Chapter VIII · (continued 2)

So, after handsomely rewarding the artist, he went to the Emperor's palace and said that he had brought the blue rose. He was ushered into the Emperor's presence, who as he saw the cup sent for his daughter and said to her: “This eminent lawyer has brought you what he claims to be the blue rose. Has he accomplished the quest?”

The Princess took the bowl in her hands, and after examining it for a moment said: “This bowl is the most beautiful piece of china I have ever seen. If you are kind enough to let me keep it I will put it aside until I receive the blue rose. For so beautiful is it that no other flower is worthy to be put in it except the blue rose.”

The Lord Chief Justice thanked the Princess for accepting the bowl with many elegantly turned phrases, and he went away in discomfiture.

After this there was no one in the whole country who ventured on the quest of the blue rose. It happened that not long after the Lord Chief Justice's attempt a strolling minstrel visited the kingdom of the Emperor. One evening he was playing his one-stringed instrument outside a dark wall. It was a summer's evening, and the sun had sunk in a glory of dusty gold, and in the violet twilight one or two stars were twinkling like spear-heads. There was an incessant noise made by the croaking of frogs and the chatter of grasshoppers. The minstrel was singing a short song over and over again to a monotonous tune. The sense of it was something like this:

As he sang he heard a rustle on the wall, and looking up he saw a slight figure white against the twilight, beckoning to him. He walked along the wall until he came to a gate, and there someone was waiting for him, and he was gently led into the shadow of a dark cedar tree. In the dim twilight he saw two bright eyes looking at him, and he understood their message. In the twilight a thousand meaningless nothings were whispered in the light of the stars, and the hours fled swiftly. When the East began to grow light, the Princess (for it was she) said it was time to go.

“But,” said the minstrel, “to-morrow I shall come to the palace and ask for your hand.”

“Alas!” said the Princess, “I would that were possible, but my father has made a foolish condition that only he may wed me who finds the blue rose.”

“That is simple,” said the minstrel. “I will find it.” And they said good-night to each other.

The next morning the minstrel went to the palace, and on his way he picked a common white rose from a wayside garden. He was ushered into the Emperor's presence, who sent for his daughter and said to her: “This penniless minstrel has brought you what he claims to be the blue rose. Has he accomplished the quest?”

The Princess took the rose in her hands and said: “Yes, this is without doubt the blue rose.”

But the Lord Chief Justice and all who were present respectfully pointed out that the rose was a common white rose and not a blue one, and the objection was with many forms and phrases conveyed to the Princess.

“I think the rose is blue,” said the Princess. “Perhaps you are all colour blind.”

The Emperor, with whom the decision rested, decided that if the Princess thought the rose was blue it was blue, for it was well known that her perception was more acute than that of any one else in the kingdom.

So the minstrel married the Princess, and they settled on the sea coast in a little seen house with a garden full of white roses, and they lived happily for ever afterwards. And the Emperor, knowing that his daughter had made a good match, died in peace.

Maurice Baring.

The Two Frogs.

Once upon a time in the country of Japan there lived two frogs, one of whom made his home in a ditch near the town of Osaka, on the sea coast, while the other dwelt in a clear little stream which ran through the city of Kioto. At such a great distance apart; they had never even heard of each other; but, funnily enough, the idea came into both their heads at once that they should like to see a little of the world, and the frog who lived at Kioto wanted to visit Osaka, and the frog who lived at Osaka wished to go to Kioto, where the great Mikado had his palace.

So one fine morning, in the spring, they both set out along the road that led from Kioto to Osaka, one from one end and the other from the other.

The journey was more tiring than they expected, for they did not know much about travelling, and half-way between the two towns there rose a mountain which had to be climbed. It took them a long time and a great many hops to reach the top, but there they were at last, and what was the surprise of each to see another frog before him! They looked at each other for a moment without speaking, and then fell into conversation, and explained the cause of their meeting so far from their homes. It was delightful to find that they both felt the same wish—to learn a little more of their native country—and as there was no sort of hurry they stretched themselves out in a cool, damp place, and agreed that they would have a good rest before they parted to go their ways.

“What a pity we are not bigger,” said the Osaka frog, “and then we could see both towns from here and tell if it is worth our while going on.”

“Oh, that is easily managed,” returned the Kioto frog. “We have only got to stand up on our hind legs, and hold on to each other, and then we can each look at the town he is travelling to.”

This idea pleased the Osaka frog so much that he at once jumped up and put his front paws on the shoulder of his friend, who had risen also. There they both stood, stretching themselves as high as they could, and holding each other tightly, so that they might not fall down. The Kioto frog turned his nose towards Osaka, and the Osaka frog turned his nose towards Kioto; but the foolish things forgot that when they stood up their great eyes lay in the backs of their heads, and that though their noses might point to the places to which they wanted to go, their eyes beheld the places from which they had come.

“Dear me!” cried the Osaka frog, “Kioto is exactly like Osaka. It is certainly not worth such a long journey. I shall go home.”

“If I had had any idea that Osaka was only a copy of Kioto I should never have travelled all this way,” exclaimed the frog from Kioto, and as he spoke, he took his hands from his friend's shoulders and they both fell down on the grass.

Then they took a polite farewell of each other, and set off for home again, and to the end of their lives they believed that Osaka and Kioto, which are as different to look at as two towns can be, were as like as two peas.

The Wise Old Shepherd.

Once upon a time, a Snake went out of his hole to take an airing. He crawled about, greatly enjoying the scenery and the fresh whiff of the breeze, until, seeing an open door, he went in. Now this door was the door of the palace of the King, and inside was the King himself, with all his courtiers.

Imagine their horror at seeing a huge Snake crawling in at the door. They all ran away except the King, who felt that his rank forbade him to be a coward, and the King's son. The King called out for somebody to come and kill the Snake; but this horrified them still more, because in that country the people believed it to be wicked to kill any living thing, even snakes and scorpions and wasps. So the courtiers did nothing, but the young Prince obeyed his father, and killed the Snake with his stick.

After a while the Snake's wife became anxious and set out in search of her husband. She too saw the open door of the palace, and in she went. O horror! there on the floor lay the body of her husband, all covered with blood and quite dead. No one saw the Snake's Wife crawl in; she inquired of a white ant what had happened, and when she found that the young Prince had killed her husband, she made a vow that, as he had made her a widow, so she would make his wife a widow.

That night, when all the world was asleep, the Snake crept into the Prince's bedroom, and coiled round his neck. The Prince slept on, and when he awoke in the morning, he was surprised to find his neck encircled with the coils of a snake. He was afraid to stir, so there he remained, until the Prince's mother became anxious and went to see what was the matter. When she entered his room, and saw him in this plight, she gave a loud shriek, and ran off to tell the King.

“Call the archers,” said the King.

The archers came, and the King told them to go to the Prince's room, and shoot the Snake that was coiled about his neck. They were so clever, that they could easily do this without hurting the Prince at all.

In came the archers in a row, fitted the arrows to the bows, the bows were raised and ready to shoot, when, on a sudden, from the Snake there issued a voice which spoke as follows:

“O archers, wait, wait and hear me before you shoot. It is not fair to carry out the sentence before you have heard the case. Is not this a good law: an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth? Is it not so, O King?”

“Yes,” replied the King, “that is our law.”

“Then,” said the Snake, “I plead the law. Your son has made me a widow, so it is fair and right that I should make his wife a widow.”

“That sounds right enough,” said the King, “but right and law are not always the same thing. We had better ask somebody who knows.”

They asked all the judges, but none of them could tell the law of the matter. They shook their heads, and said they would look up all their law-books, and see whether anything of the sort had ever happened before, and if so, how it had been decided. That is the way judges used to decide cases in that country, though I daresay it sounds to you a very funny way. It looked as if they had not much sense in their own heads, and perhaps that was true. The upshot of it all was that not a judge would give an opinion; so the King sent messengers all over the countryside, to see if they could find somebody who knew something.

One of these messengers found a party of five shepherds, who were sitting upon a hill and trying to decide a quarrel of their own. They gave their opinions so freely, and in language so very strong, that the King's messenger said to himself, “Here are the men for us. Here are five men, each with an opinion of his own, and all different.” Post-haste he scurried back to the King, and told him that he had found at last some one ready to judge the knotty point.

So the King and the Queen, and the Prince and Princess, and all the courtiers, got on horseback, and away they galloped to the hill whereupon the five shepherds were sitting, and the Snake too went with them, coiled round the neck of the Prince.

When they got to the shepherds' hill, the shepherds were dreadfully frightened. At first they thought that the strangers were a gang of robbers, and when they saw it was the King their next thought was that one of their misdeeds had been found out; and each of them began thinking what was the last thing he had done, and wondering, was it that?

But the King and the courtiers got off their horses, and said good day in the most civil way. So the shepherds felt their minds set at ease again. Then the King said:

“Worthy shepherds, we have a question to put to you, which not all the judges in all the courts of my city have been able to solve. Here is my son, and here, as you see, is a snake coiled round his neck. Now, the husband of this Snake came creeping into my palace hall, and my son the Prince killed him; so this Snake, who is the wife of the other, says that, as my son has made her a widow, so she has a right to widow my son's wife. What do you think about it?”

The first shepherd said: “I think she is quite right, my Lord the King. If anyone made my wife a widow, I would pretty soon do the same to him.”

This was brave language, and the other shepherds shook their heads and looked fierce. But the King was puzzled, and could not quite understand it. You see, in the first place, if the man's wife were a widow, the man would be dead; and then it is hard to see that he could do anything. So, to make sure, the King asked the second shepherd whether that was his opinion too.

“Yes,” said the second shepherd; “now the Prince has killed the Snake, the Snake has a right to kill the Prince if he can.” But that was not of much use either, as the Snake was as dead as a door-nail. So the King passed on to the third.

“I agree with my mates,” said the third shepherd. “Because, you see, a Prince is a Prince, but then a Snake is a Snake.” That was quite true, they all admitted, but it did not seem to help the matter much. Then the King asked the fourth shepherd to say what he thought.

The fourth shepherd said: “An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth; so I think a widow should be a widow, if so be she don't marry again.”

By this time the poor King was so puzzled that he hardly knew whether he stood on his head or his heels. But there was still the fifth shepherd left; the oldest and wisest of them all; and the fifth shepherd said:

“King, I should like to ask two questions.”

“Ask twenty, if you like,” said the King. He did not promise to answer them, so he could afford to be generous.

“First, I ask the Princess how many sons she has?”

“Four,” said the Princess.

“And how many sons has Mistress Snake here?”

“Seven,” said the Snake.

“Then,” said the old shepherd, “it will be quite fair for Mistress Snake to kill his Highness the Prince when her Highness the Princess has had three sons more.”

“I never thought of that,” said the Snake. “Good-bye, King, and all you good people. Send a message when the Princess has had three more sons, and you may count upon me—I will not fail you.”

So saying, she uncoiled from the Prince's neck and slid away among the grass.

The King and the Prince and everybody shook hands with the wise old shepherd, and went home again. And the Princess never had any more sons at all. She and the Prince lived happily for many years; and if they are not dead they are living still.

From “The Talking Thrush.”

The True Spirit of a Festival Day.

And it came to pass that the Buddha was born a Hare and lived in a wood; on one side was the foot of a mountain, on another a river, on the third side a border village.

And with him lived three friends: a Monkey, a Jackal and an Otter; each of these creatures got food on his own hunting ground. In the evening they met together, and the Hare taught his companions many wise things: that the moral laws should be observed, that alms should be given to the poor, and that holy days should be kept.

One day the Buddha said: “To-morrow is a fast day. Feed any beggars that come to you by giving food from your own table.” They all consented.

The next day the Otter went down to the bank of the Ganges to seek his prey. Now a fisherman had landed seven red fish and had buried them in the sand on the river's bank while he went down the stream catching more fish. The Otter scented the buried fish, dug up the sand till he came upon them, and he called aloud: “Does any one own these fish?” And not seeing the owner, he laid the fish in the jungle where he dwelt, intending to eat them at a fitting time. Then he lay down, thinking how virtuous he was.

The Jackal also went off in search of food, and found in the hut of a field watcher a lizard, two spits, and a pot of milk-curd.

And, after thrice crying aloud, “To whom do these belong?” and not finding an owner, he put on his neck the rope for lifting the pot, and grasping the spits and lizard with his teeth, he laid them in his own lair, thinking, “In due season I will devour them,” and then he lay down, thinking how virtuous he had been.

The Monkey entered the clump of trees, and gathering a bunch of mangoes, laid them up in his part of the jungle, meaning to eat them in due season. He then lay down and thought how virtuous he had been.

But the Hare (who was the Buddha-to-be) in due time came out, thinking to lie (in contemplation) on the Kuca grass. “It is impossible for me to offer grass to any beggars who may chance to come by, and I have no oil or rice or fish. If any beggar come to me, I will give him (of) my own flesh to eat.”

Now when Sakka, the King of the Gods, heard this thing, he determined to put the Royal Hare to the test. So he came in disguise of a Brahmin to the Otter and said: “Wise Sir, if I could get something to eat, I would perform all my priestly duties.”

The Otter said: “I will give you food. Seven red fish have I safely brought to land from the sacred river of the Ganges. Eat thy fill, O Brahmin, and stay in this wood.”

And the Brahmin said: “Let it be until to-morrow, and I will see to it then.”

Then he went to the Jackal, who confessed that he had stolen the food, but he begged the Brahmin to accept it and remain in the wood; but the Brahmin said: “Let it be until the morrow, and then I will see to it.”

And he came to the Monkey, who offered him the mangoes, and the Brahmin answered in the same way.

Then the Brahmin went to the wise Hare, and the Hare said: “Behold, I will give you of my flesh to eat. But you must not take life on this holy day. When you have piled up the logs I will sacrifice myself by falling into the midst of the flames, and when my body is roasted you shall eat my flesh and perform all your priestly duties.”

Now when Sakka heard these words he caused a heap of burning coals to appear, and the Wisdom Being, rising from the grass, came to the place, but before casting himself into the flames he shook himself, lest perchance there should be any insects in his coat who might suffer death. Then, offering his body as a free gift, he sprang up, and like a royal swan, lighting on a bed of lotus in an ecstasy of joy, he fell on the heap of live coals. But the flame failed even to heat the pores or the hair on the body of the Wisdom Being, and it was as if he had entered a region of frost. Then he addressed the Brahmin in these words: “Brahmin, the fire that you have kindled is icy cold; it fails to heat the pores or the hair on my body. What is the meaning of this?”

“O most wise Hare! I am Sakka, and have come to put your virtue to the test.”

And the Buddha in a sweet voice said: “No god or man could find in me an unwillingness to die.”

Then Sakka said: “O wise Hare, be thy virtue known to all the ages to come.”

And seizing the mountain he squeezed out the juice and daubed on the moon the signs of the young hare.

Then he placed him back on the grass that he might continue his Sabbath meditation, and returned to Heaven.

And the four creatures lived together and kept the moral law.

Filial Piety.

Now it came to pass that the Buddha was re-born in the shape of a Parrot, and he greatly excelled all other parrots in his strength and beauty. And when he was full grown his father, who had long been the leader of the flock in their flights to other climes, said to him: “My son, behold my strength is spent! Do thou lead the flock, for I am no longer able.” And the Buddha said: “Behold, thou shalt rest. I will lead the birds.” And the parrots rejoiced in the strength of their new leader, and willingly did they follow him. Now from that day on, the Buddha undertook to feed his parents, and would not consent that they should do any more work. Each day he led his flock to the Himalaya Hills, and when he had eaten his fill of the clumps of rice that grew there, he filled his beak with food for the dear parents who were waiting his return.

Now there was a man appointed to watch the rice-fields, and he did his best to drive the parrots away, but there seemed to be some secret power in the leader of this flock which the Keeper could not overcome.

He noticed that the Parrots ate their fill and then flew away, but that the Parrot-King not only satisfied his hunger, but carried away rice in his beak.

Now he feared there would be no rice left, and he went to his master the Brahmin to tell him what had happened; and even as the master listened there came to him the thought that the Parrot-King was something higher than he seemed, and he loved him even before he saw him. But he said nothing of this, and only warned the Keeper that he should set a snare and catch the dangerous bird. So the man did as he was bidden: he made a small cage and set the snare, and sat down in his hut waiting for the birds to come. And soon he saw the Parrot-King amidst his flock, who, because he had no greed, sought no richer spot, but flew down to the same place in which he had fed the day before.

Now, no sooner had he touched the ground that he felt his feet caught in the noose. Then fear crept into his bird-heart, but a stronger feeling was there to crush it down, for he thought: “If I cry out the Cry of the Captured, my Kinsfolk will be terrified, and they will fly away foodless. But if I lie still, then their hunger will be satisfied, and they may safely come to my aid.” Thus was the Parrot both brave and prudent.

But alas! he did not know that his Kinsfolk had nought of his brave spirit. When they had eaten their fill, though they heard the thrice-uttered cry of the captured, they flew away, nor heeded the sad plight of their leader.

Then was the heart of the Parrot-King sore within him, and he said: “All these my kith and kin, and not one to look back on me. Alas! what sin have I done?”

The Watchman now heard the cry of the Parrot-King, and the sound of the other Parrots flying through the air. “What is that?” he cried, and leaving his hut he came to the place where he had laid the snare. There he found the captive Parrot; he tied his feet together and brought him to the Brahmin, his master. Now, when the Brahmin saw the Parrot-King, he felt his strong power, and his heart was full of love to him, but he hid his feelings, and said in a voice of anger: “Is thy greed greater than that of all other birds? They eat their fill, but thou takest away each day more food than thou canst eat. Doest thou this out of hatred for me, or dost thou store up the food in some granary for selfish greed?”

And the Great Being made answer in a sweet human voice: “I hate thee not, O Brahmin. Nor do I store the rice in a granary for selfish greed. But this thing I do. Each day I pay a debt which is due—each day I grant a loan, and each day I store up a treasure.”

Now the Brahmin could not understand the words of the Buddha (because true wisdom had not entered his heart), and he said: “I pray thee, O Wondrous Bird, to make these words clear unto me.”

And then the Parrot-King made answer: “I carry food to my ancient parents who can no longer seek that food for themselves: thus I pay my daily debt. I carry food to my callow chicks whose wings are yet ungrown. When I am old they will care for me—this my loan to them. And for other birds, weak and helpless of wing, who need the aid of the strong, for them I lay up a store; to these I give in charity.”

Then was the Brahmin much moved, and showed the love that was in his heart. “Eat thy fill, O Righteous Bird, and let thy Kinsfolk eat too, for thy sake.” And he wished to bestow a thousand acres of land upon him, but the Great Being would only take a tiny portion round which were set boundary stones.

And the Parrot returned with a head of rice, and said: “Arise, dear Parents, that I may take you to a place of plenty.” And he told them the story of his deliverance.

My thanks are due to:

Mrs. Josephine Dodge Darkam Bacon, for permission to use an extract from “The Madness of Philip,” and to her publishers, Charles Scrivener.

To Messrs. Houghton Mifflin, for permission to use extract from “Thou Shalt Not Preach,” by Mr. John Burroughs.

To Messrs. Macmillan & Co., for permission to use “Milking Time” of Miss Rossetti.

To Messrs. William Sharp, for permission to use passage from “The Divine Adventure,” by “Fiona MacLeod.”

To Miss Ethel Clifford, for permission to use the poem of “The Child.”

To Mr. James Whitcomb Riley and the Robbs Merrill Co., for permission to use “The Treasure of the Wise Man.”

To Rev. R. L. Gales, for permission to use the article on “Nursery Rhymes” from the Nation.

To Mr. Edmund Gosse, for permission to use extracts from “Father and Son.”

To Messrs. Chatto and Windus, for permission to use “Essay on Child's Play” (from Virginibus Puerisque) and other papers.

To Mr. George Allen & Co., for permission to use “Ballad for a Boy,” by W. Cory, from “Ionica.”

To Professor Bradley, for permission to quote from his essay on “Poetry and Life.”

To Mr. P. A. Barnett, for permission to quote from “The Commonsense of Education.”

To Professor Ker, for permission to quote from “Sturla the Historian.”

To Mr. John Russell, for permission to print in full, “A Saga.”

To Messrs. Longmans Green & Co., for permission to use “The Two Frogs,” from the Violet Fairy Book, and “To Your Good Health,” from the Crimson Fairy Book.

To Mr. Heinemann and Lady Glenconner, for permission to reprint “The Water Nixie,” by Pamela Tennant, from “The Children and the Pictures.”

To Mr. Maurice Baring and the Editor of The Morning Post, for permission to reprint “The Blue Rose” from The Morning Post.

To Dr. Walter Rouse and Mr. J. M. Dent, for permission to reprint from “The Talking Thrush” the story of “The Wise Old Shepherd.”

To Mr. James Stephens, for permission to reprint “The Man and the Boy.”

To Mr. Harold Barnes, for permission to use version of “The Proud Cock.”

To Mrs. Arnold Glover, for permission to print two of her stories.

To Miss Emilie Poulson, for permission to use her translation of Björnsen's poem.

To George Routledge & Son, for permission to use stories from “Eastern Stories and Fables.”

To Mrs. W. K. Clifford, for permission to quote from “Very Short Stories.”

To Mr. W. Jenkyn Thomas and Mr. Fisher Unwin, for permission to use “Arthur in the Cave” from the Welsh Fairy Book.

The following stories are not a representative list: this I have endeavoured to give with the story-list preceding. These stories are mostly taken from my own répertoire, and have so constantly been asked for by teachers that I am glad of an opportunity of presenting them in full.

Episode from “Sturla the Historian,” to illustrate the value of the art of story-telling.

Saga, by John Russell.

St. Christopher, in the version taken from the “Legenda Aurea.”

“Arthur in the Cave,” from the “Welsh Fairy Book.”

“Hafiz the Stone-cutter” (adapted from the Oriental).

“To Your Good Health,” from The Crimson Fairy Book.

“The Proud Cock,” from the Spanish.

“Snegourka,” from the Russian.

“The Water Nixie,” by Pamela Tennant.

“The Blue Rose,” by Maurice Baring.

“The Wise old Shepherd,” from “The Talking Thrush.”

I had intended, in this section, to offer an appendix of titles of stories and books which would cover all the ground of possible narrative in schools; but I have found, since taking up the question, so many lists containing standard books and stories, that I have decided that this original plan would be a work of supererogation, since it would be almost impossible to prepare such a list without the certainty of over-lapping. What is really needed is a supplementary list to those already published—a specialized list which has been gathered together by private research and personal experience. I have for many years spent considerable time in the British Museum, and some of the principal Libraries in the United States, and I now offer the fruit of that labour in the miscellaneous collection contained in this chapter. Before giving my own selection, I should like to say that for general lists one can use with great profit the following: