Chapter VII: Part 7

Then he drew her under his cloak and wished to be on the granite mountain, and they were there almost instantly. Precious stones glittered all around them and rejoiced their sight, and they eagerly gathered some of the largest and finest. But the witch had cast a spell on the huntsman, and a great drowsiness began to come over him. He said to the maiden, “We will sit down and rest a while, for I am so tired I can hardly stand.”

They sat down, and he laid his head on her lap, and went to sleep. Then the maiden slipped the cloak off his shoulders and put it on her own, loaded herself with the precious stones, and wished herself at home.

By and by the huntsman awoke and realized that his beloved had betrayed him and left him alone on the wild mountain. “Oh, what treachery there is in the world!” he exclaimed, and he sat there overwhelmed with grief and knew not what to do.

The mountain belonged to some savage and mighty giants, and before long he saw three of them striding toward him. He hastily lay down and pretended to be fast asleep. The first one, when he came to where the huntsman was, kicked him, and said, “What kind of an earthworm is this?”

“Tread on him and kill him,” said the second.

But the third said contemptuously: “That is not worth while. Let him alone. He will soon die here, or if he climbs higher up the mountain the clouds will carry him away.”

Then they went off, and the huntsman got up and climbed to the top of the mountain. After he had sat there for a time, a cloud came sweeping by, and it caught him up and floated away through the air with him. At last, in the dusk of evening, it made a gentle descent and deposited him in a large walled garden. He looked around and said: “I wish I had something to eat. After traveling so far I am very hungry. But here I see not a single apple or berry, or any other fruit—nothing, only cabbages, some of them green and some pink. As there is no other food to be had I will try one of the cabbages, and I think it may refresh me, even if I don’t like the taste of it.”

TO HIS HORROR HE PERCEIVED THAT HE HAD BEEN TRANSFORMED INTO A DONKEY
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So he selected a tender head of green cabbage and started to eat. But he had scarcely taken a couple of bites when he felt a wondrous change come over him. His head grew big and shaggy, and his ears long and hairy, and his arms became legs, and he had hoofs instead of hands and feet. To his horror he perceived that he had been transformed into a donkey. Soon he resumed eating, for his appetite had not been appeased, and the juicy cabbages were now much to his liking. Presently he tried one of the pink cabbages. Immediately he felt a new change taking place, and soon found he had resumed his human form.

Now he lay down and slept off his fatigue. When he awoke it was morning, and he broke off a head of the green cabbage and a head of the pink cabbage, and thought: “I will take these along. They may be of use to me.”

Then he clambered over the wall and went off in search of the witch’s castle. After wandering about for a few days he was fortunate enough to find it. But before he showed himself he stained his face and disguised himself as a countryman. Even his own mother would not have known him. That done, he went to the castle and begged for a night’s lodging.

“Who are you?” asked the witch, “and what is your business?”

“I am a messenger from the king,” he replied. “His Majesty sent me to seek the most delicate cabbages that grow on earth. I have been successful in securing two heads, but the sun shines so warm I am afraid the tender leaves will wither and that I would waste my efforts to go any farther with them.”

When the old witch heard about these precious cabbages she was anxious to eat of them herself, and she became very agreeable in her manner toward the wanderer, and said, “Good countryman, let me taste the wonderful cabbages.”

“By all means,” said he. “You shall have one of them,” and he handed her the green cabbage.

She took it to the kitchen, and with her own hands prepared a salad for her household. But when it was ready for the table she could wait no longer, and put some of it in her mouth and began eating. Immediately the charm worked, and she became an old, gray donkey and ran out into the courtyard.

Presently the servant maid entered the kitchen. She saw the cabbage salad on the table and took it up to carry it to the dining-hall. But on the way, in accord with her usual habit, she tasted of it. At once she turned into a donkey, dropped the dish, and ran out to join the other donkey.

In the meantime, the disguised huntsman sat with the beautiful maiden. She asked him about the wonderful cabbage, and expressed an eager desire to eat some of it.

“I will go to the kitchen and see if it is ready,” said he.

But on the way thither he found the salad on the floor with scattered fragments of the dish that had contained it. Then he looked out of a window and saw the two donkeys running about in the courtyard. “Very good,” said he, and he put the salad in a fresh dish and carried it to the maiden.

“I have brought you this precious salad myself,” said he, “so that you will not have to wait any longer.”

Thereupon she ate some, and lost her human form, and ran out to the courtyard. The huntsman washed the stain from his face, and went out and addressed the donkeys. “Now,” said he, “you see plainly who I am, and I would have you know that I am going to punish you for your treachery.”

He tied them together with a rope, and drove them along the highway until he came to a mill. There he stopped and tapped on a window. The miller put his head out and asked what he wanted.

“I have three bad animals here,” said he, “and I want to get rid of them. If you will take them and feed and treat them as I wish, I will pay you whatever you say is fair for your trouble.”

“All right,” said the miller. “How shall I treat them?”

The huntsman said he would have the old donkey, which was the witch, well beaten three times a day and fed once. Then he pointed out the one which was the servant lass, and said, “Beat that one once and feed it three times; and this other you are not to beat at all. It is to receive good care and plenty to eat;” for he could not make up his mind to cause the fair maiden pain.

He returned to the castle and made himself very comfortable there. A few days later the miller came and told him the old gray donkey was dead. On learning this the huntsman took pity on the two other beasts, and had the miller bring them back to him. As soon as they came he gave them some of the pink cabbage to eat, and one promptly became the servant maid, and the other the beautiful daughter of the witch, just as they were before they ate of the green cabbage.

The beautiful maiden fell on her knees at the feet of the huntsman, and said: “Oh, my beloved, forgive all the wrong I have done you. My mother compelled me to do it against my will, for I love you with my whole heart. Your wishing-cloak hangs in one of the closets, and I will get your ring for you, too.”

“Keep the ring,” said he. “I intend to make you my bride, and we will enjoy our riches together.”

Soon afterward they were married, and they lived happily to the end of their lives.

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SWEET PORRIDGE

YEARS ago there was a little girl who lived with her mother in a small house on the edge of a forest. They were very poor, and at length there came a time when they had nothing left to eat. One day the little girl went into the forest to get a few sticks with which to make a fire, and there she met an old woman who gave her a small pot, and said: “This pot will supply you with food, and you need never be hungry again. You have only to say, ‘Boil, little pot, boil!’ and it will cook you as much nice, sweet porridge as you can wish for. Just watch it, and when the porridge inside has increased to the amount you want, say, ‘Stop, little pot,’ and the boiling will immediately cease.”

The little girl thanked the old woman, and carried the pot home to her mother. After that they had plenty to eat, for the pot supplied them with sweet porridge as often as they pleased.

Everything prospered with them until one afternoon the little girl went for a walk in the fields outside of the village. She was gone so long that her mother became hungry, and said to the pot, “Boil, little pot, boil.”

At once the cooking began, but when the porridge in the pot had increased to enough for a meal, she could not think of the magic words to stop the boiling process. So the pot soon began to overflow, and it continued to boil and boil till the porridge filled the kitchen. In a little while the entire house was filled, and still the pot boiled. The porridge now commenced to stream out at the doors and windows and chimney. It filled the yard and the garden, it engulfed the next house, and the next, and soon the street was filled. The people fled before it, and it covered the whole village out of sight. It seemed likely to furnish food for all the world, and there is no knowing what might have happened if the little girl had not returned and called to the pot to stop.

Then it left off cooking; but for many a long day the people who wished to get into the village had to eat their way through a great mass of sweet porridge.

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THE PRAYING GEESE

A FOX once came to a meadow where a flock of fine fat geese were feeding. “My dears,” said he, “I have come without ceremony, just as if I had been invited. You are very charming, and I desire nothing better than to keep you company and eat you one after another at my leisure.”

The geese cackled for terror and began to beg pitifully for their lives. But their appeals had no effect on the fox. His only response was: “I shall show you no mercy. You must die.”

Then one of them said: “If we poor geese must lose our lives, at least grant us one single grace. Permit us to say our prayers, that we may not die in our sins. After we finish praying we will all stand in a row, and you can pick out the fattest one to begin on, and feast as you please.”

“Well,” said the fox, “that is a just and pious request. Pray away, and I will wait for you.”

So they all commenced praying: “Honk, honk, honk! Honk, honk, honk!”

When they have finished praying, this tale shall be continued; but meanwhile you can be very sure that they are praying still.

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THE DARNING NEEDLE

THERE was once a darning needle which thought itself so fine that it imagined it was a sewing needle. “Be careful to hold me tightly,” it said to the fingers as they took it up. “Do not drop me, for if I fall I doubt if I should be found again, I am so fine.”

“That’s what you say,” remarked the fingers and began sewing.

“Look, I have a train,” the darning needle said, and dragged a long thread after it.

The fingers belonged to a cook, and they applied the needle to a slipper, the upper leather of which had torn and needed mending. “This is degrading work,” said the darning needle. “I shall never get through such coarse leather. I shall break, I shall break!”

And really it did break. “Did I not tell you so?” the needle sighed. “I am too fine.”

“Now it is good for nothing,” said the fingers; but still they held it while the cook with the fingers of her other hand dropped some melted sealing-wax on the broken end. When the wax cooled, she fastened her neckerchief with the needle.

“I have become a scarf-pin,” said the needle. “I knew very well that I should come to honor. When one is worthy one is sure to get on in the world.”

Then it laughed to itself and sat there as proudly as if it was in its own carriage, and it looked about in all directions. “May I take the liberty to ask if you are of gold?” it inquired of a pin that was its neighbor. “Your outward appearance is splendid, and I see you have a head, too, although it is very small. You must endeavor to have it grow, for it is not every one who can receive a sealing-wax head of just the proper size.”

So saying, the darning needle raised itself so proudly that it fell out of the neckerchief into the sink which the cook was rinsing. “Now I am going to travel,” the needle said. “I hope I shall not be lost.”

The cook did not observe it, and down it went through the drain and out into a street gutter. “I am too fine for this world,” it said as it lay there in the mud beneath a shallow flow of water. “However, I know my own worth, and there is always a satisfaction in that.”

So the darning needle kept its proud bearing and retained its cheerful temper. All sorts of things floated past over it—chips, straws, and bits of newspaper. “How they sail along!” the needle said, “and they little know what is lying here under them. There goes a chip, thinking of nothing in the world but itself—a chip! Now a piece of straw floats past. How it twists and twirls about! It ought not to think only of itself, for unless it is careful it will most likely run against a stone. There swims a piece of old newspaper. What is printed on it has long been forgotten, and yet see what airs it gives itself. As for me, here I sit patiently and quietly. I know what I am, and that I shall remain.”

One day something glittering lay close by its side, and the darning needle thought this glittering object was a diamond. Really it was only a piece of a broken bottle. But because it was so bright, the darning needle spoke to it and introduced itself as a scarf-pin. “You are a diamond, I suppose,” said the needle.

“Yes, I am something of that sort,” responded the piece of glass.

So each thought the other something very choice, and they gossiped together about the arrogance and pride of the world.

“I have lived in a box that belonged to a young lady,” explained the darning needle. “The young lady was a cook, she had five fingers on each hand. I was only intimate with those on her right hand, and never have I seen anything else so conceited as were those five fingers. Yet they were made simply to take me out of the box and put me back again.”

“Were they very distinguished?” asked the piece of glass.

“Distinguished!” said the darning needle. “No, but they were conceited and haughty. They were five brothers and were always together one by the side of the other, though they were of different lengths. The first was Mr. Thumb. He was short and thick, and had only one joint in his back, so he could only make one bend when he bowed. Foreman, the second, dived into all the foods, both sweet and sour, to test them, pointed to the sun and moon, and pressed on the pen in writing. Middleman, the third, looked right over the heads of all the others. Ringman, the fourth, wore a golden girdle round his waist. Littleman, the fifth, did nothing at all and was proud of it. The whole five were constantly bragging and boasting, and therefore I left them.”

“And now we lie here and shine,” said the piece of glass.

Just then there was a rush of water in the gutter that carried the piece of glass away. “She has risen in the world,” said the darning needle, “but I remain here. I am too fine. However, that is my pride, and I have good reason for it.”

So there it proudly lay and had many great thoughts. “I am almost inclined to believe I am the child of a sunbeam, I am so fine,” it said. “Indeed, it seems to me as if the sun was always looking for me here under the water. But I am so fine that my own mother cannot find me. If I only had my eye, which broke off, I think I should cry; but that I shall not do—it is not considered well-bred to cry.”

One day some boys were rummaging around in the gutter hunting for half-pence, old nails, and such-like treasures. It was dirty work, but it gave them great pleasure. One of them pricked himself with the darning needle. “Oh!” he cried, and took up the needle and showed it to his comrades, saying, “Look at this fellow.”

“I am no fellow at all, but a young lady,” the needle said; but no one heard it.

The sealing-wax had come off, and the needle had turned black, but that made it look thinner, and therefore it thought itself finer than ever.

“Here comes an egg-shell sailing along,” said the boys, and they put the needle into it.

“White walls, and I myself black,” said the darning needle. “That is very becoming, and people cannot help seeing me now. I hope I shall not be seasick.”

On it drifted in the egg-shell boat, and the voyage proved very enjoyable. “There is no protection against seasickness like having a steel stomach, and the constant thought of one’s worthiness,” it said. “The finer one is the more one can bear.”

Crash! went the egg-shell as a wagon passed over it. “Good heavens!” exclaimed the darning needle, “how that wheel presses on me! I shall be seasick after all. I am breaking!”

But it did not break, although the heavy wagon wheel passed over it. There it lay full length, and there it may stay.

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THE RABBIT AND THE GREEDY MONKEY

ONCE upon a time there lived in the mountains a rabbit and a monkey who were great friends. As they sat by the road side one day hobnobbing together, they saw a man approaching with a bamboo pole over his shoulder, and at each end of the pole was a bundle hung by a string. There were bananas in one bundle and sugar in the other.

“Friend of my heart,” said the monkey to the rabbit, “do as I tell you. Go and sit in the road in front of that man, and as soon as he sees you, run. He will be sure to drop his load and follow. Then I will pick up his bundles and hide them, and when you come back we will share the contents between us.”

So the rabbit went and sat in the road, and when the man saw him, away the rabbit ran, and the man dropped his burden and gave chase. The monkey, who had been concealed in the tall wayside grass, pounced on the man’s bundles, climbed a tall tree with them, and began to gobble up the bananas and sugar they contained.

By and by the man came back, hot and empty-handed. When he saw that his goods, as well as the rabbit, were gone, he cursed loudly and went home to be scolded by his wife.

The rabbit returned soon after the man left, and hunted about for his friend the monkey. He searched the vicinity thoroughly, but not a trace of his friend could he find, till he happened to look up aloft, and behold, there was Mr. Monkey in a tree munching away with every sign of enjoyment.

“Hello, comrade!” said the rabbit, “come down out of that.”

“I’m very comfortable here, thank you,” said the monkey.

“But where is my share of our plunder?” the rabbit asked indignantly.

“All gone, all gone,” mumbled the monkey, and pelted the rabbit with banana peels and wads of paper made out of the wrappings of the sugar. “Where have you been all this time? I got hungry and couldn’t wait any longer.”

The rabbit would not believe that the things in the bundles were all gone. He thought his friend was joking. But the truth of the matter was that the greedy creature had not left a scrap of either sugar or bananas.

“Do you really mean it?” said the poor rabbit at last.

“If you don’t believe me, come and see,” said the monkey, and he descended the tree-trunk nearly to the ground, seized the rabbit by his long ears, and hauled him up into the tree. After mocking him and making great sport he left him there and went away.

The rabbit was afraid to jump down from such a height. So he remained up in the tree for a long time. Many animals passed under the tree, but not one took pity on the rabbit until an old and foolish rhinoceros came along and stopped to rub his wrinkled hide against the tree-trunk.

“Kind rhinoceros,” said the rabbit, “let me jump down on your back.”

The rhinoceros agreed, and down came the rabbit with such a thump that the creature’s back was broken, and he died. But the rabbit was not hurt, and he ran and he ran until he came to the king’s palace. There he hid under the king’s golden throne. By and by in came the king with his courtiers. All the grandees were standing around the throne in their gorgeous robes glittering with rubies and diamonds when they were startled by a sudden sneeze.

“God bless you!” exclaimed the courtiers.

“Who has the bad manners to sneeze in my royal presence?” cried the king.

Each man looked at his neighbor and wondered who did it. “Off with his head!” shouted the king.

Another sneeze came. This time every one was alert and on the watch, and they noticed that the sound came from beneath the king’s golden throne. So they reached under and dragged out the rabbit, who was so scared he looked more dead than alive.

“All right,” said the king, “off with his head!”

The executioner ran to get his sword. But the rabbit, in spite of his fright, had his wits about him, and he sat up on his hind legs, put his two forepaws together, and said respectfully: “O great king, first hear what I have to say. If you will spare my life I will give you a dead rhinoceros. Let twenty men go with me to bring the body to your palace.”

The king and his courtiers laughed loud and long. However, just to see what would come of it, the king ordered twenty men to go with the rabbit. They were guided by the rabbit to the spot where the rhinoceros lay dead, and with great exertion they dragged the body to the palace. Every one was very glad, because the horn of a rhinoceros is good for curing many diseases. The court physician ground the horn into powder, and made out of it a most wonderful medicine, and the king was so pleased that he gave the rabbit a horse to ride on and a handsome new coat.

The rabbit put on his new coat, mounted the horse, and rode off. Presently, who should he meet but his friend, the monkey. “Hello!” said the monkey, “where did you get all that finery?”

“This horse and this coat were given to me by the king,” replied the rabbit.

“And why should the king make such a present to a simpleton like you?” the monkey asked.

“I, whom you call a simpleton,” said the rabbit, “got this horse and this elegant coat by sneezing under the king’s golden throne.” Then he rode away.

The monkey fell a-thinking how nice it would be if he could get a fine coat and a horse. “I can sneeze,” said he. “Why shouldn’t I try my luck?”

Off he scampered to the king’s palace, and hid beneath the king’s golden throne. Soon the king and his courtiers came in, all richly arrayed, and the monkey sneezed in the most auspicious manner he could contrive.

“Who is that?” thundered the king, glaring about him. “Who has the bad manners to sneeze in the king’s presence?”

They searched till they found the monkey hidden under the throne, and hauled him out.

“Wily tree-climber,” said the king, “have you any gift for me that might cause me not to bid the executioner to cut off your head?”

The monkey pondered a few moments in fear and trembling, and then stammered, “O king, I have some banana peels and pellets of paper.”

This reply only increased the king’s wrath, and the unfortunate monkey was led away to be executed.

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THE NIGHTINGALE

IN China, you know, the emperor is a Chinaman, and all the people around him are Chinamen, too. The emperor’s palace, at the time of this story, was more magnificent than any other in the world, for it was made entirely of the finest porcelain. In the garden bloomed the rarest flowers, and to the most beautiful ones were tied little silver bells which tinkled perpetually, so that no one could pass the flowers without looking at and admiring them. Every feature of the garden had been carefully planned, and it was so large that the gardener himself did not know where it ended. If, however, one walked straight on, one came at last to a forest of lofty trees, and beyond the forest was the sea, deep and blue. Close to the shore, amid the foliage of the trees, lived a nightingale, and it sang so sweetly that even the poor fishermen would stop and listen, when they were out at night drawing in their nets. “Heavens! how beautiful that is!” they would say.

But they could not listen long, for they had to attend to their work; yet if they came that way the next night they would again exclaim, “How beautifully that bird sings!”

Travelers came from all the countries in the world to the city of the emperor; and they admired everything very much, especially the palace and the garden. But when they heard the nightingale they would say, “That is best of all!”

After they got home they told of their experiences, and the learned ones wrote books about the things they had seen and heard in the domains of the Chinese emperor, and they never failed to praise the nightingale. Those who were poets wrote very beautiful verses about the nightingale in the wood by the deep, blue sea.

At length some of the books came into the hands of the emperor. He sat in his golden chair and read them, and he nodded his head, well pleased by the appreciative descriptions of his city and palace and garden. Then he came to the words, “But the nightingale is best of all.”

“What is this?” said he. “The nightingale—why, I know nothing about it. Can there be such a bird in my realm, yes, and in my own garden, which I have never seen or heard? Fancy my having to discover this from a book!”

He called his chamberlain, who was so grand that when any one of lower rank dared to speak to him or ask him a question, he would only answer, “Pooh!” which means nothing at all.

“Chamberlain,” said the emperor, “these books tell of a very wonderful bird called a nightingale in the palace garden. They declare it is the finest thing in my great empire. Why have I never been informed about it?”

“This is the first time I have heard it mentioned,” said the chamberlain. “It has never been presented at court.”

“My orders are that it shall appear in the palace this evening to sing to me,” said the emperor. “The whole world knows what I possess, while I myself do not.”

“I have never heard it mentioned before,” said the chamberlain; “but I will seek it, and I will find it.”

Yet where was it to be found? The chamberlain ran upstairs and downstairs, and in and out of all the rooms and corridors, but not one person among those he met had heard of the nightingale. So he ran back to the emperor and said the bird must be a myth invented by the people who wrote the books. “Your Imperial Majesty ought not to believe everything that books contain,” said he. “They are often mere fiction, and what we call the black art.”

“But the books in which I have been reading about the nightingale,” said the monarch, “were sent to me by the high and mighty Emperor of Japan; so there cannot be anything untrue in them. I will hear the nightingale, and I insist that it must sing to me tonight. It shall have my gracious protection, and if you fail to have it here the whole court shall be trampled on after supper.”

“Tsing-pe!” said the chamberlain, and away he ran again up and down the stairs and in and out of all the rooms and corridors. Half the court ran with him, for they none of them wished to be trampled on, and there was a great inquiry after the wonderful nightingale which was known to all the outside world, but to no one at court.

At last they found a poor little maid in the kitchen, who said: “Dear me, I know the nightingale very well, and it certainly can sing! Every evening I have permission to take home to my sick mother some of the scraps from the table. She lives by the seashore, and on my way back, when I am tired, I sit down to rest a while in the wood, and then I hear the nightingale. Its song makes the tears come into my eyes, and I feel as if my mother were kissing me!”

“Little maid,” said the chamberlain, “I will procure you a permanent position in the kitchen, and permission to see the emperor dining, if you will take us to the nightingale, for it must appear at the court this evening.”

Then they all went out into the wood where the nightingale sang. As they were going along at their best pace a cow began to bellow. “Oh,” said the courtiers, “that is it! What a wonderful power there is in the song for such a small creature! And we certainly have heard it before.”

“That is a cow bellowing,” said the little maid. “We are a long way yet from the place where the nightingale sings.”

Presently some frogs began to croak in a marsh. “Beautiful!” said the Chinese court chamberlain. “Now I hear it. The sound is just like the tinkling of tiny church bells.”

“Those are frogs,” said the little maid. “But I think we shall soon hear the nightingale now.”

Then the nightingale began to sing. “That’s it,” said the little maid. “Listen, listen; and look—there it sits!” She pointed to a little gray bird up among the branches.

“Is it possible?” said the chamberlain. “I should never have thought the nightingale was like that. How common it looks! I suppose it has lost its color through a faintness caused by the unexpected sight of so many grand people.”

“Little nightingale,” said the kitchen-maid, “our gracious emperor wishes you to sing to him.”

“I will do so with the greatest pleasure,” said the nightingale, and it warbled a song in the most delightful fashion.

“Its singing sounds just like crystal bells,” said the chamberlain. “See how it works its little throat. I wonder that we have never heard it before. It will be a great success at court.”

“Shall I sing again to the emperor?” asked the nightingale, who thought the monarch was present.

“My excellent little nightingale,” said the chamberlain, “I have the honor to invite your attendance at a court festival tonight, when you will charm his Imperial Majesty with your fascinating singing.”

“My singing sounds best among the trees,” said the nightingale, but it went with them willingly when it understood that the emperor wanted it to come.

The palace had been splendidly decorated for the occasion. The porcelain walls and floors reflected the light of many thousands of golden lamps; the most beautiful flowers, all of the tinkling kind, were arranged in the corridors; and there was such a running to and fro as kept the bells in constant motion and filled one’s ears full of the tinkling.

In the center of the great hall, where the emperor sat, a golden perch had been fixed for the nightingale. The whole court was present, and the little kitchen-maid was permitted to stand behind the door, for she had been promoted to be a real palace cook. All were dressed in their very best, and all had their eyes on the little gray bird, to whom the emperor nodded.

The nightingale sang so beautifully that tears came into the emperor’s eyes and ran down his cheeks. Indeed, the song touched the heart of every one who heard it. The emperor was so charmed that he said the nightingale should have his golden garter to wear around its neck. But the nightingale declined with thanks, saying that it had already received sufficient reward; “for I have seen tears in the emperor’s eyes,” it added, “and I could ask for nothing more.”

Then again it sang its heavenly song. “That is the sweetest possible sort of coquetry,” said the ladies; and they took some water into their mouths to try to make the same gurgling when any one spoke to them.

Everybody expressed satisfaction—even the footmen and chamber-maids, and that is saying a great deal, for they are always the most difficult people to please. In short, the nightingale was a great success.

It was now to remain at court and live in a cage. Twice a day and once at night it had liberty to go out, but whenever it left its cage it was accompanied by twelve servants, each holding a silken string attached to its leg. There was not much pleasure in an outing of that sort.

The whole city talked about the wonderful bird, and if two acquaintances met, one would say, by way of greeting, “Nightin,” and the other would say, “gale;” and then they sighed, and perfectly understood each other. Eleven tradesmen’s children were named after the bird, though not one of them grew up with the least ability to sing.

One day the emperor received a large parcel on which was written, “The Nightingale.”

“Here we have a new book about our celebrated bird,” said he.

It was no book, however, but a box that contained an artificial nightingale made much like the living one in size and shape, but covered all over with diamonds, rubies, and sapphires. When the imitation bird was wound up, it could sing one of the songs the real bird sang, and then it wagged its tail all glittering with silver and gold. Round its neck was tied a ribbon, on which was written, “The Emperor of Japan’s nightingale is poor compared with that of the Emperor of China.”

Everybody said, “Oh, how beautiful!” and he who had brought the artificial bird immediately received the title of Imperial Nightingale-Carrier-in-Chief.

“Now the two birds must sing together,” said the courtiers. “What a lovely duet that will be!”

So they had to sing together, but they did not get on very well, for the real bird sang its own way, and did not keep time with the mechanical bird.

“The discords are not the new one’s fault,” said the music-master, “for it sings in perfect time and in every way is entirely correct.”

The nightingale at court
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Afterward the imitation bird was made to sing alone. Singing thus, it was just as great a success as the real bird; and of course it was much prettier to look at, for it glittered like bracelets and breastpins. Thirty-three times it sang the same tune over, and still it was not tired. The courtiers would willingly have heard it from the beginning again, but the emperor said that the live nightingale must have a turn now. Where was it? No one had noticed that it had flown out of the open window back to its own green woods.

“What is the meaning of this?” said the emperor.

The courtiers all blamed the nightingale, and thought it a most ungrateful creature. “Anyway, we have the best bird,” they said.

Then the imitation bird had to sing again, which made the thirty-fourth time they had heard the same tune. But they did not know the tune thoroughly, even then, it was so difficult. The music-master praised the bird exceedingly, and insisted that it was much better than a live nightingale, not only as regarded its outside with all the diamonds, but the inside, too. “Because,” said he, “we never know what song is coming next from the real nightingale, but with the artificial one everything is decided beforehand. So it is, and so it must remain; it can’t be otherwise. You can open the bird, you can explain it, and show the ingenuity of it, how the wheels go, and how one note follows another.”

“Those are exactly my opinions,” they all said; and the music-master received permission to show the bird to the people on the following Sunday.

So the people saw the imitation nightingale and heard it sing, and they were all very enthusiastic over it, and they all said, “Oh!” and stuck their forefingers up into the air and nodded their heads.

But the poor fishermen who had heard the real bird said: “The song of this bird is very nice, and it is much like that of the live bird, but there is something wanting—we don’t know what.”

The real nightingale was banished from the empire, while the artificial bird was given a place on a silk cushion close to the emperor’s bed. All the presents which it had received lay around it, and the title of Chief Imperial Singer of the Bedchamber on the Left Side was conferred on it. The emperor considered the left side, where the heart is, the more important, for even an emperor has his heart on the left side just like other people.

A treatise in twenty-five volumes was written by the music-master about the artificial bird, and this treatise was so learned and long, and so full of the most difficult Chinese words, that all the people said they had read and understood it, for otherwise they would have been thought stupid.

A year passed, and the emperor and his court and all the other Chinamen knew every little gurgle in the song of the artificial bird. That was why it pleased them. They could sing with it, and often did so. Even the street boys sang: “Tsee, tsee, tsee! Cluck, cluck, cluck!” and the emperor did just the same. It really was most enjoyable.

But one evening, when the bird was singing its best, and the emperor was lying in bed listening to it, something inside of the bird gave way with a sudden snap. Then whir-r-r went all the wheels, and the music stopped.

The emperor jumped out of bed and sent for his private physicians, but what good could they do? They had a watchmaker come, and after a good deal of talking and examining and tinkering he got the works to go again somehow. But he said the bird must be used sparingly, for the works were much worn, and he could not renew them so as to be sure that the music would go right. This caused great sorrow. The imitation bird could only be allowed to sing once a year. Each time the music-master made a little speech full of difficult words, and affirmed that the singing was just as good as ever. After being thus reassured the court listened to the bird with all their former pleasure.

At the end of five years a great grief came on the nation. The Chinese were all very fond of their emperor, and now he was ill, and it was reported that he had not long to live. A new emperor had been selected, and would be proclaimed ruler of the empire as soon as the old emperor was dead. Cloth had been laid down in all the rooms and corridors to deaden the sound of footsteps, and the palace was very, very quiet. Outside, about the entrance, many people had gathered, and they asked the chamberlain how their emperor was getting on.

“Pooh!” he said, and shook his head.

Pale and motionless lay the emperor in his great splendid bed, and presently the courtiers thought he was dead. So they all went away to pay their respects to the new emperor. The pages ran out to gossip about it, and the chambermaids had a grand teaparty.

But the emperor was not dead yet. There he lay on the gorgeous bed with its velvet hangings and heavy gold tassels. A window stood open, and the moon shone in on him and the artificial bird. He could hardly breathe, and he felt burdened by a weight on his chest. He opened his eyes and saw that Death was sitting on his chest and wore the emperor’s golden crown on his head. In one hand he held the emperor’s golden sword, and in the other the emperor’s imperial banner. Round about, from among the folds of the velvet hangings peered many strange faces, some hideous, and others gentle and pleasant. These were all the emperor’s bad and good deeds staring at him now that Death was sitting on his heart.

“Do you remember this?” they whispered one after the other. “Do you recollect this?” And they told him so many things that the perspiration ran down from his brow.

“Say no more,” begged the emperor, and then shouted: “Music, music! Sound the great drum so that I may not hear what these faces are saying.”

But they went on questioning him, and Death sat nodding his approval to all that they said.

“Music, music!” shrieked the emperor. “You precious little golden bird, sing, sing! I have given you costly jewels, and I have hung my golden garter round your neck. Sing, I tell you, sing!”

But the bird was silent. It could not sing without being wound up, and there was no one at hand to do that. Death continued to gaze at the emperor with the great empty sockets of his eyes, and all was still—terribly still.

Suddenly, through the open window, there came the sound of sweetest singing. The living nightingale was perched on a bough outside. It had heard of the emperor’s illness, and had come to bring comfort and hope to him by its singing. As it sang, the ghostly faces around became fainter and fainter, and the blood coursed with fresh vigor through the emperor’s veins, and strengthened his feeble limbs. Even Death listened and said, “Go on, little nightingale, go on!”

“Yes,” said the nightingale, “I will go on if you will give me the emperor’s beautiful golden sword and imperial banner and jeweled crown.”

“I will relinquish each of the three treasures in exchange for a song,” said Death.

So the nightingale sang three songs, and the last was about the quiet churchyard where the roses bloom, and the flowers of the elder scent the air, and where the grass is ever moistened by the tears of the mourners. This song made Death desire to be in his own garden, and like a cold gray mist he floated out through the window.

“Thanks, thanks!” said the emperor. “You heavenly little bird, I know you well. I banished you from my empire, and yet you have charmed the evil visions away from my bed by your song, and removed Death from my heart. How can I reward you?”

“You have rewarded me,” said the nightingale, “by the tears I brought to your eyes the very first time I sang to you. Those are the jewels which gladden the heart of a singer, and I shall never forget them. But sleep now, that you may get well and strong.”

Again the nightingale sang, and the emperor fell into a refreshing slumber. When he awoke, the sun was shining in on him through the window, and he found himself vigorous and well. None of his attendants had yet come back to him, for they thought he was dead, but the nightingale still sat singing.

“You must always stay with me,” said the emperor, “and I will smash the imitation bird into a thousand pieces.”

“Don’t do that,” said the nightingale. “It did the best it could. Keep it as before. As for me, I cannot build my nest and live in the palace. Let me come when I like, and I will sit on this bough in the evening and sing to you. I will sing to cheer you and to make you think. I will sing of those who are happy and of those who suffer. I will sing of what is good and what is evil around you. The little singing bird flies far and wide—to the poor fishermen, to the peasants in their humble cottages, and to many others who are distant from you and your court. I love your heart more than your crown, and I will come and sing to you, but you must grant me one request.”

“That I will do, whatever it may be,” said the emperor, who had now risen from his bed and put on his imperial robes.

“I only ask,” said the nightingale, “that you let no one know that you have a little bird which tells you everything. It will be better so.”

Then the nightingale flew away. Immediately afterward the attendants came in to look after their dead emperor. They stood aghast at sight of him, and the emperor said, “Good morning!”

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THE PRINCESS AND THE GIANT

THERE once lived a king and queen who ought to have been as happy as the day is long, for they had a large and prosperous kingdom in which the people were contented and industrious, and they had a splendid palace and plenty of horses and carriages; and their treasure-room was filled with gold, silver, and precious stones. Yet notwithstanding all this they were sad and sorrowful, because they had no children to inherit the good things they possessed.

One bright winter morning the queen went out into the palace garden. The snow covered the ground and clung to the trees and bushes, and it sparkled in the sunshine just as if all the jewels in the king’s treasury had been scattered about on it. The queen seated herself on a stone bench beneath a huge oaktree. She had not been there long when an old man came down a garden path and stood before her. He was a wicked magician named Surtur, who lived in a cave not far away.

“O queen!” he said, “you have long wished for a child. Your wish shall be granted, and a daughter will be born to you; but I warn you that she will cause you great unhappiness. She is destined to marry a terrible giant, and she will burn your palace; and the king, her father, will perish in the flames.”

So saying, he laughed spitefully and went away. The queen was greatly troubled, for she knew that Surtur was her enemy and that he was powerful; but as time went on she got over her anxiety and seldom thought of the old magician’s threat. At length the little daughter was born, and all the court agreed that she was the most beautiful child ever seen. More important still, she grew up as good as she was beautiful.

Things went as well with her as could be desired year after year until there came a time when the queen told her daughter about the prophecy of the magician. From that day a change came over the princess. She no longer laughed and danced, but walked about the rooms alone, often weeping. Finally, at her request, the king built her a house in which she lived with her own attendants, and there she stayed continually, fearful that if she went to the palace she would bring disaster on her father, and that if she walked around outdoors the giant might kidnap her.

Once, when she was sitting in her room, with her work that used to give her such pleasure lying idly on her lap, she heard some one knocking at the door. She opened it, and there stood a funny little old woman with a high, peaked hat on her head. The little old woman asked if she might come in and rest.

“Yes,” replied the princess listlessly.

So the little old woman came in, and they sat down, and the visitor began telling some wonderful stories. At last the princess got so interested that she looked quite bright and happy, like her old self.

Presently the old woman said: “Now I want you to come into the woods with me. It is a lovely day, and you will enjoy walking there in the shade of the trees.”

At first the princess declared she did not care to go, but after a while she allowed herself to be persuaded, and they went forth to wander on the mossy paths among the tall, straight-stemmed firs and graceful beeches and feathery birches. The princess forgot her sorrow, and she laughed and ran about in great enjoyment. When they were tired they sat down on a green bank, and the old woman said, “Tell me, my dear princess, why of late you have been so sad.”

Her companion looked so kind and gentle that the princess could not refuse to answer, and she told of the prophecy that she would marry a terrible giant, and cause her father’s death by burning his palace. “And oh,” she cried, “I love my father dearly! He has always been very good to me. Now I must hasten back to my house. I ought not to have left it, and I never will again. If I stay in it all the time I cannot possibly harm my father or marry that horrible giant.”

“Wait a bit,” said the little old woman. “I am your godmother, and I think we can find some way to avert the evils you fear. You are persecuted by the wicked magician, Surtur. He wanted to marry your mother, and when she would not have him, and married your father, he vowed he would never rest till the king was dead and she was punished. But his power has its limits. The king’s palace I cannot save, but neither your father nor mother shall be hurt. Nor need you fear the giant, if you will do exactly as I bid you. We will act at once. First see your father and persuade him to go out riding in the forest with all his attendants.”

Greatly relieved by her godmother’s cheery words, the princess hastened to do as she had been bidden. “Dear father,” said she, as she came into his presence, “the day is so fine, will you not go for a ride in the woods and take the courtiers with you?”

The king, pleased to see her so bright and interested, at once said he would go; and with all his courtiers in attendance started off for a great excursion in the forest.