Project Gutenberg's Indian Fairy Tales, by Collected by Joseph Jacobs

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Title: Indian Fairy Tales

Author: Collected by Joseph Jacobs

Release Date: December, 2004 [EBook #7128]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on March 13, 2003]

Edition: 10

Language: English

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INDIAN FAIRY TALES


_Selected and edited by_
JOSEPH JACOBS

_Illustrated by_
JOHN D. BATTEN

TO MY DEAR LITTLE PHIL



PREFACE

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

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

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

There are even indications of an earlier literary contact between
Europe and India, in the case of one branch of the folk-tale, the Fable
or Beast Droll. In a somewhat elaborate discussion [Footnote: "History
of the Aesopic Fable," the introductory volume to my edition of Caxton's
_Fables of Esope_ (London, Nutt, 1889).] I have come to the
conclusion that a goodly number of the fables that pass under the name
of the Samian slave, Aesop, were derived from India, probably from the
same source whence the same tales were utilised in the Jatakas, or
Birth-stories of Buddha. These Jatakas contain a large quantity of
genuine early Indian folk-tales, and form the earliest collection of
folk-tales in the world, a sort of Indian Grimm, collected more than
two thousand years before the good German brothers went on their quest
among the folk with such delightful results. For this reason I have
included a considerable number of them in this volume; and shall be
surprised if tales that have roused the laughter and wonder of pious
Buddhists for the last two thousand years, cannot produce the same
effect on English children. The Jatakas have been fortunate in their
English translators, who render with vigour and point; and I rejoice
in being able to publish the translation of two new Jatakas, kindly
done into English for this volume by Mr. W. H. D. Rouse, of Christ's
College, Cambridge. In one of these I think I have traced the source
of the Tar Baby incident in "Uncle Remus."

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

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

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

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

JOSEPH JACOBS.



CONTENTS

I.      THE LION AND THE CRANE
II.     HOW THE RAJA'S SON WON THE PRINCESS LABAM
III.    THE LAMBIKIN
IV.     PUNCHKIN
V.      THE BROKEN POT
VI.     THE MAGIC FIDDLE
VII.    THE CRUEL CRANE OUTWITTED
VIII.   LOVING LAILI
IX.     THE TIGER, THE BRAHMAN AND THE JACKAL
X.      THE SOOTHSAYER'S SON
XI.     HARISARMAN
XII.    THE CHARMED RING
XIII.   THE TALKATIVE TORTOISE
XIV.    A LAC OF RUPEES FOR A PIECE OF ADVICE
XV.     THE GOLD-GIVING SERPENT
XVI.    THE SON OF SEVEN QUEENS
XVII.   A LESSON FOR KINGS
XVIII.  PRIDE GOETH BEFORE A FALL
XIX.    RAJA RASALU
XX.     THE ASS IN THE LION'S SKIN
XXI.    THE FARMER AND THE MONEY-LENDER
XXII.   THE BOY WHO HAD A MOON ON HIS FOREHEAD AND A STAR ON HIS CHIN
XXIII.  THE PRINCE AND THE FAKIR
XXIV.   WHY THE FISH LAUGHED
XXV.    THE DEMON WITH THE MATTED HAIR
XXVI.   THE IVORY CITY AND ITS FAIRY PRINCESS
XXVII.  SUN, MOON, AND WIND GO OUT TO DINNER
XXVIII. HOW THE WICKED SONS WERE DUPED
XXIX.   THE PIGEON AND THE CROW

NOTES AND REFERENCES



THE LION AND THE CRANE

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

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

In reply the Lion spoke the second verse:

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

Then in reply the crane said the two other verses:

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

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

And having thus spoken the crane flew away.

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



HOW THE RAJA'S SON WON THE PRINCESS LABAM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


"What man hurt you that you roared so loud?" said the wife. "No one
hurt me," answered the husband; "but a Raja's son came and took the
thorn out of my foot."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



THE LAMBIKIN

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

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

But Lambikin only gave a little frisk and said:

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

The Jackal thought this reasonable, and let Lambikin pass.

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

But Lambikin only gave a little frisk, and said:

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

The Vulture thought this reasonable, and let Lambikin pass.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Drumikin! Drumikin!
  Have you seen Lambikin?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Drumikin! Drumikin!
  Have you seen Lambikin?"

And to each of them the little slyboots replied:

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

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

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

  "Drumikin! Drumikin!
  Have you seen Lambikin?"

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

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

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

Whereupon he tore open Drumikin and gobbled up Lambikin.



PUNCHKIN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And her daughter said, "I will watch."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the second took the second;

And the third took the third;

And the fourth took the fourth;

And the fifth took the fifth;

And the sixth took the sixth;

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why do you ask?" said he.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



THE BROKEN POT

There lived in a certain place a Brahman, whose name was
Svabhavak_ri_pa_n_a, which means "a born miser." He had collected
a quantity of rice by begging, and after having dined off it, he filled a
pot with what was left over. He hung the pot on a peg on the wall,
placed his couch beneath, and looking intently at it all the night, he
thought, "Ah, that pot is indeed brimful of rice. Now, if there should be
a famine, I should certainly make a hundred rupees by it. With this I
shall buy a couple of goats. They will have young ones every six months,
and thus I shall have a whole herd of goats. Then, with the goats, I
shall buy cows. As soon as they have calved, I shall sell the calves.
Then, with the calves, I shall buy buffaloes; with the buffaloes, mares.
When the mares have foaled, I shall have plenty of horses; and when
I sell them, plenty of gold. With that gold I shall get a house with four
wings. And then a Brahman will come to my house, and will give me his
beautiful daughter, with a large dowry. She will have a son, and I shall
call him Somasarman. When he is old enough to be danced on his
father's knee, I shall sit with a book at the back of the stable, and while
I am reading, the boy will see me, jump from his mother's lap, and run
towards me to be danced on my knee. He will come too near the
horse's hoof, and, full of anger, I shall call to my wife, 'Take the baby;
take him!' But she, distracted by some domestic work, does not hear me.
Then I get up, and give her such a kick with my foot." While he thought
this, he gave a kick with his foot, and broke the pot. All the rice fell
over him, and made him quite white. Therefore, I say, "He who makes
foolish plans for the future will be white all over, like the father of
Somasarman."



THE MAGIC FIDDLE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



THE CRUEL CRANE OUTWITTED

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



LOVING LAILI

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Very well," said the crow, "open your mouth wide, and I'll fly down
and see."

So the Rohu opened his jaws and the crow flew down, but he came up
again very quickly. "You have a Rakshas in your stomach," said the
crow, and he flew away.

This news did not comfort the poor Rohu, and he swam on and on till he
came to Prince Majnun's country. There he stopped. And a jackal came
down to the river to drink. "Oh, jackal," said the Rohu "do tell me
what I have inside me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How can you marry Laili? Laili is dead. She will never come back to
you," said the father. "Then I'll not have any wife at all," said
Prince Majnun.

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

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

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

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

As Prince Majnun and the Wazir's son walked in the garden, they
gathered the fruit as they had done as little children, only they bit
the fruit with their teeth; they did not cut it. While Majnun was busy
eating a fruit in this way, and was talking to Husain Mahamat, he
turned towards him and saw Laili walking behind the Wazir's son.

"Oh, look, look!" he cried, "see what is following you; it is a Rakshas
or a demon, and I am sure it is going to eat us." Laili looked at him
beseechingly with all her eyes, and trembled with age and eagerness;
but this only frightened Majnun the more. "It is a Rakshas, a Rakshas!"
he cried, and he ran quickly to the palace with the Wazir's son; and as
they ran away, Laili disappeared into the jungle. They ran to King
Dantal, and Majnun told him there was a Rakshas or a demon in the
garden that had come to eat them.

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

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

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

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

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

"Well," said Majnun, "if you can make yourself a young girl again, I
will marry you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You cannot," said Laili.

"Yes, I can," said the Raja.

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

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

"What's that?" said Majnun.

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

"Who killed him?" asked Majnun.

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

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

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

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

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

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



THE TIGER, THE BRAHMAN, AND THE JACKAL

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, my lord!"

"And that is the Brahman--"

"Yes, my lord!"

"And that is the cage--"

"Yes, my lord!"

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

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

"Well?" cried the tiger impatiently.

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

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

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

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

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



THE SOOTHSAYER'S SON

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gangazara for a while thought upon the repeated advice given by the
three animals about releasing the goldsmith: "What wrong would there be
in my assisting him? Why should I not release him also?" So thinking to
himself, Gangazara let down the vessel again. The goldsmith caught hold
of it, and demanded help. The Soothsayer's son had no time to lose; he
was himself dying of thirst.

Therefore he lifted the goldsmith up, who now began his story. "Stop
for a while," said Gangazara, and after quenching his thirst by letting
down his vessel for the fifth time, still fearing that some one might
remain in the well and demand his assistance, he listened to the
goldsmith, who began as follows: "My dear friend, my protector, what a
deal of nonsense these brutes have been talking to you about me; I am
glad you have not followed their advice. I am just now dying of hunger.
Permit me to go away. My name is Manikkasari. I live in the East main
street of Ujjaini, which is twenty kas to the south of this place, and
so lies on your way when you return from Benares. Do not forget to come
to me and receive my kind remembrances of your assistance, on your way
back to your country." So saying, the goldsmith took his leave, and
Gangazara also pursued his way north after the above adventures.

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

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

When the king's attendants informed the prince about the death of his
father he wept and wailed, and gave notice that he would give half of
his kingdom to any one who should bring him news about the murderer of
his father. The goldsmith knew full well that it was a tiger that
killed the king, and not any hunter's hands, since he had heard from
Gangazara how he obtained the crown. Still, he resolved to denounce
Gangazara as the king's murderer, so, hiding the crown under his
garments, he flew to the palace. He went before the prince and informed
him that the assassin was caught, and placed the crown before him.

The prince took it into his hands, examined it, and at once gave half
the kingdom to Manikkasari, and then inquired about the murderer. "He
is bathing in the river, and is of such and such appearance," was the
reply. At once four armed soldiers flew to the river, and bound the
poor Brahman hand and foot, while he, sitting in meditation, was
without any knowledge of the fate that hung over him. They brought
Gangazara to the presence of the prince, who turned his face away from
the supposed murderer, and asked his soldiers to throw him into a
dungeon. In a minute, without knowing the cause, the poor Brahman found
himself in the dark dungeon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The king heard, cursed the day on which he believed in the word of a
goldsmith, beat his head, tore his hair, wept and wailed for his crime,
asked a thousand pardons, and swore to rule in a just way from that
day. The serpent-king and tiger-king also promised to observe their
oath as long as justice prevailed, and took their leave. The gold-smith
fled for his life. He was caught by the soldiers of the king, and was
pardoned by the generous Gangazara, whose voice now reigned supreme.
All returned to their homes. The king again pressed Gangazara to accept
the hand of his daughter. He agreed to do so, not then, but some time
afterwards. He wished to go and see his elder brother first, and then
to return and marry the princess. The king agreed; and Gangazara left
the city that very day on his way home.

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

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

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

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



HARISAMAN

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

Then he was distressed at getting nothing to eat, and he said to his
wife at night, "It is owing to my poverty and stupidity that I am
treated with such disrespect here; so I will pretend by means of an
artifice to possess a knowledge of magic, so that I may become an
object of respect to this Sthuladatta; so, when you get an opportunity,
tell him that I possess magical knowledge." He said this to her, and
after turning the matter over in his mind, while people were asleep he
took away from the house of Sthuladatta a horse on which his master's
son-in-law rode. He placed it in concealment at some distance, and in
the morning the friends of the bridegroom could not find the horse,
though they searched in every direction. Then, while Sthuladatta was
distressed at the evil omen, and searching for the thieves who had
carried off the horse, the wife of Harisarman came and said to him,
"My husband is a wise man, skilled in astrology and magical sciences;
he can get the horse back for you; why do you not ask him?"

When Sthuladatta heard that, he called Harisarman, who said, "Yesterday
I was forgotten, but to-day, now the horse is stolen, I am called to
mind," and Sthuladatta then propitiated the Brahman with these words--
"I forgot you, forgive me"--and asked him to tell him who had taken
away their horse. Then Harisarman drew all kinds of pretended diagrams,
and said: "The horse has been placed by thieves on the boundary line
south from this place. It is concealed there, and before it is carried
off to a distance, as it will be at close of day, go quickly and bring
it." When they heard that, many men ran and brought the horse quickly,
praising the discernment of Harisarman. Then Harisarman was honoured by
all men as a sage, and dwelt there in happiness, honoured by
Sthuladatta.

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

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

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



THE CHARMED RING

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



THE TALKATIVE TORTOISE

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

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

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

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

"But how can I get there?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



A LAC OF RUPEES FOR A BIT OF ADVICE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What man? What dog?" he asked.

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

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

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

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

"The merchant was very glad. On returning to his house, he at once sent
the dog back to its old master with a letter rolled under the collar,
wherein he had written about the sagacity of the beast, and begged his
friend to forget the loan and to accept another five thousand rupees as
a present. When this merchant saw his dog coming back again, he
thought, 'Alas! my friend is wanting the money. How can I pay him? I
have not had sufficient time to recover myself from my recent losses. I
will slay the dog ere he reaches the threshold, and say that another
must have slain it. Thus there will be an end of my debt.'

"No dog, no loan. Accordingly he ran out and killed the poor dog, when
the letter fell out of its collar. The merchant picked it up and read
it. How great was his grief and disappointment when he knew the facts
of the case!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



THE GOLD-GIVING SERPENT

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

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

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

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



THE SON OF SEVEN QUEENS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Never were such rejoicings as these few words produced.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



A LESSON FOR KINGS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes," said the other.

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

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

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

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

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



PRIDE GOETH BEFORE A FALL

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



RAJA RASALU

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then Prince Rasalu called scornfully to him across the hall:

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

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

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

And Queen Lona answered through her tears:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then the headless corpse replied:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he, smiling at the maiden, answered lightly:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But King Sarkap replied scornfully:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Rasalu answered back,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



THE ASS IN THE LION'S SKIN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



THE FARMER AND THE MONEY-LENDER

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

"My friend," returned the money-lender, piously, "riches come from Ram
--ask _him_."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Never!" cried the farmer; "that would be the old business all over
again!"

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

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

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

Now this true story shows that a farmer once got the better of a money-
lender--but only by losing one of his eyes.



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meanwhile the horse had overheard all these orders. So he brought up
the child and said to him, "Go into that little room that leads out of
the stable, and you will find in it a saddle and bridle which you must
put on me. Then you will find in the room some beautiful clothes such
as princes wear; these you must put on yourself; and you must take the
sword and gun you will find there too. Then you must mount on my back."
Now Katar was a fairy-horse, and came from the fairies' country, so he
could get anything he wanted; but neither the King nor any of his
people knew this.

When all was ready, Katar burst out of his stable, with the prince on
his back, rushed past the King himself before the King had time to
shoot him, galloped away to the great jungle-plain, and galloped about
all over it. The King saw his horse had a boy on his back, though he
could not see the boy distinctly. The sepoys tried in vain to shoot the
horse; he galloped much too fast; and at last they were all scattered
over the plain. Then the King had to give it up and go home; and the
sepoys went to their homes. The King could not shoot any of his sepoys
for letting his horse escape, for he himself had let him do so.

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

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

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

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

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

But he answered nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, every one," said the King.

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

"Quite sure," answered the King.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



THE PRINCE AND THE FAKIR

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The King said, "Well, I agree."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Good," said her father.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



WHY THE FISH LAUGHED

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

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

On hearing this the fish laughed aloud.

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

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

"Are you indisposed?" he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Half-way the bearer of this present and message met his little son,
who, seeing what was in the basket, begged his father to give him some
of the food. His father foolishly complied. Presently he saw the young
man, and gave him the rest of the present and the message.

"Give your mistress my salam," he replied, "and tell her that the moon
is new, and that I can only find eleven months in the year, and the sea
is by no means full."

Not understanding the meaning of these words, the servant repeated them
word for word, as he had heard them, to his mistress; and thus his
theft was discovered, and he was severely punished. After a little
while the young man appeared with the old farmer. Great attention was
shown to him, and he was treated in every way as if he were the son of
a great man, although his humble host knew nothing of his origin. At
length he told them everything--about the laughing of the fish, his
father's threatened execution, and his own banishment--and asked their
advice as to what he should do.

"The laughing of the fish," said the girl, "which seems to have been
the cause of all this trouble, indicates that there is a man in the
palace who is plotting against the king's life."

"Joy, joy!" exclaimed the vizier's son. "There is yet time for me to
return and save my father from an ignominious and unjust death, and the
king from danger."

The following day he hastened back to his own country, taking with him
the farmer's daughter. Immediately on arrival he ran to the palace and
informed his father of what he had heard. The poor vizier, now almost
dead from the expectation of death, was at once carried to the king, to
whom he repeated the news that his son had just brought.

"Never!" said the king.

"But it must be so, Your Majesty," replied the vizier; "and in order to
prove the truth of what I have heard, I pray you to call together all
the maids in your palace, and order them to jump over a pit, which must
be dug. We'll soon find out whether there is any man there."

The king had the pit dug, and commanded all the maids belonging to the
palace to try to jump it. All of them tried, but only one succeeded.
That one was found to be a man!!

Thus was the queen satisfied, and the faithful old vizier saved.

Afterwards, as soon as could be, the vizier's son married the old
farmer's daughter; and a most happy marriage it was.



THE DEMON WITH THE MATTED HAIR

_This story the Teacher told in Jetavana about a Brother who had
ceased striving after righteousness. Said the Teacher to him: "Is it
really true that you have ceased all striving?"--"Yes, Blessed One," he
replied. Then the Teacher said: "O Brother, in former days wise men
made effort in the place where effort should be made, and so attained
unto royal power." And he told a story of long ago._

Once upon a time, when Brahmadatta was King of Benares, the Bodhisatta
was born as son of his chief queen. On his name-day they asked 800
Brahmans, having satisfied them with all their desires, about his lucky
marks. The Brahmans who had skill in divining from such marks beheld
the excellence of his, and made answer:

"Full of goodness, great King, is your son, and when you die he will
become king; he shall be famous and renowned for his skill with the
five weapons, and shall be the chief man in all India." On hearing what
the Brahmans had to say, they gave him the name of the Prince of the
Five Weapons, sword, spear, bow, battle-axe, and shield.

When he came to years of discretion, and had attained the measure of
sixteen years, the King said to him:

"My son, go and complete your education."

"Who shall be my teacher?" the lad asked.

"Go, my son; in the kingdom of Candahar, in the city of Takkasila, is a
far-famed teacher from whom I wish you to learn. Take this, and give it
him for a fee." With that he gave him a thousand pieces of money, and
dismissed him.

The lad departed, and was educated by this teacher; he received the
Five Weapons from him as a gift, bade him farewell, and leaving
Takkasila, he began his journey to Benares, armed with the Five
Weapons.

On his way he came to a forest inhabited by the Demon with the Matted
Hair. At the entering in of the forest some men saw him, and cried out:

"Hullo, young sir, keep clear of that wood! There's a Demon in it
called he of the Matted Hair: he kills every man he sees!" And they
tried to stop him. But the Bodhisatta, having confidence in himself,
went straight on, fearless as a maned lion.

When he reached mid-forest the Demon showed himself. He made himself as
tall as a palm tree; his head was the size of a pagoda, his eyes as big
as saucers, and he had two tusks all over knobs and bulbs; he had the
face of a hawk, a variegated belly, and blue hands and feet.

"Where are you going?" he shouted. "Stop! You'll make a meal for me!"

Said the Bodhisatta: "Demon, I came here trusting in myself. I advise
you to be careful how you come near me. Here's a poisoned arrow, which
I'll shoot at you and knock you down!" With this menace, he fitted to
his bow an arrow dipped in deadly poison, and let fly. The arrow stuck
fast in the Demon's hair. Then he shot and shot, till he had shot away
fifty arrows; and they all stuck in the Demon's hair. The Demon snapped
them all off short, and threw them down at his feet; then came up to
the Bodhisatta, who drew his sword and struck the Demon, threatening
him the while. His sword--it was three-and-thirty inches long--stuck in
the Demon's hair! The Bodhisatta struck him with his spear--that stuck
too! He struck him with his club--and that stuck too!

When the Bodhisatta saw that this had stuck fast, he addressed the
Demon. "You, Demon!" said he, "did you never hear of me before--the
Prince of the Five Weapons? When I came into the forest which you live
in I did not trust to my bow and other weapons. This day will I pound
you and grind you to powder!" Thus did he declare his resolve, and with
a shout he hit at the Demon with his right hand. It stuck fast in his
hair! He hit him with his left hand--that stuck too! With his right
foot he kicked him--that stuck too; then with his left--and that stuck
too! Then he butted at him with his head, crying, "I'll pound you to
powder!" and his head stuck fast like the rest.

Thus the Bodhisatta was five times snared, caught fast in five places,
hanging suspended: yet he felt no fear--was not even nervous.

Thought the Demon to himself: "Here's a lion of a man! A noble man!
More than man is he! Here he is, caught by a Demon like me; yet he will
not fear a bit. Since I have ravaged this road, I never saw such a man.
Now, why is it that he does not fear?" He was powerless to eat the man,
but asked him: "Why is it, young sir, that you are not frightened to
death?"

"Why should I fear, Demon?" replied he. "In one life a man can die but
once. Besides, in my belly is a thunderbolt; if you eat me, you will
never be able to digest it; this will tear your inwards into little
bits, and kill you: so we shall both perish. That is why I fear
nothing." (By this, the Bodhisatta meant the weapon of knowledge which
he had within him.)

When he heard this, the Demon thought: "This young man speaks the
truth. A piece of the flesh of such a lion-man as he would be too much
for me to digest, if it were no bigger than a kidney-bean. I'll let him
go!" So, being frightened to death, he let go the Bodhisatta, saying
"Young sir, you are a lion of a man! I will not eat you up. I set you
free from my hands, as the moon is disgorged from the jaws of Rahu
after the eclipse. Go back to the company of your friends and
relations!"

And the Bodhisatta said: "Demon, I will go, as you say. You were born a
Demon, cruel, blood-bibbing, devourer of the flesh and gore of others,
because you did wickedly in former lives. If you still go on doing
wickedly, you will go from darkness to darkness. But now that you have
seen me you will find it impossible to do wickedly. Taking the life of
living creatures causes birth, as an animal, in the world of Petas, or
in the body of an Asura, or, if one is reborn as a man, it makes his
life short." With this and the like monition he told him the
disadvantage of the five kinds of wickedness, and the profit of the
five kinds of virtue, and frightened the Demon in various ways,
discoursing to him until he subdued him and made him self-denying, and
established him in the five kinds of virtue; he made him worship the
deity to whom offerings were made in that wood; and having carefully
admonished him, departed out of it.

At the entrance of the forest he told all to the people thereabout; and
went on to Benares, armed with his five weapons. Afterwards he became
king, and ruled righteously; and after giving alms and doing good he
passed away according to his deeds.

_And the Teacher, when this tale was ended, became perfectly
enlightened, and repeated this verse:

  Whose mind and heart from all desire is free,
  Who seeks for peace by living virtuously,
    He in due time will sever all the bonds
  That bind him fast to life, and cease to be.

Thus the Teacher reached the summit, through sainthood and the teaching
of the law, and thereupon he declared the Four Truths. At the end of
the declaring of the Truths, this Brother also attained to sainthood.
Then the Teacher made the connexion, and gave the key to the birth-
tale, saying: "At that time Angulimala was the Demon, but the Prance of
the Five Weapons was I myself."_



THE IVORY CITY AND ITS FAIRY PRINCESS

One day a young prince was out practising archery with the son of his
father's chief vizier, when one of the arrows accidentally struck the
wife of a merchant, who was walking about in an upper room of a house
close by. The prince aimed at a bird that was perched on the window-
sill of that room, and had not the slightest idea that anybody was at
hand, or he would not have shot in that direction. Consequently, not
knowing what had happened, he and the vizier's son walked away, the
vizier's son chaffing him because he had missed the bird.

Presently the merchant went to ask his wife about something, and found
her lying, to all appearance, dead in the middle of the room, and an
arrow fixed in the ground within half a yard of her head. Supposing
that she was dead, he rushed to the window and shrieked, "Thieves
thieves! They have killed my wife." The neighbours quickly gathered,
and the servants came running upstairs to see what was the matter. It
happened that the woman had fainted, and that there was only a very
slight wound in her breast where the arrow had grazed.

As soon as the woman recovered her senses she told them that two young
men had passed by the place with their bows and arrows, and that one of
them had most deliberately aimed at her as she stood by the window.

On hearing this the merchant went to the king, and told him what had
taken place. His Majesty was much enraged at such audacious wickedness,
and swore that most terrible punishment should be visited on the
offender if he could be discovered. He ordered the merchant to go back
and ascertain whether his wife could recognise the young men if she saw
them again.

"Oh yes," replied the woman, "I should know them again among all the
people in the city."

"Then," said the king, when the merchant brought back this reply, "to-
morrow I will cause all the male inhabitants of this city to pass
before your house, and your wife will stand at the window and watch for
the man who did this wanton deed."

A royal proclamation was issued to this effect. So the next day all the
men and boys of the city, from the age of ten years upwards, assembled
and marched by the house of the merchant. By chance (for they both had
been excused from obeying this order) the king's son and the vizier's
son were also in the company, and passed by in the crowd. They came to
see the tamasha.

As soon as these two appeared in front of the merchant's window they
were recognised by the merchant's wife, and at once reported to the
king.

"My own son and the son of my chief vizier!" exclaimed the king, who
had been present from the commencement. "What examples for the people!
Let them both be executed."

"Not so, your Majesty," said the vizier, "I beseech you Let the facts
of the case be thoroughly investigated. How is it?" he continued,
turning to the two young men. "Why have you done this cruel thing?"

"I shot an arrow at a bird that was sitting on the sill of an open
window in yonder house, and missed," answered the prince. "I suppose
the arrow struck the merchant's wife. Had I known that she or anybody
had been near I should not have shot in that direction."

"We will speak of this later on," said the king, on hearing this
answer. "Dismiss the people. Their presence is no longer needed."

In the evening his Majesty and the vizier had a long and earnest talk
about their two sons. The king wished both of them to be executed; but
the vizier suggested that the prince should be banished from the
country. This was finally agreed to.

Accordingly, on the following morning, a little company of soldiers
escorted the prince out of the city. When they reached the last custom-
house the vizier's son overtook them. He had come with all haste,
bringing with him four bags of muhrs on four horses. "I am come," he
said, throwing his arms round the prince's neck, "because I cannot let
you go alone. We have lived together, we will be exiled together, and
we will die together. Turn me not back, if you love me."

"Consider," the prince answered, "what you are doing. All kinds of
trial may be before me. Why should you leave your home and country to
be with me?"

"Because I love you," he said, "and shall never be happy without you."

So the two friends walked along hand in hand as fast as they could to
get out of the country, and behind them marched the soldiers and the
horses with their valuable burdens. On reaching a place on the borders
of the king's dominions the prince gave the soldiers some gold, and
ordered them to return. The soldiers took the money and left; they did
not, however, go very far, but hid themselves behind rocks and stones,
and waited till they were quite sure that the prince did not intend to
come back.

On and on the exiles walked, till they arrived at a certain village,
where they determined to spend the night under one of the big trees of
the place. The prince made preparations for a fire, and arranged the
few articles of bedding that they had with them, while the vizier's son
went to the baniya and the baker and the butcher to get something for
their dinner. For some reason he was delayed; perhaps the tsut was not
quite ready, or the baniya had not got all the spices prepared. After
waiting half an hour the prince became impatient, and rose up and
walked about.

He saw a pretty, clear little brook running along not far from their
resting-place, and hearing that its source was not far distant, he
started off to find it. The source was a beautiful lake, which at that
time was covered with the magnificent lotus flower and other water
plants. The prince sat down on the bank, and being thirsty took up some
of the water in his hand. Fortunately he looked into his hand before
drinking, and there, to his great astonishment, he saw reflected whole
and clear the image of a beautiful fairy. He looked round, hoping to
see the reality; but seeing no person, he drank the water, and put out
his hand to take some more. Again he saw the reflection in the water
which was in his palm. He looked around as before, and this time
discovered a fairy sitting by the bank on the opposite side of the
lake. On seeing her he fell so madly in love with her that he dropped
down in a swoon.

When the vizier's son returned, and found the fire lighted, the horses
securely fastened, and the bags of muhrs lying altogether in a heap,
but no prince, he did not know what to think. He waited a little while,
and then shouted; but not getting any reply, he got up and went to the
brook. There he came across the footmarks of his friend. Seeing these,
he went back at once for the money and the horses, and bringing them
with him, he tracked the prince to the lake, where he found him lying
to all appearance dead.

"Alas! alas!" he cried, and lifting up the prince, he poured some water
over his head and face. "Alas! my brother, what is this? Oh! do not die
and leave me thus. Speak, speak! I cannot bear this!"

In a few minutes the prince, revived by the water, opened his eyes, and
looked about wildly.

"Thank God!" exclaimed the vizier's son. "But what is the matter,
brother?"

"Go away," replied the prince. "I don't want to say anything to you, or
to see you. Go away."

"Come, come; let us leave this place. Look, I have brought some food
for you, and horses, and everything. Let us eat and depart."

"Go alone," replied the prince.

"Never," said the vizier's son. "What has happened to suddenly estrange
you from me? A little while ago we were brethren, but now you detest
the sight of me."

"I have looked upon a fairy," the prince said. "But a moment I saw her
face; for when she noticed that I was looking at her she covered her
face with lotus petals. Oh, how beautiful she was! And while I gazed
she took out of her bosom an ivory box, and held it up to me. Then I
fainted. Oh! if you can get me that fairy for my wife, I will go
anywhere with you."

"Oh, brother," said the vizier's son, "you have indeed seen a fairy.
She is a fairy of the fairies. This is none other than Gulizar of the
Ivory City. I know this from the signs that she gave you. From her
covering her face with lotus petals I learn her name, and from her
showing you the ivory box I learn where she lives. Be patient, and rest
assured that I will arrange your marriage with her."

When the prince heard these encouraging words he felt much comforted,
rose up, and ate, and then went away gladly with his friend.

On the way they met two men. These two men belonged to a family of
robbers. There were eleven of them altogether. One, an elder sister,
stayed at home and cooked the food, and the other ten--all brothers--
went out, two and two, and walked about the four different ways that
ran through that part of the country, robbing those travellers who
could not resist them, and inviting others, who were too powerful for
two of them to manage, to come and rest at their house, where the whole
family attacked them and stole their goods. These thieves lived in a
kind of tower, which had several strong-rooms in it, and under it was a
great pit, wherein they threw the corpses of the poor unfortunates who
chanced to fall into their power.

The two men came forward, and, politely accosting them, begged them to
come and stay at their house for the night. "It is late," they said,
"and there is not another village within several miles."

"Shall we accept this good man's invitation, brother?" asked the
prince.

The vizier's son frowned slightly in token of disapproval; but the
prince was tired, and thinking that it was only a whim of his friend's,
he said to the men, "Very well. It is very kind of you to ask us."

So they all four went to the robbers' tower.

Seated in a room, with the door fastened on the outside, the two
travellers bemoaned their fate.

"It is no good groaning," said the vizier's son. "I will climb to the
window, and see whether there are any means of escape. Yes! yes!" he
whispered, when he had reached the window-hole. "Below there is a ditch
surrounded by a high wall. I will jump down and reconnoitre. You stay
here, and wait till I return."

Presently he came back and told the prince that he had seen a most ugly
woman, whom he supposed was the robbers' housekeeper. She had agreed to
release them on the promise of her marriage with the prince.

So the woman led the way out of the enclosure by a secret door.

"But where are the horses and the goods?" the vizier's son inquired.

"You cannot bring them," the woman said. "To go out by any other way
would be to thrust oneself into the grave."

"All right, then; they also shall go out by this door. I have a charm,
whereby I can make them thin or fat." So the vizier's son fetched the
horses without any person knowing it, and repeating the charm, he made
them pass through the narrow doorway like pieces of cloth, and when
they were all outside restored them to their former condition. He at
once mounted his horse and laid hold of the halter of one of the other
horses, and then beckoning to the prince to do likewise, he rode off.
The prince saw his opportunity, and in a moment was riding after him,
having the woman behind him.

Now the robbers heard the galloping of the horses, and ran out and shot
their arrows at the prince and his companions. And one of the arrows
killed the woman, so they had to leave her behind.

On, on they rode, until they reached a village where they stayed the
night. The following morning they were off again, and asked for Ivory
City from every passer-by. At length they came to this famous city, and
put up at a little hut that belonged to an old woman, from whom they
feared no harm, and with whom, therefore, they could abide in peace and
comfort. At first the old woman did not like the idea of these
travellers staying in her house, but the sight of a muhr, which the
prince dropped in the bottom of a cup in which she had given him water,
and a present of another muhr from the vizier's son, quickly made her
change her mind. She agreed to let them stay there for a few days.

As soon as her work was over the old woman came and sat down with her
lodgers. The vizier's son pretended to be utterly ignorant of the place
and people. "Has this city a name?" he asked the old woman.

"Of course it has, you stupid. Every little village, much more a city,
and such a city as this, has a name."

"What is the name of this city?"

"Ivory City. Don't you know that? I thought the name was known all over
the world."

On the mention of the name Ivory City the prince gave a deep sigh. The
vizier's son looked as much as to say "Keep quiet, or you'll discover
the secret."

"Is there a king of this country?" continued the vizier's son.

"Of course there is, and a queen, and a princess."

"What are their names?"

"The name of the princess is Gulizar, and the name of the queen----"

The vizier's son interrupted the old woman by turning to look at the
prince, who was staring like a madman. "Yes," he said to him
afterwards, "we are in the right country. We shall see the beautiful
princess."

One morning the two travellers noticed the old woman's most careful
toilette: how careful she was in the arrangement of her hair and the
set of her kasabah and puts.

"Who is coming?" said the vizier's son.

"Nobody," the old woman replied.

"Then where are you going?"

"I am going to see my daughter, who is a servant of the Princess
Gulizar. I see her and the princess every day. I should have gone
yesterday, if you had not been here and taken up all my time."

"Ah-h-h! Be careful not to say anything about us in the hearing of the
princess." The vizier's son asked her not to speak about them at the
palace, hoping that, because she had been told not to do so, she would
mention their arrival, and thus the princess would be informed of their
coming.

On seeing her mother the girl pretended to be very angry. "Why have you
not been for two days?" she asked.

"Because, my dear," the old woman answered, "two young travellers, a
prince and the son of some great vizier, have taken up their abode in
my hut, and demand so much of my attention. It is nothing but cooking
and cleaning, and cleaning and cooking, all day long. I can't
understand the men," she added; "one of them especially appears very
stupid. He asked me the name of this country and the name of the
king. Now where can these men have come from, that they do not know
these things? However, they are very great and very rich. They each
give me a muhr every morning and every evening."

After this the old woman went and repeated almost the same words to the
princess, on the hearing of which the princess beat her severely; and
threatened her with a severer punishment if she ever again spoke of the
strangers before her.

In the evening, when the old woman had returned to her hut, she told
the vizier's son how sorry she was that she could not help breaking her
promise, and how the princess had struck her because she mentioned
their coming and all about them.

"Alas! alas!" said the prince, who had eagerly listened to every word.
"What, then, will be her anger at the sight of a man?"

"Anger?" said the vizier's son, with an astonished air. "She would be
exceedingly glad to see one man. I know this. In this treatment of the
old woman I see her request that you will go and see her during the
coming dark fortnight."

"Heaven be praised!" the prince exclaimed.

The next time the old woman went to the palace Gulizar called one of
her servants and ordered her to rush into the room while she was
conversing with the old woman; and if the old woman asked what was the
matter, she was to say that the king's elephants had gone mad, and were
rushing about the city and bazaar in every direction, and destroying
everything in their way.

The servant obeyed, and the old woman, fearing lest the elephants
should go and push down her hut and kill the prince and his friend,
begged the princess to let her depart. Now Gulizar had obtained a
charmed swing, that landed whoever sat on it at the place wherever they
wished to be. "Get the swing," she said to one of the servants standing
by. When it was brought she bade the old woman step into it and desire
to be at home.

The old woman did so, and was at once carried through the air quickly
and safely to her hut, where she found her two lodgers safe and sound.
"Oh!" she cried, "I thought that both of you would be killed by this
time. The royal elephants have got loose and are running about wildly.
When I heard this I was anxious about you. So the princess gave me this
charmed swing to return in. But come, let us get outside before the
elephants arrive and batter down the place."

"Don't believe this," said the vizier's son. "It is a mere hoax. They
have been playing tricks with you."

"You will soon have your heart's desire," he whispered aside to the
prince. "These things are signs."

Two days of the dark fortnight had elapsed, when the prince and the
vizier's son seated themselves in the swing, and wished themselves
within the grounds of the palace. In a moment they were there, and
there too was the object of their search standing by one of the palace
gates, and longing to see the prince quite as much as he was longing to
see her.

Oh, what a happy meeting it was!

"At last," said Gulizar, "I have seen my beloved, my husband."

"A thousand thanks to Heaven for bringing me to you," said the prince.

Then the prince and Gulizar betrothed themselves to one another and
parted, the one for the hut and the other for the palace, both of them
feeling happier than they had ever been before.

Henceforth the prince visited Gulizar every day and returned to the hut
every night. One morning Gulizar begged him to stay with her always.
She was constantly afraid of some evil happening to him--perhaps
robbers would slay him, or sickness attack him, and then she would be
deprived of him. She could not live without seeing him. The prince
showed her that there was no real cause for fear, and said that he felt
he ought to return to his friend at night, because he had left his home
and country and risked his life for him; and, moreover, if it had not
been for his friend's help he would never have met with her.

Gulizar for the time assented, but she determined in her heart to get
rid of the vizier's son as soon as possible. A few days after this
conversation she ordered one of her maids to make a pilaw. She gave
special directions that a certain poison was to be mixed into it while
cooking, and as soon as it was ready the cover was to be placed on the
saucepan, so that the poisonous steam might not escape. When the pilaw
was ready she sent it at once by the hand of a servant to the vizier's
son with this message "Gulizar, the princess, sends you an offering in
the name of her dead uncle."

On receiving the present the vizier's son thought that the prince had
spoken gratefully of him to the princess, and therefore she had thus
remembered him. Accordingly he sent back his salam and expressions of
thankfulness.

When it was dinner-time he took the saucepan of pilaw and went out to
eat it by the stream. Taking off the lid, he threw it aside on the
grass and then washed his hands. During the minute or so that he was
performing these ablutions, the green grass under the cover of the
saucepan turned quite yellow. He was astonished, and suspecting that
there was poison in the pilaw, he took a little and threw it to some
crows that were hopping about. The moment the crows ate what was thrown
to them they fell down dead.

"Heaven be praised," exclaimed the vizier's son, "who has preserved me
from death at this time!"

On the return of the prince that evening the vizier's son was very
reticent and depressed. The prince noticed this change in him, and
asked what was the reason. "Is it because I am away so much at the
palace?" The vizier's son saw that the prince had nothing to do with
the sending of the pilaw, and therefore told him everything.

"Look here," he said, "in this handkerchief is some pilaw that the
princess sent me this morning in the name of her deceased uncle. It is
saturated with poison. Thank Heaven, I discovered it in time!"

"Oh, brother! who could have done this thing? Who is there that
entertains enmity against you?"

"The Princess Gulizar. Listen. The next time you go to see her, I
entreat you to take some snow with you; and just before seeing the
princess put a little of it into both your eyes. It will provoke tears,
and Gulizar will ask you why you are crying. Tell her that you weep for
the loss of your friend, who died suddenly this morning. Look! take,
too, this wine and this shovel, and when you have feigned intense grief
at the death of your friend, bid the princess to drink a little of the
wine. It is strong, and will immediately send her into a deep sleep.
Then, while she is asleep, heat the shovel and mark her back with it.
Remember to bring back the shovel again, and also to take her pearl
necklace. This done, return. Now fear not to execute these
instructions, because on the fulfilment of them depends your fortune
and happiness. I will arrange that your marriage with the princess
shall be accepted by the king, her father, and all the court."

The prince promised that he would do everything as the vizier's son had
advised him; and he kept his promise.

The following night, on the return of the prince from his visit to
Gulizar, he and the vizier's son, taking the horses and bags of muhrs,
went to a graveyard about a mile or so distant. It was arranged that
the vizier's son should act the part of a fakir and the prince the part
of the fakir's disciple and servant.

In the morning, when Gulizar had returned to her senses, she felt a
smarting pain in her back, and noticed that her pearl necklace was
gone. She went at once and informed the king of the loss of her
necklace, but said nothing to him about the pain in her back.

The king was very angry when he heard of the theft, and caused
proclamation concerning it to be made throughout all the city and
surrounding country.

"It is well," said the vizier's son, when he heard of this
proclamation. "Fear not, my brother, but go and take this necklace, and
try to sell it in the bazaar."

The prince took it to a goldsmith and asked him to buy it.

"How much do you want for it?" asked the man.

"Fifty thousand rupees," the prince replied.

"All right," said the man; "wait here while I go and fetch the money."

The prince waited and waited, till at last the goldsmith returned, and
with him the kotwal, who at once took the prince into custody on the
charge of stealing the princess's necklace.

"How did you get the necklace?" the kotwal asked.

"A fakir, whose servant I am, gave it to me to sell in the bazaar," the
prince replied. "Permit me, and I will show you where he is."

The prince directed the kotwal and the policeman to the place where he
had left the vizier's son, and there they found the fakir with his eyes
shut and engaged in prayer. Presently, when he had finished his
devotions, the kotwal asked him to explain how he had obtained
possession of the princess's necklace.

"Call the king hither," he replied, "and then I will tell his Majesty
face to face."

On this some men went to the king and told him what the fakir had said.
His Majesty came, and seeing the fakir so solemn and earnest in his
devotions, he was afraid to rouse his anger, lest peradventure the
displeasure of Heaven should descend on him, and so he placed his hands
together in the attitude of a supplicant, and asked, "How did you get
my daughter's necklace?"

"Last night," replied the fakir, "we were sitting here by this tomb
worshipping Khuda, when a ghoul, dressed as a princess, came and
exhumed a body that had been buried a few days ago, and began to eat
it. On seeing this I was filled with anger, and beat her back with a
shovel, which lay on the fire at the time. While running away from me
her necklace got loose and dropped. You wonder at these words, but they
are not difficult to prove. Examine your daughter, and you will find
the marks of the burn on her back. Go, and if it is as I say, send the
princess to me, and I will punish her."

The king went back to the palace, and at once ordered the princess's
back to be examined.

"It is so," said the maid-servant; "the burn is there."

"Then let the girl be slain immediately," the king shouted.

"No, no, your Majesty," they replied. "Let us send her to the fakir who
discovered this thing, that he may do whatever he wishes with her."

The king agreed, and so the princess was taken to the graveyard.

"Let her be shut up in a cage, and be kept near the grave whence she
took out the corpse," said the fakir.

This was done, and in a little while the fakir and his disciple and the
princess were left alone in the graveyard. Night had not long cast its
dark mantle over the scene when the fakir and his disciple threw off
their disguise, and taking their horses and luggage, appeared before
the cage. They released the princess, rubbed some ointment over the
scars on her back, and then sat her upon one of their horses behind the
prince. Away they rode fast and far, and by the morning were able to
rest and talk over their plans in safety. The vizier's son showed the
princess some of the poisoned pilaw that she had sent him, and asked
whether she had repented of her ingratitude. The princess wept, and
acknowledged that he was her greatest helper and friend.

A letter was sent to the chief vizier telling him of all that had
happened to the prince and the vizier's son since they had left their
country. When the vizier read the letter he went and informed the king.
The king caused a reply to be sent to the two exiles, in which he
ordered them not to return, but to send a letter to Gulizar's father,
and inform him of everything. Accordingly they did this; the prince
wrote the letter at the vizier's son's dictation.

On reading the letter Gulizar's father was much enraged with his
viziers and other officials for not discovering the presence in his
country of these illustrious visitors, as he was especially anxious to
ingratiate himself in the favour of the prince and the vizier's son. He
ordered the execution of some of the viziers on a certain date.

"Come," he wrote back to the vizier's son, "and stay at the palace. And
if the prince desires it, I will arrange for his marriage with Gulizar
as soon as possible."

The prince and the vizier's son most gladly accepted the invitation,
and received a right noble welcome from the king. The marriage soon
took place, and then after a few weeks the king gave them presents of
horses and elephants, and jewels and rich cloths, and bade them start
for their own land; for he was sure that the king would now receive
them. The night before they left the viziers and others, whom the king
intended to have executed as soon as his visitors had left, came and
besought the vizier's son to plead for them, and promised that they
each would give him a daughter in marriage. He agreed to do so, and
succeeded in obtaining their pardon.

Then the prince, with his beautiful bride Gulizar, and the vizier's
son, attended by a troop of soldiers, and a large number of camels and
horses bearing very much treasure, left for their own land. In the
midst of the way they passed the tower of the robbers, and with the
help of the soldiers they razed it to the ground, slew all its inmates,
and seized the treasure which they had been amassing there for several
years.

At length they reached their own country, and when the king saw his
son's beautiful wife and his magnificent retinue he was at once
reconciled, and ordered him to enter the city and take up his abode
there.

Henceforth all was sunshine on the path of the prince. He became a
great favourite, and in due time succeeded to the throne, and ruled the
country for many, many years in peace and happiness.



HOW SUN, MOON, AND WIND WENT OUT TO DINNER

One day Sun, Moon, and Wind went out to dine with their uncle and aunts
Thunder and Lightning. Their mother (one of the most distant Stars you
see far up in the sky) waited alone for her children's return.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



HOW THE WICKED SONS WERE DUPED

A very wealthy old man, imagining that he was on the point of death,
sent for his sons and divided his property among them. However, he did
not die for several years afterwards; and miserable years many of them
were. Besides the weariness of old age, the old fellow had to bear with
much abuse and cruelty from his sons. Wretched, selfish ingrates!
Previously they vied with one another in trying to please their father,
hoping thus to receive more money, but now they had received their
patrimony, they cared not how soon he left them--nay, the sooner the
better, because he was only a needless trouble and expense. And they
let the poor old man know what they felt.

One day he met a friend and related to him all his troubles. The friend
sympathised very much with him, and promised to think over the matter,
and call in a little while and tell him what to do. He did so; in a
few days he visited the old man and put down four bags full of stones
and gravel before him.

"Look here, friend," said he. "Your sons will get to know of my coming
here to-day, and will inquire about it. You must pretend that I came to
discharge a long-standing debt with you, and that you are several
thousands of rupees richer than you thought you were. Keep these bags
in your own hands, and on no account let your sons get to them as long
as you are alive. You will soon find them change their conduct towards
you. Salaam. I will come again soon to see how you are getting on."

When the young men got to hear of this further increase of wealth they
began to be more attentive and pleasing to their father than ever
before. And thus they continued to the day of the old man's demise,
when the bags were greedily opened, and found to contain only stones
and gravel!



THE PIGEON AND THE CROW

Once upon a time the Bodhisatta was a Pigeon, and lived in a nest-
basket which a rich man's cook had hung up in the kitchen, in order to
earn merit by it. A greedy Crow, flying near, saw all sorts of delicate
food lying about in the kitchen, and fell a-hungering after it. "How in
the world can I get some?" thought he? At last he hit upon a plan.

When the Pigeon went to search for food, behind him, following,
following, came the Crow.

"What do you want, Mr. Crow? You and I don't feed alike."

"Ah, but I like you and your ways! Let me be your chum, and let us feed
together."

The Pigeon agreed, and they went on in company. The Crow pretended to
feed along with the Pigeon, but ever and anon he would turn back, peck
to bits some heap of cow-dung, and eat a fat worm. When he had got a
bellyful of them, up he flies, as pert as you like:

"Hullo, Mr. Pigeon, what a time you take over your meal! One ought to
draw the line somewhere. Let's be going home before it is too late."
And so they did.

The cook saw that his Pigeon had brought a friend, and hung up another
basket for him.

A few days afterwards there was a great purchase of fish which came to
the rich man's kitchen. How the Crow longed for some! So there he lay,
from early morn, groaning and making a great noise. Says the Pigeon to
the Crow:

"Come, Sir Crow, and get your breakfast!"'

"Oh dear! oh dear! I have such a fit of indigestion!" says he.

"Nonsense! Crows never have indigestion," said the Pigeon. "If you eat
a lamp-wick, that stays in your stomach a little while; but anything
else is digested in a trice, as soon as you eat it. Now do what I tell
you; don't behave in this way just for seeing a little fish."

"Why do you say that, master? I have indigestion."

"Well, be careful," said the Pigeon, and flew away.

The cook prepared all the dishes, and then stood at the kitchen door,
wiping the sweat off his body. "Now's my time!" thought Mr. Crow, and
alighted on a dish containing some dainty food. Click! The cook heard
it, and looked round. Ah! he caught the Crow, and plucked all the
feathers out of his head, all but one tuft; he powdered ginger and
cummin, mixed it up with butter-milk, and rubbed it well all over the
bird's body.

"That's for spoiling my master's dinner and making me throw it away!"
said he, and threw him into his basket. Oh, how it hurt!

By-and-by the Pigeon came in, and saw the Crow lying there, making a
great noise. He made great game of him, and repeated a verse of poetry:

  "Who is this tufted crane I see
  Lying where he's no right to be?
  Come out! my friend, the crow is near,
  And he may do you harm, I fear!"

To this the Crow answered with another:

  "No tufted crane am I--no, no!
  I'm nothing but a greedy crow.
  I would not do as I was told,
  So now I'm plucked, as you behold."

And the Pigeon rejoined with a third verse:

  "You'll come to grief again, I know--
  It is your nature to do so;
  If people make a dish of meat,
  'Tis not for little birds to eat."

Then the Pigeon flew away, saying: "I can't live with this creature any
longer." And the Crow lay there groaning till he died.



NOTES AND REFERENCES

The story literature of India is in a large measure the outcome of the
moral revolution of the peninsula connected with the name of Gautama
Buddha. As the influence of his life and doctrines grew, a tendency
arose to connect all the popular stories of India round the great
teacher. This could be easily effected owing to the wide spread of the
belief in metempsychosis. All that was told of the sages of the past
could be interpreted of the Buddha by representing them as pre-
incarnations of him. Even with Fables, or beast-tales, this could be
done, for the Hindoos were Darwinists long before Darwin, and regarded
beasts as cousins of men and stages of development in the progress of
the soul through the ages. Thus, by identifying the Buddha with the
heroes of all folk-tales and the chief characters in the beast-drolls,
the Buddhists were enabled to incorporate the whole of the story-store
of Hindostan in their sacred books, and enlist on their side the tale-
telling instincts of men.

In making Buddha the centre figure of the popular literature of India,
his followers also invented the Frame as a method of literary art. The
idea of connecting a number of disconnected stories familiar to us from
_The Arabian Nights_, Boccaccio's _Decamerone_, Chaucer's _Canterbury
Tales_, or even _Pickwick_, is directly traceable to the plan of
making Buddha the central figure of India folk-literature. Curiously
enough, the earliest instance of this in Buddhist literature was intended
to be a Decameron, ten tales of Buddha's previous births, told of each
of the ten Perfections. Asvagosha, the earlier Boccaccio, died when he
had completed thirty-four of the Birth-Tales. But other collections were
made, and at last a corpus of the JATAKAS, or Birth-Tales of the Buddha,
was carried over to Ceylon, possibly as early as the first introduction of
Buddhism, 241 B.C. There they have remained till the present day, and
have at last been made accessible in a complete edition in the original
Pali by Prof. Fausboll.

These JATAKAS, as we now have them, are enshrined in a commentary on
the _gathas_, or moral verses, written in Ceylon by one of
Buddhaghosa's school in the fifth century A.D. They invariably begin
with a "Story of the Present," an incident in Buddha's life which
calls up to him a "Story of the Past," a folk-tale in which he had
played a part during one of his former incarnations. Thus the fable of
the Lion and the Crane, which opens the present collection, is
introduced by a "Story of the Present" in the following words:--

"A service have we done thee" [the opening words of the _gatha_ or
moral verse]. "This the Master told while living at Jetavana concerning
Devadatta's treachery. Not only now, O Bhickkus, but in a former
existence was Devadatta ungrateful. And having said this he told a
tale" Then follows the tale as given above, and the commentary
concludes: "The Master, having given the lesson, summed up the Jataka
thus: 'At that time, the Lion was Devadatta, and the Crane was I
myself.'" Similarly, with each story of the past the Buddha identifies
himself, or is mentioned as identical with, the virtuous hero of the
folk-tale. These Jatakas are 550 in number, and have been reckoned to
include some 2000 tales. Some of these had been translated by Mr.
Rhys-Davids (_Buddhist Birth Stories, I._, Trubner's Oriental
Library, 1880), Prof. Fausboll (_Five Jatakas_, Copenhagen), and Dr.
R. Morris (_Folk-Lore Journal_, vols. ii.-v.). A few exist sculptured
on the earliest Buddhist Stupas. Thus several of the circular figure
designs on the reliefs from Amaravati, now on the grand staircase of the
British Museum, represent Jatakas, or previous births of the Buddha.

Some of the Jatakas bear a remarkable resemblance to some of the most
familiar FABLES OF AESOP. So close is the resemblance, indeed, that it
is impossible not to surmise an historical relation between the two.
What this relation is I have discussed at considerable length in the
"History of the Aesopic Fable," which forms the introductory volume to
my edition of Caxton's _Esope_ (London, D. Nutt, "Bibliotheque de
Carabas," 1889). In this place I can only roughly summarise my results.
I conjecture that a collection of fables existed in India before Buddha
and independently of the Jatakas, and connected with the name of
Kasyapa, who was afterwards made by the Buddhists into the latest of
the twenty-seven pre-incarnations of the Buddha. This collection of the
Fables of Kasyapa was brought to Europe with a deputation from the
Cingalese King Chandra Muka Siwa (obiit 52 A.D.) to the Emperor
Claudius about 50 A.D., and was done into Greek as the [Greek: Logoi
Lubikoi] of "Kybises." These were utilised by Babrius (from whom the
Greek Aesop is derived) and Avian, and so came into the European Aesop.
I have discussed all those that are to be found in the Jatakas in the
"History" before mentioned, i. pp. 54-72 (see Notes i. xv. xx.). In
these Notes henceforth I refer to this "History" as my _Aesop_.

There were probably other Buddhist collections of a similar nature to
the Jatakas with a framework. When the Hindu reaction against Buddhism
came, the Brahmins adapted these, with the omission of Buddha as the
central figure. There is scarcely any doubt that the so-called FABLES
OF BIDPAI were thus derived from Buddhistic sources. In its Indian form
this is now extant as a _Panchatantra_ or Pentateuch, five books
of tales connected by a Frame. This collection is of special interest
to us in the present connection, as it has come to Europe in various
forms and shapes. I have edited Sir Thomas North's English version of
an Italian adaptation of a Spanish translation of a Latin version of a
Hebrew translation of an Arabic adaptation of the Pehlevi version of
the Indian original (_Fables of Bidpai_, London, D. Nutt,
"Bibliotheque de Carabas," 1888). In this I give a genealogical table
of the various versions, from which I calculate that the tales have
been translated into thirty-eight languages in 112 different versions,
twenty different ones in English alone. Their influence on European
folk-tales has been very great: it is probable that nearly one-tenth of
these can be traced to the Bidpai literature. (See Notes v. ix. x.
xiii. xv.)

Other collections of a similar character, arranged in a frame, and
derived ultimately from Buddhistic sources, also reached Europe and
formed popular reading in the Middle Ages. Among these may be mentioned
THE TALES OF SINDIBAD, known to Europe as _The Seven Sages of
Rome:_ from this we get the Gellert story (_cf. Celtic Fairy
Tales_), though it also occurs in the Bidpai. Another popular
collection was that associated with the life of St. Buddha, who has
been canonised as St. Josaphat: BARLAAM AND JOSAPHAT tells of his
conversion and much else besides, including the tale of the Three
Caskets, used by Shakespeare in the _Merchant of Venice_.

Some of the Indian tales reached Europe at the time of the Crusades,
either orally or in collections no longer extant. The earliest
selection of these was the _Disciplina Clericalis_ of Petrus
Alphonsi, a Spanish Jew converted about 1106: his tales were to be used
as seasoning for sermons, and strong seasoning they must have proved.
Another Spanish collection of considerably later date was entitled
_El Conde Lucanor_ (Eng. trans. by W. York): this contains the
fable of _The Man, his Son, and their Ass_, which they ride or
carry as the popular voice decides. But the most famous collection of
this kind was that known as GESTA ROMANORUM, much of which was
certainly derived from Oriental and ultimately Indian sources, and so
might more appropriately be termed _Gesta Indorum_.

All these collections, which reached Europe in the twelfth and
thirteenth centuries, became very popular, and were used by monks and
friars to enliven their sermons as EXEMPLA. Prof. Crane has given a
full account of this very curious phenomenon in his erudite edition of
the _Exempla of Jacques de Vitry_ (Folk Lore Society, 1890). The
Indian stories were also used by the Italian _Novellieri_, much of
Boccaccio and his school being derived from this source. As these again
gave material for the Elizabethan Drama, chiefly in W. Painter's
_Palace of Pleasure_, a collection of translated _Novelle_ which
I have edited (Lond., 3 vols. 1890), it is not surprising that we can at
times trace portions of Shakespeare back to India. It should also be
mentioned that one-half of La Fontaine's Fables (Bks. vii.-xii.) are
derived from Indian sources. (_See_ Note on No. v.)

In India itself the collection of stories in frames went on and still
goes on. Besides those already mentioned there are the stories of
_Vikram and the Vampire_ (Vetala), translated among others by the
late Sir Richard Burton, and the seventy stories of a parrot (_Suka
Saptati_.) The whole of this literature was summed up by Somnadeva,
c. 1200 A.D. in a huge compilation entitled _Katha Sarit Sagara_
("Ocean of the Stream of Stories"). Of this work, written in very
florid style, Mr. Tawney has produced a translation in two volumes in
the _Bibliotheca Indica_. Unfortunately, there is a Divorce Court
atmosphere about the whole book, and my selections from it have been
accordingly restricted. (Notes, No. xi.)

So much for a short sketch of Indian folk-tales so far as they have
been reduced to writing in the native literature. [Footnote: An
admirable and full account of this literature was given by M. A. Barth
in _Melusine_, t. iv. No. 12, and t. v. No. 1. See also Table i.
of Prof. Rhys-Davids' _Birth Stories_.] The Jatakas are probably
the oldest collection of such tales in literature, and the greater part
of the rest are demonstrably more than a thousand years old. It is
certain that much (perhaps one-fifth) of the popular literature of
modern Europe is derived from those portions of this large bulk which
came west with the Crusades through the medium of Arabs and Jews. In
his elaborate _Einleitung_ to the _Pantschatantra_, the Indian
version of the Fables of Bidpai, Prof. Benfey contended with enormous
erudition that the majority of folk-tale incidents were to be found in the
Bidpai literature. His introduction consisted of over 200 monographs on
the spread of Indian tales to Europe. He wrote in 1859, before the great
outburst of folk-tale collection in Europe, and he had not thus adequate
materials to go about in determining the extent of Indian influence on
the popular mind of Europe. But he made it clear that for beast-tales and
for drolls, the majority of those current in the mouths of occidental
people were derived from Eastern and mainly Indian sources. He was
not successful, in my opinion, in tracing the serious fairy tale to India.
Few of the tales in the Indian literary collections could be dignified by
the name of fairy tales, and it was clear that if these were to be traced
to India, an examination of the contemporary folk-tales of the peninsula
would have to be attempted.

The collection of current Indian folk-tales has been the work of the
last quarter of a century, a work, even after what has been achieved,
still in its initial stages. The credit of having begun the process is
due to Miss Frere, who, while her father was Governor of the Bombay
Presidency, took down from the lips of her _ayah_, Anna de Souza,
one of a Lingaet family from Goa who had been Christian for three
generations, the tales she afterwards published with Mr. Murray in
1868, under the title, "_Old Deccan Days, or, Indian Fairy Legends
current in Southern India, collected from oral tradition by M. Frere,
with an introduction and notes by Sir Bartle Frere_." Her example
was followed by Miss Stokes in her _Indian Fairy Tales_ (London,
Ellis & White, 1880), who took down her tales from two _ayahs_ and
a _Khitmatgar_, all of them Bengalese--the _ayahs_ Hindus, and
the man a Mohammedan. Mr. Ralston introduced the volume with some
remarks which dealt too much with sun-myths for present-day taste.
Another collection from Bengal was that of Lal Behari Day, a Hindu
gentleman, in his _Folk-Tales of Bengal_ (London, Macmillan,
1883). The Panjab and the Kashmir then had their turn: Mrs. Steel
collected, and Captain (now Major) Temple edited and annotated, their
_Wideawake Stories_ (London, Trubner, 1884), stories capitally
told and admirably annotated. Captain Temple increased the value of
this collection by a remarkable analysis of all the incidents contained
in the two hundred Indian folk-tales collected up to this date. It is
not too much to say that this analysis marks an onward step in the
scientific study of the folk-tale: there is such a thing, derided as it
may be. I have throughout the Notes been able to draw attention to
Indian parallels by a simple reference to Major Temple's Analysis.

Major Temple has not alone himself collected: he has been the cause
that many others have collected. In the pages of the _Indian
Antiquary_, edited by him, there have appeared from time to time
folk-tales collected from all parts of India. Some of these have been
issued separately. Sets of tales from Southern India, collected by the
Pandit Natesa Sastri, have been issued under the title _Folk-Lore of
Southern India_, three fascicules of which have been recently re-
issued by Mrs. Kingscote under the title, _Tales of the Sun_ (W.
H. Allen, 1891): it would have been well if the identity of the two
works had been clearly explained. The largest addition to our knowledge
of the Indian folk-tale that has been made since _Wideawake
Stories_ is that contained in Mr. Knowles' _Folk-Tales of
Kashmir_ (Trubner's Oriental Library, 1887), sixty-three stories,
some of great length. These, with Mr. Campbell's _Santal Tales_
(1892); Ramaswami Raju's _Indian Fables_ (London, Sonnenschein,
n. d.); M. Thornhill, _Indian Fairy Tales_ (London, 1889); and E.
J. Robinson, _Tales of S. India_ (1885), together with those
contained in books of travel like Thornton's _Bannu_ or Smeaton's
_Karens of Burmah_ bring up the list of printed Indian folk-tales
to over 350--a respectable total indeed, but a mere drop in the
ocean of the stream of stories that must exist in such a huge
population as that of India: the Central Provinces in particular are
practically unexplored. There are doubtless many collections still
unpublished. Col. Lewin has large numbers, besides the few published in
his _Lushai Grammar_; and Mr. M. L. Dames has a number of Baluchi
tales which I have been privileged to use. Altogether, India now ranks
among the best represented countries for printed folk-tales, coming
only after Russia (1500), Germany (1200), Italy and France (1000 each.)
[Footnote: Finland boasts of 12,000 but most of these lie unprinted
among the archives of the Helsingfors Literary Society.] Counting the
ancient with the modern, India has probably some 600 to 700 folk-tales
printed and translated in accessible form. There should be enough
material to determine the vexed question of the relations between the
European and the Indian collections.

This question has taken a new departure with the researches of M.
Emanuel Cosquin in his _Contes populaires de Lorraine_ (Paris,
1886, 2  tirage, 1890), undoubtedly the most important contribution
to the scientific study of the folk-tale since the Grimms. M. Cosquin
gives in the annotations to the eighty-four tales which he has
collected in Lorraine a mass of information as to the various forms
which the tales take in other countries of Europe and in the East. In
my opinion, the work he has done for the European folk-tale is even
more valuable than the conclusions he draws from it as to the relations
with India. He has taken up the work which Wilhelm Grimm dropped in
1859, and shown from the huge accumulations of folk-tales that have
appeared during the last thirty years that there is a common fund of
folk-tales which every country of Europe without exception possesses,
though this does not of course preclude them from possessing others
that are not shared by the rest. M. Cosquin further contends that the
whole of these have come from the East, ultimately from India, not by
literary transmission, as Benfey contended, but by oral transmission.
He has certainly shown that very many of the most striking incidents
common to European folk-tales are also to be found in Eastern
_mahrchen_. What, however, he has failed to show is that some of
these may not have been carried out to the Eastern world by Europeans.
Borrowing tales is a mutual process, and when Indian meets European,
European meets Indian; which borrowed from which, is a question which
we have very few criteria to decide. It should be added that Mr W. A.
Clouston has in England collected with exemplary industry a large
number of parallels between Indian and European folk-tale incidents in
his _Popular Tales and Fictions_ (Edinburgh, 2 vols., 1887) and
_Book of Noodles_ (London, 1888). Mr Clouston has not openly
expressed his conviction that all folk-tales are Indian in origin: he
prefers to convince us _non vi sed saepe cadendo_. He has certainly
made out a good case for tracing all European drolls, or comic folk-
tales, from the East.

With the fairy tale strictly so called--_i.e._, the serious folk-
tale of romantic adventure--I am more doubtful. It is mainly a modern
product in India as in Europe, so far as literary evidence goes. The
vast bulk of the Jatakas does not contain a single example worthy the
name, nor does the Bidpai literature. Some of Somadeva's tales,
however, approach the nature of fairy tales, but there are several
Celtic tales which can be traced to an earlier date than his (1200
A.D.) and are equally near to fairy tales. Yet it is dangerous to trust
to mere non-appearance in literature as proof of non-existence among
the folk. To take our own tales here in England, there is not a single
instance of a reference to _Jack and the Beanstalk_ for the last
three hundred years, yet it is undoubtedly a true folk-tale. And it is
indeed remarkable how many of the _formulae_ of fairy tales have
been found of recent years in India. Thus, the _Magic Fiddle_,
found among the Santals by Mr. Campbell in two variants (see Notes on
vi.), contains the germ idea of the wide-spread story represented in
Great Britain by the ballad of _Binnorie_ (see _English Fairy
Tales_, No. ix.). Similarly, Mr. Knowles' collection has added
considerably to the number of Indian variants of European "formulae"
beyond those noted by M. Cosquin.

It is still more striking as regards _incidents_. In a paper read
before the Folk-Lore Congress of 1891, and reprinted in the
_Transactions_, pp. 76 _seq._, I have drawn up a list of some
630 incidents found in common among European folk-tales (including
drolls). Of these, I reckon that about 250 have been already found
among Indian folk-tales, and the number is increased by each new
collection that is made or printed. The moral of this is, that India
belongs to a group of peoples who have a common store of stories; India
belongs to Europe for purposes of comparative folk-tales.

Can we go further and say that India is the source of all the incidents
that are held in common by European children? I think we may answer
"Yes" as regards droll incidents, the travels of many of which we can
trace, and we have the curious result that European children owe their
earliest laughter to Hindu wags. As regards the serious incidents
further inquiry is needed. Thus, we find the incident of an "external
soul" (Life Index, Captain Temple very appropriately named it) in
Asbjornsen's _Norse Tales_ and in Miss Frere's _Old Deccan
Days_ (see Notes on _Punchkin_). Yet the latter is a very
suspicious source, since Miss Frere derived her tales from a Christian
_ayah_ whose family had been in Portuguese Goa for a hundred
years. May they not have got the story of the giant with his soul
outside his body from some European sailor touching at Goa? This is to
a certain extent negatived by the fact of the frequent occurrence of
the incident in Indian folk-tales (Captain Temple gave a large number
of instances in _Wideawake Stories_, pp. 404-5). On the other
hand, Mr. Frazer in his _Golden Bough_ has shown the wide spread
of the idea among all savage or semi-savage tribes. (See Note on No.
iv.)

In this particular case we may be doubtful; but in others, again--as
the incident of the rat's tail up nose (see Notes on _The Charmed
Ring_)--there can be little doubt of the Indian origin. And
generally, so far as the incidents are marvellous and of true fairy-
tale character, the presumption is in favour of India, because of the
vitality of animism or metempsychosis in India throughout all historic
time. No Hindu would doubt the fact of animals speaking or of men
transformed into plants and animals. The European may once have had
these beliefs, and may still hold them implicitly as "survivals"; but
in the "survival" stage they cannot afford material for artistic
creation, and the fact that the higher minds of Europe for the last
thousand years have discountenanced these beliefs has not been entirely
without influence. Of one thing there is practical certainty: the fairy
tales that are common to the Indo-European world were invented once for
all in a certain locality; and thence spread to all the countries in
culture contact with the original source. The mere fact that contiguous
countries have more similarities in their story store than distant ones
is sufficient to prove this: indeed, the fact that any single country
has spread throughout it a definite set of folk-tales as distinctive as
its flora and fauna, is sufficient to prove it. It is equally certain
that not all folk-tales have come from one source, for each country has
tales peculiar to itself. The question is as to the source of the tales
that are common to all European children, and increasing evidence seems
to show that this common nucleus is derived from India and India alone.
The Hindus have been more successful than others, because of two facts:
they have had the appropriate "atmosphere" of metempsychosis, and they
have also had spread among the people sufficient literary training and
mental grip to invent plots. The Hindu tales have ousted the native
European, which undoubtedly existed independently; indeed, many still
survive, especially in Celtic lands. Exactly in the same way,
Perrault's tales have ousted the older English folk-tales, and it is
with the utmost difficulty that one can get true English fairy tales
because _Red Riding Hood_, _Cinderella_, _Blue Beard_, _Puss in
Boots_ and the rest, have survived in the struggle for existence
among English folk-tales. So far as Europe has a common store of fairy
tales, it owes this to India.

I do not wish to be misunderstood. I do not hold with Benfey that all
European folk-tales are derived from the Bidpai literature and similar
literary products, nor with M. Cosquin that they are all derived from
India. The latter scholar has proved that there is a nucleus of stories
in every European land which is common to all. I calculate that this
includes from 30 to 50 per cent. of the whole, and it is this common
stock of Europe that I regard as coming from India mainly at the time
of the Crusades, and chiefly by oral transmission. It includes all the
beast tales and most of the drolls, but evidence is still lacking about
the more serious fairy tales, though it is increasing with every fresh
collection of folk-tales in India, the great importance of which is
obvious from the above considerations.

In the following Notes I give, as on the two previous occasions, the
_source_ whence I derived the tale, then _parallels_, and finally
_remarks_. For Indian _parallels_ I have been able to refer to
Major Temple's remarkable Analysis of Indian Folk-tale incidents at the
end of _Wide-awake Stories_ (pp. 386-436), for European ones to
my alphabetical List of Incidents, with bibliographical references, in
_Transactions of Folk-Lore Congress_, 1892, pp. 87-98. My _remarks_
have been mainly devoted to tracing the relation between the Indian
and the European tales, with the object of showing that the latter
have been derived from the former. I have, however, to some extent
handicapped myself, as I have avoided giving again the Indian versions
of stories already given in _English Fairy Tales_ or _Celtic Fairy Tales_.



I. THE LION AND THE CRANE.

_Source_.--V. Fausboll, _Five Jatakas_; Copenhagen, 1861, pp.
35-8, text and translation of the _Javasakuna Jataka_. I have
ventured to English Prof. Fausboll's version, which was only intended as
a "crib" to the Pali. For the omitted Introduction, see _supra_.

_Parallels_.--I have given a rather full collection of parallels,
running to about a hundred numbers, in my _Aesop_, pp. 232-4. The
chief of these are: (i) for the East, the Midrashic version ("Lion and
Egyptian Partridge"), in the great Rabbinic commentary on Genesis
(_Bereshith-rabba_, c. 64); (2) in classical antiquity, Phaedrus,
i. 8 ("Wolf and Crane"), and Babrius, 94 ("Wolf and Heron"), and the
Greek proverb Suidas, ii. 248 ("Out of the Wolf's Mouth"); (3) in the
Middle Ages, the so-called Greek Aesop, ed. Halm, 276 _b_, really
prose versions of Babrius and "Romulus," or prose of Phaedrus, i. 8,
also the Romulus of Ademar (fl. 1030), 64; it occurs also on the Bayeux
Tapestry, in Marie de France, 7, and in Benedict of Oxford's _Mishle
Shualim_ (Heb.), 8; (4) Stainhowel took it from the "Romulus" into
his German Aesop (1480), whence all the modern European Aesops are
derived.

_Remarks_.--I have selected _The Wolf and the Crane_ as my
typical example in my "History of the Aesopic Fable," and can only give
here a rough summary of the results I there arrived at concerning the
fable, merely premising that these results are at present no more than
hypotheses. The similarity of the Jataka form with that familiar to us,
and derived by us in the last resort from Phaedrus, is so striking that
few will deny some historical relation between them. I conjecture that
the Fable originated in India, and came West by two different routes.
First, it came by oral tradition to Egypt, as one of the Libyan Fables
which the ancients themselves distinguished from the Aesopic Fables. It
was, however, included by Demetrius Phalereus, tyrant of Athens, and
founder of the Alexandrian library c. 300 B.C., in his _Assemblies of
Aesopic Fables_, which I have shown to be the source of Phaedrus'
Fables c. 30 A.D. Besides this, it came from Ceylon in the Fables of
Kybises--i.e., Kasyapa the Buddha--c. 50 A.D., was adapted into Hebrew,
and used for political purposes, by Rabbi Joshua ben Chananyah in a
harangue to the Jews c. 120 A.D., begging them to be patient while
within the jaws of Rome. The Hebrew form uses the lion, not the wolf,
as the ingrate, which enables us to decide on the Indian _provenance_
of the Midrashic version. It may be remarked that the use of the lion
in this and other Jatakas is indirectly a testimony to their great age,
as the lion has become rarer and rarer in India during historic times,
and is now confined to the Gir forest of Kathiawar, where only a dozen
specimens exist, and are strictly preserved.

The verses at the end are the earliest parts of the Jataka, being in
more archaic Pali than the rest: the story is told by the commentator
(c. 400 A.D.) to illustrate them. It is probable that they were brought
over on the first introduction of Buddhism into Ceylon, c. 241 B.C.
This would give them an age of over two thousand years, nearly three
hundred years earlier than Phaedrus, from whom comes our _Wolf and
Crane_.



II. PRINCESS LABAM.

_Source_.--Miss Stokes, _Indian Fairy Tales_, No. xxii. pp.
153-63, told by Muniya, one of the ayahs. I have left it unaltered,
except that I have replaced "God" by "Khuda," the word originally used
(see Notes _l. c._, p 237).

_Parallels_.--The tabu, as to a particular direction, occurs in
other Indian stories as well as in European folk-tales (see notes on
Stokes, p. 286). The _grateful animals_ theme occurs in "The
Soothsayer's Son" (_infra_, No. x.), and frequently in Indian
folk-tales (see Temple's Analysis, III. i. 5-7; _Wideawake
Stories_, pp. 412-3). The thorn in the tiger's foot is especially
common (Temple, _l. c._, 6, 9), and recalls the story of Androclus,
which occurs in the derivates of Phaedrus, and may thus be
Indian in origin (see Benfey, _Panschatantra_, i. 211, and the
parallels given in my _Aesop_, Ro. iii. 1. p. 243). The theme is,
however, equally frequent in European folk-tales: see my List of
Incidents, _Proc. Folk-Lore Congress_, p. 91, s.v. "Grateful
Animals" and "Gifts by Grateful Animals." Similarly, the "Bride Wager"
incident at the end is common to a large number of Indian and European
folk-tales (Temple, Analysis, p. 430; my List, _l. c. sub voce_).
The tasks are also equally common (_cf._ "Battle of the Birds" in
_Celtic Fairy Tales_), though the exact forms as given in
"Princess Labam" are not known in Europe.

_Remarks_.--We have here a concrete instance of the relation of
Indian and European fairy-tales. The human mind may be the same
everywhere, but it is not likely to hit upon the sequence of incidents,
_Direction tabu_--_Grateful Animals_--_Bride-wager_--_Tasks_, by
accident, or independently: Europe must have borrowed from India, or
India from Europe. As this must have occurred within historic times,
indeed within the last thousand years, when even European peasants
are not likely to have _invented_, even if they believed, in the incident
of the grateful animals, the probability is in favour of borrowing from
India, possibly through the intermediation of Arabs at the time of the
Crusades. It is only a probability, but we cannot in any case reach more
than probability in this matter, just at present.



III. LAMBIKIN.

_Source_.--Steel-Temple, _Wideawake Stories_, pp. 69-72,
originally published in _Indian Antiquary_, xii. 175. The droll is
common throughout the Panjab.

_Parallels_.--The similarity of the concluding episode with the
finish of the "Three Little Pigs" (Eng. Fairy Tales, No. xiv.) In my
notes on that droll I have pointed out that the pigs were once goats or
kids with "hair on their chinny chin chin." This brings the tale a
stage nearer to the Lambikin.

_Remarks_.--The similarity of Pig No. 3 rolling down hill in the
churn and the Lambikin in the Drumikin can scarcely be accidental,
though, it must be confessed, the tale has undergone considerable
modification before it reached England.



IV. PUNCHKIN.

_Source_.--Miss Frere, _Old Deccan Days_, pp. 1-16, from her
ayah, Anna de Souza, of a Lingaet family settled and Christianised at
Goa for three generations. I should perhaps add that a Prudhan is a
Prime Minister, or Vizier; Punts are the same, and Sirdars, nobles.

_Parallels_.--The son of seven mothers is a characteristic Indian
conception, for which see Notes on "The Son of Seven Queens" in this
collection, No. xvi. The mother transformed, envious stepmother, ring
recognition, are all incidents common to East and West; bibliographical
references for parallels may be found under these titles in my List of
Incidents. The external soul of the ogre has been studied by Mr. E.
Clodd in _Folk-Lore Journal_, vol. ii., "The Philosophy of
Punchkin," and still more elaborately in the section, "The External
Soul in Folk-tales," in Mr. Frazer's _Golden Bough_, ii. pp. 296-
326. See also Major Temple's Analysis, II. iii., _Wideawake
Stories_, pp. 404-5, who there gives the Indian parallels.

_Remarks_.--Both Mr. Clodd and Mr. Frazer regard the essence of
the tale to consist in the conception of an external soul or "life-
index," and they both trace in this a "survival" of savage philosophy,
which they consider occurs among all men at a certain stage of culture.
But the most cursory examination of the sets of tales containing these
incidents in Mr. Frazer's analyses shows that many, indeed the
majority, of these tales cannot be independent of one another; for they
contain not alone the incident of an external materialised soul, but
the further point that this is contained in something else, which is
enclosed in another thing, which is again surrounded by a wrapper. This
Chinese ball arrangement is found in the Deccan ("Punchkin"); in Bengal
(Day, _Folk-Tales of Bengal_); in Russia (Ralston, p. 103
_seq._, "Koschkei the Deathless," also in Mr. Lang's _Red Fairy
Book_); in Servia (Mijatovics, _Servian Folk-Lore,_ p. 172); in
South Slavonia (Wratislaw, p. 225); in Rome (Miss Busk, p. 164); in
Albania (Dozon, p. 132 _seq._); in Transylvania (Haltrich, No.
34); in Schleswig-Holstein (Mullenhoff, p. 404); in Norway
(Asbjornsen, No. 36, _ap._ Dasent, _Pop. Tales_, p. 55, "The
Giant who had no Heart in his Body"); and finally, in the Hebrides
(Campbell, _Pop. Tales_, p. 10, _cf. Celtic Fairy Tales_, No.
xvii., "Sea Maiden"). Here we have the track of this remarkable idea of
an external soul enclosed in a succession of wrappings, which we can
trace from Hindostan to the Hebrides.

It is difficult to imagine that we have not here the actual migration
of the tale from East to West. In Bengal we have the soul "in a
necklace, in a box, in the heart of a _boal_ fish, in a tank"; in
Albania "it is in a pigeon, in a hare, in the silver tusk of a wild
boar"; in Rome it is "in a stone, in the head of a bird, in the head of
a leveret, in the middle head of a seven-headed hydra"; in Russia "it
is in an egg, in a duck, in a hare, in a casket, in an oak"; in Servia
it is "in a board, in the heart of a fox, in a mountain"; in
Transylvania "it is in a light, in an egg, in a duck, in a pond, in a
mountain;" in Norway it is "in an egg, in a duck, in a well, in a
church, on an island, in a lake"; in the Hebrides it is "in an egg, in
the belly of a duck, in the belly of a wether, under a flagstone on the
threshold." It is impossible to imagine the human mind independently
imagining such bizarre convolutions. They were borrowed from one nation
to the other, and till we have reason shown to the contrary, the
original lender was a Hindu. I should add that the mere conception of
an external soul occurs in the oldest Egyptian tale of "The Two
Brothers," but the wrappings are absent.



V. THE BROKEN POT.

_Source.--Pantschatantra_, V. ix., tr. Benfey, ii. 345-6.

_Parallels._--Benfey, in S 209 of his _Einleitung_, gives
bibliographical references to most of those which are given at length in
Prof. M. Muller's brilliant essay on "The Migration of Fables"
(_Selected Essays_, i. 500-76), which is entirely devoted to the
travels of the fable from India to La Fontaine. See also Mr. Clouston,
_Pop. Tales_, ii. 432 _seq._ I have translated the Hebrew version
in my essay, "Jewish Influence on the Diffusion of Folk-Tales," pp. 6-7.
Our proverb, "Do not count your chickens before they are hatched," is
ultimately to be derived from India.

_Remarks--The stories of Alnaschar, the Barber's fifth brother in the
_Arabian Nights_, and of La Perette, who counted her chickens
before they were hatched, in La Fontaine, are demonstrably derived from
the same Indian original from which our story was obtained. The travels
of the "Fables of Bidpai" from India to Europe are well known and
distinctly traceable. I have given a rough summary of the chief
critical results in the introduction to my edition of the earliest
English version of the _Fables of Bidpai_, by Sir Thomas North, of
Plutarch fame (London, D. Nutt, "Bibliotheque de Carabas," 1888), where
I have given an elaborate genealogical table of the multitudinous
versions. La Fontaine's version, which has rendered the fable so
familiar to us all, comes from Bonaventure des Periers, _Contes et
Nouvelles_, who got it from the _Dialogus Creaturarum_ of Nicholaus
Pergamenus, who derived it from the _Sermones_ of Jacques de Vitry
(see Prof. Crane's edition, No. li.), who probably derived it from the
_Directorium Humanae Vitae_ of John of Capua, a converted Jew,
who translated it from the Hebrew version of the Arabic _Kalilah wa
Dimnah,_ which was itself derived from the old Syriac version of a
Pehlevi translation of the original Indian work, probably called after
Karataka and Damanaka, the names of two jackals who figure in the
earlier stories of the book. Prof. Rhys-Davids informs me that these names
are more akin to Pali than to Sanskrit, which makes it still more probable
that the whole literature is ultimately to be derived from a Buddhist
source.

The theme of La Perette is of interest as showing the _literary_
transmission of tales from Orient to Occident. It also shows the
possibility of an influence of literary on oral tradition, as is shown
by our proverb, and by the fact, which Benfey mentions, that La
Fontaine's story has had influence on two of Grimm's tales, Nos. 164,
168.



VI. THE MAGIC FIDDLE.

_Source_.--A. Campbell, _Santal Folk-Tales_, 1892, pp. 52-6,
with some verbal alterations. A Bonga is the presiding spirit of a
certain kind of rice land; Doms and Hadis are low-caste aborigines,
whose touch is considered polluting. The Santals are a forest tribe,
who live in the Santal Parganas, 140 miles N. W. of Calcutta (Sir W. W.
Hunter, _The Indian Empire_, 57-60).

_Parallels_.--Another version occurs in Campbell, p. 106
_seq._, which shows that the story is popular among the Santals.
It is obvious, however, that neither version contains the real finish
of the story, which must have contained the denunciation of the magic
fiddle of the murderous sisters. This would bring it under the formula
of _The Singing Bone_, which M. Monseur has recently been studying
with a remarkable collection of European variants in the Bulletin of
the Wallon Folk-Lore Society of Liege (_cf. Eng. Fairy Tales_, No.
ix.). There is a singing bone in Steel-Temple's _Wideawake
Stories_, pp. 127 _seq._ ("Little Anklebone").

_Remarks_.--Here we have another theme of the common store of
European folk-tales found in India. Unfortunately, the form in which it
occurs is mutilated, and we cannot draw any definite conclusion from
it.



VII. THE CRUEL CRANE OUTWITTED.

_Source_.--The Baka-Jataka, Fausboll, No. 38, tr. Rhys-Davids, pp.
315-21. The Buddha this time is the Genius of the Tree.

_Parallels_.--This Jataka got into the Bidpai literature, and
occurs in all its multitudinous offshoots (_see_ Benfey, _Einleitung_,
S 60) among others in the earliest English translation by North (my
edition, pp. 118-22), where the crane becomes "a great Paragone of
India (of those that live a hundredth yeares and never mue their
feathers)." The crab, on hearing the ill news "called to Parliament all the
Fishes of the Lake," and before all are devoured destroys the Paragon,
as in the Jataka, and returned to the remaining fishes, who "all with one
consent gave hir many a thanke."

_Remarks_.--An interesting point, to which I have drawn attention
in my Introduction to North's Bidpai, is the probability that the
illustrations of the tales as well as the tales themselves, were
translated, so to speak, from one country to another. We can trace them
in Latin, Hebrew, and Arabic MSS., and a few are extant on Buddhist
Stupas. Under these circumstances, it may be of interest to compare
with Mr. Batten's conception of the Crane and the Crab (_supra_,
p. 50) that of the German artist who illustrated the first edition of
the Latin Bidpai, probably following the traditional representations of
the MS., which itself could probably trace back to India.



VIII. LOVING LAILI

_Source_.--Miss Stokes, _Indian Fairy Tales_, pp. 73-84.
Majnun and Laili are conventional names for lovers, the Romeo and
Juliet of Hindostan.

_Parallels_.--Living in animals' bellies occurs elsewhere in Miss
Stokes' book, pp. 66, 124; also in Miss Frere's, 188. The restoration
of beauty by fire occurs as a frequent theme (Temple, Analysis, III.
vi. f. p. 418). Readers will be reminded of the _denouement_ of
Mr. Rider Haggard's _She_. Resuscitation from ashes has been used
very effectively by Mr. Lang in his delightful _Prince Prigio_.

_Remarks_.--The white skin and blue eyes of Prince Majnun deserve
attention. They are possibly a relic of the days of Aryan conquest,
when the fair-skinned, fair-haired Aryan conquered the swarthier
aboriginals. The name for caste in Sanskrit is _varna_, "colour";
and one Hindu cannot insult another more effectually than by calling
him a black man. _Cf._ Stokes, pp. 238-9, who suggests that the
red hair is something solar, and derived from myths of the solar hero.



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

_Source_.--Steel-Temple, _Wideawake Stories_, pp. 116-20;
first published in _Indian Antiquary_, xii. p. 170 _seq._

_Parallels_.--No less than 94 parallels are given by Prof. K.
Krohn in his elaborate discussion of this fable in his dissertation,
_Mann und Fuchs_, (Helsingfors, 1891), pp. 38-60; to which may be
added three Indian variants, omitted by him, but mentioned by Capt.
Temple, _l. c._, p. 324, in the _Bhagavata Purana_, the _Gul
Bakaoli_ and _Ind. Ant._ xii. 177; and a couple more in my _Aesop_,
p. 253: add Smeaton, _Karens_, p. 126.

_Remarks_.--Prof. Krohn comes to the conclusion that the majority
of the oral forms of the tale come from literary versions (p. 47),
whereas the _Reynard_ form has only had influence on a single
variant. He reduces the century of variants to three type forms. The
first occurs in two Egyptian versions collected in the present day, as
well as in Petrus Alphonsi in the twelfth century, and the _Fabulae
Extravagantes_ of the thirteenth or fourteenth: here the ingrate
animal is a crocodile, which asks to be carried away from a river about
to dry up, and there is only one judge. The second is that current in
India and represented by the story in the present collection: here the
judges are three. The third is that current among Western Europeans,
which has spread to S. Africa and N. and S. America: also three judges.
Prof. K. Krohn counts the first the original form, owing to the single
judge and the naturalness of the opening, by which the critical
situation is brought about. The further question arises, whether this
form, though found in Egypt now, is indigenous there, and if so, how it
got to the East. Prof. Krohn grants the possibility of the Egyptian
form having been invented in India and carried to Egypt, and he allows
that the European forms have been influenced by the Indian. The
"Egyptian" form is found in Burmah (Smeaton, _l. c._, p. 128), as
well as the Indian, a fact of which Prof. K. Krohn was unaware though
it turns his whole argument. The evidence we have of other folk-tales
of the beast-epic emanating from India improves the chances of this
also coming from that source. One thing at least is certain: all these
hundred variants come ultimately from one source. The incident "Inside
again" of the _Arabian Nights_ (the Djinn and the bottle) and
European tales is also a secondary derivate.



X. THE SOOTHSAYER'S SON.

_Source_.--Mrs. Kingscote, _Tales of the Sun_ (p. 11
_seq._), from Pandit Natesa Sastri's _Folk-Lore of Southern
India_, pt. ii., originally from _Ind. Antiquary_. I have considerably
condensed and modified the somewhat Babu English of the original.

_Parallels_.--See Benfey, _Pantschatantra_, S 71, i. pp. 193-
222, who quotes the _Karma Jataka_ as the ultimate source: it
also occurs in the _Saccankira Jataka_ (Fausboll, No. 73), trans.
Rev. R. Morris, _Folk-Lore Jour._ iii. 348 _seq._ The story
of the ingratitude of man compared with the gratitude of beasts came
early to the West, where it occurs in the _Gesta Romanorum_, c.
119. It was possibly from an early form of this collection that Richard
Coeur de Lion got the story, and used it to rebuke the ingratitude of
the English nobles on his return in 1195. Matthew Paris tells the
story, _sub anno_ (it is an addition of his to Ralph Disset),
_Hist. Major_, ed. Luard, ii. 413-6, how a lion and a serpent and
a Venetian named Vitalis were saved from a pit by a woodman, Vitalis
promising him half his fortune, fifty talents. The lion brings his
benefactor a leveret, the serpent "gemmam pretiosam," probably "the
precious jewel in his head" to which Shakespeare alludes (_As You
Like It_, ii. 1., cf. Benfey, _l.c._, p. 214, _n._), but Vitalis
refuses to have anything to do with him, and altogether repudiates the
fifty talents. "Haec referebat Rex Richardus munificus, ingratos
redarguendo."

_Remarks_.--Apart from the interest of its wide travels, and its
appearance in the standard mediaeval History of England by Matthew
Paris, the modern story shows the remarkable persistence of folk-tales
in the popular mind. Here we have collected from the Hindu peasant of
to-day a tale which was probably told before Buddha, over two thousand
years ago, and certainly included among the Jatakas before the
Christian era. The same thing has occurred with _The Tiger, Brahman,
and Jackal_ (No. ix. _supra_).



XI. HARISARMAN.

_Source_.--Somadeva, _Katha-Sarit-Sagara_, trans. Tawney
(Calcutta, 1880), i. pp. 272-4. I have slightly toned down the inflated
style of the original.

_Parallels_.--Benfey has collected and discussed a number in
_Orient and Occident_, i. 371 _seq._; see also Tawney, _ad loc._
The most remarkable of the parallels is that afforded by the Grimms'
"Doctor Allwissend" (No. 98), which extends even to such a minute point
as his exclamation, "Ach, ich armer Krebs," whereupon a crab is
discovered under a dish. The usual form of discovery of the thieves is for
the Dr. Knowall to have so many days given him to discover the thieves,
and at the end of the first day he calls out, "There's one of them,"
meaning the days, just as one of the thieves peeps through at him.
Hence the title and the plot of C. Lever's _One of Them_.



XII. THE CHARMED RING.

_Source_.--Knowles, _Folk-Tales of Kashmir_, pp. 20-8.

_Parallels_.--The incident of the Aiding Animals is frequent in
folk-tales: see bibliographical references, _sub voce_, in my List
of Incidents, _Trans. Folk-Lore Congress_, p. 88; also Knowles,
21, _n._; and Temple, _Wideawake Stories_, pp. 401, 412. The
Magic Ring is also "common form" in folk-tales; _cf._ Kohler
_ap._ Marie de France, _Lais_, ed. Warncke, p. lxxxiv. And the
whole story is to be found very widely spread from India (_Wideawake
Stories_, pp. 196-206) to England (_Eng. Fairy Tales_, No. xvii, "Jack
and his Golden Snuff-box," _cf._ Notes, _ibid._), the most familiar
form of it being "Aladdin and the Wonderful Lamp."

_Remarks_.--M. Cosquin has pointed out (_Contes de Lorraine_,
p. xi. _seq._) that the incident of the rat's-tail-up-nose to recover
the ring from the stomach of an ogress, is found among Arabs,
Albanians, Bretons, and Russians. It is impossible to imagine that
incident--occurring in the same series of incidents--to have been
invented more than once, and if that part of the story has been
borrowed from India, there is no reason why the whole of it should not
have arisen in India, and have been spread to the West. The English
variant was derived from an English Gipsy, and suggests the possibility
that for this particular story the medium of transmission has been the
Gipsies. This contains the incident of the loss of the ring by the
faithful animal, which again could not have been independently
invented.



XIII. THE TALKATIVE TORTOISE.

_Source_.---The _Kacchapa Jataka_, Fausboll, No. 215; also in
his _Five Jatakas_, pp. 16, 41, tr. Rhys-Davids, pp. viii-x.

_Parallels_.--It occurs also in the Bidpai literature, in nearly
all its multitudinous offshoots. See Benfey, _Einleitung_, S 84;
also my _Bidpai_, E, 4 _a_; and North's text, pp. 170-5, where it
is the taunts of the other birds that cause the catastrophe: "O here is a
brave sight, looke, here is a goodly ieast, what bugge haue we here,"
said some. "See, see, she hangeth by the throte, and therefor she
speaketh not," saide others; "and the beast flieth not like a beast;" so
she opened her mouth and "pashte hir all to pieces."

_Remarks_.-I have reproduced in my edition the original
illustration of the first English Bidpai, itself derived from the
Italian block. A replica of it here may serve to show that it could be
used equally well to illustrate the Pali original as its English great-
great-great-great-great-great grand-child.



XIV. LAC OF RUPEES.

_Source_.--Knowles, _Folk-Tales of Kashmir_, pp. 32-41. I
have reduced the pieces of advice to three, and curtailed somewhat.

_Parallels_.--See _Celtic Fairy Tales_, No. xxii., _"Tale
of Ivan,"_ from the old Cornish, now extinct, and notes _ibid._
Mr. Clouston points out (_Pop. Tales_, ii. 319) that it occurs in
Buddhist literature, in "Buddaghoshas Parables," as "The Story of Kulla
Pauthaka."

_Remarks_.--It is indeed curious to find the story better told in
Cornwall than in the land of its birth, but there can be little doubt
that the Buddhist version is the earliest and original form of the
story. The piece of advice was originally a charm, in which a youth was
to say to himself, "Why are you busy? Why are you busy?" He does so
when thieves are about, and so saves the king's treasures, of which he
gets an appropriate share. It would perhaps be as well if many of us
should say to ourselves "_Ghatesa, ghatesa, kim karana?_"



XV. THE GOLD-GIVING SERPENT.

_Source_.--_Pantschatantra_, III. v., tr. Benfey, ii. 244-7.

_Parallels_ given in my Aesop, Ro. ii. 10, p. 40. The chief points
about them are--(1) though the tale does not exist in either Phaedrus or
Babrius, it occurs in prose derivates from the Latin by Ademar, 65, and
"Romulus," ii. 10, and from Greek, in Gabrias, 45, and the prose _Aesop_,
ed. Halm, 96; Gitlbauer has restored the Babrian form in his edition of
Babrius, No. 160. (2) The fable occurs among folk-tales, Grimm, 105;
Woycicki, _Poln. Mahr._ 105; Gering, _Islensk. Aevent_ 59, possibly
derived from La Fontaine, x. 12.

_Remarks_.--Benfey has proved most ingeniously and conclusively
(_Einl._) that the Indian fable is the source of both Latin and
Greek fables. I may borrow from my _Aesop_, p. 93, parallel abstracts
of the three versions, putting Benfey's results in a graphic form,
series of bars indicating the passages where the classical fables have
failed to preserve the original.


BIDPAI.

A Brahmin once observed a snake in his field, and thinking it the
tutelary spirit of the field, he offered it a libation of milk in a
bowl. Next day he finds a piece of gold in the bowl, and he receives
this each day after offering the libation. One day he had to go
elsewhere, and he sent his son with the libation. The son sees the
gold, and thinking the serpent's hole full of treasure determines to
slay the snake. He strikes at its head with a cudgel, and the enraged
serpent stings him to death. The Brahmin mourns his son's death, but
next morning as usual brings the libation of milk (in the hope of
getting the gold as before). The serpent appears after a long delay at
the mouth of its lair, and declares their friendship at an end, as it
could not forget the blow of the Brahmin's son, nor the Brahmin his
son's death from the bite of the snake.

_Pants_. III. v. (Benf. 244-7).


PHAEDRINE.

----A good man had become friendly with the snake, who came into his
house and brought luck with it, so that the man became rich through
it.----One day he struck the serpent, which disappeared, and with it
the man's riches. The good man tries to make it up, but the serpent
declares their friendship at an end, as it could not forget the blow.----

Phaed. Dressl. VII. 28 (Rom. II. xi.)


BABRIAN.

----------------A serpent stung a farmer's son to death. The father
pursued the serpent with an axe, and struck off part of its tail.
Afterwards fearing its vengeance he brought food and honey to its lair,
and begged reconciliation. The serpent, however, declares friendship
impossible, as it could not forget the blow--nor the farmer his son's
death from the bite of the snake.

Aesop; Halm 96b (Babrius-Gitlb. 160).

In the Indian fable every step of the action is thoroughly justified,
whereas the Latin form does not explain why the snake was friendly in
the first instance, or why the good man was enraged afterwards; and the
Greek form starts abruptly, without explaining why the serpent had
killed the farmer's son. Make a composite of the Phaedrine and Babrian
forms, and you get the Indian one, which is thus shown to be the
original of both.



XVI. THE SON OF SEVEN QUEENS.

_Source_.--Steel Temple, _Wideawake Stories_, pp. 98-110,
originally published in _Ind. Antiq._ x. 147 _seq._

_Parallels_.--A long variant follows in _Ind. Antiq._, _l.
c._ M. Cosquin refers to several Oriental variants, _l. c._ p.
xxx. _n._ For the direction tabu, see Note on Princess Labam,
_supra_, No. ii. The "letter to kill bearer" and "letter substituted"
are frequent in both European (see my List _s. v._) and Indian
Folk-Tales (Temple, Analysis, II. iv. _b_, 6, p. 410). The idea of a
son of seven mothers could only arise in a polygamous country. It occurs
in "Punchkin," _supra_, No. iv.; Day, _Folk-Tales of Bengal_, 117
_seq.; Ind. Antiq._ i. 170 (Temple, _l. c._, 398).

_Remarks._--M. Cosquin (_Contes de Lorraine_, p. xxx.)
points out how, in a Sicilian story, Gonzenbach (_Sizil. Mahr._
No. 80), the seven co-queens are transformed into seven step-daughters
of the envious witch who causes their eyes to be taken out. It is thus
probable, though M. Cosquin does not point this out, that the "envious
step-mother" of folk-tales (see my List, _s. v._) was originally
an envious co-wife. But there can be little doubt of what M. Cosquin
_does_ point out--viz., that the Sicilian story is derived from
the Indian one.



XVII. A LESSON FOR KINGS.

_Source.--Rajovada Jataka_, Fausboll, No. 151, tr. Rhys-Davids,
pp. xxii.-vi.

_Remarks_.--This is one of the earliest of moral allegories in
existence. The moralising tone of the Jatakas must be conspicuous to
all reading them. Why, they can moralise even the Tar Baby (see
_infra_, Note on "Demon with the Matted Hair," No. xxv.).



XVIII. PRIDE GOETH BEFORE A FALL.

_Source_.--Kingscote, _Tales of the Sun_. I have changed the
Indian mercantile numerals into those of English "back-slang," which
make a very good parallel.



XIX. RAJA RASALU.

_Source_.--Steel-Temple, _Wideawake Stories_, pp. 247-80,
omitting "How Raja Rasalu was Born," "How Raja Rasalu's Friends Forsook
Him," "How Raja Rasalu Killed the Giants," and "How Raja Rasalu became
a Jogi." A further version in Temple, _Legends of _Panjab_, vol.
i. _Chaupur_, I should explain, is a game played by two players
with eight men, each on a board in the shape of a cross, four men to
each cross covered with squares. The moves of the men are decided by
the throws of a long form of dice. The object of the game is to see
which of the players can first move all his men into the black centre
square of the cross (Temple, _l. c._, p. 344, and _Legends of
Panjab_, i. 243-5) It is sometimes said to be the origin of chess.

_Parallels_.--Rev. C. Swynnerton, "Four Legends about Raja Rasalu,"
in _Folk-Lore Journal_, p. 158 _seq._, also in separate book
much enlarged, _The Adventures of Raja Rasalu_, Calcutta, 1884.
Curiously enough, the real interest of the story comes after the end of
our part of it, for Kokilan, when she grows up, is married to Raja
Rasalu, and behaves as sometimes youthful wives behave to elderly
husbands. He gives her her lover's heart to eat, _a la_ Decameron,
and she dashes herself over the rocks. For the parallels of this part
of the legend see my edition of Painter's _Palace of Pleasure_,
tom. i. Tale 39, or, better, the _Programm_ of H. Patzig, _Zur
Geschichte der Herzmare_ (Berlin, 1891). Gambling for life occurs in
Celtic and other folk-tales; _cf._ my List of Incidents, _s.
v._ "Gambling for Magic Objects."

_Remarks_.--Raja Rasalu is possibly a historic personage,
according to Capt. Temple, _Calcutta Review_, 1884, p. 397,
flourishing in the eighth or ninth century. There is a place called
Sirikap ka-kila in the neighbourhood of Sialkot, the traditional seat
of Rasalu on the Indus, not far from Atlock.

Herr Patzig is strongly for the Eastern origin of the romance, and
finds its earliest appearance in the West in the Anglo-Norman
troubadour, Thomas' _Lai Guirun_, where it becomes part of the
Tristan cycle. There is, so far as I know, no proof of the earliest
part of the Rasalu legend (_our_ part) coming to Europe, except
the existence of the gambling incidents of the same kind in Celtic and
other folk-tales.



XX. THE ASS IN THE LION'S SKIN.

_Source_.--The _Siha Camma Jataka_, Fausboll, No. 189,
trans. Rhys-Davids, pp. v. vi.

_Parallels_.--It also occurs in Somadeva, _Katha Sarit
Sagara_, ed. Tawney, ii. 65, and _n._ For Aesopic parallels _cf._
my _Aesop_, Av. iv. It is in Babrius, ed. Gitlbaur, 218 (from Greek prose
Aesop, ed. Halm, No. 323), and Avian, ed. Ellis, 5, whence it came into
the modern Aesop.

_Remarks_.--Avian wrote towards the end of the third century, and
put into Latin mainly those portions of Babrius which are unparalleled
by Phaedrus. Consequently, as I have shown, he has a much larger
proportion of Eastern elements than Phaedrus. There can be little doubt
that the Ass in the Lion's Skin is from India. As Prof. Rhys-Davids
remarks, the Indian form gives a plausible motive for the masquerade
which is wanting in the ordinary Aesopic version.



XXI. THE FARMER AND THE MONEY-LENDER.

_Source_.--Steel-Temple, _Wideawake Stories_, pp. 215-8.

_Parallels_ enumerated in my _Aesop_, Av. xvii. See also
Jacques de Vitry, _Exempla_, ed. Crane, No. 196 (see notes, p.
212), and Bozon, _Contes moralises_, No. 112. It occurs in Avian,
ed. Ellis, No. 22. Mr. Kipling has a very similar tale in his _Life's
Handicap_.

_Remarks_.--Here we have collected in modern India what one cannot
help thinking is the Indian original of a fable of Avian. The preceding
number showed one of his fables existing among the Jatakas, probably
before the Christian era. This makes it likely that we shall find an
earlier Indian original of the fable of the Avaricious and Envious,
perhaps among the Jatakas still untranslated.



XXII. THE BOY WITH MOON ON FOREHEAD.

_Source_.--Miss Stokes' _Indian Fairy Tales_, No. 20, pp.
119-137.

_Parallels_ to heroes and heroines in European fairy tales, with
stars on their foreheads, are given with some copiousness in Stokes,
_l. c._, pp. 242-3. This is an essentially Indian trait; almost
all Hindus have some tribal or caste mark on their bodies or faces. The
choice of the hero disguised as a menial is also common property of
Indian and European fairy tales: see Stokes, _l. c._, p. 231, and
my List of Incidents (_s. v._ "Menial Disguise.")



XXIII. THE PRINCE AND THE FAKIR.

_Source_.--Kindly communicated by Mr. M. L. Dames from his
unpublished collection of Baluchi tales.

_Remarks_.--Unholy fakirs are rather rare. See Temple, Analysis,
I. ii. _a_, p. 394.



XXIV. WHY THE FISH LAUGHED.

_Source_.--Knowles, _Folk-Tales of Kashmir_, pp. 484-90.

_Parallels_.--The latter part is the formula of the Clever Lass
who guesses riddles. She has been bibliographised by Prof. Child,
_Eng. and Scotch Ballads_, i. 485; see also Benfey, _Kl. Schr._
ii. 156 _seq._ The sex test at the end is different from any of those
enumerated by Prof. Kohler on Gonzenbach, _Sezil. Mahr._ ii. 216.

_Remarks_.--Here we have a further example of a whole formula, or
series of incidents, common to most European collections, found in
India, and in a quarter, too, where European influence is little likely
to penetrate. Prof. Benfey, in an elaborate dissertation ("Die Kluge
Dirne," in _Ausland_, 1859, Nos. 20-25, now reprinted in _Kl.
Schr._ ii. 156 _seq._), has shown the wide spread of the theme
both in early Indian literature (though probably there derived from the
folk) and in modern European folk literature.



XXV. THE DEMON WITH THE MATTED HAIR.

_Source_.--_The Pancavudha Jataka_, Fausboll, No. 55,
kindly translated for this book by Mr. W. H. D. Rouse, of Christ's
College, Cambridge. There is a brief abstract of the Jataka in Prof.
Estlin Carpenter's sermon, _Three Ways of Salvation_, 1884, p. 27,
where my attention was first called to this Jataka.

_Parallels_.--Most readers of these Notes will remember the
central episode of Mr. J. C. Harris' _Uncle Remus_, in which Brer
Fox, annoyed at Brer Rabbit's depredations, fits up "a contrapshun,
what he calls a Tar Baby." Brer Rabbit, coming along that way, passes
the time of day with Tar Baby, and, annoyed at its obstinate silence,
hits it with right fist and with left, with left fist and with right,
which successively stick to the "contrapshun," till at last he butts
with his head, and that sticks too, whereupon Brer Fox, who all this
time had "lain low," saunters out, and complains of Brer Rabbit that he
is too stuck up. In the sequel Brer Rabbits begs Brer Fox that he may
"drown me as deep ez you please, skin me, scratch out my eyeballs, t'ar
out my years by the roots, en cut off my legs, but do don't fling me in
dat brier patch;" which, of course, Brer Fox does, only to be informed
by the cunning Brer Rabbit that he had been "bred en bawn in a brier
patch." The story is a favourite one with the negroes: it occurs in
Col. Jones' _Negro Myths of the Georgia Coast_ (Uncle Remus is
from S. Carolina), also among those of Brazil (Romero, _Contos do
Brazil_), and in the West Indian Islands (Mr. Lang, "At the Sign of
the Ship," _Longman's Magazine_, Feb. 1889). We can trace it to
Africa, where it occurs in Cape Colony (_South African Folk-Lore
Journal_, vol. i.).

_Remarks_.--The five-fold attack on the Demon and the Tar Baby is
so preposterously ludicrous that it cannot have been independently
invented, and we must therefore assume that they are causally
connected, and the existence of the variant in South Africa clinches
the matter, and gives us a landing-stage between India and America.
There can be little doubt that the Jataka of Prince Five-Weapons came
to Africa, possibly by Buddhist missionaries, spread among the negroes,
and then took ship in the holds of slavers for the New World, where it
is to be found in fuller form than any yet discovered in the home of
its birth. I say Buddhist missionaries, because there is a certain
amount of evidence that the negroes have Buddhistic symbols among them,
and we can only explain the identification of Brer Rabbit with Prince
Five Weapons, and so with Buddha himself, by supposing the change to
have originated among Buddhists, where it would be quite natural. For
one of the most celebrated metempsychoses of Buddha is that detailed in
the _Sasa Jataka_ (Fausboll, No. 316, tr. R. Morris, _Folk-Lore
Journal_, ii. 336), in which the Buddha, as a hare, performs a
sublime piece of self-sacrifice, and as a reward is translated to the
moon, where he can be seen to this day as "the hare in the moon." Every
Buddhist is reminded of the virtue of self-sacrifice whenever the moon
is full, and it is easy to understand how the Buddha became identified
as the Hare or Rabbit. A striking confirmation of this, in connection
with our immediate subject, is offered by Mr. Harris' sequel volume,
_Nights with Uncle Remus_. Here there is a whole chapter (xxx.) on
"Brer Rabbit and his famous Foot," and it is well known how the worship
of Buddha's foot developed in later Buddhism. No wonder Brer Rabbit is
so 'cute: he is nothing less than an incarnation of Buddha. Among the
Karens of Burmah, where Buddhist influence is still active, the Hare
holds exactly the same place in their folk-lore as Brer Rabbit among
the negroes. The sixth chapter of Mr. Smeaton's book on them is devoted
to "Fireside Stories," and is entirely taken up with adventures of the
Hare, all of which can be paralleled from _Uncle Remus_.

Curiously enough, the negro form of the five-fold attack--"fighting
with _five_ fists," Mr. Barr would call it--is probably nearer to
the original legend than that preserved in the Jataka, though 2000
years older. For we may be sure that the thunderbolt of Knowledge did
not exist in the original, but was introduced by some Buddhist Mr.
Barlow, who, like Alice's Duchess, ended all his tales with: "And the
moral of that is----" For no well-bred demon would have been taken in
by so simple a "sell" as that indulged in by Prince Five-Weapons in our
Jataka, and it is probable, therefore, that _Uncle Remus_ preserves a
reminiscence of the original Indian reading of the tale. On the other
hand, it is probable that Carlyle's Indian god with the fire in his
belly was derived from Prince Five-Weapons.

The negro variant has also suggested to Mr. Batten an explanation of
the whole story which is extremely plausible, though it introduces a
method of folk-lore exegesis which has been overdriven to death. The
_Sasa Jataka_ identifies the Brer Rabbit Buddha with the hare in
the moon. It is well known that Easterns explain an eclipse of the moon
as due to its being swallowed up by a Dragon or Demon. May not, asks
Mr. Batten, the _Pancavudha Jataka_ be an idealised account of an
eclipse of the moon? This suggestion receives strong confirmation from
the Demon's reference to Rahu, who does, in Indian myth swallow the
moon at times of eclipse. The Jataka accordingly contains the Buddhist
explanation why the moon--_i.e._ the hare in the moon, _i.e._
Buddha--is not altogether swallowed up by the Demon of Eclipse, the
Demon with the Matted Hair. Mr. Batten adds that in imagining what kind
of Demon the Eclipse Demon was, the Jataka writer was probably aided by
recollections of some giant octopus, who has saucer eyes and a kind of
hawk's beak, knobs on its "tusks," and a very variegated belly
(gastropod). It is obviously unfair of Mr. Batten both to illustrate
and also to explain so well the Tar Baby Jataka--taking the scientific
bread, so to speak, out of a poor folklorist's mouth--but his
explanations seem to me so convincing that I cannot avoid including
them in these Notes.

I am, however, not so much concerned with the original explanation of
the Jataka as to trace its travels across the continents of Asia,
Africa, and America. I think I have done this satisfactorily, and will
have thereby largely strengthened the case for less extensive travels
of other tales. I have sufficient confidence of the method employed to
venture on that most hazardous of employments, scientific prophecy. I
venture to predict that the Tar Baby story will be found in Madagascar
in a form nearer the Indian than Uncle Remus, and I will go further,
and say that it will _not_ be found in the grand Helsingfors
collection of folk-tales, though this includes 12,000, of which 1000
are beast-tales.



XXVI. THE IVORY PALACE.

_Source_.--Knowles, _Folk-Tales of Kashmir_, pp. 211--25,
with some slight omissions. Gulizar is Persian for rosy-cheeked.

_Parallels_.--Stokes, _Indian Fairy Tales_, No. 27.
"Panwpatti Rani," pp. 208-15, is the same story. Another version in the
collection _Baital Pachisi_, No. 1.

_Remarks_.--The themes of love by mirror, and the faithful friend,
are common European, though the calm attempt at poisoning is perhaps
characteristically Indian, and reads like a page from Mr. Kipling.



XXVII. SUN, MOON, AND WIND.

_Source_.--Miss Frere, _Old Deccan Days_, No. 10 pp. 153-5.

_Remarks_.--Miss Frere observes that she has not altered the
traditional mode of the Moon's conveyance of dinner to her mother the
Star, though it must, she fears, impair the value of the story as a
moral lesson in the eyes of all instructors of youth.



XXVIII. HOW WICKED SONS WERE DUPED.

_Source_.--Knowles, _Folk-Tales of Kashmir_, pp. 241-2.

_Parallels_.--A Gaelic parallel was given by Campbell in _Trans.
Ethnol. Soc._, ii. p. 336; an Anglo-Latin one from the Middle Ages
by T. Wright in _Latin Stories_ (Percy Soc.), No. 26; and for
these and points of anthropological interest in the Celtic variant see
Mr. Gomme's article in _Folk-Lore_, i. pp. 197-206, "A Highland
Folk-Tale and its Origin in Custom."

_Remarks_.--Mr. Gomme is of opinion that the tale arose from
certain rhyming formulae occurring in the Gaelic and Latin tales as
written on a mallet left by the old man in the box opened after his
death. The rhymes are to the effect that a father who gives up his
wealth to his children in his own lifetime deserves to be put to death
with the mallet. Mr. Gomme gives evidence that it was an archaic custom
to put oldsters to death after they had become helpless. He also points
out that it was customary for estates to be divided and surrendered
during the owners' lifetime, and generally he connects a good deal of
primitive custom with our story. I have already pointed out in _Folk-
Lore_, p. 403, that the existence of the tale in Kashmir without any
reference to the mallet makes it impossible for the rhymes on the
mallet to be the source of the story. As a matter of fact, it is a very
embarrassing addition to it, since the rhyme tells against the parent,
and the story is intended to tell against the ungrateful children. The
existence of the tale in India renders it likely enough that it is not
indigenous to the British Isles, but an Oriental importation. It is
obvious, therefore, that it cannot be used as anthropological evidence
of the existence of the primitive customs to be found in it. The whole
incident, indeed, is a striking example of the dangers of the
anthropological method of dealing with folk-tales before some attempt
is made to settle the questions of origin and diffusion.



XXIX. THE PIGEON AND THE CROW.

_Source_.--The _Lola Jataka_, Fausboll, No. 274, kindly
translated and slightly abridged for this book by Mr. W. H. D. Rouse.

_Remarks_.--We began with an animal Jataka, and may appropriately
finish with one which shows how effectively the writers of the Jatakas
could represent animal folk, and how terribly moral they invariably
were in their tales. I should perhaps add that the Bodhisat is not
precisely the Buddha himself but a character which is on its way to
becoming perfectly enlightened, and so may be called a future Buddha.






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