Transcriber's note.

A list of the changes made can be found [at the end of the book].

TYPES OF PROSE NARRATIVES

TYPES OF PROSE NARRATIVES

A TEXT-BOOK FOR THE STORY WRITER

BY

HARRIOTT ELY FANSLER

Assistant Professor of English in the University of the
Philippines. Formerly Instructor in English
in Western Reserve University
at Cleveland, Ohio

CHICAGO

ROW, PETERSON & COMPANY

Copyright, 1911,
Harriott Ely Fansler.

PREFACE

Inspiration for any craftsman lies in the history of his art and in a definite problem at hand. He feels his task dignified when he knows what has been done before him, and he has a starting point when he can enumerate the essentials of what he wants to produce. He then goes to his work with a zest that is in itself creative. There is a popular misconception, especially in the minds of young people and seemingly in the minds of many teachers and critics of literature, that geniuses have sprung full-worded from the brain of Jove and have worked without antecedents. There could not be to a writer a more cramping idea than that. It is the aim of the present volume to help dispel that illusion, and to set in a convenient form before students of narrative the twofold inspiration mentioned—a feeling for the past and a series of definite problems.

There has been no attempt at minuteness in tracing the type developments; though there has been the constant ideal of exactness and trustworthiness wherever developments are suggested. In other words, this book is not a scrutiny of origins, but a setting forth of essentials in kinds of narratives already clearly established. The analysis that gives the essentials has, of course, the personal element in it, as all such analyses must have; but the work is the work of one mind and is at least consistent. Since I have not had the benefit of other texts on the subject (for there are none that I know of) and since the inquiry into narrative types with composition in view is thus made, put together with illustrations, and published for the first time, it has been my especial aim to exclude everything dogmatic. As can readily be seen, the details have been worked out in the actual classroom. The safe thing about the use of such a text by other instructors is the fact that they and their pupils can test the truth of the generalizations by first-hand inquiry of their own.

The examples chosen from literature and here printed are specific as well as typical. They have been selected not only to illustrate general principles, but for other reasons as well—some for superior intrinsic worth; some for historical position; all because of possible inspiration. But none have been selected as models.

The themes written by my present and former pupils are added for the last reason—as sure reinforcement of the inspiration, as provokers to action. Often students fail to write because there is held up to them a model, something complicated and perfect in detail. They feel their apprenticeship keenly and hesitate to attempt a likeness to a masterpiece. But, on the other hand, when they get a glimpse of history and when they see the work of a fellow tyro, they know that an equally good or even better result is within their reach and so set to work at once. The productions of pupils under this historical-illustrative method, wherever it has been tried, have been encouraging. Seldom has any one failed to present an acceptable piece of work. Once in a while a "mistake" has been made that has reassured a teacher and a class of the accuracy of the contamination theory—the historical cross-grafting or counter influence of types; that is, sometimes in the endeavor to produce a theme that should vary from those he thought the other students would write, an earnest worker has unconsciously produced an example of the next succeeding type to be studied; unconsciously, because hitherto, of course, the classes have gone forward without a printed text.

This statement leads to the question, Why publish the literary examples? Why not merely give the references? Because school and even town libraries are limited. Twenty-five card-holders can scarcely get the same volume within the same week. Besides, the plan I consider good to insure the pupil's thorough acquaintance with the library accessible to him and with library methods and possibilities is quite other than this. This book is meant as a work-table guide for the student and as a time-saver for the teacher; hence all the necessary material should be immediately at hand. The instructor's concern in the teaching of narrative writing is just the twofold one mentioned before—to orientate the young scribbler and to give him a quick and sure inspiration. After that he is to be left alone to write, and the fewer the books around him the better.

The bibliography is added for two other classes of persons: those who desire to make a somewhat further and more minute study of type developments, and those who wish merely to read extensively or selectively in the works of fiction and history themselves. The list of books and authors is intended simply to be helpful, not exhaustive, and consequently contains, with but few exceptions, only those works that one might reasonably expect to find in a well-stocked college or city library.

I confess I hope that some amateur writer out of college or high school may chance upon the book and be encouraged by it to persevere. There are many delightful hours possible for one who enjoys composition, if he can but get a bit of a lift here and there or a new impulse to an occasionally flagging imagination. All but the very earliest literature has been produced thus—namely, by a conscious writing to a type, with an idea either of direct imitation, as in the case of Chaucer, who gloried in his "authorities;" or of variation and combination, as in the case of Walpole; or of equaling or surpassing in excellence, as in the case of James Fenimore Cooper; or of satire and supersedence, as in the case of Cervantes.

But to go back to the student themes here presented. They were written, with the exception of two, for regular class credit. These two were printed in a college paper as sophomore work. A number of the remaining came out in school publications after serving in the English theme box. All in all, they are the productions of actual students; from whom, it is hoped, other young writers may get some help and a good deal of entertainment. In each case the name of the author is affixed to his narrative, since he alone is responsible for the merits and faults of the piece.

In regard to the Filipino pupils no word is necessary: they speak for themselves. The work here given as theirs is theirs. I have not treated it in any way different from the way I treat all school themes, American or other. It is everyday work—criticized by the instructor, corrected by the pupil, and returned to the English office. The examples could be replaced from my present stock to the extent literally of some ten, some twenty, some two hundred fold. Naturally, of course, as is true of all persons using a foreign language, the Filipinos mistake idiom more often than anything else, and they write more fluently than they talk; but there is among them no dearth of material and no lack of thought. Indeed, the publishers have been embarrassed by the supply of interesting stories, especially in the earlier types. The temptation has been to add beyond the limits of the merely helpful and illustrative and to pass into the realm of the curious and entertaining. Regardless of literary quality, Filipino themes have today an historic value; many of them are the first written form of hitherto only oral tradition.

To say to how great an extent a writer and talker is indebted to his everyday working library is difficult. Like a sculptor to an excellent quarry, a teacher can indeed forget to give credit where credit is due, especially to the more general books of reference such as encyclopedias and histories of literature—Saintsbury, Chambers, Ticknor, Jusserand. I would speak of the "Standard Dictionary," that does all my spelling for me and not a little of my defining; and the "Encyclopedia Britannica," which in these days of special treatises is sometimes superciliously passed over, though it offers in its pages not only much valuable literary information, but some of that information in the form of very valuable literature. Next to these might be placed Dunlop's "History of Fiction;" and last, particular and occasional compilations like Brewer's and Blumentritt's, and criticism like Murray's, Keightley's and Newbigging's. Then there is the "World's Great Classics Series." Just how much I owe to these general texts I cannot perhaps tell definitely; though I am not conscious of borrowing where I have not given full credit. As I have said before, direct treatises on my subject are lacking; so I shall have to bear alone the brunt of criticism on the analysis, or the main body of the book. I know of no one else to blame.

Grateful acknowledgment is due to my husband, Dean Spruill Fansler, for long-suffering kindness in answering appeals to his opinion and for reading the manuscript, compiling the bibliography, and making the index. Without his generous help I should hardly have found time or courage to put the chapters together.

In justice to former assistant English instructors in the United States who have successfully followed earlier unpublished outlines, and to my colleagues in the University of the Philippines who have been teaching from the book in manuscript form for nine months, it ought to be said that, whatever faults the work may have—and I fear they are all too many—it can hardly be dismissed as an immature and untried theory.

If there should be found any merit in the content of the book in general, I should like to have that ascribed to the influence of the department of English and Comparative Literature of Columbia University, where I had the privilege of graduate study with such scholars as Ashley Horace Thorndike, William Peterfield Trent and Jefferson Butler Fletcher.

My chief material debt is to the publishing firms who have very courteously permitted the reprinting of narratives selected from their copyrighted editions.

H. E. F.

University of the Philippines, Manila, 1911.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

LIST OF STORIES

NARRATIVES OF FICTITIOUS EVENTS

NARRATIVES OF ACTUAL EVENTS

INTRODUCTION

There are many interesting possibilities for both the reader and the writer in a study of narrative types. It is a truism to say that everybody loves a story. Every race, every nation, every tribe, every family, has its favorite narratives. Every person has his and likes to repeat them. Even the driest old matter-of-fact curmudgeon delights in relating an incident if nothing else. Perhaps he tells you of how he lost and found again his pocket talisman—a buckeye, maybe, or a Portuguese cruzado. He will assure you that he does not really believe that the unfortunate events that followed his loss of it were occasioned by its absence, or the return of good-luck casually connected with its recovery; but still, he adds, he feels much better with the old thing in his pocket. "And that was a queer coincidence, wasn't it?" he insists, starting again over the details of the happening. So with us all: we all know and love stories, our own or another person's.

It is a fine thing to write a story. It is good through one's imagination and skill to entertain one's fellows or through one's accurate observation of life and history to benefit society. The narrator has always been honored. In earliest times he was the seer and prophet, forming the religion of his wandering tribe; later he was the welcomed guest, for whom alone the frowning castle's gate stood always open; and after the dark ages, in the time of the revival-of-the-love-of-written-things, he was the favorite at the court of favoring princes, who lavished upon him preferment and money and humbly offered him the laurel crown, their highest tribute. In our own day his reward surpasses that of kings and presidents. They come to him, and for immortality invoke his name. In earliest times he composed in verse so that his story might be remembered and handed down. In latest times he writes most often in prose—a more difficult medium to handle with distinction, but one more widely understood and more readily appreciated than poetry.

Narrative as a general type needs no definition. What pure description is the ordinary reader might hesitate to assert, or exposition, or argumentation; but not story: he knows that. Let an author combine these others with a series of events, let him put them in as aids to the understanding or as ornaments on the thread of his recital, and they are accepted without question as elements of narration, be it prose or verse in form, true or fictitious in content. That is to say, though a story often contains to some extent all the other forms of writing too, we think of it as narrative because it carries us along a course of events. Frequently the teller spends much time in studying different styles and kinds of description and in analyzing various devices used to secure definite effects, because he wishes to call to his aid every bit of skill possible in portraying his characters and places; but general readers take his fine points of description and exposition as matters of course and are crudely interested in the happenings he has to relate. They are unconscious of the fact that much of their enjoyment comes from knowing how a hero looks, what his surroundings are, and what his disposition and usual character. A story-writer gives no small amount of attention also to transcribing conversations; but the ordinary reader takes these likewise as expected parts of narrative. But there is one thing that the author and the reader agree on at the outset as necessary to be settled; namely, the kind of story to be written or to be read.

It is pleasant to know that there are definite types of narratives that the world has always loved, and that there are new forms growing up as civilization becomes more complex. Some of the kinds of stories discussed in this book are older than the English language, older than Christianity, older even than the divisions of Aryan speech. They seem to be inherent forms of all literatures, to be as ancient as thought and as young as inspiration. They are in use to-day in every tongue.

This book attempts to set forth the distinguishing elements of the types that have persisted, those matters that a writer must take into account when producing or a critic when judging. Though its title emphasizes the fact that now-a-days most persons think of stories as being always in prose, the book discriminates but little in this respect. In reality a student of narrative cares hardly at all whether the vehicle be meter or not. He is concerned with something else. Language form is rather an accident of the time and the fashion than anything essential. It is not dependent on the author's personality even. Chaucer undoubtedly would write in prose to-day, whereas our modern idealists would certainly have lisped in numbers a hundred years ago. We study narrative types, therefore, with the idea that verse tales are but measured and rhythmical expression of the same forms—sometimes the best, sometimes merely the most popular expression—but that the development in presentation has been toward prose, especially for the more psychological and complex material.

On the basis of content, narratives fall naturally into two large divisions: those that recount imaginary happenings and those that recount actual happenings. These large divisions in turn fall into smaller and still smaller groups upon one basis or another—source, purpose, method, or what not.

Under the division of narratives of fictitious events we notice six groups, when we are thinking of source and purpose: (1) the primitive-religious; (2) the symbolic-didactic; (3) the ingenious-astonishing; (4) the merely entertaining; (5) the instructive; (6) the artistic. Within these groups come the following individual types: (1) myth, legend, fairy tale, nursery saga; (2) fable, parable, allegory; (3) the tale of mere wonder, the imaginary voyage with a satiric or expository purpose, the tale of scientific discovery and mechanical invention, the detective story; (4) the probable adventure, the society story, the humorous and picaresque story, the occasional story; (5) the moral tale, the pedagogical narrative, the realistic sketch; (6) the psychological weird tale; the story that emphasises place and character, the story that emphasizes events and character.

On the basis of form and of the attitude of the teller, narratives of actual events fall into three groups. The first set has five types: incident, anecdote, eye-witness account, traveler's sketch, and the tale of actual adventure. The second set includes journal and diary, autobiography and memoirs, biography. The third set is composed of annals, and chronicles and true relations. Instead of naming these sets, we might describe them thus: The first is made up of particular accounts of the doings of the writer and others in chance groups; the second, of more-or-less extended accounts of the sayings and doings of individual personages who for the time are important and either write about themselves or are written about; the third, of impersonal accounts of the doings of larger or smaller sections of mankind as units.

Of course, the types fade into one another, and it is only in analyzing that a person would draw a hard and fast line between any two of them; but it is permissible to draw this line for the convenience of study and discussion. After an investigator has learned all the kinds, he may classify a given story into one or the other group according to the predominating characteristics, or he may make a group of narratives of mixed kinds, and consider the various elements.

If he is trying, however, to write also, as well as to study according to the suggestions of this book, it would be a good plan for him to endeavor to produce at each attempt a rather more than less pure example of the type under consideration, so as to get as a result not only an interesting narrative, but a working model either for criticism or further production. For a person to have studied carefully an analysis of a type, to have read a distinct literary example of it, and to have attempted to put together a narrative that contains the essential elements, ought to mean that he has in his possession a piece of knowledge that will be valuable to him all his life, irrespective of any purely artistic quality of his achievement. That quality will probably be present much more surely than he at first expects; for a large part of the excellence of a piece of literature results from definite knowledge on the part of the writer, a clear aim to produce a particular kind of composition, and an indefatigable perseverance in revision of details. By emphasis on knowledge and work one would not preclude inspiration. Indeed, one would thereby court it; for, as we all know, it comes usually only to the expert and patient toiler. Even Robert Burns labored long over his reputedly spontaneous songs. The thought came to him often at the plough, it is true; but he confesses that afterwards he spent many hours polishing his lines.

PART I

NARRATIVES OF IMAGINARY EVENTS

TYPES OF PROSE NARRATIVES

CHAPTER I
THE PRIMITIVE-RELIGIOUS GROUP

The traditional types—myth, legend, fairy tale, and nursery saga—are designated as primitive-religious in order to express the fact that they grew up in response to the reverent credulity of simple folk. The myths of all races are the embodiment of their highest prehistoric religious thinking. The legends are their semi-historical, semi-religious thinking. The fairy and nursery stories are modified forms of the other two. Consequently they all belong together in one group.

I. The Myth

There are two general classes of myths: the primitive-tribal and the artificial-literary, or myths of growth and myths of art.

From the point of view of ethnology, the myth of growth is primitive philosophy, and represents racial anthropomorphic thinking concerning the universe. Anthropomorphic is a term derived from the Greek ἄνθρωπος, meaning man, and μορφἠ, meaning shape or form, and is used to describe the tendency of people to represent invisible forces as having human form (for example, the Deity), or natural forces like fire and wind as being animate, volitional agents. It is probably true that, at a very early stage in the development of both the individual and the race, every object is looked upon as having life; and later, if any distinction is made between animate and inanimate, spirits are yet regarded as agents controlling the inanimate and causing changes therein. A myth of growth is the verbal expression of this attitude of the mind of a people in its wider and deeper imaginings.

Doubtless after the first or second repetition of a myth, which some seer of a tribe chants in rude verse, the primitive listener is confused between fact and fancy. The non-essential incidents which the narrator adds from sheer love of making up a story are not distinguished from the incidents that really express the working of natural forces. So it happens that, in the time between the first starting up of the account and the analysis and explanation of it by some philosopher, a narrative handed down from father to son is believed in, word for word, as religious truth, though gaining details and losing its original meaning as it goes. As some one has said, it was because the Greeks had forgotten that Zeus meant the bright sky that they could talk of him as a king ruling a company of manlike deities on Mount Olympus.

There are many beautiful myths existing to-day in prose and poetry. In the tribal species, there is the great mass of Greek and Roman early religious stories and there are the Oriental and the Norse cycles. In the artificial group there are the later Greek and Roman myths like those devised by Plato and Plutarch, and there are our more modern beautiful creations with myth elements like Milton's "Comus" and many of the poems of Keats, where not only the incidents are newly made but the deities also. In prose we have the delightful "Wonder Book," which Hawthorne prepared for children. We have become so familiar with "Paradise Lost" that we hardly realize that it is essentially myth—a great seer's expression of the anthropomorphism of his people. Like a true bard of old, Milton added much also to his people's thinking on the universe. How much he added we see fully only when we deliberately compare the extension and concreteness of his account with the meagerness of the Hebrew Scriptures.

Myth age not a past epoch

An error we are liable to fall into concerning myths is that of presuming that they are wholly things of the past; that nowadays nobody believes in them or tells them. In fact, many persons and many tribes believe in them and tell them. The myth age is not a past epoch, but a condition of thinking. It is always present somewhere and present to some extent always among all races. The primitive tribes of the Philippines believe implicitly in their myths. The Bontoc Igorots, for example, tell how the Moon woman, Kabigat, cut off the head of a child of the Sun man, Chal-chal, and thus taught head-hunting to earth people; some of them tell, too, how Coling, the Serpent Eagle, was made, and happens to be always hovering over their pueblo. Even the youngest child knows how the rice-bird came about, and why an Igorot never harms O-wug, the snake. These stories are being gathered to-day by American scientists and are being written down for the first time. The native college students of the Islands have joined in a movement to preserve the traditions of the more civilized tribes also, and are industriously putting into written form the stories of their people. Most of these are not beliefs that are past, but beliefs about the past—a distinction noteworthy to the student of myths. Little children of all races are naturally in a myth age, and many of their imaginings are as beautiful as those of the old Greeks, and, if made known, would be as contributive to literature, I dare say. Poets are but grown-up children to whom Nature makes a continued concrete appeal, and they are always thinking myth-wise, we well know.

So it happens that even the most learned man is willing to listen to a new myth. All the reader demands is that it shall be either a scientifically made record of some present tribal belief or a beautiful and philosophical interpretation of the workings of nature—such a one as a simple, early pagan, but poetic and essentially refined, mind might imagine. Plato's myths were advisedly artificial. He deliberately set out to modify and improve the government of his time by means of religious stories, and he begged the other philosophers to attempt the like also. He gave his magnificent "Vision of Er" as an example of what might be done.

How traditional myths are collected

If one wishes to collect traditional myths among a primitive people, this is in general the way he proceeds: He calls to his aid the more elderly folk and the little children—those that have time and inclination to talk. If he can not speak their dialect, he obtains an interpreter—if possible, one very intimate and sociable with the tribe. Then he himself tries to get into good fellowship with all, and to induce free and natural talking. He asks for tales of the sun and moon, the wind and the rain, grasses, flowers, birds, clouds, mountain-systems, river-chains, lightning, thunder, and whatever else their gods have charge of. He asks about the relation of these gods with the deities of neighboring peoples—which, if any, are to be feared and why. Then he makes note of as many historical facts as he can about the tribe—where it first lived, what are the topographical features of the remote and the immediate places of abode, how powerful the warriors are, what respect they command from outsiders, what are considered most honored occupations, and so on. These facts are not to go explicitly into the story, but are to form the background of explanation if he cares to seek or give one. Then, too, they may aid him in making a happy translation of the primitive oral narrative. The aim of the collector, however, is accuracy rather than beauty, though beauty may be present in his versions.

How original myths are composed

The writer of an original myth, on the other hand, tries to make his diction as exquisite as he can without affectation. He proceeds somewhat differently, though with no less forethought. If he wishes to use gods and goddesses already known, he attempts not to violate the generally accepted notions of their characteristics. He bears in mind that the beings of myths are large, ample, superhuman, of the race of the infinite. Above mortals, they rule mortals or ignore them. The gods are never petty, though they may be trivial. They belong to the over-world. They are essential: they make day and night, the coming of the seasons, the roll of the ocean, the rising and setting of the constellations. Connected with them too, of course, he knows, are the lesser events of Nature's activity, the speaking of echo, the blooming of the slender narcissus at the edge of the pool, the drooping of the poplars. Hence the writer of a myth of art modifies or adds, but avoids making radical changes. If he chooses wholly to invent his deities, he picks out for each a definite phenomenon and keeps it steadily in mind in order that his created personage may be an appropriate one to perform the well-known actions of the natural force he is explaining. He makes the deeds of his beings far-reaching in result and does not forget to give them euphonious and suggestive names.

Difference between myth and allegory

There is a difference between myth and allegory as narratives, although myth is fundamentally allegorical in the broad sense of the term. The actors of myth are rather representative than figurative. Being grander they are at once more simple and dignified than those of allegory. The gods are not thin abstractions raised to concreteness, but are powerful forces reduced to the likeness of men.

Pure myth is different from pure legend likewise, though legend may have gods in it. Legend is generally confined to a particular person or event, or is connected with a definite spot and a limited result; whereas myth deals with universal phenomena.

Working definition of myth

The collector or composer of myths, accordingly, posits for himself some such working definition as this: A myth is a story accounting in a fanciful way for a far-reaching natural phenomenon. The basis on which the narrator proceeds is emphatically not science, but imagination and philosophy. He pictures the activities of the universe as the conduct of personal beings, as gods and goddesses doing good or evil, creating and destroying, ruling man or ignoring him, punishing and rewarding.

A List of Deities

Juno was the wife of Jupiter, Hera of Zeus, Venus of Vulcan, Aphrodite of Hephaistos.

Persephone was wife of Pluton, Proserpine was wife of Pluto, Cybele was wife of Saturn, Rhea was wife of Kronos.

Egyptian Gods

Ra—the sun, usually represented as a hawk-headed man. He protects mankind, but has nothing in common with men.

Shu—light, a type of celestial force, for he is represented supporting the goddess of heaven. His consort was Tefnet.

Seb—the god of the earth; Nut was the goddess of heaven. These two are called "father of the gods."

Osiris—the good principle. He is in perpetual warfare with evil. He is the source of warmth, life and fruitfulness. Isis, his wife, was his counterpart in many respects. Osiris became the judge of the under-world, and Isis was the giver of death.

Horus—the son of Osiris. He avenged his father, who was slain by Typhon.

Seth, or Typhon—the brother of Osiris, and his chief opponent. He represented physical evil; he was the enemy of all good. His consort was Nebti.

Thoth—the god of letters, the clerk of the underworld, and the keeper of the records for the great judge, Osiris. The chief moon-god.

Ptah—the Egyptian Hephaestus, the divine architect.

Ma-t—the goddess of truth. She is characterized by the ostrich feather, the emblem of truth, on her head.

Anubis—the jackal-headed, presided over tombs and mummification.

The Sphinx—a beneficent being who personified the fruit-bearing earth, and was a deity of wisdom and knowledge.

Hindoo Gods

Dyaus—the most ancient name for the supreme god. Dyaus, the heaven, married Prithivi, the earth, and they became the father and mother of the other Hindu gods. Dyaus is also the god of rain.

Indra—the rain-bringer. The son of Dyaus. He is a strong, impetuous warrior, drives a chariot drawn by pawing steeds, bears a resistless lance that is lightning.

Vishnu—one name for the sun; second god of the Hindu triad, literally the Pervader. (Brahma and Siva are the other two of the trinity.)

Vishnu is represented as being of blue color. His sacti, or wife, is Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth.

Mitra—another name for the sun-god.

Rudra—the father of the storm-gods, the Maruts.

Maruts—the storm gods. "They overturn trees, destroy whole forests, they roar like lions, are swift as thought. In the Maruts we see blind strength and fury without judgment."

Vayu—sometimes the wind was thought of as a single personality. He was called Vayu.

Agni—the fire-god. Considered the messenger between the Hindus and heaven. He carried their offerings to Dyaus-pitar.

Varuna—the noblest figure of the Vedic religion. The supreme god at one time. Sometimes he was the All-Surrounder. Later he was ruler of the seas.

Yama—the judge of the dead. He had a dog with four eyes and wide nostrils, whom he sent to earth to collect those about to die.

Vritva—an evil snake which had stolen some treasure and a maiden, Ushas. She was rescued by Indra.

Ushas (Ahana)—a pure, white-robed being from whose presence every dark thing fled away. Ushas never grows old, but she makes others old. (Same as Eos, Greek; Aurora, Latin.) She is the dawn; is also known by the name of Dahana.

Rita—a word to signify the all-pervading law of nature. It was the power that settled the path of the sun. The abode of Rita was in the east, and finally every good thing traveled in the path of Rita.

Asoura Medhas—the wise living one, the animation of moving mind and matter. He is the mysterious principle of life, is represented as one god high over everything. However, he mingles in the affairs of men.

Surya (same as Gr. Helios)—the special god who dwelt in the body of the sun.

Savitar—another personification of the sun. He is spoken of as golden-eyed, golden-tongued and golden-handed.

MINOR DEITIES

Kuvera—the god of riches.

Kamadeva—the god of love, represented as riding on a dove, and armed with an arrow of flowers and a bow, whose string is formed of bees.

Ganesha—the god of prudence and policy.

Russian Gods

Peroun—Lightning; the chief god.

Svaroga—begetter of fire and of the sun gods. Used also sometimes as name of chief god.

Dajh'bog—grandfather of the sun.

Kolyada—beneficent spirit who was supposed to visit the farms and villages in mid-winter and bring fertility to the pent-up herds and frost-bound seeds. A festival in honor of Kolyada was held about December 25, the date when the sun was supposed to triumph over the death in which Nature had gripped him, and to enter again on his new span of life.

Stribog—wind-god.

Finnish Mythology (derived from Kalevala)

Ahto—god of the sea.

Hisi—evil spirit, also called Lempo. His son was Ahti, another name for Lemminkainen.

Lowjatar—Tuoni's daughter; mother of the nine diseases.

Mana—also called Tuoni; the god of death.

Manala—also called Tuonela; the Deathland, for it was the abode of Mana.

Suonetar—the goddess of the veins.

Tapio—the forest-god.

Ukko—the greatest god of the Finns.

Mielikki—the forest-goddess.

Osmotar—the wise maiden who first made beer.

Sampo—the magic mill forged by Ilmarinen, which brought wealth and happiness to its possessor.

Norse Deities

Odin—the All-father.

Thor—the thunderer.

Baldr—the shining god; he typifies day.

Freyr (Fro)—fruitfulness; the patron of seafarers.

Tyr—the god of war and athletic sports.

Bragi—god of poetry and eloquence.

Hodur—Baldur's twin brother; the god of darkness.

Heimdall—kept the keys of heaven; was the watchman of Asgard.

Ulle—god of the chase and of archery. A fast runner on stilts or snowshoes.

Mimir—most celebrated of the giants; god of wisdom and knowledge.

Loki—the god of strife and the spirit of evil. He had three cruel and hateful children: Fenris, a huge wolf; Hel, half black and half blue, who lived on men's brains and marrow; and Formungard, the monstrous serpent of Midgard. Loki's wife was Sigura.

Filipino Deities

TAGALOG

Atasip—a demon of the ancient Tagalogs.

Bathala—principal god of the Tagalogs.

Dian Masalanta—the god which was the patron of lovers and the god of procreation.

Idinale—the god of husbandry.

Lakhanbakor or Lakhanbakod—a god who cured sickness.

Lakambui—a god who first (according to some writers) gave food.

Pasing-tabi sa nono—with this phrase the Tagalogs used to pray the gods of the fields to allow them to walk on the fields and cultivate them.

Sinaya—a divinity which the fishermen used to pray to.

Sitan—a kind of evil spirit (a Mohametan word).

Sonat—the pontifex maximus of the ancient Tagalogs.

VISAYAN

Laon—the supreme god.

Makabantog—the god of licentiousness and tumult.

Sigbin—certain familiar spirits, which used to accompany any woman. They made a bargain with her and served her constantly.

Solad—the Inferno.

Sikabay—Eve, the first woman.

Sikalak—the first man, Adam.

Sinburanen—the god who conducted the souls of the dead consigned to Hades.

Tagalabong—spirits who lived in the fields and woods.

Yatangao—a god which made himself visible in the rainbow. Warriors going to battle invoked this god.

BAGOBOS

Bayguebay—the first woman or Eve.

Damakolen—the god who made the hills and mountains.

Makakoret—the god who created the air.

Makaponquis—the god who created water.

Malibud—the deity (fem.) who created woman.

Mamale—the god who created the earth.

Rioa-Rioa—a horrible and evil being which, suspended from the zenith like a large pendulum, approaches the earth and devours those men which his servant Tabankak gives him.

Salibud—the god who taught the first men to cultivate the fields, to trade, and to practice other industries.

Note: In the Filipino themes a foreign word is italicized only the first time it appears.

The World's Creation and the Birth of Wainamoinen

Long, long ago, before this world was created, there lived a lovely maiden called Ilmatar, the daughter of the Ether. She dwelt in the air—there were only air and water then—but at length she grew tired of always being on high, and came down and floated on the surface of the water. Suddenly, as she lay there, a mighty storm-wind began to blow and poor Ilmatar was tossed about helplessly on the waves, until at length the wind died down, the waves became still, and Ilmatar, worn out by the violence of the tempest, sank beneath the waters.

Then a magic spell overpowered her, and she swam on and on vainly seeking to rise above the waters, but always unable to do so. Seven hundred long weary years she swam thus, until one day she could not bear the loneliness longer, and cried out: "Woe is me that I have fallen from my happy home in the air, and cannot now rise above the surface of the waters. O great Ukko, ruler of the skies, come and aid me in my sorrow!"

No sooner had she ended her appeal to Ukko than a lovely duck flew down out of the sky, and hovered over the waters looking for a place to alight; but it found none. Then Ilmatar raised her knees above the water, so that the duck might rest upon them; and no sooner did the duck spy them than it flew towards them and, without even stopping to rest, began to build a nest upon them.

When the nest was finished, the duck laid in it six golden eggs, and a seventh of iron, and sat upon to hatch them. Three days the duck sat on the eggs, and all the while the water around Ilmatar's knees grew hotter and hotter, and her knees began to burn as if they were on fire. The pain was so great that it caused her to tremble all over, and her quivering shook the nest off her knees, and the eggs all fell to the bottom of the ocean and broke in pieces. But these pieces came together into two parts and grew to a huge size, and the upper one became the arched heavens above us, and the lower one our world itself. From the white part of the egg came the moonbeams, and from the yolk the bright sunshine.

At last the unfortunate Ilmatar was able to raise her head out of the waters, and she then began to create the land. Wherever she put her hand there arose a lovely hill, and where she stepped she made a lake. Where she dived below the surface are the deep places of the ocean, where she turned her head towards the land there grew deep bays and inlets, and where she floated on her back she made hidden rocks and reefs where so many ships and lives have been lost. Thus the islands and the rocks and the firm land were created.

After the land was made Wainamoinen was born, but he was not born a child, but a full-grown man, full of wisdom and magic power. For seven whole years he swam about in the ocean, and in the eighth he left the water and stepped upon the dry land. Thus was the birth of Wainamoinen, the wonderful magician.—From the Kalevala.

"Finnish Legends for English Children," by R. Eivind (T. Fisher Unwin).

TRIBAL MYTH
Origin of the Moon

South and east of Manila Bay stretches a piece of land, on which there used to be a large forest surrounded and fringed by the Sierra Madre mountains on the east, and guarded by the active Taal volcano on the south. This volcano, which is on a small lake, is said to be always looking toward the east, shouting with his big mouth the name of Buan Buan, a very beautiful nymph who dwelt once in this deep forest. The large trees formed towering pillars, the vines and moss that grew wild, together with the blooming flowers, were ornaments of her court. The birds, the insects, and all kinds of animals were her subjects.

The people who live now in this land say that in the beginning of the world there was no such thing as the moon that shines at night. They assert that the origin of the moon came in this wise:

Many thousands of years ago, when the beautiful nymph Buan was in her court, a warlike tribe settled on her land of enjoyment. The invaders began to cultivate the rich soil of this place. Buan, seeing that her flowers would be destroyed and her birds driven away, fled toward the west in grief. On the sea she saw a little banca into which she climbed and in which she drifted along until she came to an island near where the Sun sleeps.

One afternoon when the Sun was about to hide his last rays, he was met by the beautiful nymph, who at once said to him, "O Sun, bear me with you, and I will be your faithful wife forever." Without hesitation or doubt, the gallant Sun, who had been shining over the earth with open eyes looking for a wife, took Buan under his golden arm, and they together, as true lovers, departed.

The Arch-Queen of the Nymphs, ever quarrelsome and jealous, seeing the departure of Buan, sent lightning and hurled thunderbolts after the two fleeing lovers. Buan, who was peacefully slumbering on the breast of her lover, fell down into the water. The Sun in his fright ran away, and continued his course as usual. Pitied by the gods Buan did not drown, but floated on the foam of the sea. The Sun lighted the world the next morning with a great deal of heat and sorrow in his eyes, searching for his lost sweetheart. Buan, who was hidden in the foam that floated on the sea, did not come out until evening. By that time Sun had retired to his wonderful cave beneath the ocean. Buan wandered about until finally she saw a glittering light within the waves. In her fright she cried aloud. The Sun, who was suddenly awakened from his cave by her grief, saw her. With a satisfied heart he took her into his cave, where they dwelt for a whole night. They sat and talked about their love. The Sun taught her how to travel across the sky. However, he asked Buan not to follow him in any of his journeys.

One afternoon Buan was sitting before the door of the cave waiting for her lover. Longing and sentiment grew strong in her, and she remembered the past days when she had lived in her forest court. This state of mind made her come out of the cave, and she rode on the air by magic. For fifteen successive nights she did this, yet she could not see her old home. Finally she asked her husband to bear her across heaven in order that she might see her home. The next morning the Sun took Buan on his back, and they sailed across the sky. The world became dark, for the sun could not then well illuminate the earth. The gods were astonished. The Arch-Queen of the Nymphs sent a storm of wind and rain, which made Buan turn into a soft brilliant mass of light. She was to be with her husband but once every thirty days. She was also punished by not being allowed to show herself entirely every night. She could not sail across heaven for more than thirteen or fourteen days at a time.

—Emanuel Baja.

TRIBAL MYTH
The First Cocoanut Tree and the Creation of Man

There were three gods, Bathala, Ulilangkalulua, and Galangkalulua. Bathala, a very large giant, ruled the earth; Ulilangkalulua, a very large snake, ruled the clouds; and Galangkalulua, a winged head, wandered from place to place. In fact, each of these gods thought that he was the only living being in the universe.

The earth was composed of hard rocks. There were no seas and no oceans. There were also no plants and no animals. It was indeed a very lonely place. Bathala, its true inhabitant, had often wanted to have some companions, but he wondered how he could provide these companions with food, drink, and shelter when there was nothing on the earth but rocks.

What was true of Bathala was also true of Ulilangkalulua. In his kingdom Ulilangkalulua saw nothing but white clouds. His solitary condition led him to visit other places. He often came down to the earth and enjoyed himself climbing high mountains and entering deep caves.

As he was at the top of a very high hill one day, he saw some one sitting on a large stone down below him. He was very greatly amazed and it was a very long time before he could speak. At last he said, "Sir, tell me who you are."

"I am Bathala, the ruler of the universe," answered the god. Ulilangkalulua was filled with anger when he heard these words. He approached Bathala and said, "If you declare yourself to be the ruler of all things, I challenge you to combat."

A long struggle took place, and after the fighting had continued about three hours Ulilangkalulua was slain. Bathala burned his body near his habitation.

Not many years after this event Galangkalulua, the wandering god, happened to find Bathala's house. Bathala received him and treated him kindly. Thus, they lived together for many years as true friends.

Unfortunately, Galangkalulua became sick. Bathala did not sleep day and night for taking care of his friend. When Galangkalulua was about to die, he called Bathala and said, "You have been very kind to me, and I have nothing to repay your kindness with. But if you will do what I tell you, there is a way in which I can benefit you. You once told me that you had planned to create creatures of the same appearance as you in order that you might have subjects and companions, and that you had not been successful because you did not know how you could supply them with all the necessary things. Now, when I die, bury my body in Ulilangkalulua's grave. In this grave will appear the thing that will satisfy you."

Bathala did what Galangkalulua told him, and Galangkalulua's promise was fulfilled. From the grave grew a plant, whose nut contained water and meat. Bathala was very anxious to examine the different parts of the tree because he had never seen such a thing before. He took a nut and husked it. He found that its inner skin was hard and that the nut itself resembled the head of his friend, Galangkalulua. It had two eyes, a flat nose, and a round mouth. Bathala then looked at the tree itself and discovered that its leaves were really the wings of Galangkalulua and its trunk the body of his enemy, Ulilangkalulua.

Bathala was now free to carry out his plan. He created the first man and woman. He built a house for them, the roof and walls of which were made of the leaves of the cocoanut and the posts of which were cocoanut tree trunks. Thus lived happily under the cocoanut palm this couple for many years until the whole world was crowded with their children. These children still use the cocoanut for food and clothing—the leaves for making mats, hats, and brooms, and the fiber for rope and other things.

—Manuel Reyes.

ORIGINAL MYTH
The Lotus

Long ago, when the world was young, the Nile loved a maiden. She was Isis, daughter of a hundred stars, who, as she nightly climbed the dark pinnacle of cloud, drew her silver drapery across the stream's dark bosom. Many were the sighs he breathed throughout the long nights—but Isis heard him not; for the wind had told her of Osiris, Osiris the beautiful, the well-beloved, who daily waked the dreaming earth with his warm kiss. And afterwards Mira, the great Star-Mother, bending from her gleaming throne, had spoken of Osiris and his glittering steeds, while Isis listening, yearned for him whom she had never seen, whose radiance was brighter even than that of Nefra-the-fire-bearer, who, once in a century, flashed through the still heavens. So Isis heeded not the Nile, moaning at her feet, for her eyes were ever bent on the rim of the world, whence would come in rosy haste the heralds of Osiris.

But one morning, when the starry sisters were fleeing, one by one, to the silent underworld, Isis stayed in the dark cloudland. The night winds called her to hasten, but she heard them not, and stood waiting—while above the eastern horizon rose the Hours, streaking the heavens with their amber veils, and borne along behind them, Osiris himself, more radiant than her dreams. But Osiris, glad in the greetings of the jubilant earth, saw only a star-maiden lingering in her pale robes on the borders of the forbidden Kingdom. Catching up a barbed shaft, he hurled it shrieking through the air—and Isis fell.

The winds fled in horror from the earth; the air shuddered, and shrank away; but the Nile, roaming in agony through the fields, stretched out his mighty arms and, with a great cry, gathered the lifeless star-maiden to his bosom. And there, where Isis fell, rose a starry flower, pale, but with the stain of the dawn in its heart.

—Ida F. Treat.

II. The Legend

Myth and legend compared

Historically the legend may or may not be a later development than the myth. The bards may have ascribed the fanciful deeds of the gods to their tribal heroes, or they may have elevated their tribal heroes into gods by exaggerating actual adventures into far-reaching phenomena. For our present study the descent is immaterial; the distinction is all. In the myth the chief actors are gods; in the legend, men—men endowed with superhuman strength often, to be sure, but still men, though the favorites of the gods. The course of events in the typical myth is pure and absolute imagination; the course of events in the typical legend is somewhat held down by facts. When the deeds are magnified or wholly fanciful, the characters are semi-historical; when the events or places are historical, the chief actors are generally imaginary.

Saga

In the myth-legend, or saga, the deeds transcend the ordinarily credible and the heroes are often directed by superhuman agencies. Perhaps the oldest examples of this kind are those recorded in the Sanscrit "Mahabharata" and "Ramayana", and the Persian "Shah Nameh." In the last occurs the beautiful story of Sohrab and Rustam, who lived six hundred years before Christ. Firdousi, writing as late as the first decade of the eleventh century, was therefore working over very ancient material. Such combinations likewise of older tradition and later writing are the Anglo-Saxon "Beowulf", the French "Chanson de Roland", the Spanish "Cid", the Italian "Orlando Furioso" (which is the French story adapted), the German "Hildebrand", "Waltharilied", and "Nibelungen Nôt", and the Icelandic "Grettir the Strong" and "Volsunga Saga". The "Volsunga Saga" as we have it today is prose with some songs from the "Elder Edda". Legend in its written form as a composition type we think of as prose, though it may be verse, or prose and verse combined.

Saint legends

To the early church a legend meant the narrative of the life of a saint or a martyr, especially the account of his triumphs over temptation and of the miracles he witnessed or performed. Even to-day in some monasteries such stories are read at meals while the monks eat. It is interesting to note that the church distinguishes between legenda, things to be read, and credenda, things to be believed. What appears to be the earliest of these legends and the model of the others is said to have been written by St. John of Damascus, a monk of Syria, who lived in the eighth century. It is called "Barlaam and Josaphat" and contains besides the lives of the prince and the prophet many beautiful parables, one of which Shakespeare immortalized in the casket scene in the "Merchant of Venice". The life of Josaphat is in turn said to be the legendary life of the Buddha. There are many beautiful Celtic and Anglo-Saxon Christian stories of this type. In the Cynewulfian group of Anglo-Saxon Lives of the Saints, the "Andreas" is considered very fine. With its account of St. Andrew's miraculous rescue of St. Matthew from prison among the heathen is a sturdy, realistic description of a stormy voyage on northern seas. "The Golden Legend", published by Caxton in 1483, is a translation of a celebrated medieval collection of lives of the greater saints, composed in Latin by Jacobus de Voragine, a Dominican archbishop of Genoa, in the thirteenth century.

Geoffrey of Monmouth

The great English legendary history and a great source-book of English literary legend is the Historia Britonum of Geoffrey of Monmouth. Besides giving us the original story of Lear and many other things in his record of British rulers down to the Saxon Invasion, this twelfth century author, building on the meager basis of an unknown Nennius and possibly a cleric's version of Welsh traditions, started the magnificent Arthurian cycle on its way. This Latin account joined the great stream of continental legendary romance, added to it and took from it, and came back into English in Layamon's "Brut" in the form of a series of metrical legends for the common people.

Legendary romance

That most original and enchanting of all the medieval legendary romance books, Malory's "Morte Darthur", stands between the old and the new English fiction in that it has the content of the one and the form of the other. In it were gathered up the religious element (that had come in with the tradition of Joseph of Arimathæa), the love element (of the Launcelot-Guinevere stories), and the national element (Arthur, his wonderful Excalibur and his knights), and so emphasized, so incomparably set forth, so shaken together, if you please, that they combined and stayed together ever afterwards. On the form side, this work is prose and it is art—the first English prose fiction, so announced and so taken. It is literary legend. An artist conscious of his art offered the material not as history or religion, but as a thing of beauty. The preface states, "And for to pass the time this book shall be pleasant to read in, but for to give faith and belief that all is true that is contained herein, ye be at your liberty."

When stories such as these, either by an aim at history or at art, emphasize what has been believed, they are classed as legend; when they emphasize magic and combine history in a riotous way for the mere sake of astonishing, they are classed as wonder tales.

While on the one side legend shades off into myth and wonder tales, on the other it shades off into anecdote. A tendency to write legend instead of fact is always present. As soon as a man or a place becomes prominent, fictitious stories begin to spring up, founded not only on what was done, but also on what might have been done. But to persist, a legendary account must be true to the character and traits of the hero or town or tribe or race with which it deals; at least, it must be true to the popular conception of the character. Though innumerable, the versions of the Faust story, for example, are nevertheless essentially consistent. Typical legends shading off into history and anecdote are those about William Tell, Robert the Bruce, Alfred the Great, John Smith and Pocahontas, and many of the popular tales about Columbus, Washington, Lincoln, and Rizal.

Modern literary legends

There are modern literary legends. An exquisite legend of a place is "Rip Van Winkle" by Washington Irving. A terrific French novel is founded on the legendary idea of the Wandering Jew. A wholesome boys' story that is often mistaken for history is "The Man Without a Country." Selma Lagerlöf, who was given the Nobel prize in 1909 for the most original piece of literature, has written among others a saint's legend about a hermit who was won to brotherly love by a pair of birds that built a nest and hatched their young in his outstretched palms as, keeping a vow, he stood day and night praying heaven to take vengeance and destroy the sinful world. Allied to this species is one of Count Tolstoy's most widely read stories. It is built upon an idea current in all races and appearing in many legends; namely, of an angel sent by God to live a while among men. But Tolstoy, with his fervent devotion to the good of the people, has turned his narrative into a parable, and calls it "What Men Live By." Another beautiful religious narrative, an art legend tangent to tradition, is Henry Van Dyke's "The Other Wise Man."

How to select and record a legend of growth

It is easy for one to select a place legend. Every town in the world, I suppose, has stories connected with it that are only typically true. Almost every prominent topographical feature has an explanatory narrative current about it. Take any of these popular tales concerning the cliffs, river, mountain peak, spring, lake, gully, or pictured rocks of your neighborhood and you have a legend, so long as your story confines itself to that particular spot, and does not let its subject be emphatically the result of great natural forces or of the cause of all subsequent similar formations. In other words, one must remember that the basis of legend is particular incident, while that of myth is universal phenomenon; the content of legend is exaggerated history, while the content of myth is fanciful science. All one needs to do to record such a place legend is to arrange the details in a coherent fashion and to write out the sentences in good, clear, simple English, sticking as close to the original oral account as correct syntax will allow. If one cares to write about people instead of places, one follows in general the same directions, being sure not to fall into mere anecdote or incident, but to have a full, complete account.

How to write a legend of art

To write a literary art legend, an author selects in history some period that he likes very much or some hero or heroine he has always admired, and notes down a number of facts that are connected with one another and with his subject; then he lets his imagination loose upon them. He uses terms and expressions of the age of which he is writing; phrases that now appear quaint add a flavor of reality to the tale. But he is careful, however, not to misuse words and thus commit what the critics call anachronism, by putting the idioms peculiar to one age or one people into the mouth of another. An occasional special touch is good, but too much straining for effect spoils a story. He gets rather into the mood of simple faith in greatness and goodness, and tells of brave deeds and generous actions that might well have happened. Dramatic truth there must be; literal truth, not necessarily. A working definition runs somewhat like this:

Working definition

Legend is a narrative partly true and partly imaginary, about a particular person, event, place or natural feature; a story that has the semblance of history, but is in reality almost altogether fanciful, since the basic fact is amplified, abridged, or wholly changed at the will of the narrator.

Kenach's Little Woman

As the holy season of Lent drew nigh the Abbot Kenach felt a longing such as a bird of passage feels in the south when the first little silvery buds on the willow begin here to break their ruddy sheaths, and the bird thinks tomorrow it will be time to fly over seas to the land where it builds its nest in pleasant croft or under the shelter of homely eaves. And Kenach said, "Levabo oculos—I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help," for every year it was his custom to leave his abbey and fare through the woods to the hermitage on the mountainside, so that he might spend the forty days in fasting and prayer in the heart of solitude.

Now on the day which is called the Wednesday of Ashes he set out, but first he heard the mass of remembrance and led his monks to the altar steps, and knelt there in great humility to let the priest sign his forehead with a cross of ashes. And on the forehead of each of the monks the ashes were smeared in the form of a cross, and each time the priest made the sign he repeated the words, "Remember, man, that thou art dust, and unto dust thou shalt return."

So with the ashes still in his brow and with the remembrance of the end of earthly days in his soul, he bent his steps towards the hermitage; and as he was now an aged man and nowise strong, Diarmait, one of the younger brethren, accompanied him in case any mischance should befall.

They passed through the cold forest, where green there was none, unless it were the patches of moss and the lichens on the rugged tree trunks and tufts of last year's grass, but here and there the white blossoms of the snowdrops peered out. The dead gray leaves and dry twigs crackled and snapped under their feet with such a noise as a wood fire makes when it is newly lighted; and that was all the warmth they had on their wayfaring.

The short February day was closing in as they climbed among the boulders and withered bracken on the mountainside, and at last reached the entrance of a cavern hollowed in the rock and fringed with ivy. This was the hermitage. The Abbot hung his bell on a thick ivy bough in the mouth of the caves; and they knelt and recited vespers and compline; and thrice the Abbot struck the bell to scare away the evil spirits of the night; and they entered and lay down to rest.

Hard was the way of their sleeping; for they lay not on wool or on down, neither on heather or bracken, nor yet on dry leaves, but their sides came against the cold stone, and under the head of each there was a stone for pillow. But being weary with the long journey, they slept sound and felt nothing of the icy mouth of the wind blowing down the mountainside.

Within an hour of daybreak, when the moon was setting, they were awakened by the wonderful singing of a bird, and they rose for matins and strove not to listen, but so strangely sweet was the sound in the keen moonlight morning that they could not forbear. The moon set, and still in the dark sang the bird, and the gray light came, and the bird ceased; and when was white day they saw that all the ground and every stalk of bracken was hoary with frost, and every ivy leaf was crusted white round the edge, but within the edge it was all glossy green.

"What bird is this that sings so sweet before day in the bitter cold?" said the Abbot. "Surely no bird at all, but an Angel from heaven waking us from the death of sleep."

"It is the blackbird, Domine Abbas," said the young monk; "often they sing thus in February, however cold it may be."

"O soul, O Diarmait, is it not wonderful that the senseless small creatures should praise God so sweetly in the dark, and in the light before the dark, while we are fain to lie warm and forget His praise?" And afterwards he said, "Gladly could I have listened to that singing, even till tomorrow was a day; and yet it was but the singing of a little earth wrapped in a handful of feathers. O soul, tell me what it must be to listen to the singing of an Angel, a portion of heaven wrapped in the glory of God's love!"

Of the forty days thirty went by, and oftentimes now, when no wind blew, it was bright and delightsome among the rocks, for the sun was gaining strength, and the days were growing longer, and the brown trees were being speckled with numberless tiny buds of white and pale green, and wild flowers were springing between the boulders and through the mountain turf.

Hard by the cave there was a wall of rock covered with ivy, and as Diarmait chanced to walk near it, a brown bird darted out from among the leaves. The young monk looked at the place from which it had flown, and behold! among the leaves and the hairy sinews of the ivy there was a nest lined with grass, and in the nest there were three eggs—pale green with reddish spots. And Diarmait knew the bird and knew the eggs, and he told the Abbot, who came noiselessly, and looked with a great love at the open house and the three eggs of the mother blackbird.

"Let us not walk too near, my son," he said, "lest we scare the mother from her brood, and so silence beforehand some of the music of the cold hours before the day." And he lifted his hand and blessed the nest and the bird, saying, "And He shall bless thy bread and thy water." After that it was very seldom they went near the ivy.

Now after days of clear and benign weather a shrill wind broke out from beneath the North Star, and brought with it snow and sleet and piercing cold. And the woods howled for distress of the storm, and the gray stones of the mountain chattered with discomfort. Harsh cold and sleeplessness were their lot in the cave, and as he shivered, the Abbot bethought him of the blackbird in her nest, and of the wet flakes driving in between the leaves of the ivy and stinging her brown wings and patient bosom. And lifting his head from his pillow of stone he prayed the Lord of the elements to have the bird in His gentle care, saying,

"How excellent is Thy loving kindness, O God! therefore the children of men put their trust under the shadow of Thy wings."

Then after a little while he said, "Look out into the night, O son, and tell me if yet the storm be abated."

And Diarmait, shuddering, went to the mouth of the cavern, and stood there gazing and calling in a low voice, "Domine Abbas! My Lord Abbot! My Lord Abbot!"

Kenach rose quickly and went to him, and as they looked out the sleet beat on their faces, but in the midst of the storm there was a space of light, as though it were moonshine, and the light streamed from an Angel, who stood near the wall of rock with outspread wings, and sheltered the blackbird's nest from the wintry blast.

And the monks gazed at the shining loveliness of the Angel, till the wind fell and the snow ceased and the light faded away and the sharp stars came out and the night was still.

Now at sundown of the day that followed, when the Abbot was in the cave, the young monk, standing among the rocks, saw approaching a woman who carried a child in her arms; and crossing himself, he cried aloud to her, "Come not any nearer; turn thy face to the forest, and go down."

"Nay," replied the woman, "for we seek shelter for the night, and food and the solace of fire for the little one."

"Go down, go down," cried Diarmait; "no woman may come to this hermitage."

"How canst thou say that, O monk?" said the woman. "Was the Lord Christ any worse than thou? Christ came to redeem woman no less than to redeem man. Not less did He suffer for the sake of woman than for the sake of man. Women gave service and tendance to Him and His Apostles. A woman it was who bore Him, else had men been left forlorn. It was a man who betrayed Him with a kiss; and woman it was who washed His feet with tears. It was a man who smote Him with a reed, but a woman who broke the alabaster box of precious ointment. It was a man who thrice denied Him; a woman stood by His cross. It was a woman to whom He first spoke on Easter morn, but a man thrust his hand into His side and put his finger in the prints of the nails before he would believe. And not less than men do women enter the heavenly kingdom. Why, then, shouldst thou drive my little child and me from thy hermitage and thy hospitality?"

Then Kenach, who had heard all that was said, came forth from the cave, and blessed the woman. "Well hast thou spoken, O daughter; come, and bring the small child with thee." And turning to the young monk, he said, "O soul, O son, O Diarmait, did not God send His Angel out of high heaven to shelter the mother bird? And was not that, too, a little woman in feathers? But now hasten, and gather wood and leaves, and strike fire from the flint, and make a hearth before the cave, that the woman may rest and the boy have the comfort of the bright flame."

This was soon done, and by the fire sat the woman eating a little barley bread; but the child, who had no will to eat, came round to the old man, and held out two soft hands to him. And the Abbot caught him up from the ground to his breast, and kissed his golden head, saying, "God bless thee, sweet little son, and give thee a good life and a happy, and strength of thy small body, and if it be His holy will, length of glad days; and ever mayest thou be a gladness and deep joy to thy mother."

Then, seeing that the woman was strangely clad in an outland garb of red and blue and that she was tall, with a golden-hued skin and olive eyes, arched, very black eyebrows, aquiline nose, and a rosy mouth, he said, "Surely O daughter, thou art not of this land of Erinn in the sea, but art come out of the great world beyond?"

"Indeed, then, we have traveled far," replied the woman; "as thou sayest, out of the great world beyond. And now the twilight deepens upon us, and we would sleep."

"Thou shalt sleep safe in the cave, O daughter, but we will rest here by the embers. My cloak of goat's hair shalt thou have, and such dry bracken and soft bushes as may be found."

"There is no need," said the woman, "mere shelter is enough," and she added in a low voice, "Often has my little son had no bed wherein he might lie."

Then she stretched out her arms to the boy, and once more the little one kissed the Abbot, and as he passed by Diarmait he put the palms of his hands against the face of the young monk, and said laughingly, "I do not think thou hadst any ill-will to us, though thou wert rough and didst threaten to drive us away into the woods."

And the woman lifted the boy on her arm, and rose and went towards the cavern; and when she was in the shadow of the rocks she turned towards the monks beside the fire and said, "My son bids me thank you."

They looked up, and what was their astonishment to see a heavenly glory shining about the woman and her child in the gloom of the cave. And in his left hand the child carried a little golden image of the world, and round his head was a starry radiance, and his right hand was raised in blessing.

For such a while as it takes the shadow of a cloud to run across a rippling field of corn, for so long the vision remained; and then it melted into the darkness, even as a rainbow melts away into the rain.

On his face fell the Abbot, weeping for joy beyond words; but Diarmait was seized with fear and trembling till he remembered the way in which the child had pressed warm palms against his face and forgiven him.

The story of these things was whispered abroad, and ever since, in that part of Erinn in the sea, the mother blackbird is called Kenach's Little Woman.

And as for the stone on which the fire was lighted in front of the cave, rain rises quickly from it in mist, and leaves it dry, and snow may not lie upon it, and even in the dead of winter it is warm to touch. And to this day it is called the Stone of Holy Companionship.

—William Canton.

"W. V.'s Golden Legend" (Dodd, Mead & Co.).

A Legend of Gapan

In the early part of December, in the year 1889, a poor man named Carlos left the town where he lived to go to Gapan, about twenty miles distant.

Day was beginning to break as Carlos reached the foot of a hill, which he was just about to climb, when he heard the sound of music. Looking upward to find whence the sound came, he saw a bright white cloud. From the center of this cloud shone a ray of light, forming a circle in which were all the colors of the rainbow.

Carlos could scarcely believe his eyes, till he heard a sweet voice call his name. He hastened to climb the hill, and at the top found a very beautiful woman, around whom shone a light that made the stones and bushes sparkle like gems.

When the man had drawn near, our Blessed Lady—for it was she—told him that she wished a church to be built on that spot, and bade him go to Gapan and tell this fact to the priest. On reaching the town, Carlos went straight to the priest, and related what the Blessed Virgin had confided to him.

"I believe you," said the priest, "but to be still more certain, ask her who sends you for some sign by which we may know that she is really the Mother of God."

Afterwards Carlos went to the spot where the Blessed Mother was waiting for him. As soon as he saw her, he immediately threw himself at her feet, and told her what the priest had said. With great tenderness our Lady bade him come to her the next day, saying she would give him the sign for which the priest had asked.

Carlos came the next day. "Go now," said the Blessed Virgin, "to the top of the hill, and gather the roses that are blooming there. Put them in your handkerchief, and bring them to me; I will tell you what to do with them."

Though Carlos believed that there were no roses there, he obeyed without a word. How great, then, was his surprise to find a garden rich with flowers! Filling his handkerchief with roses, he hurried back to the Blessed Virgin.

Our Lady took the roses in her pure hands, and letting them drop back into the handkerchief, said to Carlos, "Present these roses to the priest, and say that they are the proof of the command I give you. Do not show any one what you carry, and open your handkerchief only in the presence of the priest."

Thanking the Blessed Virgin, Carlos started once more for the town. When he reached the convent and was brought before the priest, he opened his handkerchief to show the sign that was to prove his words, and fresh, sweet-smelling roses, wet with dew, fell to the floor, while on the handkerchief itself appeared a beautiful picture of the Mother of God.

"The Blessed Virgin is here," said the father, and then he knelt before the picture and gave praise to God. The miraculous handkerchief was placed in the church of Gapan, where it remained until a suitable chapel was built on the very top of the hill, as our Lady desired.

—Teofilo P. Corpus.

A Legend of the Incas

"We will rest here for a time, Uira." The hollow-eyed, tired-looking youth dismounted from his burro. His companion Uira, a short, swarthy-skinned Peruvian, turned and gazed down the mountainside whence they had come, upon the flat roofs of Quito, which seemed like a dream city, so lovely did the distance make it. "It is beautiful, is it not, Juan? My home, the home of the Incas, the most ancient city in all the land?"

"Yes, indeed, it is beautiful, and, Uira, while we rest, you shall tell me a tale of your people; some pretty legend of the Incas. I think nothing else would so thoroughly refresh me." Now Juan could by no exercise of ingenuity have touched a more responsive chord in the nature of his friend.

"Well, what shall it be, Juan? You have never heard the story of Manca, have you? It may not be what you would call a pretty legend; yet I think you would like it," said Uira, readily complying.

"Very well, I know I cannot help but enjoy it," said Juan, as he settled himself comfortably, with dried leaves for a couch and a tree stump for a pillow.