was uttered. Then he asked the monkey if it wasn't his intention to
come with him at once after getting his liver.
The monkey replied laughingly that he couldn't afford to lose his
liver; it was too precious.
"But remember your promise!" pleaded the jellyfish, now very
discouraged.
"That promise was false, and anyhow it is now broken!" answered the
monkey. Then he began to jeer at the jellyfish and told him that he
had been deceiving him the whole time; that he had no wish to lose
his life, which he certainly would have done had he gone on to the Sea
King's Palace to the old doctor waiting for him, instead of persuading
the jellyfish to return under false pretences.
"Of course, I won't _give_ you my liver, but come and get it if you
can!" added the monkey mockingly from the tree.
There was nothing for the jellyfish to do now but to repent of his
stupidity, and return to the Dragon King of the Sea and confess his
failure, so he started sadly and slowly to swim back. The last thing
he heard as he glided away, leaving the island behind him, was the
monkey laughing at him.
Meanwhile the Dragon King, the doctor, the chief steward, and all the
servants were waiting impatiently for the return of the jellyfish.
When they caught sight of him approaching the palace, they hailed him
with delight. They began to thank him profusely for all the trouble he
had taken in going to Monkey Island, and then they asked him where the
monkey was.
Now the day of reckoning had come for the jellyfish. He quaked all
over as he told his story. How he had brought the monkey half way over
the sea, and then had stupidly let out the secret of his commission;
how the monkey had deceived him by making him believe that he had left
his liver behind him.
The Dragon King's wrath was great, and he at once gave orders that the
jellyfish was to be severely punished. The punishment was a horrible
one. All the bones were to be drawn out from his living body, and he
was to be beaten with sticks.
The poor jellyfish, humiliated and horrified beyond all words, cried
out for pardon. But the Dragon King's order had to be obeyed.
The servants of the palace forthwith each brought out a stick and
surrounded the jellyfish, and after pulling out his bones they beat
him to a flat pulp, and then took him out beyond the palace gates and
threw him into the water. Here he was left to suffer and repent
his foolish chattering, and to grow accustomed to his new state of
bonelessness.
From this story it is evident that in former times the jellyfish once
had a shell and bones something like a tortoise, but, ever since the
Dragon King's sentence was carried out on the ancestor of the jelly
fishes, his descendants have all been soft and boneless just as you
see them to-day thrown up by the waves high upon the shores of Japan.
THE OLD MAN AND THE DEVILS
A long time ago there was an old man who had a big lump on the right
side of his face. One day he went into the mountain to cut wood, when
the rain began to pour and the wind to blow so very hard that, finding
it impossible to return home, and filled with fear, he took refuge in
the hollow of an old tree. While sitting there doubled up and unable
to sleep, he heard the confused sound of many voices in the distance
gradually approaching to where he was. He said to himself: "How
strange! I thought I was all alone in the mountain, but I hear the
voices of many people." So, taking courage, he peeped out, and saw a
great crowd of strange-looking beings. Some were red, and dressed in
green clothes; others were black, and dressed in red clothes; some had
only one eye; others had no mouth; indeed, it is quite impossible to
describe their varied and strange looks. They kindled a fire, so that
it became as light as day. They sat down in two cross-rows, and began
to drink wine and make merry just like human beings. They passed the
wine cup around so often that many of them soon drank too much. One of
the young devils got up and began to sing a merry song and to dance;
so also many others; some danced well, others badly. One said: "We
have had uncommon fun to-night, but I would like to see something
new."
Then the old man, losing all fear, thought he would like to dance,
and saying, "Let come what will, if I die for it, I will have a dance,
too," crept out of the hollow tree and, with his cap slipped over his
nose and his ax sticking in his belt, began to dance. The devils
in great surprise jumped up, saying, "Who is this?" but the old man
advancing and receding, swaying to and fro, and posturing this way and
that way, the whole crowd laughed and enjoyed the fun, saying: "How
well the old man dances! You must always come and join us in our
sport; but, for fear you might not come, you must give us a pledge
that you will." So the devils consulted together, and, agreeing that
the lump on his face, which was a token of wealth, was what he valued
most highly, demanded that it should be taken. The old man replied: "I
have had this lump many years, and would not without good reason part
with it; but you may have it, or an eye, or my nose either if you
wish." So the devils laid hold of it, twisting and pulling, and took
it off without giving him any pain, and put it away as a pledge that
he would come back. Just then the day began to dawn, and the birds to
sing, so the devils hurried away.
The old man felt his face and found it quite smooth, and not a trace
of the lump left. He forgot all about cutting wood, and hastened home.
His wife, seeing him, exclaimed in great surprise, "What has happened
to you?" So he told her all that had befallen him.
Now, among the neighbors there was another old man who had a big lump
on the left side of his face. Hearing all about how the first old man
had got rid of his misfortune, he determined that he would also try
the same plan. So he went and crept into the hollow tree, and waited
for the devils to come. Sure enough, they came just as he was told,
and they sat down, drank wine, and made merry just as they did before.
The second old man, afraid and trembling, crept out of the hollow
tree. The devils welcomed him, saying: "The old man has come; now let
us see him dance." This old fellow was awkward, and did not dance as
well as the other, so the devils cried out: "You dance badly, and are
getting worse and worse; we will give you back the lump which we took
from you as a pledge." Upon this, one of the devils brought the lump,
and stuck it on the other side of his face; so the poor old fellow
returned home with a lump on each side.
AUTUMN AND SPRING
ADAPTED BY FRANK HINDER
A fair maiden lay asleep in a rice field. The sun was at its height,
and she was weary. Now a god looked down upon the rice field. He knew
that the beauty of the maiden came from within, that it mirrored the
beauty of heavenly dreams. He knew that even now, as she smiled, she
held converse with the spirit of the wind or the flowers.
The god descended and asked the dream-maiden to be his bride. She
rejoiced, and they were wed. A wonderful red jewel came of their
happiness.
Long, long afterwards, the stone was found by a farmer, who saw that
it was a very rare jewel. He prized it highly, and always carried it
about with him. Sometimes, as he looked at it in the pale light of
the moon, it seemed to him that he could discern eyes in its depths.
Again, in the stillness of the night, he would awaken and think that a
clear soft voice called him by name.
One day, the farmer had to carry the midday meal to his workers in
the field. The sun was very hot, so he loaded a cow with the bowls of
rice, the millet dumplings, and the beans. Suddenly, Prince Ama-boko
stood in the path. He was angry, for he thought that the farmer was
about to kill the cow. The Prince would hear no word of denial; his
wrath increased. The farmer became more and more terrified, and,
finally, took the precious stone from his pocket and presented it as
a peace-offering to the powerful Prince. Ama-boko marveled at the
brilliancy of the jewel, and allowed the man to continue his journey.
The Prince returned to his home. He drew forth the treasure, and it
was immediately transformed into a goddess of surpassing beauty. Even
as she rose before him, he loved her, and ere the moon waned they were
wed. The goddess ministered to his every want. She prepared delicate
dishes, the secret of which is known only to the gods. She made wine
from the juice of a myriad herbs, wine such as mortals never taste.
But, after a time, the Prince became proud and overbearing. He began
to treat his faithful wife with cruel contempt. The goddess was sad,
and said: "You are not worthy of my love. I will leave you and go
to my father." Ama-boko paid no heed to these words, for he did not
believe that the threat would be fulfilled. But the beautiful goddess
was in earnest. She escaped from the palace and fled to Naniwa, where
she is still honored as Akaru-hime, the Goddess of Light.
Now the Prince was wroth when he heard that the goddess had left him,
and set out in pursuit of her. But when he neared Naniwa, the gods
would not allow his vessel to enter the haven. Then he knew that
his priceless red jewel was lost to him forever. He steered his ship
towards the north coast of Japan, and landed at Tajima. Here he was
well received, and highly esteemed on account of the treasures which
he brought with him. He had costly strings of pearls, girdles of
precious stones, and a mirror which the wind and the waves obeyed.
Prince Ama-boko remained at Tajima, and was the father of a mighty
race.
Among his children's children was a Princess so renowned for her
beauty that eighty suitors sought her hand. One after the other
returned sorrowfully home, for none found favor in her eyes. At last,
two brothers came before her, the young God of the Autumn, and the
young God of the Spring. The elder of the two, the God of Autumn,
first urged his suit. But the Princess refused him. He went to his
younger brother and said, "The Princess does not love me, neither will
you be able to win her heart."
But the Spring God was full of hope, and replied, "I will give you a
cask of rice wine if I do not win her, but if she consents to be my
bride, you shall give a cask of _sake_ to me."
Now the God of Spring went to his mother, and told her all. She
promised to aid him. Thereupon she wove, in a single night, a robe and
sandals from the unopened buds of the lilac and white wistaria. Out of
the same delicate flowers she fashioned a bow and arrows. Thus clad,
the God of Spring made his way to the beautiful Princess.
As he stepped before the maiden, every bud unfolded, and from the
heart of each blossom came a fragrance that filled the air. The
Princess was overjoyed, and gave her hand to the God of Spring.
The elder brother, the God of Autumn, was filled with rage when he
heard how his brother had obtained the wondrous robe. He refused to
give the promised cask of _sake_. When the mother learned that the
god had broken his word, she placed stones and salt in the hollow of
a bamboo cane, wrapped it round with bamboo leaves, and hung it in the
smoke. Then she uttered a curse upon her first-born: "As the leaves
wither and fade, so must you. As the salt sea ebbs, so must you. As
the stone sinks, so must you."
The terrible curse fell upon her son. While the God of Spring remains
ever young, ever fragrant, ever full of mirth, the God of Autumn is
old, and withered, and sad.
THE VISION OF TSUNU
ADAPTED BY FRANK RINDER
When the five tall pine-trees on the windy heights of Mionoseki were
but tiny shoots, there lived in the Kingdom of the Islands a pious
man. His home was in a remote hamlet surrounded by mountains and great
forests of pine. Tsunu had a wife and sons and daughters. He was a
woodman, and his days were spent in the forest and on the hillsides.
In summer he was up at cock-crow, and worked patiently, in the soft
light under the pines, until nightfall. Then, with his burden of logs
and branches, he went slowly homeward. After the evening meal, he
would tell some old story or legend. Tsunu was never weary of relating
the wondrous tales of the Land of the Gods. Best of all he loved to
speak of Fuji-yama, the mountain that stood so near his home.
In times gone by, there was no mountain where now the sacred peak
reaches up to the sky; only a far-stretching plain bathed in sunlight
all day. The peasants in the district were astonished, one morning,
to behold a mighty hill where before had been the open plain. It had
sprung up in a single night, while they slept. Flames and huge stones
were hurled from its summit; the peasants feared that the demons from
the under-world had come to wreak vengeance upon them. But for many
generations there have been peace and silence on the heights. The good
Sun-Goddess loves Fuji-yama. Every evening she lingers on his summit,
and when at last she leaves him, his lofty crest is bathed in soft
purple light. In the evening the Matchless Mountain seems to rise
higher and higher into the skies, until no mortal can tell the place
of his rest. Golden clouds enfold Fuji-yama in the early morning.
Pilgrims come from far and near, to gain blessing and health for
themselves and their families from the sacred mountain.
On the self-same night that Fuji-yama rose out of the earth, a strange
thing happened in the mountainous district near Kyoto. The inhabitants
were awakened by a terrible roar, which continued throughout the
night. In the morning every mountain had disappeared; not one of the
hills that they loved was to be seen. A blue lake lay before them. It
was none other than the lute-shaped Lake Biwa. The mountains had, in
truth, traveled under the earth for more than a hundred miles, and now
form the sacred Fuji-yama.
As Tsunu stepped out of his hut in the morning, his eyes sought the
Mountain of the Gods. He saw the golden clouds, and the beautiful
story was in his mind as he went to his work.
One day the woodman wandered farther than usual into the forest. At
noon he was in a very lonely spot. The air was soft and sweet, the sky
so blue that he looked long at it, and then took a deep breath. Tsunu
was happy.
Now his eye fell on a little fox who watched him curiously from the
bushes. The creature ran away when it saw that the man's attention had
been attracted. Tsunu thought, "I will follow the little fox and see
where she goes." Off he started in pursuit. He soon came to a bamboo
thicket. The smooth, slender stems waved dreamily, the pale green
leaves still sparkled with the morning dew. But it was not this which
caused the woodman to stand spellbound. On a plot of mossy grass
beyond the thicket, sat two maidens of surpassing beauty. They were
partly shaded by the waving bamboos, but their faces were lit up by
the sunlight. Not a word came from their lips, yet Tsunu knew that
the voices of both must be sweet as the cooing of the wild dove. The
maidens were graceful as the slender willow, they were fair as the
blossom of the cherry-tree. Slowly they moved the chessmen which
lay before them on the grass. Tsunu hardly dared to breathe, lest he
should disturb them. The breeze caught their long hair, the sunlight
played upon it.... The sun still shone.... The chessmen were still
slowly moved to and fro.... The woodman gazed enraptured.
"But now," thought Tsunu, "I must return, and tell those at home of
the beautiful maidens." Alas, his knees were stiff and weak. "Surely
I have stood here for many hours," he said. He leaned for support upon
his axe; it crumbled into dust. Looking down he saw that a flowing
white beard hung from his chin.
For many hours the poor woodman tried in vain to reach his home.
Fatigued and wearied, he came at last to a hut. But all was changed.
Strange faces peered curiously at him. The speech of the people was
unfamiliar. "Where are my wife and my children?" he cried. But no one
knew his name.
Finally, the poor woodman came to understand that seven generations
had passed since he bade farewell to his dear ones in the early
morning. While he had gazed at the beautiful maidens, his wife, his
children, and his children's children had lived and died.
The few remaining years of Tsunu's life were spent as a pious pilgrim
to Fuji-yama, his well-loved mountain.
Since his death he has been honored as a saint who brings prosperity
to the people of his native country.
THE STAR-LOVERS
ADAPTED BY FRANK RINDER
Shokujo, daughter of the Sun, dwelt with her father on the banks of
the Silver River of Heaven, which we call the Milky Way. She was a
lovely maiden, graceful and winsome, and her eyes were tender as the
eyes of a dove. Her loving father, the Sun, was much troubled because
Shokujo did not share in the youthful pleasures of the daughters of
the air. A soft melancholy seemed to brood over her, but she never
wearied of working for the good of others, and especially did she
busy herself at her loom; indeed she came to be called the Weaving
Princess.
The Sun bethought him that if he could give his daughter in marriage,
all would be well; her dormant love would be kindled into a flame that
would illumine her whole being and drive out the pensive spirit which
oppressed her. Now there lived, hard by, a right honest herdsman,
named Kingen, who tended his cows on the borders of the Heavenly
Stream. The Sun-King proposed to bestow his daughter on Kingen,
thinking in this way to provide for her happiness and at the same time
keep her near him. Every star beamed approval, and there was joy in
the heavens.
The love that bound Shokujo and Kingen to one another was a great
love. With its awakening, Shokujo forsook her former occupations, nor
did she any longer labor industriously at the loom, but laughed, and
danced, and sang, and made merry from morn till night. The Sun-King
was sorely grieved, for he had not foreseen so great a change. Anger
was in his eyes, and he said, "Kingen is surely the cause of this,
therefore I will banish him to the other side of the River of Stars."
When Shokujo and Kingen heard that they were to be parted, and could
thenceforth, in accordance with the King's decree, meet but once a
year, and that upon the seventh night of the seventh month, their
hearts were heavy. The leave-taking between them was a sad one,
and great tears stood in Shokujo's eyes as she bade farewell to her
lover-husband. In answer to the behest of the Sun-King, myriads of
magpies flocked together, and, outspreading their wings, formed a
bridge on which Kingen crossed the River of Heaven. The moment that
his foot touched the opposite bank, the birds dispersed with noisy
chatter, leaving poor Kingen a solitary exile. He looked wistfully
towards the weeping figure of Shokujo, who stood on the threshold of
her now desolate home.
Long and weary were the succeeding days, spent as they were by Kingen
in guiding his oxen and by Shokujo in plying her shuttle. The Sun-King
was gladdened by his daughter's industry. When night fell and the
heavens were bright with countless lights, the lovers were wont,
standing on the banks of the celestial stream, to waft across it sweet
and tender messages, while each uttered a prayer for the speedy coming
of the wondrous night.
The long-hoped-for month and day drew nigh, and the hearts of the
lovers were troubled lest rain should fall; for the Silver River, full
at all times, is at that season often in flood, and the bird-bridge
might be swept away.
The day broke cloudlessly bright. It waxed and waned, and one by one
the lamps of heaven were lighted. At nightfall the magpies assembled,
and Shokujo, quivering with delight, crossed the slender bridge and
fell into the arms of her lover. Their transport of joy was as the joy
of the parched flower, when the raindrop falls upon it; but the moment
of parting soon came, and Shokujo sorrowfully retraced her steps.
Year follows year, and the lovers still meet in that far-off land on
the seventh night of the seventh month, save when rain has swelled
the Silver River and rendered the crossing impossible. The hope of a
permanent reunion still fills the hearts of the Star-Lovers, and is to
them as a sweet fragrance and a beautiful vision.
MYTHS OF THE SLAVS
THE TWO BROTHERS
ADAPTED BY ALEXANDER CHODSKO
Once upon a time there were two brothers whose father had left them
but a small fortune. The eldest grew very rich, but at the same time
cruel and wicked, whereas there was nowhere a more honest or kinder
man than the younger. But he remained poor, and had many children, so
that at times they could scarcely get bread to eat. At last, one day
there was not even this in the house, so he went to his rich brother
and asked him for a loaf of bread. Waste of time! His rich brother
only called him beggar and vagabond, and slammed the door in his face.
The poor fellow, after this brutal reception, did not know which way
to turn. Hungry, scantily clad, shivering with cold, his legs could
scarcely carry him along. He had not the heart to go home, with
nothing for the children, so he went towards the mountain forest. But
all he found there were some wild pears that had fallen to the ground.
He had to content himself with eating these, though they set his teeth
on edge. But what was he to do to warm himself, for the east wind with
its chill blast pierced him through and through. "Where shall I go?"
he said; "what will become of us in the cottage? There is neither food
nor fire, and my brother has driven me from his door." It was just
then he remembered having heard that the top of the mountain in front
of him was made of crystal, and had a fire forever burning upon it. "I
will try and find it," he said, "and then I may be able to warm myself
a little." So he went on climbing higher and higher till he reached
the top, when he was startled to see twelve strange beings sitting
round a huge fire. He stopped for a moment, but then said to himself,
"What have I to lose? Why should I fear? God is with me. Courage!"
So he advanced towards the fire, and bowing respectfully, said: "Good
people, take pity on my distress. I am very poor, no one cares for me,
I have not even a fire in my cottage; will you let me warm myself at
yours?" They all looked kindly at him, and one of them said: "My son,
come sit down with us and warm yourself."
So he sat down, and felt warm directly he was near them. But he dared
not speak while they were silent. What astonished him most was that
they changed seats one after another, and in such a way that each one
passed round the fire and came back to his own place. When he drew
near the fire an old man with long white beard and bald head arose
from the flames and spoke to him thus:
"Man, waste not thy life here; return to thy cottage, work, and live
honestly. Take as many embers as thou wilt, we have more than we
need."
And having said this he disappeared. Then the twelve filled a large
sack with embers, and, putting it on the poor man's shoulders, advised
him to hasten home.
Humbly thanking them, he set off. As he went he wondered why the
embers did not feel hot, and why they should weigh no more than a sack
of paper. He was thankful that he should be able to have a fire, but
imagine his astonishment when on arriving home he found the sack to
contain as many gold pieces as there had been embers; he almost went
out of his mind with joy at the possession of so much money. With all
his heart he thanked those who had been so ready to help him in his
need.
He was now rich, and rejoiced to be able to provide for his family.
Being curious to find out how many gold pieces there were, and not
knowing how to count, he sent his wife to his rich brother for the
loan of a quart measure.
This time the brother was in a better temper, so he lent what was
asked of him, but said mockingly, "What can such beggars as you have
to measure?"
The wife replied, "Our neighbor owes us some wheat; we want to be sure
he returns us the right quantity."
The rich brother was puzzled, and suspecting something he, unknown
to his sister-in-law, put some grease inside the measure. The trick
succeeded, for on getting it back he found a piece of gold sticking
to it. Filled with astonishment, he could only suppose his brother had
joined a band of robbers: so he hurried to his brother's cottage, and
threatened to bring him before the justice of the peace if he did
not confess where the gold came from. The poor man was troubled, and,
dreading to offend his brother, told the story of his journey to the
Crystal Mountain.
Now the elder brother had plenty of money for himself, yet he was
envious of the brother's good fortune, and became greatly displeased
when he found that his brother won every one's esteem by the good use
he made of his wealth. At last, he too determined to visit the Crystal
Mountain.
"I may meet with as good luck as my brother," said he to himself.
Upon reaching the Crystal Mountain he found the twelve seated round
the fire as before, and thus addressed them:
"I beg of you, good people, to let me warm myself, for it is bitterly
cold, and I am poor and homeless."
But one of them replied: "My son, the hour of thy birth was favorable;
thou art rich, but a miser; thou art wicked, for thou hast dared to
lie to us. Well dost thou deserve thy punishment."
Amazed and terrified he stood silent, not daring to speak. Meanwhile
the twelve changed places one after another, each at last returning
to his own seat. Then from the midst of the flames arose the
white-bearded old man and spoke thus sternly to the rich man:
"Woe unto the willful! Thy brother is virtuous, therefore have I
blessed him. As for thee, thou are wicked, and so shalt not escape our
vengeance."
At these words the twelve arose. The first seized the unfortunate man,
struck him, and passed him on to the second; the second also struck
him and passed him on to the third; and so did they all in their turn,
until he was given up to the old man, who disappeared with him into
the fire.
Days, weeks, months went by, but the rich man never returned, and none
knew what had become of him. I think, between you and me, the younger
brother had his suspicions but he very wisely kept them to himself.
THE TWELVE MONTHS
ADAPTED BY ALEXANDER CHODSKO
There was once a widow who had two daughters, Helen, her own child by
her dead husband, and Marouckla, his daughter by his first wife. She
loved Helen, but hated the poor orphan, because she was far prettier
than her own daughter. Marouckla did not think about her good looks,
and could not understand why her stepmother should be angry at the
sight of her. The hardest work fell to her share; she cleaned out the
rooms, cooked, washed, sewed, spun, wove, brought in the hay, milked
the cow, and all this without any help. Helen, meanwhile, did nothing
but dress herself in her best clothes and go to one amusement after
another. But Marouckla never complained; she bore the scoldings and
bad temper of mother and sister with a smile on her lips, and the
patience of a lamb. But this angelic behavior did not soften them.
They became even more tyrannical and grumpy, for Marouckla grew daily
more beautiful while Helen's ugliness increased. So the stepmother
determined to get rid of Marouckla, for she knew that while she
remained her own daughter would have no suitors. Hunger, every kind
of privation, abuse, every means was used to make the girl's life
miserable. The most wicked of men could not have been more mercilessly
cruel than these two vixens. But in spite of it all Marouckla grew
ever sweeter and more charming.
One day in the middle of winter Helen wanted some wood-violets.
"Listen," cried she to Marouckla; "you must go up the mountain and
find me some violets, I want some to put in my gown; they must be
fresh and sweet-scented--do you hear?"
"But, my dear sister, who ever heard of violets blooming in the snow?"
said the poor orphan.
"You wretched creature! Do you dare to disobey me?" said Helen. "Not
another word; off with you. If you do not bring me some violets from
the mountain forest, I will kill you."
The stepmother also added her threats to those of Helen, and with
vigorous blows they pushed Marouckla outside and shut the door upon
her. The weeping girl made her way to the mountain. The snow lay deep,
and there was no trace of any human being. Long she wandered hither
and thither, and lost herself in the wood. She was hungry, and
shivered with cold, and prayed to die. Suddenly she saw a light in
the distance, and climbed towards it, till she reached the top of
the mountain. Upon the highest peak burnt a large fire, surrounded by
twelve blocks of stone, on which sat twelve strange beings. Of these
the first three had white hair, three were not quite so old, three
were young and handsome, and the rest still younger.
There they all sat silently looking at the fire. They were the twelve
months of the year. The great Setchene (January) was placed higher
than the others; his hair and mustache were white as snow, and in his
hand he held a wand. At first Marouckla was afraid, but after a while
her courage returned and drawing near she said:
"Men of God, may I warm myself at your fire? I am chilled by the
winter cold."
The great Setchene raised his head and answered:
"What brings thee here, my daughter? What dost thou seek?"
"I am looking for violets," replied the maiden.
"This is not the season for violets; dost thou not see the snow
everywhere?" said Setchene.
"I know well, but my sister Helen and my stepmother have ordered me to
bring them violets from your mountain: if I return without them they
will kill me. I pray you, good shepherds, tell me where they may be
found?"
Here the great Setchene arose and went over to the youngest of the
months, and placing his wand in his hand, said:
"Brother Brezene (March), do thou take the highest place."
Brezene obeyed, at the same time waving his wand over the fire.
Immediately the flames rose towards the sky, the snow began to melt
and the tress and shrubs to bud; the grass became green, and from
between its blades peeped the pale primrose. It was Spring, and the
meadows were blue with violets.
"Gather them quickly, Marouckla," said Brezene.
Joyfully she hastened to pick the flowers, and having soon a large
bunch she thanked them and ran home. Helen and the stepmother were
amazed at the sight of the flowers, the scent of which filled the
house.
"Where did you find them?" asked Helen.
"Under the trees on the mountain slope," said Marouckla.
Helen kept the flowers for herself and her mother; she did not even
thank her stepsister for the trouble she had taken. The next day she
desired Marouckla to fetch her strawberries.
"Run," said she, "and fetch me strawberries from the mountain: they
must be very sweet and ripe."
"But who ever heard of strawberries ripening in the snow?" exclaimed
Marouckla.
"Hold your tongue, worm; don't answer me; if I don't have my
strawberries I will kill you."
Then the stepmother pushed her into the yard and bolted the door. The
unhappy girl made her way towards the mountain and to the large fire
round which sat the twelve months. The great Setchene occupied the
highest place.
"Men of God, may I warm myself at your fire? The winter cold chills
me," said she, drawing near.
The great Setchene raised his head and asked:
"Why comest thou here? What dost thou seek?"
"I am looking for strawberries," said she.
"We are in the midst of winter," replied Setchene; strawberries do not
grow in the snow."
"I know," said the girl sadly, "but my sister and stepmother have
ordered me to bring them strawberries; if I do not they will kill me.
Pray, good shepherds, tell me where to find them."
The great Setchene arose, crossed over to the month opposite him, and
putting the wand into his hand, said:
"Brother Tchervene (June), do thou take the highest place."
Tchervene obeyed, and as he waved his wand over the fire the flames
leapt towards the sky. Instantly the snow melted, the earth was
covered with verdure, trees were clothed with leaves, birds began
to sing, and various flowers blossomed in the forest. It was summer.
Under the bushes masses of star-shaped flowers changed into ripening
strawberries. Before Marouckla had time to cross herself they covered
the glade, making it look like a sea of blood.
"Gather them quickly, Marouckla," said Tchervene.
Joyfully she thanked the months, and having filled her apron
ran happily home. Helen and her mother wondered at seeing the
strawberries, which filled the house with their delicious fragrance.
"Wherever did you find them?" asked Helen crossly.
"Right up among the mountains; those from under the beech trees are
not bad."
Helen gave a few to her mother and ate the rest herself; not one did
she offer to her stepsister. Being tired of strawberries, on the third
day she took a fancy for some fresh red apples.
"Run, Marouckla," said she, "and fetch me fresh red apples from the
mountain."
"Apples in winter, sister? why, the trees have neither leaves nor
fruit."
"Idle creature, go this minute," said Helen; "unless you bring back
apples we will kill you."
As before, the stepmother seized her roughly and turned her out of
the house. The poor girl went weeping up the mountain, across the deep
snow upon which lay no human footprint, and on towards the fire round
which were the twelve months. Motionless sat they, and on the highest
stone was the great Setchene.
"Men of God, may I warm myself at your fire? The winter cold chills
me," said she, drawing near.
The great Setchene raised his head.
"Why com'st thou here? What dost thou seek?" asked he.
"I am come to look for red apples," replied Marouckla.
"But this is winter, and not the season for red apples," observed the
great Setchene.
"I know," answered the girl, "but my sister and stepmother, sent me to
fetch red apples from the mountain; if I return without them they will
kill me."
Thereupon the great Setchene arose and went over to one of the elderly
months, to whom he handed the wand, saying:
"Brother Zare (September), do thou take the highest place."
Zare moved to the highest stone and waved his wand over the fire.
There was a flare of red flames, the snow disappeared, but the fading
leaves which trembled on the trees were sent by a cold northeast
wind in yellow masses to the glade. Only a few flowers of autumn were
visible, such as the fleabane and red gillyflower, autumn colchicums
in the ravine, and under the beeches bracken and tufts of northern
heather. At first Marouckla looked in vain for red apples. Then she
espied a tree which grew at a great height, and from the branches
of this hung the bright red fruit. Zare ordered her to gather some
quickly. The girl was delighted and shook the tree. First one apple
fell, then another.
"That is enough," said Zare, "hurry home."
Thanking the months, she returned joyfully. Helen marveled and the
stepmother wondered at seeing the fruit.
"Where did you gather them?" asked the stepsister.
"There are more on the mountain top," answered Marouckla.
"Then why did you not bring more?" said Helen angrily; "you must have
eaten them on your way back, you wicked girl."
"No, dear sister, I have not even tasted them," said Marouckla. "I
shook the tree twice; one apple fell each time. I was not allowed to
shake it again, but was told to return home."
"May God smite you with his thunderbolt," said Helen, striking her.
Marouckla prayed to die rather than suffer such ill-treatment. Weeping
bitterly, she took refuge in the kitchen. Helen and her mother found
the apples more delicious than any they had ever tasted, and when they
had eaten both longed for more.
"Listen, mother," said Helen. "Give me my cloak; I will fetch some
more apples myself, or else that good-for-nothing wretch will eat them
all on the way. I shall be able to find the mountain and the tree. The
shepherds may cry 'Stop,' but I shall not leave go till I have shaken
down all the apples."
In spite of her mother's advice she put on her cloak, covered her head
with a warm hood, and took the road to the mountain. The mother stood
and watched her till she was lost in the distance.
Snow covered everything, not a human footprint was to be seen on its
surface. Helen lost herself and wandered hither and thither. After
a while she saw a light above her, and following in its direction
reached the mountain top. There was the flaming fire, the twelve
blocks of stone, and the twelve months. At first she was frightened
and hesitated; then she came nearer and warmed her hands. She did not
ask permission, nor did she speak one polite word.
"What has brought thee here? What dost thou seek?" said the great
Setchene severely.
"I am not obliged to tell you, old graybeard; what business is it of
yours?" she replied disdainfully, turning her back on the fire and
going towards the forest.
The great Setchene frowned, and waved his wand over his head.
Instantly the sky became covered with clouds, the fire went down, snow
fell in large flakes, an icy wind howled round the mountain. Amid the
fury of the storm Helen added curses against her stepsister. The cloak
failed to warm her benumbed limbs. The mother kept on waiting for her;
she looked from the window, she watched from the doorstep, but her
daughter came not. The hours passed slowly, but Helen did not return.
"Can it be that the apples have charmed her from her home?" thought
the mother. Then she clad herself in hood and shawl and went in search
of her daughter. Snow fell in huge masses; it covered all things, it
lay untouched by human footsteps. For long she wandered hither and
thither; the icy northeast wind whistled in the mountain, but no voice
answered her cries.
Day after day Marouckla worked and prayed, and waited; but neither
stepmother nor sister returned, they had been frozen to death on the
mountain. The inheritance of a small house, a field, and a cow fell to
Marouckla. In course of time an honest farmer came to share them with
her, and their lives were happy and peaceful.
THE SUN; OR, THE THREE GOLDEN HAIRS OF THE OLD MAN VSEVEDE
ADAPTED BY ALEXANDER CHODSKO
Can this be a true story? It is said that once there was a King who
was exceedingly fond of hunting the wild beasts in his forests. One
day he followed a stag so far and so long that he lost his way. Alone
and overtaken by night, he was glad to find himself near a small
thatched cottage in which lived a charcoal-burner.
"Will you kindly show me the way to the highroad? You shall be
handsomely rewarded."
"I would willingly," said the charcoal-burner, "But God is going to
send my wife a little child, and I cannot leave her alone. Will you
pass the night under our roof? There is a truss of sweet hay in the
loft where you may rest, and to-morrow morning I will be your guide."
The King accepted the invitation and went to bed in the loft. Shortly
after a son was born to the charcoal-burner's wife. But the King
could not sleep. At midnight he heard noises in the house, and looking
through a crack in the flooring he saw the charcoal-burner asleep, his
wife almost in a faint, and by the side of the newly-born babe three
old women dressed in white, each holding a lighted taper in her hand,
and all talking together. Now these were the three Soudiche or Fates,
you must know.
The first said, "On this boy I bestow the gift of confronting great
dangers."
The second said, "I bestow the power of happily escaping all these
dangers, and of living to a good old age."
The third said, "I bestow upon him for wife the Princess born at the
self-same hour as he, and daughter of the very King sleeping above in
the loft."
At these words the lights went out and silence reigned around.
Now the King was greatly troubled, and wondered exceedingly; he felt
as if he had received a sword-thrust in the chest. He lay awake all
night thinking how to prevent the words of the Fates from coming true.
With the first glimmer of morning light the baby began to cry. The
charcoal-burner, on going over to it, found that his wife was dead.
"Poor little orphan," he said sadly, "what will become of thee without
a mother's care?"
"Confide this child to me," said the King, "I will look after it. He
shall be well provided for. You shall be given a sum of money large
enough to keep you without having to burn charcoal."
The poor man gladly agreed, and the King went away promising to send
some one for the child. The Queen and the courtiers thought it would
be an agreeable surprise for the King to hear that a charming little
Princess had been born on the night he was away. But instead of being
pleased he frowned and calling one of his servants, said to him, "Go
to the charcoal-burner's cottage in the, forest, and give the man this
purse in exchange for a new-born infant. On your way back drown
the child. See well that he is drowned, for if he should in any way
escape, you yourself shall suffer in his place."
The servant was given the child in a basket, and on reaching the
center of a narrow bridge that stretched across a wide and deep river,
he threw both basket and baby into the water.
"A prosperous journey to you, Mr. Son-in-Law," said the King, on
hearing the servant's story; for he fully believed the child was
drowned. But it was far from being the case; the little one was
floating happily along in its basket cradle, and slumbering as
sweetly as if his mother had sung him to sleep. Now it happened that
a fisherman, who was mending his nets before his cottage door, saw
the basket floating down the river. He jumped at once into his boat,
picked it up, and ran to tell his wife the good news.
"Look," said he, "you have always longed for a son; here is a
beautiful little boy the river has sent us."
The woman was delighted, and took the infant and loved it as her own
child. They named him _Plavacek_ (the floater), because he had come to
them floating on the water.
The river flowed on. Years passed away. The little baby grew into a
handsome youth; in all the villages round there were none to compare
with him. Now it happened that one summer day the King was riding
unattended, and the heat being very great he reined in his horse
before the fisherman's door to ask for a drink of water. Plavacek
brought the water. The King looked at him attentively, then turning to
the fisherman, said, "That is a good-looking lad; is he your son?"
"He is and he isn't," replied the fisherman. "I found him, when he was
quite a tiny baby, floating down the stream in a basket. So we adopted
him and brought him up as our own son."
The King turned as pale as death, for he guessed that he was the same
child he had ordered to be drowned. Then recovering himself he got
down from his horse and said: "I want a trusty messenger to take a
message to the palace, could you send him with it?"
"With pleasure! Your Majesty may be sure of its safe delivery."
Thereupon the King wrote to the Queen as follows:
"The man who brings you this letter is the most dangerous of all my
enemies. Have his head cut off at once; no delay, no pity, he must be
executed before my return. Such is my will and pleasure."
This he carefully folded and sealed with the royal seal.
Plavacek took the letter and set off immediately. But the forest
through which he had to pass was so large, and the trees so thick,
that he missed the path and was overtaken by the darkness before the
journey was nearly over. In the midst of his trouble he met an old
woman who said, "Where are you going, Plavacek? Where are you going?"
"I am the bearer of a letter from the King to the Queen, but have
missed the path to the palace. Could you, good mother, put me on the
right road?"
"Impossible to-day, my child; it is getting dark, and you would not
have time to get there. Stay with me to-night. You will not be with
strangers, for I am your godmother."
Plavacek agreed. Thereupon they entered a pretty little cottage that
seemed suddenly to sink into the earth. Now while he slept the old
woman changed his letter for another, which ran thus:
"Immediately upon the receipt of this letter introduce the bearer
to the Princess our daughter, I have chosen this young man for my
son-in-law, and it is my wish they should be married before my return
to the palace. Such is my pleasure."
The letter was duly delivered, and when the Queen had read it, she
ordered everything to be prepared for the wedding. Both she and her
daughter greatly enjoyed Plavacek's society, and nothing disturbed the
happiness of the newly married pair.
Within a few days the King returned, and on hearing what had taken
place was very angry with the Queen.
"But you expressly bade me have the wedding before your return. Come,
read your letter again, here it is," said she.
He closely examined the letter; the paper, handwriting, seal--all were
undoubtedly his. He then called his son-in-law, and questioned him
about his journey. Plavacek hid nothing: he told how he had lost his
way, and how he had passed the night in a cottage in the forest.
"What was the old woman like?" asked the King.
From Plavacek's description the King knew it was the very same who,
twenty years before, had foretold the marriage of the Princess with
the charcoal-burner's son. After some moments' thought the King
said: "What is done is done. But you will not become my son-in-law
so easily. No, i' faith! As a wedding present you must bring me three
golden hairs from the head of Dede-Vsevede."
In this way he thought to get rid of his son-in-law, whose very
presence was distasteful to him. The young fellow took leave of his
wife and set off. "I know not which way to go," said he to himself,
"but my godmother the witch will surely help me."
But he found the way easily enough. He walked on and on and on for
a long time over mountain, valley, and river, until he reached the
shores of the Black Sea. There he found a boat and boatman.
"May God bless you, old boatman," said he.
"And you, too, my young traveler. Where are you going?"
"To Dede-Vsevede's castle for three of his golden hairs."
"Ah, then you are very welcome. For a long weary while I have been
waiting for such a messenger as you. I have been ferrying passengers
across for these twenty years, and not one of them has done anything
to help me. If you will promise to ask Dede-Vsevede when I shall be
released from my toil I will row you across."
Plavacek promised, and was rowed to the opposite bank. He continued
his journey on foot until he came in sight of a large town half in
ruins, near which was passing a funeral procession. The King of that
country was following his father's coffin, and with the tears running
down his cheeks.
"May God comfort you in your distress," said Plavacek.
"Thank you, good traveler. Where are you going?"
"To the house of Dede-Vsevede in quest of three of his golden hairs."
"To the house of Dede-Vsevede? Indeed! What a pity you did not come
sooner, we have long been expecting such a messenger as you. Come and
see me by-and-by."
When Plavacek presented himself at court the King said to him:
"We understand you are on your way to the house of Dede-Vsevede! Now
we have an apple-tree here that bears the fruit of everlasting youth.
One of these apples eaten by a man, even though he be dying, will cure
him and make him young again. For the last twenty years neither fruit
nor flower has been found on this tree. Will you ask Dede-Vsevede the
cause of it?"
"That I will, with pleasure."
Then Plavacek continued his journey, and as he went he came to a large
and beautiful city where all was sad and silent. Near the gate was an
old man who leaned on a stick and walked with difficulty.
"May God bless you, good old man."
"And you, too, my handsome young traveler. Where are you going?"
"To Dede-Vsevede's palace in search of three of his golden hairs."
"Ah, you are the very messenger I have so long waited for. Allow me to
take you to my master the King."
On their arrival at the palace, the King said, "I hear you are an
ambassador to Dede-Vsevede. We have here a well, the water of
which renews itself. So wonderful are its effects that invalids are
immediately cured on drinking it, while a few drops sprinkled on a
corpse will bring it to life again. For the past twenty years this
well has remained dry: if you will ask old Dede-Vsevede how the flow
of water may be restored I will reward you royally."
Plavacek promised to do so, and was dismissed with good wishes. He
then traveled through deep dark forests, in the midst of which might
be seen a large meadow: out of it grew lovely flowers, and in the
center stood a castle built of gold. It was the home of Dede-Vsevede.
So brilliant with light was it that it seemed to be built of fire.
When he entered there was no one there but an old woman spinning.
"Greeting, Plavacek, I am well pleased to see you."
She was his godmother, who had given him shelter in her cottage when
he was the bearer of the King's letter.
"Tell me what brings you here from such a distance," she went on.
"The King would not have me for his son-in-law, unless I first got him
three golden hairs from the head of Dede-Vsevede. So he sent me here
to fetch them."
The Fate laughed. "Dede-Vsevede indeed! Why, I am his mother, it is
the shining sun himself. He is a child at morning time, a grown man
at midday, a decrepit old man, looking as if he had lived a hundred
years, at eventide. But I will see that you have the three hairs from
his head; I am not your godmother for nothing. All the same you must
not remain here. My son is a good lad, but when he comes home he
is hungry, and would very probably order you to be roasted for his
supper. Now I will turn this empty bucket upside down, and you shall
hide underneath it."
Plavacek begged the Fate to obtain from Dede-Vsevede the answers to
the three questions he had been asked.
"I will do so certainly, but you must listen to what he says."
Suddenly a blast of wind howled round the palace, and the Sun entered
by a western window. He was an old man with golden hair.
"I smell human flesh," cried he, "I am sure of it. Mother, you have
some one here."
"Star of day," she replied, "whom could I have here that you would not
see sooner than I? The fact is that in your daily journeys the scent
of human flesh is always with you, so when you come home at evening it
clings to you still."
The old man said nothing, and sat down to supper. When he had finished
he laid his golden head on the Fate's lap and went to sleep. Then she
pulled out a hair and threw it on the ground. It fell with a metallic
sound like the vibration of a guitar string.
"What do you want, mother?" asked he.
"Nothing, my son; I was sleeping, and had a strange dream."
"What was it, mother?"
"I thought I was in a place where there was a well, and the well was
fed from a spring, the water of which cured all diseases. Even the
dying were restored to health on drinking that water, and the dead who
were sprinkled with it came to life again. For the last twenty years
the well has run dry. What must be done to restore the flow of water?"
"That is very simple. A frog has lodged itself in the opening of the
spring, this prevents the flow of water. Kill the frog, and the water
will return to the well."
He slept again, and the old woman pulled out another golden hair, and
threw it on the ground.
"Mother, what do you want?"
"Nothing, my son, nothing; I was dreaming. In my dream I saw a large
town, the name of which I have forgotten. And there grew an apple-tree
the fruit of which had the power to make the old young again. A single
apple eaten by an old man would restore to him the vigor and freshness
of youth. For twenty years this tree has not borne fruit. What can be
done to make it fruitful?"
"The means are not difficult. A snake hidden among the roots destroys
the sap. Kill the snake, transplant the tree, and the fruit will grow
as before."
He again fell asleep, and the old woman pulled out another golden
hair.
"Now mother, why will you not let me sleep?" said the old man, really
vexed; and he would have got up.
"Lie down, my darling son, do not disturb yourself. I am sorry I
awoke you, but I have had a very strange dream. It seemed that I saw a
boatman on the shores of the Black Sea, and he complained that he had
been toiling at the ferry for twenty years without any one having come
to take his place. For how much longer must this poor old man continue
to row?"
"He is a silly fellow. He has but to place his oars in the hands
of the first comer and jump ashore. Who ever receives the oars will
replace him as ferryman. But leave me in peace now, mother, and do not
wake me again. I have to rise very early, and must first dry the eyes
of a Princess. The poor thing spends all night weeping for her husband
who has been sent by the King to get three of my golden hairs."
Next morning the wind whistled round Dede-Vsevede's palace, and
instead of an old man, a beautiful child with golden hair awoke on
the old woman's lap. It was the glorious sun. He bade her good-by, and
flew out of the eastern window. The old woman turned up the bucket and
said to Plavacek: "Look, here are the three golden hairs. You now
know the answers to your questions. May God direct you and send you
a prosperous journey. You will not see me again, for you will have no
further need of me."
He thanked her gratefully and left her. On arriving at the town with
the dried-up well, he was questioned by the King as to what news he
had brought.
"Have the well carefully cleaned out," said he, "kill the frog that
obstructs the spring, and the wonderful water will flow again."
The King did as he was advised, and rejoiced to see the water return.
He gave Plavacek twelve swan-white horses, and as much gold and silver
as they could carry.
On reaching the second town and being asked by the King what news he
had brought, he replied, "Excellent; one could not wish for better.
Dig up your apple-tree, kill the snake that lies among the roots,
transplant the tree, and it will produce apples like those of former
times."
And all turned out as he had said, for no sooner was the tree
replanted than it was covered with blossoms that gave it the
appearance of a sea of roses. The delighted King gave him twelve
raven-black horses, laden with as much wealth as they could carry.
He then journeyed to the shores of the Black Sea. There the boatman
questioned him as to what news he had brought respecting his release.
Plavacek first crossed with his twenty-four horses to the opposite
bank, and then replied that the boatman might gain his freedom by
placing the oars in the hands of the first traveler who wished to be
ferried over.
Plavacek's royal father-in-law could not believe his eyes when he
saw Dede-Vsevede's three golden hairs. As for the Princess, his young
wife, she wept tears, but of joy, not sadness, to see her dear one
again, and she said to him, "How did you get such splendid horses and
so much wealth, dear husband?"
And he answered her, "All this represents the price paid for the
weariness of spirit I have felt; it is the ready money for hardships
endured and services given. Thus, I showed one King how to regain
possession of the Apples of Youth: to another I told the secret of
reopening the spring of water that gives health and life."
"Apples of Youth! Water of Life!" interrupted the King. "I will
certainly go and find these treasures for myself. Ah, what joy! having
eaten of these apples I shall become young again; having drunk of the
Water of Immortality, I shall live forever."
And he started off in search of these treasures. But he has not yet
returned from his search.
A MYTH OF AMERICA
HIAWATHA
ADAPTED FROM H.R. SCHOOLCRAFT's VERSION
Hiawatha was living with his grandmother near the edge of a wide
prairie. On this prairie he first saw animals and birds of every
kind. He there also saw exhibitions of divine power in the sweeping
tempests, in the thunder and lightning, and the various shades of
light and darkness which form a never ending scene for observation.
Every new sight he beheld in the heavens was a subject of remark;
every new animal or bird an object of deep interest; and every sound
uttered by the animal creation a new lesson, which he was expected to
learn. He often trembled at what he heard and saw. To this scene his
grandmother sent him at an early age to watch. The first sound he
heard was that of an owl, at which he was greatly terrified, and
quickly descending the tree he had climbed, he ran with alarm to the
lodge. "Noko! Noko!" (grandma) he cried, "I have heard a momendo." She
laughed at his fears, and asked him what kind of a noise it made. He
answered, "It makes a noise like this: Ko-ko-ko-ho." She told him
that he was young and foolish; that what he had heard was only a bird,
deriving its name from the noise it made.
He went back and continued his watch. While there, he thought to
himself, "It is singular that I am so simple, and my grandmother so
wise, and that I have neither father nor mother. I have never heard a
word about them. I must ask and find out." He went home and sat down
silent and dejected. At length his grandmother asked him, "Hiawatha,
what is the matter with you?" He answered, "I wish you would tell me
whether I have any parents living and who my relatives are." Knowing
that he was of a wicked and revengeful disposition, she dreaded
telling him the story of his parentage, but he insisted on her
compliance. "Yes," she said, "you have a father and three brothers
living. Your mother is dead. She was taken without the consent of her
parents by your father the West. Your brothers are the North, East,
and South, and, being older than yourself, your father has given them
great power with the winds, according to their names. You are the
youngest of his children. I have nourished you from your infancy, for
your mother died in giving you birth, owing to the ill-treatment of
your father. I have no relations besides you this side of the planet
on which I was born, and from which I was precipitated by female
jealousy. Your mother was my only child, and you are my only hope."
He appeared to be rejoiced to hear that his father was living, for
he had already thought in his heart to try and kill him. He told his
grandmother he should set out in the morning to visit him. She said it
was a long distance to the place where The West lived. But that had
no effect to stop him for he had now attained manhood, possessed a
giant's height, and was endowed by nature with a giant's strength and
power. He set out and soon reached the place, for every step he took
covered a large surface of ground. The meeting took place on a high
mountain in the West. His father appeared very happy to see him. They
spent some days in talking with each other.
One evening Hiawatha asked his father what he was most afraid of on
earth. He replied, "Nothing." "But is there not something you dread
here? Tell me." At last his father said, yielding, "Yes, there is a
black stone found in such a place. It is the only earthly thing I am
afraid of; for if it should hit me, or any part of my body, it would
injure me very much." He said this as a secret, and in return asked
his son the same question. Knowing each other's power, although the
son's was limited, the father feared him on account of his great
strength. Hiawatha answered, "Nothing!" intending to avoid the
question, or to refer to some harmless object as the one of which he
was afraid. He was asked again, and again, and answered, "Nothing!"
But the West said, "There must be something you are afraid of." "Well!
I will tell you," said Hiawatha, "what it is." But, before he would
pronounce the word, he affected great dread. "_Ie-ee_--_Ie-ee_--it
is--it is," said he, "yeo! yeo! I cannot name it; I am seized with a
dread." The West told him to banish his fears. He commenced again, in
a strain of mock sensitiveness repeating the same words; at last
he cried out, "It is the root of the bulrush." He appeared to be
exhausted by the effort of pronouncing the word, in all this skilfully
acting a studied part.
Some time after he observed, "I will get some of the black rock;"
the West said, "Far be it from you; do not so, my son." He still
persisted. "Well," said the father, "I will also get the bulrush root."
Hiawatha immediately cried out, "Do not--do not," affecting as before,
to be in great dread of it, but really wishing, by this course, to
urge on the West to procure it, that he might draw him into combat. He
went out and got a large piece of the black rock, and brought it home.
The West also took care to bring the dreaded root.
In the course of conversation he asked his father whether he had been
the cause of his mother's death. The answer was "Yes!" He then took
up the rock and struck him. Blow led to blow, and here commenced an
obstinate and furious combat, which continued several days. Fragments
of the rock, broken off under Hiawatha's blows, can be seen in various
places to this day. The root did not prove as mortal a weapon as his
well-acted fears had led his father to expect, although he suffered
severely from the blows. This battle commenced on the mountains. The
West was forced to give ground. Hiawatha drove him across rivers, and
over mountains and lakes, and at last he came to the brink of this
world.
"Hold!" cried he, "my son; you know my power, and that it is
impossible to kill me. Desist, and I will also portion you out with
as much power as your brothers. The four quarters of the globe are
already occupied; but you can go and do a great deal of good to the
people of this earth, which is infested with large serpents, beasts,
and monsters, who make great [Blank Page] havoc among the inhabitants.
Go and do good. You have the power now to do so, and your fame with
the beings of this earth will last forever. When you have finished
your work, I will have a place provided for you. You will then go and
sit with your brother in the north."
[Illustration: FROM THE "COSMOPOLITAN MAGAZINE" BY PERMISSION.
HIAWATHA IN HIS CANOE.]
Hiawatha was pacified. He returned to his lodge, where he was confined
by the wounds he had received. But owing to his grandmother's skill in
medicine he was soon recovered. She told him that his grandfather,
who had come to the earth in search of her, had been killed by
Meg-gis-sog-won, who lived on the opposite side of the great lake.
"When he was alive," she continued, "I was never without oil to put on
my head, but now my hair is fast falling off for the want of it."
"Well!" said he, "Noko, get cedar bark and make me a line, while I
make a canoe." When all was ready, he went out to the middle of the
lake to fish. He put his line down, saying, "Me-she-nah-ma-gwai (the
name of the kingfish), take hold of my bait." He kept repeating this
for some time. At last the king of the fishes said, "Hiawatha troubles
me. Here, Trout, take hold of his line," which was very heavy, so
that his canoe stood nearly perpendicular; but he kept crying out,
"Wha-ee-he! wha-ee-he!" till he could see the trout. As soon as he saw
him, he spoke to him. "Why did you take hold of my hook? Shame, shame
you ugly fish." The trout, being thus rebuked, let go.
Hiawatha put his line again in the water, saying, "King of fishes,
take hold of my line." But the king of fishes told a monstrous sunfish
to take hold of it; for Hiawatha was tiring him with his incessant
calls. He again drew up his line with difficulty, saying as before,
"Wha-ee-he! wha-ee-he!" while his canoe was turning in swift circles.
When he saw the sunfish, he cried, "Shame, shame you odious fish! why
did you dirty my hook by taking it in your mouth? Let go, I say, let
go." The sunfish did so, and told the king of fishes what Hiawatha
said. Just at that moment the bait came near the king, and hearing
Hiawatha continually crying out, "Me-she-nah-ma-gwai, take hold of my
hook," at last he did so, and allowed himself to be drawn up to the
surface, which he had no sooner reached than, at one mouthful, he took
Hiawatha and his canoe down. When he came to himself, he found that
he was in the fish's belly, and also his canoe. He now turned his
thoughts to the way of making his escape. Looking in his canoe, he saw
his war-club, with which he immediately struck the heart of the
fish. He then felt a sudden motion, as if he were moving with great
velocity. The fish observed to the others, "I am sick at stomach for
having swallowed this dirty fellow, Hiawatha." Just at this moment he
received another severe blow on the heart. Hiawatha thought, "If I
am thrown up in the middle of the lake, I shall be drowned; so I must
prevent it." He drew his canoe and placed it across the fish's throat,
and just as he had finished the fish commenced vomiting, but to no
effect. In this he was aided by a squirrel, who had accompanied him
unperceived until that moment. This animal had taken an active part in
helping him to place his canoe across the fish's throat. For this
act he named him, saying, "For the future, boys shall always call you
Ajidaumo [Upside Down]!"
He then renewed his attack upon the fish's heart, and succeeded, by
repeated blows, in killing him, which he first knew by the loss of
motion, and by the sound of the beating of the body against the
shore. He waited a day longer to see what would happen. He heard birds
scratching on the body, and all at once the rays of light broke in. He
could see the heads of gulls, who were looking in by the opening they
had made. "Oh!" cried Hiawatha, "my younger brothers, make the opening
larger, so that I can get out." They told each other that their
brother Hiawatha was inside of the fish. They immediately set about
enlarging the orifice, and in a short time liberated him. After he got
out he said to the gulls, "For the future you shall be called Kayoshk
[Noble Scratchers]!"
The spot where the fish happened to be driven ashore was near his
lodge. He went up and told his grandmother to go and prepare as much
oil as she wanted. All besides, he informed her, he should keep for
himself.
Some time after this, he commenced making preparations for a war
excursion against the Pearl Feather, the Manito who lived on the
opposite side of the great lake, who had killed his grandfather. The
abode of his spirit was defended, first, by fiery serpents, who hissed
fire so that no one could pass them; and, in the second place, by a
large mass of gummy matter lying on the water, so soft and adhesive,
that whoever attempted to pass, or whatever came in contact with it,
was sure to stick there.
He continued making bows and arrows without number, but he had no
heads for his arrows. At last Noko told him that an old man who lived
at some distance could make them. He sent her to get some. She soon
returned with her conaus, or wrapper, full. Still he told her he had
not enough, and sent her again. She returned with as many more. He
thought to himself, "I must find out the way of making these heads."
Cunning and curiosity prompted him to make the discovery. But he
deemed it necessary to deceive his grandmother in so doing. "Noko,"
said he, "while I take my drum and rattle, and sing my war-songs,
go and try to get me some larger heads for my arrows, for those you
brought me are all of the same size. Go and see whether the old
man cannot make some a little larger." He followed her as she went,
keeping at a distance, and saw the old artificer at work, and so
discovered his process. He also beheld the old man's daughter, and
perceived that she was very beautiful. He felt his breast beat with
a new emotion, but said nothing. He took care to get home before his
grandmother, and commenced singing as if he had never left his lodge.
When the old woman came near, she heard his drum and rattle, without
any suspicion that he had followed her. She delivered him the
arrow-heads.
One evening the old woman said, "My son, you ought to fast before you
go to war, as your brothers frequently do, to find out whether
you will be successful or not." He said he had no objection, and
immediately commenced a fast for several days. He would retire
every day from the lodge so far as to be out of the reach of his
grandmother's voice.
After having finished his term of fasting and sung his war-song from
which the Indians of the present day derive their custom--he embarked
in his canoe, fully prepared for war. In addition to the usual
implements, he had a plentiful supply of oil. He traveled rapidly
night and day, for he had only to will or speak, and the canoe went.
At length he arrived in sight of the fiery serpents. He stopped to
view them. He saw they were some distance apart, and that the flame
only which issued from them reached across the pass. He commenced
talking as a friend to them; but they answered, "We know you,
Hiawatha, you cannot pass." He then thought of some expedient to
deceive them, and hit upon this. He pushed his canoe as near as
possible. All at once he cried out, with a loud and terrified voice,
"What is that behind you?" The serpents instantly turned their heads,
when, at a single word, he passed them. "Well!" said he, placidly,
after he had got by, "how do you like my exploit?" He then took up his
bow and arrows, and with deliberate aim shot them, which was easily
done, for the serpents were stationary, and could not move beyond a
certain spot. They were of enormous length and of a bright color.
Having overcome the sentinel serpents, he went on in his magic canoe
till he came to a soft gummy portion of the lake, called Pigiu-wagumee
or Pitchwater. He took the oil and rubbed it on his canoe, and then
pushed into it. The oil softened the surface and enabled him to slip
through it with ease, although it required frequent rubbing, and
a constant re-application of the oil. Just as his oil failed, he
extricated himself from this impediment, and was the first person who
ever succeeded in overcoming it.
He now came in view of land, on which he debarked in safety, and could
see the lodge of the Shining Manito, situated on a hill. He commenced
preparing for the fight, putting his arrows and clubs in order, and
just at the dawn of day began his attack, yelling and shouting, and
crying with triple voices, "Surround him! surround him! run up! run
up!" making it appear that he had many followers. He advanced crying
out, "It was you that killed my grandfather," and with this shot his
arrows.
The combat continued all day. Hiawatha's arrows had no effect, for his
antagonist was clothed with pure wampum. He was now reduced to three
arrows, and it was only by extraordinary agility that he could escape
the blows which the Manito kept making at him. At that moment a large
woodpecker (the ma-ma) flew past, and lit on a tree. "Hiawatha" he
cried, "your adversary has a vulnerable point; shoot at the lock of
hair on the crown of his head." He shot his first arrow so as only to
draw blood from that part. The Manito made one or two unsteady steps,
but recovered himself. He began to parley, but, in the act, received a
second arrow, which brought him to his knees. But he again recovered.
In so doing, however, he exposed his head, and gave his adversary a
chance to fire his third arrow, which penetrated deep, and brought him
a lifeless corpse to the ground. Hiawatha uttered his saw-saw-quan,
and taking his scalp as a trophy, he called the woodpecker to come and
receive a reward for his information. He took the blood of the Manito
and rubbed it on the woodpecker's head, the feathers of which are red
to this day.
After this victory he returned home, singing songs of triumph and
beating his drum. When his grandmother heard him, she came to the
shore and welcomed him with songs and dancing. Glory fired his mind.
He displayed the trophies he had brought in the most conspicuous
manner, and felt an unconquerable desire for other adventures. He
felt himself urged by the consciousness of his power to new trials of
bravery, skill, and necromantic prowess. He had destroyed the Manito
of Wealth, and killed his guardian serpents, and eluded all his
charms. He did not long remain inactive.
His next adventure was upon the water, and proved him the prince of
fishermen. He captured a fish of such a monstrous size, that the fat
and oil he obtained from it formed a small lake. He therefore invited
all the animals and fowls to a banquet, and he made the order in which
they partook of this repast the measure of their fatness. As fast as
they arrived, he told them to plunge in. The bear came first, and was
followed by the deer, opossum, and such other animals as are noted for
their peculiar fatness at certain seasons. The moose and bison
came tardily. The partridge looked on till the reservoir was nearly
exhausted. The hare and marten came last, and these animals have
consequently no fat.
When this ceremony was over, he told the assembled animals and birds
to dance, taking up his drum and crying, "New songs from the south,
come, brothers, dance." He directed them to pass in a circle around
him, and to shut their eyes. They did so. When he saw a fat fowl pass
by him, he adroitly wrung off its head, at the same time beating his
drum and singing with greater vehemence, to drown the noise of the
fluttering, and crying out, in a tone of admiration, "That's the way,
my brothers, _that's_ the way." At last a small duck [the diver],
thinking there was something wrong, opened one eye and saw what he was
doing. Giving a spring and crying, "Ha-ha-a! Hiawatha is killing us,"
he made for the water. Hiawatha followed him, and, just as the duck
was getting into the water, gave him a kick, which is the cause of his
back being flattened and his legs being straightened out backward, so
that when he gets on land he cannot walk, and his tail feathers are
few. Meantime the other birds flew off, and the animals ran into the
woods.
After this Hiawatha, set out to travel. He wished to outdo all
others, and to see new countries. But after walking over America and
encountering many adventures he became satisfied as well as fatigued.
He had heard of great feats in hunting, and felt a desire to try his
power in that way. One evening, as he was walking along the shores of
a great lake, weary and hungry, he encountered a great magician in
the form of an old wolf, with six young ones, coming towards him. The
wolf, as soon as he saw him, told his whelps to keep out of the way
of Hiawatha, "for I know," continued he, "that it is he that we
see yonder." The young wolves were in the act of running off, when
Hiawatha cried out, "My grandchildren, where are you going? Stop, and
I will go with you." He appeared rejoiced to see the old wolf, and
asked him whither he was journeying. Being told that they were looking
for a place where they could find most game, and where they might pass
the winter, he said he would like to go with them, and addressed the
old wolf in the following words: "Brother, I have a passion for the
chase; are you willing to change me into a wolf?" He was answered
favorably, and his transformation immediately effected.
Hiawatha was fond of novelty. He found himself a wolf corresponding in
size with the others, but he was not quite satisfied with the change,
crying out, "Oh, make me a little larger." They did so. "A little
larger still," he exclaimed. They said, "Let us humor him," and
granted his request. "Well," said he, "_that_ will do." He looked at
his tail. "Oh!" cried he, "do make my tail a little longer and more
bushy." They did so. They then all started off in company, dashing
up a ravine. After getting into the woods some distance, they fell in
with the tracks of moose. The young ones went after them, Hiawatha and
the old wolf following at their leisure. "Well," said the wolf, "whom
do you think is the fastest of the boys? Can you tell by the jumps
they take?" "Why," he replied, "that one that takes such long jumps,
he is the fastest, to be sure." "Ha! ha! you are mistaken," said the
old wolf. "He makes a good start, but he will be the first to tire
out; this one who appears to be behind, will be the one to kill the
game."
They then came to the place where the boys had started in chase. One
had dropped his small bundle. "Take that, Hiawatha," said the old
wolf. "Esa," he replied, "what will I do with a dirty dogskin?" The
wolf took it up; it was a beautiful robe. "Oh, I will carry it now,"
said Hiawatha. "Oh no," replied the wolf, who at the moment exerted
his magic power; "it is a robe of pearls!" And from this moment he
omitted no occasion to display his superiority, both in the art of
the hunter and the magician above his conceited companion. Coming to
a place where the moose had lain down, they saw that the young wolves
had made a fresh start after their prey. "Why," said the wolf, "this
moose is poor. I know by the tracks, for I can always tell whether
they are fat or not." They next came to a place where one of the
wolves had bit at the moose, and had broken one of his teeth on a
tree. "Hiawatha," said the wolf, "one of your grandchildren has shot
at the game. Take his arrow; there it is." "No," he replied; "what
will I do with a dirty dog's tooth!" The old wolf took it up, and
behold! it was a beautiful silver arrow. When they overtook the
youngsters, they had killed a very fat moose.
Hiawatha was extremely hungry; but, alas! such is the power of
enchantment, he saw nothing but the bones picked quite clean. He
thought to himself, "Just as I expected, dirty, greedy fellows!"
However, he sat down without saying a word. At length the old wolf
spoke to one of the young ones, saying, "Give some meat to your
grandfather." One of them obeyed, and, coming near to Hiawatha, opened
his mouth as if he was about to snarl. Hiawatha jumped up saying, "You
filthy dog, you have eaten so much that your stomach refuses to hold
it. Get you gone into some other place." The old wolf, hearing the
abuse, went a little to one side to see, and behold, a heap of fresh
ruddy meat, with the fat lying all ready prepared. He was followed
by Hiawatha, who, having the enchantment instantly removed, put on
a smiling face. "Amazement!" said he; "how fine the meat is." "Yes,"
replied the wolf; "it is always so with us; we know our work, and
always get the best. It is not a long tail that makes a hunter."
Hiawatha bit his lip.
They then commenced fixing their winter quarters, while the youngsters
went out in search of game, and soon brought in a large supply.
One day, during the absence of the young wolves, the old one amused
himself in cracking the large bones of a moose. "Hiawatha," said he,
"cover your head with the robe, and do not look at me while I am at
these bones, for a piece may fly in your eye." He did as he was told;
but, looking through a rent that was in the robe, he saw what the
other was about. Just at that moment a piece flew off and hit him on
the eye. He cried out, "Tyau, why do you strike me, you old dog?" The
wolf said, "You must have been looking at me." But deception commonly
leads to falsehood. "No, no," he said, "why should I want to look at
you?" "Hiawatha," said the wolf, "you _must_ have been looking, or you
would not have been hurt." "No, no," he replied again, "I was not. I
will repay the saucy wolf this," thought he to himself. So, next day,
taking up a bone to obtain the marrow, he said to the wolf, "Cover
your head and don't look at me, for I fear a piece may fly in your
eye." The wolf did so. He then took the leg-bone of the moose, and
looking first to see if the wolf was well covered, he hit him a blow
with all his might. The wolf jumped up, cried out, and fell prostrate
from the effects of the blow. "Why," said he, "do you strike me so?"
"Strike you!" he replied; "no, you must have been looking at me."
"No," answered the wolf, "I say I have not." But he persisted in the
assertion, and the poor magician had to give up.
Hiawatha was an expert hunter when he earnestly tried to be. He went
out one day and killed a fat moose. He was very hungry, and sat down
to eat. But immediately he fell into great doubts as to the proper
point to begin. "Well," said he, "I do not know where to begin. At the
head? No! People will laugh, and say 'he ate him backwards!'" He went
to the side. "No!" said he, "they will say I ate him sideways." He
then went to the hind-quarter. "No!" said he, "they will say I ate him
toward the head. I will begin _here_, say what they will." He took
a delicate piece from the rump, and was just ready to put it in his
mouth, when a tree close by made a creaking sound, caused by the
rubbing of one large branch against another. This annoyed him. "Why!"
he exclaimed, "I cannot eat while I hear such a noise. Stop! stop!"
said he to the tree. He was putting the morsel again to his mouth,
when the noise was repeated. He put it down, exclaiming, "I _cannot
eat_ in such confusion," and immediately left the meat, although very
hungry, to go and put a stop to the racket. He climbed the tree and
was pulling at the limb, when his arm was caught between two branches
so that he could not extricate himself. While thus held fast, he saw a
pack of wolves coming in the direction towards his meat. "Go that way!
go that way!" he cried out; "why do you come here?" The wolves talked
among themselves and said, "Hiawatha must have something here, or he
would not tell us to go another way." "I begin to know him," said an
old wolf, "and all his tricks. Let us go forward and see." They came
on and finding the moose, soon made away with the whole carcass.
Hiawatha looked on wistfully to see them eat till they were fully
satisfied, and they left him nothing but the bare bones. The next
heavy blast of wind opened the branches and liberated him. He went
home, thinking to himself, "See the effect of meddling with frivolous
things when I already had valuable possessions."
Next day the old wolf addressed him thus: "My brother, I am going to
separate from you, but I will leave behind me one of the young
wolves to be your hunter." He then departed. In this act Hiawatha was
disenchanted, and again resumed his mortal shape. He was sorrowful and
dejected, but soon resumed his wonted air of cheerfulness. The young
wolf that was left with him was a good hunter, and never failed to
keep the lodge well supplied with meat. One day he addressed him
as follows: "My grandson, I had a dream last night, and it does not
portend good. It is of the large lake which lies in _that_ direction.
You must be careful never to cross it, even if the ice should appear
good. If you should come to it at night weary or hungry, you must make
the circuit of it." Spring commenced, and the snow was melting fast
before the rays of the sun, when one evening the wolf came to the
lake weary with the day's chase. He disliked the journey of making its
circuit. "Hwooh!" he exclaimed, "there can be no great harm in trying
the ice, as it appears to be sound. Nesho, my grandfather, is over
cautious on this point." He had gone but half way across when the ice
gave way, and falling in, he was immediately seized by the serpents,
who knowing he was Hiawatha's grandson, were thirsting for revenge
upon him. Meanwhile Hiawatha sat pensively in his lodge.
Night came on, but no grandson returned. The second and third night
passed, but he did not appear. Hiawatha became very desolate and
sorrowful. "Ah!" said he, "he must have disobeyed me, and has lost his
life in that lake I told him of. Well!" said he at last, "I must mourn
for him." So he took coal and blackened his face. But he was much
perplexed as to the right mode of mourning. "I wonder," said he, "how
I must do it? I will cry 'Oh! my grandson! Oh! my grandson!'" He burst
out laughing. "No! no! that won't do. I will try 'Oh! my heart! Oh! my
heart! ha! ha! ha!' That won't do either. I will cry, 'Oh my drowned
grandson.'"
This satisfied him, and he remained in his lodge and fasted, till his
days of mourning were over. "Now," said he, "I will go in search of
him." He set out and traveled till he came to the great lake. He then
raised the lamentation for his grandson which had pleased him,
sitting down near a small brook that emptied itself into the lake, and
repeating his cries. Soon a bird called Ke-ske-mun-i-see came near to
him. The bird inquired, "What are you doing here?" "Nothing," Hiawatha
replied; "but can you tell me whether any one lives in this lake, and
what brings you here yourself?" "Yes!" responded the bird; "the Prince
of Serpents lives here, and I am watching to see whether the body of
Hiawatha's grandson will not drift ashore, for he was killed by the
serpents last spring. But are you not Hiawatha himself?" "No," was the
reply, with his usual deceit; "how do you think _he_ could get to this
place? But tell me, do the serpents ever appear? When? Where? Tell
me all about their habits." "Do you see that beautiful white sandy
beach?" said the bird. "Yes!" he answered. "It is there," continued
the bird, "that they bask in the sun. Before they come out, the lake
will appear perfectly calm; not even a ripple will appear. After
midday you will see them."
"Thank you," he replied; "I am Hiawatha. I have come in search of the
body of my grandson, and to seek my revenge. Come near me that I may
put a medal round your neck as a reward for your information." The
bird unsuspectingly came near, and received a white medal, which can
be seen to this day. While bestowing the medal, he attempted slyly to
wring the bird's head off, but it escaped him, with only a disturbance
of the crown feathers of its head, which are rumpled backward. He
had found out all he wanted to know, and then desired to conceal the
knowledge obtained by killing his informant.
He went to the sandy beach indicated, and transformed himself into an
oak stump. He had not been there long before the lake became perfectly
calm. Soon hundreds of monstrous serpents came crawling on the beach.
One of the number was beautifully white. He was the Prince. The others
were red and yellow. The Prince spoke to those about him as follows:
"I never saw that black stump standing there before. It may be
Hiawatha. There is no knowing but that he may be somewhere about here.
He has the power of an evil genius, and we should be on our guard
against his wiles." One of the large serpents immediately went and
twisted himself around it to the top, and pressed it very hard. The
greatest pressure happened to be on his throat; he was just ready to
cry out when the serpent let go. Eight of them went in succession and
did the like, but always let go at the moment he was ready to cry out.
"It cannot be he," they said. "He is too great a weak-heart for that."
They then coiled themselves in a circle about their Prince. It was a
long time before they fell asleep. When they did so, Hiawatha, took
his bow and arrows, and cautiously stepping over the serpents till he
came to the Prince, drew up his arrow with the full strength of his
arm, and shot him in the left side. He then gave a saw-saw-quan and
ran off at full speed.
The sound uttered by the snakes on seeing their Prince mortally
wounded, was horrible. They cried, "Hiawatha has killed our Prince;
go in chase of him." Meantime he ran over hill and valley, to gain the
interior of the country, with all his strength and speed, treading a
mile at a step. But his pursuers were also spirits, and he could
hear that something was approaching him fast. He made for the highest
mountain, and climbed the highest tree on its summit, when, dreadful
to behold, the whole lower country was seen to be overflowed, and the
water was gaining rapidly on the highlands. He saw it reach to the
foot of the mountains, and at length it came up to the foot of the
tree, but there was no abatement.
The flood rose steadily and perceptibly. He soon felt the lower part
of his body to be immersed in it. He addressed the tree; "Grandfather,
stretch yourself." The tree did so. But the waters still rose. He
repeated his request, and was again obeyed. He asked a third time, and
was again obeyed; but the tree replied, "It is the last time; I cannot
get any higher." The waters continued to rise till they reached up
to his chin, at which point they stood, and soon began to abate. Hope
revived in his heart. He then cast his eyes around the illimitable
expanse, and spied a loon. "Dive down, my brother," he said to him,
"and fetch up some earth, so that I can make a new earth." The bird
obeyed, but rose up to the surface a lifeless form. He then saw a
muskrat. "Dive!" said he, "and if you succeed, you may hereafter live
either on land or water, as you please; or I will give you a chain of
beautiful little lakes, surrounded with rushes, to inhabit." He dove
down, but floated up senseless. He took the body and breathed in
his nostrils, which restored him to life. "Try again," said he. The
muskrat did so. He came up senseless the second time, but clutched a
little earth in one of his paws, from which, together with the carcass
of the dead loon, he created a new earth as large as the former had
been, with all living animals, fowls, and plants.
As he was walking to survey the new earth, he heard some one singing.
He went to the place, and found a female spirit, in the disguise of an
old woman, singing these words, and crying at every pause:
"Ma nau bo sho, O do zheem un,
Ogeem au wun, Onis sa waun,
Hee-Ub bub ub bub (crying).
Dread Hiawatha in revenge,
For his grandson lost--
Has killed the chief--the king."
"Noko," said he, "what is the matter?" "Matter!" said she, "where have
you been, that you have not heard how Hiawatha shot my son, the Prince
of serpents, in revenge for the loss of his grandson, and how the
earth was overflowed, and created anew? So I brought my son here, that
he might kill and destroy the inhabitants, as he did on the former
earth. But," she continued, casting a scrutinizing glance, "N'yau!
indego Hiawatha! hub! ub! ub! ub! Oh, I am afraid you are Hiawatha!"
He burst out into a laugh to quiet her fears. "Ha! ha! ha! how can
that be? Has not the old world perished, and all that was in it?"
"Impossible! impossible!" "But, Noko," he continued, "what do you
intend doing with all that cedar cord on your back?" "Why," said she,
"I am fixing a snare for Hiawatha, if he should be on this earth; and,
in the mean time, I am looking for herbs to heal my son. I am the only
person that can do him any good. He always gets better when I sing:
"'Hiawatha a ne we guawk,
Koan dan mau wah, ne we guawk,
Koan dan mau wah, ne we guawk,
It is Hiawatha's dart,
I try my magic power to withdraw."
Having found out, by conversation with her, all he wished, he put her
to death. He then took off her skin, and assuming this disguise, took
the cedar cord on his back, and limped away singing her songs. He
completely aped the gait and voice of the old woman. He was met by one
who told him to make haste; that the Prince was worse. At the lodge,
limping and muttering, he took notice that they had his grandson's
hide to hang over the door. "Oh dogs!" said he; "the evil dogs!" He
sat down near the door, and commenced sobbing like an aged woman. One
observed, "Why don't you attend the sick, and not sit there making
such a noise?" He took up the poker and laid it on them, mimicking the
voice of the old woman. "Dogs that you are! why do you laugh at me?
You know very well that I am so sorry that I am nearly out of my
head."
With that he approached the Prince, singing the songs of the old
woman, without exciting any suspicion. He saw that his arrow had gone
in about one half its length. He pretended to make preparations for
extracting it, but only made ready to finish his victim; and giving
the dart a sudden thrust, he put a period to the Prince's life. He
performed this act with the power of a giant, bursting the old woman's
skin, and at the same moment rushing through the door, the serpents
following him, hissing and crying out, "Perfidy! murder! vengeance! it
is Hiawatha." He immediately transformed himself into a wolf, and ran
over the plain with all his speed, aided by his father the West Wind.
When he got to the mountains he saw a badger. "Brother," said he,
"make a hole quick, for the serpents are after me." The badger obeyed.
They both went in, and the badger threw all the earth backward, so
that it filled up the way behind.
The serpents came to the badger's burrow, and decided to watch, "We
will starve him out," said they; so they continue watching. Hiawatha
told the badger to make an opening on the other side of the mountain,
from which he could go out and hunt, and bring meat in. Thus they
lived some time. One day the badger came in his way and displeased
him. He immediately put him to death, and threw out his carcass,
saying, "I don't like you to be getting in my way so often."
After living in this confinement for some time alone, he decided to
go out. He immediately did so; and after making the circuit of the
mountain, came to the corpse of the Prince, who had been deserted by
the serpents to pursue his destroyer. He went to work and skinned him.
He then drew on his skin, in which there were great virtues, took up
his war-club, and set out for the place where he first went in the
ground. He found the serpents still watching. When they saw the form
of their dead Prince advancing towards them, fear and dread took hold
of them. Some fled. Those who remained Hiawatha killed. Those who fled
went towards the South.
Having accomplished the victory over the reptiles, Hiawatha returned
to his former place of dwelling and married the arrow-maker's
daughter.
LEGENDARY HEROES OF MANY COUNTRIES
HEROES OF GREECE AND ROME
PERSEUS
ADAPTED BY MARY MACGREGOR
I
PERSEUS AND HIS MOTHER
Once upon a time there were two Princes who were twins. They lived
in a pleasant vale far away in Hellas. They had fruitful meadows and
vineyards, sheep and oxen, great herds of horses, and all that men
could need to make them blest. And yet they were wretched, because
they were jealous of each other.
From the moment they were born they began to quarrel, and when they
grew up, each tried to take away the other's share of the kingdom and
keep all for himself.
And there came a prophet to one of the hard-hearted Princes and said,
"Because you have risen up against your own family, your own family
shall rise up against you. Because you have sinned against your
kindred, by your kindred shall you be punished. Your daughter Danae
shall bear a son, and by that son's hands you shall die. So the gods
have said, and it shall surely come to pass."
At that the hard-hearted Prince was very much afraid, but he did not
mend his ways. For when he became King, he shut up his fair daughter
Danae in a cavern underground, lined with brass, that no one might come
near her. So he fancied himself more cunning than the gods.
Now it came to pass that in time Danae bore a son, so beautiful a babe
that any but the King would have had pity on it. But he had no pity,
for he took Danae and her babe down to the seashore, and put them into
a great chest and thrust them out to sea, that the winds and the waves
might carry them whithersoever they would.
And away and out to sea before the northwest wind floated the mother
and her babe, while all who watched them wept, save that cruel King.
So they floated on and on, and the chest danced up and down upon the
billows, and the babe slept in its mother's arms. But the poor mother
could not sleep, but watched and wept, and she sang to her babe as
they floated.
Now they are past the last blue headland and in the open sea. There is
nothing round them but waves, and the sky and the wind. But the waves
are gentle and the sky is clear, and the breeze is tender and low.
So a night passed and a day, and a long day it was to Danae, and
another night and day beside, till Danae was faint with hunger and
weeping, and yet no land appeared.
And all the while the babe slept quietly, and at last poor Danae
drooped her head and fell asleep likewise, with her cheek against her
babe's.
After a while she was awakened suddenly, for the chest was jarring and
grinding, and the air was full of sound. She looked up, and over her
head were mighty cliffs, and around her rocks and breakers and flying
flakes of foam.
She clasped her hands together and shrieked aloud for help. And when
she cried, help met her, for now there came over the rocks a tall and
stately man, and looked down wondering upon poor Danae, tossing about
in the chest among the waves.
He wore a rough cloak, and on his head a broad hat to shade his face,
and in his hand he carried a trident, which is a three-pronged fork
for spearing fish, and over his shoulder was a casting net.
[Illustration: SO DANAE WAS COMFORTED AND WENT HOME WITH DICTYS.]
But Danae could see that he was no common man by his height and his
walk, and his flowing golden hair and beard, and by the two servants
who came behind him carrying baskets for his fish.
She had hardly time to look at him, before he had laid aside his
trident and leapt down the rocks, and thrown his casting net so surely
over Danae and the chest, that he drew it and her and the babe safe
upon a ledge of rock.
Then the fisherman took Danae by the hand and lifted her out of the
chest and said, "O beautiful damsel, what strange chance has brought
you to this island in so frail a ship? Who are you, and whence? Surely
you are some king's daughter, and this boy belongs to the gods."
And as he spoke he pointed to the babe, for its face shone like the
morning star.
But Danae only held down her head and sobbed out, "Tell me to what land
I have come, and among what men I have fallen."
And he said, "Polydectes is King of this isle, and he is my brother.
Men call me Dictys the Netter, because I catch the fish of the shore."
Then Danae fell down at his feet and embraced his knees and cried, "O
Sir, have pity upon a stranger, whom cruel doom has driven to your
land, and let me live in your house as a servant. But treat me
honorably, for I was once a king's daughter, and this my boy is of
no common race. I will not be a charge to you, or eat the bread of
idleness, for I am more skilful in weaving and embroidery than all the
maidens of my land."
And she was going on, but Dictys stopped her and raised her up and
said, "My daughter, I am old, and my hairs are growing gray, while I
have no children to make my home cheerful. Come with me, then, and you
shall be a daughter to me and to my wife, and this babe shall be our
grandchild."
So Danae was comforted and went home with Dictys, the good fisherman,
and was a daughter to him and to his wife, till fifteen years were
past.
II
HOW PERSEUS VOWED A RASH VOW
Fifteen years were past and gone, and the babe was now grown to be a
tall lad and a sailor.
His mother called him Perseus, but all the people in the isle called
him the King of the Immortals.
For though he was but fifteen, Perseus was taller by a head than
any man in the island. And he was brave and truthful, and gentle and
courteous, for good old Dictys had trained him well, and well it was
for Perseus that he had done so. For now Danae and her son fell into
great danger, and Perseus had need of all his strength to defend his
mother and himself.
Polydectes, the King of the island, was not a good man like his
brother Dictys, but he was greedy and cunning and cruel.
And when he saw fair Danae, he wanted to marry her. But she would not,
for she did not love him, and cared for no one but her boy.
At last Polydectes became furious, and while Perseus was away at sea,
he took poor Danae away from Dictys, saying, "If you will not be my
wife, you shall be my slave."
So Danae was made a slave, and had to fetch water from the well, and
grind in the mill.
But Perseus was far away over the seas, little thinking that his
mother was in great grief and sorrow.
Now one day, while the ship was lading, Perseus wandered into a
pleasant wood to get out of the sun, and sat down on the turf and fell
asleep. And as he slept a strange dream came to him, the strangest
dream he had ever had in his life.
There came a lady to him through the wood, taller than he, or any
mortal man, but beautiful exceedingly, with great gray eyes, clear and
piercing, but strangely soft and mild. On her head was a helmet, and
in her hand a spear. And over her shoulder, above her long blue robes,
hung a goat-skin, which bore up a mighty shield of brass, polished
like a mirror.
She stood and looked at him with her clear gray eyes. And Perseus
dropped his eyes, trembling and blushing, as the wonderful lady spoke.
"Perseus, you must do an errand for me."
"Who are you, lady? And how do you know my name?"
Then the strange lady, whose name was Athene, laughed, and held up
her brazen shield, and cried, "See here, Perseus, dare you face such
a monster as this and slay it, that I may place its head upon this
shield?"
And in the mirror of the shield there appeared a face, and as Perseus
looked on it his blood ran cold. It was the face of a beautiful woman,
but her cheeks were pale, and her lips were thin. Instead of hair,
vipers wreathed about her temples and shot out their forked tongues,
and she had claws of brass.
Perseus looked awhile and then said, "If there is anything so fierce
and ugly on earth, it were a noble deed to kill it. Where can I find
the monster?"
Then the strange lady smiled again and said, "You are too young, for
this is Medusa the Gorgon. Return to your home, and when you have done
the work that awaits you there, you may be worthy to go in search of
the monster."
Perseus would have spoken, but the strange lady vanished, and he
awoke, and behold it was a dream.
So he returned home, and the first thing he heard was that his mother
was a slave in the house of Polydectes.
Grinding his teeth with rage, he went out, and away to the King's
palace, and through the men's rooms and the women's rooms, and so
through all the house, till he found his mother sitting on the floor
turning the stone hand-mill, and weeping as she turned it.
And he lifted her up and kissed her, and bade her follow him forth.
But before they could pass out of the room Polydectes came in.
When Perseus saw the King, he flew upon him and cried, "Tyrant! is
this thy mercy to strangers and widows? Thou shalt die." And because
he had no sword he caught up the stone hand-mill, and lifted it to
dash out Polydectes's brains.
But his mother clung to him, shrieking, and good Dictys too entreated
him to remember that the cruel King was his brother.
Then Perseus lowered his hand, and Polydectes, who had been trembling
all this while like a coward, let Perseus and his mother pass.
So Perseus took his mother to the temple of Athene, and there the
priestess made her one of the temple sweepers. And there they knew
that she would be safe, for not even Polydectes would dare to drag her
out of the temple. And there Perseus and the good Dictys and his wife
came to visit her every day.
As for Polydectes, not being able to get Danae by force, he cast about
how he might get her by cunning. He was sure he could never get back
Danae as long as Perseus was in the island, so he made a plot to get
rid of him. First he pretended to have forgiven Perseus, and to
have forgotten Danae, so that for a while all went smoothly. Next he
proclaimed a great feast and invited to it all the chiefs and the
young men of the island, and among them Perseus, that they might all
do him homage as their King, and eat of his banquet in his hall.
On the appointed day they all came, and as the custom was then, each
guest brought with him a present for the King. One brought a horse,
another a shawl, or a ring, or a sword, and some brought baskets of
grapes, but Perseus brought nothing, for he had nothing to bring,
being only a poor sailor lad.
He was ashamed, however, to go into the King's presence without a
gift. So he stood at the door, sorrowfully watching the rich men go
in, and his face grew very red as they pointed at him and smiled and
whispered, "And what has Perseus to give?"
Perseus blushed and stammered, while all the proud men round laughed
and mocked, till the lad grew mad with shame, and hardly knowing what
he said, cried out:
"A present! See if I do not bring a nobler one than all of yours
together!"
"Hear the boaster! What is the present to be?" cried they all,
laughing louder than ever.
Then Perseus remembered his strange dream, and he cried aloud, "The
head of Medusa the Gorgon!"
He was half afraid after he had said the words, for all laughed louder
than ever, and Polydectes loudest of all, while he said:
"You have promised to bring me the Gorgon's head. Then never appear
again in this island without it. Go!"
Perseus saw that he had fallen into a trap, but he went out without a
word.
Down to the cliffs he went, and looked across the broad blue sea, and
wondered if his dream were true.
"Athene, was my dream true? Shall I slay the Gorgon?" he prayed.
"Rashly and angrily I promised, but wisely and patiently will I
perform."
But there was no answer nor sign, not even a cloud in the sky.
Three times Perseus called, weeping, "Rashly and angrily I promised,
but wisely and patiently will I perform."
Then he saw afar off a small white cloud, as bright as silver. And
as it touched the cliffs, it broke and parted, and within it appeared
Athene, and beside her a young man, whose eyes were like sparks of
fire.
And they came swiftly towards Perseus, and he fell down and worshiped,
for he knew they were more than mortal.
But Athene spoke gently to him and bade him have no fear. "Perseus,"
she said, "you have braved Polydectes, and done manfully. Dare you
brave Medusa the Gorgon?"
Perseus answered, "Try me, for since you spoke to me, new courage has
come into my soul."
And Athene said, "Perseus, this deed requires a seven years' journey,
in which you cannot turn back nor escape. If your heart fails, you
must die, and no man will ever find your bones."
And Perseus said, "Tell me, O fair and wise Athene, how I can do but
this one thing, and then, if need be, die."
Then Athene smiled and said, "Be patient and listen. You must go
northward till you find the Three Gray Sisters, who have but one eye
and one tooth amongst them. Ask them the way to the daughters of the
Evening Star, for they will tell you the way to the Gorgon, that you
may slay her. But beware! for her eyes are so terrible that whosoever
looks on them is turned to stone."
"How am I to escape her eyes?" said Perseus; "will she not freeze me
too?"
"You shall take this polished shield," said Athene, "and look, not
at her herself, but at her image in the shield, so you may strike her
safely. And when you have struck off her head, wrap it, with your face
turned away, in the folds of the goat-skin on which the shield hangs.
So you bring it safely back to me and win yourself renown and a place
among heroes."
Then said Perseus, "I will go, though I die in going. But how shall I
cross the seas without a ship? And who will show me the way? And how
shall I slay her, if her scales be iron and brass?"
But the young man who was with Athene spoke, "These sandals of mine
will bear you across the seas, and over hill and dale like a bird, as
they bear me all day long. The sandals themselves will guide you on
the road, for they are divine and cannot stray, and this sword itself
will kill her, for it is divine and needs no second stroke. Arise and
gird them on, and go forth."
So Perseus arose, and girded on the sandals and the sword.
And Athene cried, "Now leap from the cliff and be gone!"
Then Perseus looked down the cliff and shuddered, but he was ashamed
to show his dread, and he leaped into the empty air.
And behold! instead of falling, he floated, and stood, and ran along
the sky.
III
HOW PERSEUS SLEW THE GORGON
So Perseus started on his journey, going dryshod over land and sea,
and his heart was high and joyful, for the sandals bore him each day a
seven days' journey.
And at last by the shore of a freezing sea, beneath the cold winter
moon, he found the Three Gray Sisters. There was no living thing
around them, not a fly, not a moss upon the rocks.
They passed their one eye each to the other, but for all that they
could not see, and they passed the one tooth from one to the other,
but for all that they could not eat, and they sat in the full glare of
the moon, but they were none the warmer for her beams.
And Perseus said, "Tell me, O Venerable Mothers, the path to the
daughters of the Evening Star."
They heard his voice, and then one cried, "Give me the eye that I may
see him," and another, "Give me the tooth that I may bite him," but
they had no answer for his question.
Then Perseus stepped close to them, and watched as they passed the eye
from hand to hand. And as they groped about, he held out his own hand
gently, till one of them put the eye into it, fancying that it was the
hand of her sister.
At that Perseus sprang back and laughed and cried, "Cruel old women,
I have your eye, and I will throw it into the sea, unless you tell me
the path to the daughters of the Evening Star and swear to me that you
tell me right."
Then they wept and chattered and scolded, but all in vain. They were
forced to tell the truth, though when they told it, Perseus could
hardly make out the way. But he gave them back the eye and leaped away
to the southward, leaving the snow and ice behind.
At last he heard sweet voices singing, and he guessed that he was come
to the garden of the daughters of the Evening Star.
When they saw him they trembled and said, "Are you come to rob our
garden and carry off our golden fruit?"
But Perseus answered, "I want none of your golden fruit. Tell me the
way which leads to the Gorgon that I may go on my way and slay her."
"Not yet, not yet, fair boy," they answered, "come dance with us
around the trees in the garden."
"I cannot dance with you, fair maidens, so tell me the way to the
Gorgon, lest I wander and perish in the waves."
Then they sighed and wept, and answered, "The Gorgon! She will freeze
you into stone."
But Perseus said, "The gods have lent me weapons, and will give me
wisdom to use them."
Then the fair maidens told him that the Gorgon lived on an island
far away, but that whoever went near the island must wear the hat of
darkness, so that he could not himself be seen. And one of the fair
maidens held in her hand the magic hat.
While all the maidens kissed Perseus and wept over him, he was only
impatient to be gone. So at last they put the magic hat upon his head,
and he vanished out of their sight.
And Perseus went on boldly, past many an ugly sight, till he heard
the rustle of the Gorgons' wings and saw the glitter of their brazen
claws. Then he knew that it was time to halt, lest Medusa should
freeze him into stone.
He thought awhile with himself and remembered Athene's words. Then he
rose into the air, and held the shield above his head and looked up
into it, that he might see all that was below him.
And he saw three Gorgons sleeping, as huge as elephants. He knew that
they could not see him, because the hat of darkness hid him, and yet
he trembled as he sank down near them, so terrible were those brazen
claws.
Medusa tossed to and fro restlessly in her sleep. Her long neck
gleamed so white in the mirror that Perseus had not the heart to
strike. But as he looked, from among her tresses the vipers' heads
awoke and peeped up, with their bright dry eyes, and showed their
fangs and hissed. And Medusa as she tossed showed her brazen claws,
and Perseus saw that for all her beauty she was as ugly as the others.
Then he came down and stepped to her boldly, and looked steadfastly
on his mirror, and struck with his sword stoutly once, and he did not
need to strike again.
He wrapped the head in the goat-skin, turning away his eyes, and
sprang into the air aloft, faster than he ever sprang before.
And well his brave sandals bore him through cloud and sunshine across
the shoreless sea, till he came again to the gardens of the fair
maidens.
Then he asked them, "By what road shall I go homeward again?"
And they wept and cried, "Go home no more, but stay and play with us,
the lonely maidens."
But Perseus refused and leapt down the mountain, and went on like a
sea-gull, away and out to sea.
IV
HOW PERSEUS MET ANDROMEDA
So Perseus flitted onward to the north-east, over many a league of
sea, till he came to the rolling sandhills of the desert.
Over the sands he went, he never knew how far nor how long, hoping all
day to see the blue sparkling Mediterranean, that he might fly across
it to his home.
But now came down a mighty wind, and swept him back southward toward
the desert. All day long he strove against it, but even the sandals
could not prevail. And when morning came there was nothing to be seen,
save the same old hateful waste of sand.
At last the gale fell, and he tried to go northward again, but again
down came the sandstorms and swept him back into the desert; and then
all was calm and cloudless as before.
Then he cried to Athene, "Shall I never see my mother more, and the
blue ripple of the sea and the sunny hills of Hellas?"
So he prayed, and after he had prayed there was a great silence.
And Perseus stood still awhile and waited, and said, "Surely I am not
here but by the will of the gods, for Athene will not lie. Were not
these sandals to lead me in the right road?"
Then suddenly his ears were opened and he heard the sound of running
water. And Perseus laughed for joy, and leapt down the cliff and drank
of the cool water, and ate of the dates, and slept on the turf, and
leapt up and went forward again, but not toward the north this time.
For he said, "Surely Athene hath sent me hither, and will not have me
go homeward yet. What if there be another noble deed to be done before
I see the sunny hills of Hellas?"
So Perseus flew along the shore above the sea, and at the dawn of a
day he looked towards the cliffs. At the water's edge, under a black
rock, he saw a white image stand.
"This," thought he, "must surely be the statue of some sea-god. I will
go near and see."
And he came near, but when he came it was no statue he found, but a
maiden of flesh and blood, for he could see her tresses streaming in
the breeze. And as he came closer still, he could see how she shrank
and shivered when the waves sprinkled her with cold salt spray.
Her arms were spread above her head and fastened to the rock with
chains of brass, and her head drooped either with sleep or weariness
or grief. But now and then she looked up and wailed, and called her
mother.
Yet she did not see Perseus, for the cap of darkness was on his head.
In his heart pity and indignation, Perseus drew near and looked upon
the maid. Her cheeks were darker than his, and her hair was blue-black
like a hyacinth.
Perseus thought, "I have never seen so beautiful a maiden, no, not in
all our isles. Surely she is a king's daughter. She is too fair, at
least, to have done any wrong. I will speak to her," and, lifting the
magic hat from his head, he flashed into her sight. She shrieked with
terror, but Perseus cried, "Do not fear me, fair one. What cruel men
have bound you? But first I will set you free."
And he tore at the fetters, but they were too strong for him, while
the maiden cried, "Touch me not. I am a victim for the sea-gods. They
will slay you if you dare to set me free."
"Let them try," said Perseus, and drawing his sword he cut through the
brass as if it had been flax.
"Now," he said, "you belong to me, and not to these sea-gods,
whosoever they may be."
But she only called the more on her mother. Then he clasped her in his
arms, and cried, "Where are these sea-gods, cruel and unjust, who doom
fair maids to death? Let them measure their strength against mine. But
tell me, maiden, who you are, and what dark fate brought you here."
And she answered, weeping, "I am the daughter of a King, and my mother
is the Queen with the beautiful tresses, and they call me Andromeda.
I stand here to atone for my mother's sin, for she boasted of me once
that I was fairer than the Queen of the Fishes. So she in her wrath
sent the sea-floods and wasted all the land. And now I must be
devoured by a sea-monster to atone for a sin which I never committed."
But Perseus laughed and said, "A sea-monster! I have fought with worse
than he."
Andromeda looked up at him, and new hope was kindled in her heart, so
proud and fair did he stand, with one hand round her, and in the other
the glittering sword.
But still she sighed and said, "Why will you die, young as you are? Go
you your way, I must go mine."
Perseus cried, "Not so: I slew the Gorgon by the help of the gods, and
not without them do I come hither to slay this monster, with that same
Gorgon's head. Yet hide your eyes when I leave you, lest the sight of
it freeze you too to stone."
But the maiden answered nothing, for she could not believe his words.
Then suddenly looking up, she pointed to the sea and shrieked, "There
he comes with the sunrise as they said. I must die now. Oh go!" And
she tried to thrust him away.
And Perseus said, "I go, yet promise me one thing ere I go,--that if
I slay this beast you will be my wife and come back with me to my
kingdom, for I am a King's son. Promise me, and seal it with a kiss."
Then she lifted up her face and kissed him, and Perseus laughed for
joy and flew upward, while Andromeda crouched trembling on the rock.
On came the great sea-monster, lazily breasting the ripple and
stopping at times by creek or headland. His great sides were fringed
with clustering shells and seaweeds, and the water gurgled in and out
of his wide jaws as he rolled along. At last he saw Andromeda and shot
forward to take his prey.
Then down from the height of the air fell Perseus like a shooting
star, down to the crests of the waves, while Andromeda hid her face as
he shouted, and then there was silence for a while.
When at last she looked up trembling, Andromeda saw Perseus springing
towards her, and instead of the monster, a long black rock, with the
sea rippling quietly round it.
Who then so proud as Perseus, as he leapt back to the rock and lifted
his fair Andromeda in his arms and flew with her to the cliff-top, as
a falcon carries a dove! Who so proud as Perseus, and who so joyful as
the people of the land!
And the King and the Queen came, and all the people came with songs
and dances to receive Andromeda back again, as one alive from the
dead.
Then the King said to Perseus, "Hero of the Hellens, stay here with me
and be my son-in-law, and I will give you the half of my kingdom."
"I will be your son-in-law," said Perseus, "but of your kingdom will I
have none, for I long after the pleasant land of Greece, and my mother
who waits for me at home."
Then said the King, "You must not take my daughter away at once, for
she is to us as one alive from the dead. Stay with us here a year, and
after that you shall return with honor."
And Perseus consented, but before he went to the palace he bade the
people bring stones and wood and build an altar to Athene, and there
he offered bullocks and rams. Then they made a great wedding feast,
which lasted seven whole days.
But on the eighth night Perseus dreamed a dream. He saw standing
beside him Athene as he had seen her seven long years before, and she
stood and called him by name, and said, "Perseus, you have played
the man, and see, you have your reward. Now give me the sword and the
sandals, and the hat of darkness, that I may give them back to those
to whom they belong. But the Gorgon's head you shall keep a while, for
you will need it in your land of Hellas."
And Perseus rose to give her the sword, and the cap, and the sandals,
but he woke and his dream vanished away. Yet it was not altogether a
dream, for the goat-skin with the head was in its place, but the sword
and the cap and the sandals were gone, and Perseus never saw them
more.
V
HOW PERSEUS CAME HOME AGAIN
When a year was ended, Perseus rowed away in a noble galley, and in
it he put Andromeda and all her dowry of jewels and rich shawls and
spices from the East, and great was the weeping when they rowed away.
And when Perseus reached the land, of Hellas he left his galley on the
beach, and went up as of old. He embraced his mother and Dictys, and
they wept over each other, for it was seven years and more since they
had parted.
Then Perseus went out and up to the hall of Polydectes, and underneath
the goat-skin he bore the Gorgon's head.
When he came to the hall, Polydectes sat at the table, and all his
nobles on either side, feasting on fish and goats' flesh, and drinking
blood-red wine.
Perseus stood upon the threshold and called to the King by name. But
none of the guests knew the stranger, for he was changed by his long
journey. He had gone out a boy, and he was come home a hero.
But Polydectes the Wicked, knew him, and scornfully he called, "Ah,
foundling! have you found it more easy to promise than to fulfil?"
"Those whom the gods help fulfil their promises," said Perseus, as
he drew back the goat-skin and held aloft the Gorgon's head, saying,
"Behold!"
Pale grew Polydectes and his guests as they looked upon that dreadful
face. They tried to rise from their seats, but from their seats they
never rose, but stiffened, each man where he sat, into a ring of cold
gray stones.
Then Perseus turned and left them, and went down to his galley in
the bay. He gave the kingdom to good Dictys, and sailed away with his
mother and his bride. And Perseus rowed westward till he came to his
old home, and there he found that his grandfather had fled.
The heart of Perseus yearned after his grandfather, and he said,
"Surely he will love me now that I am come home with honor. I will go
and find him and bring him back, and we will reign together in peace."
So Perseus sailed away, and at last he came to the land where his
grandfather dwelt, and all the people were in the fields, and there
was feasting and all kinds of games.
Then Perseus did not tell his name, but went up to the games unknown,
for he said, "If I carry away the prize in the games, my grandfather's
heart will be softened towards me."
And when the games began, Perseus was the best of all at running and
leaping, and wrestling and throwing. And he won four crowns and took
them.
Then he said to himself, "There is a fifth crown to be won. I will win
that also, and lay them all upon the knees of my grandfather."
So he took the stones and hurled them five fathoms beyond all the
rest. And the people shouted, "There has never been such a hurler in
this land!"
Again Perseus put out all his strength and hurled. But a gust of wind
came from the sea and carried the quoit aside, far beyond all the
rest. And it fell on the foot of his grandfather, and he swooned away
with the pain.
Perseus shrieked and ran up to him, but when they lifted the old man
up, he was dead. Then Perseus rent his clothes and cast dust on his
head, and wept a long while for his grandfather.
At last he rose and called to all people aloud and said, "The gods are
true: what they have ordained must be; I am Perseus the grandson
of this dead man." Then he told them how a prophet had said that he
should kill his grandfather.
So they made great mourning for the old King, and burnt him on a right
rich pile.
And Perseus went to the temple and was purified from the guilt of his
death, because he had done it unknowingly.
Then he went home and reigned well with Andromeda, and they had four
sons and three daughters.
And when they died, the ancients say that Athene took them up to the
sky. All night long Perseus and Andromeda shine as a beacon for
wandering sailors, but all day long they feast with the gods, on the
still blue peaks in the home of the Immortals.
ODYSSEUS
ADAPTED BY JEANIE LANG
I
HOW ODYSSEUS LEFT TROYLAND AND SAILED FOR HIS KINGDOM PAST THE LAND OF
THE LOTUS EATERS
In the days of long ago there reigned over Ithaca, a rugged little
island in the sea to the west of Greece, a King whose name was
Odysseus.
Odysseus feared no man. Stronger and braver than other men was he,
wiser, and more full of clever devices. Far and wide he was known as
Odysseus of the many counsels. Wise, also, was his Queen, Penelope,
and she was as fair as she was wise, and as good as she was fair.
While their only child, a boy named Telemachus, was still a baby,
there was a very great war in Troyland, a country far across the sea.
The brother of the overlord of all Greece beseiged Troy, and the kings
and princes of his land came to help him. Many came from afar, but
none from a more distant kingdom than Odysseus. Wife and child and old
father he left behind him and sailed away with his black-prowed ships
to fight in Troyland.
For ten years the siege of Troy went on, and of the heroes who fought
there, none was braver than Odysseus. Clad as a beggar he went into
the city and found out much to help the Greek armies. With his long
sword he fought his way out again, and left many of the men of Troy
lying dead behind him. And many other brave feats did Odysseus do.
After long years of fighting, Troy at last was taken. With much rich
plunder the besiegers sailed homewards, and Odysseus set sail for his
rocky island, with its great mountain, and its forests of trembling
leaves.
Of gladness and of longing his heart was full. With a great love he
loved his fair wife and little son and old father, and his little
kingdom by the sea was very dear to him.
"I can see nought beside sweeter than a man's own country," he said.
Very soon he hoped to see his dear land again, but many a long and
weary day was to pass ere Odysseus came home.
Odysseus was a warrior, and always he would choose to fight rather
than to be at peace.
As he sailed on his homeward way, winds drove his ships near the
shore. He and his company landed, sacked the nearest city, and slew
the people. Much rich plunder they took, but ere they could return to
their ships, a host of people came from inland. In the early morning,
thick as leaves and flowers in the spring they came, and fell upon
Odysseus and his men.
All day they fought, but as the sun went down the people of the land
won the fight. Back to their ships went Odysseus and his men. Out of
each ship were six men slain. While they were yet sad at heart and
weary from the fight, a terrible tempest arose.
Land and sea were blotted out, the ships were driven headlong, and
their sails were torn to shreds by the might of the storm. For two
days and two nights the ships were at the mercy of the tempests. At
dawn on the third day, the storm passed away, and Odysseus and his men
set up their masts and hoisted their white sails, and drove homeward
before the wind.
So he would have come safely to his own country, but a strong current
and a fierce north wind swept the ships from their course. For nine
days were they driven far from their homeland, across the deep sea.
On the tenth day they reached the Land of the Lotus Eaters. The
dwellers in that land fed on the honey-sweet fruit of the lotus
flower. Those who ate the lotus ceased to remember that there was a
past or a future. All duties they forgot, and all sadness. All day
long they would sit and dream and dream idle, happy dreams that never
ended.
Here Odysseus and his men landed and drew water. Three of his warriors
Odysseus sent into the country to see what manner of men dwelt there.
To them the Lotus Eaters gave their honey-sweet food, and no sooner
had each man eaten than he had no wish ever to return to the ships. He
longed for ever to stay in that pleasant land, eating the lotus fruit,
and dreaming the happy hours away.
Back to the ships Odysseus dragged the unwilling men, weeping that
they must leave so much joy behind. Beneath the benches of his ship he
tightly bound them, and swiftly he made his ships sail from the shore,
lest yet others of his company might eat of the lotus and forget their
homes and their kindred.
Soon they had all embarked, and, with heavy hearts, the men of Ithaca
smote the gray sea-water with their long oars, and sped away from the
land of forgetfulness and of sweet day-dreams.
II
HOW ODYSSEUS CAME TO THE LAND OF THE CYCLOPES, AND HIS ADVENTURES
THERE
On and on across the waves sailed the dark-prowed ships of Odysseus,
until again they came to land.
It was the Land of the Cyclopes, a savage and lawless people, who
never planted, nor plowed, nor sowed, and whose fields yet gave them
rich harvests of wheat and of barley, and vines with heavy clusters of
grapes. In deep caves, high up on the hills, these people dwelt, and
each man ruled his own wife and children, but himself knew no ruler.
Outside the harbor of the Land of the Cyclopes lay a thickly wooded
island. No hunters went there, for the Cyclopes owned neither ships
nor boats, so that many goats roamed unharmed through the woods and
cropped the fresh green grass.
It was a green and pleasant land. Rich meadows stretched down to the
sea, the vines grew strong and fruitful, and there was a fair harbor
where ships might be run right on to the beach. At the head of the
harbor was a well of clear water flowing out of a cave, and with
poplars growing around it. Thither Odysseus directed his ships. It was
dark night, with no moon to guide, and mist lay deep on either side,
yet they passed the breakers and rolling surf without knowing it, and
anchored safely on the beach.
All night they slept, and when rosy dawn came they explored the island
and slew with their bows and long spears many of the wild goats of the
woods.
All the livelong day Odysseus and his men sat and feasted. As they ate
and drank, they looked across the water at the Land of the Cyclopes,
where the smoke of wood fires curled up to the sky, and from whence
they could hear the sound of men's voices and the bleating of
sheep and goats. When darkness fell, they lay down to sleep on the
sea-beach, and when morning dawned Odysseus called his men together
and said to them: "Stay here, all the rest of you, my dear companions,
but I will go with my own ship and my ship's company and see what kind
of men are those who dwell in this land across the harbor."
So saying, he climbed into his ship, and his men rowed him across to
the Land of the Cyclopes. When they were near the shore they saw a
great cave by the sea. It was roofed in with green laurel boughs and
seemed to be meant for a fold to shelter sheep and goats. Round about
it a high outer wall was firmly built with stones, and with tall and
leafy pines and oak-trees.
In this cave, all alone with his flocks and herds, dwelt a huge and
hideous one-eyed giant. Polyphemus was his name, and his father was
Poseidon, god of the sea.
Taking twelve of his best men with him, Odysseus left the others to
guard the ship and sallied forth to the giant's cave. With him he
carried a goat-skin full of precious wine, dark red, and sweet and
strong, and a large sack of corn.
Soon they came to the cave, but Polyphemus was not there. He had taken
off his flocks to graze in the green meadows, leaving behind him in
the cave folds full of lambs and kids. The walls of the cave were
lined with cheeses, and there were great pans full of whey, and giant
bowls full of milk.
"Let us first of all take the cheeses," said the men of Odysseus to
their King, "and carry them to the ships. Then let us return and drive
all the kids and lambs from their folds down to the shore, and sail
with them in our swift ships homeward over the sea."
But Odysseus would not listen to what they said. He was too great
hearted to steal into the cave like a thief and take away the giant's
goods without first seeing whether Polyphemus might not treat him as
a friend, receiving from him the corn and wine he had brought, and
giving him gifts in return.
So they kindled a fire, and dined on some of the cheeses, and sat
waiting for the giant to return.
Towards evening he came, driving his flocks before him, and carrying
on his back a huge load of firewood, which he cast down on the floor
with such a thunderous noise that Odysseus and his men fled in fear
and hid themselves in the darkest corners of the cave. When he had
driven his sheep inside, Polyphemus lifted from the ground a rock so
huge that two-and-twenty four-wheeled wagons could not have borne it,
and with it blocked the doorway. Then, sitting down, he milked the
ewes and bleating goats, and placed the lambs and kids each beside its
own mother.
Half of the milk he curdled and placed in wicker baskets to make into
cheeses, and the other half he left in great pails to drink when he
should have supper. When all this was done, he kindled a fire, and
when the flames had lit up the dark-walled cave he spied Odysseus and
his men.
"Strangers, who are ye?" he asked, in his great, rumbling voice.
"Whence sail ye over the watery ways? Are ye merchants? or are ye
sea-robbers who rove over the sea, risking your own lives and bringing
evil to other men?"
The sound of the giant's voice, and his hideous face filled the hearts
of the men with terror, but Odysseus made answer: "From Troy we
come, seeking our home, but driven hither by winds and waves. Men of
Agamemnon, the renowned and most mightily victorious Greek general,
are we, yet to thee we come and humbly beg for friendship."
At this the giant, who had nothing but cruelty in his heart, mocked at
Odysseus.
"Thou art a fool," said he, "and I shall not spare either thee or thy
company. But tell me where thou didst leave thy good ship? Was it near
here, or at the far end of the island?"
But Odysseus of the many counsels knew that the giant asked the
question only to bring evil on the men who stayed by the ship, and so
he answered: "My ship was broken in pieces by the storm and cast up on
the rocks on the shore, but I, with these my men, escaped from death."
Not one word said Polyphemus in reply, but sprang up, clutched hold of
two of the men, and dashed their brains out on the stone floor. Then
he cut them up, and made ready his supper, eating the two men, bones
and all, as if he had been a starving lion, and taking great draughts
of the milk from the giant pails. When his meal was done, he stretched
himself on the ground beside his sheep and goats, and slept.
In helpless horror Odysseus and his men had watched the dreadful
sight, but when the monster slept they began to make plans for their
escape. At first Odysseus thought it might be best to take his sharp
sword and stab Polyphemus in the breast. But then he knew that even
were he thus to slay the giant, he and his men must die. For strength
was not left them to roll away the rock from the cave's mouth, and so
they must perish like rats in a trap.
All night they thought what they should do, but could think of nought
that would avail, and so they could only moan in their bitterness of
heart and wait for the dawn. When dawn's rosy fingers touched the sky,
Polyphemus awoke. He kindled a fire, and milked his flocks, and gave
each ewe her lamb. When this work was done he snatched yet other two
men, dashed their brains out, and made of them his morning meal. After
the meal, he lifted the stone from the door, drove the flocks out, and
set the stone back again. Then, with a loud shout, he turned his sheep
and goats towards the hills and left Odysseus and his remaining eight
men imprisoned in the cave, plotting and planning how to get away, and
how to avenge the death of their comrades.
At last Odysseus thought of a plan. By the sheepfold there lay a huge
club of green olive wood that Polyphemus had cut and was keeping
until it should be dry enough to use as a staff. So huge was it
that Odysseus and his men likened it to the mast of a great merchant
vessel. From this club Odysseus cut a large piece and gave it to his
men to fine down and make even. While they did this, Odysseus himself
sharpened it to a point and hardened the point in the fire. When it
was ready, they hid it amongst the rubbish on the floor of the cave.
Then Odysseus made his men draw lots who should help him to lift this
bar and drive it into the eye of the giant as he slept, and the lot
fell upon the four men that Odysseus would himself have chosen.
In the evening Polyphemus came down from the hills with his flocks and
drove them all inside the cave. Then he lifted the great doorstone and
blocked the doorway, milked the ewes and goats, and gave each lamb and
kid to its mother. This done, he seized other two of the men, dashed
out their brains, and made ready his supper.
From the shadows of the cave Odysseus now stepped forward, bearing in
his hands an ivy bowl, full of the dark red wine.
"Drink wine after thy feast of men's flesh," said Odysseus, "and see
what manner of drink this was that our ship held."
Polyphemus grasped the bowl, gulped down the strong wine, and smacked
his great lips over its sweetness.
"Give me more," he cried, "and tell me thy name straightway, that I
may give thee a gift. Mighty clusters of grapes do the vines of our
land bear for us, but this is a rill of very nectar and ambrosia."
Again Odysseus gave him the bowl full of wine, and yet again, until
the strong wine went to the giant's head and made him stupid.
Then said Odysseus: "Thou didst ask me my name, and didst say that
thou wouldst give me a gift. Noman is my name, and Noman they call me,
my father and mother and all my fellows."
Then answered the giant out of his pitiless heart: "I will eat thy
fellows first, Noman, and thee the last of all. That shall be thy
gift."
Soon the wine made him so sleepy that he sank backwards with his great
face upturned and fell fast asleep.
As soon as the giant slept, Odysseus thrust into the fire the stake he
had prepared, and made it red hot, all the while speaking cheerfully
and comfortingly to his men. When it was so hot that the wood, green
though it was, began to blaze, they drew it out and thrust it into
the giant's eye. Round and round they whirled the fiery pike, as a
man bores a hole in a plank, until the blood gushed out, and the eye
frizzled and hissed, and the flames singed and burned the eyelids, and
the eye was burned out. With a great and terrible cry the giant sprang
to his feet, and Odysseus and the others fled from before him. From
his eye he dragged the blazing pike, all dripping with his blood, and
dashed it to the ground. Then, maddened with pain, he called with a
great and terrible cry on the other Cyclopes, who dwelt in their caves
on the hill-tops round which the wind swept. The giants, hearing his
horrid yells, rushed to help him.
"What ails thee, Polyphemus?" they asked. "Why dost thou cry aloud
in the night and awake us from our sleep? Surely no one stealeth thy
flocks? None slayeth thee by force or by craft."
From the other side of the great stone moaned Polyphemus: "Noman is
slaying me by craft."
Then the Cyclopes said: "If no man is hurting thee, then indeed it
must be a sickness that makes thee cry so loud, and this thou must
bear, for we cannot help."
With that they strode away from the cave and left the blind giant
groaning and raging with pain. Groping with his hands, he found the
great stone that blocked the door, lifted it away, and sat himself
down in the mouth of the cave, with his arms stretched out, hoping
to catch Odysseus and his men if they should try to escape. Sitting
there, he fell asleep, and, as soon as he slept, Odysseus planned and
plotted how best to win freedom.
The rams of the giant's flocks were great strong beasts, with fleeces
thick and woolly, and as dark as the violet. With twisted slips of
willow Odysseus lashed every three of them together, and under the
middle ram of each three he bound one of his men. For himself he
kept the best ram of the flock, young and strong, and with a fleece
wonderfully thick and shaggy. Underneath this ram Odysseus curled
himself, and clung, face upwards, firmly grasping the wool with his
hands. In this wise did he and his men wait patiently for the dawn.
When rosy dawn came, the ewes in the pens bleated to be milked and the
rams hastened out to the hills and green meadows. As each sheep passed
him, Polyphemus felt along its back, but never guessed that the six
remaining men of Odysseus were bound beneath the thick-fleeced rams.
Last of all came the young ram to which Odysseus clung, moving slowly,
for his fleece was heavy, and Odysseus whom he bore was heavier still.
On the ram's back Polyphemus laid his great hands. "Dear ram," said
he, "once wert thou the very first to lead the flocks from the cave,
the first to nibble the tender buds of the pasture, the first to find
out the running streams, and the first to come home when evening fell.
But to-day thou art the very last to go. Surely thou art sorrowful
because the wicked Noman hath destroyed my eye. I would thou couldst
speak and tell me where Noman is hidden. Then should I seize him and
gladly dash out his brains on the floor of the cave."
Very, very still lay Odysseus while the giant spoke, but the ram
slowly walked on past the savage giant, towards the meadows near the
sea. Soon it was far enough from the cave for Odysseus to let go his
hold and to stand up. Quickly he loosened the bonds of the others, and
swiftly then they drove the rams down to the shore where their ship
lay. Often they looked round, expecting to see Polyphemus following
them, but they safely reached the ship and got a glad welcome from
their friends, who rejoiced over them, but would have wept over the
men that the cannibal giant had slain.
"There is no time to weep," said Odysseus, and he made his men hasten
on board the ship, driving the sheep before them.
Soon they were all on board, and the gray sea-water was rushing off
their oars, as they sailed away from the land of the Cyclopes.
But before they were out of sight of land, the bold Odysseus lifted up
his voice and shouted across the water:
"Hear me, Polyphemus, thou cruel monster! Thine evil deeds were very
sure to find thee out. Thou hast been punished because thou hadst no
shame to eat the strangers who came to thee as thy guests!"
The voice of Odysseus rang across the waves, and reached Polyphemus as
he sat in pain at the mouth of his cave.
In a fury the giant sprang up, broke off the peak of a great hill
and cast it into the sea, where it fell just in front of the ship of
Odysseus.
So huge a splash did the vast rock give, that the sea heaved up and
the backwash of the water drove the ship right to the shore.
Odysseus snatched up a long pole and pushed the ship off once more.
Silently he motioned to the men to row hard, and save themselves and
their ship from the angry giant. When they were once more out at sea,
Odysseus wished again to mock Polyphemus.
In vain his men begged him not to provoke a monster so mighty that he
could crush their heads and the timbers of their ship with one cast of
a stone. Once more Odysseus shouted across the water:
"Polyphemus, if any one shall ask thee who blinded thee, tell them it
was Odysseus of Ithaca."
Then moaned the giant:
"Once, long ago, a soothsayer told me that Odysseus should make me
blind. But ever I looked for the coming of a great and gallant hero,
and now there hath come a poor feeble, little dwarf, who made me weak
with wine before he dared to touch me."
Then he begged Odysseus to come back, and said he would treat him
kindly, and told him that he knew that his own father, the god of the
sea, would give him his sight again.
"Never more wilt thou have thy sight," mocked Odysseus; "thy father
will never heal thee."
Then Polyphemus, stretching out his hands, and looking up with his
sightless eye to the starry sky, called aloud to Poseidon, god of the
sea, to punish Odysseus.
"If he ever reaches his own country," he cried, "let him come late
and in an evil case, with all his own company lost, and in the ship of
strangers, and let him find sorrows in his own house."
No answer came from Poseidon, but the god of the sea heard his son's
prayer.
With all his mighty force Polyphemus then cast at the ship a rock far
greater than the first. It all but struck the end of the rudder, but
the huge waves that surged up from it bore on the ship, and carried it
to the further shore.
There they found the men with the other ships waiting in sorrow and
dread, for they feared that the giants had killed Odysseus and his
company. Gladly they drove the rams of Polyphemus on to the land, and
there feasted together until the sun went down.
All night they slept on the sea beach, and at rosy dawn Odysseus
called to his men to get into their ships and loose the hawsers.
Soon they had pushed off, and were thrusting their oars into the gray
sea-water.
Their hearts were sore, because they had lost six gallant men of their
company, yet they were glad as men saved from death.
III
HOW ODYSSEUS MET WITH CIRCE, THE SIRENS, AND CALYPSO
Across the seas sailed Odysseus and his men till they came to an
island where lived AEolus the keeper of the winds. When Odysseus again
set sail, AEolus gave him a great leather bag in which he had placed
all the winds except the wind of the west. His men thought the bag to
be full of gold and silver, so, while Odysseus slept they loosened the
silver thong, and, with a mighty gust all the winds rushed out driving
the ship far away from their homeland.
Ere long they reached another island, where dwelt a great enchantress,
Circe of the golden tresses, whose palace Eurylochus discovered.
Within they heard Circe singing, so they called to her and she came
forth and bade them enter. Heedlessly they followed her, all but
Eurylochus. Then Circe smote them with her magic wand and they were
turned into swine.
When Odysseus heard what had befallen his men he was very angry and
would have slain her with his sword. But Circe cried: "Sheathe thy
sword, I pray thee, Odysseus, and let us be at peace." Then said
Odysseus: "How can I be at peace with thee, Circe? How can I trust
thee?" Then Circe promised to do Odysseus no harm, and to let him
return in safety to his home.
Then she opened the doors of the sty and waved her wand. And the swine
became men again even handsomer and stronger than before.
For a whole year Odysseus and his men stayed in the palace, feasting
and resting. When they at last set sail again the sorceress told
Odysseus of many dangers he would meet on his homeward voyage, and
warned him how to escape from them.
In an island in the blue sea through which the ship of Odysseus would
sail toward home, lived some beautiful mermaids called Sirens. Even
more beautiful than the Sirens' faces were their lovely voices by
which they lured men to go on shore and there slew them. In the
flowery meadows were the bones of the foolish sailors who had seen
only the lovely faces and long, golden hair of the Sirens, and had
lost their hearts to them.
Against these mermaids Circe had warned Odysseus, and he repeated her
warnings to his men.
Following her advice he filled the ears of the men with wax and bade
them bind him hand and foot to the mast.
Past the island drove the ship, and the Sirens seeing it began their
sweet song. "Come hither, come hither, brave Odysseus," they sang.
Then Odysseus tried to make his men unbind him, but Eurylochus and
another bound him yet more tightly to the mast.
When the island was left behind, the men took the wax from their ears
and unbound their captain. After passing the Wandering Rocks with
their terrible sights and sounds the ship came to a place of great
peril. Beyond them were yet two huge rocks between which the sea
swept.
One of these ran up to the sky, and in this cliff was a dark cave in
which lived Scylla a horrible monster, who, as the ship passed seized
six of the men with her six dreadful heads.
In the cliff opposite lived another terrible creature called Charybdis
who stirred the sea to a fierce whirlpool.
By a strong wind the ship was driven into this whirlpool, but Odysseus
escaped on a broken piece of wreckage to the shores of an island.
On this island lived Calypso of the braided tresses, a goddess feared
by all men. But, to Odysseus she was very kind and he soon became as
strong as ever.
"Stay with me, and thou shalt never grow old and never die," said
Calypso.
A great homesickness had seized Odysseus, but no escape came for eight
years. Then Athene begged the gods to help him. They called on Hermes,
who commanded Calypso to let him go. She wanted him to stay with her
but promised to send him away. She told him to make a raft which she
would furnish with food and clothing for his need.
He set out and in eighteen days saw the land of the Phaeacians appear.
But when safety seemed near, Poseidon, the sea-god, returned from his
wanderings and would have destroyed him had it not been that a fair
sea-nymph gave him her veil to wind around his body. This he did and
finally reached the shore.
IV
HOW ODYSSEUS MET WITH NAUSICAA
In the land of the Phaeacians there dwelt no more beautiful, nor any
sweeter maiden, than the King's own daughter. Nausicaa was her name,
and she was so kind and gentle that every one loved her.
To the land of the Phaeacians the north wind had driven Odysseus, and
while he lay asleep in his bed of leaves under the olive-trees, the
goddess Athene went to the room in the palace where Nausicaa slept,
and spoke to her in her dreams.
"Some day thou wilt marry, Nausicaa," she said, "and it is time
for thee to wash all the fair raiment that is one day to be thine.
To-morrow thou must ask the King, thy father, for mules and for a
wagon, and drive from the city to a place where all the rich clothing
may be washed and dried."
When morning came Nausicaa remembered her dream, and went to tell her
father.
Her mother was sitting spinning yarn of sea-purple stain, and her
father was just going to a council meeting.
"Father, dear," said the Princess, "couldst thou lend me a high wagon
with strong wheels, that I may take all my fair linen to the river
to wash. All yours, too, I shall take, so that thou shalt go to the
council in linen that is snowy clean, and I know that my five brothers
will also be glad if I wash their fine clothing for them."
This she said, for she felt too shy to tell her father what Athene had
said about her getting married.
But the King knew well why she asked. "I do not grudge thee mules,
nor anything else, my child," he said. "Go, bid the servants prepare a
wagon."
The servants quickly got ready the finest wagon that the King had, and
harnessed the best of the mules. And Nausicaa's mother filled a basket
with all the dainties that she knew her daughter liked best, so that
Nausicaa and her maidens might feast together. The fine clothes were
piled into the wagon, the basket of food was placed carefully beside
them, and Nausicaa climbed in, took the whip and shining reins, and
touched the mules. Then with clatter of hoofs they started.
When they were come to the beautiful, clear river, amongst whose reeds
Odysseus had knelt the day before, they unharnessed the mules and
drove them along the banks of the river to graze where the clover
grew rich and fragrant. Then they washed the clothes, working hard
and well, and spread them out to dry on the clean pebbles down by the
seashore.
Then they bathed, and when they had bathed they took their midday meal
by the bank of the rippling river.
When they had finished, the sun had not yet dried the clothes, so
Nausicaa and her maidens began to play ball. As they played they sang
a song that the girls of that land would always sing as they threw the
ball to one another. All the maidens were fair, but Nausicaa of the
white arms was the fairest of all.
From hand to hand they threw the ball, growing always the merrier,
until, when it was nearly time for them to gather the clothes together
and go home, Nausicaa threw it very hard to one of the others. The
girl missed the catch. The ball flew into the river, and, as it was
swept away to the sea, the Princess and all her maidens screamed
aloud.
Their cries awoke Odysseus, as he lay asleep in his bed of leaves.
"I must be near the houses of men," he said; "those are the cries of
girls at play."
With that he crept out from the shelter of the olive-trees. He had no
clothes, for he had thrown them all into the sea before he began his
terrible swim for life. But he broke off some leafy branches and held
them round him, and walked down to where Nausicaa and her maidens
were.
Like a wild man of the woods he looked, and when they saw him coming
the girls shrieked and ran away. Some of them hid behind the rocks on
the shore, and some ran out to the shoals of yellow sand that jutted
into the sea.
But although his face was marred with the sea-foam that had crusted on
it, and he looked a terrible, fierce, great creature, Nausicaa was too
brave to run away.
Shaking she stood there, and watched him as he came forward, and stood
still a little way off. Then Odysseus spoke to her, gently and kindly,
that he might take away her fear.
He told her of his shipwreck, and begged her to show him the way to
the town, and give him some old garment, or any old wrap in which she
had brought the linen, so that he might have something besides leaves
with which to cover himself.
"I have never seen any maiden half so beautiful as thou art," he said.
"Have pity on me, and may the gods grant thee all thy heart's desire."
Then said Nausicaa: "Thou seemest no evil man, stranger, and I will
gladly give thee clothing and show thee the way to town. This is the
land of the Phaeacians, and my father is the King."
To her maidens then she called:
"Why do ye run away at the sight of a man? Dost thou take him for
an enemy? He is only a poor shipwrecked man. Come, give him food and
drink, and fetch him clothing."
The maidens came back from their hiding-places, and fetched some of
the garments of Nausicaa's brothers which they had brought to wash,
and laid them beside Odysseus.
Odysseus gratefully took the clothes away, and went off to the river.
There he plunged into the clear water, and washed the salt crust from
off his face and limbs and body, and the crusted foam from his hair.
Then he put on the beautiful garments that belonged to one of the
Princes, and walked down to the shore where Nausicaa and her maidens
were waiting.
So tall and handsome and strong did Odysseus look, with his hair
curling like hyacinth flowers around his head, that Nausicaa said to
her maidens: "This man, who seemed to us so dreadful so short a time
ago, now looks like a god. I would that my husband, if ever I have
one, should be as he."
Then she and her maidens brought him food and wine, and he ate
hungrily, for it was many days since he had eaten.
When he had finished, they packed the linen into the wagon, and yoked
the mules, and Nausicaa climbed into her place.
"So long as we are passing through the fields," she said to Odysseus,
"follow behind with my maidens, and I will lead the way. But when we
come near the town with its high walls and towers, and harbors full
of ships, the rough sailors will stare and say, 'Hath Nausicaa gone to
find herself a husband because she scorns the men of Phaeacia who would
wed her? Hath she picked up a shipwrecked stranger, or is this one of
the gods who has come to make her his wife?' Therefore come not with
us, I pray thee, for the sailors to jest at. There is a fair poplar
grove near the city, with a meadow lying round it. Sit there until
thou thinkest that we have had time to reach the palace. Then seek the
palace--any child can show thee the way--and when thou art come to the
outer court pass quickly into the room where my mother sits. Thou wilt
find her weaving yarn of sea-purple stain by the light of the fire.
She will be leaning her head back against a pillar, and her maidens
will be standing round her. My father's throne is close to hers,
but pass him by, and cast thyself at my mother's knees. If she feels
kindly towards thee and is sorry for thee, then my father is sure to
help thee to get safely back to thine own land."
Then Nausicaa smote her mules with the whip, and they trotted quickly
off, and soon left behind them the silver river with its whispering
reeds, and the beach with its yellow sand.
Odysseus and the maidens followed the wagon, and just as the sun was
setting they reached the poplar grove in the meadow.
There Odysseus stayed until Nausicaa should have had time to reach
the palace. When she got there, she stopped at the gateway, and her
brothers came out and lifted down the linen, and unharnessed the
mules. Nausicaa went up to her room, and her old nurse kindled a fire
for her and got ready her supper.
When Odysseus thought it was time to follow, he went to the city.
He marveled at the great walls and at the many gallant ships in the
harbors. But when he reached the King's palace, he wondered still
more. Its walls were of brass, so that from without, when the doors
stood open, it looked as if the sun or moon were shining within. A
frieze of blue ran round the walls. All the doors were made of gold,
the doorposts were of silver, the thresholds of brass, and the hook of
the door was of gold. In the halls were golden figures of animals, and
of men who held in their hands lighted torches. Outside the courtyard
was a great garden filled with blossoming pear-trees and pomegranates,
and apple-trees with shining fruit, and figs, and olives. All the year
round there was fruit in that garden. There were grapes in blossom,
and grapes purple and ready to eat, and there were great masses of
snowy pear-blossom, and pink apple-blossom, and golden ripe pears, and
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