Fairy Tales Free Download like Rapidshare

THE ENCHANTED MOCCASINS. Tales Classic

2009-03-26T03:34:00.001-07:00

THE ENCHANTED MOCCASINS.

A long, long time ago, a little boy was living with his sister entirely
alone in an uninhabited country, far out in the north-west. He was
called the Boy that carries the Ball on his Back, from an idea that he
possessed supernatural powers. This boy was in the habit of meditating
alone, and asking within himself, whether there were other beings
similar to themselves on the earth.

When he grew up to manhood, he inquired of his sister whether she knew
of any human beings beside themselves. She replied that she did; and
that there was, at a great distance, a large village.

As soon as he heard this, he said to his sister, "I am now a young man
and very much in want of a companion;" and he asked his sister to make
him several pairs of moccasins.

She complied with his request; and as soon as he received the moccasins,
he took up his war-club and set out in quest of the distant village.

He traveled on till he came to a small wigwam, and on looking into it he
discovered a very old woman sitting alone by the fire. As soon as she
saw the stranger, she invited him in, and thus addressed him:

"My poor grandchild, I suppose you are one of those who seek for the
distant village, from which no person has ever yet returned. Unless your
guardian is more powerful than the guardians of those who have gone
before you, you will share a similar fate to theirs. Be careful to
provide yourself with the invisible bones they use in the
medicine-dance, for without these you can not succeed."

After she had thus spoken, she gave him the following directions for his
journey:

"When you come near to the village which you seek, you will see in the
center a large lodge, in which the chief of the village, who has two
daughters, resides. Before the door there is a great tree, which is
smooth and without bark. On this tree, about the height of a man from
the ground, is hung a small lodge, in which these two false daughters
dwell. It is here that so many have been destroyed, and among them your
two elder brothers. Be wise, my grandchild, and abide strictly by my
directions."

The old woman then gave to the young man the bones which were to secure
his success; and she informed him with great care how he was to
proceed.

Placing them in his bosom, Onwee Bahmondang, or the Wearer of the Ball,
continued his journey, and kept eagerly on until he arrived at the
village of which he was in search; and as he was gazing around him, he
saw both the tree and the lodge which the old woman had mentioned.

He at once bent his steps for the tree, and approaching, he endeavored
to reach the suspended lodge. But all his efforts were in vain; for as
often as he attempted to reach it, the tree began to tremble, and it
soon shot up so that the lodge could hardly be perceived.

He bethought him of his guardian, and invoking his aid, and changing
himself into a squirrel, he mounted nimbly up again, in the hope that
the lodge would not now escape him. Away shot the lodge, climb as
briskly as he might.

Panting, and out of breath, he remembered the instructions of the old
woman, and drawing from his bosom one of the bones, he thrust it into
the trunk of the tree, and rested himself to be ready to start again.

As often as he wearied of climbing, for even a squirrel can not climb
forever, he repeated the little ceremony of the bones; but whenever he
came near the lodge and put forth his hand to touch it, the tree would
shoot up as before, and carry the lodge up far beyond his reach.

At length the bones being all gone, and the lodge well-nigh out of
sight, he began to despair, for the earth, too, had long since vanished
entirely from his view.

Summoning his whole heart, he resolved to try once more. On and up he
went, and, as soon as he put forth his hand to touch it, the tree again
shook, and away went the lodge.

One more endeavor, brave Onwee, and in he goes; for having now reached
the arch of heaven, the fly-away lodge could go no higher.

Onwee entered the lodge with a fearless step, and he beheld the two
wicked sisters sitting opposite each other. He asked their names. The
one on his left hand called herself Azhabee, and the one on the right,
Negahnabee.

After talking with them a little while, he discovered that whenever he
addressed the one on his left hand, the tree would tremble as before and
settle down to its former place; but when he addressed the one on his
right hand, it would again shoot upward.

When he thus perceived that by addressing the one on his left hand that
the tree would descend, he continued to do so until it had again settled
down to its place near the earth. Then seizing his war-club, he said to
the sisters:

"You who have caused the death of so many of my brethren I will now put
an end to, and thus have revenge for those you have destroyed."

As he spoke this he raised the club, and with one blow laid the two
wicked women dead at his feet.

Onwee then descended, and learning that these sisters had a brother
living with their father, who had shared all together in the spoils of
all such as the wicked sisters had betrayed, and who would now pursue
him for having put an end to their wicked profits, Onwee set off at
random, not knowing whither he went.

The father coming in the evening to visit the lodge of his daughters,
discovered what had happened. He immediately sent word to his son that
his sisters had been slain, and that there were no more spoils to be
had, which greatly inflamed the young man's temper, especially the
woeful announcement at the close.

"The person who has done this," said the brother, as soon as he had
reached the spot, chafing and half beside himself at the gloomy prospect
of having no more travelers to strip, "must be that boy who carries the
ball on his back. I know his mode of going about his business, and since
he would not allow himself to be killed by my sisters, he shall have the
honor of dying by my hand. I will pursue him and have revenge."

"It is well, my son," replied the father; "the spirit of your life
grant you success. I counsel you to be wary in the pursuit. Bahmondang
is a cunning youth. It is a strong spirit who has put him on to do this
injury to us, and he will try to deceive you in every way. Above all,
avoid tasting food till you succeed; for if you break your fast before
you see his blood, your power will be destroyed."

The son took this fatherly advice all in good part, except that portion
which enjoined upon him to abstain from staying his stomach; but over
that he made a number of wry faces, for the brother of the two wicked
sisters had, among numerous noble gifts, a very noble appetite.
Nevertheless, he took up his weapons and departed in pursuit of Onwee
Bahmondang, at the top of his speed.

Onwee finding that he was closely followed, climbed up into one of the
tallest trees, and shot forth the magic arrows with which he had
provided himself.

Seeing that his pursuer was not turned back by his arrows, Onwee renewed
his flight; and when he found himself hard pressed, and his enemy close
behind him, he transformed himself into the skeleton of a moose that had
been killed, whose flesh had come off from his bones. He then remembered
the moccasins which his sister had given him, and which were enchanted.
Taking a pair of them, he placed them near the skeleton.

"Go," said he to them, "to the end of the earth."

The moccasins then left him, and their tracks remained.

The angry brother at length came to the skeleton of the moose, when he
perceived that the track he had been long pursuing did not stop there,
so he continued to follow it up till he arrived at the end of the earth,
where, for all his trouble, he found only a pair of moccasins.

Vexed that he had been outwitted by following a pair of moccasins
instead of their owner, who was the object of his pursuit, he bitterly
complained, resolving not to give up his revenge, and to be more wary in
scrutinizing signs.

He then called to mind the skeleton he had met with on his way, and
concluded that it must be the object of his search.

He retraced his steps toward the skeleton, but to his surprise it had
disappeared, and the tracks of the wearer of the ball were in another
direction. He now became faint with hunger, and lost heart; but when he
remembered the blood of his sisters, and that he should not be allowed
to enjoy a meal, nor so much as a mouthful, until he had put an end to
Onwee Bahmondang, he plucked up his spirits and determined again to
pursue.

Onwee, finding that he was closely followed, and that the hungry brother
was approaching very fast, changed himself into a very old man, with
two daughters, and living in a large lodge in the center of a beautiful
garden, which was filled with every thing that could delight the eye, or
was pleasant to the taste. He made himself appear so very old as to be
unable to leave his lodge, and to require his daughters to bring him
food and wait on him, as though he had been a mere child. The garden
also had the appearance of old age, with its ancient bushes and hanging
branches and decrepit vines loitering lazily about in the sun.

The brother kept on until he was nearly starved and ready to sink to the
earth. He exclaimed, with a long-drawn and most mournful sigh, "Oh! I
will forget the blood of my sisters, for I am starving. Oh! oh!"

But again he thought of the blood of his sisters, and what a fine
appetite he would have if he should ever be allowed to eat any thing
again, and once more he resolved to pursue, and to be content with
nothing short of the amplest revenge.

He pushed on till he came to the beautiful garden. He advanced toward
the lodge.

As soon as the fairy daughters perceived him they ran and told their
father that a stranger approached.

Their father replied, "Invite him in, my children, invite him in."

They did so promptly, and, by the command of their father, they boiled
some corn, and prepared several other palatable dishes. The savor was
most delicious to the nostrils of the hungry brother, who had not the
least suspicion of the sport that was going on at his expense.

He was faint and weary with travel, and he felt that he could endure
fasting no longer; for his appetite was terribly inflamed by the sight
of the choice food that was steaming before him.

He fell to and partook heartily of the meal; and, by so doing, he was
overcome, and lost his right of revenge. All at once he forgot the blood
of his sisters, and even the village of his nativity, and his father's
lodge, and his whole past life. He ate so keenly, and came and went to
the choice dishes so often, that drowsiness at length overpowered him,
and he soon fell into a profound sleep.

Onwee Bahmondang watched his opportunity, and as soon as he saw that the
false brother's sleep was sound, he resumed his youthful form, and sent
off the two fairy daughters and the old garden; and drawing the
magic-ball from his back, which turned out to be a great war-club, he
fetched the slumbering brother a mighty blow, which sent him away too;
and thus did Onwee Bahmondang vindicate his title as the Wearer of the
Ball.

When Onwee swung around, with the great force and weight of the club
with which he had dispatched the brother of the two wicked women, he
found himself in a large village, surrounded by a great crowd of people.
At the door of a beautiful lodge stood his sister, smiling, and ready to
invite him in. Onwee entered, and hanging up his war-club and the
enchanted moccasins, which he had recovered, he rested from his labors,
and smoked his evening pipe, with the admiration and approval of the
whole world.

With one exception only, Onwee Bahmondang had the hearty praises of all
the people.

Now it happened that there lived in this same village an envious and
boastful fellow, who had been once a chief, but coming home always badly
whipped, he was put out of office, and now spent his time about the
place mainly, in proclaiming certain great things which he had in his
eye, and which he meant to do--one of these days.

This man's name was Ko-ko, the Owl; and hearing much of the wonderful
achievements of the Wearer of the Ball, Ko-ko put on a big look, and
announced that he was going to do something extraordinary himself.

Onwee Bahmondang, he said, had not half done his work, and he, Ko-ko,
meant to go on the ground and finish it up as it should be.

He began by procuring an oak ball, which he thrust down his back, and,
confident in its magical powers, he, too, called himself the Wearer of
the Ball. In fact it was the self-same ball that Onwee had employed,
except that the magic had entirely gone out of it. Coming by night in
the shadow of the lodge, he thrust his arm in at the door, and
stealthily possessed himself of the enchanted moccasins. He would have
taken away Onwee's war-club too, if he could have carried it; but
although he was twice the size and girth of Onwee, he had not the
strength to lift it; so he borrowed a club from an old chief, who was
purblind, and mistook Ko-ko for his brother who was a brave man; and
raising a terrible tumult with his voice, and a great dust with his
heels, Ko-ko set out.

He had traveled all day, when he came to a small wigwam, and on looking
into it, he discovered a very old woman sitting alone by the fire; just
as Onwee had before.

This is the wigwam, said Ko-ko, and this is the old woman.

"What are you looking for?" asked the old woman.

"I want to find the lodge with the wicked young women in it, who slay
travellers and steal their trappings," answered Ko-ko.

"You mean the two young women who lived in the flying lodge?" said the
old woman.

"The same," answered Ko-ko. "I am going to kill them."

With this he gave a great flourish with his borrowed club, and looked
desperate and murderous as he could.

"They were slain yesterday by the Wearer of the Ball," said the old
woman.

Ko-ko looked around for the door in a very owlish way, and heaving a
short hem from his chest, he acknowledged that he had heard something to
that effect down in one of the villages.

"But there's the brother. I'll have a chance at him," said Ko-ko.

"He is dead too," said the old woman.

"Is there nobody then left for me to kill?" cried Ko-ko. "Must I then go
back without any blood upon my hands?"

He made as if he could shed tears over his sad mishap.

"The father is still living; and you will find him in the lodge, if you
have a mind to call on him. He would like to see the Owl," the old woman
added.

"He shall," replied Ko-ko. "Have you any bones about the house; for I
suppose I shall have to climb that tree."

"Oh, yes; plenty," answered the old woman. "You can have as many as you
want."

And she gave him a handful of fish-bones, which Ko-ko, taking them to be
the Invisible Tallies which had helped Onwee Bahmondang in climbing the
magical tree, thrust into his bosom.

"Thank you," said Ko-ko; taking up his club and striding toward the
door.

"Will you not have a little advice," said the old woman. "This is a
dangerous business you are going on."

Ko-ko turned about and laughed to scorn the proposal, and putting forth
his right foot from the lodge first, an observance in which he had great
hopes, he started for the lodge of the wicked father.

Ko-ko ran very fast, as if he feared he should lose the chance of
massacring any member of the wicked family, until he came in sight of
the lodge hanging upon the tree.

He then slackened his pace, and crept forward with a wary eye lest
somebody might chance to be looking out at the door. All was, however,
still up there; and Ko-ko clasped the tree and began to climb.

Away went the lodge, and up went Ko-ko, puffing and panting, after it.
And it was not a great while before the Owl had puffed and panted away
all the wind he had to spare; and yet the lodge kept flying aloft,
higher, higher. What was to be done!

Ko-ko of course bethought him of the bones, for that was just what, as
he knew, had occurred to Onwee Bahmondang under the like circumstances.

He had the bones in his bosom; and now it was necessary for him to be a
squirrel. He immediately called on several guardian spirits whom he knew
of by name, and requested them to convert him into a squirrel. But not
one of all them seemed to pay the slightest attention to his request;
for there he hung, the same heavy-limbed, big-headed, be-clubbed, and
be-blanketed Ko-ko as ever.

He then desired that they would turn him into an opossum; an application
which met with the same luck as the previous one. After this he
petitioned to be a wolf, a gophir, a dog, or a bear--if they would be so
obliging. The guardian spirits were either all deaf, or indifferent to
his wishes, or absent on some other business.

Ko-ko, in spite of all his begging and supplication and beseeching, was
obliged to be still Ko-ko.

"The bones, however," he said, to himself, "are good. I shall get a nice
rest, at any rate, if I am forced to climb as I am."

With this he drew out one of the bones from his bosom, and shouting
aloud, "Ho! ho! who is there?" he thrust it into the trunk of the tree,
and would have indulged himself in a rest; but being no more than a
common fish-bone, without the slightest savor of magic in it, it snapped
with Ko-ko, who came tumbling down, with the door of the lodge which he
had shaken loose, rattling after him.

"Ho! ho! who is there?" cried the wicked father, making his appearance
at the opening and looking down.

"It is I, Onwee Bahmondang!" cried Ko-koor, thinking to frighten the
wicked father.

"Ah! it is you, is it? I will be there presently," called the old man.
"Do not be in haste to go away!"

Ko-ko, observing that the old man was in earnest, scrambled up from the
ground, and set off promptly at his highest rate of speed.

When he looked back and saw that the wicked father was gaining upon him,
Ko-koor mounted a tree, as had Onwee Bahmondang before, and fired off a
number of arrows, but as they were no more than common arrows, he got
nothing by it, but was obliged to descend, and run again for life.

As he hurried on he encountered the skeleton of a moose, into which he
would have transformed himself, but not having the slightest confidence
in any one of all the guardians who should have helped him, he passed
on.

The wicked father was hot in pursuit, and Ko-koor was suffering terribly
for lack of wind, when luckily he remembered the enchanted moccasins. He
could not send them to the end of the earth, as had Onwee Bahmondang.

"I will improve on that dull fellow," said Ko-ko. "I will put them on
myself."

Accordingly, Ko-ko had just time to draw on the moccasins when the
wicked father came in sight.

"Go now!" cried Ko-ko, giving orders to the enchanted moccasins; and go
they did; but to the astonishment of the Owl, they turned immediately
about in the way in which the wicked father, now, very furious, was
approaching.

"The other way! the other way!" cried Ko-ko.

Cry as loud as he would, the enchanted moccasins would keep on in their
own course; and before he could shake himself out of them, they had run
him directly into the face of the wicked father.

"What do you mean, you Owl?" cried the wicked father, falling upon Ko-ko
with a huge club, and counting his ribs at every stroke.

"I can not help it, good man," answered Ko-ko. "I tried my best--"

Ko-ko would have gone the other way, but the enchanted moccasins kept
hurrying him forward. "Stand off, will you?" cried the old man.

By this time, allowing the wicked father chance to bestow no more than
five-and-twenty more blows upon Ko-ko, the moccasins were taking him
past.

"Stop!" cried the old man again. "You are running away. Ho! ho! you are
a coward!"

"I am not, good man," answered Ko-ko, carried away by the magical shoes,
"I assure you." But ere he could finish his avowal, the moccasins had
hurried him out of sight.

"At any rate, I shall soon be home at this speed," said Ko-koor to
himself.

The moccasins seemed to know his thoughts; for just then they gave a
sudden leap, slipped away from his feet, and left the Owl flat upon his
back! while they glided home by themselves, to the lodge of Onwee
Bahmondang, where they belonged.

A party of hunters passing that way after several days, found Ko-ko
sitting among the bushes, looking greatly bewildered; and when they
inquired of him how he had succeeded with the wicked father at the
lodge, he answered that he had demolished the whole establishment, but
that his name was not Ko-ko, but Onwee Bahmondang; saying which, he ran
away into the woods, and was never seen more.

THE LITTLE SPIRIT, OR BOY-MAN. : Folk Tales India

2009-03-26T03:33:00.001-07:00

THE LITTLE SPIRIT, OR BOY-MAN.

In a little lodge at a beautiful spot on a lake shore, alone with his
sister, lived a boy remarkable for the smallness of his stature. Many
large rocks were scattered around their habitation, and it had a very
wild and out-of-the-way look.

The boy grew no larger as he advanced in years, and yet, small as he
was, he had a big spirit of his own, and loved dearly to play the master
in the lodge. One day in winter he told his sister to make him a ball to
play with, as he meant to have some sport along the shore on the clear
ice. When she handed him the ball, his sister cautioned him not to go
too far.

He laughed at her, and posted off in high glee, throwing his ball before
him and running after it at full speed, and he went as fast as his ball.
At last his ball flew to a great distance; he followed as fast as he
could. After he had run forward for some time, he saw what seemed four
dark spots upon the ice, straight before him.

When he came up to the shore he was surprised to see four large, tall
men, lying on the ice, spearing fish. They were four brothers, who
looked exactly alike. As the little boy-man approached them, the nearest
looked up, and in his turn he was surprised to see such a tiny being,
and turning to his brothers, he said:

"Tia! look! see what a little fellow is here."

The three others thereupon looked up too, and seeing these four faces,
as if they had been one, the little spirit or boy-man said to himself:

"Four in one! What a time they must have in choosing their
hunting-shirts!"

After they had all stared for a moment at the boy, they covered their
heads, intent in searching for fish. The boy thought to himself:

"These four-faces fancy that I am to be put off without notice because I
am so little, and they are so broad and long. They shall find out. I may
find a way to teach them that I am not to be treated so lightly."

After they were covered up, the boy-man, looking sharply about, saw that
among them they had caught one large trout, which was lying just by
their side. Stealing along, he slyly seized it, and placing his fingers
in the gills, and tossing his ball before him, he ran off at full speed.

They heard the pattering of his little steps upon the ice, and when the
four looked up all together, they saw their fine trout sliding away, as
if of itself, at a great rate, the boy being so small that he could not
be distinguished from the fish.

"See!" they cried out, "our fish is running away on the dry land!"

When they stood up they could just see, over the fish's head, that it
was the boy-man who was carrying it off.

The little spirit reached the lodge, and having left the trout at the
door, he told his sister to go out and bring in the fish he had brought
home.

She exclaimed, "Where could you have got it? I hope you have not stolen
it."

"Oh," he replied, "I found it on the ice. It was caught in our lake.
Have we no right to a little lake of our own? I shall claim all the fish
that come out of its waters."

"How," the sister asked again, "could you have got it there?"

"No matter," said the boy; "go and cook it."

It was as much as the girl could do to drag the great trout within
doors. She cooked it, and its flavor was so delicious that she asked no
more questions as to how he had come by it.

The next morning the little spirit or boy-man set off as he had the day
before.

He made all sorts of sport with his ball as he frolicked along--high
over his head he would toss it, straight up into the air; then far
before him, and again, in mere merriment of spirit, he would send it
bounding back, as if he had plenty of speed and enough to spare in
running back after it. And the ball leaped and bounded about, and glided
through the air as if it were a live thing, and enjoyed the sport as
much as the boy-man himself.

When he came within hail of the four large men, who were fishing there
every day, he cast his ball with such force that it rolled into the
ice-hole about which they were busy. The boy, standing on the shore of
the lake, called out:

"Four-in-one, pray hand me my ball."

"No, indeed," they answered, setting up a grim laugh which curdled their
four dark faces all at once, "we shall not;" and with their
fishing-spears they thrust the ball under the ice.

"Good!" said the boy-man, "we shall see."

Saying which he rushed upon the four brothers and thrust them at one
push into the water. His ball bounded back to the surface, and, picking
it up, he ran off, tossing it before him in his own sportive way.
Outstripping it in speed he soon reached home, and remained within till
the next morning.

The four brothers, rising up from the water at the same time, dripping
and wroth, roared out in one voice a terrible threat of vengeance, which
they promised to execute the next day. They knew the boy's speed, and
that they could by no means overtake him.

By times in the morning, the four brothers were stirring in their lodge,
and getting ready to look after their revenge.

Their old mother, who lived with them, begged them not to go.

"Better," said she, "now that your clothes are dry, to think no more of
the ducking than to go and all four of you get your heads broken, as you
surely will, for that boy is a monedo or he could not perform such feats
as he does."

But her sons paid no heed to this wise advice, and, raising a great
war-cry, which frightened the birds overhead nearly out of their
feathers, they started for the boy's lodge among the rocks.

The little spirit or boy-man heard them roaring forth their threats as
they approached, but he did not appear to be disquieted in the least.
His sister as yet had heard nothing; after a while she thought she could
distinguish the noise of snow-shoes on the snow, at a distance, but
rapidly advancing. She looked out, and seeing the four large men coming
straight to their lodge she was in great fear, and running in,
exclaimed:

"He is coming, four times as strong as ever!" for she supposed that the
one man whom her brother had offended had become so angry as to make
four of himself in order to wreak his vengeance.

The boy-man said, "Why do you mind them? Give me something to eat."

"How can you think of eating at such a time?" she replied.

"Do as I request you, and be quick."

She then gave little spirit his dish, and he commenced eating.

Just then the brothers came to the door.

"See!" cried the sister, "the man with four heads!"

The brothers were about to lift the curtain at the door, when the
boy-man turned his dish upside down, and immediately the door was closed
with a stone; upon which the four brothers set to work and hammered with
their clubs with great fury, until at length they succeeded in making a
slight opening. One of the brothers presented his face at this little
window, and rolled his eye about at the boy-man in a very threatening
way.

The little spirit, who, when he had closed the door, had returned to his
meal, which he was quietly eating, took up his bow and arrow which lay
by his side, and let fly the shaft, which, striking the man in the head,
he fell back. The boy-man merely called out "Number one" as he fell, and
went on with his meal.

In a moment a second face, just like the first, presented itself; and
as he raised his bow, his sister said to him:

"What is the use? You have killed that man already."

Little spirit fired his arrow--the man fell--he called out "Number two,"
and continued his meal.

The two others of the four brothers were dispatched in the same quiet
way, and counted off as "Number three" and "Number four."

After they were all well disposed of in this way, the boy-man directed
his sister to go out and see them. She presently ran back, saying:

"There are four of them."

"Of course," the boy-man answered, "and there always shall be four of
them."

Going out himself, the boy-man raised the brothers to their feet, and
giving each a push, one with his face to the East, another to the West,
a third to the South, and the last to the North, he sent them off to
wander about the earth; and whenever you see four men just alike, they
are the four brothers whom the little spirit or boy-man dispatched upon
their travels.

But this was not the last display of the boy-man's power.

When spring came on, and the lake began to sparkle in the morning sun,
the boy-man said to his sister:

"Make me a new set of arrows, and a bow."

Although he provided for their support, the little spirit never
performed household or hard work of any kind, and his sister obeyed.

When she had made the weapons, which, though they were very small, were
beautifully wrought and of the best stuff the field and wood could
furnish, she again cautioned him not to shoot into the lake.

"She thinks," said the boy-man to himself, "I can see no further into
the water than she. My sister shall learn better."

Regardless of her warnings, he on purpose discharged a shaft into the
lake, waded out into the water till he got into its depth, and paddled
about for his arrow, so as to call the attention of his sister, and as
if to show that he hardily braved her advice.

She hurried to the shore, calling on him to return; but instead of
heeding her, he cried out:

"You of the red fins, come and swallow me!"

Although his sister did not clearly understand whom her brother was
addressing, she too called out:

"Don't mind the foolish boy!"

The boy-man's order seemed to be best attended to, for immediately a
monstrous fish came and swallowed him. Before disappearing entirely,
catching a glimpse of his sister standing in despair upon the shore, the
boy-man hallooed out to her:

"Me-zush-ke-zin-ance!"

She wondered what he meant. At last it occurred to her that it must be
an old moccasin. She accordingly ran to the lodge, and bringing one, she
tied it to a string attached to a tree, and cast it into the water.

The great fish said to the boy-man under water.

"What is that floating?"

To which the boy-man replied:

"Go, take hold of it, swallow it as fast as you can; it is a great
delicacy."

The fish darted toward the old shoe and swallowed it, making of it a
mere mouthful.

The boy-man laughed in himself, but said nothing, till the fish was
fairly caught, when he took hold of the line and began to pull himself
in his fish-carriage ashore.

The sister, who was watching all this time, opened wide her eyes as the
huge fish came up and up upon the shore; and she opened them still more
when the fish seemed to speak, and she heard from within a voice,
saying, "Make haste and release me from this nasty place."

It was her brother's voice, which she was accustomed to obey; and she
made haste with her knife to open a door in the side of the fish, from
which the boy-man presently leaped forth. He lost no time in ordering
her to cut it up and dry it; telling her that their spring supply of
meat was now provided.

The sister now began to believe that her brother was an extraordinary
boy; yet she was not altogether satisfied in her mind that he was
greater than the rest of the world.

They sat, one evening, in the lodge, musing with each other in the dark,
by the light of each other's eyes--for they had no other of any
kind--when the sister said, "My brother, it is strange that you, who can
do so much, are no wiser than the Ko-ko, who gets all his light from the
moon; which shines or not, as it pleases."

"And is not that light enough?" asked the little spirit.

"Quite enough," the sister replied. "If it would but come within the
lodge and not sojourn out in the tree-tops and among the clouds."

"We will have a light of our own, sister," said the boy-man; and,
casting himself upon a mat by the door, he commenced singing:

Fire-fly, fire-fly, bright little thing,
Light me to bed and my song I will sing;
Give me your light, as you fly o'er my head,
That I may merrily go to my bed.

Give me your light o'er the grass as you creep,
That I may joyfully go to my sleep;
Come, little fire-fly, come little beast,
Come! and I'll make you to-morrow a feast.

Come, little candle, that flies as I sing,
Bright little fairy-bug, night's little king;
Come and I'll dream as you guide me along;
Come and I'll pay you, my bug, with a song.

As the boy-man chanted this call, they came in at first one by one, then
in couples, till at last, swarming in little armies, the fire-flies lit
up the little lodge with a thousand sparkling lamps, just as the stars
were lighting the mighty hollow of the sky without.

The faces of the sister and brother shone upon each other, from their
opposite sides of the lodge, with a kindly gleam of mutual trustfulness;
and never more from that hour did a doubt of each other darken their
little household.

World Famous Fairy Tales THE MAN WITH HIS LEG TIED UP.

2009-03-26T03:32:00.001-07:00

THE MAN WITH HIS LEG TIED UP.

As a punishment for having once upon a time used that foot against a
venerable medicine man, Aggo Dah Gauda had one leg looped up to his
thigh, so that he was obliged to get along by hopping. By dint of
practice he had become very skillful in this exercise, and he could make
leaps which seemed almost incredible.

Aggo had a beautiful daughter, and his chief care was to secure her from
being carried off by the king of the buffalos, who was the ruler of all
the herds of that kind, and had them entirely at his command to make
them do as he willed.

Dah Gauda, too, was quite an important person in his own way, for he
lived in great state, having a log house of his own, and a court-yard
which extended from the sill of his front-door as many hundred miles
westward as he chose to measure it.

Although he might claim this extensive privilege of ground, he advised
his daughter to keep within doors, and by no means to go far in the
neighborhood, as she would otherwise be sure to be stolen away, as he
was satisfied that the buffalo-king spent night and day lurking about
and lying in wait to seize her.

One sunshiny morning, when there were just two or three promising clouds
rolling moistly about the sky, Aggo prepared to go out a-fishing; but
before he left the lodge he reminded her of her strange and industrious
lover, whom she had never seen.

"My daughter," said he, "I am going out to fish, and as the day will be
a pleasant one, you must recollect that we have an enemy near, who is
constantly going about with two eyes that never close, and do not expose
yourself out of the lodge."

With this excellent advice, Aggo hopped off in high spirits; but he had
scarcely reached the fishing-ground when he heard a voice singing, at a
distance:

Man with the leg tied up,
Man with the leg tied up,
Broken hip--hip--
Hipped.

Man with the leg tied up,
Man with the leg tied up,
Broken leg--leg--
Legged.

There was no one in sight, but Aggo heard the words quite plainly, and
as he suspected the ditty to be the work of his enemies, the buffalos,
he hopped home as fast as his one leg could carry him.

Meantime, the daughter had no sooner been left alone in the lodge than
she thought with herself:

"It is hard to be thus forever kept in doors. But my father says it
would be dangerous to venture abroad. I know what I will do. I will get
on the top of the house, and there I can comb and dress my hair, and no
one can harm me."

She accordingly ascended the roof and busied herself in untying and
combing her beautiful hair; for it was truly beautiful, not only of a
fine, glossy quality, but it was so very long that it hung over the
eaves of the house and reached down on the ground, as she sat dressing
it.

She was wholly occupied in this employment, without a thought of danger,
when, all of a sudden, the king of the buffalos came dashing on with his
herd of followers, and making sure of her by means of her drooping
tresses, he placed her upon the back of one of his favorite buffalos,
and away he cantered over the plains. Plunging into a river that bounded
his land, he bore her safely to his lodge on the other side.

And now the buffalo-king having secured the beautiful person of Aggo Dah
Gauda's daughter, he set to work to make her heart his own--a little
ceremony which it would have been, perhaps, wiser for his majesty, the
king of the buffalos, to have attended to before, for he now worked to
little purpose. Although he labored with great zeal to gain her
affections, she sat pensive and disconsolate in the lodge, among the
other females, and scarcely ever spoke, nor did she take the least
interest in the affairs of the king's household.

To the king himself she paid no heed, and although he breathed forth to
her every soft and gentle word he could think of, she sat still and
motionless for all the world like one of the lowly bushes by the door of
her father's lodge, when the summer wind has died away.

The king enjoined it upon the others in the lodge as a special edict, on
pain of instant death, to give to Aggo's daughter every thing that she
wanted, and to be careful not to displease her. They set before her the
choicest food. They gave her the seat of honor in the lodge. The king
himself went out hunting to obtain the most dainty meats, both of
animals and wild fowl, to pleasure her palate; and he treated her every
morning to a ride upon one of the royal buffalos, who was so gentle in
his motions as not even to disturb a single one of the tresses of the
beautiful hair of Aggo's daughter as she paced along.

And not content with these proofs of his attachment, the king would
sometimes fast from all food, and having thus purified his spirit and
cleared his voice, he would take his Indian flute, and, sitting before
the lodge, give vent to his feelings in pensive echoes, something after
this fashion:

My sweetheart,
My sweetheart,
Ah me!
When I think of you,
When I think of you,
Ah me!
What can I do, do, do?

How I love you,
How I love you,
Ah me!
Do not hate me,
Do not hate me,
Ah me!
Speak--e'en berate me.
When I think of you,
Ah me!
What can I do, do, do?

In the mean time, Aggo Dah Gauda had reached home, and finding that his
daughter had been stolen, his indignation was so thoroughly awakened
that he would have forthwith torn every hair from his head, but, being
entirely bald, this was out of the question, so, as an easy and natural
vent to his feelings, Aggo hopped off half a mile in every direction.
First he hopped east, then he hopped west, next he hopped north, and
again he hopped south, all in search of his daughter; till the one leg
was fairly tired out. Then he sat down in his lodge, and resting himself
a little, he reflected, and then he vowed that his single leg should
never know rest again until he had found his beautiful daughter and
brought her home. For this purpose he immediately set out.

Now that he proceeded more coolly, he could easily track the
buffalo-king until he came to the banks of the river, where he saw that
he had plunged in and swam over. There having been a frosty night or two
since, the water was so covered with thin ice that Aggo could not
venture upon it, even with one leg. He encamped hard by till it became
more solid, and then crossed over and pursued the trail.

As he went along he saw branches broken off and strewed behind, which
guided him in his course; for these had been purposely cast along by the
daughter. And the manner in which she had accomplished it was this. Her
hair was all untied when she was caught up, and being very long it took
hold of the branches as they darted along, and it was these twigs that
she broke off as signs to her father.

When Aggo came to the king's lodge it was evening. Carefully
approaching, he peeped through the sides, and saw his daughter sitting
disconsolate. She immediately caught his eye, and knowing that it was
her father come for her, she all at once appeared to relent in her
heart, and, asking for the royal dipper, said to the king, "I will go
and get you a drink of water."

This token of submission delighted his majesty, and, high in hope, he
waited with impatience for her return.

At last he went out, but nothing could be seen or heard of the captive
daughter. Calling together his followers, they sallied forth upon the
plains, and had not gone far when they espied by the light of the moon,
which was shining roundly just over the edge of the prairie, Aggo Dah
Gauda, his daughter in his arms, making all speed with his one leg
toward the west.

The buffalos being set on by their king, raised a great shout, and
scampered off in pursuit. They thought to overtake Aggo in less than no
time; but although he had a single leg only, it was in such fine
condition to go, that to every pace of theirs, he hopped the length of a
cedar-tree.

But the buffalo-king was well assured that he would be able to overtake
Aggo, hop as briskly as he might. It would be a mortal shame, thought
the king, to be outstripped by a man with one leg tied up; so, shouting
and cheering, and issuing orders on all sides, he set the swiftest of
his herd upon the track, with strict commands to take Aggo dead or
alive. And a curious sight it was to see.

[Illustration: THE MAN WITH HIS LEG TIED UP. Page 176.]

At one time a buffalo would gain handsomely upon Aggo, and be just at
the point of laying hold of him, when off Aggo would hop, a good
furlong, in an oblique line, wide out of his reach; which bringing
him nearly in contact with another of the herd, away he would go again,
just as far off in another direction.

And in this way Aggo kept the whole company of the buffalos zig-zagging
across the plain, with the poor king at their head, running to and fro,
shouting among them and hurrying them about in the wildest way. It was
an extraordinary road that Aggo was taking toward home; and after a time
it so puzzled and bewildered the buffalos that they were driven half out
of their wits, and they roared, and brandished their tails, and foamed,
as if they would put out of countenance and frighten out of sight the
old man in the moon, who was looking on all the time, just above the
edge of the prairie.

As for the king himself, losing at last all patience at the absurd idea
of chasing a man with one leg all night long, he called his herd
together, and fled, in disgust, toward the west, and never more appeared
in all that part of the country.

Aggo, relieved of his pursuers, hopped off a hundred steps in one, till
he reached the stream, crossed it in a twinkling of the eye, and bore
his daughter in triumph to his lodge.

In the course of time Aggo's beautiful daughter married a very worthy
young warrior, who was neither a buffalo-king nor so much as the owner
of any more of the buffalos than a splendid skin robe which he wore,
with great effect, thrown over his shoulders, on his wedding-day. On
which occasion, Aggo Dah Gauda hopped about on his one leg livelier than
ever.

THE RED SWAN. Children Story

2009-03-26T03:30:00.000-07:00

THE RED SWAN.

Three brothers were left destitute, by the death of their parents, at an
early age. The eldest was not yet able to provide fully for their
support, but he did all that he could in hunting; and with this aid, and
the stock of provisions already laid by in the lodge, they managed to
keep along. They had no neighbors to lend them a helping hand, for the
father had withdrawn many years before from the body of the tribe, and
had lived ever since in a solitary place. The lads had no idea that
there was a human being near them. They did not even know who their
parents had been; for, at the time of their death, the eldest was too
young to remember it.

Forlorn as they were, they however kept a good heart, and making use of
every chance, in course of time they all acquired a knowledge of hunting
and the pursuit of game. The eldest became expert in the craft of the
forest, and he was very successful in procuring food. He was noted for
his skill in killing buffalo, elk, and moose; and he instructed his
brothers, so that each should become a master over a particular animal
which was assigned to him.

After they had become able to hunt and to take care of themselves, the
elder proposed to leave them and to go in search of the world, promising
to return as soon as he could procure them wives. In this intention he
was overruled by his brothers, who said that they could not part with
him.

Jeekewis, the second, was loud in disapproval of the scheme, saying:
"What will you do with those you propose to get? We have lived so long
by ourselves, we can still do without them." This counsel prevailed, and
for a time the three brothers continued together.

One day they agreed to kill each a male of that kind of animal, which
each was most expert in hunting, for the purpose of making quivers from
their skins. When these quivers were prepared, they were straightway
filled, with arrows; for they all had a presentiment that something was
about to happen which called upon them to be ready.

Soon after they hunted on a wager to see who should come in first with
game, and have the privilege of acting as entertainer to the others.
They were to shoot no other beast or bird than such as each was in the
habit of killing.

They set out on different paths. Maidwa, the youngest, had not gone far
before he saw a bear, an animal he was not to kill, by the agreement.
He, however, followed him closely, and driving an arrow through and
through him, he brought him to the ground.

Although contrary to the engagement with his brothers, Maidwa commenced
skinning him, when suddenly something red tinged the air all around him.
He rubbed his eyes, thinking he was perhaps deceived; but rub as hard as
he would, the red hue still crimsoned the air, and tinged every object
that he looked on--the tree-tops, the river that flowed, and the deer
that glided away along the edge of the forest--with its delicate
splendor.

As he stood musing on this fairy spectacle, a strange noise came to his
ear from a distance. At first it seemed like a human voice. After
following the sound he reached the shore of a lake. Floating at a
distance upon its waters sat a most beautiful Red Swan, whose plumage
glittered in the sun, and when it lifted up its neck, it uttered the
peculiar tone he had heard. He was within long bow-shot, and, drawing
the arrow to his ear, he took a careful aim and discharged the shaft. It
took no effect. The beautiful bird sat proudly on the water, still
pouring forth its peculiar chant, and still spreading the radiance of
its plumage far and wide, and lighting up the whole world, beneath the
eye of Maidwa, with its ruby splendors.

He shot again and again, till his quiver was empty, for he longed to
possess so glorious a creature. Still the swan did not spread its wings
to fly, but, circling round and round, stretched its long neck and
dipped its bill into the water, as if indifferent to mortal shafts.

Maidwa ran home, and bringing all the arrows in the lodge, shot them
away. He then stood with his bow dropped at his side, lost in wonder,
gazing at the beautiful bird.

While standing thus, with a heart beating more and more eagerly every
moment for the possession of this fair swan, Maidwa remembered the
saying of his elder brother, that in their deceased father's
medicine-sack were three magic arrows; but his brother had not told
Maidwa that their father, on his death-bed, which he alone had attended,
had especially bequeathed the arrows to his youngest son, Maidwa, from
whom they had been wrongfully kept. The thought of the magic arrows put
heart in Maidwa, and he hastened with all speed to secure them.

At any other time he would have shrunk from opening his father's
medicine-sack, but something prompted him to believe that there was no
wrong now, and snatching them forth he ran back, not staying to restore
the other contents to the sack, but leaving them scattered, here and
there, about the lodge.

He feared, as he returned, that the swan must by this time have taken
wing; but, as he emerged from the wood, to his great delight the air was
as rosy as ever, and there, in her own serene and beautiful way, still
sat the glorious Red Swan.

With trembling hand he shot the first of his magic shafts: it grazed a
wing. The second came closer, and cut away a few of the bright red
feathers, which fluttered and fell like flakes of fire in the water. The
third, which he carefully aimed and drew home upon the string with all
his force, made the lucky hit, and passed through the neck of the bird a
little above the breast.

"The bird is mine," said Maidwa, to himself; but to his great surprise,
instead of seeing it droop its neck and drift to the shore, the Red Swan
flapped its wings, rose slowly, and flew off with a majestic motion
toward the falling sun.

Maidwa, that he might meet his brothers, rescued two of the magic arrows
from the water; and although the third was borne off, he had a hope yet
to recover that too, and to be master of the swan. He was noted for his
speed; for he would shoot an arrow and then run so fast that the arrow
always fell behind him; and he now set off at his best speed of foot. "I
can run fast," he thought, "and I can get up with the swan some time or
other."

He sped on, over hills and prairies, toward the west, and was only
going to take one more run, and then seek a place to sleep for the
night, when, suddenly, he heard noises at a distance, like the murmur of
waters against the shore; as he went on, he heard voices, and presently
he saw people, some of whom were busy felling trees, and the strokes of
their labor echoed through the woods. He passed on, and when he emerged
from the forest, the sun was just falling below the edge of the sky.

He was bent on success in pursuit of the swan, whose red track he marked
well far westward till she was lost to sight. Meanwhile he would tarry
for the night and procure something to eat, as he had fasted since he
had left home.

At a distance, on a rising ground, he could see the lodges of a large
village. He went toward it, and soon heard the watchman, who was set on
a height to overlook the place, and give notice of the approach of
friends or foes, crying out, "We are visited;" and a loud halloo
indicated that they had all heard it.

When Maidwa advanced, the watchman pointed to the lodge of the chief.
"It is there you must go in," he said, and left him.

"Come in, come in," said the chief; "take a seat there;" pointing to the
side of the lodge where his daughter sat. "It is there you must sit."

They gave him something to eat, and, being a stranger, very few
questions were put to him; it was only when he spoke that the others
answered him.

"Daughter," said the chief, as soon as the night had set in, "take our
son-in-law's moccasins and see if they be torn; if so, mend them for
him, and bring in his bundle."

Maidwa thought it strange that he should be so warmly received, and
married instantly against his own wishes, although he could not help
noticing that the chief's daughter was pretty.

It was some time before she would take the moccasins which he had laid
off. It displeased him to see her loth to do so; and when at last she
did reach them, he snatched them from her hand and hung them up himself.
He lay down and thought of the swan, and made up his mind to be off with
the dawn. He wakened early, and finding the chief's daughter looking
forth at the door, he spoke to her, but she gave no answer. He touched
her lightly.

"What do you want?" she said, and turned her face away from him.

"Tell me," said Maidwa, "what time the swan passed. I am following it;
come out, and point the way."

"Do you think you can overtake it?" she said.

"Yes," he answered.

"Naubesah--fool!" retorted the chief's pretty daughter.

She, however, went out, and pointed in the direction he should go. The
young man paced slowly along till the sun arose, when he commenced
traveling at his accustomed speed. He passed the day in running, and
although he could not see anywhere on the horizon the Red Swan, he
thought that he discerned a faint red light far over in the west.

When night came, he was pleased to find himself near another village;
and when at a distance he heard the watchman crying out, "We are
visited;" and soon the men of the village stood out to see the stranger.

He was again told to enter the lodge of the chief, and his reception was
in every respect the same as on the previous night; except that the
young woman was more beautiful, and that she entertained him very
kindly. Although urged to stay with them, the mind of Maidwa was fixed
on the object of his journey.

Before daybreak he asked the young woman at what time the Red Swan
passed, and to point out the way. She marked against the sky with her
finger the course it had taken, and told him that it had passed
yesterday when the sun was between mid-day and its falling-place.

Maidwa again set out rather slowly, but when the sun had risen, he tried
his speed by shooting an arrow ahead, and running after it; but it fell
behind him, and he knew that he had lost nothing of his quickness of
foot.

Nothing remarkable happened through the day, and he went on leisurely.
Some time after dark, as he was peering around the country for a
shelter, he saw a light emitted from a small low lodge. He went up to it
very slyly, and, peeping through the door, he discovered an old man
alone, with his head down upon his breast, warming his back before the
fire.

Maidwa thought that the old man did not know that he was standing near
the door; but in this he was mistaken; for, without turning his eyes to
look at him, the old man said, "Walk in, my grandchild; take a seat
opposite to me, and take off your things and dry them, for you must be
fatigued; and I will prepare you something to eat; you shall have
something very delicate."

Maidwa accepted this kind invitation, and entered the lodge. The old man
then remarked, as if in mere course of conversation: "My kettle with
water stands near the fire;" and immediately a small earthen pot with
legs appeared by the fire. He then took one grain of corn, also one of
whortleberry, and put them in the pot.

Maidwa was very hungry, and seeing the limited scale of the old man's
housekeeping, he thought his chance for a supper was very slight. The
old man had promised him something very delicate, and he seemed likely
to keep his word. Maidwa looked on silently, and did not change his face
any more than if the greatest banquet that was ever spread had been
going forward.

The pot soon boiled, when the old man said in a very quiet way:

"The pot will stand at a distance from the fire."

It removed itself, and the old man added to Maidwa:

"My grandchild, feed yourself;" handing him at the same time a dish and
ladle of the same ware as the pot itself.

The young man, whose hunger was very great, helped himself to all that
was in the pot. He felt ashamed to think that he had done so, but before
he could speak the old man said:

"Eat, nay grandchild; eat, eat!" and soon after he again said--"Help
yourself from the pot."

Maidwa was surprised, on dipping in his ladle, to see that it was full;
and although he emptied it a second time, it was still again filled and
refilled till his hunger was entirely satisfied. The old man then
observed, without raising his voice:

"The pot will return to its corner;" and the pot took itself off to its
accustomed place in an out-of-the-way corner of the lodge.

Maidwa observed that the old man was about to address him, and took an
attitude which showed that he was prepared to listen.

"Keep on, my grandchild," said the old man; "you will surely gain that
you seek. To tell you more I am not permitted; but go on as you have
begun and you will not be disappointed. To-morrow you will again reach
one of my fellow old men, but the one you will see after him will tell
you all, and the manner in which you must proceed to accomplish your
journey. Often has this Red Swan passed, and those who have followed it
have never returned; but you must be firm in your resolution, and be
prepared for all that may happen."

"So will it be," answered Maidwa; and they both laid down to sleep.

Early in the morning the old man ordered his magic kettle to prepare
breakfast, so that his guest might eat before leaving. As Maidwa passed
out, the old man gave him a blessing with his parting advice.

Maidwa set forth in better spirits than at any time since he had
started. Night again found him in company with an old man who
entertained him kindly, with a frisky little kettle which hurried up to
the fire before it was spoken to, bustled about and set his supper
briskly before Maidwa, and frisked away again, without waiting for
orders. The old man also carefully directed him on his way in the
morning.

He traveled with a light heart, as he now expected to meet the one who
was to give him directions how to proceed to get the Red Swan.

Toward night-fall Maidwa reached the lodge of the third old man. Before
coming to the door he heard him saying:

"Grandchild, come in;" and going in promptly he felt quite at home.

The old man prepared him something to eat, acting as the other magicians
had done, and his kettle was of the same size, and looked as if it were
an own brother of the two others which had feasted him, except that this
kettle, in coming and going about its household duties, would make a
passing remark, or sing a little tune for itself.

The old man waited until Maidwa had fully satisfied his hunger, when he
addressed him:

"Young man, the errand you are bound on is beset with trials and
difficulties. Numbers have passed with the same purpose as that which
now prompts you, but they never returned. Be careful, and if your
guardian spirits are powerful you may succeed. This Red Swan you are
following is the daughter of a magician who has abundance of every
thing, but only this one child, whom he values more than the sacred
arrows. In former times he wore a cap of wampum, which was attached to
his scalp; but powerful Indians, warriors of a distant chief, came and
told him that their chief's daughter was on the brink of the grave, and
that she herself requested his wampum-cap, which she was confident would
save her life. 'If I can only see it,' she said, 'I will recover.' It
was for this cap they had come, and after long solicitation the magician
at length consented to part with it, in the hope that it would restore
to health the dying maiden, although when he took it off to hand it to
the messengers it left the crown of his head bare and bloody. Years have
passed since, and it has not healed. The coming of the warriors to
procure it for the sick maiden was a cheat, and they are now constantly
making sport of the unhappy scalp--dancing it about from village to
village--and on every insult it receives the poor old chief to whom it
belongs groans with pain. Those who hold it are too powerful for the
magician, and many have sacrificed themselves to recover it for him, but
without success. The Red Swan has enticed many a young man, as she has
you, to enlist them to procure the scalp, and whoever is so fortunate as
to succeed, it is understood, will receive the Red Swan as his reward.
In the morning you will proceed on your way, and toward evening you will
come to this magician's lodge. You will know it by the groans which you
will hear far over the prairie as you approach. He will ask you in. You
will see no one but himself. He will question you much as to your dreams
and the strength of your guardian spirits. If he is satisfied with your
answers, he will urge you to attempt the recovery of his scalp. He will
show you the course to take, and if you feel inclined, as I see that
you do, go forward, my son, with a strong heart; persevere, and I have a
presentiment that you will succeed."

Maidwa answered, "I will try."

Betimes in the morning, after having eaten from the magic kettle, which
sung a sort of farewell chant on its way from the fire-place to its
station in the corner, he set off on his journey.

Toward evening, Maidwa, as he crossed a prairie, heard, as had been
predicted, groans from a distant lodge, which were only interrupted by a
voice from a person whom he could not see, calling to him aloud:

"Come in! come in!"

On entering the lodge, the magician heaved a great groan from the very
bottom of his chest, and Maidwa saw that the crown of his head was all
bare and bloody.

"Sit down, sit down," he said, "while I prepare you something to eat.
You see how poor I am. I have to attend to all my own wants, with no
other servant than that poor little kettle in the corner. Kettle, we
will have something to eat, if you please."

"In a moment," the kettle spoke up from the corner.

"You will oblige me by making all the dispatch you can," said the
magician, in a very humble tone, still addressing the kettle.

"Have patience," replied the kettle, "and I will be with you presently."

After a considerable delay, there came forward out of the corner from
which it had spoken, a great heavy-browed and pot-bodied kettle, which
advanced with much stateliness and solemnity of manner till it had come
directly in front of the magician, whom it addressed with the question:

"What shall we have, sir?"

"Corn, if you please," the magician answered.

"No, we will have whortleberries," rejoined the kettle, in a firm voice.

"Very well; just as you choose."

When he supposed it was time, the magician invited Maidwa to help
himself.

"Hold a minute," interposed the kettle, as Maidwa was about to dip in
his ladle. He paused, and after a delay, the kettle, shaking itself up
and simmering very loudly, said, "Now we are ready."

Maidwa fell to and satisfied his hunger.

"Will the kettle now withdraw?" asked the magician, with am air of much
deference.

"No," said the kettle, "we will stay and hear what the young man has to
say for himself."

"Very well," said the magician. "You see," he added to Maidwa, "how poor
I am. I have to take counsel with the kettle, or I should be all alone,
without a day's food, and with no one to advise me."

All this time the Red Swan was carefully concealed in the lodge, behind
a curtain, from which Maidwa heard now and then a rustling noise, that
fluttered his spirits and set his heart to beating at a wonderful rate.

As soon as Maidwa had partaken of food and laid aside his leggings and
moccasins, the old magician commenced telling him how he had lost his
scalp, the insults it was receiving, the pain he suffered thereby, his
wishes to regain it, the many unsuccessful attempts that had already
been made, and the numbers and power of those who retained it. He would
interrupt his discourse, at times, with sudden groans, and say:

"Oh, how shamefully they are treating it."

Maidwa listened to all the old magician had to say with solemn
attention.

The magician renewed his discourse, and inquired of Maidwa as to his
dreams, or what he saw in his sleep, at such times as he had fasted and
darkened his face to procure guardian spirits.

Maidwa then told him one dream. The magician groaned.

"No, that is not it," he said.

Maidwa told him of two or three others.

The magician groaned again and again, and said, rather peevishly, "No,
these are not the dreams."

"Keep cool," said the kettle, which had left the fire, and was standing
in the middle of the floor, where a pleasant breeze was blowing through
the lodge, and added, "Have you no more dreams of another kind?"

"Yes," said Maidwa; and he told him one.

"That will do," said the kettle. "We are much pleased with that."

"Yes, that is it--that is it!" the magician added. "You will cause me to
live. That was what I was wishing you to say. Will you then go and see
if you can not recover my poor scalp?"

"Yes," said Maidwa, "I will go; and the day after to-morrow, when you
hear the ka-kak cries of the hawk, you will know that I am successful.
You must prepare your head, and lean it out through the door, so that
the moment I arrive I may place your scalp on."

"Yes, yes," said the magician. "As you say it will be done."

Early the next morning Maidwa set out to fulfill his promise; and in the
afternoon, when the sun hangs toward home, he heard the shouts of a
great many people. He was in a wood at the time, and saw, as he thought,
only a few men, but as he went on they increased in numbers. On emerging
upon the plain, their heads appeared like the hanging leaves, they were
so many.

In the middle of the plain he perceived a post, and something waving at
its top. It was the wampum scalp; and every now and then the air was
rent with the war-song, for they were dancing the war-dance in high
spirit around it.

Before he could be observed, Maidwa changed himself into a humming-bird,
and flew toward the scalp. As he passed some of those who were standing
by, he came close to their ears, and as they heard the rapid whirr or
murmur which this bird makes when it flies, they jumped aside, and asked
each other what it could be. Maidwa had nearly reached the scalp, but
fearing that he should be perceived while untying it, he again changed
himself into the down that floats lightly on the air, and sailed slowly
on to the scalp. He loosened it, and moved off heavily, as the weight
was almost too great for him to bear up. The Indians around would have
snatched it away had not a lucky current of air just then buoyed him up.
As they saw that it was moving away they cried out, "It is taken from
us! it is taken from us!"

Maidwa was borne gently along but a little way above their heads; and as
they followed him, the rush and hum of the people was like the dead
beating of the surges upon a lake shore after a storm. But the good wind
gaining strength, soon carried him beyond their pursuit. A little
further on he changed himself into a hawk, and flew swiftly off with
his trophy, crying, "Ka-kak! ka-kak!" till it resounded with its shrill
tone through the whole country, far and wide.

Meanwhile the magician had remembered the instructions of Maidwa,
placing his head outside of the lodge as soon as he heard the ka-kak cry
of the hawk.

In a moment Maidwa came past with rustling wings, and as he flew by,
giving the magician a severe blow on the head with the wampum scalp, his
limbs extended and quivered in an agony, the scalp adhered, and Maidwa,
in his own person, walked into the lodge and sat down, feeling perfectly
at home.

The magician was so long in recovering from the stunning blow which had
been dealt him, that Maidwa feared that in restoring the crown of his
head he had destroyed his life. Presently, however, he was pleased to
see him show, by the motion of his hands and limbs, that his strength
was returning; and in a little while he rose and stood upon his feet.
What was the delight of Maidwa to behold, instead of a withered old man,
far advanced in years and stricken in sorrow, a bright and cheerful
youth, who glittered with life as he stood up before him.

"Thank you, my friend," he said. "Your kindness and bravery of heart
have restored me to my former shape. It was so ordained, and you have
now accomplished the victory."

They embraced; and the young magician urged the stay of his deliverer
for a few days, and they formed a strong attachment to each other. The
magician, to the deep regret of Maidwa, never once alluded to the Red
Swan in all their conferences.

At last the day arrived when Maidwa prepared to return to his home. The
young magician bestowed on him ample presents of wampum, fur, robes, and
other costly things. Although Maidwa's heart was burning within him to
see the Red Swan, to hear her spoken of, and to learn what his fortune
was to be in regard to that fond object of his pursuit, he constrained
his feelings, and so checked his countenance as to never look where he
supposed she might be. His friend the young magician observed the same
silence and caution.

Maidwa's pack for traveling was now ready, and he was taking his
farewell smoke, when the young magician thus addressed him: "My friend
Maidwa, you know for what cause you came thus far, and why you have
risked so much and waited so long. You have proved my friend indeed. You
have accomplished your object, and your noble perseverance shall not go
unrewarded. If you undertake other things with the same spirit, you will
always succeed. My destiny compels me to remain where I am, although I
should feel happy to be allowed to go with you. I have given you, of
ordinary gifts, all you will need as long as you live; but I see you
are backward to speak of the Red Swan. I vowed that whoever procured me
my lost wampum-scalp should be rewarded by possessing the Red Swan."

He then spoke in a language which Maidwa did not understand, the curtain
of the lodge parted, and the Red Swan met his gaze. It was a beautiful
female that he beheld, so majestical and airy in her look, that he
seemed to see a creature whose home should rather be in the free heaven,
and among the rosy clouds, than in this dusky lodge.

"Take her," the young magician said; "she is my sister; treat her well.
She is worthy of you, and what you have done for me merits more. She is
ready to go with you to your kindred and friends, and has been so ever
since your arrival; and my good wishes shall go with you both."

The Red Swan smiled kindly on Maidwa, who advanced and greeted her. Hand
in hand they took their way forth from the lodge, and, watched by the
young magician, advanced across the prairie on their homeward course.

They traveled slowly, and looked with double joy on the beautiful
country over which they had both so lately passed with hearts ill at
ease.

After two or three days they reached the lodge of the third old man who
had entertained him with the singing kettle; but the kettle was not
there. The old man, nevertheless, received them very kindly, and said
to Maidwa, "You see what your perseverance has secured you; do so
always, and you will succeed in whatever you undertake."

On the following morning, when they were about to start, he pulled from
the side of the lodge a bag, which he presented to Maidwa, saying,
"Grandchild, I give you this; it contains a present for you; and I hope
you will live happily till old age."

Bidding him farewell, they again set forward; and they soon came to the
second old man's lodge; he also gave them a present and bestowed his
blessing. Nor did Maidwa see any thing here of the frisky little kettle
which had been so lively on his former visit.

As they went on and came to the lodge of the first old man, their
reception and farewell were the same; and when Maidwa glanced to the
corner, the silent kettle, which had been the first acquaintance he had
made in that family on his travels, was not there. The old man smiled
when he discovered the direction of Maidwa's glance, but he said
nothing.

When, on continuing their journey, they at last approached the first
town which Maidwa had passed in his pursuit, the watchman gave notice as
before, and he was shown into the chief's lodge.

"Sit down there, son-in-law," said the chief, pointing to a place near
his daughter. "And you also," he said to the Red Swan.

The chief's daughter was engaged in coloring a girdle, and, as if
indifferent to these visitors, she did not even raise her head.
Presently the chief said, "Let some one bring in the bundle of our
son-in-law."

When the bundle was laid before him, Maidwa opened one of the bags which
had been given to him. It was filled with various costly
articles--wampum, robes, and trinkets, of much richness and value;
these, in token of his kindness, he presented to the chief. The chief's
daughter stole a glance at the costly gifts, then at Maidwa and his
beautiful wife. She stopped working, and was silent and thoughtful all
the evening. The chief himself talked with Maidwa of his adventures,
congratulated him on his good fortune, and concluded by telling him that
he should take his daughter along with him in the morning.

Maidwa said "Yes."

The chief then spoke up, saying, "Daughter, be ready to go with him in
the morning."

Now it happened when the chief was thus speaking that there was a
foolish fellow in the lodge, who had thought to have got this chief's
daughter for a wife; and he jumped up, saying:

"Who is he," looking grimly at Maidwa, "that he should take her for a
few presents? I will kill him."

And he raised a knife which he had in his hand, and gave it a mighty
flourish in the air. He kept up this terrible flourish till some one
came and pulled him back to his seat, which he had been waiting for,
and then he sat quiet enough.

Amid the greetings of their new friends, Maidwa and the Red Swan, with
the chief's daughter, took their leave by peep of day, and toward
evening they reached the other town. The watchman gave the signal, and
numbers of men, women and children stood out to see them. They were
again shown into the chief's lodge, who welcomed him, saying:

"Son-in-law, you are welcome."

And he requested Maidwa to take a seat by his daughter, and the two
women did the same.

After suitable refreshment for all, and while Maidwa smoked a pipe, the
chief asked him to relate his adventures in the hearing of all the
inmates of the lodge, and of the strangers who had gathered in at report
of his singular fortunes.

Maidwa gave them his whole story. When he came to those parts which
related to the Red Swan, they turned and looked upon her in wonder and
admiration, for she was very beautiful.

The chief then informed Maidwa that his brothers had been to their town
in search of him, but that they had gone back some time before, having
given up all hopes of ever seeing him again. He added, that since he had
shown himself a man of spirit, whom fortune was pleased to befriend, he
should take his daughter with him.

"For although your brothers," he said, "were here, they were too bashful
to enter any of our lodges. They merely inquired for you and returned.
You will take my daughter, treat her well, and that will bind us more
closely together."

It is always the case in an assembly or gathering that some one of the
number is foolish, and disposed to play the clown. It happened to be so
here. One of this very sort was in the lodge, and, after Maidwa had
given the old chief presents, as he had to the other, this pretender
jumped up in a passion, and cried out:

"Who is this stranger, that he should have her? I want her myself."

The chief bade him be quiet, and not to disturb or quarrel with one who
was enjoying their hospitality.

"No, no," he exclaimed, rushing forward as in act to strike.

Maidwa sat unmoved, and paid no heed to his threats.

He cried the louder--"I will have her, I will have her!" whereupon the
old chief, being now vexed past patience, took his great war-club and
tapped this clownish fellow upon the head, which so far subdued him that
he sat for some time quite still; when, after a while, he came to
himself, the chief upbraided him for his folly, and told him to go out
and tell stories to the old women.

When at last Maidwa was about to leave, he invited a number of the
families of the chief to go with him and visit their hunting-grounds,
where he promised them that they would find game in abundance. They
consented, and in the morning a large company assembled and joined
Maidwa; and the chief, with a party of warriors, escorted them a long
distance. When ready to return, the chief made a speech and besought the
blessing of the Good Spirit on Maidwa and his friends.

They parted, each on its course, making music with their war-drums,
which could be heard from afar as they glittered with waving feathers in
the morning sun, in their march over the prairie, which was lost in the
distant sky.

After several days' travel, Maidwa and his friends came in sight of his
home. The others rested within the woods while he went alone in advance
to see his brothers.

He entered the lodge. It was all in confusion and covered with ashes. On
one side, sitting among the cinders, with his face blackened, and crying
aloud, was his elder brother. On the other side sat the younger,
Jeekewis, also with blackened face, his head covered with stray feathers
and tufts of swan-down. This one presented so curious a figure that
Maidwa could not keep from laughing. He seemed to be so lost and
far-gone in grief that he could not notice his brother's arrival. The
eldest, however, after a while, lifting up his head, recognized Maidwa,
jumped up and shook hands, and kissed him, and expressed much joy at his
return.

Maidwa, as soon as he had seen the lodge set in order, made known that
he had brought each of them a wife. As soon as Jeekewis heard a wife
spoken of, he roused from his torpor, sprang to his feet, and said:

"Why is it just now that you have come?" and at once made for the door
and peeped out to see the strangers. He then commenced jumping and
laughing, and crying out, "Women! women!" and that was all the reception
he gave his brother. Maidwa told them to wash themselves and prepare,
for he would go and fetch the females in.

Jeekewis scampered about, and began to wash himself; but he would every
now and then, with one side of his head all feathers, and the other
clear and shining, peep forth to look at the women again. When they came
near, he said, "I will have this and that one;" he did not exactly know
which; he would sit down for an instant, and then rise, and peep about
and laugh; in fact he acted like one beside himself.

As soon as order was restored, and all the company who had been brought
in were seated, Maidwa presented one of the chief's daughters to his
eldest brother, saying: "These women were given to me, to dispose of in
marriage. I now give one to each. I intended so from the first."

Jeekewis spoke up and said, "I think three wives would have been enough
for you."

Maidwa led the other daughter to Jeekewis, and said, "My brother, here
is one for you, and live happily."

Jeekewis hung down his head as if he was ashamed, but he would every now
and then steal a look at his wife and also at the other women.

By and by he turned toward his wife and acted as if he had been married
for years.

Maidwa seeing that no preparation had been made to entertain the
company, said, "Are we to have no supper?"

He had no sooner spoken, than forth from a corner stepped the silent
kettle, which placed itself by the fire, and began bubbling and boiling
quite briskly. Presently that was joined by the big talking kettle,
which said, addressing itself to Maidwa, "Master, we shall be ready
presently;" and then, dancing along, came, from still another, the
frisky little kettle, which hopped to their side, and took an active
part in the preparations for the evening meal. When all was nearly
ready, a delicate voice was heard singing in the last corner of the
lodge, and keeping up its dainty carol all the way to the fire-place,
the fourth kettle joined the three cooks, and they all fell to with all
their might, and in the best possible humor, to dispatch their work.

It was not long before the big kettle advanced toward Maidwa, and said,
in his own confident way, "Supper is ready!"

The feast was a jovial one; and although they were all hungry, and plied
their ladles with right good will, yet, dip in as often as they would,
the four magic kettles held out, and had plenty to the end of the revel.

To draw to a close, Maidwa and his friends lived in peace for a time;
their town prospered; there was no lack of children; and every thing
else was in abundance.

One day the two brothers began to look dark upon Maidwa, and to reproach
him for having taken from the medicine-sack their deceased father's
magic arrows; they upbraided him especially that one was lost.

After listening to them in silence, he said that he would go in search
of it, and that it should be restored; and the very next day, true to
his word, he left them.

After traveling a long way, and looking in every direction, almost
hopeless of discovering the lost treasure, he came to an opening in the
earth, and descending, it led him to the abode of departed spirits. The
country appeared beautiful, the pastures were greener than his own, and
the sky bluer than that which hung over the lodge, and the extent of it
was utterly lost in a dim distance; and he saw animals of every kind
wandering about in great numbers. The first he came to were buffalos;
his surprise was great when they addressed him as human beings.

They asked him what he came for, how he had descended, and why he was so
bold as to visit the abode of the dead.

He answered that he was in quest of a magic arrow, to appease the anger
of his brothers.

"Very well," said the leader of the buffalos, whose form was nothing but
bone. "Yes, we know it," and he and his followers moved off a little
space from Maidwa, as if they were afraid of him. "You have come,"
resumed the buffalo-spirit, "to a place where a living man has never
before been. You will return immediately to your tribe, for, under
pretense of recovering one of the magic arrows which belong to you by
your father's dying wish, they have sent you off that they might become
possessed of your beautiful wife, the Red Swan. Speed home! You will
find the magic arrow at the lodge-door. You will live to a very old age,
and die happily. You can go no further in these abodes of ours."

Maidwa looked, as he thought, to the west, and saw a bright light as if
the sun was shining in its splendor, but he saw no sun.

"What light is that yonder?" he asked.

The all-boned buffalo answered--"It is the place where those who were
good dwell."

"And that dark cloud?" Maidwa again asked.

"It is the place of the wicked," answered the buffalo.

Maidwa turned away, for it was very dark, and it pained his eyes to look
upon it; and, moving away by the aid of his guardian spirits, he again
stood upon the earth, and beheld the sun giving light as usual.

All else that he learned in the abodes of the dead, and his travels and
acts previous to his return homeward, are unknown, for he never spoke of
them to any human being.

After wandering a long time to gather knowledge to make his people happy
and to add to their comfort, he one evening drew near to his own
village. Passing all the other lodges he came to his own door, where he
found the magic arrow, as he had been promised. He heard his brothers
from within at high words with each other. They were quarreling for the
possession of his wife, who, through all his absence, had remained
constant, and sadly awaited his return. Maidwa listened in shame and
sorrow.

He entered the lodge, holding his head aloft as one conscious of good
principle and shining with anger. He spoke not a word, but, placing the
magic arrow to his bow, he would have laid his brothers dead at his
feet; but just then the talking kettle stepped forward and spoke such
words of wisdom, and the singing kettle trolled forth such a soothing
little song, and the guilty brothers were so contrite and keenly
repentant of their intended wrong, and the Red Swan was so radiant and
forgiving, the silent kettle straightway served them up so hearty and
wholesome a meal, and the frisky little kettle was so joyful and danced
about so merrily, that when the magic arrows were laid away in the
medicine-sack by Maidwa, there was that night in all the Indian country
no happier family than the three brothers, who ever after dwelt together
in all kindness, as all good brothers should.

THE MAGIC BUNDLE Top Children Stories

2009-03-26T03:29:00.000-07:00

THE MAGIC BUNDLE.

A poor man, called Iena, or the Wanderer, was in the habit of roaming
about from place to place, forlorn, without relations, and almost
helpless. He had often wished for a companion to share his solitude; but
who would think of joining their fortunes with those of a poor wanderer,
who had no shelter but such as his leather hunting-shirt provided, and
no other household in the world than the bundle which he carried in his
hand, and in which his hunting-shirt was laid away?

One day as he went on a hunting excursion, to relieve himself of the
burden of carrying it, Iena hung up his bundle on the branch of a tree,
and then set out in quest of game.

On returning to the spot in the evening, he was surprised to find a
small but neat lodge built in the place where he had left his bundle;
and on looking in he beheld a beautiful female, sitting on the further
side of the lodge, with his bundle lying beside her.

During the day Iena had so far prospered in his sport as to kill a deer,
which he now cast down at the lodge door.

Without pausing to take the least notice, or to give a word of welcome
to the hunter, the woman ran out and began to see whether it was a large
deer that he had brought. In her haste she stumbled and fell at the
threshold.

Iena looked at her with astonishment, and thought to himself, "I
supposed I was blessed, but I find my mistake. Night-Hawk," said he,
speaking aloud, "I will leave my game with you that you may feast on
it."

He then took up his bundle and departed. After walking some time he came
to another tree, on which he suspended his bundle as before, and went in
search of game.

Success again attended him, and he returned, bringing with him a deer,
and he found that a lodge had sprung up as before, where he had hung his
bundle. He looked in and saw a beautiful female sitting alone, with his
bundle by her side.

She arose and came out toward the deer which he had deposited at the
door, and he immediately went into the lodge and sat by the fire, as he
was weary with the day's hunt, which had carried him far away.

The woman did not return, and wondering at her delay, Iena at last
arose, and peeping through the door of the lodge, beheld her greedily
eating all the fat of the deer. He exclaimed, "I thought I was blessed,
but I find I was mistaken." Then addressing the woman: "Poor Marten,"
said he, "feast on the game I have brought."

He again took up his bundle and departed; and, as usual, hung it upon
the branch of a tree, and wandered off in quest of game.

In the evening he returned, with his customary good luck, bringing in a
fine deer. He again found that a lodge had taken the place of his
bundle. He gazed through an opening in the side of the lodge, and there
was another beautiful woman sitting alone, with a bundle by her side.

As soon as he entered the lodge, she rose cheerfully, welcomed him home,
and without delay or complaining, she brought in the deer, cut it up as
it should be, and hung up the meat to dry. She then prepared a portion
of it for the supper of the weary hunter. The man thought to himself,
"Now I am certainly blessed."

He continued his practice of hunting every day, and the woman, on his
return, always welcomed him, readily took charge of the meat, and
promptly prepared his evening meal; and he ever after lived a contented
and happy man.

SHEEM, THE FORSAKEN BOY : Stories For Kids

2009-03-26T03:28:00.000-07:00

SHEEM, THE FORSAKEN BOY.

On a certain afternoon the sun was falling in the West, and in the midst
of the ruddy silence a solitary lodge stood on the banks of a remote
lake. One sound only broke, in the least degree, the forest
stillness--the low breathing of the dying inmate, who was the head of a
poor family. His wife and children surrounded the buffalo robe on which
he lay. Of the children, two were almost grown up--a daughter and a son;
the other was a boy, and a mere child in years.

All the skill of the household in their simple medicines was exhausted,
and they stood looking on or moved about the lodge with whispered steps,
awaiting the departure of the spirit. As one of the last acts of
kindness, the skin door of the lodge had been thrown back to admit the
fresh air of the evening. The poor man felt a momentary return of
strength, and raising himself a little, he addressed his family.

"I leave you," he said, "in a world of care, in which it has required
all my strength and skill to supply you food, and to protect you from
the storms and cold of a harsh climate."

He cast his eyes upon his wife, and continued:

"For you, my partner in life, I have less sorrow, because I am persuaded
you will not remain long behind me; but you, my children! my poor and
forsaken children, who have just begun the career of life, who will
shelter you from calamity? Listen to my words. Unkindness, ingratitude,
and every wickedness, are in the scene before you. It was for this that
years ago I withdrew from my kindred and my tribe to spend my days in
this lonely spot. I have contented myself with the company of your
mother and yourselves, during seasons of very frequent scarcity and
want, while your kindred, feasting in plenty, have caused the forests to
echo with the shouts of successful war. I gave up these things for the
enjoyment of peace. I wished to hide you away from the bad examples
which would have spoiled your innocence. I have seen you, thus far, grow
up in purity of heart. If we have sometimes suffered bodily want, we
have escaped pain of mind. We have not been compelled to look on or to
take a part with the red hand in scenes of rioting and bloodshed. My
path now stops. I have arrived at the brink of the world. I will shut my
eyes in peace if you, my children, will promise me to cherish each
other. Let not your mother suffer during the few days that are left to
her; and I charge you, on no account, to forsake your younger brother.
Of him I give you both my dying command to have a tender care."

He spoke no more, and as the sun fell out of view the light had gone
from his face. The family stood still, as if they expected to hear
something further; but when they came to his side and called him by
name, his spirit did not answer. It was in another world.

The mother and daughter lamented aloud, but the elder son clothed
himself in silence, as though it had been a mantle, and took his course
as though nothing had occurred. He exerted himself to supply, with his
bow and net, the wants of the little household, but he never made
mention of his father.

Five moons had filled and waned, and the sixth was near its full, when
the mother also died. In her last moments she pressed the fulfillment of
their father's wish.

The winter passed, and the spring, sparkling in the clear northern air,
cheered the spirits of the lonely little people in the lodge.

The girl, being the eldest, directed her brothers, and she seemed to
feel a tender and sisterly affection for the youngest, who was slight in
frame and of a delicate temper. The other boy soon began to break forth
with restless speeches, which showed that his spirit was not at ease.
One day he addressed his sister as follows:

"My sister, are we always to live as if there were no other human beings
in the world? Must I deprive myself of the pleasure of mingling with my
own kind? I have determined this question for myself. I shall seek the
villages of men, and you can not prevent me."

The sister replied:

"I do not say no, my brother, to what you desire; we are not forbidden
the society of our fellow-mortals, but we are told to cherish each
other, and to do nothing that shall not be agreeable to all our little
household. Neither pleasure nor pain ought, therefore, to separate us,
especially from our younger brother, who, being but a child, and weakly
withal, is entitled to a double share of our affection. If we follow our
separate fancies, it will surely make us neglect him, whom we are bound
by vows, both to our father and mother, to support."

The young man received this address in silence, and still took his
course as though nothing out of the ordinary way had occurred. After
awhile he seemed to recover his spirits; and as they lived in a large
country, where there were open fields, the two brothers, at his
invitation, often amused themselves in playing ball. One afternoon he
chose the ground near to a beautiful lake, and they played and laughed
with great spirit, and the ball was seldom allowed to touch the ground.

Now in this lake there happened to harbor a wicked old Manito, Mishosha
by name, who looked at the brothers as they played, and he was vastly
pleased with their nimbleness and beauty. He thought to himself, what
shall I do to get these lads to accompany me? One of them shall hit the
ball sideways, and it shall fall into my canoe.

It so happened, and it somehow seemed as if Owasso, the elder brother,
had purposely given it that direction. When Owasso saw the old man, he
professed to be greatly surprised, as was the other, Sheem by name, in
truth, for he had not noticed the old Manito before.

"Bring the ball to us," they both cried out. "Come to the shore."

"No," answered the old magician. He, however, came near enough for
either of them to wade out to him. "Come, come," he said. "Come and get
your ball."

They insisted that he should come ashore, but he sturdily declined to
oblige them.

"Very well," said Owasso, "I will go and get it." And he ran into the
water. "Hand it to me," he said, when he had approached near enough to
receive it.

"Ha!" answered the Manito, "reach over and get it yourself."

Owasso was about to grasp the ball, when the old magician suddenly
seized him and pushed him into the boat.

"My grandfather," said Owasso, "pray take my little brother also. Alone
I can not go with you; he will starve if I leave him."

Mishosha only laughed at him; then uttering the charmed words, "Chemaun
Poll!" and giving his canoe a slap, it glided through the water, without
further help, with the swiftness of an arrow.

In a short time they reached the magician's lodge, which stood upon the
further shore, a little distance back from the lake. The two daughters
of Mishosha were seated within. "My daughter," he said to his eldest, as
they entered the lodge, "I have brought you a husband."

The young woman smiled; for Owasso was a comely youth to look upon. The
magician told him to take his seat near her, and by this act the
marriage ceremony was completed, and Owasso and the magician's daughter
were man and wife, and in the course of time they had born to them a
son.

But no sooner was Owasso in the family than the old Manito wished him
out of the way, and he went about in his own wicked fashion to compass
it.

One day he asked his son-in-law to go out a-fishing with him. They
started without delay; for the magician had only to speak, and off went
the canoe. They reached a solitary bay in an island, a very dark,
lonely, and out-of-the-way place. The Manito advised Owasso to spear a
large sturgeon which came alongside, and with its great glassy eye
turned up, seemed to recognize the magician. Owasso rose in the boat to
dart his spear, and by speaking that moment to his canoe, Mishosha shot
forward and hurled his son-in-law headlong into the water; where,
leaving him to struggle for himself, he was soon out of sight.

Owasso, being himself gifted with limited magical powers, spoke to the
fish, and bade him swim toward the lodge, while he carried him along,
which he did at great speed. Once he directed the sturgeon to rise near
the surface of the water, so that he might, if possible, get a view of
the magician. The fish obeyed, and Owasso saw the wicked old Manito busy
in another direction, fishing, as unconcerned as though he had not just
lost a member of his family.

On went the fish, and on went Owasso, till they reached the shore, near
the magician's lodge, in advance of him. He then spoke kindly to the
sturgeon, and told him he should not be angry with him for having
speared him, as he was created to be meat for man. The sturgeon made no
reply, or if he did, it has not been reported; and Owasso, drawing him
on shore, went up and told his wife to dress and cook it immediately. By
the time it was prepared the magician had come in sight.

"Your grandfather has arrived," said the woman to her son; "go and see
what he brings, and eat this as you go"--handing a piece of the fish.

The boy went, and the magician no sooner saw him with the fish in his
hand, than he asked him, "What are you eating? and who brought it?"

He replied, "My father brought it."

The magician began to feel uneasy, for he found that he had been
outwitted; he, however, put on a grave face, and entering the lodge,
acted as if nothing unusual had happened.

Some days after this, Mishosha again requested his son-in-law to
accompany him; and Owasso, without hesitation, said "Yes!"

They went out, and, in a rapid passage, they arrived at a solitary
island, which was no more than a heap of high and craggy rocks.

The magician said to Owasso, "Go on shore, my son, and pick up all the
gulls' eggs you can find."

The rocks were strewn with eggs, and the air resounded with the cry of
the birds as they saw them gathered up by Owasso.

The old magician took the opportunity to speak to the gulls. "I have
long wished," he said, "to offer you something. I now give you this
young man for food."

He then uttered the charm to his canoe, and it shot out of sight,
leaving Owasso to make his peace the best way he could.

The gulls flew in immense numbers around him, and were ready to devour
him. Owasso did not lose his presence of mind, but he addressed them and
said:

"Gulls, you know you were not formed to eat human flesh, nor was man
made to be the prey of birds. Obey my words. Fly close together, a
sufficient number of you, and carry me on your backs to the magician's
lodge."

They listened attentively to what he said, and seeing nothing
unreasonable in his request, they obeyed him, and Owasso soon found
himself sailing through the air swiftly homeward.

Meanwhile, it appears that the old magician had fallen asleep and
allowed his canoe to come to a stand-still; for Owasso, in his flight
over the lake, saw him lying on his back in the boat, taking a nap,
which was quite natural, as the day was very soft and balmy.

As Owasso, with his convoy of birds, passed over, he let fall, directly
in the face of the old magician, a capful of gulls' eggs, which broke
and so besmeared his eyes that he could barely see. He jumped up and
exclaimed:

"It is always so with these thoughtless birds. They never consider where
they drop their eggs."

Owasso had flown on and reached the lodge in safety, and, excusing
himself for the liberty, he killed two or three of the gulls for the
sake of their feathers to ornament his son's head.

When the magician arrived, soon after, his grandson came out to meet
him, tossing his head about as the feathers danced and struggled with
the wind.

"Where did you get these?" asked the Manito, "and who brought them?"

"My father brought them," the boy replied.

The old magician was quite distressed in his mind that he had not
destroyed his son-in-law. He entered his lodge in silence, and set his
wits busily at work again to contrive some plan for easing his feelings
in that respect.

He could not help saying to himself:

"What manner of boy is this who is ever escaping from my power? But his
guardian spirit shall not save him. I will entrap him to-morrow. Ha, ha,
ha!"

He was painfully aware that he had tried two of his charms without
effect, and that he had but two more left. He now professed to be more
friendly with his son-in-law than ever, and the very next day he said to
Owasso:

"Come, my son, you must go with me to procure some young eagles. We
will tame them, and have them for pets about the lodge. I have
discovered an island where they are in great abundance."

They started on the trip, and when, after traversing an immense waste of
water, they had reached the island, Mishosha led him inland until they
came to the foot of a tall pine-tree, upon which the nests were to be
found.

"Now, my son," said Mishosha, "climb up this tree and bring down the
birds. I think you will get some fine ones up there."

Owasso obeyed. When he had with great difficulty got near the nest,
Mishosha cried out, addressing himself to the tree, and without much
regard to the wishes of Owasso:

"Now stretch yourself up and be very tall."

The tree, at this bidding, rose up so far that Owasso would have
imperiled his neck by any attempt to get to the ground.

"Listen, ye eagles!" continued Mishosha. "You have long expected a gift
from me. I now present you this boy, who has had the presumption to
climb up where you are to molest your young. Stretch forth your claws
and seize him."

So saying, the old magician, according to his custom in such cases,
turned his back upon Owasso, and going off in his canoe at a word, he
left his son-in-law to shift for himself.

But the birds did not seem to be so badly-minded as the old magician had
supposed; for a very old bald eagle, quite corpulent and large of limb,
alighting on a branch just opposite, opened conversation with him by
asking what had brought him there.

Owasso replied that he had not mounted the tree of himself, or out of
any disposition to harm his people; that his father-in-law, the old
magician who had just left them, had sent him up; that he was constantly
sending him on mischievous errands. In a word, the young man was
enlarging at great length upon the character of the wicked Manito, when
he was interrupted by being darted upon by a hungry-eyed bird, with long
claws.

Owasso, not in the least disconcerted, boldly seized this fierce eagle
by the neck and dashed it against the rocks, crying out:

"Thus will I deal with all who come near me."

The old eagle, who appeared to be the head of the tribe, was so pleased
with this show of spirit that he immediately appointed two tall birds,
uncommonly strong in the wings, to transport Owasso to his lodge. They
were to take turns in conducting him through the air.

Owasso expressed many obligations to the old eagle for his kindness, and
they forthwith set out. It was a high point from which they started, for
the pine-tree had shot far, far up toward the clouds, and they could
even descry the enchanted island where the old magician lived; though it
was miles and miles away. For this point they steered their flight; and
in a short time they landed Owasso at the door of the lodge.

With many compliments for their dispatch, Owasso dismissed the birds,
and stood ready to greet his wicked father-in-law who now arrived; and
when he espied his son-in-law still unharmed, Mishosha grew very black
in the face. He had but a single charm left.

He thought he would ponder deeply how he could employ that to the best
advantage; and it happened that while he was doing so, one evening, as
Owasso and his wife were sitting on the banks of the lake, and the soft
breeze swept over it, they heard a song, as if sung by some one at a
great distance. The sound continued for some time, and then died away in
perfect stillness. "Oh, it is the voice of Sheem," cried Owasso. "It is
the voice of my brother! If I could but only see him!" And he hung down
his head in deep anguish.

His wife witnessed his distress, and to comfort him she proposed that
they should attempt to make their escape, and carry him succor on the
morrow.

When the morning came, and the sun shone warmly into the lodge, the wife
of Owasso offered to comb her father's hair, with the hope that it
would soothe him to sleep. It had that effect; and they no sooner saw
him in deep slumber than they seized the magic canoe, Owasso uttered the
charmed words, "Chemaun Poll!" and they glided away upon the water
without need of oar or sail.

They had nearly reached the land on the opposite side of the lake, and
could distinctly hear the voice of the younger brother singing his
lament as before, when the old magician wakened. Missing his daughter
and her husband, he suspected deception of some kind; he looked for his
magic boat and found it gone. He spoke the magic words, which were more
powerful from him than from any other person in the world, and the canoe
immediately returned; to the sore disappointment of Owasso and his wife.

When they came back to the shore, Mishosha stood upon the beach and drew
up his canoe. He did not utter a word. The son-in-law and daughter
entered the lodge in silence.

The time, walking along in its broad open path, brought the autumn
months to a close, and the winter had set in. Soon after the first fall
of snow, Owasso said:

"Father, I wish to try my skill in hunting. It is said there is plenty
of game not far off, and it can now be easily tracked. Let us go."

The magician consented; they set out, and arriving at a good ground for
their sport, they spent the day in hunting. Night coming on, they built
themselves a lodge of pine-branches to sleep in. Although it was
bitterly cold, the young man took off his leggings and moccasins, and
hung them up to dry. The old magician did the same, carefully hanging
his own in a separate place, and they lay down to sleep.

Owasso, from a glance he had given, suspected that the magician had a
mind to play him a trick, and to be beforehand with him, he watched an
opportunity to get up and change the moccasins and leggings, putting his
own in the place of Mishosha's, and depending on the darkness of the
lodge to help him through.

Near daylight, the old magician bestirred himself, as if to rekindle the
fire; but he slyly reached down a pair of moccasins and leggings with a
stick, and thinking they were no other than those of Owasso's, he
dropped them into the flames; while he cast himself down, and affected
to be lost in a heavy sleep. The leather leggings and moccasins soon
drew up and were burned.

Instantly jumping up and rubbing his eyes, Mishosha cried out:

"Son-in-law, your moccasins are burning; I know it by the smell."

Owasso rose up, deliberately and unconcerned.

"No, my friend," said he, "here are mine," at the same time taking them
down and drawing them on. "It is your moccasins that are burning."

Mishosha dropped his head upon his breast. All his tricks were played
out--there was not so much as half a one left to help him out of the
sorry plight he was in.

"I believe, my grandfather," added Owasso, "that this is the moon in
which fire attracts, and I fear you must have set your foot and leg
garments too near the fire, and they have been drawn in. Now let us go
forth to the hunt."

The old magician was compelled to follow him, and they pushed out into a
great storm of snow, and hail, and wind, which had come on over night;
and neither the wind, the hail, nor the snow, had the slightest respect
for the bare limbs of the old magician, for there was not the least
virtue of magic in those parts of old Mishosha's body. After a while
they quite stiffened under him, his body became hard, and the hair
bristled in the cold wind, so that he looked to Owasso--who turned away
from him, leaving the wicked old magician alone to ponder upon his past
life--to Owasso he looked like a tough old sycamore-tree more than a
highly-gifted old magician.

Owasso himself reached home in safety, proof against all kinds of
weather, and the magic canoe became the exclusive property of the young
man and his wife.

During all this part of Owasso's stay at the lodge of Mishosha, his
sister, whom he had left on the main land with Sheem, their younger
brother, had labored with good-will to supply the lodge. She knew enough
of the arts of the forest to provide their daily food, and she watched
her little brother, and tended his wants, with all of a good sister's
care. By times she began to be weary of solitude and of her charge. No
one came to be a witness of her constancy, or to let fall a single word
in her mother-tongue. She could not converse with the birds and beasts
about her, and she felt, to the bottom of her heart, that she was alone.
In these thoughts she forgot her younger brother; she almost wished him
dead; for it was he alone that kept her from seeking the companionship
of others.

One day, after collecting all the provisions she had been able to
reserve from their daily use, and bringing a supply of wood to the door,
she said to her little brother:

"My brother, you must not stray from the lodge. I am going to seek our
elder brother. I shall be back soon."

She then set the lodge in perfect order, and, taking her bundle, she set
off in search of habitations. These she soon found, and in the enjoyment
of the pleasures and pastimes of her new acquaintance, she began to
think less and less of her little brother, Sheem. She accepted proposals
of marriage, and from that time she utterly forgot the abandoned boy.

As for poor little Sheem, he was soon brought to the pinching turn of
his fate. As soon as he had eaten all of the food left in the lodge, he
was obliged to pick berries, and live off of such roots as he could dig
with his slender hands. As he wandered about in search of wherewithal to
stay his hunger, he often looked up to heaven, and saw the gray clouds
going up and down. And then he looked about upon the wide earth, but he
never saw sister nor brother returning from their long delay.

At last, even the roots and berries gave out. They were blighted by the
frost or hidden out of reach by the snow, for the mid-winter had come
on, and poor little Sheem was obliged to leave the lodge and wander away
in search of food.

Sometimes he was enforced to pass the night in the clefts of old trees
or caverns, and to break his fast with the refuse meals of the savage
wolves.

These at last became his only resource, and he grew to be so little
fearful of these animals that he would sit by them while they devoured
their meat, and patiently await his share.

After a while, the wolves took to little Sheem very kindly, and seeming
to understand his outcast condition, they would always leave something
for him to eat. By and by they began to talk with him, and to inquire
into his history. When he told them that he had been forsaken by his
brother and his sister, the wolves turned about to each other, lifted up
their eyes to heaven, and wondered among themselves, with raised paws,
that such a thing should have been.

In this way, Sheem lived on till the spring, and as soon as the lake was
free from ice, he followed his new friends to the shore.

It happened on the same day, that his elder brother, Owasso, was fishing
in his magic canoe, a considerable distance out upon the lake; when he
thought he heard the cries of a child upon the shore. He wondered how
any human creature could exist on so bleak and barren a coast.

He listened again with all attention, and he heard the cry distinctly
repeated; and this time it was the well-known cry of his younger brother
that reached his ear. He knew too well the secret of his song, as he
heard him chaunting mournfully:

"My brother! My brother! Since you left me going in the canoe, a-hee-ee,
I am half changed into a wolf, E-wee. I am half changed into a wolf,
E-wee."

Owasso made for the shore, and as he approached the lament was repeated.
The sounds were very distinct, and the voice of wailing was very
sorrowful for Owasso to listen to, and it touched him the more that it
died away at the close, into a long-drawn howl, like that of the wolf.

In the sand, as he drew closer to the land, he saw the tracks as of that
animal fleeing away; and besides these the prints of human hands. But
what were the pity and astonishment that smote Owasso to the heart when
he espied his poor little brother--poor little forsaken Sheem--half boy
and half wolf, flying along the shore.

Owasso immediately leaped upon the ground and strove to catch him in his
arms, saying soothingly, "My brother! my brother! Come to me."

But the poor wolf-boy avoided his grasp, crying, as he fled, "Neesia,
neesia. Since you left me going in the canoe, a-he-ee, I am half changed
into a wolf, E-wee. I am half changed into a wolf, E-wee!" and howling
between these words of lament.

The elder brother, sore at heart, and feeling all of his brotherly
affection strongly returning, with renewed anguish, cried out, "My
brother! my brother! my brother!"

But the nearer he approached to poor Sheem, the faster he fled, and the
more rapidly the change went on; the boy-wolf by turns singing and
howling, and calling out the name, first of his brother and then of his
sister, till the change was complete. He leaped upon a bank, and looking
back, and casting upon Owasso a glance of deep reproach and grief, he
exclaimed, "I am a wolf!" and disappeared in the woods.

Fairy Tale: WHITE FEATHER AND THE SIX GIANTS.

2009-03-26T03:27:00.001-07:00

WHITE FEATHER AND THE SIX GIANTS.

There was an old man living in the depth of a forest, with his grandson,
whom he had taken in charge when quite an infant. The child had no
parents, brothers, or sisters; they had all been destroyed by six large
giants, and he had been informed that he had no other relative living
beside his grandfather. The band to whom he had belonged had put up
their children on a wager in a race against those of the giants, and had
thus lost them. There was an old tradition in the tribe, that, one day,
it would produce a great man, who would wear a white feather, and who
would astonish every one by his feats of skill and bravery.

The grandfather, as soon as the child could play about, gave him a bow
and arrows to amuse himself with. He went into the edge of the woods one
day, and saw a rabbit; but not knowing what it was, he ran home and
described it to his grandfather. He told him what it was, that its flesh
was good to eat, and that if he would shoot one of his arrows into its
body he would kill it. The boy went out again and brought home the
little animal, which he asked his grandfather to boil, that they might
feast on it. He humored the boy in this, and he encouraged him to go on
in acquiring the knowledge of hunting, until he could kill deer and the
larger kinds of game; and he became, as he grew up, an expert hunter.

As they lived alone, and away from other Indians, the curiosity of the
stripling was excited to know what was passing in the world. One day he
came to the edge of a prairie, where he saw ashes like those at his
grandfather's lodge, and lodge-poles left standing.

He returned, and inquired whether his grandfather had put up the poles
and made the fire. He was answered, No. Nor did he believe that he had
seen any thing of the kind. He must have lost his senses to be talking
of such things.

Another day the young man went out to see what there was, within a day's
hunt, that was curious; and on entering the woods he heard a voice
calling out to him, "Come here, you destined wearer of the White
Feather. You do not wear it, yet, but you are worthy of it. Return home
and take a short nap. You will dream of hearing a voice, which will tell
you to rise and smoke. You will see in your dream a pipe, a
smoking-sack, and a large white feather. When you awake you will find
these articles. Put the feather on your head, and you will become a
great hunter, a great warrior, and a great man, able to do any thing. As
a proof that these things shall come to pass, when you smoke, the smoke
will turn into pigeons."

The voice then informed the young man who he was, and made known the
character of his grandfather, who was imposing upon him to serve his own
ends.

The voice-spirit then caused a vine to be laid at his side, and told him
that he was now of an age to avenge the wrongs of his kindred. "When you
meet your enemy," the spirit added, "you will run a race with him. He
will not see the vine, because it is enchanted. While you are running,
you will throw it over his head and entangle him, so that you will win
the race."

Long before this speech was ended the young man had turned to the
quarter from which the voice proceeded, and he was astonished to behold
a man; for as yet he had never seen any human being beside his
grandfather.

As he looked more keenly, he saw that this man, who had the looks of
great age, was wood from the breast downward, and that he appeared to be
fixed in the earth. As his eye dwelt upon this strange being, the
countenance by degrees faded away, and when he advanced to the spot
whence it had addressed him, it was gone.

He returned home; slept; in the midst of his slumbers, as from the
hollow of the air, heard the voice; wakened and found the promised
gifts. His grandfather, when his attention was called to his awakening,
was greatly surprised to find the youth with a white feather on his
forehead, and to see flocks of pigeons flying out of his lodge. He then
remembered the old tradition, and knowing that now the day when he
should lose control of his charge had begun, he bitterly bewailed the
hour.

Possessed of his three magic gifts, the young man departed the next
morning, to seek his enemies, and to demand revenge.

The six giants lived in a very high lodge in the middle of a wood. He
traveled on, in good heart, till he reached this lodge, where he found
that his coming had been made known by the little spirits who carry the
news. The giants hastened out, and gave a cry of joy as they saw him
drawing near. When he approached within hail, they began to make sport
of him, saying, "Here comes the little man with the white feather, who
is to achieve such wonderful wonders."

When, however, he had arrived among them, they spoke him fair, saying he
was a brave man and would do brave things. Their object was to encourage
him, so that he would be bold to engage in some fool-hardy trial of
strength.

Without paying much heed to their fine speeches, White Feather went
fearlessly into their lodge; and without waiting for invitation, he
challenged them to a foot-match. They agreed; and, as they said, by way
of being easy with him, they told him to begin the race with the
smallest of their number.

The point to which they were to run was a peeled tree toward the rising
sun, and then back to the starting-place, which was a war-club of iron.
Whoever won this stake, was empowered to use it in dispatching the
defeated champion. If White Feather should overcome the first giant, he
was to try the second, and so on, until they had all measured speed with
him. By a dexterous use of the vine, he gained the first race, struck
down his competitor, and cut off his head.

The next morning he ran with the second giant, whom he also outran,
killed and beheaded.

He went on in this way for the five mornings, always conquering by the
aid of his vine, and lopping off the heads of the vanquished giants.

The last of the giants who was yet to run with him acknowledged his
power, but prepared secretly to deceive him. By way of parley, he
proposed that White Feather should leave the heads with him, and that he
would give him a handsome start for odds. This White Feather declined,
as he preferred to keep the heads as trophies of his victory.

Before going to the giant's lodge, on the sixth morning, he met his old
counselor in the woods, standing rooted in the earth, as before. He told
White Feather that he was about to be deceived; that he had never known
any other sex but his own, but that as he went on his way to the lodge
he would meet the most beautiful woman in the world. He must pay no
attention to her, but as soon as he caught her eye he must wish himself
changed into an elk. The change would take place immediately, and he
must go to feeding and not look at her again.

White Feather thanked his kind adviser, and when he turned to take his
leave he was gone as before.

He proceeded toward the lodge, met the female as had been foretold to
him, and became an elk. She reproached him that he had cast aside the
form of a man that he might avoid her.

"I have traveled a great distance," she added, "to see you and to become
your wife; for I have heard of your great achievements, and admire you
very much."

Now this woman was the sixth giant, who had assumed this disguise to
entrap White Feather.

Without a suspicion of her real character, her reproaches and her beauty
affected him so deeply that he wished himself a man again, and he at
once resumed his natural shape. They sat down together, and he began to
caress and to make love to her.

Soothed by her smiles and her gracious manners, he ventured to lay his
head on her lap, and in a little while he fell into a deep slumber.

Even then, such was her fear of White Feather, she doubted whether his
sleep might not be feigned. To assure herself she pushed his head aside,
and seeing that he remained unconscious, she quickly assumed her own
form as the sixth giant, took the plume from the brow of White Feather
and placed it upon his own head, and with a sudden blow of his war-club
changed him into a dog, in which degraded form he followed his enemy to
the lodge.

While these things were passing, there were living in an Indian village
at some distance, two sisters, the daughters of a chief, who were
rivals, and they were at that very time fasting to acquire power, for
the purpose of enticing the wearer of the white feather to visit their
lodge. They each secretly hoped to engage his affections, and each had
built a lodge in the border of the village encampment.

The giant knowing this, and having become possessed of the magic plume,
went immediately to visit them. As he approached, the sisters, who were
on the look-out at their lodge-doors, espied and recognized the feather.

The eldest sister had prepared her lodge with great show, and all the
finery she could command, so as to attract the eye. The youngest
touched nothing in her lodge, but left it in its ordinary state.

The eldest went out to meet the giant, and invited him in. He accepted
her invitation, and made her his wife. The youngest sister invited the
enchanted dog into her lodge, prepared him a good supper and a neat bed,
and treated him with much attention.

The giant, supposing that whoever possessed the white feather possessed
also all its virtues, went out upon the prairie to hunt, hallooing aloud
to the game to come and be killed; but the great hubbub he kept up
scared them away, and he returned at night with nothing but himself; for
he had shouted so lustily all day long that he had been even obliged to
leave the mighty halloo, with which he had set out, behind.

The dog went out the same day hunting upon the banks of a river. He
stole quietly along to the spot, and stepping into the water he drew out
a stone, which instantly became a beaver.

The next day the giant followed the dog, and hiding behind a tree, he
watched the manner in which the dog hunted in the river when he drew out
a stone, which at once turned into a beaver.

"Ah, ha!" said the giant to himself, "I will catch some beaver for
myself."

And as soon as the dog had left the place, the giant went to the river,
and, imitating the dog, he drew out a stone, and was delighted to see
it, as soon as it touched the land, change into a fine fat beaver.

Tying it to his belt he hastened home, shouting a good deal, and
brandishing the white feather about, as if he were prepared now to show
them what he could do when he once tried. When he reached home he threw
it down, as is the custom, at the door of the lodge before he entered.

After being seated a short time, he gave a dry cough, and bade his wife
bring in his hunting girdle. She made dispatch to obey him, and
presently returned with the girdle, with nothing tied to it but a stone.

The next day, the dog finding that his method of catching beavers had
been discovered, went to a wood at some distance, and broke off a
charred limb from a burned tree, which instantly became a bear. The
giant, who appeared to have lost faith in his hulla-balooing, had again
watched him, did exactly as the dog had done, and carried a bear home;
but his wife, when she came to go out for it, found nothing but a black
stick tied to his belt.

And so it happened with every thing. Whatever the dog undertook,
prospered; whatever the giant attempted, failed. Every day the youngest
sister had reason to be more proud of the poor dog she had asked into
her lodge, and every day the eldest sister was made more aware, that
though she had married the white feather, the virtues of the magic
plume were not the personal property of the noisy giant.

At last the giant's wife determined that she would go to her father and
make known to him what a valuable husband she had, and how he furnished
her lodge with a great abundance of sticks and stones, which he would
pass upon her for bear and beaver. So, when her husband, whose brave
halloo had now died away to a feeble chirp, had started for the hunt,
she set out.

As soon as these two had gone away from the neighborhood, the dog made
signs to his mistress to sweat him after the manner of the Indians. He
had always been a good dog, and she was willing to oblige him. She
accordingly made a lodge just large enough for him to creep in. She then
put in heated stones, and poured water upon them, which raised a vapor
that filled the lodge and searched with its warmth to the very heart's
core of the enchanted dog.

When this had been kept up for the customary time, the enchanted dog was
completely sweated away, and in his stead, as might have been expected,
out came a very handsome young man, but, unhappily, without the power of
speech. In taking away the dog, it appears that the sweating-lodge had
also carried off the voice with it.

Meantime the elder sister had reached her father's, and, with much
circumstance and a very long face, had told him how that her sister was
supporting an idle dog, and entertaining him as her husband. In her
anxiety to make known her sister's affairs and the great scandal she was
bringing upon the family, the eldest forgot to say any thing of the
sticks and stones which her own husband brought home for bears and
beavers. The old man suspecting that there was magic about her house,
sent a deputation of young men and women to ask his youngest daughter to
come to him, and to bring her dog along with her. When the deputation
reached the lodge, they were surprised to find, in the place of the dog,
a fine young man; and on announcing their message, they all returned to
the old chief, who was no less surprised at the change.

He immediately assembled all the old and wise heads of the nation to
come and be witnesses to the exploits which it was reported that the
young man could perform. The sixth giant, although neither very old nor
very wise, thrust himself in among the relations of the old chief.

When they were all assembled and seated in a circle, the old chief took
his pipe and filled it, and passed it to the Indians around, to see if
any thing would happen when they smoked. They passed it on until it came
around to the Dog, who made a sign that it should be handed first to the
giant, which was done. And the giant puffed with all his might, and
shook the white feather upon his head, and swelled his chest; but
nothing came of it, except a great deal of smoke. The Dog then took it
himself. He made a sign to them to put the white feather upon his head.
This was no sooner done, than he recovered his speech, and, beginning to
draw upon the pipe at the same moment, behold, immense flocks of white
and blue pigeons rushed from the smoke.

From that moment the sixth giant was looked upon as an impostor, and as
soon as White Feather had, at the request of the company, faithfully
recounted his history, the old chief, who was one of the best-hearted
magicians that ever lived, ordered that the giant should be transformed
into a dog, and turned into the middle of the village, where the boys
should pelt him to death with clubs; which being done, the whole six
giants were at an end, and never troubled that neighborhood again,
forever after.

The chief then gave out a command, at the request of White Feather, that
all the young men should employ themselves four days in making arrows.
White Feather also asked for a buffalo robe. This he cut into thin
shreds, and in the night, when no one knew of it, he went and sowed them
about the prairie in every direction.

At the end of the four days, he invited them to gather together all of
their arrows, and to accompany him to a buffalo hunt. When they got out
upon the prairie, they found it covered with a great herd of buffaloes.
Of these they killed as many as they pleased, and, afterward, they had a
grand festival in honor of White Feather's triumph over the giants.

All this being pleasantly over, White Feather got his wife to ask her
father's permission to go with him on a visit to his grandfather. The
old chief replied to this application, that a woman must follow her
husband into whatever quarter of the world he may choose to go.

Bidding farewell to all his friends, White Feather placed the plume in
his frontlet, and taking his war-club in his hand, he led the way into
the forest, followed by his faithful wife.

THE ORIGIN OF THE ROBIN.

2009-03-26T03:26:00.001-07:00

THE ORIGIN OF THE ROBIN.

An old man had an only son, named Iadilla, who had come to that age
which is thought to be most proper to make the long and final fast which
is to secure through life a guardian genius or spirit. The father was
ambitious that his son should surpass all others in whatever was deemed
wisest and greatest among his people. To accomplish his wish, he thought
it necessary that the young Iadilla should fast a much longer time than
any of those renowned for their power or wisdom, whose fame he coveted.

He therefore directed his son to prepare with great ceremony for the
important event. After he had been several times in the sweating-lodge
and bath, which were to prepare and purify him for communion with his
good spirit, he ordered him to lie down upon a clean mat in a little
lodge expressly provided for him. He enjoined upon him at the same time
to endure his fast like a man, and promised that at the expiration of
twelve days he should receive food and the blessing of his father.

The lad carefully observed the command, and lay with his face covered,
calmly awaiting the approach of the spirit which was to decide his good
or evil fortune for all the days of his life.

Every morning his father came to the door of the little lodge and
encouraged him to persevere, dwelling at length on the vast honor and
renown that must ever attend him, should he accomplish the full term of
trial allotted to him.

To these glowing words of promise and glory the boy never replied, but
he lay without the least sign of discontent or murmuring until the ninth
day, when he addressed his father as follows:

"My father, my dreams forbode evil. May I break my fast now, and at a
more favorable time make a new fast?"

The father answered:

"My son, you know not what you ask. If you get up now, all your glory
will depart. Wait patiently a little longer. You have but three days
more, and your term will be completed. You know it is for your own good,
and I encourage you to persevere. Shall not your aged father live to see
you a star among the chieftains and the beloved of battle?"

The son assented; and covering himself more closely, that he might shut
out the light which prompted him to complain, he lay till the eleventh
day, when he repeated his request.

The father addressed Iadilla as he had the day before, and promised that
he would himself prepare his first meal, and bring it to him by the dawn
of the morning.

The son moaned, and the father added:

"Will you bring shame upon your father when his sun is falling in the
west?"

"I will not shame you, my father," replied Iadilla; and he lay so still
and motionless that you could only know that he was living by the gentle
heaving of his breast.

At the spring of day, the next morning, the father, delighted at having
gained his end, prepared a repast for his son, and hastened to set it
before him. On coming to the door of the little lodge, he was surprised
to hear his son talking to himself. He stooped his ear to listen, and,
looking through a small opening, he was yet more astonished when he
beheld his son painted with vermilion over all his breast, and in the
act of finishing his work by laying on the paint as far back on his
shoulders as he could reach with his hands, saying at the same time, to
himself:

"My father has destroyed my fortune as a man. He would not listen to my
requests. He has urged me beyond my tender strength. He will be the
loser. I shall be forever happy in my new state, for I have been
obedient to my parent. He alone will be the sufferer, for my guardian
spirit is a just one. Though not propitious to me in the manner I
desired, he has shown me pity in another way--he has given me another
shape; and now I must go."

At this moment the old man broke in, exclaiming:

"My son! my son! I pray you leave me not!"

But the young man, with the quickness of a bird, had flown to the top of
the lodge and perched himself on the highest pole, having been changed
into a beautiful robin red-breast. He looked down upon his father with
pity beaming in his eyes, and addressed him as follows:

"Regret not, my father, the change you behold. I shall be happier in my
present state than I could have been as a man. I shall always be the
friend of men, and keep near their dwellings. I shall ever be happy and
contented; and although I could not gratify your wishes as a warrior, it
will be my daily aim to make you amends for it as a harbinger of peace
and joy. I will cheer you by my songs, and strive to inspire in others
the joy and lightsomeness of heart I feel in my present state. This will
be some compensation to you for the loss of glory you expected. I am now
free from the cares and pains of human life. My food is spontaneously
furnished by the mountains and fields, and my pathway of life is in the
bright air."

Then stretching himself on his toes, as if delighted with the gift of
wings, Iadilla caroled one of his sweetest songs, and flew away into a
neighboring wood.

THE TOAD-WOMAN. RED INDIAN FOLK TALES

2009-03-26T03:25:00.000-07:00

THE TOAD-WOMAN.

Great good luck once happened to a young woman who was living all alone
in the woods with nobody near her but her little dog; for, to her
surprise, she found fresh meat every morning at her door. She was very
curious to know who it was that supplied her, and watching one morning,
just as the sun had risen, she saw a handsome young man gliding away
into the forest. Having seen her, he became her husband, and she had a
son by him.

One day, not long after this, he did not return at evening, as usual,
from hunting. She waited till late at night, but he came no more.

The next day, she swung her child to sleep in its cradle, and then said
to her dog, "Take care of your brother while I am gone, and when he
cries, halloo for me."

The cradle was made of the finest wampum, and all its bandages and
ornaments were of the same precious stuff.

After a short time, the woman heard the cry of the dog, and running home
as fast as she could, she found her child gone, and the dog too. On
looking around, she saw scattered upon the ground pieces of the wampum
of her child's cradle, and she knew that the dog had been faithful, and
had striven his best to save her child from being carried off, as he had
been, by an old woman, from a distant country, called Mukakee Mindemoea,
or the Toad-Woman.

The mother hurried off at full speed in pursuit, and as she flew along,
she came, from time to time, to lodges inhabited by old women, who told
her at what time the child-thief had passed; they also gave her shoes
that she might follow on. There was a number of these old women who
seemed as if they were prophetesses, and knew what was to come long
beforehand. Each of them would say to her that when she had arrived at
the next lodge, she must set the toes of the moccasins they had given
her pointing homeward, and that they would return of themselves. The
young woman was very careful to send back in this manner all the shoes
she borrowed.

She thus followed in the pursuit, from valley to valley, and stream to
stream, for many months and years; when she came at length to the lodge
of the last of the friendly old grandmothers, as they were called, who
gave her the last instructions how to proceed. She told her that she
was near the place where her son was to be found; and she directed her
to build a lodge of cedar-boughs, hard by the old Toad-Woman's lodge,
and to make a little bark dish, and to fill it with the juice of the
wild grape.

"Then," she said, "your first child (meaning the dog) will come and find
you out."

These directions the young woman followed just as they had been given to
her, and in a short time she heard her son, now grown up, going out to
hunt, with his dog, calling out to him, "Peewaubik--Spirit-Iron--Twee!
Twee!"

The dog soon came into the lodge, and she set before him the dish of
grape-juice.

"See, my child," she said, addressing him, "the pretty drink your mother
gives you."

Spirit-Iron took a long draught, and immediately left the lodge with his
eyes wide open; for it was the drink which teaches one to see the truth
of things as they are. He rose up when he got into the open air, stood
upon his hind legs, and looked about. "I see how it is," he said; and
marching off, erect like a man, he sought out his young master.

Approaching him in great confidence, he bent down and whispered in his
ear (having first looked cautiously around to see that no one was
listening), "This old woman here in the lodge is no mother of yours. I
have found your real mother, and she is worth looking at. When we come
back from our day's sport, I'll prove it to you."

They went out into the woods, and at the close of the afternoon they
brought back a great spoil of meat of all kinds. The young man, as soon
as he had laid aside his weapons, said to the old Toad-Woman, "Send some
of the best of this meat to the stranger who has arrived lately."

The Toad-Woman answered, "No! Why should I send to her, the poor widow!"

The young man would not be refused; and at last the old Toad-Woman
consented to take something and throw it down at the door. She called
out, "My son gives you this." But, being bewitched by Mukakee Mindemoea,
it was so bitter and distasteful, that the young woman immediately cast
it out of the lodge after her.

In the evening the young man paid the stranger a visit at her lodge of
cedar-boughs. She then told him that she was his real mother, and that
he had been stolen away from her by the old Toad-Woman, who was a
child-thief and a witch. As the young man appeared to doubt, she added,
"Feign yourself sick when you go home to her lodge; and when the
Toad-Woman asks what ails you, say that you wish to see your cradle; for
your cradle was of wampum, and your faithful brother the dog, in
striving to save you, tore off these pieces which I show you."

They were real wampum, white and blue, shining and beautiful; and the
young man, placing them in his bosom, set off; but as he did not seem
quite steady in his belief of the strange woman's story, the dog
Spirit-Iron, taking his arm, kept close by his side, and gave him many
words of encouragement as they went along. They entered the lodge
together; and the old Toad-Woman saw, from something in the dog's eye,
that trouble was coming.

"Mother," said the young man, placing his hand to his head, and leaning
heavily upon Spirit-Iron, as if a sudden faintness had come upon him,
"why am I so different in looks from the rest of your children?"

"Oh," she answered, "it was a very bright, clear blue sky when you were
born; that is the reason."

He seemed to be so very ill that the Toad-Woman at length asked what she
could do for him. He said nothing could do him good but the sight of his
cradle. She ran immediately and brought a cedar cradle; but he said:

"That is not my cradle."

She went and got another of her own children's cradles, of which there
were four; but he turned his head, and said:

"That is not mine; I am as sick as ever."

When she had shown the four, and they had been all rejected, she at last
produced the real cradle. The young man saw that it was of the same
stuff as the wampum which he had in his bosom. He could even see the
marks of the teeth of Spirit-Iron left upon the edges, where he had
taken hold, striving to hold it back. He had no doubt, now, which was
his mother.

To get free of the old Toad-Woman, it was necessary that the young man
should kill a fat bear; and, being directed by Spirit-Iron, who was very
wise in such a matter, he secured the fattest in all that country; and
having stripped a tall pine of all its bark and branches, he perched the
carcass in the top, with its head to the east and its tail due west.
Returning to the lodge, he informed the old Toad-Woman that the fat bear
was ready for her, but that she would have to go very far, even to the
end of the earth, to get it. She answered:

"It is not so far but that I can get it;" for of all things in the
world, a fat bear was the delight of the old Toad-Woman.

She at once set forth; and she was no sooner out of sight than the young
man and his dog, Spirit-Iron, blowing a strong breath in the face of the
Toad-Woman's four children (who were all bad spirits, or bear-fiends),
they put out their life. They then set them up by the side of the door,
having first thrust a piece of the white fat in each of their mouths.

The Toad-Woman spent a long time in finding the bear which she had been
sent after, and she made at least five and twenty attempts before she
was able to climb to the carcass. She slipped down three times where she
went up once. When she returned with the great bear on her back, as she
drew near her lodge she was astonished to see the four children standing
up by the door-posts with the fat in their mouths. She was angry with
them, and called out:

"Why do you thus insult the pomatum of your brother?"

She was still more angry when they made no answer to her complaint; but
when she found that they were stark dead, and placed in this way to mock
her, her fury was very great indeed. She ran after the tracks of the
young man and his mother as fast as she could; so fast, indeed, that she
was on the very point of overtaking them, when the dog, Spirit-Iron,
coming close up to his master, whispered to him--"Snakeberry!"

"Let the snakeberry spring up to detain her!" cried out the young man;
and immediately the berries spread like scarlet all over the path, for a
long distance; and the old Toad-Woman, who was almost as fond of these
berries as she was of fat bears, could not avoid stooping down to pick
and eat.

The old Toad-Woman was very anxious to get forward, but the
snakeberry-vines kept spreading out on every side; and they still grow
and grow, and spread and spread; and to this day the wicked old
Toad-Woman is busy picking the berries, and she will never be able to
get beyond to the other side, to disturb the happiness of the young
hunter and his mother, who still live, with their faithful dog, in the
shadow of the beautiful wood-side where they were born.

GRAY EAGLE AND HIS FIVE BROTHERS. The Stories For Children

2009-03-26T03:24:00.001-07:00

GRAY EAGLE AND HIS FIVE BROTHERS.

There were six falcons living in a nest, five of whom were still too
young to fly, when it so happened that both the parent birds were shot
in one day. The young brood waited anxiously for their return; but night
came, and they were left without parents and without food.

Gray Eagle, the eldest, and the only one whose feathers had become stout
enough to enable him to leave the nest, took his place at the head of
the family, and assumed the duty of stifling their cries and providing
the little household with food, in which he was very successful. But,
after a short time had passed, by an unlucky mischance, while out on a
foraging excursion, he got one of his wings broken. This was the more to
be regretted, as the season had arrived when they were soon to go to a
southern country to pass the winter, and the children were only waiting
to become a little stronger and more expert on the wing to set out on
the journey.

Finding that their elder brother did not return, they resolved to go in
search of him. After beating up and down the country for the better part
of a whole day, they at last found him, sorely wounded and unable to
fly, lodged in the upper branches of a sycamore-tree.

"Brothers," said Gray Eagle, as soon as they were gathered around, and
questioned him as to the extent of his injuries, "an accident has
befallen me, but let not this prevent your going to a warmer climate.
Winter is rapidly approaching, and you can not remain here. It is better
that I alone should die, than for you all to suffer on my account."

"No, no," they replied, with one voice. "We will not forsake you. We
will share your sufferings; we will abandon our journey, and take care
of you as you did of us before we were able to take care of ourselves.
If the chill climate kills you, it shall kill us. Do you think we can so
soon forget your brotherly care, which has equaled a father's, and even
a mother's kindness? Whether you live or die, we will live or die with
you."

They sought out a hollow tree to winter in, and contrived to carry their
wounded nest-mate thither; and before the rigor of the season had set
in, they had, by diligence and economy, stored up food enough to carry
them through the winter months.

To make the provisions they had laid in last the better, it was agreed
among them that two of their number should go south; leaving the other
three to watch over, feed, and protect their wounded brother. The
travelers set forth, sorry to leave home, but resolved that the first
promise of spring should bring them back again. At the close of day, the
three brothers who remained, mounting to the very peak of the tree, and
bearing Gray Eagle in their arms, watched them, as they vanished away
southward, till their forms blended with the air and were wholly lost to
sight.

Their next business was to set the household in order, and this, with
the judicious direction of Gray Eagle, who was propped up in a snug
fork, with soft cushions of dry moss, they speedily accomplished. One of
the sisters, for there were two of these, took upon herself the charge
of nursing Gray Eagle, preparing his food, bringing him water, and
changing his pillows when he grew tired of one position. She also looked
to it that the house itself was kept in a tidy condition, and that the
pantry was supplied with food. The second brother was assigned the duty
of physician, and he was to prescribe such herbs and other medicines as
the state of the health of Gray Eagle seemed to require. As the second
brother had no other invalid on his visiting-list, he devoted the time
not given to the cure of his patient, to the killing of game wherewith
to stock the house-keeper's larder; so that, whatever he did, he was
always busy in the line of professional duty--killing or curing. On his
hunting excursions, Doctor Falcon carried with him his youngest brother,
who, being a foolish young fellow, and inexperienced in the ways of the
world, it was not thought safe to trust alone.

In due time, what with good nursing, and good feeding, and good air,
Gray Eagle recovered from his wound, and he repaid the kindness of his
brothers by giving them such advice and instruction in the art of
hunting as his age and experience qualified him to impart. As spring
advanced, they began to look about for the means of replenishing their
store-house, whose supplies were running low; and they were all quite
successful in their quest except the youngest, whose name was Peepi, or
the Pigeon-Hawk, and who had of late begun to set up for himself. Being
small and foolish, and feather-headed, flying hither and yonder without
any set purpose, it so happened that Peepi always came home, so to
phrase it, with an empty game-bag, and his pinions terribly rumpled.

At last Gray Eagle spoke to him, and demanded the cause of his ill-luck.

"It is not my smallness nor weakness of body," Peepi answered, "that
prevents my bringing home provender as well as my brothers. I am all the
time on the wing, hither and thither. I kill ducks and other birds every
time I go out; but just as I get to the woods, on my way home, I am met
by a large ko-ko-ho, who robs me of my prey; and," added Peepi, with
great energy, "it's my settled opinion that the villain lies in wait for
the very purpose of doing so."

"I have no doubt you are right, Brother Peepi," rejoined Gray Eagle. "I
know this pirate--his name is White Owl; and now that I feel my strength
fully recovered, I will go out with you to-morrow and help you look
after this greedy bush-ranger."

The next day they went forth in company, and arrived at a fine
fresh-water lake. Gray Eagle seated himself hard by, while Peepi started
out, and soon pounced upon a duck.

"Well done!" thought his brother, who saw his success; but just as
little Peepi was getting to land with his prize, up sailed a large white
owl from a tree where he, too, had been watching, and laid claim to it.
He was on the point of wresting it from Peepi, when Gray Eagle, calling
out to the intruder to desist, rushed up, and, fixing his talons in both
sides of the owl, without further introduction or ceremony, flew away
with him.

The little Pigeon-Hawk followed closely, with the duck under his wing,
rejoiced and happy to think that he had something to carry home at last.
He was naturally much vexed with the owl, and had no sooner delivered
over the duck to his sister, the housekeeper, than he flew in the owl's
face, and, venting an abundance of reproachful terms, would, in his
passion, have torn the very eyes out of the White Owl's head.

"Softly, Peepi," said the Gray Eagle, stepping in between them. "Don't
be in such a huff, my little brother, nor exhibit so revengeful a
temper. Do you not know that we are to forgive our enemies? White Owl,
you may go; but let this be a lesson to you, not to play the tyrant over
those who may chance to be weaker than yourself."

So, after adding to this much more good advice, and telling him what
kind of herbs would cure his wounds, Gray Eagle dismissed White Owl, and
the four brothers and sisters sat down to supper.

The next day, betimes, in the morning, before the household had fairly
rubbed the cobwebs out of the corners of their eyes, there came a knock
at the front door--which was a dry branch that lay down before the
hollow of the tree in which they lodged--and being called to come in,
who should make their appearance but the two nest-mates, who had just
returned from the South, where they had been wintering. There was great
rejoicing over their return, and now that they were all happily
re-united, each one soon chose a mate and began to keep house in the
woods for himself.

Spring had now revisited the North. The cold winds had all blown
themselves away, the ice had melted, the streams were open, and smiled
as they looked at the blue sky once more; and the forests, far and wide,
in their green mantle, echoed every cheerful sound.

But it is in vain that spring returns, and that the heart of Nature is
opened in bounty, if we are not thankful to the Master of Life, who has
preserved us through the winter. Nor does that man answer the end for
which he was made who does not show a kind and charitable feeling to all
who are in want or sickness, especially to his blood relations.

The love and harmony of Gray Eagle and his brothers continued. They
never forgot each other. Every week, on the fourth afternoon of the week
(for that was the time when they had found their wounded elder brother),
they had a meeting in the hollow of the old sycamore-tree, when they
talked over family matters, and advised with each other, as brothers
should, about their affairs.

OSSEO, THE SON OF THE EVENING STAR.

2009-03-26T03:23:00.001-07:00

There once lived an Indian in the north who had ten daughters, all of
whom grew up to womanhood. They were noted for their beauty, especially
Oweenee, the youngest, who was very independent in her way of thinking.
She was a great admirer of romantic places, and spent much of her time
with the flowers and winds and clouds in the open air. Though the flower
were homely, if it was fragrant--though the wind were rough, if it was
healthful--and though the cloud were dark, if it embosomed the fruitful
rain, she knew how, in spite of appearances, to acknowledge the good
qualities concealed from the eye. She paid very little attention to the
many handsome young men who came to her father's lodge for the purpose
of seeing her.

Her elder sisters were all sought in marriage, and one after the other
they went off to dwell in the lodges of their husbands; but Oweenee was
deaf to all proposals of the kind. At last she married an old man
called Osseo, who was scarcely able to walk, and who was too poor to
have things like others. The only property he owned in the world was the
walking-staff which he carried in his hand. Though thus poor and homely,
Osseo was a devout and good man; faithful in all his duties, and
obedient in all things to the Good Spirit. Of course they jeered and
laughed at Oweenee on all sides, but she seemed to be quite happy, and
said to them, "It is my choice and you will see in the end who has acted
the wisest."

They made a special mock of the walking-staff, and scarcely an hour in
the day passed that they had not some disparaging reference to it. Among
themselves they spoke of Osseo of the walking-staff, in derision, as the
owner of the big woods, or the great timber-man.

"True," said Oweenee, "it is but a simple stick; but as it supports the
steps of my husband, it is more precious to me than all the forests of
the north."

A time came when the sisters, and their husbands, and their parents were
all invited to a feast. As the distance was considerable, they doubted
whether Osseo, so aged and feeble, would be able to undertake the
journey; but in spite of their friendly doubts, he joined them, and set
out with a good heart.

As they walked along the path they could not help pitying their young
and handsome sister who had such an unsuitable mate. She, however,
smiled upon Osseo, and kept with him by the way the same as if he had
been the comeliest bridegroom in all the company. Osseo often stopped
and gazed upward; but they could perceive nothing in the direction in
which he looked, unless it was the faint glimmering of the evening star.
They heard him muttering to himself as they went along, and one of the
elder sisters caught the words, "Pity me, my father!"

"Poor old man," said she; "he is talking to his father. What a pity it
is that he would not fall and break his neck, that our sister might have
a young husband."

Presently as they came to a great rock where Osseo had been used to
breathe his morning and his evening prayer, the star emitted a brighter
ray, which shone directly in his face. Osseo, with a sharp cry, fell
trembling to the earth, where the others would have left him, but his
good wife raised him up, and he sprang forward on the path, and with
steps light as the reindeer he led the party, no longer decrepid and
infirm, but a beautiful young man. On turning around to look for his
wife, behold she had become changed, at the same moment, into an aged
and feeble woman, bent almost double, and walking with the staff which
he had cast aside.

Osseo immediately joined her, and with looks of fondness and the
tenderest regard, bestowed on her every endearing attention, and
constantly addressed her by the term of ne-ne-moosh-a, or my sweetheart.

As they walked along, whenever they were not gazing fondly in each
other's face, they bent their looks on heaven, and a light, as if of
far-off stars, was in their eyes.

On arriving at the lodge of the hunter with whom they were to feast,
they found the banquet ready, and as soon as their entertainer had
finished his harangue--in which he told them his feasting was in honor
of the Evening or Woman's Star--they began to partake of the portion
dealt out, according to age and character, to each one of the guests.
The food was very delicious, and they were all happy but Osseo, who
looked at his wife, and then gazed upward, as if he was looking into the
substance of the sky. Sounds were soon heard, as if from far-off voices
in the air, and they became plainer and plainer, till he could clearly
distinguish some of the words.

"My son, my son," said the voice; "I have seen your afflictions, and
pity your wants. I come to call you away from a scene that is stained
with blood and tears. The earth is full of sorrows. Wicked spirits, the
enemies of mankind, walk abroad, and lie in wait to ensnare the children
of the sky. Every night they are lifting their voices to the Power of
Evil, and every day they make themselves busy in casting mischief in the
hunter's path. You have long been their victim, but you shall be their
victim no more. The spell you were under is broken. Your evil genius is
overcome. I have cast him down by my superior strength, and it is this
strength I now exert for your happiness. Ascend, my son; ascend into the
skies, and partake of the feast I have prepared for you in the stars,
and bring with you those you love.

"The food set before you is enchanted and blessed. Fear not to partake
of it. It is endowed with magic power to give immortality to mortals,
and to change men to spirits. Your bowls and kettles shall no longer be
wood and earth. The one shall become silver, and the other pure gold.
They shall shine like fire, and glisten like the most beautiful scarlet.
Every female shall also change her state and looks, and no longer be
doomed to laborious tasks. She shall put on the beauty of the
star-light, and become a shining bird of the air. She shall dance, and
not work. She shall sing, and not cry.

"My beams," continued the voice, "shine faintly on your lodge, but they
have power to transform it into the lightness of the skies, and decorate
it with the colors of the clouds. Come, Osseo, my son, and dwell no
longer on earth. Think strongly on my words, and look steadfastly at my
beams. My power is now at its height. Doubt not, delay not. It is the
voice of the Spirit of the Stars that calls you away to happiness and
celestial rest."

The words were intelligible to Osseo, but his companions thought them
some far-off sounds of music, or birds singing in the woods. Very soon
the lodge began to shake and tremble, and they felt it rising into the
air. It was too late to run out, for they were already as high as the
tops of the trees. Osseo looked around him as the lodge passed through
the topmost boughs, and behold! their wooden dishes were changed into
shells of a scarlet color, the poles of the lodge to glittering rods of
silver, and the bark that covered them into the gorgeous wings of
insects.

A moment more and his brothers and sisters, and their parents and
friends, were transformed into birds of various plumage. Some were jays,
some partridges and pigeons, and others gay singing birds, who hopped
about, displaying their many-colored feathers, and singing songs of
cheerful note.

But his wife, Oweenee, still kept her earthly garb, and exhibited all
the indications of extreme old age. He again cast his eyes in the
direction of the clouds, and uttered the peculiar cry which had given
him the victory at the rock. In a moment the youth and beauty of his
wife returned; her dingy garments assumed the shining appearance of
green silk, and her staff was changed into a silver feather.

The lodge again shook and trembled, for they were now passing through
the uppermost clouds, and they immediately after found themselves in the
Evening Star, the residence of Osseo's father.

"My son," said the old man, "hang that cage of birds which you have
brought along in your hand at the door, and I will inform you why you
and your wife have been sent for."

Osseo obeyed, and then took his seat in the lodge.

"Pity was shown to you," resumed the King of the Star, "on account of
the contempt of your wife's sister, who laughed at her ill fortune, and
ridiculed you while you were under the power of that wicked spirit whom
you overcame at the rock. That spirit lives in the next lodge, being the
small star you see on the left of mine, and he has always felt envious
of my family because we had greater power, and especially that we had
committed to us the care of the female world. He failed in many attempts
to destroy your brothers and sisters-in-law, but succeeded at last in
transforming yourself and your wife into decrepid old persons. You must
be careful and not let the light of his beams fall on you, while you are
here, for therein lies the power of his enchantment. A ray of light is
the bow and arrow he uses."

Osseo lived happy and contented in the parental lodge, and in due time
his wife presented him with a son, who grew up rapidly, and in the very
likeness of Osseo himself. He was very quick and ready in learning
every thing that was done in his grandfather's dominions, but he wished
also to learn the art of hunting, for he had heard that this was a
favorite pursuit below. To gratify him, his father made him a bow and
arrows, and he then let the birds out of the cage that he might practice
in shooting. In this pastime he soon became expert, and the very first
day he brought down a bird; but when he went to pick it up, to his
amazement it was a beautiful young woman, with the arrow sticking in her
breast. It was one of his younger aunts.

The moment her blood fell upon the surface of that pure and spotless
planet, the charm was dissolved. The boy immediately found himself
sinking, although he was partly upheld by something like wings until he
passed through the lower clouds, and he then suddenly dropped upon a
high, breezy island in a large lake. He was pleased, on looking up, to
see all his aunts and uncles following him in the form of birds, and he
soon discovered the silver lodge, with his father and mother,
descending, with its waving tassels fluttering like so many insects'
gilded wings. It rested on the loftiest cliffs of the island, and there
they fixed their residence. They all resumed their natural shapes, but
they were diminished to the size of fairies; and as a mark of homage to
the King of the Evening Star, they never failed on every pleasant
evening during the summer season to join hands and dance upon the top of
the rocks. These rocks were quickly observed by the Indians to be
covered, in moonlight evenings, with a larger sort of Ininees, or little
men, and were called Mish-in-e-mok-in-ok-ong, or Little Spirits, and the
island is named from them to this day.

Their shining lodge can be seen in the summer evenings, when the moon
beams strongly on the pinnacles of the rocks; and the fishermen who go
near those high cliffs at night, have even heard the voices of the happy
little dancers. And Osseo and his wife, as fondly attached to each other
as ever, always lead the dance.

THE TWO JEEBI Story For Children

2009-03-26T03:19:00.000-07:00

There lived a hunter in the North, who had a wife and one child. His
lodge stood far off in the forest, several days' journey from any other.
He spent his days in hunting, and his evenings in relating to his wife
the incidents that had befallen him. As game was very abundant, he found
no difficulty in killing as much as they wanted. Just in all his acts,
he lived a peaceful and happy life.

One evening during the winter season, it chanced that he remained out
longer than usual, and his wife began to fear that some accident had
befallen him. It was already dark. She listened attentively, and at last
heard the sound of approaching footsteps.

Not doubting that it was her husband, she went to the door and beheld
two strange females. She bade them enter, and invited them to remain.
She observed that they were total strangers in the country. There was
something so peculiar in their looks, air and manner, that she was
disturbed by their presence. They would not come near to the fire. They
sat in a remote part of the lodge, shy and taciturn, and drew their
garments about them in such a manner as nearly to hide their faces. So
far as she could judge, they were pale, hollow-eyed, and long-visaged,
very thin and emaciated.

There was but little light in the lodge, as the fire was low, and its
fitful flashes, by disclosing their white faces and then dropping them
in sudden darkness, served rather to increase than to dispel her fears.

"Merciful Spirit!" cried a voice from the opposite part of the lodge;
"there are two corpses clothed with garments!"

The hunter's wife turned around, but seeing nobody save her little
child, staring across from under his blanket, she said to herself, "The
boy can not speak; the sounds were but the gusts of wind." She trembled,
and was ready to sink to the earth.

Her husband at this moment entered, and in some measure relieved her
alarm. He threw down the carcass of a large fat deer.

"Behold what a fine and fat animal!" cried the mysterious females; and
they immediately ran and pulled off pieces of the whitest fat, which
they greedily devoured.

The hunter and his wife looked on with astonishment, but remained
silent. They supposed that their guests might have been stricken with
famine.

The next day, however, the same unusual conduct was repeated. The
strange females again tore off the fat and devoured it with eagerness.
The third day, the hunter thought that he would anticipate their wants
by tying up a share of the hunt, and placing it apart for their express
use. They accepted it, but still appeared dissatisfied, and went to the
wife's portion and tore off more.

The hunter and his wife were surprised at such rude and unaccountable
conduct, but they remained silent, for they respected their guests, and
had observed that they had been attended with marked good luck during
the sojourn of these mysterious visitors in their lodge.

In other respects, the deportment of the females was strictly
unexceptionable. They were modest, distant, and silent. They never
uttered a word during the day. At night they would occupy themselves in
procuring wood, which they carried to the lodge, and then, restoring the
implements exactly where they had found them, resume their places
without speaking. They were never known to stay out until daylight. They
never laughed or jested.

The winter was nearly passed away, when, one evening, the hunter was
abroad later than usual. The moment he came in and laid down his day's
hunt, as was his custom, before his wife, the two females seized upon
the deer and began to tear off the fat in so unceremonious a way that
her anger was excited. She constrained herself, however, in a good
degree, but she could not conceal her feelings, though she said but
little.

The strange guests observed the state of her mind, and they became
uneasy, and withdrew further still into the remote gloom of the lodge.
The good hunter saw the eclipse that was darkening the quiet of his
lodge, and carefully inquired of its cause; but his wife denied having
used any words of complaining or reproach.

They retired to their couches, and the hunter tried to compose himself
to sleep, but could not, for the sighs and sobs of the two females were
incessant. He arose on his couch and addressed them as follows:

"Tell me," said he, "what is it that gives you pain of mind and causes
you to bemoan your presence here. Has my wife given you offense, or
trespassed upon the rights of hospitality?"

They replied in the negative. "We have been treated by you with kindness
and affection. It is not for any slight we have received that we weep.
Our mission is not to you only. We come from the other land to test
mankind, and to try the sincerity of the living. Often we have heard the
bereaved by death say that if the lost could be restored, they would
devote their lives to make them happy. We have been moved by the bitter
lamentations which have reached the place of the departed, and have
come to make proof of the sincerity of those who have lost friends. We
are your two dead sisters. Three moons were allotted us by the Master of
Life to make the trial. More than half the time had been successfully
passed, when the angry feelings of your wife indicated the irksomeness
you felt at our presence, and has made us resolve on our departure."

They continued to talk to the hunter and his wife, gave them
instructions as to a future life, and pronounced a blessing upon them.

"There is one point," they added, "of which we wish to speak. You have
thought our conduct very strange and rude in possessing ourselves of the
choicest parts of your hunt. _That_ was the point of trial selected to
put you to. It is the wife's peculiar privilege. You love your wife. For
another to usurp what belongs to her, we know to be the severest test of
her goodness of heart, and consequently of your temper and feelings. We
knew your manners and customs, but we came to prove you, not by
complying with but by violating them. Pardon us. We are the agents of
him who sent us. Peace to your dwelling. Farewell!"

When they ceased, total darkness filled the lodge. No object could be
seen. The inmates heard the lodge-door open and shut, but they never saw
more of the Two Spirits.

The hunter found the success which they had promised. He became
celebrated in the chase, and never wanted for any thing. He had many
children, all of whom grew up to manhood; and he who had lain in the
lodge, a little child, while the Jeebi dwelt there, led them in all good
deeds, and health, peace, and long life were the rewards of the hunter's
hospitality.

THE WONDERFUL EXPLOITS OF GRASSHOPPER Children's Bed Time Stories

2009-03-26T03:16:00.000-07:00

A man, of small stature, found himself standing alone on a prairie. He
thought to himself, "How came I here? Are there no beings on this earth
but myself? I must travel and see. I must walk till I find the abodes of
men."

So soon as his mind was made up, he set out, he knew not whither, in
search of habitations. He was a resolute little fellow, and no
difficulties could turn him from his purpose: neither prairies, rivers,
woods nor storms, had the effect to daunt his courage or turn him back.
After traveling a long time, he came to a wood, in which he saw decayed
stumps of trees, as if they had been cut in ancient times, but no other
trace of men. Pursuing his journey, he found more recent marks of the
same kind; after this, he came upon fresh traces of human beings; first
their footsteps, and then the wood they had felled, lying in heaps.
Pushing on, he emerged toward dusk from the forest, and beheld at a
distance a large village of high lodges standing on rising ground.

"I am tired of this dog-trot," he said to himself. "I will arrive there
on a run."

He started off with all his speed. On coming to the first lodge, without
any especial exertion, he jumped over it, and found himself standing by
the door on the other side. Those within saw something pass over the
opening in the roof; they thought from the shadow it cast that it must
have been some huge bird--and then they heard a thump upon the ground.
"What is that?" they all said and several ran out to see.

They invited him in, and he found himself in company with an old chief
and several men who were seated in the lodge. Meat was set before him;
after which the old chief asked him whither he was going, and what was
his name. He answered that he was in search of adventures, and that his
name was "Grasshopper."

They all opened their eyes upon the stranger with a broad stare.

"Grasshopper!" whispered one to another; and a general titter went
round.

They invited him to stay with them, which he was inclined to do; for it
was a pleasant village, but so small as to constantly embarrass
Grasshopper. He was in perpetual trouble; whenever he shook hands with
a stranger, to whom he might be introduced, such was the abundance of
his strength, without meaning it, he wrung his arm off at the shoulder.
Once or twice, in mere sport, he cuffed the boys, about the lodge, by
the side of the head, and they flew out of sight as though they had been
shot from a bow; nor could they ever be found again, though they were
searched for in all the country round, far and wide. If Grasshopper
proposed to himself a short stroll in the morning, he was at once miles
out of town. When he entered a lodge, if he happened for a moment to
forget himself, he walked straight through the leathern, or wooden, or
earthen walls, as if he had been merely passing through a bush. At his
meals he broke in pieces all the dishes, set them down as lightly as he
would; and putting a leg out of bed when he rose, it was a common thing
for him to push off the top of the lodge.

He wanted more elbow-room; and after a short stay, in which, by the
accidentally letting go of his strength, he had nearly laid waste the
whole place, and filled it with demolished lodges and broken pottery,
and one-armed men, he made up his mind to go further, taking with him a
young man who had formed a strong attachment for him, and who might
serve him as his pipe-bearer; for Grasshopper was a huge smoker, and
vast clouds followed him wherever he went; so that people could say,
"Grasshopper is coming!" by the mighty smoke he raised.

They set out together, and when his companion was fatigued with walking,
Grasshopper would put him forward on his journey a mile or two by giving
him a cast in the air, and lighting him in a soft place among the trees,
or in a cool spot in a water-pond, among the sedges and water-lilies. At
other times he would lighten the way by showing off a few tricks, such
as leaping over trees, and turning round on one leg till he made the
dust fly; at which the pipe-bearer was mightily pleased, although it
sometimes happened that the character of these gambols frightened him.
For Grasshopper would, without the least hint of such an intention, jump
into the air far ahead, and it would cost the little pipe-bearer half a
day's hard travel to come up with him; and then the dust Grasshopper
raised was often so thick and heavy as to completely bury the poor
little pipe-bearer, and compel Grasshopper to dig diligently and with
might and main to get him out alive.

One day they came to a very large village, where they were well
received. After staying in it some time (in the course of which
Grasshopper, in a fit of abstraction, walked straight through the sides
of three lodges without stopping to look for the door), they were
informed of a number of wicked spirits, who lived at a distance, and who
made it a practice to kill all who came to their lodge. Attempts had
been made to destroy them, but they had always proved more than a match
for such as had come out against them.

Grasshopper determined to pay them a visit, although he was strongly
advised not to do so. The chief of the village warned him of the great
danger he would incur, but finding Grasshopper resolved, he said:

"Well, if you will go, being my guest, I will send twenty warriors to
serve you."

Grasshopper thanked him for the offer, although he suggested that he
thought he could get along without them, at which the little pipe-bearer
grinned, for his master had never shown in that village what he could
do, and the chief thought that Grasshopper, being little himself, would
be likely to need twenty warriors, at the least, to encounter the wicked
spirits with any chance of success. Twenty young men made their
appearance. They set forward, and after about a day's journey they
descried the lodge of the Manitoes.

Grasshopper placed his friend, the pipe-bearer, and the warriors, near
enough to see all that passed, while he went alone to the lodge.

As he entered, Grasshopper saw five horrid-looking Manitoes in the act
of eating. It was the father and his four sons. They were really
hideous to look upon. Their eyes were swimming low in their heads, and
they glared about as if they were half starved. They offered Grasshopper
something to eat, which he politely refused, for he had a strong
suspicion that it was the thigh-bone of a man.

"What have you come for?" said the old one.

"Nothing," answered Grasshopper; "where is your uncle?"

They all stared at him, and answered:

"We ate him, yesterday. What do you want?"

"Nothing," said Grasshopper; "where is your grandfather?"

They all answered, with another broad stare:

"We ate him a week ago. Do you not wish to wrestle?"

"Yes," replied Grasshopper, "I don't mind if I do take a turn; but you
must be easy with me, for you see I am very little."

Pipe-bearer, who stood near enough to overhear the conversation, grinned
from ear to ear when he caught this remark. The Manitoes answered:

"Oh yes, we will be easy with you."

And as they said this they looked at each other, and rolled their eyes
about in a dreadful manner. A hideous smile came over their faces as
they whispered among themselves:

"It's a pity he's so thin. You go," they said to the eldest brother.

The two got ready--the Manito and Grasshopper--and they were soon
clinched in each other's arms for a deadly throw. Grasshopper knew their
object--his death; they wanted a taste of his delicate little body, and
he was determined they should have it, perhaps in a different sense from
that they intended.

"Haw! haw!" they cried, and soon the dust and dry leaves flew about as
if driven by a strong wind. The Manito was strong, but Grasshopper
thought he could master him; and all at once giving him a sly trip, as
the wicked spirit was trying to finish his breakfast with a piece out of
his shoulder, he sent the Manito head-foremost against a stone; and,
calling aloud to the three others, he bade them come and take the body
away.

The brothers now stepped forth in quick succession, but Grasshopper
having got his blood up, and limbered himself by exercise, soon
dispatched the three--sending one this way, another that, and the third
straight up into the air, so high that he never came down again.

It was time for the old Manito to be frightened, and dreadfully
frightened he got, and ran for his life, which was the very worst thing
he could have done; for Grasshopper, of all his gifts of strength, was
most noted for his speed of foot. The old Manito set off, and for mere
sport's sake, Grasshopper pursued him. Sometimes he was before the
wicked old spirit, sometimes he was flying over his head, and then he
would keep along at a steady trot just at his heels, till he had blown
all the breath out of the old knave's body.

Meantime his friend, the pipe-bearer, and the twenty young warriors,
cried out:

"Ha, ha, ah! ha, ha, ah! Grasshopper is driving him before him!"

The Manito only turned his head now and then to look back. At length,
when he was tired of the sport, to be rid of him, Grasshopper, with a
gentle application of his foot, sent the wicked old Manito whirling away
through the air, in which he made a great number of the most curious
turn-overs in the world, till he came to alight, when it so happened
that he fell astride of an old bull-buffalo, grazing in a distant
pasture, who straightway set off with him at a long gallop, and the old
Manito has not been heard of to this day.

The warriors and the pipe-bearer and Grasshopper set to work and burned
down the lodge of the wicked spirits, and then when they came to look
about, they saw that the ground was strewn on all sides with human bones
bleaching in the sun; these were the unhappy victims of the Manitoes.
Grasshopper then took three arrows from his girdle, and after having
performed a ceremony to the Great Spirit, he shot one into the air,
crying, "You are lying down; rise up, or you will be hit!"

The bones all moved to one place. He shot the second arrow, repeating
the same words, when each bone drew toward its fellow-bone; the third
arrow brought forth to life the whole multitude of people who had been
killed by the Manitoes. Grasshopper conducted the crowd to the chief of
the village, who had proved his friend, and gave them into his hands.
The chief was there with his counselors, to whom he spoke apart.

"Who is more worthy," said the chief to Grasshopper, "to rule than you.
_You_ alone can defend them."

Grasshopper thanked him, and told him that he was in search of more
adventures. "I have done some things," said little Grasshopper, rather
boastfully, "and I think I can do some more."

The chief still urged him, but he was eager to go, and naming
pipe-bearer to tarry and take his place, he set out again on his
travels, promising that he would some time or other come back and see
them.

"Ho! ho! ho!" they all cried. "Come back again and see us!" He renewed
his promise that he would; and then set out alone.

After traveling some time he came to a great lake, and on looking about
he discovered a very large otter on an island. He thought to himself,
"His skin will make me a fine pouch." And he immediately drew up at
long shots, and drove an arrow into his side. He waded into the lake,
and with some difficulty dragged him ashore, and up a hill overlooking
the lake.

As soon as Grasshopper got the otter into the sunshine where it was
warm, he skinned him, and threw the carcass some distance off, thinking
the war-eagle would come, and that he should have a chance to secure his
feathers as ornaments for the head; for Grasshopper began to be proud,
and was disposed to display himself.

He soon heard a rushing noise as of a loud wind, but could see nothing.
Presently a large eagle dropped, as if from the air, upon the otter's
carcass. Grasshopper drew his bow, and the arrow passed through under
both of his wings. The bird made a convulsive flight upward, with such
force that the cumbrous body was borne up several feet from the ground;
but with its claws deeply fixed, the heavy otter brought the eagle back
to the earth. Grasshopper possessed himself of a handful of the prime
feathers, crowned his head with the trophy, and set off in high spirits
on the look out for something new.

After walking awhile, he came to a body of water which flooded the trees
on its banks--it was a lake made by beavers. Taking his station on the
raised dam where the stream escaped, he watched to see whether any of
the beavers would show themselves. A head presently peeped out of the
water to see who it was that disturbed them.

"My friend," said Grasshopper, in his most persuasive manner, "could you
not oblige me by turning me into a beaver like yourself. Nothing would
please me so much as to make your acquaintance, I can assure you;" for
Grasshopper was curious to know how these watery creatures lived, and
what kind of notions they had.

"I do not know," replied the beaver, who was rather short-nosed and
surly. "I will go and ask the others. Meanwhile stay where you are, if
you please."

"To be sure," answered Grasshopper, stealing down the bank several paces
as soon as the beaver's back was turned.

Presently there was a great splashing of the water, and all the beavers
showed their heads, and looked warily to where he stood, to see if he
was armed; but he had knowingly left his bow and arrows in a hollow tree
at a short distance.

After a long conversation, which they conducted in a whisper so that
Grasshopper could not catch a word, strain his ears as he would, they
all advanced in a body toward the spot where he stood; the chief
approaching the nearest, and lifting his head highest out of the water.

"Can you not," said Grasshopper, noticing that they waited for him to
speak first, "turn me into a beaver? I wish to live among you."

"Yes," answered their chief; "lie down." And Grasshopper in a moment
found himself a beaver, and was gliding into the water, when a thought
seemed to strike him, and he paused at the edge of the lake. "I am very
small," he said, to the beaver, in a sorrowful tone. "You must make me
large," he said; for Grasshopper was terribly ambitious, and wanted
always to be the first person in every company. "Larger than any of you;
in my present size it's hardly worth my while to go into the water."

"Yes, yes!" said they. "By and by, when we get into the lodge it shall
be done."

They all dived into the lake, and in passing great heaps of limbs and
logs at the bottom, he asked the use of them; they answered, "It is for
our winter's provisions."

When they all got into the lodge their number was about one hundred. The
lodge was large and warm.

"Now we will make you large," said they. "Will _that_ do?"

"Yes," he answered; for he found that he was ten times the size of the
largest.

"You need not go out," said the others; "we will bring you food into
the lodge, and you will be our chief."

"Very well," Grasshopper answered. He thought, "I will stay here and
grow fat at their expense." But, soon after, one ran into the lodge, out
of breath, crying out, "We are visited by the Indians!"

All huddled together in great fear. The water began to lower, for the
hunters had broken down the dam, and they soon heard them on the roof of
the lodge, breaking it up. Out jumped all the beavers into the water,
and so escaped.

Grasshopper tried to follow them; but, unfortunately, to gratify his
ambition, they had made him so large that he could not creep out at the
hole. He tried to call them back, but either they did not hear or would
not attend to him; he worried himself so much in searching for a door to
let him out, that he looked like a great bladder, swollen and blistering
in the sun, and the sweat stood out upon his forehead in knobs and huge
bubbles.

Although he heard and understood every word that the hunters spoke--and
some of their expressions suggested terrible ideas--he could not turn
himself back into a man. He had chosen to be a beaver, and a beaver he
must be. One of the hunters, a prying little man, with a single lock
dangling over one eye--this inquisitive little fellow put his head in at
the top of the lodge. "_Ty-au!_" cried he. "_Tut ty-au!_
Me-shau-mik--king of beavers is in." Whereupon the whole crowd of
hunters began upon him with their clubs, and knocked his scull about
until it was no harder than a morass in the middle of summer.
Grasshopper thought as well as ever he did, although he was a beaver;
and he felt that he was in a rather foolish scrape, inhabiting the
carcass of a beaver.

Presently seven or eight of the hunters hoisted his body upon long
poles, and marched away home with him. As they went, he reflected in
this manner: "What will become of me? My ghost or shadow will not die
after they get me to their lodges."

Invitations were immediately sent out for a grand feast; but as soon as
his body got cold, his soul being uncomfortable in a house without heat,
flew off.

Having reassumed his mortal shape, Grasshopper found himself standing
near a prairie. After walking a distance, he saw a herd of elk feeding.
He admired their apparent ease and enjoyment of life, and thought there
could be nothing more pleasant than the liberty of running about and
feeding on the prairies. He had been a water animal and now he wished to
become a land animal, to learn what passed in an elk's head as he roved
about. He asked them if they could not turn him into one of themselves.

"Yes," they answered, after a pause. "Get down on your hands and feet."

He obeyed their directions, and forthwith found himself to be an elk.

"I want big horns, big feet," said he; "I wish to be very large;" for
all the conceit and vain-glory had not been knocked out of Grasshopper,
even by the sturdy thwacks of the hunters' clubs.

"Yes, yes," they answered. "There," exerting their power, "are you big
enough?"

"That will do," he replied; for, looking into a lake hard by,
Grasshopper saw that he was very large. They spent their time in grazing
and running to and fro; but what astonished Grasshopper, although he
often lifted up his head and directed his eyes that way, he could never
see the stars, which he had so admired as a human being.

Being rather cold, one day, Grasshopper went into a thick wood for
shelter, whither he was followed by most of the herd. They had not been
long there when some elks from behind passed the others like a strong
wind, calling out:

"The hunters are after us!"

All took the alarm, and off they ran, Grasshopper with the rest.

"Keep out on the plains," they said. But it was too late to profit by
this advice, for they had already got entangled in the thick woods.
Grasshopper soon scented the hunters, who were closely following his
trail for they had left all the others and were making after him in
full cry. He jumped furiously, dashed through the underwood, and broke
down whole groves of saplings in his flight. But this only made it the
harder for him to get on, such a huge and lusty elk was he by his own
request.

Presently, as he dashed past an open space, he felt an arrow in his
side. They could not well miss it, he presented so wide a mark to the
shot. He bounded over trees under the smart, but the shafts clattered
thicker and thicker at his ribs, and at last one entered his heart. He
fell to the ground, and heard the whoop of triumph sounded by the
hunters. On coming up, they looked on the carcass with astonishment, and
with their hands up to their mouths, exclaimed: "_Ty-au! ty-au!_"

There were about sixty in the party, who had come out on a special hunt,
as one of their number had, the day before, observed his large tracks on
the plains. When they had skinned him his flesh grew cold, and his
spirit took its flight from the dead body, and Grasshopper found himself
in human shape, with a bow and arrows.

But his passion for adventure was not yet cooled; for on coming to a
large lake with a sandy beach, he saw a large flock of brant, and
speaking to them in the brant language, he requested them to make a
brant of him.

"Yes," they replied, at once; for the brant is a bird of a very obliging
disposition.

"But I want to be very large," he said. There was no end to the ambition
of little Grasshopper.

"Very well," they answered; and he soon found himself a large brant, all
the others standing gazing in astonishment at his great size.

"You must fly as leader," they said.

"No," answered Grasshopper; "I will fly behind."

"Very well," rejoined the brant; "one thing more we have to say to you,
brother Grasshopper" (for he had told them his name). "You must be
careful, in flying, not to look down, for something may happen to you."

"Well, it is so," said he; and soon the flock rose up into the air, for
they were bound north. They flew very fast--he behind. One day, while
going with a strong wind, and as swift as their wings could flap, as
they passed over a large village the Indians raised a great shout on
seeing them, particularly on Grasshopper's account, for his wings were
broader than two large mats. The village people made such a frightful
noise that he forgot what had been told him about looking down. They
were now scudding along as swift as arrows; and as soon as he brought
his neck in and stretched it down to look at the shouters, his huge tail
was caught by the wind, and over and over he was blown. He tried to
right himself, but without success, for he had no sooner got out of one
heavy air-current than he fell into another, which treated him even more
rudely than that he had escaped from. Down, down he went, making more
turns than he wished for, from a height of several miles.

The first moment he had to look about him, Grasshopper, in the shape of
a big brant, was aware that he was jammed into a large hollow tree. To
get backward or forward was out of the question, and there, in spite of
himself, was Grasshopper forced to tarry till his brant life was ended
by starvation, when, his spirit being at liberty, he was once more a
human being.

As he journeyed on in search of further adventures, Grasshopper came to
a lodge in which were two old men, with heads white from extreme age.
They were very fine old men to look at. There was such sweetness and
innocence in their features that Grasshopper would have enjoyed himself
very much at their lodge, if he had had no other entertainment than such
as the gazing upon the serene and happy faces of the two innocent old
men with heads white from extreme age afforded.

They treated him well, and he made known to them that he was going back
to his village, his friends and people, whereupon the two white-headed
old men very heartily wished him a good journey and abundance of
comfort in seeing his friends once more. They even arose, old and infirm
as they were, and tottering with exceeding difficulty to the door, were
at great pains to point out to him the exact course he should take; and
they called his attention to the circumstance that it was much shorter
and more direct than he would have taken himself. Ah! what merry
deceivers were these two old men with very white heads.

Grasshopper, with blessings showered on him until he was fairly out of
sight, set forth with good heart. He thought he heard loud laughter
resounding after him in the direction of the lodge of the two old men;
but it could not have been the two old men, for they were, certainly,
too old to laugh.

He walked briskly all day, and at night he had the satisfaction of
reaching a lodge in all respects like that which he had left in the
morning. There were two fine old men, and his treatment was in every
particular the same, even down to the parting blessing and the laughter
that followed him as he went his way.

After walking the third day, and coming to a lodge the same as before,
he was satisfied from the bearings of the course he had taken that he
had been journeying in a circle, and by a notch which he had cut in the
door-post that these were the same two old men, all along; and that,
despite their innocent faces and their very white heads, they had been
playing him a sorry trick.

"Who are you," said Grasshopper, "to treat me so? Come forth, I say."

They were compelled to obey his summons, lest, in his anger, he should
take their lives; and they appeared on the outside of the lodge.

"We must have a little trial of speed, now," said Grasshopper.

"A race?" they asked. "We are very old; we can not run."

"We will see," said Grasshopper; whereupon he set them out upon the
road, and then he gave them a gentle push, which put them in motion.
Then he pushed them again--harder--harder--until they got under fine
headway, when he gave each of them an astounding shock with his foot,
and off they flew at a great rate, round and round the course; and such
was the magic virtue of the foot of Grasshopper, that no object once set
agoing by it could by any possibility stop; so that, for aught we know
to the contrary, the two innocent, white-headed, merry old men, are
trotting with all their might and main around the circle in which they
beguiled Grasshopper, to this day.

Continuing his journey, Grasshopper, although his head was warm and
buzzing with all sorts of schemes, did not know exactly what to do until
he came to a big lake. He mounted a high hill to try and see to the
other side, but he could not. He then made a canoe, and sailed forth.
The water was very clear--a transparent blue--and he saw that it
abounded with fish of a rare and delicate complexion. This circumstance
inspired him with a wish to return to his village, and to bring his
people to live near this beautiful lake.

Toward evening, coming to a woody island, he encamped and ate the fish
he had speared, and they proved to be as comforting to the stomach as
they were pleasing to the eye. The next day Grasshopper returned to the
main land, and as he wandered along the shore he espied at a distance
the celebrated giant, Manabozho, who is a bitter enemy of Grasshopper,
and loses no opportunity to stop him on his journeyings and to thwart
his plans.

At first it occurred to Grasshopper to have a trial of wits with the
giant, but, on second thoughts, he said to himself, "I am in a hurry
now; I will see him another time."

With no further mischief than raising a great whirlwind of dust, which
caused Manabozho to rub his eyes severely, Grasshopper quietly slipped
out of the way; and he made good speed withal, for in much less time
than you could count half the stars in the sky of a winter night, he had
reached home.

His return was welcomed with a great hubbub of feasting and songs; and
he had scarcely set foot in the village before he had invitations to
take pot-luck at different lodges, which would have lasted him the rest
of his natural life. Pipe-bearer, who had some time before given up the
cares of a ruler, and fallen back upon his native place, fairly danced
with joy at the sight of Grasshopper, who, not to be outdone, dandled
him affectionately in his arms, by casting him up and down in the air
half a mile or so, till little Pipe-bearer had no breath left in his
body to say that he was happy to see Grasshopper home again.

Grasshopper gave the village folks a lively account of his adventures,
and when he came to the blue lake and the abundant fish, he dwelt upon
their charms with such effect that they agreed, with one voice, that it
must be a glorious place to live in, and if he would show them the way
they would shift camp and settle there at once.

He not only showed them the way, but bringing his wonderful strength and
speed of foot to bear, in less than half a day he had transported the
whole village, with its children, women, tents, and implements of war,
to the new water-side.

Here, for a time, Grasshopper appeared to be content, until one day a
message came for him in the shape of a bear, who said that their king
wished to see him immediately at his village. Grasshopper was ready in
an instant; and mounting upon the messenger's back, off he ran. Toward
evening they climbed a high mountain, and came to a cave where the
bear-king lived. He was a very large person; and puffing with fat and a
sense of his own importance, he made Grasshopper welcome by inviting him
in to his lodge.

As soon as it was proper, he spoke, and said that he had sent for him on
hearing that he was the chief who was moving a large party toward his
hunting-grounds.

"You must know," said the bear-king with a terrible growl, "that you
have no right there, and I wish you would leave the country with your
party, or else the strongest force will take possession. Take notice."

"Very well," replied Grasshopper, going toward the door, for he
suspected that the king of the bears was preparing to give him a hug.
"So be it."

He wished to gain time, and to consult his people; for he had seen as he
came along that the bears were gathering in great force on the side of
the mountain. He also made known to the bear-king that he would go back
that night that his people might be put in immediate possession of his
royal behest.

The bear-king replied that Grasshopper might do as he pleased, but that
one of his young men was at his command; and, jumping nimbly on his
back, Grasshopper rode home.

He assembled the people, and ordered the bear's head off, to be hung
outside of the village, that the bear-spies, who were lurking in the
neighborhood, might see it and carry the news to their chief.

The next morning, by break of day, Grasshopper had all of his young
warriors under arms and ready for a fight. About the middle of the
afternoon the bear war-party came in sight, led on by the pursy king,
and making a tremendous noise. They advanced on their hind-legs, and
made a very imposing display of their teeth and eyeballs.

The bear-chief himself came forward, and with a majestic wave of his
right hand, said that he did not wish to shed the blood of the young
warriors; but that if Grasshopper, who appeared to be the head of the
war-party, consented, they two would have a race, and the winner should
kill the losing chief, and all his young men should be servants to the
other.

Grasshopper agreed, of course--how little Pipe-bearer, who stood by,
grinned as they came to terms!--and they started to run before the whole
company of warriors who stood in a circle looking on.

At first there was a prospect that Grasshopper would be badly beaten;
for although he kept crowding the great fat bear-king till the sweat
trickled from his shaggy ears, he never seemed to be able to push past
him. By and by, Grasshopper, going through a number of the most
extraordinary maneuvers in the world, raised about the great fat
bear-king such eddies and whirlwinds with the sand, and so danced about,
before and after him, that he at last got fairly bewildered, and cried
out for them to come and take him off. Out of sight before him in
reaching the goal, Grasshopper only waited for the bear-king to come up,
when he drove an arrow straight through him, and ordered them to take
the body away and make it ready for supper; as he was getting hungry.

He then directed all of the other bears to fall to and help prepare the
feast; for in fulfillment of the agreement they had become servants.
With many wry faces the bears, although bound to act becomingly in their
new character, according to the forfeit, served up the body of their
late royal master; and in doing this they fell, either by accident or
design, into many curious mistakes.

[Illustration: THE BEAR SERVANTS. Page 59.]

When the feast came to be served up, and they were summoned to be in
attendance, one of them, a sprightly young fellow of an inquisitive turn
of mind, was found upon the roof of the lodge, with his head half way
down the smoke-hole, with a view to learn what they were to have for
dinner. Another, a middle-aged bear with very long arms, who was put in
charge of the children in the character of nurse, squeezed three or four
of the most promising young papooses to death, while the mothers were
outside to look after the preparations; and another, when he should
have been waiting at the back of his master, had climbed a shady tree
and was indulging in his afternoon nap. And when, at last, the dinner
was ready to be served, they came tumbling in with the dishes, heels
over head, one after the other, so that one half of the feast was spread
upon the ground, and the other half deposited out of doors, on the other
side of the lodge.

After a while, however, by strict discipline, and threatening to cut off
their provisions, the bear-servants were brought into tolerable control.

Yet Grasshopper, with his ever restless disposition, was uneasy; and,
having done so many wonderful things, he resolved upon a strict and
thorough reform in all the affairs of the village. To prevent future
difficulty, he determined to adopt new regulations between the bears and
their masters.

With this view, he issued an edict that henceforward the bears should
eat at the first table, and that the Indians were to wait upon them;
that in all public processions of an honorable character the bears
should go first; and that when any fighting was to be done, the Indians
should have the privilege reserved of receiving the first shots. A
special exemption was made in behalf of Grasshopper's favorite and
confidential adviser, the Pipe-bearer (who had been very busy in
private, recommending the new order of things), who was to be allowed to
sit at the head of the feast, and to stay at home with the old women in
the event of battle.

Having seen his orders strictly enforced, and the rights of the bears
over the Indians fairly established, Grasshopper fixed his mind upon
further adventures. He determined to go abroad for a time, and having an
old score to settle with Manabozho, he set out with a hope of soon
falling in with that famous giant. Grasshopper was a blood relation of
Dais Imid, or He of the Little Shell, and had heard of what had passed
between that giant and his kinsman.

After wandering a long time he came to the lodge of Manabozho, who was
absent. He thought he must play him a trick; and so he turned every
thing in the lodge upside down, and killed his birds, of which there was
an extraordinary attendance, for Manabozho is master of the fowls of the
air, and this was the appointed morning for them to call and pay their
court to him. Among the number was a raven, accounted the meanest of
birds, which Grasshopper killed and hung up by the neck, to insult him.

He then went on till he came to a very high point of rocks running out
into the lake, from the top of which he could see the country, back as
far as the eye could reach. While sitting there, Manabozho's mountain
chickens flew around and past him in great numbers. Out of mere spite to
their master, Grasshopper shot them by the score, for his arrows were
very sure and the birds very plenty, and he amused himself by throwing
the birds down the rocks. At length a wary bird cried out:

"Grasshopper is killing us; go and tell our father."

Away sped a delegation of the birds which were the quickest of wing, and
Manabozho soon made his appearance on the plain below. Grasshopper, who,
when he is in the wrong, is no match for Manabozho, made his escape on
the other side. Manabozho, who had in two or three strides reached the
top of the mountain, cried out:

"You are a rogue. The earth is not so large but I can get up to you."

Off ran Grasshopper and Manabozho after him. The race was sharp; and
such leaps and strides as they made! Over hills and prairies, with all
his speed, went Grasshopper, and Manabozho hard upon him. Grasshopper
had some mischievous notions still left in his head which he thought
might befriend him. He knew that Manabozho was under a spell to restore
whatever he, Grasshopper, destroyed. Forthwith he stopped and climbed a
large pine-tree, stripped off its beautiful green foliage, threw it to
the winds, and then went on.

When Manabozho reached the spot, the tree addressed him: "Great chief,"
said the tree, "will you give my life again? Grasshopper has killed
me."

"Yes," replied Manabozho, who, as quickly as he could, gathered the
scattered leaves and branches, renewed its beauty with his breath, and
set off. Although Grasshopper in the same way compelled Manabozho to
lose time in repairing the hemlock, the sycamore, cedar, and many other
trees, the giant did not falter, but pushing briskly forward, was fast
overtaking him, when Grasshopper happened to see an elk. And asking him,
for old acquaintance' sake, to take him on his back, the elk did so, and
for some time he made good headway, but still Manabozho was in sight.

He was fast gaining upon him, when Grasshopper threw himself off the
elk's back; and striking a great sandstone rock near the path, he broke
it into pieces, and scattered the grains in a thousand directions; for
this was nearly his last hope of escape. Manabozho was so close upon him
at this place that he had almost caught him; but the foundation of the
rock cried out,

"Haye! Ne-me-sho, Grasshopper has spoiled me. Will you not restore me to
life?"

"Yes," replied Manabozho. He re-established the rock in all its
strength.

He then pushed on in pursuit, and had got so near to Grasshopper as to
put out his arm to seize him; but Grasshopper dodged him, and, as his
last chance, he immediately raised such a dust and commotion by
whirlwinds, as made the trees break and the sand and leaves dance in the
air. Again and again Manabozho stretched his arm, but he escaped him at
every turn, and kept up such a tumult of dust that he dashed into a
hollow tree which had been blown down, changed himself into a snake, and
crept out at the roots just in time to save his life; for at that moment
Manabozho, who had the power of lightning, struck it, and it was strewn
about in little pieces.

Again Grasshopper was in human shape, and Manabozho was pressing him
hard. At a distance he saw a very high bluff of rocks jutting out into a
lake, and he ran for the foot of the precipice which was abrupt and
elevated. As he came near, to his surprise and great relief, the Manito
of the rock opened his door and told Grasshopper to come in. The door
was no sooner closed than Manabozho knocked.

"Open it!" he cried, with a loud voice. The Manito was afraid of him;
but he said to Grasshopper, "Since I have taken you as my guest, I would
sooner die with you than open the door."

"Open it!" Manabozho again cried, in a louder voice than before.

The Manito kept silent. Manabozho, however, made no attempt to open it
by force. He waited a few moments.

"Very well," he said; "I give you till morning to live."

Grasshopper trembled, for he thought his last hour had come; but the
Manito bade him to be of good cheer.

When the night came on the clouds were thick and black, and as they were
torn open by the lightning, such discharges of thunder were never heard
as bellowed forth. The clouds advanced slowly and wrapped the earth
about with their vast shadows as in a huge cloak. All night long the
clouds gathered, and the lightning flashed, and the thunder roared, and
above all could be heard Manabozho muttering vengeance upon poor little
Grasshopper.

"You have led a very foolish kind of life, Grasshopper," said his friend
the Manito.

"I know it--I know it!" Grasshopper answered.

"You had great gifts of strength awarded to you," said the Manito.

"I am aware of it," replied Grasshopper.

"Instead of employing it for useful purposes, and for the good of your
fellow-creatures, you have done nothing since you became a man but raise
whirlwinds on the highways, leap over trees, break whatever you met in
pieces, and perform a thousand idle pranks."

Grasshopper, with great penitence, confessed that his friend the Manito
spoke but too truly; and at last his entertainer, with a still more
serious manner, said:

"Grasshopper, you still have your gift of strength. Dedicate it to the
good of mankind. Lay all of these wanton and vain-glorious notions out
of your head. In a word, be as good as you are strong."

"I will," answered Grasshopper. "My heart is changed; I see the error of
my ways."

Black and stormy as it had been all night, when morning came the sun was
shining, the air was soft and sweet as the summer down and the blown
rose; and afar off upon the side of a mountain sat Manabozho, his head
upon his knees, languid and cast down in spirit. His power was gone, for
now Grasshopper was in the right, and he could touch him no more.

With many thanks, Grasshopper left the good Manito, taking the nearest
way home to his own people.

As he passed on, he fell in with an old man who was wandering about the
country in search of some place which he could not find. As soon as he
learned his difficulty, Grasshopper, placing the old man upon his back,
hurried away, and in a short hour's dispatch of foot set him down among
his own kindred, of whom he had been in quest.

Loosing no time, Grasshopper next came to an open plain, where a small
number of men stood at bay, and on the very point of being borne down
by great odds, in a force of armed warriors, fierce of aspect and of
prodigious strength. When Grasshopper saw this unequal struggle, rushing
forward he seized a long bare pole, and, wielding it with his whole
force, he drove the fierce warriors back; and, laying about him on every
hand, he soon sent them a thousand ways in great haste, and in a very
sore plight.

Without tarrying to receive the thanks of those to whom he had brought
this timely relief, he made his utmost speed, and by the close of the
afternoon he had come in sight of his own village. What were his
surprise and horror, as he approached nearer, to discover the bears in
excellent case and flesh, seated at lazy leisure in the trees, looking
idly on while his brother Indians, for their pastime, were dancing a
fantastic and wearisome dance, in the course of which they were
frequently compelled to go upon all fours and bow their heads in
profound obeisance to their bear-masters in the trees.

As he drew nearer, his heart sunk within him to see how starved, and
hollow-eyed, and woe-begone they were; and his horror was at its height
when, as he entered his own lodge, he beheld his favorite and friend,
the Pipe-bearer, also on all fours, smoothing the floor with the palms
of his hands to make it a comfortable sitting-place for the bears on
their return from the dance.

It did not take Grasshopper a long time to resolve what he should do. He
immediately resumed power in the village, bestowed a sound cudgeling
upon the bears, and sent them off to live in the mountains, among their
own people, as bears should; restored to the people all their rights;
gave them plenty to eat and drink; exerting his great strength in
hunting, in rebuilding their lodges, keeping in check their enemies, and
doing all the good he could to every body.

Peace and plenty soon shone and showered upon the spot; and, never once
thinking of all his wild and wanton frolics, the people blessed
Grasshopper for all his kindness, and sincerely prayed that his name
might be held in honor for a thousand years to come, as no doubt it
will.

Little Pipe-bearer stood by Grasshopper in all his course, and admired
his ways as much now that he had taken to being orderly and useful, as
in the old times, when he was walking a mile a minute, and in mere
wantonness bringing home whole forests in his arms for fire-wood, in
midsummer.

It was a great old age to which Grasshopper lived, and when at last he
came to die, there was not a dry eye in all that part of the world where
he spent his latter days.

STRONG DESIRE, AND THE RED SORCERER World Famous Fairy Tales

2009-03-26T03:13:00.000-07:00

There was a man called Odshedoph, or the Child of Strong Desires, who
had a wife and one son. He had withdrawn his family from the village,
where they had spent the winter, to the neighborhood of a distant
forest, where game abounded. This wood was a day's travel from his
winter home, and under its ample shadow the wife fixed the lodge, while
the husband went out to hunt. Early in the evening he returned with a
deer, and, being weary and athirst, he asked his son, whom he called
Strong Desire, to go to the river for some water. The son replied that
it was dark, and he was afraid. His father still urged him, saying that
his mother, as well as himself, was tired, and the distance to the water
very short. But no persuasion could overcome the young man's reluctance.
He refused to go.

"Ah, my son," said the father, at last, "if you are afraid to go to the
river, you will never kill the Red Head."

The stripling was deeply vexed by this observation; it seemed to touch
him to the very quick. He mused in silence. He refused to eat, and made
no reply when spoken to. He sat by the lodge door all the night through,
looking up at the stars, and sighing like one sorely distressed.

The next day he asked his mother to dress the skin of the deer, and to
make it into moccasins for him, while he busied himself in preparing a
bow and arrows.

As soon as these were in readiness, he left the lodge one morning, at
sunrise, without saying a word to his father or mother. As he passed
along, he fired one of his arrows into the air, which fell westward. He
took that course, and coming to the spot where the arrow had fallen, he
was rejoiced to find it piercing the heart of a deer. He refreshed
himself with a meal of the venison, and the next morning he fired
another arrow. Following its course, after traveling all day he found
that he had transfixed another deer. In this manner he fired four
arrows, and every evening he discovered that he had killed a deer.

By a strange oversight, he left the arrows sticking in the carcasses,
and passed on without withdrawing them. Having in this way no arrow for
the fifth day, he was in great distress at night for the want of food.

At last he threw himself upon the earth in despair, concluding that he
might as well perish there as go further. But he had not lain long
before he heard a hollow rumbling noise, in the ground beneath him, like
that of an earthquake moving slowly along.

He sprang up, and discovered at a distance the figure of a human being,
walking with a stick. He looked attentively, and saw that the figure was
walking in a wide beaten path in a prairie, leading from a dusky lodge
to a lake, whose waters were black and turbid.

To his surprise, this lodge, which had not been in view when he cast
himself upon the ground, was now near at hand. He approached a little
nearer, and concealed himself; and in a moment he discovered that the
figure was no other than that of the terrible witch, the little old
woman who makes war. Her path to the lake was perfectly smooth and
solid, and the noise Strong Desire had heard was caused by the striking
of her walking staff upon the ground. The top of this staff was
decorated with a string of the toes and bills of birds of every kind,
who, at every stroke of the stick, fluttered and sung their various
notes in concert.

She entered her lodge and laid off her mantle, which was entirely
composed of the scalps of women. Before folding it, she shook it
several times, and at every shake the scalps uttered loud shouts of
laughter, in which the old hag joined. The boy, who lingered at the
door, was greatly alarmed, but he uttered no cry.

After laying by the cloak, she came directly to him. Looking at him
steadily, she informed him that she had known him from the time he had
left his father's lodge, and had watched his movements. She told him not
to fear or despair, for she would be his protector and friend. She
invited him into her lodge, and gave him a supper. During the repast,
she questioned him as to his motives for visiting her. He related his
history, stated the manner in which he had been disgraced, and the
difficulties he labored under.

"Now tell me truly," said the little old woman who makes war, "you were
afraid to go to the water in the dark."

"I was," Strong Desire answered, promptly.

As he replied, the hag waved her staff. The birds set up a clamorous
cry, and the mantle shook violently as all the scalps burst into a
hideous shout of laughter.

"And are you afraid now," she asked again.

"I am," again answered Strong Desire, without hesitation.

"But you are not afraid to speak the truth," rejoined the little old
woman. "You will be a brave man yet."

She cheered him with the assurance of her friendship, and began at once
to exercise her power upon him. His hair being very short, she took a
great leaden comb, and after drawing it through his locks several times,
they became of a handsome length like those of a beautiful young woman.
She then proceeded to dress him as a female, furnishing him with the
necessary garments, and tinting his face with colors of the most
charming dye. She gave him, too, a bowl of shining metal. She directed
him to put in his girdle a blade of scented sword-grass, and to proceed
the next morning to the banks of the lake, which was no other than that
over which the Red Head reigned. Now Hah-Undo-Tah, or the Red Head, was
a most powerful sorcerer, living upon an island in the centre of his
realm of water, and he was the terror of all the country. She informed
him that there would be many Indians upon the island, who, as soon as
they saw him use the shining bowl to drink with, would come and solicit
him to be their wife, and to take him over to the island. These offers
he was to refuse, and to say that he had come a great distance to be the
wife of the Red Head, and that if the chief could not seek her for
himself, she would return to her village. She said, that as soon as the
Red Head heard of this he would come for her in his own canoe, in which
she must embark.

"On reaching the shore," added the little old woman, "you must consent
to be his wife; and in the evening you are to induce him to take a walk
out of the village, and when you have reached a lonesome spot, use the
first opportunity to cut off his head with the blade of grass."

She also gave Strong Desire general advice how he was to conduct himself
to sustain his assumed character of a woman. His fear would scarcely
permit him to consent to engage in an adventure attended with so much
danger; but the recollection of his father's looks and reproaches of the
want of courage, decided him.

Early in the morning he left the lodge of the little old woman who makes
war, which was clouded in a heavy brackish fog, so thick and heavy to
breathe, that he with difficulty made his way forth. When he turned to
look back for it, it was gone.

He took the hard beaten path to the banks of the lake, and made for the
water at a point directly opposite the Red Head's lodge.

Where he now stood it was beautiful day. The heavens were clear, and the
sun shone out as brightly to Strong Desire as on the first morning when
he had put forth his little head from the door of his father's lodge. He
had not been long there, sauntering along the beach, when he displayed
the glittering bowl by dipping water from the lake. Very soon a number
of canoes came off from the island. The men admired his dress, and were
charmed with his beauty, and almost with one voice they all made
proposals of marriage. These, Strong Desire promptly declined.

When this was reported to Red Head, he ordered his royal bark to be
launched by his chosen men of the oar, and crossed over to see this
wonderful girl. As they approached the shore, Strong Desire saw that the
ribs of the sorcerer's canoe were formed of living rattlesnakes, whose
heads pointed outward to guard him from his enemies. Being invited, he
had no sooner stepped into the canoe, than they began to hiss and rattle
furiously, which put him in a great fright; but the magician spoke to
them, when they became pacified and quiet. Shortly after they were at
the landing upon the island. The marriage took place immediately; and
the bride made presents of various valuables which had been furnished
her by the old witch who inhabited the cloudy lodge.

As they were sitting in the lodge, surrounded by the friends and
relatives, the mother of the Red Head regarded the face of her new
daughter-in-law for a long time with fixed attention. From this scrutiny
she was convinced that this singular and hasty marriage boded no good to
her son. She drew him aside, and disclosed to him her suspicions. This
can be no female, said she; she has the figure and manners, the
countenance, and more especially the eyes, are beyond a doubt those of a
man. Her husband rejected her suspicions, and rebuked her severely for
entertaining such notions of her own daughter-in-law. She still urged
her doubts, which so vexed the husband that he broke his pipe-stem in
her face, and called her an owl.

This act astonished the company, who sought an explanation; and it was
no sooner given, than the mock bride, rising with an air of offended
dignity, informed the Red Head that after receiving so gross an affront
from his relatives she could not think of remaining with him as his
wife, but should forthwith return to her own friends.

With a toss of the head, like that of an angry female, Strong Desire
left the lodge, followed by Red Head, and walked away until he came to
the beach of the island, near the spot where they had first landed. Red
Head entreated him to remain, urging every motive, and making all sorts
of magnificent promises--none of which seemed to make the least
impression. Strong Desire, Red Head thought, was very hard-hearted.
During these appeals they had seated themselves upon the ground, and Red
Head, in great affliction, reclined his head upon his fancied wife's
lap. Strong Desire now changed his manner, was very kind and soothing,
and suggested in the most winning accent that if Red Head would sleep
soundly for awhile he might possibly dream himself out of all his
troubles. Red Head, delighted at so happy a prospect, said that he would
fall asleep immediately.

"You have killed a good many men in your time, Red Head," said Strong
Desire, by way of suggesting an agreeable train of ideas to the
sorcerer.

"Hundreds," answered Red Head; "and what is better, now that I am fairly
settled in life by this happy marriage, I shall be able to give my whole
attention to massacre."

"And you will kill hundreds more," interposed Strong Desire, in the most
insinuating manner imaginable.

"Just so, my dear," Red Head replied, with a great leer; "thousands.
There will be no end to my delicious murders. I love dearly to kill
people. I would like to kill you if you were not my wife."

"There, there," said Strong Desire, with the coaxing air of a little
coquette, "go to sleep; that's a good Red Head."

No other subject of conversation occurring to the chief, now that he had
exhausted the delightful topic of wholesale murder, he straightway fell
into a deep sleep.

The chance so anxiously sought for had come; and Strong Desire, with a
smiling eye, drawing his blade of grass with lightning swiftness once
across the neck of the Red Head, severed the huge and wicked head from
the body.

In a moment, stripping off his woman's dress, underneath which he had
all along worn his male attire, Strong Desire seized the bleeding
trophy, plunged into the lake, and swam safely over to the main shore.
He had scarcely reached it, when, looking back, he saw amid the darkness
the torches of persons come out in search of the new married couple. He
listened until they had found the headless body, and he heard their
piercing shrieks of rage and sorrow as he took his way to the lodge of
his kind adviser.

The little old woman who makes war was in an excellent humor, and she
received Strong Desire with rejoicing. She admired his prudence, and
assured him his bravery should never be questioned again. Lifting up the
head, which she gazed upon with vast delight, she said he need only have
brought the scalp. Cutting off a lock of the hair for herself, she told
him he might now return with the head, which would be evidence of an
achievement that would cause his own people to respect him.

"In your way home," added the little old woman, "you will meet with but
one difficulty. Maunkahkeesh, the Spirit of the Earth, requires an
offering or sacrifice from all of her sons who perform extraordinary
deeds. As you walk along in a prairie there will be an earthquake; the
earth will open and divide the prairie in the middle. Take this
partridge and throw it into the opening, and instantly spring over it."

With many thanks to the little old witch, who had so faithfully
befriended him, Strong Desire took leave of her, and having, by the
course pointed out, safely passed the earthquake, he arrived near his
own village. He secretly hid his precious trophy.

On entering the village, he found that his parents had returned from the
place of their spring encampment by the wood-side, and that they were in
heavy sorrowing for their son, whom they supposed to be lost. One and
another of the young men had presented themselves to the disconsolate
parents, and said, "Look up, I am your son;" but when they looked up,
they beheld not the familiar face of Strong Desire.

Having been often deceived in this manner, when their own son in truth
presented himself they sat with their heads down, and with their eyes
nearly blinded with weeping. It was some time before they could be
prevailed upon to bestow a glance upon him. It was still longer before
they could recognize him as their son who had refused to draw water from
the river, at night, for fear, for his countenance was no longer that
of a timid stripling; it was that of a man who has seen and done great
things, and who has the heart to do greater still.

When he recounted his adventures they believed him mad. The young men
laughed at him--him, Strong Desire--who feared to walk to the river at
night-time.

He left the lodge, and ere their laughter had ceased, returned with his
trophy. He held aloft the head of the Red Sorcerer, with the great
ghastly leer which lighted it up before his last sleep, at prospect of a
thousand future murders, fresh upon it. It was easily recognized, and
the young men who had scoffed at Strong Desire shrunk into the corners
out of sight. Strong Desire had conquered the terrible Red Head! All
doubts of the truth of his adventures were dispelled.

He was greeted with joy, and placed among the first warriors of the
nation. He finally became a chief, and his family were ever after
respected and esteemed.

THE BOY WHO SET A SNARE FOR THE SUN. : Red Indian Folk Tale

2009-03-26T03:09:00.000-07:00

At the time when the animals reigned in the earth, they had killed all
the people but a girl and her little brother, and these two were living
in fear, in an out-of-the-way place. The boy was a perfect little pigmy,
and never grew beyond the size of a mere infant; but the girl increased
with her years, so that the task of providing food and shelter fell
wholly upon her. She went out daily to get wood for the lodge-fire, and
she took her little brother with her that no mishap might befall him;
for he was too little to leave alone. A big bird, of a mischievous
disposition, might have flown away with him. She made him a bow and
arrows, and said to him one day, "My little brother, I will leave you
behind where I have been gathering the wood; you must hide yourself, and
you will soon see the snow-birds come and pick the worms out of the logs
which I have piled up. Shoot one of them and bring it home."

He obeyed her, and tried his best to kill one, but he came home
unsuccessful. His sister told him that he must not despair, but try
again the next day.

She accordingly left him at the gathering-place of the wood, and
returned to the lodge. Toward night-fall she heard his little footsteps
crackling through the snow, and he hurried in and threw down, with an
air of triumph, one of the birds which he had killed. "My sister," said
he, "I wish you to skin it, and stretch the skin, and when I have killed
more, I will have a coat made out of them."

"But what shall we do with the body?" said she; for they had always up
to that time lived upon greens and berries.

"Cut it in two," he answered, "and season our pottage with one half of
it at a time."

It was their first dish of game, and they relished it greatly.

The boy kept on in his efforts, and in the course of time he killed ten
birds--out of the skins of which his sister made him a little coat:
being very small, he had a very pretty coat, and a bird skin to spare.

"Sister," said he, one day, as he paraded up and down before the lodge,
enjoying his new coat, and fancifying himself the greatest little fellow
in the world--as he was, for there was no other beside him--"My sister,
are we really alone in the world, or are we playing at it? Is there
nobody else living? And, tell me, was all this great broad earth and
this huge big sky made for a little boy and girl like you and me?"

She told him, by no means; there were many folks very unlike a harmless
girl and boy, such as they were, who lived in a certain other quarter of
the earth, who had killed off all of their kinsfolk; and that if he
would live blameless and not endanger his life, he must never go where
they were. This only served to inflame the boy's curiosity; and he soon
after took his bow and arrows and went in that direction. After walking
a long time and meeting no one, he became tired, and stretched himself
upon a high green knoll where the day's warmth had melted off the snow.

It was a charming place to lie upon, and he fell asleep; and, while
sleeping, the sun beat so hot upon him that it not only singed his
bird-skin coat, but it so shrivelled and shrunk and tightened it upon
the little boy's body, as to wake him up.

When he felt how the sun had seared and the mischief its fiery beams had
played with the coat he was so proud of, he flew into a great passion,
and berated the sun in a terrible way for a little boy no higher than a
man's knee, and he vowed fearful things against it.

"Do not think you are too high," said he; "I shall revenge myself. Oh,
sun! I will have you for a plaything yet."

On coming home he gave an account of his misfortune to his sister, and
bitterly bewailed the spoiling of his new coat. He would not eat--not so
much as a single berry. He lay down as one that fasts; nor did he move
nor change his manner of lying for ten full days, though his sister
strove to prevail on him to rise. At the end of ten days he turned over,
and then he lay full ten days on the other side.

When he got up he was very pale, but very resolute too. He bade his
sister make a snare, for, he informed her, that he meant to catch the
sun. She said she had nothing; but after awhile she brought forward a
deer's sinew which the father had left, and which she soon made into a
string suitable for a noose. The moment she showed it to him he was
quite wroth, and told her that would not do, and directed her to find
something else. She said she had nothing--nothing at all. At last she
thought of the bird-skin that was left over when the coat was made; and
this she wrought into a string. With this the little boy was more vexed
than before. "The sun has had enough of my bird-skins," he said; "find
something else." She went out of the lodge saying to herself, "Was there
ever so obstinate a boy?" She did not dare to answer this time that she
had nothing. Luckily she thought of her own beautiful hair, and pulling
some of it from among her locks, she quickly braided it into a cord,
and, returning, she handed it to her brother. The moment his eye fell
upon this jet black braid he was delighted. "This will do," he said; and
he immediately began to run it back and forth through his hands as
swiftly as he could; and as he drew it forth, he tried its strength. He
said again, "this will do;" and winding it in a glossy coil about his
shoulders, he set out a little after midnight. His object was to catch
the sun before he rose. He fixed his snare firmly on a spot just where
the sun must strike the land as it rose above the earth; and sure
enough, he caught the sun, so that it was held fast in the cord and did
not rise.

The animals who ruled the earth were immediately put into great
commotion. They had no light; and they ran to and fro, calling out to
each other, and inquiring what had happened. They summoned a council to
debate upon the matter, and an old dormouse, suspecting where the
trouble lay, proposed that some one should be appointed to go and cut
the cord. This was a bold thing to undertake, as the rays of the sun
could not fail to burn whoever should venture so near to them.

At last the venerable dormouse himself undertook it, for the very good
reason that no one else would. At this time the dormouse was the largest
animal in the world. When he stood up he looked like a mountain. It
made haste to the place where the sun lay ensnared, and as it came
nearer and nearer, its back began to smoke and burn with the heat, and
the whole top of his huge bulk was turned in a very short time to
enormous heaps of ashes. It succeeded, however, in cutting the cord with
its teeth and freeing the sun, which rolled up again, as round and
beautiful as ever, into the wide blue sky. But the dormouse--or blind
woman as it is called--was shrunk away to a very small size; and that is
the reason why it is now one of the tiniest creatures upon the earth.

The little boy returned home when he discovered that the sun had escaped
his snare, and devoted himself entirely to hunting. "If the beautiful
hair of my sister would not hold the sun fast, nothing in the world
could," he said. "He was not born, a little fellow like himself, to look
after the sun. It required one greater and wiser than he was to regulate
that." And he went out and shot ten more snow-birds; for in this
business he was very expert; and he had a new bird-skin coat made, which
was prettier than the one he had worn before.

THE CELESTIAL SISTERS Red Indian Fairy Tales

2009-03-26T03:01:00.000-07:00

Waupee, or the White Hawk, lived in a remote part of the forest, where
animals abounded. Every day he returned from the chase with a large
spoil, for he was one of the most skillful and lucky hunters of his
tribe. His form was like the cedar; the fire of youth beamed from his
eye; there was no forest too gloomy for him to penetrate, and no track
made by bird or beast of any kind which he could not readily follow.

One day he had gone beyond any point which he had ever before visited.
He traveled through an open wood, which enabled him to see a great
distance. At length he beheld a light breaking through the foliage of
the distant trees, which made him sure that he was on the borders of a
prairie. It was a wide plain, covered with long blue grass, and enameled
with flowers of a thousand lovely tints.

After walking for some time without a path, musing upon the open
country, and enjoying the fragrant breeze, he suddenly came to a ring
worn among the grass and the flowers, as if it had been made by
footsteps moving lightly round and round. But it was strange--so strange
as to cause the White Hawk to pause and gaze long and fixedly upon the
ground--there was no path which led to this flowery circle. There was
not even a crushed leaf nor a broken twig, nor the least trace of a
footstep, approaching or retiring, to be found. He thought he would hide
himself and lie in wait to discover, if he could, what this strange
circle meant.

Presently he heard the faint sounds of music in the air. He looked up in
the direction they came from, and as the magic notes died away he saw a
small object, like a little summer cloud that approaches the earth,
floating down from above. At first it was very small, and seemed as if
it could have been blown away by the first breeze that came along; but
it rapidly grew as he gazed upon it, and the music every moment came
clearer and more sweetly to his ear. As it neared the earth it appeared
as a basket, and it was filled with twelve sisters, of the most lovely
forms and enchanting beauty.

As soon as the basket touched the ground they leaped out, and began
straightway to dance, in the most joyous manner, around the magic ring,
striking, as they did so, a shining ball, which uttered the most
ravishing melodies, and kept time as they danced.

The White Hawk, from his concealment, entranced, gazed upon their
graceful forms and movements. He admired them all, but he was most
pleased with the youngest. He longed to be at her side, to embrace her,
to call her his own; and unable to remain longer a silent admirer, he
rushed out and endeavored to seize this twelfth beauty who so enchanted
him. But the sisters, with the quickness of birds, the moment they
descried the form of a man, leaped back into the basket, and were drawn
up into the sky.

Lamenting his ill-luck, Waupee gazed longingly upon the fairy basket as
it ascended and bore the lovely sisters from his view. "They are gone,"
he said, "and I shall see them no more."

He returned to his solitary lodge, but he found no relief to his mind.
He walked abroad, but to look at the sky, which had withdrawn from his
sight the only being he had ever loved, was painful to him now.

The next day, selecting the same hour, the White Hawk went back to the
prairie, and took his station near the ring; in order to deceive the
sisters, he assumed the form of an opossum, and sat among the grass as
if he were there engaged in chewing the cud. He had not waited long when
he saw the cloudy basket descend, and heard the same sweet music
falling as before. He crept slowly toward the ring; but the instant the
sisters caught sight of him they were startled, and sprang into their
car. It rose a short distance when one of the elder sisters spoke:

"Perhaps," she said, "it is come to show us how the game is played by
mortals."

"Oh no," the youngest replied; "quick, let us ascend."

And all joining in a chant, they rose out of sight.

Waupee, casting off his disguise, walked sorrowfully back to his
lodge--but ah, the night seemed very long to lonely White Hawk! His
whole soul was filled with the thought of the beautiful sister.

Betimes, the next day, he returned to the haunted spot, hoping and
fearing, and sighing as though his very soul would leave his body in its
anguish. He reflected upon the plan he should follow to secure success.
He had already failed twice; to fail a third time would be fatal. Near
by he found an old stump, much covered with moss, and just then in use
as the residence of a number of mice, who had stopped there on a
pilgrimage to some relatives on the other side of the prairie. The White
Hawk was so pleased with their tidy little forms that he thought he,
too, would be a mouse, especially as they were by no means formidable
to look at, and would not be at all likely to create alarm.

He accordingly, having first brought the stump and set it near the ring,
without further notice became a mouse, and peeped and sported about, and
kept his sharp little eyes busy with the others; but he did not forget
to keep one eye up toward the sky, and one ear wide open in the same
direction.

It was not long before the sisters, at their customary hour, came down
and resumed their sport.

"But see," cried the younger sister, "that stump was not there before."

She ran off, frightened, toward the basket. Her sisters only smiled, and
gathering round the old tree-stump, they struck it, in jest, when out
ran the mice, and among them Waupee. They killed them all but one, which
was pursued by the younger sister. Just as she had raised a silver stick
which she held in her hand to put an end to it, too, the form of the
White Hawk arose, and he clasped his prize in his arms. The other eleven
sprang to their basket, and were drawn up to the skies.

Waupee exerted all his skill to please his bride and win her affections.
He wiped the tears from her eyes; he related his adventures in the
chase; he dwelt upon the charms of life on the earth. He was constant in
his attentions, keeping fondly by her side, and picking out the way for
her to walk as he led her gently toward his lodge. He felt his heart
glow with joy as he entered it, and from that moment he was one of the
happiest of men.

Winter and summer passed rapidly away, and as the spring drew near with
its balmy gales and its many-colored flowers, their happiness was
increased by the presence of a beautiful boy in their lodge. What more
of earthly blessing was there for them to enjoy?

Waupee's wife was a daughter of one of the stars; and as the scenes of
earth began to pall upon her sight, she sighed to revisit her father.
But she was obliged to hide these feelings from her husband. She
remembered the charm that would carry her up, and while White Hawk was
engaged in the chase, she took occasion to construct a wicker basket,
which she kept concealed. In the mean time, she collected such rarities
from the earth as she thought would please her father, as well as the
most dainty kinds of food.

One day when Waupee was absent, and all was in readiness, she went out
to the charmed ring, taking with her her little son. As they entered the
car she commenced her magical song, and the basket rose. The song was
sad, and of a lowly and mournful cadence, and as it was wafted far away
by the wind, it caught her husband's ear. It was a voice which he well
knew, and he instantly ran to the prairie Though he made breathless
speed, he could not reach the ring before his wife and child had
ascended beyond his reach. He lifted up his voice in loud appeals, but
they were unavailing. The basket still went up. He watched it till it
became a small speck, and finally it vanished in the sky. He then bent
his head down to the ground, and was miserable.

Through a long winter and a long summer Waupee bewailed his loss, but he
found no relief. The beautiful spirit had come and gone, and he should
see it no more!

He mourned his wife's loss sorely, but his son's still more; for the boy
had both the mother's beauty and the father's strength.

In the mean time his wife had reached her home in the stars, and in the
blissful employments of her father's house she had almost forgotten that
she had left a husband upon the earth. But her son, as he grew up,
resembled more and more his father, and every day he was restless and
anxious to visit the scene of his birth. His grandfather said to his
daughter, one day:

"Go, my child, and take your son down to his father, and ask him to come
up and live with us. But tell him to bring along a specimen of each kind
of bird and animal he kills in the chase."

She accordingly took the boy and descended. The White Hawk, who was
ever near the enchanted spot, heard her voice as she came down the sky.
His heart beat with impatience as he saw her form and that of his son,
and they were soon clasped in his arms.

He heard the message of the Star, and he began to hunt with the greatest
activity, that he might collect the present with all dispatch. He spent
whole nights, as well as days, in searching for every curious and
beautiful animal and bird. He only preserved a foot, a wing, or a tail
of each.

When all was ready, Waupee visited once more each favorite spot--the
hill-top whence he had been used to see the rising sun; the stream where
he had sported as a boy; the old lodge, now looking sad and solemn,
which he was to sit in no more; and last of all, coming to the magic
circle, he gazed widely around him with tearful eyes, and, taking his
wife and child by the hand, they entered the car and were drawn up--into
a country far beyond the flight of birds, or the power of mortal eye to
pierce.

Great joy was manifested upon their arrival at the starry plains. The
Star Chief invited all his people to a feast; and when they had
assembled, he proclaimed aloud that each one might continue as he was,
an inhabitant of his own dominions, or select of the earthly gifts such
as he liked best. A very strange confusion immediately arose; not one
but sprang forward. Some chose a foot, some a wing, some a tail, and
some a claw. Those who selected tails or claws were changed into
animals, and ran off; the others assumed the form of birds, and flew
away. Waupee chose a white hawk's feather. His wife and son followed his
example, and each one became a white hawk. He spread his wings, and,
followed by his wife and son, descended with the other birds to the
earth, where he is still to be found, with the brightness of the starry
plains in his eye, and the freedom of the heavenly breezes in his
wings.

India Sanskrit Firy Tales Folktales in English The Hermit's Daughter.

2009-02-07T02:51:00.000-08:00

The Hermit's Daughter.

Near a town in India called Ikshumati, on a beautiful wide river,
with trees belonging to a great forest near its banks, there dwelt
a holy man named Mana Kanaka, who spent a great part of his life
praying to God. He had lost his wife when his only child, a lovely
girl called Kadali-Garbha, was only a few months old. Kadali-Garbha
was a very happy girl, with many friends in the woods round her home,
not children like herself, but wild creatures, who knew she would
not do them any harm. They loved her and she loved them. The birds
were so tame that they would eat out of her hand, and the deer used
to follow her about in the hope of getting the bread she carried in
her pocket for them. Her father taught her all she knew, and that was
a great deal; for she could read quite learned books in the ancient
language of her native land. Better even than what she found out in
those books was what Mana Kanaka told her about the loving God of all
gods who rules the world and all that live in it. Kadali-Garbha also
learnt a great deal through her friendship with wild animals. She knew
where the birds built their nests, where the baby deer were born,
where the squirrels hid their nuts, and what food all the dwellers
in the forest liked best. She helped her father to work in their
garden in which all their own food was grown; and she loved to cook
the fruit and vegetables for Mana Kanaka and herself. Her clothes
were made of the bark of the trees in the forest, which she herself
wove into thin soft material suitable for wearing in a hot climate.

Kadali-Garbha never even thought about other children, because she had
not been used to having them with her. She was just as happy as the
day was long, and never wished for any change. But when she was about
sixteen something happened which quite altered her whole life. One
day her father had gone into the forest to cut wood, and had left
her alone. She had finished tidying the house, and got everything
ready for the midday meal, and was sitting at the door of her home,
reading to herself, with birds fluttering about her head and a pet
doe lying beside her, when she heard the noise of a horse's feet
approaching. She looked up, and there on the other side of the fence
was a very handsome young man seated on a great black horse, which he
had reined up when he caught sight of her. He looked at her without
speaking, and she looked back at him with her big black eyes full
of surprise at his sudden appearance. She made a beautiful picture,
with the green creepers covering the hut behind her, and the doe,
which had started up in fear of the horse, pressing against her.

The man was the king of the country, whose name was Dridha-Varman. He
had been hunting and had got separated from his attendants. He was very
much surprised to find anyone living in the very depths of the forest,
and was going to ask the young girl who she was, when Kadali-Garbha
saw her father coming along the path leading to his home. Jumping up,
she ran to meet him, glad that he had come; for she had never before
seen a young man and was as shy as any of the wild creatures of the
woods. Now that Mana Kanaka was with her, she got over her fright,
and felt quite safe, clinging to his arm as he and the king talked
together.

Mana Kanaka knew at once that the man on the horse was the king; and
a great fear entered his heart when he saw how Dridha-Varman looked
at his beloved only child.

"Who are you, and who is that lovely girl?" asked the king. And Mana
Kanaka answered, "I am only a humble woodcutter; and this is my only
child, whose mother has long been dead."

"Her mother must have been a very lovely woman, if her daughter is like
her," said the king. "Never before have I seen such perfect beauty."

"Her mother," replied Mana Kanaka, "was indeed what you say; and her
soul was as beautiful as the body in which it dwelt all too short
a time."

"I would have your daughter for my wife," said the king; "and if you
will give her to me, she shall have no wish ungratified. She shall have
servants to wait on her and other young girls to be her companions;
beautiful clothes to wear, the best of food to eat, horses and
carriages as many as she will, and no work to do with her own hands."

What Kadali-Garbha did was to cling closely to her father, hiding
her face on his arm and whispering, "I will not leave you: do not
send me away from you, dear father."

Mana Kanaka stroked her hair, and said in a gentle voice:

"But, dear child, your father is old, and must leave you soon. It is
a great honour for his little girl to be chosen by the king for his
bride. Do not be afraid, but look at him and see how handsome he is
and how kind he looks."

Then Kadali-Garbha looked at the king, who smiled at her and looked
so charming that her fear began to leave her. She still clung to
her father, but no longer hid her face; and Mana Kanaka begged
Kadali-Garbha to let him send her away, so that he might talk with
the king alone about the wish he had expressed to marry her. The king
consented to this, and Kadali-Garbha gladly ran away. But when she
reached the door of her home, she looked back, and knew in her heart
that she already loved the king and did not want him to go away.

It did not take long for the matter of the marriage to be settled. For
Mana Kanaka, sad though he was to lose his dear only child, was glad
that she should be a queen, and have some one to take care of her when
he was gone. After this first visit to the little house in the forest
the king came every day to see Kadali-Garbha, bringing all kinds of
presents for her. She learnt to love him so much that she became as
eager as he was for the wedding to be soon. When the day was fixed,
the king sent several ladies of his court to dress the bride in
clothes more beautiful that she had ever dreamt of; and in them she
looked more lovely even than the first day her lover had seen her.

Now amongst these ladies was a very wise woman who could see what
was going to happen; and she knew that there would be troubles for
the young queen in the palace, because many would be jealous of her
happiness. She was very much taken with the beautiful innocent girl,
and wanted to help her so much that she managed to get her alone
for a few minutes, when she said to her: "I want you to promise me
something. It is to take this packet of mustard seeds, hide it in the
bosom of your dress, and when you ride to the palace with your husband,
strew the seed along the path as you go. You know how quickly mustard
grows. Well, it will spring up soon; and if you want to come home
again, you can easily find the way by following the green shoots. Alas,
I fear they will not have time to wither before you need their help!"

Kadali-Garbha laughed when the wise woman talked about trouble coming
to her. She was so happy, she could not believe she would want to
come home again so soon. "My father can come to me when I want him,"
she said. "I need only tell my dear husband to send for him." But
for all that she took the packet of seeds and hid it in her dress.

After the wedding was over, the king mounted his beautiful horse,
and bending down, took his young wife up before him. Holding her
close to him with his right arm, he held the reins in his left hand;
and away they went, soon leaving all the attendants far behind them,
the queen scattering the mustard seed as she had promised to do. When
they arrived at the palace there were great rejoicings, and everybody
seemed charmed with the queen, who was full of eager interest in all
that she saw.

For several weeks there was nobody in the wide world so happy and
light-hearted as the bride. The king spent many hours a day with her,
and was never tired of listening to all she had to tell him about
her life in the forest with her father. Every day he gave her some
fresh proof of his love, and he never refused to do anything she
asked him to do. But presently a change came. Amongst the ladies
of the court there was a beautiful woman, who had hoped to be queen
herself, and hated Kadali-Garbha so much that she made up her mind
to get her into disgrace with the king. She asked first one powerful
person and then another to help her; but everybody loved the queen,
and the wicked woman began to be afraid that those she had told about
her wish to harm her would warn the king. So she sought about for some
one who did not know Kadali-Garbha, and suddenly remembered a wise
woman named Asoka-Mala, who lived in a cave not far from the town,
to whom many people used to go for advice in their difficulties. She
went to this woman one night, and told her a long story in which there
was not one word of truth. The young queen, she said, did not really
love the king; and with the help of her father, who was a magician,
she meant to poison him. How could this terrible thing be prevented,
she asked; and she promised that if only Asoka-Mala would help to
save Dridha-Varman, she would give her a great deal of money.

Asoka-Mala guessed at once that the story was not true, and that it
was only because the woman was jealous of the beautiful young queen
that she wished to hurt her. But she loved money very much. Instead
therefore of at once refusing to have anything to do with the matter,
she said: "Bring me fifty gold pieces now, and promise me another
fifty when the queen is sent away from the palace, and I will tell
you what to do."

The wicked woman promised all this at once. The very next night she
brought the first fifty pieces of gold to the cave, and Asoka-Mala
told her that she must get the barber, who saw the king alone every
day, to tell him he had found out a secret about the queen. "You must
tell the barber all you have already told me. But be very careful to
give some proof of your story. For if you do not do so, you will only
have wasted the fifty gold pieces you have already given to me; and,
more than that, you will be terribly punished for trying to hurt the
queen, whom everybody loves."

The wicked woman went back to the palace, thinking all the way to
herself, "How can I get a proof of what is not true?" At last an
idea came into her head. She knew that the queen loved to wander
in the forest, and that she was not afraid of the wild creatures,
but seemed to understand their language. She would tell the barber
that Kadali-Garbha was a witch and knew the secrets of the woods;
that she had been seen gathering wild herbs, some of them poisonous,
and had been heard muttering strange words to herself as she did so.

Early the next morning the cruel woman went to see the barber, and
promised him a reward if he would tell the king what she had found
out about his wife. "He won't believe you at first," she said; "but
you must go on telling him till he does. You are clever, enough,"
she added, "to make up something he will believe if what I have
thought of is no good."

The barber, who had served the king for many years, would not at first
agree to help to make him unhappy. But he too liked money very much,
and in the end he promised to see what he could do if he was well
paid for it. He was, as the wicked woman had said, clever enough;
and he knew from long experience just how to talk to his master. He
began by asking the king if he had heard of the lovely woman who was
sometimes seen by the woodmen wandering about alone in the forest,
with wild creatures following her. Remembering how he had first seen
Kadali-Garbha, Dridha-Varman at once guessed that she was the lovely
woman. But he did not tell the barber so; for he was so proud of his
dear wife's beauty that he liked to hear her praised, and wanted the
man to go on talking about her. He just said: "What is she like? Is
she tall or short, fair or dark?" The barber answered the questions
readily. Then he went on to say that it was easy to see that the lady
was as clever as she was beautiful; for she knew not only all about
animals but also about plants. "Every day," he said, "she gathers
quantities of herbs, and I have been told she makes healing medicines
of them. Some even go so far as to say she also makes poisons. But,
for my part, I do not believe that; she is too beautiful to be wicked."

The king listened, and a tiny little doubt crept into his mind about
his wife. She had never told him about the herbs she gathered, although
she often chattered about her friends in the forest. Perhaps after
all it was not Kadali-Garbha the barber was talking about. He would
ask her if she knew anything about making medicines from herbs. He did
so when they were alone together, and she said at once, "Oh, yes! My
father taught me. But I have never made any since I was married."

"Are you sure?" asked the king; and she answered laughing, "Of course,
I am: how could I be anything but sure? I have no need to think of
medicine-making, now I am the queen."

Dridha-Varman said no more at the time. But he was troubled; and
when the barber came again, he began at once to ask about the woman
who had been seen in the woods. The wicked man was delighted, and
made up a long story. He said one of the waiting women had told him
of what she had seen. The woman, he said, had followed the lady home
one day, and that home was not far from the palace. She had seen her
bending over a fire above which hung a great sauce-pan full of water,
into which she flung some of the herbs she had gathered, singing as
she did so, in a strange language.

"Could it possibly be," thought the king, "that Kadali-Garbha had
deceived him? Was she perhaps a witch after all?" He remembered that he
really did not know who she was, or who her father was. He had loved
her directly he saw her, just because she was so beautiful. What was
he to do now? He was quite sure, from the description the barber had
given of the woman in the forest, that she was his wife. He would
watch her himself in future, and say nothing to her that would make
her think he was doing so.

Although the king said nothing to his wife about what the barber had
told him, he could not treat her exactly as he did before he heard it,
and she very soon began to wonder what she had done to vex him. The
first thing she noticed was that one of the ladies of the court always
followed her when she went into the forest. She did not like this;
because she so dearly loved to be alone with the wild creatures,
and they did not come to her when any one else was near. She told
the lady to go away, and she pretended to do so; but she only kept
a little further off. And though the queen could no longer see her,
she knew she was there, and so did the birds and the deer. This went
on for a little time; and then Kadali-Garbha asked her husband to
tell every one that she was not to be disturbed when she went to see
her friends in the forest.

"I am afraid," said the king, "that some harm will come to you. There
are wild beasts in the depths of the wood who might hurt you. And
what should I do if any harm came to my dear one?"

Kadali-Garbha was grieved when Dridha-Varman said this, for she knew
it was not true; and she looked at him so sadly that he felt ashamed
of having doubted her. All would perhaps have been well even now,
if he had told her of the story he had heard about her, because then
she could have proved that it was not true. But he did not do that;
he only said, "I cannot let you be alone so far from home. Why not
be content with the lovely gardens all round the palace? If you still
wish to go to the woods, I will send one of the game-keepers with you
instead of the lady who has been watching you. Then he can protect
you if any harmful creature should approach."

"If my lord does not wish me to be alone in the forest," answered the
queen, "I will be content with the gardens. For no birds or animals
would come near me if one of their enemies were with me. But," she
added, as her eyes filled with tears, "will not my lord tell me why
he no longer trusts his wife, who loves him with all her heart?"

The king was very much touched by what Kadali-Garbha said, but still
could not make up his mind to tell her the truth. So he only embraced
her fondly, and said she was a good little wife to be so ready to
obey him. The queen went away very sadly, wondering to herself what
she could do to prove to her dear lord that she loved him as much as
ever. She took care never to go outside the palace gardens, but she
longed very much for her old freedom, and began to grow pale and thin.

The wicked woman who had tried to do her harm was very much
disappointed that she had only succeeded in making her unhappy; so
she went again to Asoka-Mala, and promised her more money if only she
would think of some plan to get the king to send his wife away. The
wise woman considered a long time, and then she said: "You must use
the barber again. He goes from house to house, and he must tell the
king that the beautiful woman, who used to roam about in the forest
collecting herbs, has been seen there again in the dead of the night,
when she could be sure no one would find out what she was doing."

Now it so happened that Kadali-Garbha was often unable to sleep because
of her grief that the king did not love her so much as he used to
do. One night she got so tired of lying awake that she got up very
quietly, so as not to disturb her husband, and putting on her sari,
she went out into the gardens, hoping that the fresh air might help
her to sleep. Presently the king too woke up, and finding that his
wife was no longer beside him, he became very uneasy, and was about to
go and seek her, when she came back. He asked her where she had been;
and she told him exactly what had happened, but she did not explain
why she could not sleep.

When the barber was shaving the king the next morning, he told him he
had heard that people were saying the beautiful woman had been seen
again one night, gathering herbs and muttering to herself. "They talk,
my lord," said the man, "of your own name having been on her lips;
and those who love and honour you are anxious for your safety. Maybe
the woman is indeed a witch, who for some reason of her own will try
to poison you."

Now Dridha-Varman remembered that Kadali-Garbha had left him the
night before, "and perhaps," he thought, "at other times when I was
asleep." He could scarcely wait until the barber had finished shaving
him, so eager was he to find out the truth. He hurried to his wife's
private room, but she was not there; and her ladies told him she had
not been seen by them that day. This troubled him terribly, and he
roused the whole palace to seek her. Messengers were soon hurrying
to and fro, but not a trace of her could be found. Dridha-Varman
was now quite sure that the woman the barber had talked about was
Kadali-Garbha, the wife he had so loved and trusted. "Perhaps," he
thought, "she has left poison in my food, and has gone away so as
not to see me die." He would neither eat nor drink, and he ordered
all the ladies whose duty it was to wait on the queen to be locked
up till she was found. Amongst them was the wicked woman who had done
all the mischief because of her jealousy of the beautiful young queen,
and very much she wished she had never tried to harm her.

In her trouble about the loss of the king's love Kadali-Garbha longed
for her father, for she felt sure he would be able to help her. So
she determined to go to him. With the aid of the wise woman who
had given her the packet of mustard seed, and who had been her best
friend at court, she disguised herself as a messenger, and, mounted
on a strong little pony, she sped along the path marked out by the
young shoots of mustard, reaching her old home in the forest before
the night fell. Great indeed was the joy of Mana Kanaka at the sight
of his beloved child, and very soon she had poured out all her sorrow
to him. The hermit was at first very much enraged with his son-in-law
for the way in which he had treated Kadali-Garbha, and declared that
he would use all the powers he had to punish him. "Never," he said,
"shall he see your dear face again; but I will go to him and call
down on him all manner of misfortunes. You know not, dear child,
I have never wished you to know, that I am a magician and can make
the very beasts of the field and the winds of heaven obey me. I know
full well who has made this mischief between you and your husband,
and I will see that punishment overtakes them."

"No, no, father," cried Kadali-Garbha; "I will not have any harm done
to my dear one, for I love him with all my heart. All I ask of you
is to prove to him that I am innocent of whatever fault he thinks I
have committed, and to make him love and trust me again."

It was hard work to persuade Mana Kanaka to promise not to harm the
king, but in the end he yielded. Together the father and daughter
rode back to the palace, and together they were brought before
Dridha-Varman, who, in spite of the anger he had felt against his
wife, was overjoyed to see her. When he looked at her clinging to Mana
Kanaka's arm, as she had done the first time they met, all his old
love returned, and he would have taken her in his arms and told her so
before the whole court, if she had not drawn back. It was Mana Kanaka
who was the first to speak. Drawing himself up to his full height,
and pointing to the king, he charged him with having broken his vow
to love and protect his wife. "You have listened to lying tongues,"
he said, "and I will tell you to whom those tongues belong, that
justice may be done to them."

Once more Kadali-Garbha interfered. "No, father," she said; "let
their names be forgotten: only prove to my lord that I am his loving
faithful wife, and I will be content."

"I need no proof," cried Dridha-Varman; "but lest others should follow
their evil example, I will have vengeance on the slanderers. Name them,
and their doom shall be indeed a terrible one."

Then Mana Kanaka told the king the whole sad story; and when it was
ended the wicked woman who had first thought of injuring the queen,
and the barber who had helped her, were sent for to hear their doom,
which was---to be shut up for the rest of their lives in prison. This
was changed to two years only, because Kadali-Garbha was generous
enough to plead for them. As for the third person in the plot, the
old witch of the cave, not a word was said about her by anybody. Mana
Kanaka knew well enough what her share in the matter had been; but
magicians and witches are careful not to make enemies of each other,
and so he held his peace.

Dridha-Varman was so grateful to his father-in-law for bringing his
wife back to him, that he wanted him to stop at court, and said he
would give him a very high position there. But Mana Kanaka refused
every reward, declaring that he loved his little home in the forest
better than the grand rooms he might have had in the palace. "All I
wish for," he said, "is my dear child's happiness. I hope you will
never again listen to stories against your wife. If you do, you may
be very sure that I shall hear of it; and next time I know that you
have been unkind to her I will punish you as you deserve."

The king was obliged to let Mana Kanaka go, but after this he took
Kadali-Garbha to see her father in the forest very often. Later, when
the queen had some children of her own, their greatest treat was to
go to the little home, in the depths of the wood. They too learnt to
love animals, and had a great many pets, but none of those pets were
kept in cages.

A Clever Thief | Largest Collection Fairy Tales India

2009-02-07T02:50:00.000-08:00

A Clever Thief.

A certain man, named Hari-Sarman, who lived in a little village
in India, where there were no rich people and everyone had to work
hard to get his daily bread, got very weary of the life he had to
lead. He had a wife whose name was Vidya, and a large family; and
even if he had been very industrious it would have been difficult for
him to get enough food for them all. Unfortunately he was not a bit
industrious, but very lazy, and so was his wife. Neither of them made
any attempt to teach their boys and girls to earn their own living;
and if the other poor people in the village had not helped them,
they would have starved. Hari-Sarman used to send his children out
in different directions to beg or steal, whilst he and Vidya stayed
at home doing nothing.

One day he said to his wife: "Let us leave this stupid place, and
go to some big city where we can pick up a living of some kind. I
will pretend to be a wise man, able to find out secrets; and you
can say that you know all about children, having had so many of
your own." Vidya gladly agreed to this, and the whole party set out,
carrying the few possessions they had with them. In course of time they
came to a big town, and Hari-Sarman went boldly to the chief house in
it, leaving his wife and children outside. He asked to see the master,
and was taken into his presence. This master was a very rich merchant,
owning large estates in the country; but he cannot have been very
clever, for he was at once quite taken in by the story Hari-Sarman
told him. He said that he would find work for him and his wife, and
that the children could be sent to a farm he had, in the country,
where they could be made very useful.

Overjoyed at this, Hari-Sarman hastened out to tell his wife the good
news; and the two were at once received into the grand residence,
in which a small room was given to them for their own, whilst the
children were taken away to the farm, fall of eager delight at the
change from the wretched life they had been leading.

Soon after the arrival of the husband and wife at the merchant's
house, a very important event took place, namely, the marriage of
the eldest daughter. Great were the preparations beforehand, in which
Vidya took her full share, helping in the kitchen to make all manner
of delicious dishes, and living in great luxury herself. For there
was no stint in the wealthy home; even the humblest servants were
well cared for. Vidya was happier than she had ever been before, now
that she had plenty to do and plenty of good food. She became in fact
quite a different creature, and began to wish she had been a better
mother to her children. "When the wedding is over," she thought,
"I will go and see how they are getting on." On the other hand she
forgot all about her husband and scarcely ever saw him.

It was all very different with Hari-Sarman himself. He had no
special duties to perform and nobody seemed to want him. If he went
into the kitchen, the busy servants ordered him to get out of their
way; and he was not made welcome by the owner of the house or his
guests. The merchant too forgot all about him, and he felt very
lonely and miserable. He had been thinking to himself how much he
would enjoy all the delicious food he would get after the wedding;
and now he began to grumble: "I'm starving in the midst of plenty,
that's what I am. Something will have to be done to change this
horrible state of things."

Whilst the preparations for the wedding were going on, Vidya never
came near her husband, and he lay awake a long time thinking,
"What in the world can I do to make the master send for me?" All of
a sudden an idea came into his head. "I'll steal something valuable,
and hide it away; and when everyone is being asked about the loss,
the merchant will remember the man who can reveal secrets. Now what
can I take that is sure to be missed? I know, I know!" And springing
out of bed, he hastily dressed himself and crept out of the house.

This was what Hari-Sarman decided to do. The merchant had a great many
very beautiful horses, which lived in splendid stables and were taken
the greatest possible care of. Amongst them was a lovely little Arab
mare, the special favourite of the bride, who often went to pet it and
give it sugar. "I'll steal that mare and hide it away in the forest,"
said the wicked man to himself. "Then, when every one is hunting for
her, the master will remember the man who can reveal secrets and send
for me. Ah! Ah! What a clever fellow I am! Ah the stablemen and grooms
are feasting, I know; for I saw them myself when I tried to get hold
of my wife. I can climb through a window that is always left open." It
turned out that he was right. He met no one on his way to the stables,
which ware quite deserted. He got in easily, opened, the door from
inside, and led out the little mare, which made no resistance; she
had always been so kindly treated that she was not a bit afraid. He
took the beautiful creature far into the depths of the forest, tied
her up there, and got safely back to his own room without being seen.

Early the next morning the merchant's daughter, attended by her
maidens, went to see her dear little mare, taking with her an extra
supply of sugar. What was her distress when she found the stall
empty! She guessed at once that a thief had got in during the night,
and hurried home to tell her father, who was very, very angry with the
stablemen who had deserted their posts, and declared they should all be
flogged for it. "But the first thing to do is to get the mare back,"
he said; and he ordered messengers to be sent in every direction,
promising a big reward to anyone who brought news of the mare.

Vidya of course heard all there was to hear, and at once suspected
that Hari-Sarman had had something to do with the matter. "I expect he
has hidden the mare," she thought to herself, "and means to get the
reward for finding it." So she asked to see the master of the house,
and when leave was granted to her she said to him:

"Why do you not send for my husband, the man who can reveal secrets,
because of the wonderful power that has been given him of seeing
what is hidden from others? Many a time has he surprised me by what
he has been able to do."

On hearing what Vidya said, the merchant at once told her to go
and fetch her husband. But to her surprise Hari-Sarman refused to
go back with her. "You can tell the master what you like," he said,
angrily. "You all forgot me entirely yesterday; and now you want me
to help you, you suddenly remember my existence. I am not going to
be at your beck and call or anyone else's."

Vidya entreated him to listen to reason, but it was no good. She had
to go back and tell the merchant that he would not come. Instead of
being made angry by this, however, the master surprised her by saying:
"Your husband is right. I have treated him badly. Go and tell him I
apologise, and will reward him well, if only he will come and help me."

Back again went Vidya and this time she was more successful. But though
Hari-Sarman said he would go back with her, he was very sulky and
would not answer any of her questions. She could not understand him,
and wished she had not left him to himself for so long. He behaved
very strangely too when the master, who received him very kindly,
asked him if he could tell him where the mare was. "I know," he said,
"what a wise and clever man you are."

"It didn't seem much like it yesterday," grumbled Hari-Sarman. "Nobody
took any notice of me then, but now you want something of me, you
find out that I am wise and clever. I am just the same person, that
I was yesterday."

"I know, I know," said the merchant, "and I apologise for my neglect;
but when a man's daughter is going to be married, it's no wonder some
one gets neglected."

Hari-Sarman now thought it was time to take a different tone. So he
put his hand in his pocket, and brought out a map he had got ready
whilst waiting to be sent for, as he had felt sure he would be. He
spread it out before the merchant, and pointed to a dark spot in
the midst of many lines crossing each other in a bewildering manner,
which he explained were pathways through the forest. "Under a tree,
where that dark spot is, you will find the mare," he said.

Overjoyed at the good news, the merchant at once sent a trusted servant
to test the truth; and when the mare was brought back, nothing seemed
too good for the man who had led to her recovery. At the wedding
festivities Hari-Sarman was treated as an honoured guest, and no
longer had he any need to complain of not having food enough. His
wife of course thought he would forgive her now for having neglected
him. But not a bit of it: he still sulked with her, and she could
never feel quite sure what the truth was about the mare.

All went well with Hari-Sarman for a long time. But presently something
happened which seemed likely to get him into very great trouble. A
quantity of gold and many valuable jewels disappeared in the palace of
the king of the country; and when the thief could not be discovered,
some one told the king the story of the stolen mare, and how a man
called Hari-Sarman, living in the house of a rich merchant in the
chief city, had found her when everyone else had failed.

"Fetch that man here at once," ordered the king, and very soon
Hari-Sarman was brought before him. "I hear you are so wise, you can
reveal all secrets," said the king. "Now tell me immediately who has
stolen the gold and jewels and where they are to be found."

Poor Hari-Sarman did not know what to say or do. "Give me till
to-morrow," he replied in a faltering voice; "I must have a little
time to think."

"I will not give you a single hour," answered the king. For seeing
the man before him was frightened, he began to suspect he was a
deceiver. "If you do not at once tell me where the gold and jewels are,
I will have you flogged until you find your tongue."

Hearing this, Hari-Sarman, though more terrified than ever, saw
that his only chance of gaining time to make up some story was to
get the king to believe in him. So he drew himself up and answered:
"The wisest magicians need to employ means to find out the truth. Give
me twenty-four hours, and I will name the thieves."

"You are not much of a magician if you cannot find out such a simple
thing as I ask of you," said the king. And turning to the guards,
he ordered them to take Hari-Sarman to prison, and shut him up there
without food or drink till he came to his senses. The man was dragged
away, and very soon he found himself alone in a dark and gloomy room
from which he saw no hope of escape.

He was in despair and walked up and down, trying in vain to think of
some way of escape. "I shall die here of starvation, unless my wife
finds some means of setting me free," he said. "I wish I had treated
her better instead of being so sulky with her." He tried the bars
of the window, but they were very strong: he could not hope to move
them. And he beat against the door, but no notice was taken of that.

When it got quite dark in the prison, Hari-Sarman began to talk to
himself aloud. "Oh," he said, "I wish I had bitten my tongue out
before I told that lie about the mare. It is all my foolish tongue
which has got me into this trouble. Tongue! Tongue!" he went on,
"it is all your fault."

Now a very strange thing happened. The money and jewels had been
stolen by a man, who had been told where they were by a young servant
girl in the palace whose name was Jihva, which is the Sanskrit word
for tongue; and this girl was in a great fright when she heard that a
revealer of secrets had been taken before the king. "He will tell of
my share in the matter," she thought, "and I shall get into trouble,"
It so happened that the guard at the prison door was fond of her,
as well as the thief who had stolen the money and jewels. So when
all was quiet in the palace, Jihva slipped away to see if she could
get that guard to let her see the prisoner. "If I promise to give him
part of the money," she thought, "he will undertake not to betray me."

The guard was glad enough when Jihva came to talk to him, and he
let her listen at the key-hole to what Hari-Sarman was saying. Just
imagine her astonishment when she heard him repeating her name again
and again. "Jihva! Jihva! Thou," he cried, "art the cause of this
suffering. Why didst thou behave in such a foolish manner, just for
the sake of the good things of this life? Never can I forgive thee,
Jihva, thou wicked, wicked one!"

"Oh! oh!" cried Jihva in an agony of terror, "he knows the truth;
he knows that I helped the thief." And she entreated the guard to
let her into the prison that she might plead with Hari-Sarman. not to
tell the king what she had done. The man hesitated at first, but in
the end she persuaded him to consent by promising him a large reward.

When the key grated in the lock, Hari-Sarman stopped talking aloud,
wondering whether what he had been saying had been overheard by the
guard, and half hoping that his wife had got leave to come and see
him. As the door opened and he saw a woman coming in by the light
of a lantern held up by the guard, he cried, "Vidya my beloved!" But
he soon realized that it was a stranger. He was indeed surprised and
relieved, when Jihva suddenly threw herself at his feet and, clinging
to his knees, began to weep and moan "Oh, most holy man," she cried
between her sobs, "who knowest the very secrets of the heart, I have
come to confess that it was indeed I, Jihva, your humble servant,
who aided the thief to take the jewels and the gold and to hide them
beneath the big pomegranate tree behind the palace."

"Rise," replied Hari-Sarman, overjoyed at hearing this. "You have told
me nothing that I did not know, for no secret is hidden from me. What
reward will you give me if I save you from the wrath of the king?"

"I will give you all the money I have," said Jihva; "and that is not
a little."

"That also I knew," said Hari-Sarman. "For you have good wages, and
many a time you have stolen money that did not belong to you. Go now
and fetch it all, and have no fear that I will betray you."

Without waiting a moment Jihva hurried away to fetch the money; but
when she got back with it, the man on guard, who had heard everything
that had passed between her and Hari-Sarman, would not let her in to
the prison again till she gave him ten gold pieces. Thinking that
Hari-Sarman really knew exactly how much money she had, Jihva was
afraid he would be angry when he missed some of it; and again she let
out the truth, which he might never have guessed. For she began at
once to say, "I brought all I had, but the man at the door has taken
ten pieces." This did vex Hari-Sarman very much, and he told her he
would let the king know what she had done, unless she fetched the thief
who had taken the money and jewels. "I cannot do that," said Jihva,
"for he is very far away. He lives with his brother, Indra Datta, in
the forest beyond the river, more than a day's journey from here." "I
did but try you," said the clever Hari-Sarman, who now knew who the
thief was; "for I can see him where he is at this moment. Now go home
and wait there till I send for you."

But Jihva, who loved the thief and did not want him to be punished,
refused to go until Hari-Sarman promised that he would not tell the
king who the man was or where he lived. "I would rather," she said,
"bear all the punishment than that he should suffer." Even Hari-Sarman
was touched at this, and fearing that if he kept Jihva longer, she
would be found in the prison by messengers from the king, he promised
that no harm should come to her or the thief, and let her go.

Very soon after this, messengers came to take Hari-Sarman once more
before the king; who received him very coldly and began at once to
threaten him with a terrible punishment, if he did not say who the
thief was, and where the gold and jewels were. Even now Hari-Sarman
pretended to be unwilling to speak. But when he saw that the king would
put up with no more delay, he said, "I will lead you to the spot where
the treasure is buried, but the name of the thief, though I know it,
I will never betray." The king, who did not really care much who
the thief was, so long as he got back his money, lost not a moment,
but ordered his attendants to get spades and follow him. Very soon
Hari-Sarman brought them to the pomegranate tree. And there, sure
enough, deep down in the ground, was all that had been lost.

Nothing was now too good for Hari-Sarman: the king was greatly
delighted, and heaped riches and honours upon him. But some of the
wise men at the court suspected that he was really a deceiver, and
set about trying to find out all they could about him. They sent
for the man who had been on guard at the prison, and asked him many
questions. He did not dare tell the truth, for he knew he would be
terribly punished if he let out that Jihva had been allowed to see
his prisoner; but he hesitated so much that the wise men knew he
was not speaking the truth. One of them, whom the king loved, and
trusted very much, whose name was Deva-Jnanin, said to his master:
"I do not like to see that man, about whom we really know nothing,
treated as he is. He might easily have found out where the treasure
was hidden without any special power. Will you not test him in some
other way in my presence and that of your chief advisers?"

The king, who was always ready to listen to reason, agreed to this;
and after a long consultation with Deva-Jnanin, he decided on a very
clever puzzle with which to try Hari-Sarman. A live frog was put into
a pitcher; the lid was shut down, and the man who pretended to know
everything was brought into the great reception room, where all the
wise men of the court were gathered together round the throne, on
which sat the king in his royal robes. Deva-Jnanin had been chosen
by his master to speak for him; and coming forward, he pointed to
the small pitcher on the ground, and said: "Great as are the honours
already bestowed on you, they shall be increased if you can say at
once what is in that pitcher."

Hari-Sarman thought whan he looked at the pitcher: "Alas, alas, it
is all over with me now! Never can I find out what is in it. Would
that I had left this town with the money I had from Jihva before it
was too late!" Then he began to mutter to himself, as it was always
his habit to do when he was in trouble. It so happened that, when
he was a little boy, his father used to call him frog, and now his
thoughts went back to the time when he was a happy innocent child,
and he said aloud: "Oh, frog, what trouble has come to you! That
pitcher will be the death of you!"

Even Deva-Jnanin was astonished when he heard that; and so were all
the other wise men. The king was delighted to find that after all he
had made no mistake; and all the people who had been allowed to come
in to see the trial were greatly excited. Shouting for joy the king
called Hari-Sarman to come to the foot of the throne, and told him he
would never, never doubt him again. He should have yet more money, a
beautiful house in the country as well as the one he already had in the
town, and his children should be brought from the farm to live with him
and their mother, who should have lovely dresses and ornaments to wear.

Nobody was more surprised than Hari-Sarman himself. He guessed, of
course, that there was a frog in the pitcher. And when the king had
ended his speech, he said: "One thing I ask in addition to all that
has been given me, that I may keep the pitcher in memory of this day,
when my truth has been proved once more beyond a doubt."

His request was, of course, granted; and he went off with the pitcher
under his arm, full of rejoicing over his narrow escape. At the same
time he was also full of fear for the future. He knew only too well
that it had only been by a lucky chance that he had used the word
Jihva in his first danger and Frog in the second. He was not likely
to get off a third time; and he made up his mind that he would skip
away some dark night soon, with all the money and jewels he could
carry, and be seen no more where such strange adventures had befallen
him. He did not even tell his wife what he meant to do, but pretended
to have forgiven her entirely for the way she had neglected him when
he was poor, and to be glad that their children were to be restored
to them. Before they came from the farm their father had disappeared,
and nobody ever found out what had become of him; but the king let
his family keep what had been given to him, and to the end believed
he really had been what he had pretended to be. Only Deva-Jnanin had
his doubts; but he kept them to himself, for he thought, "Now the
man is gone, it really does not matter who or what he was."

Fairies tales A Crow and His Three Friends

2009-02-07T02:48:00.000-08:00

Fairies and Indian Tales
A Crow and His Three Friends

In the branches of a great tree, in a forest in India, lived a
wise old crow in a very comfortable, well-built nest. His wife was
dead, and all his children were getting their own living; so he had
nothing to do but to look after himself. He led a very easy existence,
but took a great interest in the affairs of his neighbours. One day,
popping his head over the edge of his home, he saw a fierce-looking man
stalking along, carrying a stick in one hand and a net in the other.

"That fellow is up to some mischief, I'll be bound," thought the crow:
"I will keep my eye on him." The man stopped under the tree, spread
the net on the ground; and taking a bag of rice out of his pocket,
he scattered the grains amongst the meshes of the net. Then he hid
himself behind the trunk of the tree from which the crow was watching,
evidently intending to stop there and see what would happen. The
crow felt pretty gore that the stranger had designs against birds,
and that the stick had something to do with the matter. He was quite
right; and it was not long before just what he expected came to pass.

A flock of pigeons, led by a specially fine bird who had been chosen
king because of his size and the beauty of his plumage, came flying
rapidly along, and noticed the white rice, but did not see the net,
because it was very much the same colour as the ground. Down swooped
the king, and down swept all the other pigeons, eager to enjoy a good
meal without any trouble to themselves. Alas, their joy was short
lived! They were all caught in the net and began struggling to escape,
beating the air with their wings and uttering loud cries of distress.

The crow and the man behind the tree kept very quiet, watching them;
the man with his stick ready to beat the poor helpless birds to
death, the crow watching out of mere curiosity. Now a very strange
and wonderful thing came to pass. The king of the pigeons, who had
his wits about him, said to the imprisoned birds:

"Take the net up in your beaks, all of you spread out your wings at
once, and fly straight up into the air as quickly as possible."

In a moment all the pigeons, who were accustomed to obey their leader,
did as they were bid; each little bird seized a separate thread of the
net in his beak and up, up, up, they all flew, looking very beautiful
with the sunlight gleaming on their white wings. Very soon they were
out of sight; and the man, who thought he had hit upon a very clever
plan, came forth from his hiding-place, very much surprised at what
had happened. He stood gazing up after his vanished net for a little
time, and then went away muttering to himself, whilst the wise old
crow laughed at him.

When the pigeons had flown some distance, and were beginning to
get exhausted, for the net was heavy and they were quite unused to
carrying loads, the king bade them rest awhile in a clearing of the
forest; and as they all lay on the ground panting for breath, with
the cruel net still hampering them, he said:

"What we must do now is to take this horrible net to my old friend
Hiranya the mouse, who will, I am quite sure, nibble through the
strings for me and set us all free. He lives, as you all know, near
the tree where the net was spread, deep underground; but there are
many passages leading to his home, and we shall easily find one of
the openings. Once there, we will all lift up our voices, and call to
him at once, when he will be sure to hear us." So the weary pigeons
took up their burden once more, and sped back whence they had come,
greatly to the surprise of the crow, who wondered at their coming
back to the very place where misfortune had overtaken them. He very
soon learnt the reason, and got so excited watching what was going
on, that he hopped out of his nest and perched upon a branch where
he could see better. Presently a great clamour arose, one word being
repeated again and again: "Hiranya! Hiranya! Hiranya."

"Why, that's the name of the mouse who lives down below there!" thought
the crow. "Now, what good can he do? I know, I know," he added, as
he remembered the sharp teeth of Hiranya. "That king of the pigeons
is a sensible fellow. I must make friends with him."

Very soon, as the pigeons lay fluttering and struggling outside one
of the entrances to Hiranya's retreat, the mouse came out. He didn't
even need to be told what was wanted, but at once began to nibble
the string, first setting free the king, and then all the rest of
the birds. "A friend in need is a friend indeed," cried the king;
"a thousand thousand thanks!" And away he flew up into the beautiful
free air of heaven, followed by the happy pigeons, none of them ever
likely to forget the adventure or to pick up food from the ground
without a good look at it first.

The mouse did not at once return to his hole when the birds were gone,
but went for a little stroll, which brought him to the ground still
strewn with rice, which he began to eat with great relish. "It's an
ill wind," he said to himself, "which brings nobody any good. There's
many a good meal for my whole family here."

Presently he was joined by the old crow, who had flown down from his
perch unnoticed by Hiranya, and now addressed him in his croaky voice:

"Hiranya," he said, "for that I know is your name, I am called
Laghupatin and I would gladly have you for a friend. I have seen all
that you did for the pigeons, and have come to the conclusion that you
are a mouse of great wisdom, ready to help those who are in trouble,
without any thought of yourself."

"You are quite wrong," squeaked Hiranya. "I am not so silly as you make
out. I have no wish to be your friend. If you were hungry, you wouldn't
hesitate to gobble me up. I don't care for that sort of affection."

With that Hiranya whisked away to his hole, pausing at the entrance,
when he knew the crow could not get at him, to cry, "You be off to
your nest and leave me alone!"

The feelings of the crow were very much hurt at this speech, the
more that he knew full well it was not exactly love for the mouse,
which had led him to make his offer, but self-interest: for who could
tell what difficulties he himself might some day be in, out of which
the mouse might help him? Instead of obeying Hiranya, and going back
to his nest, he hopped to the mouse's hole, and putting his head on
one side in what he thought was a very taking manner, he said:

"Pray do not misjudge me so. Never would I harm you! Even if I did not
wish to have you for a friend, I should not dream of gobbling you up,
as you say, however hungry I might be. Surely you are aware that I am
a strict vegetarian, and never eat the flesh of other creatures. At
least give me a trial. Let us share a meal together, and talk the
matter over."

Hiranya, on hearing the last remark of Laghupatin, hesitated, and
in the end he agreed that he would have supper with the crow that
very evening. "There is plenty of rice here," he said, "which we
can eat on the spot. It would be impossible for you to get into my
hole, and I am certainly not disposed to visit you in your nest." So
the two at once began their meal, and before it was over they had
become good friends. Not a day passed without a meeting, and when
all the rice was eaten up, each of the two would bring something to
the feast. This had gone on for some little time, when the crow,
who was fond of adventure and change, said one day to the mouse:
"Don't you think we might go somewhere else for a time? I am rather
tired of this bit of the forest, every inch of which we both know
well. I've got another great friend who lives beside a fine river
a few miles away, a tortoise named Mandharaka; a thoroughly good,
trustworthy fellow he is, though rather slow and cautious in his
ways. I should like to introduce you to him. There are quantities of
food suitable for us both where he lives, for it is a very fruitful
land. What do you say to coming with me to pay him a visit?"

"How in the world should I get there?" answered Hiranya. "It's all
very well for you, who can fly. I can't walk for miles and miles. For
all that I too am sick of this place and would like a change."

"Oh, there's no difficulty about that," replied Laghupatin. "I will
carry you in my beak, and you will get there without any fatigue at
all." To this Hiranya consented, and very early one morning the two
friends started off together.

After flying along for several hours, the crow began to feel very
tired. He was seized too with a great desire to hear his own voice
again. So he flew to the ground, laid his little companion gently down,
and gave vent to a number of hoarse cries, which quite frightened
Hiranya, who timidly asked him what was the matter.

"Nothing whatever," answered Laghupatin, "except that you are
not quite so light as I thought you were, and that I need a rest;
besides which, I am hungry and I expect you are. We had better stop
here for the night, and start again early to-morrow morning." Hiranya
readily agreed to this, and after a good meal, which was easily found,
the two settled down to sleep, the crow perched in a tree, the mouse
hidden amongst its roots. Very early the next day they were off again,
and soon arrived at the river, where they were warmly welcomed by
the tortoise. The three had a long talk together, and agreed never
to part again. The tortoise, who had lived a great deal longer than
either the mouse or the crow, was a very pleasant companion; and even
Laghupatin, who was very fond of talking himself, liked to listen to
his stories of long ago.

"I wonder," said the tortoise, whose name was Mandharaka, to the mouse,
"that you are not afraid to travel about as you have done, with your
soft little body unprotected by any armour. Look how different it
is for me; it is almost impossible for any of the wild creatures who
live near this river to hurt me, and they know it full well. See how
thick and strong my armour is. The claws even of a tiger, a wild cat
or an eagle, could not penetrate it. I am very much afraid, my little
friend, that you will be gobbled up some fine day, and Laghupatin
and I will seek for you in vain."

"Of course," said the mouse, "I know the truth of what you say;
but I can very easily hide from danger--much more easily than you or
Laghupatin. A tuft of moss or a few dead leaves are shelter enough
for me, but big fellows like you and the crow can be quite easily
seen. Nobody saw me when the pigeons were all caught except Laghupatin;
and I would have kept out of his sight if I had not known that he
did not care to eat mice."

In spite of the fears of Mandharaka, the mouse and the crow lived
as his guests for a long time without any accident; and one day they
were suddenly joined by a new companion, a creature as unlike any one
of the three friends as could possibly be imagined. This was a very
beautiful deer, who came bounding out of the forest, all eager to
escape from the hunters, by whom he had been pursued, but too weary
to reach the river, across which he had hoped to be able to swim to
safety. Just as he reached the three friends, he fell to the ground,
almost crushing the mouse, who darted away in the nick of time. Strange
to say, the hunters did not follow the deer; and it was evident that
they had not noticed the way he had gone.

The tortoise, the crow and the mouse were all very sorry for the deer,
and, as was always the case, the crow was the first to speak. "Whatever
has happened to you?" he asked. And the deer made answer:

"I thought my last hour had come this time, for the hunters were
close upon me; and even now I do not feel safe."

"I'll fly up and take a look 'round," said Laghupatin; and off he
went to explore, coming back soon, to say he had seen the hunters
disappearing a long distance off, going in quite another direction
from the river. Gradually the deer was reassured, and lay still where
he had fallen; whilst the three friends chatted away to him, telling
him of their adventures. "What you had better do," said the tortoise,
"is to join us. When you have had a good meal, and a drink from the
river, you will feel a different creature. My old friend Laghupatin
will be the one to keep watch for us all, and warn us of any danger
approaching; I will give you the benefit of my long experience;
and little Hiranya, though he is not likely to be of any use to you,
will certainly never do you any harm."

The deer was so touched by the kind way in which he had been received,
that he agreed to stop with the three friends; and for some weeks
after his arrival all went well. Each member of the party went his own
way during the day-time, but all four met together in the evening,
and took it in turns to tell their adventures. The crow always had
the most to say, and was very useful to the deer in warning him of
the presence of hunters in the forest. One beautiful moonlight night
the deer did not come back as usual, and the other three became very
anxious about him. The crow flew up to the highest tree near and
eagerly sought for some sign of his lost friend, of whom he had grown
very fond. Presently he noticed a dark mass by the river-side, just
where the deer used to go down to drink every evening. "That must be
he," thought the crow; and very soon he was hovering above the deer,
who had been caught in a net and was struggling in vain to get free.

The poor deer was very glad indeed to see the crow, and cried to
him in a piteous voice: "Be quick, be quick, and help me, before the
terrible hunters find me and kill me."

"I can do nothing for you myself," said the crow, "but I know who
can. Remember who saved the pigeons!" And away he flew to fetch
little Hiranya, who with the tortoise was anxiously awaiting his
return. Very soon Laghupatin was back by the river-side with the
little mouse in his beak; and it did not take long for Hiranya, who
had been despised by the deer and the tortoise as a feeble little
thing, to nibble through the cords and save the life of the animal
a hundred times as big as himself.

How happy the deer was when the cruel cords were loosed and he could
stretch out his limbs again! He bounded up, but took great care not
to crush the mouse, who had done him such a service. "Never, never,
never," he said, "shall I forget what you have done for me. Ask
anything in my power, and I will do it."

"I want nothing," said Hixanya, "except the joyful thought of having
saved you."

By this time the tortoise had crept to the river-bank, and he too was
glad that the deer had been saved. He praised the mouse, and declared
that he would never again look down upon him. Then the four started
to go back to their usual haunt in the forest; the deer, the crow,
and the mouse soon arriving there quite safely, whilst the tortoise,
who could only get along very slowly, lagged behind. Now came the
time for him to find out that armour was not the only thing needed
to save him from danger. He had not got very far from the riverbank
before the cruel hunter who had set the net to catch the deer, came
to see if he had succeeded. Great was his rage when he found the net
lying on the ground, but not exactly where he had left it. He guessed
at once that some animal had been caught in it and escaped after a
long struggle. He looked carefully about and noticed that the cords
had been bitten through here and there. So he suspected just what
had happened, and began to search about for any creature who could
have done the mischief.

There was not a sign of the mouse, but the slow-moving tortoise was
soon discovered, and pouncing down upon him, the hunter rolled him up
in another net he had with him, and carried him off, "It's not much of
a prize," said the hunter to himself, "but better than nothing. I'll
have my revenge on the wretched creature anyhow, as I have lost the
prey I sought."

When the tortoise in his turn did not come home, the deer, the crow
and the mouse were very much concerned. They talked the matter over
together and decided that, however great the risk to themselves, they
must go back and see what had become of their friend. This time the
mouse travelled in one of the eats of the deer, from which he peeped
forth with his bright eyes, hoping to see the tortoise toiling along
in his usual solemn manner; whilst the crow, also on the watch, flew
along beside them. Great was the surprise and terror of all three when,
as they came out of the forest, they saw the hunter striding along
towards them, with the tortoise in the net under his arm. Once more the
little mouse showed his wisdom. Without a moment's hesitation he said
to the deer: "Throw yourself on the ground and pretend to be dead;
and you," he added to the crow, "perch on his head and bend over as
if you were going to peck out his eyes."

Without any idea what Hiranya meant by these strange orders,
but remembering how he had helped in other dangers, the two did as
they were told; the poor deer feeling anything but happy lying still
where his enemy was sure to see him, and thereby proving what a noble
creature he was. The hunter did, see him very soon, and thinking to
himself, "After all I shall get that deer," he let the tortoise fall,
and came striding along as fast as he could.

Up jumped the deer without waiting to see what became of the tortoise,
and sped away like the wind. The hunter rushed after him, and the
two were soon out of sight. The tortoise, whose armour had saved
him from being hurt by his fall, was indeed pleased when he saw
little Hiranya running towards him. "Be quick, be quick!" he cried,
"and set me free." Very soon the sharp teeth of the mouse had bitten
through the meshes of the net, and before the hunter came back, after
trying in vain to catch the deer, the tortoise was safely swimming
across the river, leaving the net upon the ground, whilst the crow
and the mouse were back in the shelter of the forest.

"There's some magic at work here," said the hunter when, expecting
to find the tortoise where he had left him, he discovered that his
prisoner had escaped. "The stupid beast could not have got out alone,"
he added, as he picked up the net and walked off with it. "But he
wasn't worth keeping anyhow."

That evening the four friends met once more, and talked over all they
had gone through together. The deer and the tortoise were full of
gratitude to the mouse, and could not say enough in his praise, but
the crow was rather sulky, and remarked: "If it had not been for me,
neither of you would ever have seen Hiranya. He was my friend before
he was yours."

"You are right," said the tortoise, "and you must also remember that it
was my armour which saved me from being killed in that terrible fall."

"Your armour would not have been of much use to you, if the hunter had
been allowed to carry you to his home," said the deer. "In my opinion
you and I both owe our lives entirely to Hiranya. He is small and
weak, it is true, but he has better brains than any of the rest of us,
and I for one admire him with all my heart. I am glad I trusted him
and obeyed him, when he ordered me to pretend to be dead, for I had
not the least idea how that could help the tortoise."

"Have it your own way," croaked the crow, "but I keep my own opinion
all the same. But for me you would never have known my dear little
Hiranya."

In spite of this little dispute the four friends were soon as happy
together as before the adventure of the tortoise. They once more
agreed never to part and lived happily together for many years,
as they had done ever since they first met.

Indian Fairy Tales The Beetle and the Silken Thread

2009-02-07T02:42:00.000-08:00

Indian Fairy Tales
The Beetle and the Silken Thread

The strange adventures related in the story of the Beetle and the
Silken Thread took place in the town of Allahabad, "the City of God,"
so called because it is situated near the point of meeting of the two
sacred rivers of India, the Ganges, which the Hindus lovingly call
Mother Ganga because they believe its waters can wash away their sins,
and the Jumna, which they consider scarcely less holy.

The ruler of Allahabad was a very selfish and hot-tempered Raja named
Surya Pratap, signifying "Powerful as the Sun," who expected everybody
to obey him without a moment's delay, and was ready to punish in
a very cruel manner those who hesitated to do so. He would never
listen to a word of explanation, or own that he had been mistaken,
even when he knew full well that he was in the wrong. He had a mantri,
that is to say, a chief vizier or officer, whom he greatly trusted,
and really seemed to be fond of, for he liked to have him always near
him. The vizier was called Dhairya-Sila, or "the Patient One," because
he never lost his temper, no matter what provocation he received. He
had a beautiful house, much money and many jewels, carriages to drive
about in, noble horses to ride and many servants to wait upon him,
all given to him by his master. But what he loved best of all was
his faithful wife, Buddhi-Mati, or "the Sensible One," whom he had
chosen for himself, and who would have died for him.

Many of the Raja's subjects were jealous of Dhairya-Sila, and
constantly brought accusations against him, of none of which his master
took any notice, except to punish those who tried to set him against
his favourite. It really seemed as if nothing would ever bring harm to
Dhairya-Sila; but he often told his wife that such good fortune was not
likely to last, and that she must be prepared for a change before long.

It turned out that he was right. For one day Surya Pratap ordered
him to do what he considered would be a shameful deed. He refused;
telling his master that he was wrong to think of such a thing, and
entreating him to give up his purpose. "All your life long," he said,
"you will wish you had listened to me; for your conscience will never
let you rest!"

On hearing these brave words, Surya Pratap flew into a terrible rage,
summoned his guards, and ordered them to take Dhairya-Sila outside the
city to a very lofty tower, and leave him at the top of it, without
shelter from the sun and with nothing to eat or drink. The guards were
at first afraid to touch the vizier, remembering how others had been
punished for only speaking against him. Seeing their unwillingness,
the Raja got more and more angry; but Dhairya-Sila himself kept quite
calm, and said to the soldiers:

The guards were relieved to find they need not drag the vizier away;
for they admired his courage and felt sure that the Raja would soon
find he could not get on without him. It might go hardly with them if
he suffered harm at their hands. So they only closed in about him;
and holding himself very upright, Dhairya-Sila walked to the tower
as if he were quite glad to go. In his heart however he knew full
well that it would need all his skill to escape with his life.

When her husband did not come home at night, Buddhi-Mati was very
much distressed. She guessed at once that something had gone wrong,
and set forth to try and find out what had happened. This was easy
enough; for as she crept along, with her veil closely held about her
lest she should be recognised, she passed groups of people discussing
the terrible fate that had befallen the favourite. She decided that
she must wait until midnight, when the streets would be deserted and
she could reach the tower unnoticed. It was almost dark when she got
there, but in the dim light of the stars she made out the form of him
she loved better than herself, leaning over the edge of the railing
at the top.

"Is my dear lord still alive?" she whispered, "and is there anything
I can do to help him?"

"You can do everything that is needed to help me," answered
Dhairya-Sila quietly, "if you only obey every direction I give you. Do
not for one moment suppose that I am in despair. I am more powerful
even now than my master, who has but shown his weakness by attempting
to harm me. Now listen to me. Come to-morrow night at this very hour,
bringing with you the following things: first, a beetle; secondly,
sixty yards of the finest silk thread, as thin as a spider's web;
thirdly, sixty yards of cotton thread, as thin as you can get it,
but very strong; fourthly, sixty yards of good stout twine; fifthly,
sixty yards of rope, strong enough to carry my weight; and last,
but certainly not least, one drop of the purest bees' honey."

Buddhi-Mati listened very attentively to these strange instructions,
and began to ask questions about them. "Why do you want the beetle? Why
do you want the honey?" and so on. But her husband checked her. "I have
no strength to waste in explanations," he said. "Go home in peace,
sleep well, and dream of me." So the anxious wife went meekly away;
and early the next day she set to work to obey the orders she had
received. She had some trouble in obtaining fine enough silk, so
very, very thin it had to be, like a spider's web; but the cotton,
twine and rope were easily bought; and to her surprise she was not
asked what she wanted them for. It took her a good while to choose
the beetle. For though she had a vague kind of idea that the silk,
the cotton, twine, and rope, were to help her husband get down from
the tower, she could not imagine what share the beetle and the honey
were to take. In the end she chose a very handsome, strong-looking,
brilliantly coloured fellow who lived in the garden of her home and
whom she knew to be fond of honey.

All the time Buddhi-Mati was at work for her husband, she was thinking
of him and looking forward to the happy day of his return home. She
had such faith in him that she did not for a moment doubt that he
would escape; but she was anxious about the future, feeling sure
that the Raja would never forgive Dhairya-Sila for being wiser than
himself. Exactly at the time fixed the faithful wife appeared at the
foot of the tower, with all the things she had been told to bring
with her.

"Is all well with my lord?" she whispered, as she gazed up through
the darkness. "I have the silken thread as fine as gossamer, the
cotton thread, the twine, the rope, the beetle and the honey."

"Yes," answered Dhairya-Sila, "all is still well with me. I have
slept well, feeling confident that my dear one would bring all that
is needed for my safety; but I dread the great heat of another day,
and we must lose no time in getting away from this terrible tower. Now
attend most carefully to all I bid you do; and remember not to speak
loud, or the sentries posted within hearing will take alarm and drive
you away. First of all, tie the end of the silken thread round the
middle of the beetle, leaving all its legs quite free. Then rub the
drop of honey on its nose, and put the little creature on the wall,
with its nose turned upwards towards me. It will smell the honey, but
will not guess that it carries it itself, and it will crawl upwards in
the hope of getting to the hive from which that honey came. Keep the
rest of the silk firmly held, and gradually unwind it as the beetle
climbs up. Mind you do not let it slip, for my very life depends on
that slight link with you."

Buddhi-Mati, though her hands shook and her heart beat fast as
she realized all that depended on her, kept the silk from becoming
entangled; and when it was nearly all unwound, she heard her husband's
voice saying to her: "Now tie the cotton thread to the end of the
silk that you hold, and let it gradually unwind." She obeyed, fully
understanding now what all these preparations were for.

When the little messenger of life reached the top of the tower,
Dhairya-Sila took it up in his hand and very gently unfastened the
silken thread from its body. Then he placed the beetle carefully in
a fold of his turban, and began to pull the silken thread up--very,
very slowly, for if it had broken, his wonderful scheme would have
come to an end. Presently he had the cotton thread in his fingers,
and he broke off the silk, wound it up, and placed it too in his
turban. It had done its duty well, and he would not throw it away.

"Half the work is done now," he whispered to his faithful wife. "You
have all but saved me now. Take the twine and tie it to the end of
the cotton thread."

Very happily Buddhi-Mati obeyed once more; and soon the cotton thread
and twine were also laid aside, and the strong rope tied to the last
was being quickly dragged up by the clever vizier, who knew that all
fear of death from sunstroke or hunger was over. When he had all the
rope on the tower, he fastened one end of it to the iron railing which
ran round the platform on which he stood, and very quickly slid down
to the bottom, where his wife was waiting for him, trembling with joy.

After embracing his wife and thanking her for saving him, the vizier
said to her: "Before we return home, let us give thanks to the great
God who helped me in my need by putting into my head the device
by which I escaped." The happy pair then prostrated themselves
on the ground, and in fervent words of gratitude expressed their
sense of what the God they worshipped had done for them. "And now,"
said Dhairya-Sila, "the next thing we have to do is to take the dear
little beetle which was the instrument of my rescue back to the place
it came from." And taking off his turban, he showed his wife the tiny
creature lying in the soft folds.

Buddhi-Mati led her husband to the garden where she had found the
beetle, and Dhairya-Sila laid it tenderly on the ground, fetched some
food for it, such as he knew it loved, and there left it to take up
its old way of life. The rest of the day he spent quietly in his own
home with his wife, keeping out of sight of his servants, lest they
should report his return to his master. "You must never breathe a
word to any one of how I escaped," Dhairya-Sila said, and his wife
promised that she never would.

All this time the Raja was feeling very unhappy, for he thought he
had himself caused the death of the one man he could trust. He was too
proud to let anybody know that he missed Dhairya-Sila, and was longing
to send for him from the tower before it was too late. What then was
his relief and surprise when a message was brought to him that the
vizier was at the door of the palace and begged for an interview.

"Bring him in at once," cried Surya Pratap. And the next moment
Dhairya-Sila stood before his master, his hands folded on his breast
and his head bent in token of his submission. The attendants looked
on, eager to know how he had got down from the tower, some of them
anything but glad to see him back. The Raja took care not to show
how delighted he was to see him, and pretending to be angry, he said:

"How dare you come into my presence, and which of my subjects has
ventured to help you to escape the death on the tower you so richly
deserved?"

"None of your subjects, great and just and glorious ruler," replied
Dhairya-Sila, "but the God who created us both, making you my
master and me your humble servant. It was that God," he went on,
"who saved me, knowing that I was indeed guiltless of any crime
against you. I had not been long on the tower when help came to me
in the form of a great and noble eagle, which appeared above me,
hovering with outspread wings, as if about to swoop down upon me and
tear me limb from limb. I trembled greatly, but I need have had no
fear; for instead of harming me, the bird suddenly lifted me up in
its talons and, flying rapidly through the air, landed me upon the
balcony of my home and disappeared. Great indeed was the joy of my
wife at my rescue from what seemed to be certain death; but I tore
myself away from her embraces, to come and tell my lord how heaven
had interfered to prove my innocence."

Fully believing that a miracle had taken place, Surya Pratap asked
no more questions, but at once restored Dhairya-Sila to his old
place as vizier, taking care not again to ill-treat the man he now
believed to be under the special care of God. Though he certainly did
not deserve it, the vizier prospered greatly all the rest of his life
and as time went on he became the real ruler of the kingdom, for the
Raja depended on his advice in everything. He grew richer and richer,
but he was never really happy again, remembering the lie he had told to
the master to whom he owed so much. Buddhi-Mati could never understand
why he made up the story about the eagle, and constantly urged him to
tell the truth. She thought it was really far more wonderful that a
little beetle should have been the means of rescuing him, than that
a strong bird should have done so; and she wanted everyone to know
what a very clever husband she had. She kept her promise never to tell
anyone what really happened, but the secret came out for all that. By
the time it was known, however, Dhairya-Sila was so powerful that no
one could harm him, and when he died his son took his place as vizier,

Translated hindi Kahani Folktale For Children : The Jewelled Arrow.

2009-02-07T02:35:00.000-08:00

Translated hindi Kahani Folktale For Children
The Jewelled Arrow.

In the city of Vardhamana in India there lived a powerful king named
Vira-Bhuja, who, as was the custom in his native land, had many wives,
each of whom had several sons. Of all his wives this king loved best
the one named Guna-Vara, and of all his sons her youngest-born, called
Sringa-Bhuja, was his favourite. Guna-Vara was not only very beautiful
but very good. She was so patient that nothing could make her angry,
so unselfish that she always thought of others before herself, and
so wise that she was able to understand how others were feeling,
however different their natures were from her own.

Sringa-Bhuja, the son of Guna-Vara, resembled his mother in her beauty
and her unselfishness; he was also very strong and very clever, whilst
his brothers were quite unlike him. They wanted to have everything
their own way, and they were very jealous indeed of their father's
love for him. They were always trying to do him harm, and though they
often quarrelled amongst themselves, they would band together to try
and hurt him.

It was very much the same with the king's wives. They hated Guna-Vara,
because their husband loved her more than he did them, and they
constantly came to him with stories they had made up of the wicked
things she had done. Amongst other things they told the king that
Guna-Vara did not really love him but cared more for some one else
than she did for him. The most bitter of all against her was the
wife called Ayasolekha, who was cunning enough to know what sort of
tale the king was likely to believe. The very fact that Vira-Bhuja
loved Guna-Vara so deeply made him more ready to think that perhaps
after all she did not return his affection, and he longed to find
out the truth. So he in his turn made up a story, thinking by its
means to find out how she felt for him. He therefore went one day
to her private apartments, and having sent all her attendants away,
he told her he had some very sad news for her which he had heard from
his chief astrologer. Astrologers, you know, are wise men, who are
supposed to be able to read the secrets of the stars, and learn from
them things which are hidden from ordinary human beings. Guna-Vara
therefore did not doubt that what her husband was about to tell her
was true, and she listened eagerly, her heart beating very fast in
her fear that some trouble was coming to those she loved.

Great indeed was her sorrow and surprise, when Vira-Bhuja went on
to say that the astrologer had told him that a terrible misfortune
threatened him and his kingdom and the only way to prevent it was to
shut Guna-Vara up in prison for the rest of her life. The poor queen
could hardly believe that she had heard rightly. She knew she had
done no wrong, and could not understand how putting her in prison
could help anybody. She was quite sure that her husband loved her,
and no words could have expressed her pain at the thought of being
sent away from him and her dear son. Yet she made no resistance,
not even asking Vira-Bhuja to let her see Sringa-Bhuja again. She
just bowed her beautiful head and said: "Be it unto me as my Lord
wills. If he wishes my death, I am ready to lay down my life."

This submission made the king feel even more unhappy than before. He
longed to take his wife in his arms and tell her he would never let
her go; and perhaps if she had looked at him then, he would have
seen all her love for him in her eyes, but she remained perfectly
still with bowed head, waiting to hear what her fate was to be. Then
the thought entered Vira-Bhuja's mind: "She is afraid to look at me:
what Ayasolekha said was true."

So the king summoned his guards and ordered them to take his wife
to a strong prison and leave her there. She went with them without
making any resistance, only turning once to look lovingly at her
husband as she was led away. Vira-Bhuja returned to his own palace and
had not been there very long when he got a message from Ayasolekha,
begging him to give her an interview, for she had something of very
great importance to tell him. The king consented at once, thinking
to himself, "perhaps she has found out that what she told me about
my dear Guna-Vara is not true."

Great then was his disappointment when the wicked woman told him she
had discovered a plot against his life. The son of Guna-Vara and some
of the chief men of the kingdom, she said, had agreed together to kill
him, so that Sringa-Bhuja might reign in his stead. She and some of
the other wives had overheard conversations between them, and were
terrified lest their beloved Lord should be hurt. The young prince,
she declared, had had some trouble in persuading the nobles to help
him, but he had succeeded at last.

Vira-Bhuja simply could not believe this story, for he trusted his
son as much as he loved him; and he sent the mischief maker away,
telling her not to dare to enter his presence again. For all that
he could not get the matter out of his head. He had Sringa-Bhuja
carefully watched; and as nothing against him was found out, he
was beginning to feel more easy in his mind, and even to think of
going to see Guna-Vara in her prison to ask her to confide in him,
when something happened which led him to fear that after all his
dear son was not true to him. This was what made him uneasy. He had
a wonderful arrow, set with precious jewels, which had been given to
him by a magician, and had the power of hitting without fail whatever
it was aimed at from however great a distance. The very day he had
meant to visit his ill-treated wife, he missed this arrow from the
place in which he kept it concealed. This distressed him very much;
and after seeking it in vain, he summoned all those who were employed
in the palace to his presence, and asked if any of them knew anything
about the arrow. He promised that he would forgive any one who helped
him to get it back, even if it were the thief himself; but added that,
if it was not found in three days, he would have all the servants
beaten until the one who had stolen it confessed.

Now the fact of the matter was that Ayasolekha, who had told the
wicked story about Guna-Vara, knew where the king kept the arrow,
had taken it to her private rooms, and had sent for her own sons
and those of the other wives, all of whom hated Sringa-Bhuja, to
tell them of a plot to get their brother into disgrace, "You know,"
she said to them, "how much better your father loves Sringa-Bhuja
than he does any of you; and that, when be dies, he will leave the
kingdom and all his money to him. Now I will help you to prevent this
by getting rid of Sringa-Bhuja.

"You must have a great shooting match, in which your brother will
be delighted to take part, for he is very proud of his skill with
the bow and arrow. On the day of the match, I will send for him and
give him the jewelled arrow belonging to your father to shoot with,
telling him the king had said I might lend it to him. Your father
will then think he stole it and order him to be killed."

The brothers were all delighted at what they thought a very clever
scheme, and did just what Ayasolekha advised. When the day came,
great crowds assembled to see the shooting at a large target set up
near the palace. The king himself and all his court were watching the
scene from the walls, and it was difficult for the guards to keep the
course clear. The brothers, beginning at the eldest, all pretended to
try and hit the target; but none of them really wished to succeed,
because they thought that, when Sringa-Bhuja's turn came, as their
father's youngest son, he would win the match with the jewelled
arrow. Then the king would order him to be brought before him, and
he would be condemned to death or imprisonment for life.

Now, as very often happens, something no one in the least expected
upset the carefully planned plot. Just as Sringa-Bhuja was about to
shoot at the target, a big crane flew on to the ground between him and
it, so that it was impossible for him to take proper aim. The brothers,
seeing the bird and anxious to shoot it for themselves, all began to
clamour that they should be allowed to shoot again. Nobody made any
objection, and Sringa-Bhuja stood aside, with the jewelled arrow in
the bow, waiting to see what they would do, but feeling sure that
he would be the one to kill the bird. Brother after brother tried,
but the great creature still remained untouched, when a travelling
mendicant stepped forward and cried aloud:

"That is no bird, but an evil magician who has taken that form
to deceive you all. If he is not killed before he takes his own
form again, he will bring misery and ruin upon this town and the
surrounding country."

You know perhaps that mendicants or beggars in India are often holy
men whose advice even kings are glad to listen to; so that, when
everyone heard what this beggar said, there was great excitement and
terror. For many were the stories told of the misfortunes Rakshas or
evil magicians had brought on other cities. The brothers all wanted
to try their luck once more, but the beggar checked them, saying:

"No, no. Where is your youngest brother Sringa-Bhuja? He alone
will be able to save your homes, your wives and your children,
from destruction,"

Then Sringa-Bhuja came forward; and as the sun flashed upon the jewels
in the stolen arrow, revealing to the watching king that it was his
own beloved son who had taken it, the young prince let it fly straight
for the bird. It wounded but did not kill the crane, which flew off
with the arrow sticking in its breast, the blood dripping from it in
its flight, which became gradually slower and slower. At the sight
of the bird going off with the precious jewelled arrow, the king was
filled with rage, and sent orders that Sringa-Bhuja should be fetched
to his presence immediately. But before the messengers reached him,
he had started in pursuit of the bird, guided by the blood-drops on
the ground.

As Sringa-Bhuja sped along after the crane, the beggar made some
strange signs in the air with the staff he used to help him along;
and such clouds of dust arose that no one could see in which direction
the young prince had gone. The brothers and Ayasolekha were very much
dismayed at the way things had turned out, and greatly feared that
the king's anger would vent itself on them, now that Sringa-Bhuja
had disappeared. Vira-Bhuja did send for them, and asked them many
questions; but they all kept the secret of how Sringa-Bhuja had got the
arrow, and promised to do all they could to help to get it back. Again
the king thought he would go and see the mother of his dear youngest
son; but again something held him back, and poor Guna-Vara was left
alone, no one ever going near her except the gaoler who took her
her daily food. After trying everything possible to find out where
Sringa-Bhuja had gone, the king began to show special favour to
another of his sons; and as the months passed by, it seemed as if
the young prince and the jewelled arrow were both forgotten.

Meanwhile Sringa-Bhuja travelled on and on in the track of the drops
of blood, till he came to the outskirts of a fine forest, through
which many beaten paths led to a very great city. He sat down to
rest at the foot of a wide-spreading tree, and was gazing up at the
towers and pinnacles of the town, rising far upwards towards the sky,
when he had a feeling that he was no longer alone. He was right:
for, coming slowly along one of the paths, was a lovely young girl,
singing softly to herself in a beautiful voice. Her eyes were like
those of a young doe, and her features were perfect in their form
and expression, reminding Sringa-Bhuja of his mother, whom he was
beginning to fear he would never see again.

When the young girl was quite close to him, he startled her by saying,
"Can you tell me what is the name of this city?"

"Of course, I can," she replied, "for I live in it. It is called
Dhuma-Pura, and it belongs to my father: he is a great magician
named Agni-Sikha, who loves not strangers. Now tell me who you are
and whence you come?"

Then Sringa-Bhuja told the maiden all about himself, and why he was
wandering so far from home. The girl, whose name was Rupa-Sikha,
listened very attentively; and when he came to the shooting of the
crane, and how he had followed the bleeding bird in the hope of
getting back his father's jewelled arrow, she began to tremble.

"Alas, alas!" she said. "The bird you shot was my father, who can
take any form he chooses. He returned home but yesterday, and I drew
the arrow from his wound and dressed the hurt myself. He gave me the
jewelled arrow to keep, and I will never part with it. As for you,
the sooner you depart the better; for my father never forgives, and
he is so powerful that you would have no chance of escape if he knew
you were here."

Hearing this, Sringa-Bhuja became very sad, not because he was
afraid of Agni-Sikha, but because he knew that he already loved the
fair maiden who stood beside him, and was resolved to make her his
wife. She too felt drawn towards him and did not like to think of
his going away. Besides this, she had much to fear from her father,
who was as cruel as he was mighty, and had caused the death already
of many lovers who had wished to marry her. She had never cared for
any of them, and had been content to live without a husband, spending
her life in wandering about near her home and winning the love of all
who lived near her, even that of the wild creatures of the forest,
who would none of them dream of hurting her. Often and often she stood
between the wrath of her father and those he wished to injure; for,
wicked as he was, he loved her and wanted her to be happy,

Rupa-Sikha did not take long to decide what was best for her to
do. She said to the prince, "I will give you back your golden arrow,
and you must make all possible haste out of our country before my
father discovers you are here."

"No! no! no! a thousand times no!" cried the prince. "Now I have once
seen you, I can never, never leave you. Can you not learn to love
me and be my wife?" Then he fell prostrate at her feet, and looked
up into her face so lovingly that she could not resist him. She
bent down towards him, and the next moment they were clasped in
each other's arms, quite forgetting all the dangers that threatened
them. Rupa-Sikha was the first to remember her father, and drawing
herself away from her lover, she said to him:

"Listen to me, and I will tell you what we must do. My father is a
magician, it is true, but I am his daughter, and I inherit some of
his powers. If only you will promise to do exactly as I tell you,
I think I may be able to save you, and perhaps even become your
wife. I am the youngest of a large family and my father's favourite. I
will go and tell him that a great and mighty prince, hearing of his
wonderful gifts, has come to our land to ask for an interview with
him. Then I will tell him that I have seen you, fallen in love with
you, and want to marry you. He will be flattered to think his fame
has spread so far, and will want to see you, even if he refuses to
let me be your wife. I will lead you to his presence and leave you
with him alone. If you really love me, you will find the way to win
his consent; but you must keep out of his sight till I have prepared
the way for you. Come with me now, and I will show you a hiding-place."

Rupa-Sikha then led the prince far away into the depths of the forest,
and showed him a large tree, the wide-spreading branches of which
touched the ground, completely hiding the trunk, in which there
was an opening large enough for a man to pass through. Steps cut
in the inside of the trunk led down to a wide space underground;
and there the magician's daughter told her lover to wait for her
return. "Before I go," she said, "I will tell you my own password,
which will save you from death if you should be discovered. It is
LOTUS FLOWER; and everyone to whom you say it, will know that you
are under my protection."

When Rupa-Sikha reached the palace she found her father in a very bad
humour, because she had not been to ask how the wound in his breast
was getting on. She did her best to make up for her neglect; and when
she had dressed the wound very carefully, she prepared a dainty meal
for her father with her own hands, waiting upon him herself whilst
he ate it. All this pleased him, and he was in quite an amiable mood
when she said to him:

"Now I must tell you that I too have had an adventure. As I was
gathering herbs in the forest, I met a man I had never seen before,
a tall handsome young fellow looking like a prince, who told me he
was seeking the palace of a great and wonderful magician, of whose
marvellous deeds he had heard. Who could that magician have been but
you, my father?" She added, "I told him I was your daughter, and he
entreated me to ask you to grant him an interview."

Agni-Sikha listened to all this without answering a word. He was
pleased at this fresh proof that his fame had spread far and wide;
but he guessed at once that Rupa-Sikha had not told him the whole
truth. He waited for her to go on, and as she said no more, he suddenly
turned angrily upon her and in a loud voice asked her:

"And what did my daughter answer?"

Then Rupa-Sikha knew that her secret had been discovered. And rising
to her full height, she answered proudly, "I told him I would seek
you and ask you to receive him. And now I will tell you, my father,
that I have seen the only man I will ever marry; and if you forbid
me to do so, I will take my own life, for I cannot live without him."

"Send for the man immediately," cried the magician, "and you shall
hear my answer when he appears before me."

"I cannot send," replied Rupa-Sikha, "for none knows where I have
left him; nor will I fetch him till you promise that no evil shall
befall him."

At first Agni-Sikha laughed aloud and declared that he would do no such
thing. But his daughter was as obstinate as he was; and finding that
he could not get his own way unless he yielded to her, he said crossly:

"He shall keep his fine head on his shoulders, and leave the palace
alive; but that is all I will say."

"But that is not enough," said Rupa-Sikha. "Say after me, Not a hair
of his head shall be harmed, and I will treat him as an honoured guest,
or your eyes will never rest on him."

At last the magician promised, thinking to himself that he would find
some way of disposing of Sringa-Bhuja, if he did not fancy him for
a son-in-law. The words she wanted to hear were hardly out of her
father's mouth before Rupa-Sikha sped away, as if on the wings of
the wind, full of hope that all would be well. She found her lover
anxiously awaiting her, and quickly explained how matters stood. "You
had better say nothing about me to my father at first," she said;
"but only talk about him and all you have heard of him. If only you
could get him to like you and want to keep you with him, it would
help us very much. Then you could pretend that you must go back to
your own land; and rather than allow you to do so, he will be anxious
for us to be married and to live here with him."

Sringa-Bhuja loved Rupa-Sikha so much that he was ready to obey her
in whatever she asked. So he at once went with her to the palace. On
every side he saw signs of the strength and power of the magician. Each
gate was guarded by tall soldiers in shining armour, who saluted
Rupa-Sikha but scowled fiercely at him. He knew full well that, if
he had tried to pass alone, they would have prevented him from doing
so. At last the two came to the great hall, where the magician was
walking backwards and forwards, working himself into a rage at being
kept waiting. Directly he looked at the prince, he knew him for the
man who had shot the jewelled arrow at him when he had taken the form
of a crane, and he determined that he would be revenged. He was too
cunning to let Sringa-Bhuja guess that he knew him, and pretended to
be very glad to see him. He even went so far as to say that he had
long wished to find a prince worthy to wed his youngest and favourite
daughter. "You," he added, "seem to me the very man, young, handsome
and--to judge from the richness of your dress and jewels--able to
give my beloved one all she needs."

The prince could hardly believe his ears, and Rupa-Sikha also was
very much surprised. She guessed however that her father had some evil
purpose in what he said, and looked earnestly at Sringa-Bhuja in the
hope of making him understand. But the prince was so overjoyed at the
thought that she was to be his wife that he noticed nothing. So when
Agni-Sikha added, "I only make one condition: you must promise that
you will never disobey my commands, but do whatever I tell you without
a moment's hesitation," Sringa-Bhuja, without waiting to think, said
at once, "Only give me your daughter and I will serve you in any way
you wish."

"That's settled then!" cried the magician, and he clapped his hands
together. In a moment a number of attendants appeared, and their master
ordered them to lead the prince to the best apartments in the palace,
to prepare a bath for him, and do everything he asked them.

As Sringa-Bhuja followed the servants, Rupa-Sikha managed to whisper
to him, "Beware! await a message from me!" When he had bathed and was
arraying himself in fresh garments provided by his host, waited on,
hand and foot, by servants who treated him with the greatest respect,
a messenger arrived, bearing a sealed letter which he reverently
handed to the prince. Sringa-Bhuja guessed at once from whom it came;
and anxious to read it alone, he hastily finished his toilette and
dismissed the attendants.

"My beloved," said the letter--which was, of course, from
Rupa-Sikha--"My father is plotting against you; and very foolish were
you to promise you would obey him in all things. I have ten sisters
all exactly like me, all wearing dresses and necklaces which are exact
copies of each other, so that few can tell me from the others, Soon
you will be sent for to the great Hall and we shall all be together
there. My father will bid you choose your bride from amongst us; and if
you make a mistake all will be over for us. But I will wear my necklace
on my head instead of round my neck, and thus will you know your own
true love. And remember, my dearest, to obey no future command without
hearing from me, for I alone am able to outwit my terrible father,"

Everything happened exactly as Rupa-Sikha described. The prince
was sent for by Agni-Sikha, who, as soon as he appeared, gave him a
garland of flowers and told him to place it round the neck of the
maiden who was his promised bride. Without a moment's hesitation
Sringa-Bhuja picked out the right sister; and the magician, though
inwardly enraged, pretended to be so delighted at this proof of a
lover's clear-sightedness that he cried:

"You are the son-in-law for me! The wedding shall take place
to-morrow!"

When Sringa-Bhuja heard what Agni-Sikha said, he was full of joy;
but Rupa-Sikha knew well that her father did not mean a word of
it. She waited quietly beside her lover, till the magician bade all
the sisters but herself leave the hall. Then the magician, with a
very wicked look on his face, said:

"Before the ceremony there is just one little thing you must do for me,
dear son-in-law that is to be. Go outside the town, and near the most
westerly tower you will find a team of oxen and a plough awaiting
you. Close to them is a pile of three hundred bushels of sesame
seed. This you must sow this very day, or instead of a bridegroom
you will be a dead man to-morrow."

Great was the dismay of Sringa-Bhuja when he heard this. But Rupa-Sikha
whispered to him, "Fear not, for I will help you." Sadly the prince
left the palace alone, to seek the field outside the city; the guards,
who knew he was the accepted lover of their favourite mistress,
letting him pass unhindered. There, sure enough, near the western
tower were the oxen, the plough and a great pile of seed. Never before
had poor Sringa-Bhuja had to work for himself, but his great love for
Rupa-Sikha made him determine to do his best. So he was about to begin
to guide the oxen across the field, when, behold, all was suddenly
changed. Instead of an unploughed tract of land, covered with weeds,
was a field with rows and rows of regular furrows. The piles of seed
were gone, and flocks of birds were gathering in the hope of securing
some of it as it lay in the furrows.

As Sringa-Bhuja was staring in amazement at this beautiful scene,
he saw Rupa-Sikha, looking more lovely than ever, coming towards
him. "Not in vain," she said to him, "am I my father's daughter. I
too know how to compel even nature to do my will; but the danger is
not over yet. Go quickly back to the palace, and tell Agni-Sikha that
his wishes are fulfilled."

The magician was very angry indeed when he heard that the field was
ploughed and the seed sown. He knew at once that some magic had
been at work, and suspected that Rupa-Sikha was the cause of his
disappointment. Without a moment's hesitation he said to the prince:
"No sooner were you gone than I decided not to have that seed sown. Go
back at once, and pile it up where it was before."

This time Sringa-Bhuja felt no fear or hesitation, for he was sure
of the power and will to help him of his promised bride. So back he
went to the field, and there he found the whole vast space covered
with millions and millions of ants, busily collecting the seed and
piling it up against the wall of the town. Again Rupa-Sikha came
to cheer him, and again she warned him that their trials were not
yet over. She feared, she said, that her father might prove stronger
than herself; for he had many allies at neighbouring courts ready to
help him in his evil purposes. "Whatever else he orders you to do,
you must see me before you leave the palace. I will send my faithful
messenger to appoint a meeting in some secret place."

Agni-Sikha was not much surprised when the prince told him that his
last order had been obeyed, and thought to himself, "I must get this
tiresome fellow out of my domain, where that too clever child of mine
will not be able to help him." "Well," he said, "I suppose the wedding
must take place to-morrow after all, for I am a man of my word. We
must now set about inviting the guests. You shall have the pleasure
of doing this yourself: then my friends will know beforehand what a
handsome young son-in-law I shall have. The first person to summon
to the wedding is my brother Dhuma Sikha, who has taken up his abode
in a deserted temple a few miles from here. You must ride at once to
that temple, rein up your steed opposite it, and cry, 'Dhuma Sikha,
your brother Agni-Sikha has sent me hither to invite you to witness
my marriage with his daughter Rupa-Sikha to-morrow. Come without
delay!' Your message given, ride back to me; and I will tell you what
farther tasks you must perform before the happy morrow dawns."

When Sringa-Bhuja left the palace, he knew not where to seek a horse
to bear him on this new errand. But as he was nearing the gateway by
which he had gone forth to sow the field with seed, a handsome boy
approached him and said, "If my lord will follow me, I will tell him
what to do." Somehow the voice sounded familiar; and when the guards
were left far enough behind to be out of hearing, the boy looked up
at Sringa-Bhuja with a smile that revealed Rupa-Sikha herself. "Come
with me," she said; and taking his hand, she led him to a tree beneath
which stood a noble horse, richly caparisoned, which pawed the ground
and whinnied to its mistress, as she drew near.

"You must ride this horse," said Rupa-Sikha, "who will obey you if
you but whisper in his ear; and you must take earth, water, wood and
fire with you, which I will give you. You must go straight to the
temple, and when you have called out your message, turn without a
moment's delay, and ride for your life as swiftly as your steed will
go, looking behind you all the time. No guidance will be necessary;
for Marut--that is my horse's name--knows well what he has to do."

Then Rupa-Sikha gave Sringa-Bhuja a bowl of earth, a jar of water,
a bundle of thorns and a brazier full of burning charcoal, hanging
them by strong thongs upon the front of his saddle so that he could
reach them easily. "My father," she told him, "has given my uncle
instructions to kill you, and he will follow you upon his swift
Arab steed. When you hear him behind you, fling earth in his path;
if that does not stop him, pour out some of the water; and if he
still perseveres, scatter the burning charcoal before him."

Away went the prince after he had received these instructions; and
very soon he found himself opposite the temple, with the images of
three of the gods worshipped in India to prove that it had been a
sanctuary before the magician took up his abode in it. Directly
Sringa-Bhuja shouted out his message to Dhuma-Sikha, the wicked
dweller in the temple came rushing forth from the gateway, mounted
on a huge horse, which seemed to be belching forth flames from its
nostrils as it bounded along. For one terrible moment Sringa-Bhuja
feared that he was lost; but Marut, putting forth all his strength,
kept a little in advance of the enemy, giving the prince time to
scatter earth behind him. Immediately a great mountain rose up,
barring the road, and Sringa-Bhuja felt that he was saved. He was
mistaken: for, as he looked back, he saw Dhuma-Sikha coming over
the top of the mountain. The next moment the magician was close
upon him. So he emptied his bowl of water: and, behold, a huge river
with great waves hid pursuer and pursued from each other. Even this
did not stop the mighty Arab horse, which swam rapidly across, the
rider loudly shouting out orders to the prince to stop. When the
prince heard the hoofs striking on the dry ground behind him again,
he threw out the thorns, and a dense wood sprouted up as if by magic,
which for a few moments gave fresh hope of safety to Sringa-Bhuja;
for it seemed as if even the powerful magician would be unable to get
through it. He did succeed however; but his clothes were nearly torn
off his back, and his horse was bleeding from many wounds made by
the cruel thorns. Sringa-Bhuja too was getting weary, and remembered
that he had only one more chance of checking his relentless enemy. He
could almost feel the breath of the panting steed as it drew near;
and with a loud cry to his beloved Rupa-Sikha, he threw the burning
charcoal on the road. In an instant the grass by the wayside, the
trees overshadowing it, and the magic wood which had sprung from the
thorns, were alight, burning so fiercely that no living thing could
approach them safely. The wicked magician was beaten at last, and
was soon himself fleeing away, as fast as he could, with the flames
following after him as if they were eager to consume him.

Whether his enemy ever got back to his temple, Sringa-Bhuja never
knew. Exhausted with all he had been through, the young prince was
taken back to the palace by the faithful Marut, and there he found
his dear Rupa-Sikha awaiting him. She told him that her father had
promised her that, if the prince came back, he would oppose her
marriage no longer. "For," he said, "if he can escape your uncle,
he must be more than mortal, and worthy even of my daughter." "He
does not in the least expect to see you again," added Rupa-Sikha;
"and even if he allows us to marry, he will never cease to hate you;
for I am quite sure he knows that you shot the jewelled arrow at him
when he was in the form of a crane. If I ever am your wife, he will
try to punish you through me. But have no fear: I shall know how
to manage him. Fresh powers have been lately given to me by another
uncle whose magic is stronger than that of any of my other relations."

When Sringa-Bhuja had bathed and rested, he robed himself once
more in the garments he had worn the day he first saw Rupa-Sikha;
and together the lovers went to the great hall to seek an interview
with Agni-Sikha. The magician, who had made quite sure that he had
now got rid of the unwelcome suitor for his daughter's hand, could
not contain his rage, at seeing him walk in with her as if the two
were already wedded.

He stamped about, pouring out abuse, until he had quite exhausted
himself, the lovers looking on quietly without speaking. At last,
coming close to them, Agni-Sikha shouted, in a loud harsh voice:
"So you have not obeyed my orders. You have not bid my brother to the
wedding. Your life is forfeit, and you will die to-morrow instead of
marrying Rupa-Sikha. Describe the temple in which Dhuma Sikha lives
and the appearance of its owner."

Then Sringa-Bhuja gave such an exact account of the temple, naming
the gods whose images still adorned it, and of the terrible man
riding the noble steed who had pursued him, that the magician was
convinced against his will; and knowing that he must keep his word to
Rupa-Sikha, he gave his consent for the preparations for the marriage
on the morrow to begin.

The marriage was celebrated the next day with very great pomp; and
a beautiful suite of rooms was given to the bride and bridegroom,
who could not in spite of this feel safe or happy, because they knew
full well that Agni-Sikha hated them. The prince soon began to feel
home-sick and anxious to introduce his beautiful wife to his own
people. He remembered that he had left his dear mother in prison,
and reproached himself for having forgotten her for so long. So he
said to Rupa-Sikha:

"Let us go, beloved, to my native city, Vardhamana. My heart yearns
after my dear ones there, and I would fain introduce you to them."

"My lord," replied Rupa-Sikha, "I will go with you whither you will,
were it even to the ends of the earth. But we must not let my father
guess we mean to go; for he would forbid us to leave the country and
set spies to watch our every movement. We will steal away secretly,
riding together on my faithful Marut and taking with us only what we
can carry." "And my jewelled arrow," said the prince, "that I may give
it back to my father and explain to him how I lost it. Then shall I
be restored to his favour, and maybe he will forgive my mother also."

"Have no fear," answered Rupa-Sikha: "all will surely go well with
us. Forget not that new powers have been given to me, which will save
us from my father and aid me to rescue my dear one's mother from her
evil fate."

Before the dawn broke on the next day, the two set forth unattended,
Marut seeming to take pride in his double burden and bearing them along
so swiftly that they had all but reached the bounds of the country
under the dominion of Agni-Sikha as the sun rose. Just as they thought
they were safe from pursuit, they heard a loud rushing noise behind;
and looking round, they saw the father of the bride close upon them on
his Arab steed, with sword uplifted in his hand to strike. "Fear not,"
whispered Rupa-Sikha to her husband. "I will show you now what I can
do." And waving her arms to and fro, as she muttered some strange
words, she changed herself into an old woman and Sringa-Bhuja into
an old man, whilst Marut became a great pile of wood by the road-side.

When the angry father reached the spot, the bride and bridegroom were
busily gathering sticks to add to the pile, seemingly too absorbed
in their work to take any notice of the angry magician, who shouted
out to them:

"Have you seen a man and a woman pass along this way?"

The old woman straightened herself, and peering, up into his face,
said:

"No; we are too busy over our work to notice anything else."

"And what, pray, are you doing in my wood?" asked Agni-Sikha.

"We are helping to collect the fuel for the pyre of the great
magician Agni-Sikha." answered Rupa-Sikha. "Do you not know that he
died yesterday?"

The Hindus of India do not bury but burn the dead; so that it was quite
a natural thing for the people of the land over which the magician
ruled to collect the materials for the pyre or heap of wood on which
his body would be laid to be burnt. What surprised Agni-Sikha, and
in fact nearly took his breath away, was to be quietly told that he
was dead. He began to think that he was dreaming, and said to himself,
"I cannot really be dead without knowing it, so I must be asleep." And
he quietly turned his horse round and rode slowly home again. This was
just what his daughter wanted; and as soon as he was out of sight,
she turned herself, her husband and Marut, into their natural forms
again, laughing merrily, as she did so, at the thought of the ease
with which she had got rid of her father.

Once more the bride and bridegroom set forth on their way, and once
more they soon heard Agni-Sikha coming after them. For when he got
back to his palace, and the servants hastened out to take his horse, he
guessed that a trick had been played on him. He did not even dismount,
but just turned his horse's head round and galloped back again. "If
ever," he thought to himself, "I catch those two young people, I'll
make them wish they had obeyed me. Yes, they shall suffer for it. I
am not going to stand being defied like this."

This time Rupa-Sikha contented herself with making her husband and
Marut invisible, whilst she changed herself into a letter-carrier,
hurrying along the road as if not a moment was to be lost. She took no
notice of her father, till he reined up his steed and shouted to her:

"Have you seen a man and woman on horseback pass by?"

"No, indeed," she said: "I have a very important letter to deliver,
and could think of nothing but making all the haste possible."

"And what is this important letter about?" asked Agni-Sikha. "Can
you tell me that?"

"Oh, yes, I can tell you that," she said. "But where can you have been,
not to have heard the terrible news about the ruler of this land?"

"You can't tell me anything I don't know about him," answered the
magician, "for he is my greatest friend."

"Then you know that he is dying from a wound he got in a battle with
his enemies only yesterday. I am to take this letter to his brother
Dhuma-Sikha, bidding him come to see him before the end."

Again Agni-Sikha wondered if he were dreaming, or if he were under
some strange spell and did not really know who he was? Being able,
as he was, to cast spells on other people, he was ready to fancy the
same thing had befallen him. He said nothing when he heard that he was
wounded, and was about to turn back again when Rupa-Sikha said to him:

"As you are on horseback and can get to Dhuma-Sikha's temple quicker
than I can, will you carry the message of his brother's approaching
death to him for me, and bid him make all possible haste if he would
see him alive?"

This was altogether too much for the magician, who became sure that
there was something very wrong about him. He knew he was not wounded or
dying, but he thought he must be ill of fever, fancying he heard what
he did not. He stared fixedly at his daughter, and she stared up at
him, half-afraid he might find out who she was, but he never guessed.

"Do your own errands," he said at last; and slashing his poor innocent
horse with his whip, he wheeled round and dashed home again as fast as
he could. Again his servants ran out to receive him, and he gloomily
dismounted, telling them to send his chief councillor to him in his
private apartments. Shut up with him, he poured out all his troubles,
and the councillor advised him to see his physician without any delay,
for he felt sure that these strange fancies were caused by illness.

The doctor, when he came, was very much puzzled, but he looked as
wise as he could, ordered perfect rest and all manner of disagreeable
medicines. He was very much surprised at the change he noticed in his
patient, who, instead of angrily declaring that there was nothing the
matter with him, was evidently in a great fright about his health. He
shut himself up for many days, and it was a long time before he got
over the shock he had received, and then it was too late for him to
be revenged or the lovers.

Having really got rid of Agni-Sikha, Rupa-Sikha and her husband
were very soon out of his reach and in the country belonging to
Sringa-Bhuja's father, who had bitterly mourned the loss of his
favourite son. When the news was brought to him that two strangers,
a handsome young man and a beautiful woman, who appeared to be husband
and wife, had entered his capital, he hastened forth to meet them,
hoping that perhaps they could give him news of Sringa-Bhuja. What
was his joy when he recognised his dear son, holding the jewelled
arrow, which had led him into such trouble, in his right hand, as he
guided Marat with his left! The king flung himself from his horse,
and Sringa-Bhuja, giving the reins to Rupa-Sikha, also dismounted. The
next moment he was in his father's arms, everything forgotten and
forgiven in the happy reunion.

Great was the rejoicing over Sringa-Bhuja's return and hearty was the
welcome given to his beautiful bride, who quickly won all hearts but
those of the wicked wives and sons who had tried to harm her husband
and his mother. They feared the anger of the king, when he found out
how they had deceived him, and they were right to fear. Sringa-Bhuja's
very first act was to plead for his mother to be set free. He would
not tell any of his adventures, he said, till she could hear them
too; and the king, full of remorse for the way he had treated her,
went with him to the prison in which she had been shut up all this
time. What was poor Guna-Vara's joy, when the two entered the place in
which she had shed so many tears! She could not at first believe her
eyes or ears, but soon she realised that her sufferings were indeed
over. She could not be quite happy till her beloved husband said
he knew she had never loved any one but him. She had been accused
falsely, she said, and she wanted the woman who had told a lie about
her to be made to own the truth.

This was done in the presence of the whole court, and when judgment had
been passed upon Ayasolekha, the brothers of Sringa-Bhuja were also
brought before their father, who charged them with having deceived
him. They too were condemned, and all the culprits would have been
taken to prison and shut up for the rest of their lives, if those they
had injured had not pleaded for their forgiveness. Guna-Vara and her
son prostrated themselves at the foot of the throne, and would not
rise till they had won pardon for their enemies. Ayasolekha and the
brothers were allowed to go free; but Sringa-Bhuja, though he was the
youngest of all the princes, was proclaimed heir to the crown after his
father's death. His brothers, however, never ceased to hate him; and
when he came to the throne, they gave him a great deal of trouble. He
had many years of happiness with his wife and parents before that,
and never regretted the mistake about the jewelled arrow; since but
for it he would, he knew, never have seen his beloved Rupa-Sikha.

Kids Tales Hindu Stories From Sanskrit | The Magic Shoes and Staff

2009-02-07T02:32:00.000-08:00

Kids Tales Hindu Stories From Sanskrit
The Magic Shoes and Staff.

Far, far away in a town of India called Chinchini, where in days
long gone by the ancient gods in whom the people believed are said
sometimes to have appeared to those who called upon them for help,
there lived three brothers of noble birth, who had never known what
it was to want for food, or clothes, or a house to live in. Each
was married to a wife he loved, and for many years they were all
as happy as the day was long. Presently however a great misfortune
in which they all shared befell their native country. There was no
rain for many, many weeks; and this is a very serious thing in a hot
country like India, because, when it does not rain for a long time,
the ground becomes so parched and hard that nothing can grow in
it. The sun is very much stronger in India than it is in England;
and it sent forth its burning rays, drying up all the water in the
tanks and changing what had been, a beautiful country, covered with
green crops good for food, into a dreary desert, where neither men nor
animals could get anything to eat. The result of this was that there
was a terrible famine, in which hundreds of people and animals died,
little children being the first to suffer.

Now the three brothers, who had none of them any children, got
frightened at the state of things, and thought to themselves, "If we
do not escape from this dreadful land, we shall die." They said to
each other: "Let us flee away from here, and go somewhere where we
are sure of being able to get plenty to eat and drink. We will not
take our wives with us; they would only make things worse for us;
let us leave them to look after themselves."

So the three wives were deserted, and had to manage as best they
could without their husbands, who did not even trouble to wish them
goodbye. The wives were at first very sad and lonely, but presently a
great joy came to one of them which made the other two very happy as
well. This joy was the birth of a little boy, whose two aunts loved
him almost as much as his mother did. The story does not tell how
they all got food whilst the famine was going on, though it is very
evident that they were not starved, for the baby boy grew fast and
was a strong healthy little fellow.

One night all the three wives had the same dream, a very wonderful one,
in which the god Siva, who is very much honoured in India, appeared to
them. He told them that, looking down from Heaven, he had noticed how
tenderly they cared for the new-born baby, and that he wished them to
call him Putraka. Besides this he astonished them by adding that, as
a reward for the unselfish way in which they had behaved, they would
find one hundred thousand gold pieces under the little child's pillow
every morning, and that one day that little child would be a king.

The wonderful dream was fulfilled, and the mother and aunts called
the boy Putraka. Every morning they found the gold pieces under his
pillow, and they took care of the money for him, so that when he grew
up he was the very richest man in the whole country. He had a happy
childhood and boyhood, his only trouble being that he did not like
having never seen his father. His mother told him about the famine
before he was born, and how his father and uncles had gone away and
never come back. He often said, "When I am a man I will find my father
and bring him home again." He used his money to help others, and one
of the best things he did was to irrigate the land; that is to say,
he made canals into which water was made to flow in times when there
was plenty of rain, so that there was no danger of there being another
famine, such as that which had driven his father and uncles away. The
country in which he lived became very fruitful; everybody had enough
to eat and drink; and Putraka was very much loved, especially by
the poor and unhappy. When the king who ruled over the land died,
everybody wanted Putraka to take his place, and he was chosen at once.

One of the other wise things Putraka did, when he became king, was to
make great friends with his Brahman subjects. Brahmans are always very
fond of travelling, and Putraka thought, if he were good and generous
to them, they would talk about him wherever they went, and that perhaps
through them his father and uncles would hear about him. He felt sure
that, if they knew he was now a king ruling over their native land,
they would want to come back. He gave the Brahmans plenty of money,
and told them to try and find his father and uncles. If they did,
they were to say how anxious he was to see them, and promise them
everything they wanted, if only they would return.

Just what the young king hoped came to pass. Wherever the Brahmans
went they talked about the country they came from and the wonderful
young king who ruled over it. Putraka's father and uncles, who were
after all not so very far off, heard the stories about him, and
asked the Brahmans many questions. The answers made them very eager
to see Putraka, but they did not at first realize that he was closely
related to them. Only when they heard the name of his mother did they
guess the truth. Putraka's father knew, when he deserted his wife,
that God was going to give her a child soon; which made it even more
wicked of him to leave her. Now, however, he forgot all about that,
only thinking how he could make as much use as possible of the son
who had become a king. He wanted to go back at once alone, but the
uncles were not going to allow that. They meant to get all they could
out of Putraka too; and the three selfish men, who were now quite old,
set off together for the land they had left so long ago.

They arrived safely, and made their way to the palace, where they were
received, with great rejoicings. None of the wives, said a word of
reproach to, the husbands who had deserted them; and as for Putraka,
he was so overjoyed at having his father back, that he gave him a
beautiful house to live in and a great deal of money. He was very
good to his uncles too, and felt that he had now really nothing left
to wish for.

The three wives very soon had good reason to wish their husbands had
stayed away. Instead of being grateful for all Putraka's generosity,
they were very unkind and exacting, never pleased with anything;
and whatever they had given them, they were always trying to get
more. In fact, they were silly as well as wicked; for they did not
realize that this was not the way to make the king love them or wish
to keep them with him. Presently they became jealous of Putraka,
and began to wish to get rid of him. His father hated to feel that
his son was king, whilst he was only one of that king's subjects;
and he made up his mind to kill him, hoping that if he could only get
rid of him he might rule over the country in his stead. He thought
and thought how best to manage this, and did not at first mean to
tell his brothers anything about it; but in the end he decided he
had better have them on his side. So he invited them to go with him
to a secret place to talk the matter over.

After many meetings the three wicked men decided that they would
pay some one to kill the king, first making the murderer they chose
swear that he would never tell who had ordered him to do the terrible
deed. It was not very difficult to find a man bad enough to take money
for such an evil purpose, and the next thing to do was to decide
where and when the deed was to be done. Putraka had been very well
brought up by his mother, and he often went to a beautiful temple near
his palace to pray alone. He would sometimes stop there a long time,
winning fresh wisdom and strength to do the work he was trusted with,
and praying not only for himself, but for his father, his mother,
his aunts and uncles, and for the people he loved so much.

The murderer was told to wait in this temple, and when the young king
was absorbed in prayer, to fall suddenly upon him and kill him. Then,
when Putraka was dead, he was to take his body and bury it far away
in the depths of the forest where it could never be found. At first it
seemed likely that this cruel plot would succeed. To make quite sure,
the murderer got two other men as wicked as himself to come and help
him, promising to give them a share in the reward. But the god who
had taken care of Putraka ever since he was born, did not forget him
now. As the young king prayed, forgetting everything in his earnest
pleading for those he loved, he did not see or hear the evil men
drawing stealthily close to him. Their arms were uplifted to slay him,
and the gleam of the weapons in the light that was always kept burning
flashed upon him, when suddenly the heavenly guardian of the temple,
who never left it day or night, but was generally invisible, appeared
and cast a spell upon the wicked men, whose hands were arrested in
the very act to strike.

What a wonderful sight that must have been, when Putraka, disturbed in
his prayers, looked round and saw the men who had come to kill him,
with the shadowy form of the guardian threatening them! He knew at
once that he had been saved from a dreadful death by a messenger from
the god he had been worshipping. As he gazed at the men, the guardian
faded away and he was left alone with them. Slowly the spell cast on
them was broken, and they dropped their weapons, prostrated themselves,
and clasped their hands in an appeal for mercy to the man they had
meant to destroy. Putraka looked at them quietly and sadly. He felt
no anger against them, only a great thankfulness for his escape. He
spoke to the men very sternly, asking them why they wished to harm him;
and the chief murderer told him who had sent them.

The knowledge that his father wished to kill him shocked and grieved
the young long terribly, but he controlled himself even when he learnt
the sad truth. He told the men that he forgave them, for they were
not the most to blame; and he made them promise never to betray who
had bribed them to kill him. He then gave them some money and told
them to leave him.

When Putraka was alone, he threw himself upon the ground and wept very
bitterly. He felt that he could never be happy again, never trust
anyone again. He had so loved his father and uncles. It had been
such a joy to him to give them pleasure, and yet they hated him and
wished to kill him. He wondered whether he was himself to blame for
what had happened, and began to think he was not worthy to be king,
if he could make such a mistake as he now feared he had made in being
so generous to those who could have such hard thoughts of him as
to want to take his life. Perhaps after all it would be better for
his country to have another king. He did not feel as if he could go
back to his palace and meet his father and uncles again. "What shall
I do? What shall I do?" he cried, his sobs choking his voice. Never
in all his life had he thought it possible to be so miserable as he
was now. Everything seemed changed and he felt as if he were himself
a different person. The only thing that comforted him at all was the
thought of his mother, whose love had never failed him; but even that
was spoiled by the remembrance that it was her husband who had wished
to kill him. She must never know that, for it would break her heart:
yet how could he keep it from her? Then the idea came to him that
the best thing he could do would be to go away and never see his own
people again.

In the end the poor young king decided that he would go right away
as his father and uncles had done; and his mind being made up,
he became more cheerful and began to think he might meet with some
interesting adventures in a new country, where nobody knew anything
about him. As soon as it was light, he wandered off into the forest,
feeling, it is true, very lonely, but at the same time taking a
certain pleasure in being entirely his own master; which a king can
never really be, because he has to consider so many other people and
to keep so many rules.

After all Putraka did not find the forest so very lonely; for he
had not gone far in it before his sad thoughts were broken in upon
by his coming suddenly to a little clearing, where the trees had
been cut down and two strong-looking men were wrestling together,
the king watched them for a little while, wondering what they were
fighting about. Then he called out, "What are you doing here? What
are you quarrelling about?"

The men were greatly surprised to hear Putraka's voice, for they
thought that they were quite alone. They stopped fighting for a minute
or two, and one of them said: "We are fighting for three very precious
things which were left behind him by our father."

"What are those things?" asked Putraka.

"A bowl, a stick and a pair of shoes," was the reply. "Whoever wins
the fight will get them all. There they lie on the ground."

"Well, I never!" cried the king, laughing as he looked at the things,
which seemed to him worth very little. "I shouldn't trouble to fight
about such trifles, if I were you."

"Trifles!" exclaimed one of the men angrily. "You don't know what
you are talking about. They are worth more than their weight in
gold. Whoever gets the bowl will find plenty of food in it whenever he
wants it; the owner of the stick has only to write his wishes on the
ground with it and he will get them; and whoever puts on the shoes
can fly through the air in them to any distance."

When Putraka heard the wonders which, could be done with what he had
thought not worth having, he determined to get possession of the three
treasures for himself; not considering that it would he very wrong to
take what did not belong to him. "It seems a pity to fight," he said,
"why don't you race for the things, and let whichever wins the race
have them? That banyan tree over there would make a good winning post
and I will be the umpire."

Instead of guessing what Putraka had in his mind, the brothers, who
were very simple fellows, said at once: "All right. We won't fight,
we'll race instead, and you can give us the start." Putraka agreed,
and directly they were off he lost not a moment, but picked up the
bowl and the staff, put on the shoes, and flew straight up into the
air with the treasures. When the brothers came back, disputing about
which of them had won, there was not a sign of Putraka, the bowl,
the stick, or the shoes. They guessed at once what had happened;
and after staring up in the air for a long time, they went home,
feeling very much enraged with the man who had cheated them, and
ashamed of having been so stupid as to trust him.

On and on flew Putraka, full of eager delight in the new power of
flight. How he loved rushing through the air, cleaving it like a bird
on the wing! All he wanted to make him perfectly happy was someone
to enjoy his new powers with him. Presently he found himself above
a beautiful city with towers and pinnacles and minarets gleaming in
the sunshine. "Ah!" he thought, "that is the place for me. I will go
down there, and see if I can find a nice house to live in, and some
people to make friends with, who will not try to kill me or to cheat
me, but love me and be grateful to me for any kindness I show them."

As Putraka was hovering in the air above the town to which he had
taken such a fancy, he noticed a little house which rather pleased
him; for though it was poor-looking, there was something cheerful and
home-like about it. Down he sped and alighted at the door. Only one
poor old woman lived in the house, and when Putraka knocked and asked
if he might come in, she said "Yes" at once. He gave her some money,
and told her he would like to live with her, if she would let him
do so. She was only too glad to consent, for she was very lonely;
and the two lived happily together for a long time.

The old woman grew very fond of Putraka, caring for him and waiting
on him as if he had been her own son. She was so anxious that he
should be happy that she became afraid he would become tired of
living alone with her. So she said to him one day: "My dear adopted
son, you ought to have a wife to keep you company. I know the very
one for you, the only one really worthy of you. She is a princess,
and her name is Patala. She is so very lovely that every man who sees
her falls in love with her and wants to carry her off. So she is most
carefully guarded in the top rooms of a great palace, as high as
the summits of the loftiest mountains." When Putraka heard this he
was all eagerness to see the princess, and at once determined to go
forth to seek her. He was more than ever glad now that he had stolen
the shoes, because he knew that they would carry him even to the top
of the highest mountains.

The very evening of the day when Putraka heard about the princess,
he started on his journey, taking with him his bowl and staff. The old
woman gave him very careful instructions which way to go, and begged
him to come back to tell her how he had got on. He promised he would,
thanked her for all she had done for him, and flew away in a great
state of excitement. She watched him till he was quite out of sight,
and then went sadly into her lonely home, wondering if she would ever
see him again.

It was not long before Putraka came in sight of the palace. It was a
beautiful night, and the moon was shining full upon the room in which
the princess was asleep. It was a very big one, with costly furniture
and priceless tapestry hung round the walls, and there were doors
behind the tapestry leading to other apartments, in some of which the
attendants on Patala slept, whilst others kept watch lest anyone should
intrude upon their mistress. No one thought of guarding the windows,
for they were so high up that only a bird could reach them.

The young king alighted on the ledge of the window of the princess'
room, and looked in. There, on a golden bed, amongst soft cushions
and embroidered coverings, lay the most lovely creature he had ever
beheld, so lovely that he fell in love with her at once and gave
a loud cry of delight. This woke the princess, who started up and
was about to scream out aloud in her terror at seeing a man looking
in at the window, when Putraka with the aid of his magic staff made
himself invisible. Then, thinking she had been dreaming, Patala lay
down again, and the king began talking to her in a low voice, telling
her he had heard of her beauty and had flown from far away to see
her. He begged her to allow him to show himself to her, and added:
"I will go away again directly afterwards if you wish it."

Putraka's voice was so gentle, and it seemed to Patala so wonderful
that a man could fly and make himself invisible, that she was full
of curiosity to see him and find out all about him. So she gave her
consent, and immediately afterwards the young king stood within the
room, looking so noble and so handsome that she too fell in love at
first sight. Putraka told her all about his life and adventures, which
interested her very much. She was glad, she said, that he was a king;
but she would have loved him just as well, whoever he might have been.

After a long talk, Patala begged him to leave her for fear her
attendants should discover him and tell her father about him. "My
father would never let me marry you," she declared, "unless you were
to come with many followers as a king to ask my hand; and how can
you do that when you are only a wandering exile?"

It was very difficult to persuade Putraka to go, but at last he
flew away. Every night after that, however, he came to see Patala,
spending the days sometimes in one place, sometimes in another, and
using his magic bowl to supply himself with food. Alas, he forgot
all about the dear old woman to whom he owed all his happiness,
and she slowly gave up hope of ever seeing him again. He might quite
easily have flown to her cottage and cheered her with his presence;
but he was so wrapped up in his love for Patala that everything else
went out of his head. This selfishness on his part presently got him
into serious trouble, for he became careless about making himself
invisible when he flew up to the princess' window. So that one night
he was discovered by a guardian of the palace. The matter was at once
reported to the king, who could not at first believe such a thing
was possible. The man must have seen a big bird, that was all. The
king, however, ordered one of his daughter's ladies to keep watch
every night in an ante-room, leaving the door open with the tapestry,
in which there was a slit, drawn carefully over it, and to come and
tell him in the morning if she had seen or heard anything unusual.

Now the lady chosen loved the princess, and, like many of her
fellow-attendants, thought it was very cruel of the king to punish his
own child for being so beautiful, by shutting her up as he did. It
so happened that the very first night she was on guard, Putraka had
flown a very, very long way, not noticing where he was going, because
he was thinking so earnestly of Patala. When at last he flew in at
her window, he was so weary that he sank down on a couch and fell
fast asleep. The princess too was tired, because she had lain awake
talking to her lover so many nights running that she had had hardly
any rest. So when the lady peeped through the slit in the tapestry,
there, by the light of the night lamp, she saw the young king lying
unconscious, whilst the princess also was asleep.

Very cautiously the attendant crept to the side of Putraka, and took a
long, long look at him. She noticed how handsome he was, and that he
was dressed in beautiful clothes. She especially remarked the turban
he wore, because in India the rank to which men belong is shown by
the kind of turbans they wear. "This is no common man," she thought,
"but a prince or king in disguise. What shall I do now? I will not
raise an alarm which might lead to this beautiful young lover being
killed and the heart of my dear mistress broken."

After hesitating a long time, the lady made up her mind that she would
only put some mark in the turban of Putraka, so that he could be known
again, and let him escape that night at least. So she stole back to
her room, fetched a tiny, brooch, and fastened it in the folds of the
turban, where the wearer was not likely to notice it himself. This
done, she went back to listen at the door.

It was nearly morning when Putraka woke up, very much surprised at
finding himself lying on the couch, for he did not remember throwing
himself down on it. Starting up, he woke Patala, who was terribly
frightened, for she expected her ladies to come in any minute to help
her to dress. She entreated Putraka to make himself invisible and fly
away at once. He did so; and, as usual, wandered about until the time
should come to go back to the palace. But he still felt too tired to
fly, and instead walked about in the town belonging to Patala's father.

The lady who had been on guard had half a mind to tell her mistress
that her secret was discovered. But before she could get a chance to
do so, she was sent for by the king, who asked her if she had seen
or heard anything during the night. She tried very hard to escape
from betraying Patala; but she hesitated so much in her answers
that the king guessed there was something she wanted to hide, and
told her, if she did not reveal the whole truth, he would have her
head shaved and send her to prison. So she told how she had found
a handsome man, beautifully dressed, fast asleep in Patala's room;
but she did not believe her mistress knew anything about it, because
she too was asleep.

The king was of course in a terrible rage, and the lady was afraid
he would order her to be punished; but he only went on questioning
her angrily about what the man was like, so that he might be found
and brought before him. Then the lady confessed that she had put
the brooch in the turban, comforting herself with the thought that,
when the king saw Putraka and knew that Patala loved him, he might
perhaps relent and let them be married.

When the king heard about the brooch, he was greatly pleased; and
instead of ordering the lady to be punished, he told her that, when
the man who had dared to approach his daughter was found, he would
give her a great reward. He then sent forth hundreds of spies to
hunt for the man with a brooch in his turban, and Putraka was very
soon found, strolling quietly about in the market-place. He was so
taken by surprise that, though he had his staff in his hand and his
shoes and bowl in the pocket of his robes, he had no time to write
his wishes with the staff, or to put on the shoes, so he was obliged
to submit to be dragged to the palace. He did all he could to persuade
those who had found him to let him go, telling them he was a king and
would reward them well. They only laughed at him and dragged him along
with them to the palace, where he was at once taken before the king,
who was sitting on his throne, surrounded by his court, in a great hall
lined with soldiers. The big windows were wide open; and noticing this,
Putraka did not feel at all afraid, for he knew he had only to slip on
his shoes and fly out of one of the windows, if he could not persuade
the king to let him marry Patala. So he stood quietly at the foot of
the throne, and looked bravely into the face of his dear one's father.

This only made the king more angry, and he began calling Putraka all
manner of names and asking him how he dared to enter the room of his
daughter. Putraka answered quietly that he loved Patala and wished
to marry her. He was himself a king, and would give her all she had
been used to. But it was all no good, for it only made the king more
angry. He rose from his throne, and stretching out his hand, he cried:

"Let him be scourged and placed in close confinement!"

Then Putraka with his staff wrote rapidly on the ground his wish that
no one should be able to touch him, and stooping down slipped on his
magic shoes. The king, the courtiers and the soldiers all remained
exactly as they were, staring at him in astonishment, as he rose up in
the air and flew out of one of the windows. Straight away he sped to
the palace of Patala and into her room, where she was pacing to and fro
in an agony of anxiety about him; for she had heard of his having been
taken prisoner and feared that her father would order him to be killed.

Great indeed was the delight of Patala when her beloved Putraka once
more flew in at her window; but she was still trembling with fear
for him and begged him to go away back to his own land as quickly
as possible.

"I will not go without you," replied Putraka. "Wrap yourself up warmly,
for it is cold flying through the air, and we will go away together,
and your cruel father shall never see you again."

Patala wept at hearing this, for it seemed terrible to her to have to
choose between the father she loved and Putraka. But in the end her
lover got his own way, and just as those who were seeking him were
heard approaching, he seized his dear one in his arms and flew off
with her. He did not return to his own land even then, but directed
his course to the Ganges, the grand and beautiful river which the
people of India love and worship, calling it their Mother Ganga. By
the banks of the sacred stream the lovers rested, and with the aid of
his magic bowl Putraka soon had a good and delicious meal ready, which
they both enjoyed very much. As they ate, they consulted together
what they had better do now, and Patala, who was as clever as she
was beautiful, said:

"Would it not be a good thing to build a new city in this lovely
place? You could do it with your marvellous staff, could you not?"

"Why, of course, I could," said Putraka laughing. "Why didn't I think
of it myself?" Very soon a wonderful town rose up, which the young
king wished to be as much as possible like the home he had left,
only larger and fuller of fine buildings than it. When the town was
made, he wished it to be full of happy inhabitants, with temples
in which they might worship, priests to teach them how to be good,
markets in which food and all that was needed could be bought, tanks
and rivulets full of pure water, soldiers and officers to defend the
gates, elephants on which he and his wife could ride, everything in
fact that the heart of man or woman could desire.

The first thing Putraka and Patala did after the rise of their own
town, which they named Patali-Putra [1] after themselves, was to get
married in accordance with the rites of their religion; and for many,
many years they reigned wisely over their people, who loved them and
their children with all their hearts. Amongst the attendants on those
children was the old woman who had shown kindness to Putraka in his
loneliness and trouble. For when he told Patala the story of his life,
she reproached him for his neglect of one to whom he owed so much. She
made him feel quite ashamed of himself, and he flew away and brought
the dear old lady back with him, to her very great delight.