MAGYAR MYTHS AND FOLK-TALES.

THE POOR MAN, AND THE KING OF THE CROWS.

THERE was once a very poor man, and he had two lean cows. The two cows were to the poor man as their mother’s breast to children; for not only did they give milk and butter, for which he got a few coppers to buy salt, but he tilled his patch of land with them.

Now, he was ploughing one day at the edge of the woods with the two cows, when, from wherever it came, a six-horse coach stood before him, and in it sat no other than the King of the Crows, who found this to say to the poor man,—

“Listen, poor man; I will tell thee one thing, and two will come of it. Sell me those lean cows; I’ll give thee good money for them. I’ll pay double price. My army hasn’t tasted a morsel for three days, and the soldiers will die of hunger and thirst unless thou wilt save them.”

“If that’s the case,” said the poor man to the King of the Crows, “if it be that thy Highness’s army hasn’t eaten anything for three days, I don’t mind the difficulty. I’ll let thee have the cows, not for money; let thy Highness return a cow for a cow.”

“Very good, poor man, let it be as thou sayest. I will give thee a cow for a cow; more than that, for two thou wilt get four cows. For that purpose find me in my kingdom, for I am the King of the Crows. Thou hast but to look in the north for the black castle; thou’lt be sure to find it.”

With that the King of the Crows vanished as if he had never been there,—as if the earth had swallowed him. The poor man kept on ploughing with the two lean cows, till, all at once, the army of the King of the Crows appeared like a black cloud approaching through the air, with mighty cawing, and seizing the two cows tore them bit from bit. When they had finished, the dark legions with tumultuous cawing moved on their way like a cloud. The poor man watched the direction in which they flew so that he might know the way.

Now he strolled home in great sadness, took leave of his two handsome sons and his dear wife, in the midst of bitter tears, and set out into the world to find the black castle. He travelled and journeyed over forty-nine kingdoms, beyond the Operentsia Sea and the glass mountains, and beyond that, where the little short-tailed pig roots, and beyond that, and still farther on, till he came to an ocean-great sand-plain.

Nowhere for gold was a town, a village, or a cabin to be seen where he might recline his head for a night’s rest, or beg a morsel of bread or a cup of water. Food had long since left his bag, and he might have struck fire in the gourd[5] which hung at his side. What was he to do? Where could he save his life? Here he must perish of hunger and thirst in the midst of this ocean-great desert, and then at home let them wait for him till the day of Judgment. Here the poor man’s power of walking decreased, and he floundered about like a dazed fish, like a man struck on the head. While stumbling along he sees on a sudden a shepherd’s fire.

He moves towards the light, creeping on all fours. At last he arrives there with great difficulty, and sees that three or four men are lying around the fire, boiling kasha in a pot. He salutes them with, “God give you a good evening.”

“God receive thee, poor man; how is it that thou art journeying in this strange land where even a bird does not go?”

“I am looking for the black castle in the north. Have ye heard nothing of it in your world-beautiful lives?”

“How not? Of course we have. Are we not the shepherds of that king, who rigorously and mercilessly enjoined that, if such and such a man, who sold him the two lean cows for his army, should find us, to treat him well with meat and drink, and then to show him the right road? Maybe thou art the man!”

“I am indeed.”

“Is it possible?”

“I am no one else.”

“In that case sit here on the sheepskin; eat, drink, and enjoy thyself, for the kasha will be ready this minute.”

As they said, he did. The poor man sat by the fire, ate, drank, and satisfied himself, then lay down and fell asleep. When he rose in the morning they gave him a round cheese, and drove the air out of his bottle; then they let him go his way, showing him the right road.

The poor man travelled and journeyed along the right road; and now, when he was hungry and dry, he had his bag, and his bottle too. Towards evening he sees again a shepherd’s fire. He draws near the great fire, and sees the shepherds of the King of the Crows sitting around it cooking a meat stew. He wishes them, “God give you a good-day, my lords, the horseherds.”

“God guard thee, poor man,” said the chief herdsman; “where art thou going here in this strange land?”

“I am looking for the black castle of the King of the Crows. Hast thou never heard of it, brother, in thy world-beautiful life?”

“How not heard of it? Of course I have. Are we not the servants of him who commanded rigorously and unflinchingly that if such and such a poor man, who sold him two lean cows for his army, should wander along, to receive him kindly? Therefore, this is my word and speech to thee. Art thou, perchance, that man?”

“Of course I am.”

“Is it possible?”

“I’m no one else.”

“In that case sit down here by the fire, drink, and be filled.”

The poor man sat down by the fire, ate, drank, and satisfied himself; then lying on the sheepskin, he fell asleep. When he rose in the morning the horseherds entertained the poor man again, wished him happiness, and showing the right road let him go his way; but they left neither his bag nor his bottle empty. Then he went along the right road. But why multiply words?—for there is an end even to a hundred words; it is enough to know that towards evening he came to the ground of the swineherds of the King of the Crows. He saluted them with, “God give you a good evening.”

“God guard thee,” said the reckoning swineherd.[6] “How is it thou art journeying in this strange land, where even a bird does not go?”

“I am looking for the black castle of the King of the Crows. Has my lord elder brother never heard of it in his world-beautiful life?”

“Haho, poor man! How not heard of it? Are we not the servants of the lord of that castle? But art not thou the poor man who sold his Highness the two lean cows?”

“Well, what’s the use in delay or denial? I am, indeed, he.”

“Art thou in truth?”

“I am no one else.”

“But how wilt thou enter the black castle, since it is covered all around with a stone wall, and whirls unceasingly on a golden cock’s foot? But make no account of that. Here is a shining axe. Just strike the wall with it so that sparks will fly, and thou wilt come upon the door, which will spring open. Then jump in. Have a care, though; for if thou slip and fall, neither God nor man can save thee. When thou art once inside, the King of the Crows will come forward and receive thee kindly. He won’t put his soul on the palm of his hand at once; but when his Highness inquires what thy wish is, ask for nothing else but the salt-mill which stands in the corner.”

Well, the talk ended there. In the morning the poor man moves on towards the black castle. When he arrives there, he saw that it whirled of itself on a golden cock’s foot, like some infernal spindle; and nowhere can he see either window or door upon it,—nothing but the naked wall. He took the swineherd’s axe and struck the wall, and sparks flew from the axe in such style that it couldn’t be better. After a time he came upon the door; it flew open, and he jumped in. If he had delayed but one flash of an eye the stone wall door would have crushed him; as it was, the edge of his trousers was carried off.

As soon as the poor man got in, he saw that the castle turned only on the outside. At this moment the King of the Crows was standing by the window, and saw the poor man coming for the price of the cows. He went to meet him, shook his hand, treated him as tenderly as an egg; then he led him into the most beautiful chamber, and seated him at his side on a golden couch. The poor man saw not a soul anywhere, although it was midday, the time of eating. All at once the table began to spread, and was soon bending under its load, so much food was on it. The poor man shook his head,—for, as I say, though no one was to be seen anywhere, neither cook nor kitchen-boy nor servant, still, wasn’t the table spread? It was surely witchcraft, surely some infernal art, but not the work of a good spirit,—maybe the salt-mill had something to do with it. That, however, did not come into the poor man’s mind, though the mill stood there in the corner.

He was there three days, the guest of the King of the Crows, who received him with every kindness he could offer, so that no man’s son could raise a complaint against his Highness. Morning, noon, and night the poor man’s food appeared in proper form, but the roast and the wine had no taste for him; for it came to his mind that while he was feasting there, most likely his wife and children had not bread enough. I say it came to his mind; he began to be restless and uneasy. The King of the Crows noticed this, and said to him: “Well, poor man, I see that thou dost not wish to stay longer with me, because thy heart is at home, therefore I ask what dost thou wish for the two lean cows?—believe me, brother, thou didst save me from great trouble that time; if thou hadst not taken pity on me I should have lost my whole army from famine.”

“I want nothing else,” said the poor man, “but that salt-mill standing there in the corner.”

“Oh, poor man, hast thou lost thy wits? Tell me, what good couldst thou get of the mill?”

“Oh, I could grind corn or a little wheat from time to time; if I did not some one else might, so there would be something to take to the kitchen.”

“Ask for something else; ask for all the cattle which in coming hither thou didst see.”

“What should I do with such a tremendous lot of cattle? If I should drive them home, people would think evil of me; besides, I have neither stable nor pasture.”

“But I’ll give thee money. How much dost thou wish? Wouldst be content with three bags of it?”

“What could I do with such an ocean-great lot of money? My evil fate would use it to kill me; people would think that I stole the coin, or murdered some man for it; besides, I might be stopped with it on the road.”

“But I’ll give thee a soldier as a guard.”

“What good is one of thy Highness’s soldiers?” asked the poor man, smiling; “a hen, I think, would drive him away.”

“What! one of my soldiers?”

Here the King of the Crows blew a small whistle; straightway a crow appeared which shook itself, and became such a gallant young fellow that he was not only so, but just so. “That’s the kind of soldiers I have;” said the king and commanded the young man out of the room. The soldier shook himself, became a crow, and flew away.

“It’s all the same to me what kind of soldiers thy Highness has. Thy Highness promised to give me what I want, and I ask for nothing else but the salt-mill.”

“I will not give it. Ask for all my herds, but not for that.”

“I need not herds; all I want is the mill.”

“Well, poor man, I have refused thee three times, and three times thou hast asked for the mill; now, whether I will or not, I must give it. But know that thou art not to grind corn or wheat with the mill; for it has this virtue,—that it accomplishes all wishes. Here it is, take it, though my heart bleeds after it. Thou didst me a good deed, therefore let it be thine.”

The poor man put the mill on his back, took farewell of the King of the Crows, thanking him for his hospitality, and trudged home at his leisure. On the way back he entertained the swineherds, the horseherds, and the cowherds. All he did was to say, “Grind, my dear mill,” and what food was dear to the eye, the mouth, and the taste appeared of itself; and if he said, “Draw up, my dear mill,” all the food was as if the ground had swallowed it,—it vanished. Then he took leave of the good shepherds and continued his way.

As he travelled and journeyed, he came to a great wild wood; and having grown hungry, he said: “Grind, my dear mill.” Straightway the table was spread, not for one, but for two persons. The mill knew at once that the poor man would have a guest; for that moment, wherever he came from, a great fat man appeared, who without saying a word, took his seat at the table. When they had enjoyed God’s blessing, the great fat man spoke, and said:

“Listen, poor man. Give me that mill for this knotty club; for if thy mill has the power of accomplishing all thy desires [the fat man knew this already], my knotty club has this power, that thou hast need but to say, ‘Strike, my club,’ and the man thou hast in mind is the son of Death.”

What was the poor man to do? Thinking if he did not give it of his free will the fat man would take it by force, he exchanged the mill for the knotty club; but when he had it once in his hand, he said in a low voice, for he was commanding the knotty club, “Strike, my dear club.” And it so struck the fat man behind the ears that he gave forth not a sound; he didn’t move his little finger. Then the poor man continued his journey homeward at his ease; and when seven years had passed he was able to say: “Here we are!”

His wife who was weeping by the hearth, mourning over her dear lost lord and the two lean cows, scarcely knew the poor man, but still she knew him. His two sons had become large, and had grown out of their long clothes. When the poor man put his foot in his own house he set the mill down in the chimney-corner, loosed his mantle from his neck, hung it up on a nail, and only then did they know him.

“Well, father,” said his wife, “thou hast come; God knows ’tis time. I never expected to see thee again; but what didst thou get for Bimbo and Csako?”

“This mill,” answered he with many “see here’s” and “see there’s.”

“If that’s the case, the palsy strike thy work,” cried the woman; “better for thee to have stayed at home these seven years, and swung thy feet around here, than to have dragged that good-for-nothing mill from such a distant land, just as if thou hadst eaten the crazy-weed!”

“Oh, my sweet wife, something is better than nothing; if we have no grain to grind for ourselves, we can grind for other people, if not in streams at least in drops.”

“May a cancer eat thy mill! I haven’t a thing to put between my teeth, and still—”

“Well, my sweet wife, if thou hast nothing to put between thy teeth thou’lt soon have. Grind, my dear mill.”

At these words, so much meat and drink appeared on the poor man’s table that half of it would have been enough. It was only then that the woman regretted her tongue rattling. But a woman is a woman; beat her with a stone, only let her talk.

The poor man, his wife, and two sons sat down at the table, looking at the food like an army of locusts. They ate and drank to their hearts’ content. Whether from wine or some other cause, a desire to dance came to the two sons; and they jumped up and danced, so it was pure delight to look at them. “Oh,” said the elder one, “if we only had a gypsy!” That moment a band of gypsies by the chimney struck up their music, and played away with such variations that the poor man too wished to dance, and so whirled his wife around that better could not be asked for. The neighbors knew not what to think of the affair. How was it that music was sounding in the poor man’s house?

“What is this?” said they one to another, coming nearer and nearer, till they came up to the door and the windows. Only then did they see that a band of gypsies were fiddling away with might and main, and the old man, his wife, and their two sons were dancing, while the table was bending under loads of rich meat and drink.

“Come in cousin! come in friend! come in brother-in-law, bring thy wife! come in brother!” and there was no end to the invitations of the poor man. Guests collected unceasingly, and still the table was spread. “’Pon my soul,” said the poor man, “it’s a pity my house isn’t larger; for all these guests could scarcely find room in a palace.” At these words, instead of the poor man’s cabin such a magnificent palace appeared, with chambers, twelve in a row, that the king himself hadn’t the like of it.

A multitude of grand people with the king in the midst of them were out walking just at that time. “What’s this? what’s this?” asked they of one another. “There has always been a poor man’s cabin here, now there’s a king’s palace, and besides, music is sounding, and gypsies are fiddling. Let’s go and have a look.”

The king went in front, and after him all the grand people,—counts, dukes, barons, and so on. The poor man came out and received the king with the great personages very kindly, and conducted them all to the head of the table as their fitting place. They ate, drank, and caroused, so that it was like a small wedding.

While they were enjoying themselves at the best, a great sealed letter came to the king. When he had read it, he turned yellow and blue, because it was written therein that the Turk-Tartar was nearing his kingdom with a great army, destroying everything with fire and sword, and sparing not the property of innocent, weeping people, whom he puts to the point of the sword; that the earth is drinking their blood; their flesh is devoured by dogs.

From great joy there was great sorrow.

Then the poor man stood forth and asked the king: “If ’tis no offence, may I ask a question?”

“What may it be, poor man?”

“Would thy Highness tell me the contents of that great letter received just now?”

“Why ask, poor man? Thou couldst not mend the affair.”

“But if I can?”

“Well, know then, and let the whole kingdom know, that the Turk-Tartar is moving on our country with a great army, with cruel intent; that he spares not the property of innocent, weeping people, puts them to the sword, so that the earth drinks their blood, and their flesh is devoured by dogs.”

“And what will be the reward of him who drives the enemy out of the country?” asked the poor man.

“In truth,” said the king, “great reward and honor await him; for if he should have two sons, I would give them my two daughters in marriage, with half the kingdom. After my death they would inherit the whole kingdom.”

“Well, I’ll drive out the enemy all alone.”

But the king did not place much confidence in the poor man’s promise; he hurried together all his soldiers, and marched with them against the enemy. The two armies were looking at each other with wolves’ eyes, when the poor man went between the camps and commanded the club: “Strike, my dear club.” And the club pommelled the Turk-Tartar army so that only one man was left to carry home the tidings.

The poor man gained half the kingdom and the two beautiful princesses, whom he married to his two stalwart sons. They celebrated a wedding which spoke to the seven worlds; and they are living now if they are not dead.

Go to notes

THE USELESS WAGONER.

THERE was once in the world a king, and he had a Useless Wagoner who never and never did anything but frolic in the tavern. The whole standing day and all the ocean-great night there was nothing for him but singing and dancing, eating and drinking. The king had money of course.

But the king began to grow tired of this thing. He called up the Useless Wagoner, and gave him a terrible scolding. But ’tis vain to seat a dog at table, and when the Devil gets into a man he stays there; so it was labor lost to drive the Useless Wagoner to work, for he went his way, and frolicked as before. At last the king resolved to take his life, and calling him up, said,—

“Dost hear me, work-shunning Useless Wagoner! I revile thy mother, if within the turn of four and twenty hours thou dost not make for me a three-hundred-gallon cask; and though one joint or seam is not much, if it has that, I’ll empale thee on a stake.”

The Useless Wagoner said not a word to all this, but put a hamper on his back, took a cutting-axe in his hand, and strolled off to the forest to find a tree fit to make a three-hundred-gallon cask.

When he came to the forest, being hungry and tired, he sat down under a large shady tree, opened his hamper, and began to eat lunch. He ate and ate, till all at once, from some corner or another, a little fox stood before him and begged food to eat.

“Of course I’ll give thee something. The food came here, ’twill stay here;” and with that he threw a slice of bread and a bit of sausage to the fox.

When the fox had finished eating she said: “Dost hear, Useless Wagoner? As thou hast taken pity on me, I will take pity on thee; in place of a good deed look for a good deed. Though thou hast not told me, still I know why thou hast come to this forest. I know, too, that the king is breaking his head to kill thee; but he’ll not be in time, for I will help thee out of thy trouble and make thee the three-hundred-gallon cask. And though one seam or joint is not much, even that will not be in it. Now lie down and rest.”

And so it was. The Useless Wagoner lay down and rested. Meanwhile the little fox got such a three-hundred-gallon cask ready, that although a joint or seam is not much, even that was not to be seen in it.

When the cask was finished the Useless Wagoner took it home and gave it to the king, who, after looking at it, dropped his eyes and his lip like a sheep; for neither his father, his grandfather, nor his great-grandfather had ever seen such a cunningly made cask, for not a seam nor a joint could be seen in it for gold.

Well and good for the moment; but soon the king summoned the Useless Wagoner to his presence again, and cried out,—

“Dost thou hear me, work-shunning Useless Wagoner! I revile thy soul if within the turn of four and twenty hours thou dost not make for me a chariot which will go itself, without horses. I’ll break thee on a wheel!”

The Useless Wagoner said nothing, but put his hamper on his back, took his cutting-axe in his hand, and wandered off to the forest to find a tree fit to make the chariot.

When he came to the forest he was hungry, and tired too; therefore he sat down under a large, shady tree, opened his hamper, and began to eat lunch.

He ate and ate till all at once, from some corner or another, the little fox stood before him again, and begged food to eat.

“Of course, my dear little fox, I’ll give thee something. It came here, and ’twill stay here.”

With that he threw a piece of bread and a slice of ham to the little fox, who after she had eaten, said:

“Well, Useless Wagoner, in place of a good deed look for a good deed. Though thou hast not told me, still I know why thou art here. I know, too, that the king is breaking his head to kill thee; but he won’t, for I shall help thee out of trouble. I’ll make for thee the chariot which will go of itself, without horses; but do thou lie down and rest.”

And so it was. The Useless Wagoner reclined his head in rest; and meanwhile the little fox fashioned a chariot beautifully. When all was ready she roused the Useless Wagoner, and said,—

“Here is the chariot which runs of itself; thou hast but to step in and command it to stop in the king’s court-yard. But I would tell thee this: Here is a whistle that will serve thee; shouldst thou fall into trouble, just blow,—it will help thee.”

The Useless Wagoner thanked the fox for her kindness, and entered the chariot, which stopped not till it reached the king’s court-yard.

When the king saw the chariot he said nothing, but shook his head, turned on the Useless Wagoner in a rage, and cried,—

“Useless Wagoner, I revile thy mother! In my stable there are a hundred hares; and if thou dost not herd them three days, if thou dost not drive them a-field in the morning and bring them back at night so that not one shall be missing from the hundred, I’ll strike off thy head.”

What was the poor Useless Wagoner to do? Against his will, and of need, he let the hundred hares out of the stable and drove them a-field. They had barely touched the edge of the field when they ran in as many directions as there were hares. Who could bring them together again? The poor Useless Wagoner ran first after one and then after another hare; he chased the whole day, but could not bring back a single hare. It was already growing late, time to go home, but the hundred hares were in a hundred places; therefore the Useless Wagoner became terribly sad, and wished to make an end of his own life,—it was all the same whether he or the king took it; there was no salvation for him anyhow. So he put his hand in his bosom to take out his clasp-knife and strike himself in the heart, but instead of the knife he found the whistle which the little fox had given him. That was all he wanted; he drew out the whistle, sounded it, and, behold! all the hares ran up to him,—as tame as pet lambs fed from the palm of the hand.

When all the hares had come together he drove them home.

The king stood at the gate and let them in singly, counting, “One, two, three ... ninety-nine, a hundred.” Not one was missing.

Next day the Useless Wagoner drove the hares out again, and when they had barely touched the edge of the field they ran off in as many directions as there were hares.

But this time the Useless Wagoner took no thought of running and chasing after them; he thought to himself that he would take his whistle and blow, and they would come. So he lay down in a nice shady place, and slept to his liking.

But the king did not sleep; he was racking his brain to destroy the Useless Wagoner. So he called his only and dearly beloved daughter, and said to her, “My darling daughter, I have a great favor to ask of thee.”

“What may it be, my father the king?”

“Of a truth nothing but this,—that thou dress in peasant’s clothes, and go out to the field where the Useless Wagoner is herding the hundred hares, and beg one of him. If he gives it not for a good word, mayhap he will give it for a sweet kiss; but come not home to me without the hare, even if he asks a piece of thy body for it.”

The princess granted her father’s request. She gathered her wits about her, dressed up in peasant’s clothes, and went in the field to the Useless Wagoner, who was sleeping at his leisure under a shady tree. The princess pushed him with her foot; he woke, and saw in a moment with whom he had to deal.

“God give thee a good-day, hareherd!”

“God save thee, king’s daughter! What good dost thou bring the poor hareherd?”

“I have brought nothing but this, that I have come because I would like to get one little hare. Wouldst thou not give even one for good money?”

“High princess, I will not give one for money; but if thou wilt give me three kisses, I can give them back. Then I don’t mind; I’ll give thee a hare.”

So the princess got a hare for three pairs of kisses, and ran home very joyfully; but just as she was touching the latch to open the gate, the hareherd sounded his whistle, the hare jumped like lightning from her bosom, and stopped not till it reached the flock.

The hareherd drove home his flock; the king was waiting for him at the gate, and let them in one by one, counting till he came to a hundred.

Next day the hareherd drove out his hares the third time, and left them to go their way.

The king now called his wife to the white chamber, and spoke thus to her: “My heart’s beautiful love, I have a great favor to ask of thee.”

“And what may it be, my dear husband?”

“Of a truth, nothing but this,—that thou dress in peasant’s clothes, go to the hareherd in the field, and ask a hare of him. If he will not give it for fair words, he may for a sweet kiss; but come not home to me without a hare, even if he asks a piece of thy flesh.”

Well, the queen yielded to her husband’s request, put on a peasant’s dress, and went to the field, where she found the Useless Wagoner sleeping in the shade. She roused him with her foot; he knew at once who was in the peasant’s dress.

“God give thee a good-day, hareherd!”

“God save thee, kind queen! What good hast thou brought the poor hareherd? Why hast thou come, may I ask?”

“I have only come to ask if thou wilt give me a hare for good money.”

“I will not give a hare for money, my queen; but if thou wilt give me three kisses, I will return them again. Then I don’t mind; I’ll risk my head, and let thee have a hare.”

So the queen got a hare for three pairs of kisses, and took her way home joyously; but just as she was putting her hand on the latch to open the gate, the hareherd sounded the whistle, the hare jumped like a flash from the queen’s bosom, and stopped not till it joined its companions.

When the hares were all together, the hareherd drove them home. The king was waiting for him at the gate, let each in singly, counting till he reached a hundred,—not one missing from the round number.

Next morning the hares were driven out as before; but the king now put on a peasant’s dress, and went to the field himself. When he came to the hareherd he said: “God give thee good-day!”

“God save thee, poor man!” answered the hareherd. “What art thou looking for?”

“Well, what’s the use in delay or denial? I have come to buy a little hare of thee for good money. Of course thou wilt part with one.”

“I will not give one for money; but if I can wear out twelve rods on thy back, I don’t mind; I’ll risk my head on it.”

What was the king to do? He stretched himself out with face and hands on the grass, and the hareherd flogged him as a corporal does a soldier; but he endured it all, gritting his teeth, and thinking to himself, “Wait a bit, thief of a Useless Wagoner, thou wilt have a dose when I get at thee!”

But all to no use, for when the king had reached home, and was just putting his hand on the latch to open the gate, the whistle sounded, and the hare sprang away from him like a flash, and ran till it joined the flock.

Then the Useless Wagoner drove home the hundred hares a fourth time. The king was standing at the little gate; he counted them one by one, but could find no fault, for they were all there.

The Useless Wagoner drove out the hares the fifth time to pasture; but the king mounted the chariot which went wherever the owner commanded, and drove to the Useless Wagoner, taking three empty bags with him. “Dost hear me, thou!—this-and-that-kind-of-work-shunning? Hareherd, I revile thy soul! If thou wilt not fill these three bags with truth, I will strike off thy head.”

To all this the Useless Wagoner answered in words: “The king’s daughter came out; I gave her, and she gave me. The queen came; I gave her, and she gave me. The king came; I gave him, and he—”

“Stop! stop!” cried the king, “the three bags are full; and I’d rather be in hell than hear thy words.”

At this speech the chariot started off with the king, and never stopped till it took him to the bottom of hell.

Then the Useless Wagoner went home, married the king’s daughter, became king, and reigns yet with his queen, unless he is dead.

Go to notes

MIRKO, THE KING’S SON.

ONCE there was a king, and he had three sons. The king rejoiced in his three sons, and resolved to have them instructed in a befitting manner, so that he might leave good heirs to the kingdom. Therefore he sent his sons to school, where they got on well enough for a time, till at length they turned their backs on the school, went home, all three, and knew their studies no more.

The king grew fiercely angry at this, forbade his sons to stand before his face, and betook himself to live in the chamber of his palace next the rising sun, where he sat continually at the window and looked towards the east as if waiting for something; and with one eye he wept unceasingly, while with the other he laughed.

After the three princes had grown up to a good age, they agreed among themselves to inquire of the king why he was always sitting in the chamber next the rising sun, and why one of his eyes was always crying, while the other was always laughing. First the eldest son went in and put the question, saying, “My father the king, I have come to ask why one of thy eyes is always crying and the other always laughing, while thou art looking continually towards the east.”

The king measured his son with his eyes from head to foot, said not a word, but took a sword which hung at the window and hurled it at him with such force that it sank into the door up to the hilt. The prince sprang through the door, thus escaping the blow aimed at him. When he came out his brothers asked what success he had had. He answered: “Try yourselves; then ye will know.” The second brother tried, with the same result as the first. At last the youngest, who was called Mirko, went in and declared the cause of his coming. The king answered him not, but seized the sword in still greater anger, and hurled it at him so that it entered the stone wall up to the hilt. Mirko did not spring aside, but went to the sword, drew it out of the stone wall, took it to the king, his father, and placed it before him on the table.

Seeing this, the king opened his mouth and said to Mirko: “I see now, my son, that thou knowest somewhat better than thy two brothers what honor is; to thee then will I give answer. My one eye weeps unceasingly for sadness at your insignificance, not being fit to rule; but my other eye laughs because in the time of my youth I had a trusty comrade, the Hero of the Plain, who battled by my side, and he promised that if he should overpower his enemies he would come to dwell with me, that we might pass the days of our old age together. For this reason I sit ever by the window next the rising sun, because I await his coming; but every day there rise up against the Hero of the Plain, who dwells in the silken meadow, as many enemies as there are grass-blades on the field. Every day he unaided cuts them down; and until all his enemies have disappeared, he will not be able to come to me.”

With that Mirko left his father’s chamber, came out to his brothers, and told them the king’s speech. They counselled together again, and agreed to ask leave of the king to try their fortune. First the eldest son went to his father and made known his wish. The king consented, and the eldest brother went to the royal stables where he chose a good steed, which he saddled next day, and set out on his journey. After he had been absent a whole year, behold he rides home, bearing on his shoulders the top of the copper bridge, which he threw down before the palace. He went in then, stood before the face of the king, and told him where he had been and what he had brought back.

The king heard his son’s discourse to the end, and said: “Oh, my son, when I was of thy age the road to the copper bridge was a two hours’ ride for me. Thou art a soft hero. Thou wilt never make vitriol. Go thy way.”

With that, the eldest son left his father’s chamber. After him the second brother went in, and asked leave of the king to try his fortune. Having received it, he went also to the stables and chose a good steed, which he saddled, mounted, and went his way. At the end of a year he came home, bringing the top of the silver bridge, which he threw down in front of the palace; then he stood before the king, his father, and told him where he had been and what he had brought back.

“Oh,” said the king, “when I was of thy age that was only a three hours’ ride for me. Thou too art a soft hero; nothing at all will come of thee.” With that he dismissed the second son.

At last Mirko appeared; he also asked to try his fortune. The king consented, and Mirko went to the stables to choose a steed. Finding nothing to his mind, he went out to the royal stud and examined it carefully, but could not decide which steed to take. Just then an old witch chanced to be passing that way, and asked what he wanted. Mirko told her. “Oh, my master,” said she, “thou wilt not find a horse to thy wish here, but I will tell thee how to find one. Go to the king, thy father, and ask him for the horn with which in his youth he called together his golden-haired steeds. Sound this horn and the steeds will appear at once. Choose not among the golden-haired ones; but last of all will come a shaggy-coated, crooked-legged old mare,—thou wilt know her by this, that when she strikes the pillars with her tail the whole palace will tremble from the blow. Choose her; try thy fortune with her.”

Mirko took the old witch’s advice, went straightway to the king and said: “My father, I have come that thou mayest give me the horn with which in thy youth thou wert wont to call together thy golden-haired steeds.”

The king asked: “Who told thee of this horn?”

“No man,” answered Mirko.

“Well, my dear son, if no man told thee, thou art wise; but if some man told thee, he does not wish thee harm. I will tell thee where to find the horn; the rust has eaten it up, perhaps, by this time. In the seventh cellar it is enclosed in the wall; look for it, take it out, and make use of it if thou art able.”

Mirko called a mason, went with him to the seventh cellar, found the hollow place in the wall, took out the horn, and carried it away. Then standing on the square before the palace, he sounded towards the east, the west, the south, and the north, and having waited a little, behold! he hears the golden horse bells ringing so that the whole city is full of the sound. The steeds came in, one more beautiful than the other in appearance and in breed. At a distance he saw the shaggy-haired, crooked-legged mare; and when she came to the gate, as true as I live, she struck the pillars with her tail so that the whole palace trembled.

When the steeds had stopped in the court-yard, Mirko went up to the mare, led her away to the stable, and then said that he had taken her to try his fortune. The magic mare answered: “That is well, my lord king’s son; but first thou must feed me, for without that it will be hard to endure the long road.”

“What kind of food dost thou wish?—for whatever my father has, I will give thee with a good heart.”

“Very well, kind master; but a steed must be fed before starting, not while on the road.”

“I know not what I can do,” said Mirko, “except to give what I have with a good heart.”

“Bring me straightway a measure of peas, and turn them into the manger.”

Mirko obeyed, and when the peas were eaten, he brought a measure of beans; when these were eaten the mare turned to Mirko and said: “Now bring me half a measure of glowing coals.”

The coals were brought; and when she had eaten the glowing coals, she became such a golden-haired steed as the Star of Dawn, and spoke further to Mirko. “Go now, my master, to the king, and ask of him that saddle which he used when he coursed the meadow with me in his youth.”

Mirko went to the old king and asked for the saddle. The king answered that it was useless, for it had been thrown about a long time in the carriage-house, but if he could find it, he might take it. Mirko went to the carriage-house and found the saddle all befouled by the hens and turkeys. He took it, however, to his steed, which said that it was not proper for a king’s son to sit on such a saddle. Mirko was about to carry it away and have a fresh cover put on, when she said: “Place it before me.” He obeyed. Straightway she blew on it, and in an instant it became such a golden saddle that its like could not be found in seven kingdoms.

With this he saddled the magic mare, and she said: “Go now, my dear master, to thy father, and ask him for the weapons and the sword with which he fought when he journeyed with me.”

Mirko asked his father; the old king said they were on the shelf if he wanted them. Mirko took them to the mare, who blew on them, and instantly they became the most beautiful gold-mounted sword and weapons. Mirko girded on the sword and took the weapons. Then the bridle was brought, and when blown upon became of the most beautiful gold.

Mirko bridled the mare, led her out of the stable, and wished to sit in the saddle, but she said: “Wait, my dear master; lead me out of the city first, and then sit on me.” He hearkened to these words, and led her out of the city; then she stood still, and he sat in the saddle.

The magic steed now asked: “How shall I bear thee, dear master; with the speed of the fleet whirlwind, or of quick thought?”

“Carry me as may please thee,” answered the prince; “only manage so that I shall endure the swift flight.”

“Well, close thy eyes,” said the steed, “and hold fast.”

Mirko closed his eyes; the steed shot on like a rushing whirlwind, and after a short time struck the earth with her foot, and said to Mirko: “Open thy eyes! What dost thou see?”

“I see,” said he, “a great river and a copper bridge.”

“That, my dear master, is the bridge the top of which thy first brother brought home; but look for the open place.”

“I see it,” said Mirko; “but where are we going from here?”

“Only close thy eyes; I will take thee straight there.”

With that she moved as quick as thought, and in a few moments struck the earth, stood still, and said to Mirko: “Open thy eyes! What dost thou see?”

“I see a great river, and across it a silver bridge.”

“That is the bridge the top of which thy second brother took home; look for the open place.”

“I see it,” said Mirko; “but where do we go from here?”

“Only close thy eyes,” said the steed; “I will take thee at once.”

With that she moved on like lightning, and in a flash stamped on the ground, and said to the prince: “Open thy eyes! What dost thou see?”

“I see,” said Mirko, “an enormously wide and deep river, across it a golden bridge, and at both ends of the bridge, at this side and that, are four unmercifully large lions. Must we cross this bridge?”

“Never mind,” said the steed, “I’ll manage; only shut thy eyes.”

The mare sped on like a swift falcon, and thus flew across the bridge. After a short time she struck the ground, and said: “Open thy eyes! What dost thou see?”

“I see,” replied Mirko, “a summitless, high glass mountain, as steep as the side of a house.”

“We must cross that very mountain, my master.”

“That, I think, is impossible,” said Mirko.

“Fear not,” said the steed; “for I have on my feet the shoes which thy father fastened to me with diamond nails, seven hundred years ago. Only shut thy eyes and hold to me firmly.”

Now the steed sprang up, and in an instant was on the glass mountain. She stamped, and said, “Open thy eyes! What dost thou see?”

“I see,” said Mirko, “when I look behind, something dark, as large as a great plate.”

“Oh, my master, that is the round of the earth. But what dost thou see before thee?”

“I see a narrow glass road, rising like a half circle. On both sides of it is emptiness of bottomless depth.”

“My dear master, we must pass over that road; but the passage is so delicate that if one of my feet slip the least bit to one side or the other, there is an end to our lives. But trust thyself to me, and close thy eyes. Hold fast, I will manage.”

With that she swept on, and in an instant stamped again. “Open thy eyes! What dost thou see?”

“I see behind me,” said Mirko, “a faint light, in front of me is darkness so dense that when I hold my finger before my eyes I cannot see it.”

“Well, we must go through that also; shut thy eyes and hold firmly.”

She sped on anew, and again stamped. “Open thy eyes! What dost thou see now?”

“I see,” said Mirko, “the most glorious, light, beautiful, snow-covered mountains, and in the midst of them a silken meadow; in the centre of the silken meadow something dark.”

“This silken meadow,” said the steed, “belongs to the Hero of the Plain; and the dark object in the middle is his tent, woven from black silk. Now close thy eyes or not as may please thee. We shall go there directly.” Mirko spurred the steed, and they were at the tent in a twinkle.

Mirko sprang from his steed and left her at the tent by the side of that of the Hero of the Plain, and entered himself. Within lay a warrior stretched on the silken grass, sleeping; but a sword above him was cutting around in every direction, so that a fly could not light on his body. “Well,” thought Mirko to himself, “though he be a good warrior I could slay him in slumber; but it would not be honorable to slay a sleeping man. I will wait till he rises.” Then he went out and tied his steed fast to the tent, near the other, stretched himself on the silken grass, and called: “Sword out of thy sheath!” and the sword cut around above him, as his sword above the Hero of the Plain, so that a fly could not touch his body.

When the Hero of the Plain woke up and saw that a horse was tied near his own, he marvelled, and said: “What does this mean? I am here seven hundred years, and I have not seen a strange horse near mine before. Whose can this be?” He rose, went out, and saw Mirko sleeping near the tent with the sword cutting above him. “That,” said he, “is an honest warrior; he has not slain me while sleeping. It would not become me to touch him now.”

Then he pushed the foot of the sleeping hero with his own. Mirko jumped up straightway, and the Hero of the Plain asked: “Who art thou, and on what journey?” Mirko told whose son he was, and what his journey. “God has brought thee, dear younger brother,” said the Hero; “thy father is my old friend, and thou, I see, art as good as thy father. But I have need of thee. This great silken meadow which thou seest, is every day filled with enemies, and every day I cut them down; but to-day as thou art with me, we shall not hurry. Come, let us eat and drink; let them crowd.” Then the two went in, ate and drank till the enemy had so increased that they reached almost to the tent. The Hero of the Plain sprang then to his feet and said: “Up, my comrade, we’ll soon finish.” Both leaped into their saddles and rushed to the centre of the enemy, crying out, “Sword from the sheath!” The swords hewed off the heads of the countless multitude, so there was scarcely room to move for bodies. Twelve of the opposing warriors now flee from the rear, the Hero of the Plain and Mirko pursuing. They come to a glass mountain; the twelve warriors rushing ahead. Mirko pursues in hot haste. On the top of the mountain there is a nice, level space; he sees them running upon it. He gallops after them; but all at once they are as if the ground had swallowed them. Mirko springs to the place where they disappear, finds a breach and a deep opening with winding steps. His steed rushes into the opening and down the stairs; they are soon in the lower world.

Mirko looks around the lower world and sees a shining diamond castle, which serves instead of the sun down there. The twelve fleeing warriors rush towards the castle, he after them, and ordering his sword out of the sheath, cuts off their heads in a moment. The next instant Mirko stands before the diamond castle. Within, there is such a clatter and pounding that the whole interior trembles and shivers. He dismounts and enters. Inside is an old witch weaving, and the racket is deafening. The building is full of armed men. The infernal old witch weaves them. When she throws her shuttle to the right, two hussars spring out on horseback; when she throws it to the left, two men on foot jump out armed.

Meanwhile Sword out of the Sheath cuts down the newly made soldiers, but the old witch weaves more. “Well,” thinks Mirko to himself, “I shall never get out of here, at this rate;” but he commands the sword, and it cuts the old witch into small pieces. Then he carries the loom into the yard, where there is a pile. He throws everything on the pile and sets fire to it; but when all is burned one of the old witch’s ribs springs out, begins to turn round in the dust, and she rises up again entire. Again Mirko is going to command the sword to cut her to pieces, but she speaks up, “Spare my life, Mirko, and await one good deed for another, if thou wilt let me go. Thou dost not know how to escape from here; I will give thee four diamond horse-shoe nails. Do as I say; thou wilt profit by it.”

Mirko takes the nails and puts them away, but says to himself: “If I leave the old witch alive, she will put up her loom again, and the Hero of the Plain will never be able to free himself from his enemies.” Again he orders his sword to cut the old witch in pieces; he throws the pieces into the fire, where they are consumed, so that she can never rise again. He mounts his steed and searches the underground world, but nowhere does he find a living soul.

Then he puts spurs to his steed, springs up the circular stairs, and issues forth into the upper world. Straightway he comes down from the glass mountain, and passing over the silken meadow, returns to the Hero of the Plain, who thought Mirko had left him. But when he saw his friend returning, he went out to meet him with great joy, and took him into the tent, where they feasted together gloriously. And when the prince rose to go, he offered him his silken meadow and all the royal domains; but Mirko answered: “My dear elder brother, I have finished thy enemies; they will never attack thy kingdom again. I have this now to ask, that thou come with me to my father the king, who has long been waiting for thee.”

Thereupon they mounted their steeds, and set out for the realms of the old king. They went on easily till they reached the glass mountain, where the Hero of the Plain stopped, and said: “My dear younger brother, I cannot go on, for the diamond nails are long since worn from my horse’s shoes, and his feet have no grip.”

Mirko called to mind that the cursed old witch had given him the diamond nails, and said: “Grieve not, elder brother, I have nails; I’ll shoe thy horse this minute.”

So he took out the nails, and shod the Hero’s horse. Then they continued their journey over the glass mountain with ease and comfort, like two jolly comrades, and sped homeward as swiftly as thought.

At that time the old king was sitting at the window of his palace next the rising sun, and lo! he beholds two horsemen riding towards him. Straightway he takes his field-glass, and sees that it is his trusty old comrade, the Hero of the Plain, together with his son Mirko. He runs out, and from the tower commands that a twelve-year old ox be killed; and when Mirko and the Hero arrive, the great feast is ready. He receives them with joy, kisses and embraces them; this time both his eyes are laughing. Then they sat down to the feast, ate and drank with gladness. Meanwhile the Hero of the Plain spoke of Mirko’s doings, and among other things said to the old king: “Well, comrade, thy son Mirko will be a better hero than we were; he is already a gallant youth. Thou hast cause to rejoice in him.”

“Indeed, I begin to be satisfied with him,” said the king, “especially since he has brought thee. But I do not think he would venture yet to measure strength with Doghead.”

Mirko heard the conversation, but said nothing. After dinner, however, he spoke to the Hero of the Plain apart, and inquired who Doghead was, and in what direction he lived. The Hero of the Plain told him that Doghead lived in the north, and was such a hero that his like was not under the sun.

Mirko made preparations for his journey, took provisions, and next day set out for Doghead’s. According to his wont, he sat on his steed, held fast, and closed his eyes. The steed sped on, flying like the swift whirlwind. At length she stopped, struck the ground, and said to Mirko: “Open thy eyes! What dost thou see?”

“I see,” said the prince, “a seven-story diamond castle, so bright that I can look on the sun, but not on it.”

“Well, Doghead lives there; that is the royal castle.”

Mirko sprang towards it, stopped right under the window, and called out in a loud voice: “Art thou here, Doghead? I have an account to settle with thee.”

Doghead was not at home, but his daughter was, and such a beautiful princess that her like could not be found on the whole round of the earth. As she sat by the window embroidering, and heard the loud, piercing voice, she looked out so angrily with her wondrous black, beautiful eyes that Mirko and his horse were turned into stone in an instant from the flash. Then she thought: “Maybe this young man is a king’s son.” She went to look at him, was sorry she had turned him to stone so quickly, and approached, taking a golden rod, walked around the stone statue and struck it on all sides with the rod. The stone began to move, and in a moment Mirko and his horse stood alive before her. Then the maiden asked, “Who art thou, and on what journey?”

Mirko answered that he was a king’s son, and had come to see Doghead’s daughter.

The maiden was so displeased that she called out to her father very angrily; but presently she thought better of it, fell in love with Mirko, and led him up into the seven-story diamond palace, where she saw him with a good heart. During conversation at the table, Mirko confessed that he had come to try his strength with Doghead.

The maiden advised him not to do that, since there was no man on the round of the earth whom her father could not conquer. Seeing, however, that Mirko would not desist from his purpose, she took compassion on him, and told how her father might, perhaps, be overcome. “Go down,” said she “into the seventh cellar of the castle. There thou wilt find an unsealed cask, in which my father keeps his strength. Here is a silver flask; fill it from the cask. Do not stop the flask, but keep it always hanging from thy neck uncorked; and when thy strength begins to fail, dip thy little finger in. Every time thou shalt do so, thy strength will be increased with the strength of five thousand men. Drink of the wine, for every drop contains the strength of five thousand men.”

Mirko listened to her advice attentively, hung the flask upon his neck, went into the cellar, and found the wine. He took a good draught of it; then thinking that he had enough, and lest Doghead might make further use of the wine, he poured it all on the ground, to the last drop. There were six measures of wheat-flour in the cellar, which he sprinkled around to absorb the moisture. Having done this, he went up to Doghead’s daughter, and declared that he was ready, and thanking her for the counsel, vowed to take her as wife for her kindness, and swore eternal fidelity.

The beautiful princess consented, making one condition,—that if Mirko should overcome her father, he would spare his life.

Mirko asked the maiden when her father might be expected to return, and from what quarter.

She answered that he was then in the realms of the setting sun, that he took delight in those regions, but would soon be home, for it was the hour of his coming. But it was easy to know it beforehand, for when he was forty miles distant, he was in the habit of hurling home a forty-hundred-pound club before him; and wherever it fell a fountain gushed out of the earth.

Mirko and the princess went on the balcony to wait for Doghead; all at once (the Lord save us!) the sky grew dark, and a forty-hundred pound club fell in the court-yard. A stream rushed out of the earth as if from a force-pump.

Mirko ran down straightway to see how much his strength had increased. He picked up the club, whirled it around his head, and let it go so that it came down just in front of Doghead. Doghead’s horse stumbled over the club, whereupon his master flew into a rage, and cried out: “May the wolves and dogs devour thee! Seven hundred years have I ridden thee, and to this day thou hast never stumbled. Why begin now?”

“Oh, dear master,” answered the magic steed, “there is mighty trouble at home; for the club which thou hast sent ahead has been hurled back, and I stumbled over it.”

“Oh, that’s nothing!” said Doghead. “Seven hundred years ago I saw in a dream that I should have a struggle with Mirko, the king’s son, some day. He is now at the castle; but what is he to me? There is more strength in my little finger than in his whole body.” With that Doghead sped homeward and was soon there.

Mirko, the king’s son, was waiting in the court-yard, and when Doghead saw the prince he made straight towards him and said: “Mirko, I know that thou art waiting for me. Well, here I am; what dost thou wish, that we should fight with swords or wrestle?”

“I care not,” answered Mirko; “any way that may please thee.”

“Well, let us try it first with swords,” said Doghead.

He got off his horse; they stood face to face, and both commanded: “Sword out of the sheath.”

The swords sprang out in fighting, and so cut above the heads of the two that the whole place was rattling with their blows. Sparks flew so thickly from their fierce slashing that fire covered the ground, and it was impossible to stand long in one place.

Then Doghead said: “Let us not spoil our swords, but put them up and try wrestling.”

They laid aside the swords and began to wrestle. Doghead seized Mirko by the body, raised him up in the air, and so planted him on the ground that he sank in it up to the girdle. Mirko, frightened at this, thrust his little finger into the flask, and became so strong that he sprang out of the earth in a moment, rushed at Doghead, and so stretched him on the ground that he lay there like a flattened frog. Then, seizing him by the hair, he dragged him toward the castle, where a golden bridge was built across a bottomless lake. Having brought him to the middle of the bridge, he held his head above the water and commanded the sword to cut. The head fell into the bottomless lake, and Mirko threw the body after.

Doghead’s daughter saw all this, and was powerfully angry at Mirko, the king’s son. When he came before her she turned her face away and would not come to speech with him. But Mirko explained that he could not have done otherwise, for if he had spared Doghead’s life, he would have lost his own; but as he had pledged his faith to the princess, he held to his word, and would marry her. The princess approved this, and they agreed to make ready and set out for Mirko’s kingdom. The horses were brought,—Doghead’s magic steed for the princess. They mounted the horses, but when ready to start, Mirko became very sorrowful.

“Why art thou sad Mirko?” inquired the princess.

“Because,” said he, “I wish greatly to go home, but it is hard to leave this glorious, seven-story diamond castle here, which was thy father’s, for there is none like it in our kingdom.”

“Oh, my dear,” said the princess, “I will turn it at once into a golden apple. I will sit in the middle of the apple; thou mayst put it in thy pocket, and thus carry home the castle and me. There thou canst change it back again whenever the wish comes.”

The beautiful princess came down from her horse, gave the reins to Mirko, and taking out a diamond rod walked around the building and struck it on the sides with the rod. The castle began to shrink together, and became smaller and smaller until it was the size of a watchman’s booth. Then she jumped in and it became a golden apple, but the diamond rod remained on the ground outside. Mirko, the king’s son, picked up the golden apple and the diamond rod, put them in his pocket, sat on his steed, and leading Doghead’s horse by the bridle, travelled home comfortably.

When Mirko had come home and seen his horses in the stable he went to the palace, where he found the old king with the Hero of the Plain, satisfied and amused. He told them that he had conquered Doghead and put him to death; but the old king and the Hero of the Plain shook their heads.

Mirko, taking them both by the hands, said: “Come with me, and I will show you, so that ye may see with your own eyes that I have beaten Doghead; for not only have I brought his seven-story diamond castle with me, but his loveliest daughter with the castle, as proof of my work.”

The old king and the Hero of the Plain marvelled at Mirko’s speech, and were in doubt; but they went with him, and he led them to the flowery garden of the palace, in the middle of which Mirko took a beautiful spacious place for the diamond castle, where he put down the golden apple. He began to turn and strike it on the sides with the diamond rod. The apple swelled out and began to extend with four corners, and grew greater and greater, till it became a seven-story diamond castle as high as the trees.

Then taking them by the hands he led them up the diamond staircase and entered the halls of the castle, where the world-renowned beautiful princess met and received them with a good heart. Then she sent for the old king’s other sons and the chief men of his court. In the dining-hall was a great horse-shoe table. She commanded it; the table opened of itself, and every kind of precious meat and drink appeared upon it. Then the assembled guests feasted joyously. The old king was satisfied at last with his son. He gave Mirko his kingdom and all his possessions, but he withdrew himself to quiet private life, with the Hero of the Plain, and many a pleasant day the old comrades had together; and the old king’s two eyes were always laughing. The royal pair lived happily, and had beautiful children. They are still alive if they are not dead.

Go to notes

THE REED MAIDEN.

THERE was once a king, and he had two sons. The king sent his eldest son to marry. He went, and chose the elder sister of the Reed Maiden. When he brought home his wife the king was satisfied with the choice. After that the king sent his younger son to marry, and he answered that he would not take any poor skeleton of a thing, but that his wife must be the most beautiful flower on the whole round of the earth,—the most lovely, world-beautiful maiden.

Once the king’s two sons went to hunt; on the way home the younger said to the elder: “My dear elder brother, I would beg of thee a favor.”

“And what may it be, younger brother?”

“In truth, no other than this: When we come home, ask thy wife if there is any one more beautiful than she.”

“If that’s thy trouble, it is no great matter, for my wife is just coming to meet us.—Well, my heart’s gold-enclosed ruby, wilt thou answer one question? Thou art for me the most beautiful, but is there one still more beautiful in the world?”

Now the princess all at once acted like one hard of hearing; she answered nothing, but stopped them with a nod, and commanded with her eye, “Silence! not a word more.”

It stopped there. The younger brother, whatever he did not do, he stole into his brother’s bed-chamber quietly. In the evening, when the elder brother and his wife came in, the husband said: “Tell me, my heart’s heart, why didst thou not answer my question a little while ago?”

“I did not answer, dear husband, because thou didst ask me before thy brother. It would not have been well for him to know that I have a younger sister who is the most beautiful maiden on the whole round of the earth, but she is hidden in the middle one of three reeds; for this reason she is known as the world-beautiful Reed Maiden. The other two reeds are her waiting-maids.”

“But thou hast not told me, my dear, in what corner of the world she is hidden.”

“Oh, my dear husband, it is far from here,—as far as from here there and from there back; but as thou hast asked I will tell thee. Hast thou heard of the fame of the Black Sea?”

“I have not, indeed.”

“Well, if thou hast not, then hear now. In the seventy-seventh island of the Black Sea, right in the middle, are hidden three reeds, but no mortal could go to them unless by some magic power or infernal art; but if by a miracle he should get there, he would not be able to bring away anything.—First, because there is such darkness on the islands of the Black Sea that a spoon might stand up in it; second, because the world-beautiful Reed Maiden is guarded by a witch whose life will end when the reeds are cut down; therefore she guards them as the light of her two eyes, or still more carefully. But if any man could bring the maiden away, he would be the happiest person in the wide world; for the islands would be lighted up, and he would gain a wife whom the starry heavens would gaze upon with smiles.”

When the king’s younger son had heard all this from root to branch, he went out of the room by the same way he had entered. Then saddling his best and favorite steed, he put provisions in his bag and moved out into the wide world in search of the beautiful Reed Maiden. He journeyed and travelled over forty-nine kingdoms and beyond the Operentsia Sea till he came to a hut; in the hut an old woman was living: “God give thee good-day, dear old mother.”

“If thou hadst not called me old mother, I should have eaten thee on the spot. But whither art thou journeying in this strange land, where even a bird does not go?”

“I am looking for the world-beautiful Reed Maiden, who is blooming in the seventy-seventh island of the Black Sea. Hast thou not heard of her, dear old mother?”

“What’s the use in denying, my son? I have not heard. Why should I evade, since it can neither harm nor profit me? But here in the neighboring valley, over the mountain, straight ahead, near a round forest on the top of a hill, lives my elder sister; if she knows nothing about it, then no one in the world knows. Here, Mitsi, come out! Conduct the king’s son to my elder sister.”

The king’s son followed Mitsi, who was no other than a large-whiskered little mouse. When they came to a cross-road Mitsi squeaked once, showed the middle of the road, and ran home. The king’s son went along the right road, and arrived at the hut in which the second sister lived. She received him in like manner as the first, and sent her servant, Pitsi, to show him the road to her eldest sister. Pitsi was no other than a dove-white squirrel, with a long bushy tail. When the king’s son came to the third hut, where the eldest sister lived, he said: “God give thee a good-day, dear old mother.”

“If thou hadst not called me old mother, I should have eaten thee on the spot. Whither art thou wandering in this strange land, where even a bird does not go?”

“I am in search of the world-beautiful Reed Maiden, who is blooming in the seventy-seventh island of the Black Sea. Hast thou not heard of her, dear old mother?”

“Oh, king’s son, thou wouldst wear off thy horse’s legs to the knees, and wear out twelve pairs of iron boots on thy own feet, before thou couldst reach that place, for it is only possible to go there on a steed that has sucked dragon’s milk, eaten glowing coals, and drunk the fiery flame; but thou hast in thy head three golden hairs, grown from one root, of which thou hast known nothing to this moment. Come hither; let me cut them out.”

The king’s son bent down his head. The old woman cut out the three golden hairs. “See, my son, these three hairs have wondrous power. A fairy gave them to thy father, with whom, as he was a beautiful man, she fell in love, and thou hast inherited them. Here they are; I give them to thee with this latch-string. Go up on this terribly high mountain, which in front of my hut supports the heavens. When thou shalt come to the top, strike the three golden hairs with the latch-string three times; at once will stand before thee a magic steed that has grown up on the silken meadow, sucked dragon’s milk, eaten glowing coals, and drunk fiery flames.”

The king’s son gave heartfelt thanks for the kindness shown him, then went up on the great unclimbable mountain that supported the heavens. When he had reached the top he took out the three golden hairs and struck them three times with the old latch-string. Behold, a fiery cloud rushed towards him like a shot arrow, with a fearful rumbling and cracking, as if a whole stud of horses were before it, and then stood still above his head. All at once he heard from the fiery cloud a triple neighing, at the sound of which, as of a bell, the earth trembled three times. The magic steed rushed out, and like a flood, like a cloud-burst, plunged down by his side, blowing from its nostrils varied flames,—red, blue, and green. The latch-string became such a saddle that for the fur and diamond buttons, and silver and gold embroidery, the earth could not be seen.

“Hip, hop! here am I, dear master! That there be no delay in thy affair, wilt thou not sit on my back that I may be off with thee? Shall I go like the swiftest whirlwind, or like thought, or as a bird can fly?”

“Go, my dear steed, in such fashion that there may be no fault in thee or me.”

“But before we set out on the long road,” said the magic steed, “I wish to say this: Since such dense darkness reigns in the islands that a spoon might stand straight in it, we must first go to the bright antechamber of the Sun, and take thence one burning ray.”

When the steed had thus ended the speech, he rose in the airy heavens. They journeyed and travelled across forty-nine kingdoms till they came to the portals of the earth, where two bearded wolves stood on guard. These wolves stood on the road and demanded toll. The toll was no other than two pounds of flesh from the good steed. Now, if two pounds of flesh were taken from the steed, it would be but half magic, and so would never reach the end of the road. Whatever the king’s son did not do, he took his gleaming clasp-knife and cut out two pounds of his own flesh; then he threw it to the bearded wolves, and only on this condition did they let him pass.

The king’s son pursued his way till he came to the Sun’s bright antechamber, where he tied his steed to a diamond pillar; then he bathed in the fire-bath, and rubbed with fire-towels; looking at himself from head to foot in the shining wall of the antechamber as in a mirror, he combed his hair with a golden comb. Here, ’pon my soul, what came of the affair, or what did not, a subject-spirit in the service of the Sun became enraged in good earnest (for his eyebrows struggled with each other),—no doubt it was at the king’s son,—and with a single breath, which the son of the hurricane could not withstand, blew straight ahead, so that the king’s son did not feel the ground under his feet for seventy-seven miles. Then he fell into a terribly dark opening, and groped along in this cavern, feeling his way like a blind man. If he made a step, he trod on a serpent; if he felt with his hand, he grasped a warty toad; if he looked around, he saw only red-eyed worms,—creeping, crawling things. He went on and on till he heard the plash of seething water. The beating of iron hammers struck his ear-drum, and so struck as almost to break it. This is the place where thunderbolts are made. He went on till he came to a great iron gate, standing open just then; but a tremendous, cursed, hundred-headed dragon, who let no one pass, kept guard there. What could the king’s son take hold of? What could he do with his life? Here, upon my soul! what he did, or what he did not do, he took out a sweet-speaking, magic flute, and blew on it so sadly that his tears rolled down. Such touching notes did he draw from the flute that the great powerful beast—the hundred-headed dragon—became as a lamb, lowered his bloody crest; his bristling scales dropped smoothly, one on the other; he stretched on the ground, and cowered, whining like a dog when he beholds his master after an absence. Seeing this, the king’s son grew bold, and going straight to the dragon, stepped upon him, walked on his back, and the terrible wild beast did not mind it; he only licked his foot, wagged his tail, and let the king’s son pass over.

After he had gone through the gate the darkness began to part; and no wonder, for a charm-given, lovely maiden, in a purple velvet robe, stepped before him. She was no other than Dawn, the dearest and best-beloved daughter of the Sun. Now, the splendid young prince pleased this flower of the skies. She placed him by her side on her winged steed, and flew across the vault of heaven, and they swept on till they reached the razor bridge. When they touched the bridge, their horse became as if he were not; and they crossed so that the horse’s feet were not injured, and the razor’s edge was not dented. Having passed the razor bridge they came to the copper forest, where were working at that moment the woodcutters of the Sun, who on iron wagons were taking wood to the kitchen, with a terrible rattling and pounding. Thence they rode to the silver forest, where silver-white birds cheered every wanderer. Two of the birds came and sang the sweetest notes. The silver-trees inclined thrice to the daughter of the Sun. Next they reached the golden forest, where sweet-voiced, golden-yellow birds enlivened the visitors, and threw down golden nuts here and there from the trees. The golden forest bent thrice to the daughter of the Sun.

In the middle of the golden forest was Dawn’s garden; in the garden her copper-roofed mansion. When the Beauty of the Skies came home the pearly flowers shook their bells, and began to sound. On hearing this, the stars swept forth like a swarm, and glittered round about. The maiden nodded but once, and behold! purple clouds swam before her like so many sky-sacks, which serve on the extended firmament as boats. Dawn took her seat, but first she spread her mantle and seated the king’s son at her side. Lest his part of the boat might be heavier, she drew him nearer to her with an embrace; but he dared not embrace in return.

They sailed and sailed through the airy heavens till they were weary; then they tied their boat to the tree with diamond blossoms, silver leaves, and golden apples. They sat on a golden bench under the tree, and were there but a moment, when at a nod from the Sun’s daughter a golden butterfly appeared more quickly than a spoken word, and brought fresh-gathered honey of the skies on a rose-leaf. When they had eaten, thirst seized the king’s son; then a modest star came bringing a goblet on a silver tray, in the goblet a charm-drink, and when the king’s son had drunk from the golden goblet his thirst fell away as if it had been cut in two.

When their hunger and thirst were gone, at the Sun’s daughter’s nod the modest stars brought a cithara. Dawn then played on its golden chords with silver feathers, and sounded such notes that a man hearing them would spring up and whirl in the dance, even if his own father were lying dead on the table. After that came the hour of rest; the king’s son was led across seventy-seven chambers to the bath-room. In the middle of the room stood a great golden cask filled with dew, and on a boxwood table lay lathery soap. The king’s son bathed in the dew-water, washed himself with the lathery soap, and wiped with a towel of gold.

When he rose next morning, Dawn gave him a burning ray which she wound up like a ribbon, put in a box, and hung with a golden hair on the neck of the king’s son. After that they parted amidst tear-shedding. The Sun’s daughter sped across the vault of heaven on her winged steed, and the king’s son continued his journey.

As I say, he had a ray to light up the island. The king’s son journeyed and travelled till the steed spoke, saying: “Listen, dear master.”

“What is thy command, dear horse?”

“Gird thyself well, for thou must cut the three reeds at a blow; a second blow would lose thee thy head. If at one blow thou succeed, the island will be lighted up. The world-beautiful maiden and her two attendants will be thine, but only on condition that thou cut not open the reeds before coming to water; for if thou dost, they will die a fearful death in a moment.”

The king’s son promised by heaven and earth that he would act as told. On the seventh day they came to the island of the Black Sea, where there was such darkness that a spoon would have stood up in it; but the king’s son drew out the box hanging by the golden hair and removed the cover. All at once the way was lighted, but so strangely that it gave light only to him; he could see everything, but not a created soul could see him. When he came to where the three reeds were growing, they bent before him and bowed to the earth. They continued to bow; at the best moment the king’s son drew his sword and with a blow all three reeds fell upon his breast. But from the three reed-stumps black blood sprang forth, and a bitter wail was heard as if a naked sword had been thrust into some one’s heart. It had been thrust into the heart of the witch; for the black blood was hers, and the bitter wail was her death-sigh. She could only live while the three reeds stood. As soon as the old witch had breathed out her soul, the burning ray flew out of the silver box as if it had been shot from a gun, and the whole island was in light.

Then the king’s son sat on his good steed and journeyed over forty-nine kingdoms as swiftly as the most fleet-winged bird could go. Once curiosity rose in him to know if there was indeed something in the reeds, and what it could be like. I say, curiosity rose up in him, and bored his side as if with an iron auger, so that what he did or did not do, he took out his gleaming knife and split the smallest reed, in which was the youngest attendant of the world-beautiful Reed Maiden. No sooner had he split the reed than a beauteous, pearl-given, lovely girl fell upon his breast; and her first word was: “Water! Only as much water as a little swallow takes in her beak when she gives drink to her young, or I die!”

But the king’s son had it not. One drop of water is not much, but he could not give that much. The beautiful maiden, like a broken flower, began to wither, grew paler and paler, till at last the pallor of death seized her head, and bending to the breast of the king’s son, she died.

The king’s son was so sorry for his fault that if it had been possible, he would have atoned for it with his blood; but that was not possible. Therefore he came down from his good steed, dug a grave with his sword, and buried the maiden; as a grave-mark he planted the split reed, and from it a black rose sprang, which as mourning, bloomed in black.

A bitter weeping wail, a bitter woe-cry was heard from the two reeds that were not split yet, as if some one were bewailing a brother. Great sadness seized the king’s son too, who thought, “I caused the death of this maiden. I broke this flower and planted it in the bosom of death.” But if he had wept out his soul, it would have been useless; therefore he mounted his steed and rode farther. He travelled and journeyed till curiosity rose in his breast, and bored his side as with an iron auger. “Is there in the second reed another such maiden; and will she go like the first?”

At last he could resist the devil’s boring no longer; so he took his gleaming clasp-knife, and split the second reed also. Behold, the elder attendant of the Reed Maiden, came out, saying: “Water, water, or I shall die a fearful death!” But the king’s son had not one drop of water; the maiden grew paler and paler, till she dropped her head on the breast of the king’s son, and died. The king’s son came to the earth, dug a grave with his sword, and buried the maiden. At the head of the grave he placed the split reed; from it a beautiful rose-bush sprang up, which bloomed in black, as mourning.

A bitter weeping wail, a bitter woe-cry of pain was heard from the unsplit reed, in which the world-beautiful maiden herself was hidden; and no less grief seized the king’s son. He had killed two; with his own strength he had broken two beautiful flowers, and put them in the bosom of death. Grief covered him with black wing. His good steed went as a bird of swiftest flight till curiosity rose up in the breast of the king’s son, bored his side as with an iron auger. “What sort of person is his future bride? who is the world-beautiful Reed Maiden?”

Since he could not resist this devil’s boring, this mighty curiosity, he took out the third and last reed to split it; but the magic steed reached back, and taking the reed from the king’s son, did not return it till they came to the shore of a lake.

At the water the king’s son split the last reed, and there came forth such a maiden that her like was not born since the world began, nor before, nor after. Her first word was: “Water! Only as much water as a little swallow takes in her beak when she gives drink to her young, or I shall die in a moment!”

The king’s son gave her to drink; she felt better. Then they embraced, and kissed, saying, “I am thine, thou art mine.”

“Listen, my beautiful love,” said the king’s son, “while I ride home for a carriage of glass and gold do thou hide in this willow; but till I see thee, though one word is not much, speak not that much to any one.”

The king’s son rode for the glass and golden carriage; the maiden climbed the willow where she hid. Now, what came of the affair, and what did not, while the king’s son was gone a crawfish-gathering gypsy girl happened under the willow-tree, and looking in the water she saw the quivering image of the charming maiden. Putting her hand on her hip she said: “What a beautiful shadow I have, quite worthy of a princess.”

“It’s thine of course! I’ll tell whose it is,” said a golden bird from the tree, in a golden voice.

The gypsy looked into the tree, where she saw the world-beautiful princess, for the sight of whom the sun would have stood still in heaven. The girl said nothing, but in a twinkle she dragged the maiden from the tree by her white foot, pulled off her purple velvet robe, and threw her into the water. The maiden did not sink, but shaking herself, turned into a golden-feathered duck and swam on the lake. The gypsy then, ill or well, put on the purple velvet robe, which sat on her as if it had been put on with a fork and rake; then she sat with great importance on the tree. But she did not sit long; for seeing the golden duck, she jumped down and began to throw stones at her. She threw and threw so many that her arm grew tired, but she could not hit, for the golden duck dived into the water the moment a stone flew over her. At last the gypsy was tired, climbed into the willow-tree and waited for fortune.

She had not long to wait, for soon the king’s son came with a gold and glass carriage to take home the golden bird; but the gypsy had her mind, for she would not come down from the tree—at least she said so—till he should shoot the golden duck on the lake, so she might drink its red blood, and eat its tender flesh.

The king’s son took his arrow, aimed to kill the golden duck; but the gypsy will not drink its red blood, will not eat its tender flesh, for the arrow never went with its point to the duck, but always turned towards her the feathered end. If it had found her, it would not have been her death. The king’s son had shot away all his arrows, and besides it was evening; he had to leave the amusement and turn his wagon-tongue homeward.

At home he had told how beautiful a wife he was bringing; all the greater was the surprise when he led in the bride with raised veil. The king’s son had praised the world-beautiful Reed Maiden, and now before the wedding assembly stands a leather-cheeked gypsy girl. The guests know not whether to laugh or to be angry.

Now, the queen—the former gypsy—thought that it could not remain thus, without the world-beautiful Reed Maiden visiting her husband in the night; therefore she put a sleeping-powder into his drink every God-given evening, from which the king’s son slept like a shepherd’s coat.

The world-beautiful Reed Maiden shook herself, turned into a little bird, and at midnight she came to the king’s son’s window. She knocked with her little beak, the window opened of itself, and she flew in; then the little bird shook herself, turned into a princess such as had not been born before, nor since, nor after that. She went to the king’s son, spoke to him fondling words, but he did not hear; roused him, but he did not wake; bent over him, and at last cried long, but he did not feel the hot tears which burned his cheek,—he lay there motionless as a block.

Then she said: “Oh, king’s son, youth of my soul, thy dear lips are dumb; open them for one, two words, to cheer thy beautiful love, thy tender violet. I will come yet twice, then never again.”

But the king’s son did not wake. When the clock struck one after midnight the maiden shook herself, turned into a bird, and flew out through the window; the window closed after her of itself.