Tale II. (continued 3)

When the Lama came, the man bowed himself and asked his blessing, but would by no means look up, lest he should see his knotted nose. Then said the Lama, “Let me see what hath befallen thee; show it me.” But he answered, “It is impossible to show it!”

Then the Lama said again, “Let me see it; showing it will not harm thee.” But when he looked up and let him see his knotted nose, the sight was so frightful that a shudder seized the Lama, and he ran away for very horror.” However, the man called after him and entreated him to come back, offering him rich presents; and when he had prevailed on him to sit down again, he told him the whole story of what had befallen him.

To his question, whether he could find any remedy, the Lama made answer that he knew none; but, remembering his rich presents, he thought better to turn the matter over in case any useful thought should present itself to his mind, and said he would consult his books.

“Till to-morrow I will wait, then, to hear if thy books have any remedy; and if not, then will I die.”

The next morning the Lama came again. “I have found one remedy,” he said, “but there is only one. The hammer and bag of which your brother is possessed could loose the knots; there is nothing else.”

How elated so ever he had been to hear that a remedy had been found, by so much cast down was he when he learnt that he would have to send and ask the assistance of his brother.

“After all that I have said to him, I could never do this thing,” he said mournfully, “nor would he hear me.” But his wife would not leave any chance of remedying the evil untried; so she went herself to the elder brother and asked for the loan of the sack and hammer.

Knowing how anxious his brother had been to be possessed of such a treasure, however, the brother thought the alleged misfortune was an excuse to rob him of it; therefore he would not give it into her hand. Nevertheless, he went to his brother’s house with it, and asked him what was the service he required of his sack. Then he was obliged to tell him all that had befallen, and to show him his knotted nose. “But,” said he, “if with thy hammer thou will but loose the knots, behold the half of all I have shall be thine.”

His brother accepted the terms; but not trusting to the promise of one so avaricious, he stipulated to have the terms put in order under hand and seal. When this was done he set to work immediately to swing his hammer, and let it touch one by one the knots in his brother’s nose, saying as he did so,—

“May the knots which the eight rows of evil Dakinis made so strong be loosed.”

And with each touch and invocation the knots began to disappear one after the other.

But his wife began to regret the loss of half their wealth, and she determined on a scheme to save it, and yet that her husband should be cured. “If,” said she, “I stop him before he has undone the last knot he cannot claim the reward, because he will not have removed all the knots, and it will be a strange matter if I find not the means of obtaining the hammer long enough to remedy one knot myself.” As she reasoned thus he had loosed the eighth knot.

“Stop!” she cried. “That will do now. For one knot we will not make much ado. He can bear as much disfigurement as that.”

Then the elder brother was grieved because they had broken the contract, and went his way carrying the sack, and with the hammer stuck in his girdle. As he went, the younger brother’s wife went stealthily behind him, and when he had just reached his own door, she sprang upon him, and snatched the hammer from out his girdle. He turned to follow her, but she had already reached her own house before he came up with her, and entering closed the door against him: then in triumph over her success, she proceeded to attempt loosing the ninth knot. Only swinging it as she had seen her brother-in-law do, and not knowing how to temper the force so that it should only just have touched the nose, the blow carried with it so much moment that the hammer went through the man’s skull, even to his brain, so that he fell down and died.

By this means, not the half, but the whole of his possessions passed to his elder brother.

“If the man was avaricious, the woman was doubly avaricious,” here exclaimed the Khan, “and by straining to grasp too much, she lost all.”

“Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips,” cried the Siddhî-kür. And with the cry, “To escape out of this world is good,” he sped him through the air once again, swift out of sight.

Tale XV.

When therefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan found that he had once more failed in the end and object of his mission, he once more took the way of the shady grove, and once more in the same fashion as before he took the Siddhî-kür captive in his sack. As he bore him along weary with the journey through the desert country, the Siddhî-kür asked if he would not tell a tale to enliven the way, and when he steadfastly held his tongue, the Siddhî-kür bid him, if he would that he should tell one, but give a token of nodding his head backwards, without opening his lips.

Then he nodded his head backwards, and the Siddhî-kür told this tale, saying,—

The Use of Magic Language.

Long ages ago there lived in Western India a King who had a very clever son. In order to make the best advantage of his understanding, and to fit him in every way to become an accomplished sovereign, the King sent him into the Diamond-kingdom1, that he might be thoroughly instructed in all kinds of knowledge. He was accompanied in his journey by the son of the king’s chief minister, who was also to share his studies, but who was as dull as he was intelligent. On their arrival in the Diamond-kingdom, they gave each of them the sum with which they had been provided by their parents to two Lamas to conduct their education, and spent twelve years with them.

At the end of the twelve years the minister’s son proposed to the king’s son that they should now return home, and as the Lamas allowed that the king’s son had made such progress in the five kinds of knowledge that there was nothing more he could learn, he agreed to the proposal, and they set out on their homeward way.

All went well at first; but one day passed, and then another, and yet another, that they came to no source of water, and being parched nigh unto death with thirst, the minister’s son would have laid him down to die. As he stood hesitating about going on, a crow passed and made his cry of “ikerek.” The prince now encouraged his companion, saying, “Come but a little way farther, and we shall find water.”

“Nay, you deceive me not like an infant of days,” answered the minister’s son. “How shall we find water? Have we not laboured over the journey these three days, and found none; neither shall we find it now? Why should we add to this death of thirst the pangs of useless fatigue also?”

But the king’s son said again, “Nay, but of a certainty we shall now find it.”

And when he asked, “How knowest thou this of a certainty?” he replied, “I heard yon crow cry as he passed, ‘Go forward five hundred paces in a southerly direction, and you will come to a source of pure, bright fresh water.’”

The king’s son spoke with so much certainty that he had not strength to resist him; and so they went on five hundred paces farther in a southerly direction, and then they indeed came upon a pure, bright spring of water, where they sat down, and drank, and refreshed themselves.

As they sat there, the minister’s son was moved with jealousy, for, thought he within himself, in every art this prince has exceeded me, and when we return to our own country, all shall see how superior he is to me in every kind of attainment. Then he said aloud to the king’s son,—

“If we keep along this road, which leads over the level plain, where we can be seen ever so far off, may be robbers will see us, and, coming upon us, will slay us. Shall we not rather take the path which leads over the mountain, where the trees will hide us, and pass the night under cover of the wood?” And this he said in order to lead the prince into the forest, that he might slay him there unperceived. But the prince, who had no evil suspicion, willingly agreed to his words, and they took the path of the mountain. When they had well entered the thick wood, the minister’s son fell upon the prince from behind, and slew him. The prince in dying said nothing but the one word, “Abaraschika2.”

As soon as he had well hidden the body, the minister’s son continued on his way.

As he came near the city, the King went out to greet him, accompanied by all his ministers, and followed by much people; but when he found that his son was not there, he fell into great anxiety, and eagerly inquired after him. “Thy son,” answered the minister’s son, “died on the journey.”

At these words, the King burst into an agony of grief, crying, “Alas, my son! mine only son! Without thee, what shall all my royal power and state, what shall all my hundred cities, profit me?” Amid these bitter cries he made his way back to the palace. As he dwelt on his grief, the thought came to him, “Shall not my son when dying at least have left some word expressive of his last thoughts and wishes?” Then he sent and inquired this thing of his companion, to which, the minister’s son made answer, “Thy son was overtaken with a quick and sudden malady, and as he breathed out his life, he had only time to utter the single word, Abaraschika.”

Hearing this the King was fully persuaded the word must have some deep and hidden meaning; but as he was unable to think it out, he summoned all the seers, soothsayers, magicians, and astrologers3 of his kingdom, and inquired of them what this same word Abaraschika could mean. There was not, however, one of them all that could help him to the meaning. Then said the King, “The last word that my son uttered, even mine only son, this is dear to me. There is no doubt that it is a word in which by all the arts that he had studied and acquired he knew how to express much, though he had not time to utter many words. Ye, therefore, who are also learned in cunning arts ought to be able to tell the interpretation of the same, but if not, then of what use are ye? It were better that ye were dead from off the face of the earth. Wherefore, I give you the space of seven days to search in all your writings and to exercise all your arts, and if at the end of seven days ye are none of you able to tell me the interpretation, then shall I deliver you over to death.”

With that he commanded that they should be all secured in an exceeding high fortress for the space of seven days, and well watched that they might not escape.

The seven days passed away, and not one of them was at all nearer telling the interpretation of Abaraschika than on the first day. “Of a certainty we shall all be put to death to-morrow,” was repeated all through the place, and some cried to the devas and some sat still and wept, speaking only of the relations and friends they would leave behind.

Meantime, a student of an inferior sort, who waited on the others and learned between whiles, had contrived to escape, not being under such strict guard as his more important brethren. At night-time he took shelter under a leafy tree. As he lay there a bird and its young ones came to roost on the boughs above him. One of the young ones instead of going to sleep went on complaining through the night, “I’m so hungry! I’m so hungry!” At last the old bird began to console it, saying, “Cry not, my son; for to-morrow there will be plenty of food.”

“And why should there be more food to-morrow than to-day?” asked the young bird.

“Because to-morrow,” answered the mother, “the Khan has made preparations to put a thousand men to death. That will be a feast indeed!”

“And why should he put so many men to death?” persisted the young bird.

“Because,” interposed the father, “though they are all wise men, not one of them can tell him such a simple thing as the meaning of the word Abaraschika.”

“What does it mean, then?” inquired the young bird.

“The meaning of the word is this: ‘This, my bosom friend, hath enticed me into a thick grove, and there, wounding me with a sharp knife, hath taken away my life, and is even now preparing to cut off my head.’” This the old bird told to his young.

The young student, however, hearing these words waited to hear no more, but set off at his best speed towards the tower where all his companions were confined. About daybreak he reached the gates, and made his way in all haste in to them. In the midst of their weeping and lamenting over the morning which they reckoned that of their day of death, he cried out,—

“Weep no more! I have discovered the meaning of the word.”

Just then the Khan’s guard came to conduct them to the Khan for examination preparatory to their being given over to execution. Here the young student declared to the Khan the meaning of the word Abaraschika. Having heard which the Khan dismissed them all with rich presents, but privately bid them declare to no man the meaning of the word. Then he sent for the minister’s son, and without giving him any hint of his intention, bid him go before him and show him where lay the bones of his son, which when he had seen and built a tomb over them, he ordered the minister and his son both to be put to death.

“That Khan’s son, so well versed in the five kinds of knowledge, would have been an honour and ornament to his kingdom, had he not been thus untimely cut off,” exclaimed the Khan.

And as he let these words escape him, the Siddhî-kür replied, “Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips.” And with the cry, “To escape out of this world is good!” he sped him through the air, swift out of sight.

Tale XVI.

When therefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan saw that he had again failed in the end and object of his journey, he once more took the way of the cool grove; and having taken the Siddhî-kür captive as before in his bag, in which there was place for a hundred, and made fast the mouth of the same with his cord woven of a hundred threads of different colours, he bore him along to present to his Master and Teacher Nâgârg′una.

And as they went the Siddhî-kür asked him to beguile the way with a tale, or else give the signal that he should tell one. And when the Well-and-wise-walking Khan had given the signal that the Siddhî-kür should tell one, he began after this wise, saying,—

The Wife who loved Butter.

Long ages ago there dwelt in the neighbourhood of a city in the north part of India called Taban-Minggan1 a man and his wife who had no children, and nine cows2 for all possessions. As the man was very fond of meat he used to kill all the calves as soon as they were born that he might eat them, but the wife cared only for butter. One day when there were no more calves the man took it into his head to slaughter one of the cows; “What does it signify,” said he to himself, “whether there are nine or eight?” So he killed one of the cows and ate it. When the meat of this cow was all at an end, he said to himself, “What does it matter whether there are eight cows or seven?” And with that he slaughtered another cow and ate it. When the meat of this cow had come to an end, he said within himself again, “What does it matter whether there are seven cows or six?” and with that he slaughtered another cow and ate it. This he continued doing till there was one only cow left. At last, when the wife saw that there was but one only cow left, she could refrain herself no longer. Determined to save this only cow from being slaughtered, she never let it out of her sight, but wherever she went led it after her by a string.

One day, however, when the man had been drinking well of rice-brandy, and was sound asleep, the wife having to go out to fetch water, she thought it would be safe to leave the cow behind this once; but scarcely was she gone out when the man woke up, and, seeing the cow left alone behind, slaughtered it to eat.

When the woman came back and found the last remaining cow was killed, she lifted up her voice and wept, saying, “What is there now left to me wherewithal to support life, seeing that the last and only cow that remained to us is killed.” As she said these words, she turned her in anger and went away, and as she went the man cut off one of the teats of the cow and threw it after her. The woman picked up the teat and took it along with her; but she went along still crying till she came to a cave in a mountain side, where she took shelter. There she cast herself down on the ground, addressing herself in earnest prayer to the Three Precious Treasures3 and the Ruler of Heaven and Earth, saying, “Now that my old man has brought me to the last extremity, depriving me of all that I had to support life, grant now, ye Three Precious Treasures, and thou Ruler of Heaven and Earth, that I may have in some way that which is needful to support life!” Thus she prayed. Also, she flung from her the teat of the cow which she had in her hand, and behold! it clove to the side of the cave, and when she would have removed it, it would no more be removed, but milk ran therefrom as from the living cow. And the milk thereof was good for making butter, which her soul loved.

Thus she lived in the cave, and was provided with all she desired to support life. One day it befell that the memory of her husband coming over her, she said within herself, “Perhaps, now that the last cow is slaughtered and eaten, my old man may be suffering hunger; who knows!” Thus musing, she filled a sheep’s paunch4 with butter, and went her way to the place where her husband lived, and having climbed on to the roof, she looked down upon him through the smoke-hole5.

He sat there in his usual place, but nothing was set before him to eat saving only a pan of ashes, which he was dividing with a spoon, saying the while, “This is my portion for to-day;” and “That much I reserve for the portion of to-morrow.” Seeing this, the wife threw her paunch of butter hastily through the roof, and then went back to her cave.

Then thought the husband within himself, “Who is there in heaven or earth who would have brought me this butter-paunch but my very wife? who surely has said within herself, ‘Perhaps, now that the last cow is slaughtered, my old man is suffering hunger.’” And as every night she thus supplied him with a butter-paunch, he got up at last and followed her by the track of her feet on the snow till he came to the cave where she dwelt. Nevertheless, seeing the teat cleaving to the side of the cave, he could not resist cutting it off to eat the meat thereof. Then he took to him all the store of butter the woman had laid up and returned home; but the wife, finding her place of refuge was known to him, and that he had taken all her store, left the cave and wandered on farther.

Presently she came to a vast meadow well watered by streams, and herds of hinds grazing amid the grass; nor did they flee at her approach, so that she could milk them at will, and once more she could make butter as much as ever she would.

One day it befell that, the memory of her husband coming over her, she said within herself, “Perhaps, now that he will have exhausted all the store of cow-milk-butter, my old man may be suffering hunger; who knows!” So she took a sheep’s paunch of the butter made of hind’s milk and went to the place where her husband lived. As she looked down upon him through the smoke-hole in the roof, she found him once more engaged sparingly dividing his portions of ashes. So she threw the butter-paunch to him through the smoke-hole and went her way. When she had done this several days, her husband rose and followed her by her track on the snow till he came to where the herd of hinds were grazing. But when he saw so many hinds, he could not resist satisfying his love of meat; only when he had slaughtered many of the hinds, these said one to another, “If we remain here, of a surety we shall all be put to death;” therefore they arose in the night and betook them afar, far off, whither neither the man nor his wife could follow them.

When the wife found her place of refuge was known to her husband, and that he had dispersed her herd of hinds, she left the grassy meadow and wandered on farther.

Presently, a storm coming on, she took shelter in a hole in a rock where straw was littered down; so she laid herself to sleep amid the straw. But the hole was the den of a company of lions, tigers, and bears, and all manner of wild beasts; but they had a hare for watchman at the opening of the hole. At night, therefore, they all came home and laid down, but they perceived not the woman in the straw; only in the night, the woman happening to move, a straw tickled the nose of the hare. Then said the hare to a tiger who lay near him, “What was that?” But the tiger said, “We will examine into the matter when the morning light breaks.” When the morning light broke, therefore, they turned up all the straw and found the woman lying. When the tiger and the other beasts saw the woman lying in their straw, they were exceeding wroth, and would have torn her in pieces. But the hare said, “What good will it do you to tear the woman in pieces? Women are faithful and vigilant animals; give her now to me, and I will make her help me watch the cave.” So they gave her to the hare, and the hare bade her keep strict watch over the cave, and by no means let any one of any sort enter it; and he treated her well and gave her plenty of game to eat, which the wild beasts brought home to their lair.

Thus she lived in the den of the wild beasts and did the bidding of the hare. One day, however, it befell that, the memory of her husband coming over her, she said within herself, “Perhaps, now that the hinds are all dispersed, my old man may be suffering hunger; who knows!” So she took with her a good provision of game, of which the wild beasts brought in abundance, and went to the place where her husband lived. He sat as before, dividing his portions of ashes; so she threw the game she had brought down through the smoke-hole.

When she had thus provisioned him many days, he said within himself, “Who is there in heaven or earth who should thus provide for me, but only my loving wife?” So the next night he rose up and tracked her by the snow till he came to the den of the wild beasts.

When the wife saw him, she cried, “Wherefore camest thou hither? This is even a wild beasts’ lair. Behold, seeing thee they will tear thee in pieces!” But the man would not listen to her word, answering, “If they have not torn thee in pieces, neither will they tear me.” Then, when she found that he would not escape, she took him and hid him in the straw. At night, when the wild beasts came home, the hare said to the tiger, “Of a certainty I perceive the scent of some creature which was not here before;” and the tiger answered, “When morning breaks we will examine into the matter.” Accordingly, when morning broke they looked over the place, and there in the straw they found the woman’s husband. When they saw the man they were all exceedingly wroth, nor could the hare by any means restrain them that they should not tear them both in pieces. “For,” said they, “if of one comes two, of two will come four, and of four will come sixteen, and in the end we shall be outnumbered and destroyed, and our place taken from us.” So they tore them both in pieces, both the wife and her husband.

“That woman fell a sacrifice to her devotion to her husband, who deserved it not at her hand!” exclaimed the Khan.

And as he let these words escape him, the Siddhî-kür replied, “Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips.” And with the cry, “To escape out of this world is good!” he sped him through the air, swift out of sight.

Tale XVII.

Wherefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan once more took the way of the cool grove, and brought thence bound the Siddhî-kür, who by the way told him this story, saying—,

The Simple Husband and the Prudent Wife.

In the southern part of India lived a man who had a very large fortune and a very notable wife, but possessing little sense or capacity himself, nor sufficient understanding to think of trading with his fortune. One day a caravan of merchants came by, with whom the wife made some exchanges of merchandize while the husband stood by and looked on. When they were gone, the wife said to him, “Why should not you also go forth and trade even as these merchants trade?” And he willing to do her a pleasure made answer, “Give me wherewithal to trade, and I will see what I can do.”

“This is but reasonable,” thought the wife. “For how shall he trade except he have some sort of merchandize to trade withal.” So she made ready for him an ass to ride, and a camel’s burden of rice to trade with, and arms to defend him from robbers, and provisions to sustain him by the way. Thus she sent him forth.

On he rode till he came to the sea-shore, and as he could go no farther he laid him down here at the foot of a high cliff to sleep. Just where he lay was the entrance to a cave which he failed to discover. Towards evening a caravan of merchants travelling by, took shelter in this cave, leaving a bugle lying on the ground near the entrance, that in case of an attack of robbers the first who heard their approach might warn the others.

The man’s face being turned, as he lay also towards the entrance of the cave, came very near the mouthpiece of the bugle. About the middle of the night when he was sleeping very heavily he began also to snore, and his breath accidentally entering the bugle gave forth so powerful a note1, that it woke all the merchants together. “Who sounded the bugle?” asked each. “Not I,” “Nor I,” “Nor I,” answered one and all. “Then it must be the thieves themselves who did it in defiance,” said one. “They must be in strong force thus to defy us!” answered another. “We had better therefore make good our escape before they really attack us,” cried all. And without waiting to look after their goods, they all ran off for the dear life without so much as looking behind them.

In the morning, finding the merchants did not return, the simple man put together all the merchandize they had left behind them and returned home with it. All the neighbours ran out to see him pass with his train of mules and cried aloud, “Only see what a clever trader! Only see how fortune has prospered him!”

Quite proud of his success and not considering how little merit he had had in the matter, he said, “To-morrow I will go out hunting!” But his wife knowing he had not capacity to have come by all the merchandize except through some lucky chance, and thinking some equally strange adventure might befall him when out hunting, determined to be even with him and to know all that might come to pass.

Accordingly the next day she provided him with a horse and dog, and bow and arrows, and provisions for the way. Only as he went forth, she said, “Beware, a stronger than thou fall not upon thee!” But he, puffed up by his yesterday’s success, answered her, “Never fear! There is none can stand against me.” And she, smiling to see him thus highminded, made reply, “Nevertheless, the horseman Surja-Bagatur2 is terrible to deal with. Shouldst thou meet him, stand aside and engage him not, for surely he would slay thee.” Thus she warned him. But he mounted his horse and rode away, crying, “Him I fear no more than the rest!”

As soon as she had seen him start the wife dressed herself in man’s clothes, and mounting a swift horse3 she rode round till she came by a different path to the same place as her husband. Seeing him trot across a vast open plain she bore down right upon him at full gallop. The man, too much afraid of so bold a rider to recognize that it was his wife, turned him and fled from before her. Soon overtaking him, however, she challenged him to fight, at the same time drawing her sword. “Slay me not!” exclaimed the simple man, slipping off his horse, “Slay me not, most mighty rider, Surja-Bagatur! Take now my horse and mine arms, and all that I have. Leave me only my life, most mighty Surja-Bagatur!” So his wife took the horse and the arms, and all that he had and rode home.

At night the simple man came limping home footsore and in sorry plight. “Where is the horse and the arms?” inquired his wife as she saw him arrive on foot.

“To-day I encountered the mighty rider, Surja-Bagatur, and having challenged him to fight,” answered he, “I overcame him and humbled him utterly. Only that the wrath of the hero at what I had done might not be visited on us, I propitiated him by making him an offering of the horse and the arms and all that I had.”

So the woman prepared roasted corn and set it before him; and when he had well eaten she said to him, “Tell me now, what manner of man is the hero Surja-Bagatur, and to what is he like4?”

And the simple man made answer, “But that he wore never a beard, even such a man would he have been as thy father.”

And the wife laughed to herself, but told him nothing of all she had done.

“That was a prudent woman, who humbled not her husband by triumphing over him!” exclaimed the Khan.

And as he let these words escape him, the Siddhî-kür replied, “Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips.” And with the cry, “To escape out of this world is good!” he sped him through the air, swift out of sight.

Of the adventures of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan the seventeenth chapter, of the Simple Husband and the Prudent Wife.

Tale XVIII.

When therefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan saw that the Siddhî-kür had again made good his escape, he set out and came to the cool grove, and took him captive and brought him, bound in his bag. And by the way the Siddhî-kür told this tale, saying,—

How Shanggasba buried his Father.

Long ages ago, there lived in a city of Northern India a father and son. Both bore the same name, and a strangely inappropriate name it was. Though they were the poorest of men without any thing in the world to call their own, and without even possessing the knowledge of any trade or handicraft whereby to make a livelihood to support them at ease, they were yet called by the name of Shanggasba, that is “Renowned possessor of treasure1.”

As I have already said, they knew no trade or handicraft; but to earn a scanty means of subsistence to keep body and soul together, they used to lead a wandering sort of life, gathering and hawking wood.

One day as they were coming down the steep side of a mountain forest, worn and footsore, bending under the heavy burden of wood on their backs, Shanggasba, the father, suddenly hastened his tired, tottering steps, and, leading the way through the thickly-meeting branches to a little clear space of level ground, where the grass grew green and bright, called to his son to come after him with more of animation in his voice than he had shown for many a weary day.

Shanggasba, the son, curious enough to know what stirred his father’s mind, and glad indeed at the least indication of any glimpse of a new interest in life, increased his pace too, and soon both were sitting on the green grass with their bundles of wood laid beside them.

“Listen, my son!” said Shanggasba, the father, “to what I have here to impart to thee, and forget not my instructions.”

“Just as this spot of sward, on which we are now seated, is bared of the rich growth of trees covering the thicket all around it, so are my fortunes now barren compared with the opulence and power our ancestor Shanggasba, ‘Renowned possessor of treasure,’ enjoyed. Know, moreover, that it was just on this very spot that he lived in the midst of his power and glory. Therefore now that our wanderings have brought us hither, I lay this charge upon thee that when I die thou bring hither my bones, and lay them under the ground in this place. And so doing, thou too shalt enjoy fulness of might and magnificence like to the portion of a king’s son. For it was because my father’s bones were laid to rest in a poor, mean, and shameful place, that I have been brought to this state of destitution in which we now exist. But thou, if thou keep this my word, doubt not but that thou also shalt become a renowned possessor of treasure.”

Thus spoke Shanggasba, the father; and then, lifting their faggots on to their shoulder, they journeyed on again as before.

Not long after the day that they had held this discourse, Shanggasba, the father, was taken grievously ill, so that the son had to go out alone to gather wood, and it so befell that when he returned home again the father was already dead. So remembering his father’s admonition, he laded his bones upon his back, and carried them out to burial in the cleared spot in the forest, as his father had said.

But when he looked that the great wealth and honour of which his father had spoken should have fallen to his lot, he was disappointed to find that he remained as poor as before. Then, because he was weary of the life of a woodman, he went into the city, and bought a hand-loom and yarn, and set himself to weave linen cloths which he hawked about from place to place.

Now, one day, as he was journeying back from a town where he had been selling his cloths, his way brought him through the forest where his father lay buried. So he tarried a while at the place and sat down to his weaving, and as he sat a lark came and perched on the loom. With his weaving-stick he gave the lark a blow and killed it, and then roasted and ate it.

But as he ate it he mused, “Of a certainty the words of my father have failed, which he spoke, saying, ‘If thou bury my bones in this place thou shalt enjoy fulness of might and magnificence.’ And because this weaving brings me a more miserable profit even than hawking wood, I will arise now and go and sue for the hand of the daughter of the King of India, and become his son-in-law.”

Having taken this resolution, he burnt his hand-loom, and set out on his journey.

Now it so happened that just at this time the Princess, daughter of the King of India, having been absent for a long time from the capital, great festivities of thanksgiving were being celebrated in gratitude for her return in safety, as Shanggasba arrived there; and notably, on a high hill, before the image of a Garuda-bird2, the king of birds, Vishnu’s bearer, all decked with choice silk rich in colour.

Shanggasba arrived, fainting from hunger, for the journey had been long, and he had nothing to eat by the way, having no money to buy food, but now he saw things were beginning to go well with him, for when he saw the festival he knew there would be an offering of baling cakes of rice-flour before the garuda-bird, and he already saw them in imagination surrounded with the yellow flames of the sacrifice.

As soon as he approached the place therefore he climbed up the high hill, and satisfied his hunger with the baling; and then, as a provision for the future, he took down the costly silk stuffs with which the garuda-bird was adorned and hid them in his boots.

His hunger thus appeased, he made his way to the King’s palace, where he called out lustily to the porter in a tone of authority, “Open the gate for me!”

But the porter, when he saw what manner of man it was summoned him, would pay no heed to his words, but rather chid him and bid him be silent.

Then Shanggasba, when he found the porter would pay no heed to his words, but rather bid him be silent, blew a note on the great princely trumpet, which was only sounded for promulgating the King’s decrees.

This the King heard, who immediately sent for the porter, and inquired of him who had dared to sound the great princely trumpet. To whom the porter made answer,—

“Behold now, O King, there stands without at the gate a vagabond calling on me to admit him because he has a communication to make to the King.”

“The fellow is bold; let him be brought in,” replied the King. So they brought Shanggasba before the King’s majesty.

“What seekest thou of me?” inquired the King. And Shanggasba, nothing abashed, answered plainly—

“To sue for the hand of the Princess am I come, and to be the King’s son-in-law.”

The ministers of state, who stood round about the King, when they heard these words, were filled with indignation, and counselled the King that he should put him to death. But the King, tickled in his fancy with the man’s daring, answered,—

“Nay, let us not put him to death. He can do us no harm. A beggar may sue for a king’s daughter, and a king may choose a beggar’s daughter, out of that no harm can come,” and he ordered that he should be taken care of in the palace, and not let to go forth.

Now all this was told to the Queen, who took a very different view of the thing from the King’s. And coming to him in fury and indignation, she cried out,—

“It is not good for such a man to live. He must be already deprived of his senses; let him die the death!”

But the King gave for all answer, “The thing is not of that import that he should die for it.”

The Princess also heard of it; and she too came to complain to the King that he should cause such a man to be kept in the palace; but before she could open her complaint, the King, joking, said to her,—

“Such and such a man is come to sue for thy hand; and I am about to give thee to him.”

But she answered, “This shall never be; surely the King hath spoken this thing in jest. Shall a princess now marry a beggar?”

“If thou wilt not have him, what manner of man wouldst thou marry?” asked the King.

“A man who has gold and precious things enough that he should carry silk stuff3 in his boots, such a one would I marry, and not a wayfarer and a beggar,” answered the Princess.

When the people heard that, they went and pulled off Shanggasba’s boots, and when they found in them the pieces of silk he had taken from the image of the garuda-bird, they all marvelled, and said never a word more.

But the King thought thereupon, and said, “This one is not after the manner of common men.” And he gave orders that he should be lodged in the palace.

The Queen, however, was more and more dismayed when she saw the token, and thus she reasoned, “If the man is here entertained after this manner, and if he has means thus to gain over to him the mind of the King, who shall say but that he may yet contrive to carry his point, and to marry my daughter?” And as she found she prevailed nothing with the King by argument, she said, “I must devise some means of subtlety to be rid of him.” Then she had the man called into her, and inquired of him thus,—

“Upon what terms comest thou hither to sue for the hand of my daughter? Tell me, now, hast thou great treasures to endow her with as thy name would import, or wilt thou win thy right to pay court to her by thy valour and bravery?” And this she said, for she thought within herself, of a surety now the man is so poor he can offer no dowry, and so he needs must elect to win her by the might of his bravery, which if he do I shall know how to over-match his strength, and show he is but a mean-spirited wretch.

But Shanggasba made answer, “Of a truth, though I be called ‘Renowned possessor of treasure,’ no treasure have I to endow her with; but let some task be appointed me by the King and Queen, and I will win her hand by my valour.”

The Queen was glad when she heard this answer, for she said, “Now I have in my hands the means to be rid of him.” At this time, while they were yet speaking, it happened that a Prince of the Unbelievers advanced to the borders of the kingdom to make war upon the King. Therefore the Queen said to Shanggasba,—

“Behold thine affair! Go out now against the enemy, and if thou canst drive back his hordes thou shalt marry our daughter, and become the King’s son-in-law.

“Even so let it be!” answered Shanggasba. “Only let there be given to me a good horse and armour, and a bow and arrows.”

All this the Queen gave him, and good wine to boot, and appointed an army in brave array to serve under him. With these he rode out to encounter the enemy.

They had hardly got out of sight of the city, however, when the captain of the army rode up to him and said, “We are not soldiers to fight under command of a beggar: ride thou forth alone.”

So they went their way, and he rode on alone. He had no sooner come to the borders of the forest, however, where the ground was rough and uneven, than he found he could in no wise govern his charger, and after pulling at the reins for a long time in vain, the beast dashed with him furiously into the thicket. “What can I do now?” mourned Shanggasba to himself as, encumbered by the unwonted weight of his armour, he made fruitless efforts to extricate himself from the interlacing branches; “surely death hath overtaken me!” And even as he spoke the enemy’s army appeared riding down towards him. Nevertheless, catching hold of the overhanging bows of a tree, by which to save himself from the plungings of the horse, and as the soil was loose and the movement of the steed impetuous, as he clung to the tree the roots were set free by his struggles, and rebounding in the face of the advancing enemy, laid many of his riders low in the dust.

The prince who commanded them when he saw this, exclaimed, “This one cannot be after the manner of common men. Is he not rather one of the heroes making trial of his prowess who has assumed this outward form?”

And a great panic seized them all, so that they turned and fled from before him, riding each other down in the confusion, and casting away their weapons and their armour.

As soon as they were well out of sight, and only the clouds of dust whirling round behind them, Shanggasba rose from the ground where he had fallen in his fear, and catching by the bridle one of the horses whose rider had been thrown, laded on to him all that he could carry of the spoil with which the way was strewn, and brought it up to the King as the proof and trophy of his victory.

The King was well pleased to have so valiant a son-in-law, and commended him and promised him the hand of the Princess in marriage. But the Queen, though her first scheme for delivering her daughter had failed, was not slow to devise another, and she said, “It is not enough that he should be valiant in the field, but a mighty hunter must he also be.” And thus she said to Shanggasba, “Wilt thou also give proof of thy might in hunting?”

And Shanggasba made answer, “Wherein shall I show my might in hunting?”

And the Queen said, “Behold now, there is in our mountains a great fox, nine spans in length, the fur of whose back is striped with stripes; him shalt thou kill and bring his skin hither to me, if thou wouldst have the hand of the Princess and become the King’s son-in-law.”

“Even so let it be,” replied Shanggasba; “only let there be given me a bow and arrow, and provisions for many days.”

All this the Queen commanded should be given to him; and he went out to seek for the great fox measuring nine spans in length, and the fur of his back striped with stripes.

Many days he wandered over the mountains till his provisions were all used and his clothes torn, and, what was a worse evil, he had lost his bow by the way.

“Without a bow I can do nothing,” reasoned Shanggasba to himself, “even though I fall in with the fox. It is of no use that I wait for death here. I had better return to the palace and see what fortune does for me.”

But as he had wandered about up and down without knowing his way, it so happened that as he now directed his steps back to the road, he came upon the spot where he had laid down to sleep the night before, and there it was he had left the bow lying. But in the meantime the great fox nine spans long, with the fur of his back striped with stripes, had come by that way, and finding the bow lying had striven to gnaw it through. In so doing he had passed his neck through the string, and the string had strangled him. So in this way Shanggasba obtained possession of his skin, which he forthwith carried in triumph to the King and Queen. The King when he saw it exclaimed, “Of a truth now is Shanggasba a mighty hunter, for he has killed the great fox nine spans long, and with the fur of his back striped with stripes. Therefore shall the hand of the Princess be given to him in marriage.”

But the Queen would not yet give up the cause of her daughter, and she said, “Not only in fighting and hunting must he give proof of might, but also over the spirits he must show his power.” Then Shanggasba made answer, “Wherein shall I show my power over the spirits?”

And the Queen said, “In the regions of the North, among the Mongols, are seven dæmons who ride on horses: these shalt thou slay and bring hither, if thou wouldst ask for the hand of the Princess and become the King’s son-in-law.”

“Even so let it be,” replied Shanggasba; “only point me out the way, and give me provisions for the journey.”

So the Queen commanded that the way should be shown him, and appointed him provisions for the journey, which she prepared with her own hand, namely, seven pieces of black rye-bread that he was to eat on his way out, and seven pieces of white wheaten-bread that he was to eat on his way home. Thus provided, he went forth towards the region of the North, among the Mongols, to seek for the seven dæmons who rode on horses.

Before night he reached the land of the Mongols, and finding a hillock, he halted and sat down on it, and took out his provisions: and it well-nigh befell that he had eaten the white wheaten-bread first; but he said, “Nay, I had best get through the black bread first.” So he left the white wheaten-bread lying beside him, and began to eat a piece of the black rye-bread. But as he was hungry and ate fast, the hiccups took him; and then, before he had time to put the bread up again into his wallet, suddenly the seven dæmons of the country of the Mongols came upon him, riding on their horses. So he rose and ran away in great fear, leaving the bread upon the ground. But they, after they had chased him a good space, stopped and took counsel of each other what they should do with him, and though for a while they could not agree, finally they all exclaimed together, “Let us be satisfied with taking away his victuals.” So they turned back and took his victuals; and the black rye-bread they threw away, but the white wheaten-bread they ate, every one of them a piece.

The Queen, however, had put poison in the white wheaten-bread, which was to serve Shanggasba on his homeward journey; and now that the seven dæmons ate thereof, they were all killed with the poison that was prepared for him, and they all laid them down on the hillock and died, while their horses grazed beside them4.

But in the morning, Shanggasba hearing nothing more of the trampling of the dæmons chasing him, left off running, and plucked up courage to turn round and look after them; and when he saw them not, he turned stealthily back, looking warily on this side and on that, lest they should be lying in wait for him. And when he had satisfied himself the way was clear of them, he bethought him to go back and look after his provisions. When he got back to the hillock, however, he found the seven dæmons lying dead, and their horses grazing beside them. The sight gave him great joy; and having packed each one on the back of his horse, he led them all up to the King and Queen.

The King was so pleased that the seven dæmons were slain, that he would not let him be put on his trial any more. So he delivered the Princess to him, and he became the King’s son-in-law. Moreover, he gave him a portion like to the portion of a King’s son, and erected a throne for him as high as his own throne, and appointed to him half his kingdom, and made all his subjects pay him homage as to himself.

“This man thought that his father’s words had failed, and owned not that it was because he buried his bones in a prosperous place that good fortune happened unto him,” exclaimed the Prince.

And as he let these words escape him, the Siddhî-kür replied, “Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips.” And with the cry, “To escape out of this world is good!” he sped him through the air, fleet out of sight.

Tale XIX.

Wherefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan once more took the way of the cool grove, and having brought thence the Siddhî-kür bound in his bag, and having eaten of his cake that never diminished to strengthen him for the journey, as they went along the Siddhî-kür told him this tale, saying,—

The Perfidious Friend.

Long ages ago there lived in a northern country of India a lioness who had her den in the side of a snow-capped mountain. One day she had been so long without food that she was near to have devoured her cub; determining, however, to make one effort first to spare it, she went out on a long journey till she came to a fair plain where there were a number of cows grazing. When she saw the herd of cows she could not refrain a terrible roar; but the cows, hearing the roar of the lioness, said one to another, “Let us make haste to escape from the lioness,” and they all went their way. But there was one of the cows which had a calf, and because she could neither make the calf go fast enough to escape the lioness, nor could bring herself to forsake it, she remained behind and fell a prey to the wild beast. The lioness accordingly made a great feast, chiefly on the blood of the cow, and carried the flesh and the bones to her den.

The calf followed the traces of its mother’s flesh, and when the lioness lay down to sleep the calf came along with her own cub to suck, and the lioness being overcome, and as it were drunken with the blood she had taken, failed to perceive what the calf did. In the morning, as the calf had drunk her milk, she forbore to slay it, and the calf and the cub were suckled together. After two or three days, when there was nothing left for the lioness to eat but a few bones of the cow, she devoured them so greedily in her hunger that one big knuckle-bone stuck in her throat, and as she could by no means get it out again, she was throttled by it till she died. Before dying she spoke thus to the calf and the cub, “You two, who have been suckled with the same milk, must live at peace with each other. If some day an enemy comes to you and tries to set you one against the other, pay no heed to his words, but remain at one as before.” Thus she charged them.

When the lioness was dead the cub betook himself into the forest, and the calf found its way to the sunny slope of a mountain side; but at the hour of evening they went down to the stream together to drink, and after that they disported themselves together.

There was a fox, however, who had been used to feed on the remnants of the lion’s meals, and continued now to profit by those of the cub; he saw with a jealous eye this growing intimacy with the calf, and determined to set them at variance2.

One day, therefore, when the cub had just killed a beast and lay sucking its blood, the fox came to him with his tail no longer cockily curled up on his back, but low, sweeping the ground, and his ears drooping. When the cub saw him in this plight, he exclaimed, “Fox! what hath befallen thee? Tell me thy grief, and console thyself the while with a bite of this hind.” But the fox, putting on a doleful tone, answered him, “How should I, thine uncle, take pleasure in eating flesh when thou hast an enemy? hence is all pleasure gone from me.” But the cub answered carelessly, “It is not likely any one should be my enemy, fox; therefore set to and eat this hind’s flesh.” “If thou refusest in this lighthearted way to listen to the words of thine uncle,” answered the fox, “so shall the day come when thou wilt berue it.” “Who then, pray, is this mine enemy?” at last inquired the cub. “Who should it be but this calf? Saith he not always, ‘The lioness killed my mother; therefore when I am strong enough I will kill the cub.’” “Nay, but we two are brothers,” replied the cub; “the calf has no bad thoughts towards me.” “Knowest thou then really not that thy mother killed his mother?” exclaimed the fox. And the cub thought within himself, “What the fox says is nevertheless true; and, further, is he not mine uncle, and what gain should he have to deceive me?” Then said he aloud, “By what manner of means does the calf purpose to kill me? tell me, I pray.” And the fox made answer, “When he wakes to-morrow morning, observe thou him, and if he stretches himself and then digs his horns into the earth, and shakes his tail and bellows, know that it is a sure token he is minded to kill thee.” The cub, his suspicions beginning to be excited, promised to be upon his guard and to observe the calf.

Having succeeded thus far the fox went his way, directing his steps to the sunny side of the mountain slope where the calf was grazing. With his tail trailing on the ground, and his ears drooping, he stood before the calf. “Fox! what aileth thee?” inquired the calf cheerily; “come and tell me thy grief.” But the fox answered, “Not for myself do I grieve. It is because thou, O calf! hast an enemy; therefore do I grieve.” But the calf answered, “Be comforted, fox, for it is not likely any should be an enemy to me.” Then replied the fox, “Beware thou disregard not my words, for if thou do, of a certainty a day shall come when thou shalt berue it.” But the calf inquired, saying, “Who then could this enemy possibly be?” And the fox told him, saying, “Who should it be other than the lion-cub in the forest on the other side the mountain? Behold! doth he not use to say, ‘Even as my mother killed and devoured his mother, so also will I kill and devour him.’” “Let not this disturb thee, fox,” interposed the calf, “for we two are brothers; he hath no bad thoughts against me.” But the fox warned him again, saying, “Of a surety, if thou disregard my words thou shalt berue it. Behold! I have warned thee.” Then the calf began to think within himself, “Is it not true what he says that the cub’s mother killed my mother; and, further, what gain should he, mine uncle, have in deceiving me?” Then said he aloud, “If thy warning be so true, tell me further, I pray thee, by what manner of means doth he design to put me to death?” And the fox told him, saying, “When he wakes to-morrow morning observe thou him, and if he stretch himself and shake his mane, if he draws his claws out and in, and scratches up the earth with them, then know that it is a sure token he is minded to slay thee.” The calf, his suspicions beginning to be awakened, promised to be upon his guard and to observe the cub.

The next morning, when they woke, each observed the other as he had promised the fox, and each by natural habit, which the fox had observed of old, but they not, gave the signs he had set before them for a token. At this each was filled with wrath and suspicion against the other, and when at sunrise they both went down to the stream to drink, the cub growled at the calf, and the calf bellowed at the cub. Hence further convinced of each other’s bad intentions, they each determined at the same instant to be beforehand with the other. The calf dug his horns into the breast of the cub and gored it open, and the cub sprang upon the calf’s throat and made a formidable wound, from whence the blood poured out. Thus they contended together till all the blood of both was poured out, and they died there before the face of the fox.

Then came a voice out of svarga3, saying, “Put never thy trust in a false friend, for so doing he shall put thee at enmity with him who is thy friend in truth.”

“Nevertheless, as the cub was killed as well as the calf, the perfidy of the fox profited him nothing as soon as he had made an end of eating their flesh!” exclaimed the Khan.

And as he let these words escape him, the Siddhî-kür replied, “Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips.” And with the cry, “To escape out of this world is good!” he sped him through the air, swift out of sight.

Tale XX.

Wherefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan once more took the way of the cool grove; and having brought thence the Siddhî-kür bound in his bag, and having eaten of his cake that never diminished, to strengthen him for the journey, as they went along the Siddhî-kür told him this tale, saying,—

Bhixu Life.

Long ages ago there lived in a country in the north of India, namely Nepaul, on the banks of a river named the Hiranjâvati1, an old man and his old wife, who had no sons, but only one daughter. But this one daughter was all in all to them; and they had only one care in life, and that care was, how to establish her safely and well, that she might not be left alone in the world when they were on it no more. Nevertheless, though the maiden was fair to see, and wise and prudent in her ways, and though her parents had laid by a rich dowry for her portion, it so chanced that no one offered to marry her. Yet the years went by, and the man and his wife were both growing old, and they said, “If we marry her not now, soon will she be left all alone in the world.”

In a hut at some distance lived another aged couple, who were very poor; but they had one only son. Then said the father of the maiden to her mother, “We must give our daughter to the son of this poor couple for a wife, otherwise she will be left alone in the world.”

So they married the maiden to the son of this poor old couple, and they took him into their house, and he lived together with them.

After a time, the husband felt a desire to return and see his parents; so he took his wife with him, and they went to seek his parents. At home, however, they were not, for they led a Bhixu life, and were gone on a begging expedition through all the tribes; therefore they went on, seeking them. About this time, a mighty Khan had given orders for a great distribution of alms2. All that any one asked for, it was given him, whatsoever it might be. Only concerning the measure of rice-brandy distributed to any one person was there any restriction; but of all the rest there was no stint.

The man and his wife therefore came with the rest of the people, and obtained their portion, according to their desire. When all had been well served, and had returned every one to his home, the man said to his wife, “If we would really be rich, and enjoy life, the way to do it is to go round through all the tribes, living on alms. So living, we have all we need desire. Moreover we need stand in no fear of thieves and robbers; our strength will not be brought down by labour by day, nor our sleep disturbed with anxiety by night; in drought and murrain we shall have no loss to suffer, for the herds of which we shall live will not be our own. To travel about ever among new people is itself no small pleasure. Moreover we shall never be vexed with paying tribute of that we have earned with the toil of our arms. If even we go back and take to us the inheritance thy parents promised to us, in how many days would it be all spent, and we become again even as now! But by going from tribe to tribe, living on alms, our store is never diminished, and there is nothing we shall lack3.”

Thus they lived many months, begging alms and lacking nothing, even as the man had said. Nevertheless, in the midst of their wanderings, a son was born to them. Then said the woman, “These wild tribes among whom we now are, give us nothing but rice-brandy, which is no food for me; neither have I strength to carry the child as he gets older.” And as she knew her husband loved a vagabond life, and could not hear of going to live at home with her parents, she added, “Let us now go see my parents, and beg of them that they give us of their herds an ass, on which the infant may ride withal when we go round among the tribes seeking alms.” To this proposition the man did not say “Nay,” and they journeyed towards the house of the woman’s parents, along the bank of the river Hiranjâvati.

When they arrived at home, they found that the woman’s parents were dead, nor was there the least remnant left of all their possessions: the herds were dispersed, and the flocks had fallen a prey to the wolves and the jackals; nothing remained but a few tufts of wool, which had got caught on the ant-heaps4. The wife picked up the tufts, saying, “We will collect all these, and weave a piece of stuff out of them.” But her husband pointed out that, at no great distance, was a plain with many tents, where, by asking alms, they could have plenty of barley and rice, without the trouble of weaving. They continued their way therefore towards the tents; but the woman continued saying, “When we have woven our piece of stuff, we will sell it, and buy a bigger piece, and then we will sell that and buy a bigger; and so on, till we have enough to buy an ass, then we will set our little one on it instead of carrying him. Then perhaps our ass will have a foal, and then we shall have two asses.” “Certainly,” answered her husband, “if our ass has a foal we shall have two asses.” But the child said, “If our ass has a foal, I will take the foal, and will ride him, going about among the tribes, I also, asking alms even as you5.” When his mother heard him speak thus, she was angry, and bid him hold his peace; she also went to correct him by hitting him with a stick, but the boy tried to escape from her, and the blow fell upon his head and killed him. Thus their child died.

At the time that the woman’s parents died, and the herds were dispersed, and the flocks devoured by wolves and jackals, one only lamb had escaped from the destruction, and had taken refuge in a hole in the ground, where it remained hid all day, and only came out at night to graze6. One day a hare came by, and as the lamb was not afraid of the hare, she did not hide herself from him; therefore the hare said to her, “O lamb, who art thou?” And the lamb answered, “I belong to a flock whose master died of grief because his children went away and forsook him; and when he died, the wolves and the jackals came and devoured all his flock, and I, even I only, escaped of them all, and I have hid myself in this hole. Thou, O hare, then, be my protector.” Thus spoke the lamb.

But the hare answered, “Must not a lamb live in a flock? How shall a lamb live in a hole all alone? Behold, I will even bring thee to a place where are flocks of sheep, with whom thou mayest live as becometh a lamb.”

“It were better we stayed here,” replied the lamb trembling; “for if we meet the wolf in the open country, how shall we escape him?” “For that will I provide,” answered the hare; “only come thou with me.” So they set out, the lamb and the hare together, for to seek a place where grazed flocks in goodly company.

As they went along, they saw on the ground a hand-loom, which some one sitting out there to weave had left behind. The hare bid the lamb put it on her back, and bring it along with her. The lamb did as she was bid. A little farther they saw a piece of yellow stuff lying on the ground: this also the hare bid the lamb pick up and bring with her. The lamb did as she was bid. And a little farther on they saw a piece of paper, with something written on it, blown along by the wind; this likewise the hare bid the lamb bring with her. And the lamb did as she was bid.

A little farther on they saw a wolf coming. As he drew near them, the hare said to the lamb, “Bring me now my throne.” Then the lamb understood that he meant the hand-loom, and she set it in the way. Then the hare continued, “Spread abroad over me my gold-coloured royal mantle.” Then the lamb understood that he meant the piece of yellow stuff he had bid her pick up, and she spread it over him as he sat on the hand-loom for a throne. Then said the hare again “Reach me the document which the moon sent down to me on the fifteenth of the month7.” So the lamb understood that he meant the piece of written paper he had bid her pick up, and she gave it into his hand.

By this time the wolf had come up with them, and when he saw the hare seated so majestically on the hand-loom for a throne, and with the royal mantle of yellow stuff about him, and the written document in his hand, the lamb moreover standing quietly by his side, he said within himself, “These must be very extraordinary beasts, who do not run away at my approach, after the manner of common beasts.” Therefore he stood still, and said to the hare, “Who and whence art thou?” But the hare, still holding the piece of written paper in his hand, made as though he were reading from it as follows:—“This is the all high command of the god Churmusta8 unto the most noble and honourable hare, delivered unto him by the hands of the moon, on the fifteenth of the month. On the same most noble and honourable hare I lay this charge, that he do bring me, before the fifteenth of the next moon, the skins of a thousand rapacious, flock-scattering wolves.” And as the hare read these words, he erected his ears with great importance and determination of manner, and made as though he would have come down from his throne to attack the wolf.

The wolf, still more alarmed at this proceeding, took flight, nor so much as looked back to see whether the hare was really pursuing him.

As soon as he was well on his way, the hare and the lamb set out once more on their journey, taking another direction from the wolf, and arrived happily at one of the most fertile pastures in the kingdom of Nepaul.

“The prudence of that hare was equal to his good feeling,” exclaimed the Khan.

And as he let these words escape him, the Siddhî-kür replied, “Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips.” And with the cry, “To escape out of this world is good!” he sped him through the air, swift out of sight.

Tale XXI.

Wherefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan once more took the way of the cool grove; and having brought thence the Siddhî-kür bound in his bag, the Siddhî-kür as they went along told him this tale, saying,—

How the Widow saved her Son’s Life1.

Long ages ago there lived in Chara Kitad2, which lieth to the east of India, a king named Daibang3, who had one only son. But this son never showed himself to the people. No one in the whole empire had once set his eyes on him. Every day he sent and fetched a handsome youth of the people to come and comb his hair for him, and immediately that he had made an end of combing him he had him put to death. Every day one. This went on for many years, and no one dared to withhold their son from the king’s command. At last it came to the turn of a youth who was a widow’s son. The widow, therefore, full of anguish at the thought of her son, her eldest stay and consolation, being taken from her and slain, made cakes of dough kneaded with her own milk, and gave them to her son, saying, “Manage so that while thou art combing the hair of the Khan, he shall eat one of these cakes.”

The widow’s son, therefore, came and stood before the Khan; and as he combed the Khan’s hair with the Khan’s golden comb, he saw that the ears of the Khan were formed like to the ears of an ass, and that it was that his subjects might not know he had ears like to the ears of an ass, that he put to death every day the young men, who, combing his hair, had seen them. Nevertheless, the widow’s son went on combing the Khan’s hair, and eating the cakes his mother had given him the while.

At last the Khan said, “What eatest thou?”

And he answered, “Cakes kneaded of rice-flour and milk; such cakes do I eat.”

And when the Khan asked for some to taste, he gave him one, and the Khan ate it. When the Khan had eaten the cake, he said, “The scent and the flavour of these cakes is good. How are they composed? tell me.”

The widow’s son answered, “My mother made them for me with milk of her own breast, and kneaded them with rice-flour.”

When the Khan heard that, he said within himself, “How shall I put this youth to death, seeing he and I have both partaken of one mother’s milk? That were unnatural and unheard of.” Then said he aloud, “If that be so, I will not put thee to death this day; but only take an oath of thee that thou tell no man that I have ears like to asses’ ears. Shouldst thou, however, break thine oath, then, know that thou shalt surely be put to death.”

“Unto no man, O Khan,” swore the youth, “will I declare this thing. Neither unto my mother herself.” And having thanked the Khan for sparing his life he went his way.

Day after day, however, all the youths who went in to comb the Khan’s hair were put to death as before, and all the people wondered greatly why the widow’s son had been spared. Nevertheless, remembering the oath which he had given the Khan, he told no man how it had befallen for all their wondering and inquiring, nor even his own mother.

But as he continued thus keeping his own counsel, and telling no man the reason why the Khan killed all the other youths who combed his hair and spared him, the secret vexed his heart, nor could he stand against the oppression of his desire to speak it, so that he fell ill, and like to die. Nor were medicaments nor yet offerings in sacrifice4 of any avail to heal him of that sickness, though many Lamas were called to see him. At last a Lama came, who having felt his pulse said, “In this kind of sickness medicaments avail nothing; only tell what it is thou hast on thine heart, and as soon as thou shalt have told it, to whomsoever it may be, thou shalt be relieved, and be well again. Other remedy is there none.” Thus spoke the Lama.

Then all they that stood by the bed spoke to him, saying, “If it be that thou hast any thing on thy mind, as the Lama has said, even though it be the least matter, speak it now and recover. Of what good shall it be to thee to keep the secret if, after all, thou diest?”

But neither so would he break his oath to the Khan. But at night when they were all gone, and his mother only was with him, and she urged him much, he told her, saying, “Of a truth have I a secret; but I have sworn to the Khan that I will tell it to no man, nor yet even to thee, my mother.”

Then spoke his mother again, saying, “If this be so, then go out far from the habitations of men, and hiding thy face in a crack of the earth where the soil is parched for want of moisture; or else, in the hollow of an ancient tree, or in a narrow cleft of the everlasting rock, and speak it there.”

And the youth listened to her word; and he went out far from the habitations of men till he came where there was a hole of a marmot in the ground. Putting his mouth into the hole he cried, “Our Khan, Daibang, has ears even like to the ears of an ass!” and he repeated the same four times, and was well again.

But the marmot living in the hole, had heard the words, and she repeated them to the echo, and the echo told them to the wind, and the wind brought them to the Khan.

So the Khan sent, and called the youth, even the widow’s son, before him, saying, “Charged I thee not that thou told no man this thing, and swarest thou not unto me that thou wouldst declare it to no man, nor even to thine own mother? How then hast thou gone and spoken it abroad?”

But the youth answered, saying, “To no man either at home or abroad have I spoken the thing, O Khan!”

“How then came the words back to me unless it be that thou hast spoken them, seeing that none other knows the thing save thee?” again asked the Khan.

“I know not,” replied the youth, “unless it be that through refraining of myself that I might keep the secret I fell ill, and when all medicaments and offerings of sacrifice failed, there came a Lama who said there was no remedy save that I should unburden that which oppressed my mind. Then to save my life, and yet not betray the Khan’s confidence, I spoke it in the hole of a marmot in the waste, far from the habitations of men.”

Then when the Khan found he was so faithful and discreet he believed his word, and forbore to put him to death. Further he said to him, “Tell me, now, canst thou devise any means by which these asses’ ears may be concealed, so that I may go forth among my subjects like other Khans?”

“If the Khan would listen to the word of one so humble, even now a means of concealment is plain to my mind,” replied the youth.

And the Khan answered him, “Speak, and I will listen to what thou hast to advise.”

The youth therefore spoke, saying, “O mighty Khan! Let now a high-fashioned cap be made to cover thine head, and let there be on either side lappets to the cap, covering the ears. Then shall all men when they see the Khan wearing such a cap deem it beseeming to wear such a cap likewise.” Thus the youth counselled the Khan.

And the Khan found the counsel good, and he made him a high-fashioned cap with lappets covering the ears; and when the ministers of state and the counsellors and nobles saw the Khan wearing such a cap, they made to themselves caps like unto it, and all men wore it, and it was known by the name of “the lappet cap.” But no man knew that the king’s ears were like to asses’ ears.

Furthermore, the Khan no longer had need to put to death the youths who combed his hair, and all the people rejoiced greatly. But for the youth, even the widow’s son, he made him steward over all his household, and whatsoever he did, he did with prudence and judgment, his mother advising him.

“The Khan who put so many youths to death to save his own reputation did not deserve so good a counsel!” exclaimed the Khan.

And as he let these words escape him, the Siddhî-kür replied, “Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips.” And with the cry, “To escape out of this world is good!” he sped him through the air, swift out of sight.

Tale XXII.

Wherefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan once more took the way of the cool grove, and, having brought thence the Siddhî-kür as on the other times, bound in his bag with the cord woven of a hundred threads, as they went along the Siddhî-kür told him this tale, saying,—

The White Serpent-king.

Long ages ago there lived in the east part of India a Khan whose possessions were so large that he had ten thousand cities, and for the administration of the affairs of the same he had not less than thirty ministers. He had also a gold frog that could dance, and a parrot that spoke wisely. A tamer was also appointed to have care of them, and every day this keeper brought them before the Khan to divert him. The frog danced every day a new dance, and the parrot now gave wise answers to the questions he proposed, now sang melodious songs with accomplished art.

One day there came to the court of this King a minstrel from a strange land, in whose playing and singing the Khan took so great pleasure that he gave him many rich presents, and the man went about saying, “In all his dominions the King has no favourite in whom he takes so great delight as in me who am a stranger; neither is there any other who knows how to please him as I.” When the keeper of the gold frog and the parrot heard him make this boast, he answered him saying, “Nay, much greater pleasure hath the Khan in his gold frog and his parrot, of whom I am keeper.” And they strove together. In the end the minstrel said, “To-morrow we will both go up to the Khan together, and while your gold frog dances his most elaborate dance, and your parrot sings his most melodious songs, I also will play and sing my sagas to the Khan; and behold! to whichever the Khan gives ear while he regards not the other, he shall be accounted to have most pleased the Khan.”

The next day they did even as the minstrel had said, and when the minstrel began to sing the Khan paid no more heed at all to the frog or the parrot, but listened only to the strange minstrel’s words.

Then the tamer who had charge of the frog and the parrot, when he saw that the strange minstrel was preferred, lost heart and came no more before the Khan, but went and let fly the parrot, and threw the gold frog out of a window of the palace. As he threw the gold frog out of the window of the palace a crow was flying by, and seeing the frog thrown out, and that it knew not which way to turn, he caught it in his beak and flew away to a ledge of a rock. As he was about to devour her, the frog said,—

“O crow! if thou art minded to devour me, first wash me in water, and then come and devour me.”

And the remark pleased the crow, and he said to the frog,—

“Well spoken, O frog! What is thy name?”

And the frog made answer,—

“Bagatur-Ssedkiltu1. That is my name.”

So the crow took her down to wash her in the streamlet which flowed ceaselessly out of a hole in the rock. But the frog had no sooner gained the water than she crept into the hole. The crow called after her,—

“Bagatur-Ssedkiltu! Bagatur-Ssedkiltu, come thou here!”

But the frog answered him,—

“I should be foolish indeed if I came of my own account to give up my sweet life to your voracity. The Three Precious Treasures2 may decide whether I have so little courage and pride as that!”

So saying, she leapt into a cleft of the rock out of reach of the crow.

Meantime her former tamer had come up, and began searching about, trying to recover her, having bethought him he might incur the King’s anger in having let her go. And when he saw her not he began digging up the earth and hewing the rock all round the streamlet.

When the frog saw him digging up the earth and breaking the rock all round the streamlet, she cried out to him,—

“Dig not up the source of this spring. The King of the same hath given me charge over it, and I will not that thou lay it bare by digging round it.” She said further, “Though now thou art in sorrow and distress, I will presently render thee a gift that shall be a gift of wonder. Listen and I will tell thee. I am the daughter of the Serpent-king, reigning over the white mother-o’-pearl shells3. One day I went out to see the King’s daughter bathe, and she, seeing me, sent and had me fished out of the stream with a mother-o’-pearl pail, and took me with her.”

Meantime, the King began to notice that the parrot and the frog came no more to entertain him, so he sent for the tamer, and inquired what had become of his charges.

“The frog is gone her way in the stream,” answered the man, “and the parrot must have been taken by a hawk.”

The Khan was wroth at this answer, and ordered that the man should be taken and put to death.

Then came the first of the thirty ministers to the Khan, saying,—

“If we put this man to death, no more dancers or singers will come any more to this court.”

And the Khan answered,—

“It is well spoken; let him not be put to death.” He sent him into banishment, however, with three men to see him over the border of his dominions, and a goat to carry his provisions. But he also had him shod with a pair of shoes made out of stone, forbidding him to return until the stone shoes should be worn through.

As soon as his guards had left him, the tamer sat down by the side of the stream, and after soaking the stone shoes with water, rubbed them with a piece of rough stone till they were all in holes. Then he came back to his own country, with the goat that had carried his provisions, and made him dig roots out of the earth for him to eat. And he lived upon the roots.

One day he saw an owl flying by, which held in its mouth a white serpent. The tamer knew him to be a serpent-prince, and to make the owl release him, took off his girdle and held it in his mouth, after the manner in which the owl held the serpent, and, standing over against the owl, he cried out, “The thing held in the mouth burns with fire!” at the same time dropping the girdle from his mouth suddenly, as if it scorched him.

When the owl had heard his words, she also let the serpent fall out of her beak.

Then the tamer took up the serpent, and put it on a piece of grass near, and covered it with his cap. He had hardly done so, when there came up out of the water a whole train of princes of the serpent-dæmons, riding on horses, on to the bank of the stream, where they dispersed themselves, searching about every where for the white serpent, which was a serpent-prince.

After they had searched long and found nothing, there came up out of the water, riding on a white horse, a white serpent, having on a white mantle and a white crown4.

He, seeing the tamer, said to him,—

“I am the Serpent-king, reigning over the white mother-o’-pearl shells. I have lost my son. O man! say if thine eyes have lighted on him.”

The tamer asked of him, “What was thy son like?”

And the Serpent-king answered,—

“Even a white serpent was my son.”

“If that is so,” answered the tamer, thy son is with me. Even now a mighty Garuda-bird had him in his beak and prepared to devour him. But I, who am a tamer of all living creatures, knew how to entreat him so that he should give the white serpent up to me.”

Then he lifted his cap from off the grass and delivered the White Serpent-prince unto the Serpent-king, his father.

The Serpent-king was full of delight at getting back his son, and called a great feast of all his friends and acquaintance among the serpent-princes to celebrate his joy. And the tamer he took into his palace, and he dwelt with him.

After a time, however, the man desired to return to his own country, and spoke to the Serpent-king to let him go. Then said the White Serpent-king, who reigned over the white mother-o’-pearl shells—

“Behold, as thou hast dealt well with me, I will not let thee go without bestowing somewhat on thee, and telling thee what good fortune shall befall thee. Behold these two times hast thou served me well; and long time have I sought thee to reward thee, for first thou didst release my daughter, the Princess Goldfrog, from servitude, putting her out of the window of the palace, and now thou hast restored my son, even mine only son, to me. Know, therefore, that of thee shall be born four sons, every one of whom shall be a king in Gambudvîpa. Nevertheless, seeing it will befall that, ere that time come, thou shalt pass through a season of trial, and be in need, I give unto thee this Mirjalaktschi5 and this wand. Whensoever thou wantest for food, touch but this Mirjalaktschi with the wand, and immediately every kind of viand shall be spread out before thee.”

Then he brought him up to the edge of the water to let him depart, giving him a brightly painted Mirjalaktschi and a mother-o’-pearl wand; moreover, he gave him a red-coloured dog also.

Then the White Serpent-king went his way down under the water again to his palace, and the tamer turned him towards his own country, the red-coloured dog following behind him.

“Thus was the promise of Princess Goldfrog fulfilled,” exclaimed the Khan.

And as he let these words escape him, the Siddhî-kür replied, “Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips.” And with the cry, “To escape out of this world is good!” he sped him through the air, swift out of sight.

Tale XXIII.

Wherefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan once more took the way of the cool grove; and having taken the Siddhî-kür, and bound him in his bag, as at other times, he brought him along to the great Master and Teacher Nâgârg′una. As they went along by the way, the Siddhî-kür told him this tale, of how it fell out with the red-coloured dog, saying,—

What became of the Red-coloured Dog.

When it was evening they went, the tamer and the red-coloured dog together, into a grove to sleep, and by day they journeyed on. One day, when they made their evening halt, the red-coloured dog laid aside her dog’s form, and appeared as a beautiful maiden, clothed in shining robes of white, and with a crown of white flowers on her head; and, when the tamer saw her, he loved her.

Moreover, she said to him, “Me hath the Serpent-king given to thee to be thy wife.” And he married her, and she was his wife. Every morning she put on the form of the red-coloured dog again, and they journeyed on. One morning, however, before she put on the dog form, she went down to bathe in the river, and while she was gone, the man burnt the dog form, saying, “Now must she always remain as a beautiful woman.”