The Jewel Series

THE DIAMOND STORY BOOK. Compiled by Penrhyn W. Coussens. Illustrations in color by Ethel Green.

THE EMERALD STORY BOOK. Stories of Spring, Nature, and Easter. By Ada and Eleanor Skinner. Frontispiece in color by Maxfield Parrish.

THE RUBY STORY BOOK. Tales of Courage and Heroism. Retold by Penrhyn W. Coussens. Frontispiece in color by Maxfield Parrish.

THE SAPPHIRE STORY BOOK. Tales of the Sea. Collected and retold by Penrhyn W. Coussens. Frontispiece in color by Maxfield Parrish.

THE TOPAZ STORY BOOK. Stories and Legends of Autumn, Hallowe’en, and Thanksgiving. Compiled by Ada M. and Eleanor L. Skinner. Frontispiece in color by Maxfield Parrish.

THE TURQUOISE STORY BOOK. Stories and Legends of Summer and Nature. By Ada M. and Eleanor L. Skinner. Frontispiece in color by Maxfield Parrish.

THE PEARL STORY BOOK. Stories and Legends of Winter, Christmas and New Year’s Day. Compiled by Ada M. and Eleanor L. Skinner. Frontispiece in color by Maxfield Parrish.

THE GARNET STORY BOOK. Tales of Cheer both Old and New. Compiled by Ada M. and Eleanor L. Skinner. Frontispiece in color by Dugald S. Walker.

THE JADE STORY BOOK. Stories from the Orient. Compiled by Penrhyn W. Coussens. Frontispiece in color by Dugald Stewart Walker.

Drawn by Dugald Stewart Walker

THE

JADE STORY BOOK

Stories from the Orient

BY

PENRHYN W. COUSSENS

Author of “The Diamond Story Book,” “The Ruby Story Book,” “The

Sapphire Story Book.” Editor of “One Thousand Books for Children,”

“A Child’s Book of Stories,” “Poems Children Love,” etc.

FRONTISPIECE BY

DUGALD STEWART WALKER

NEW YORK

DUFFIELD AND COMPANY

1922

Copyright, 1922, by

DUFFIELD & COMPANY

Printed in the United States of America

TO MY

DEAREST PAL

MY WIFE

CONTENTS

Arranged Alphabetically

PREFACE

“The Jade Story Book” contains tales gathered from the folklore of Far Eastern countries—India, China, Japan, the Philippine Islands and Persia. Most of those from India are adapted from “The Hitopadesa,” which is also known as “The Book of Good Counsels,” and “The Criterion of Wisdom.” It may also be called “The Father of All Fables.”

These Fables were originally compiled in Sanscrit, and later, many centuries later, (about the year 600 A. D.), they were rendered into Persic. About two hundred and fifty years afterwards they were translated into the Arabic, Hebrew and Greek languages. They are perhaps best known in India today under the title of “Anvari Suhaili.” The translation from which these particular stories are adapted is that from the original Sanscrit made by Sir Edwin Arnold.

The Igorot, Tagalog, Visayan, Mindanao and Moro stories are used by kind permission of A. C. McClurg & Co., publishers of “Philippine Folk Tales,” edited by Mabel Cook Cole.

Several of the Persian stories are taken from “The Arabian Nights” and others, from Persia, India, China and Japan, are adapted from various sources, not least of which is “Gesta Romanorum.” One of them, “The Story of Caliph Stork,” is from the collection by Wilhelm Hauff.

The author has on other occasions seized the opportunity to emphasize the fact that fairy tales and fables are really necessary to the child, who, without them, is being defrauded of that which belongs to him. They stimulate the youthful imagination and provide a good foundation for the further development of the mind.

Most fairy stories not only amuse, but their unfolding shows the child that good invariably triumphs over evil, and the moral is that one who is kind, polite, generous, unselfish and brave wins in the end. Surely this is worth while.

THE JADE STORY BOOK

HOW THE BIRDS SAVED THE EMPEROR’S LIFE

There was once an Emperor of China whose palace was the most wonderful in the world, being built entirely of priceless porcelain. In the garden were the most beautiful flowers, on some of which were little golden bells which tinkled in the wind so that you could not help looking at them.

It was a really wonderful garden, and so large that even the Head Gardener himself did not know where it ended. If you should reach the end of the garden you would come to a magnificent forest in which were great trees and deep lakes. The banks sloped down to the water, which was as clear as crystal. Overhanging the lakes were the boughs of some of the trees, which were so large that ships could sail beneath them. In one of these trees there lived a Nightingale which sang so beautifully that a poor fisherman, who had a great deal to do, even stopped his work to listen to the bird singing. “How beautiful it is!” he said, but he had to attend to his duties and then forgot about the bird. But each night it was the same; the fisherman could not resist the temptation and he left his work to listen to the bird.

The Emperor’s palace and garden were so magnificent that many travelers from foreign countries wrote books describing their beauty; but every scholar who wrote said that the finest thing of all was the singing of this Nightingale.

These books were read by many people all over the world, and at last some of them reached the Emperor, who sat in his chair of solid jade and read and read and read. He was very much pleased that so many people who were scholars should write so much about his palace and garden, but he was surprised to find that in each book the Nightingale was spoken of as the finest and most wonderful thing of all.

“It is very strange,” said the Emperor, “I’ve never heard this Nightingale and it does seem unusual that I should know about it for the first time from reading books written by travellers.”

He called his First Lord to him and said, “In all of these books there is mention of a very remarkable bird which is called ‘The Nightingale.’ The writers all say that it is the most glorious thing in my kingdom. How is it that no one has ever told me about it?”

“Why, I don’t know anything about it myself,” said the First Lord, “but I will go and find it.”

The First Lord didn’t know where it was, so he ran all over the palace and asked everybody there, but none of them had ever heard of the Nightingale. Then he returned to the Emperor and said it must be an invention of those who had written the books.

“Your Royal Highness must know that not all that is written is true, and that much of it is invented,” said he.

“But the last book I read,” said the Emperor, “was sent to me by the great ruler of Japan, so that it must be true, and I insist upon your bringing the Nightingale here this evening; if you do not, every one in this palace shall be trampled under foot.”

“All right, your Majesty,” said the First Lord; and he ran up and down the stairs, through halls and corridors, and as he told the people what would happen to them if the Nightingale were not brought there that evening they all followed him, because they had no wish to be trampled under foot, and all were most curious to know about this wonderful Nightingale which it seemed that everybody in the world knew about except those who lived in the palace.

At last they met a poor little girl in the kitchen who said, “Why, I know the Nightingale, and I have often heard her sing. Every night when I go home to my Mother I am so tired that I sit and rest for a little while in the wood, and then I hear the Nightingale sing, and it is so wonderful that it always brings tears to my eyes.”

“Then,” said the First Lord, “little kitchen maid, if you can lead us to this Nightingale you shall have leave to see the Emperor at dinner this evening, for she is invited by His Majesty to come and sing to him.” Then they all went into the garden where the Nightingale lived, and on the way they heard the mooing of a cow.

“Oh, this must be the Nightingale! How wonderful that such a little bird has such a tremendous voice!” said they.

“That is not a bird singing, that is a cow mooing,” said the little kitchen maid. “We have a long way to go yet.”

A little farther on they heard some frogs croaking in the marsh. The Chinese Chaplain was with them and he said, “How sublime! That is just like the ringing of a church bell.”

“Why,” said the little kitchen maid, “those are frogs croaking, but very soon we shall hear her.”

Just then the Nightingale began to sing.

“Hark!” cried the little girl. “Listen!” and pointing to a little bird sitting up in the branches, said, “There she is.”

“It doesn’t seem possible that so very common looking a bird as that can sing,” said the First Lord. “It must be that she has lost her brilliant plumage because there are so many distinguished people here.”

Then the little kitchen maid called out, “Little Nightingale, our gracious Emperor invites you to sing before him this evening!”

“It will give me great pleasure to do so,” said the Nightingale; and then she began to sing so gloriously that they were all entranced. The First Lord said, “I have never heard anything so beautiful before. His Majesty will be delighted.”

The Nightingale, thinking the First Lord was the Emperor, said, “Shall I sing again for your Majesty?”

“My dear little bird,” said the First Lord, “His Most Gracious Highness has sent me to invite you to his palace this evening so that he may listen to your charming song.”

“It’s much better out here in the forest,” replied the Nightingale, but when she heard that the Emperor wished her to go to the palace, she gladly offered to go with them.

At the palace everything was splendidly prepared. The many lights made the porcelain walls and floors glitter, and the gorgeous tinkling flowers helped to make the place look very beautiful. The people moving back and forth caused the little golden bells to tinkle all the time. In the center of the great hall, in which was the Emperor’s throne, was a golden perch, put there for the Nightingale. The whole court was present, and the little kitchen maid, who had shown the First Lord where the bird could be found, was allowed to stand behind the door where she could see and hear everything. All were dressed in their best clothes and everyone looked toward the little bird, whom the Emperor requested to commence singing.

And how the Nightingale did sing! Very soon the tears came into the Emperor’s eyes and ran down his cheeks. At this the Nightingale sang even more beautifully, and the heart of everyone was touched. The Emperor was so delighted that he said she should wear the golden necklace around her neck, but the Nightingale said that she had already received a sufficient reward, for she had brought tears to the eyes of the Emperor.

Even the servants, who were always most difficult to please, said that they were greatly touched. This in itself proved how successful was the Nightingale’s concert.

The Emperor requested her to stay at the court, and he gave her a large golden cage and allowed her to go out twice every day. He provided her with twelve servants, each of whom held a silken string which was fastened to her leg, and you may be sure that she found but little pleasure flying about, hampered in this way.

Very soon everyone in the city was talking about the wonderful bird, and even the tradesmen’s children were all named after her, although none of them could sing a note.

Some time after this the Emperor received a large parcel on which was written “The Nightingale.”

“This must be another book about our famous bird,” said the Emperor.

But he was mistaken, for it was a mechanical toy, an artificial Nightingale which looked something like a real bird but was covered with jewels. When it was wound up it could sing the piece the real bird sang, and moved its tail up and down. Around its neck was a collar on which was written: “The Nightingale of the Emperor of Japan cannot be compared with that of the Emperor of China.”

“How wonderful!” said everyone, and the man who had brought the clock-work bird was given the title of “Bringer of the Imperial First Nightingale.”

They sang together, but it did not sound well, for the real Nightingale sang her own song, and the clock-work bird sang waltzes.

“It isn’t its fault!” said the bandmaster. “It keeps very good time and is quite after my style.”

Then the artificial bird had to sing alone. It was very pleasant to listen to, and it was also pretty to look at, as the jewels with which it was covered sparkled so. It sang the same piece many times without becoming tired, and then the Emperor thought that the real Nightingale should sing again. But she was not to be found; the window was open and without anybody seeing her go, she had flown away to her beloved forest.

The Emperor was very angry when it was discovered that the real bird had gone away, and everyone agreed that it was a very ungracious thing for her to have done. But they all said that the bird sent by the Japanese ruler was the better of the two, and especially did the bandmaster praise it. He said that one knew just what to expect from the artificial bird, but the real one would sing the most unusual tunes. The bird they had now could be opened, and the inside shown and explained, but if this were done to the other it would die.

Everyone agreed that what the bandmaster said was correct, and the Emperor commanded that all the people of the city should be allowed to listen to the bird’s beautiful music on a certain day of the following week.

So on the day appointed the bandmaster showed the jeweled bird to the people, and after they had heard it sing everyone said that its music was wonderful, that is all but the poor fisherman who had heard the real one, and he said: “This one looks very pretty and is quite pleasant to listen to, but its singing does not compare with that of the other.”

The Emperor banished the real bird from the kingdom, and the artificial one was put on a golden perch by the side of his bed, and was given the title of Imperial Nightsinger.

Several months passed away when one evening, as the Emperor lay in bed listening to it, something inside snapped, and the music stopped. The Royal Physician was summoned, but could do nothing. Then the Royal Clockmaker was called, and after examining it very carefully he took out the works, which he found to be almost worn out. It took him quite a long time to put these back again, but at last he got it into something like order, although he said it must not be used more than once a year, and then only for a very short time.

Some time after this the Emperor became very ill, and as the physicians said that he could not live for more than a few days, his successor was chosen.

The poor Emperor lay all alone in his great bed, and as everyone believed him to be dead the courtiers left him to pay their respects to the new ruler. But he was only in a trance, and when he came out of this he felt very lonely indeed, for there was no one to speak to him. He turned his head and saw the artificial bird by his bedside. A great longing for music came over him, and he cried: “Sing, golden bird! Please sing!”

But there was no one to wind it up, and he was too weak to do this himself. It was so quiet, and he felt so terribly lonely and sad that he was sure he was going to die.

Suddenly there came through the open window the sound of such beautiful music that new life came to the sick man. He raised his head, and saw, sitting upon the bough of a large tree, the real bird whom he had banished from his kingdom.

“What divine singing!” said the Emperor. “You have given me new life in return for my unkindness in banishing you from my kingdom. What can I do to reward you?”

“I need no more reward than the sight of the tears which came to your eyes when I first sang to you,” said the Nightingale. “That is something which I can never forget. But now you must sleep, and to-morrow, when you will feel much stronger, I can promise you such music as you would not believe possible.” The Emperor smiled happily, and fell at once into a deep, calm sleep.

He was awakened in the morning by the sun, which was shining brightly. So much better did he feel that he was able to get out of bed and walk to the open window, and there his eyes beheld a wonderful sight.

Upon every bough of the tree in front of him were perched many birds, and in the center of them sat the poor fisherman, who held to his lips a reed instrument. On seeing the Emperor at the window he gave a sign, and there came forth from the throats of the assembled birds such a glorious burst of melody that tears of thankfulness flowed from the Emperor’s eyes; he could scarcely believe that such wonderful music was possible.

No longer was he a sick man. The bird chorus had brought back to him the health and strength which all the doctors, with their medicines, had not been able to do. In his gratitude to the birds he gave them the tree for their very own, and the poor fisherman he appointed bandmaster-in-chief.

THE FAITHFUL RAJPOOT

One morning a soldier presented himself at King Sudraka’s palace gate, and asked the porter to secure an audience for him.

Having gained admittance to the King’s presence, he bowed and said:

“Your Highness, I am Vira-vara, a Rajpoot, who seeks employment.”

“What pay do you ask?” inquired the King.

“Fifty pieces of gold a day,” replied the soldier.

“And what will you do in return for so much money?” said the King.

“I have two strong arms, and this sabre, which shall be devoted to your Majesty’s service,” answered the Rajpoot.

“You ask too much,” said the King, “and I am afraid I cannot retain you, but I will confer with my Ministers about you.”

Then the King spoke to his Ministers, who agreed that the stipend asked was very large, but advised that he be given four days’ pay, and to see what the soldier should do to earn it. So this was done.

The King watched very closely to see how Vira-vara spent his pay, and found that half of it went towards the support of the Temple, a fourth was devoted to relieving the poor, and the remaining fourth only did he reserve for his own sustenance. This division he made at the beginning of each day, and then he would stand on guard with his sabre at the palace gate, from whence he would retire only upon receiving the royal permission.

One very, very dark night King Sudraka thought he heard the sound of someone outside the palace gate sobbing as though stricken with deepest grief. He called for his guard, and Vira-vara at once appeared.

“Did you hear a sound of weeping?” asked the King.

“I thought I did, your Majesty,” replied the Rajpoot.

“Then go and find out the cause,” said the King.

The soldier at once departed on his mission, but as soon as he had gone the King repented him of sending him out alone into a night so dark that a hole might be pierced in it with a needle, so he took his scimitar, and followed his guard beyond the city gates.

Vira-vara had not gone far when he almost stumbled over a woman who was weeping bitterly. By the dim light of a torch, which he had hurriedly picked up after leaving the King’s presence, he could see that she was a very beautiful and splendidly dressed lady.

“Why do you thus lament?” asked he.

“I am the Fortune of the King Sudraka,” answered she. “For a long while I lived happily in the shadow of his arm, but on the third day he will die, and therefore do I shed these bitter tears.”

“Can anything be done, dear lady, that will prolong your stay here?” asked the Rajpoot.

“Only one thing,” replied the Spirit, “but that I do not like to tell you.”

“Tell me what it is, and I swear to do it, out of loyalty to my kind Master,” said the faithful guard.

“Then,” said the Spirit Lady, “if you will cut off the head of your firstborn son, who has on his body the marks of greatness, and offer his head as a sacrifice to the all-helpful Goddess Durga, then shall I continue to be the guardian angel of the Rajah, even though he should live another hundred years.”

Having said this, she disappeared, and Vira-vara went to his own house and awoke his wife and son.

These two listened attentively while he repeated to them the words of the vision and then the son said: “I feel honored in that I may be the means of saving the King’s life; kill me quickly, for it is well that I can give my life to such a good cause.”

To this the Mother agreed, saying, “It is well, and worthy of our blood; how else should we deserve the King’s pay?”

Then they went to the temple of the Goddess Durga, and having paid their devotions and asked the favor of the deity on behalf of the King, Vira-vara struck off the head of his son, and laid it as an offering upon the shrine.

But the task had been too great for the Rajpoot. “Life without my boy is something I cannot bear to think of,” said he; “my service to the King is now ended.” Thereupon he plunged his sword into his own breast, and fell dead.

The sight of her husband and son, both lying dead at her feet, was too much for the grief-stricken mother, so she seized the blood-stained weapon, and with it slew herself.

Now all this was seen and heard by King Sudraka, who was just entering the gate of the temple, but so quickly did it happen, that he was unable to stop it. He hastened to where the bodies lay, and exclaimed: “Woe is me!”

Kings may come, and kings may go;

What was I to bring these low?

Souls so noble, slain for me,

Were not, and will never be!

Sorrowful indeed was he as he gazed upon the remains of his three faithful subjects. “Having lost these,” he said, “what do I care for myself or my kingdom.” Then he drew his scimitar, intending to take his own life.

But at that moment there appeared to him the Goddess, who is mistress of all men’s fortunes. She stayed his uplifted hand, and said:

“Son, forbear, do not this rash deed; think of your kingdom.”

The Rajah prostrated himself before her, and cried: “O Goddess! I am finished with life and wealth and country! Have pity on me, and let my death restore these faithful ones to life; I must follow in their path.”

“Your affection finds favor in my sight, and is pleasing to me, Son,” said the Goddess. “As a reward the Rajpoot, his wife and son shall be restored to life, and many years shall they live in your service.”

With this assurance the King returned to his palace, and very soon he saw Vira-vara return and take up his station at the palace gate.

The Rajah sent for him and asked if he had discovered the cause of the weeping.

Now:

He is brave whose tongue is silent on the trophies of his sword;

He is great whose quiet bearing marks his greatness well assured.

So the Rajpoot merely said: “It was a woman weeping, your Highness, and she disappeared on my approach.”

The next day the King summoned his ministers and told them all that had happened, and he made the faithful guard his Grand Vizir.

THE TALE OF TWO MERCHANTS OF EGYPT AND BAGDAD

Once upon a time there were two wealthy merchants, one of whom lived in Egypt and the other in Bagdad. Although they had never yet seen one another they had transacted much business together by means of messengers, who passed frequently between them. Both were men of honor and good repute, and each came to think of the other as a real friend. If anything unusual should happen in the land of Egypt, the merchant of that country would send word of it to the other in Bagdad, who, in like manner, would in turn send news of events in his own land. So, without either of them having seen the other, much kindness was shown on both sides.

One night, as the merchant of Bagdad lay upon his bed, he said to himself: “My correspondent in Egypt has shown much friendship toward me, and as I have never seen him I will pay him a visit.” So he hired a ship and went to Egypt, where his friend met him, and received him with great pleasure.

At the house of the Egyptian the merchant of Bagdad met a girl of wondrous beauty, and so smitten was he with her charms that he fell sick and pined away.

“My friend,” said the other, “What is the matter with you that you neither eat nor drink?”

“There is a woman of your household upon whom my heart has fixed itself,” returned his comrade, “and unless I may marry her, I shall die.” Thereupon the Egyptian summoned all the household before him, save only the girl in question, but the man from Bagdad said: “I care little for any of these; she whom I love is not among them.” Then this girl was brought before him, and he said that to her alone must he owe his life.

“My friend,” said the other, “I brought up this girl with the intention of making her my wife, and through her I shall obtain much wealth. But, so great is my friendship for you that I give her to you with all the riches which would have fallen to my share.”

So the sick merchant, overjoyed at his good fortune, received both the lady and her wealth, and returned with her to Bagdad.

After a while ill-fortune came to the merchant of Egypt, and he was without home or money. Then said he: “I will go to my friend of Bagdad, from whom I am sure to receive aid.”

So he went to Bagdad, and as he reached that city during the night, he did not like to awaken his friend, thinking that, poorly dressed, desolate and destitute as he was, he might not know him, so he decided to wait until the next day. Happening to look toward a burial-ground, he saw that the doors of the mosque there were open, so here he determined to remain for the night.

He had not been in the mosque long before two men entered. They were quarrelling, and soon began to fight, and in the end one killed the other, and fled.

The alarm was spread, and went through the whole city. “Where is the murderer?” was the general cry.

The thought came to the Egyptian that to die would bring an end to his troubles, and so he said to the searchers: “I am he.” Then they laid hands on him, and led him away to prison. In the morning he was taken before the judge, who sentenced him to death.

Now among those who went to witness the execution was the merchant whom he had befriended, and who knew him at once. He was horrified at the sad plight of his friend.

“What!” cried he, “Shall he be done to death while I live?” Then he raised his voice and shouted: “Hold! Do not destroy an innocent man. I am the murderer, and not he.”

He was at once arrested, and both were taken to the place of execution. The sentence was about to be carried out when there came another interruption, this time from the real murderer, who happened to be present.

Seeing these two men about to die for a crime which he had committed, he was filled with remorse. He said to himself: “I will not permit innocent blood to be shed; if I do, the vengeance of God will sooner or later overtake me, and it is better to suffer a short pain in this world than to be in everlasting torment in the next.”

So he cried out, “Slay not the guiltless, for neither of these men has done murder. I only am the criminal; let them go.”

The people were filled with amazement, and the three men were at once taken to the judge, who was much astonished at this unusual occurrence. The matter was explained to him, and then, addressing the Egyptian, he said:

“Friend, why did you confess yourself the murderer?”

“My lord,” answered he, “I will tell you the reason. In my own land I was, until recently, a man of wealth, and had all that riches could buy, but through no fault of mine I lost all this, and am now destitute. I was ashamed at my condition, and saw, in this confession, an end to my misfortunes. I am willing to die, and beseech you to order my death.”

The judge then turned to the merchant of Bagdad and said: “And you, my friend; why did you acknowledge yourself to be the murderer?”

The merchant replied: “My lord, this man is my benefactor. I have enjoyed his hospitality, and while at his home he bestowed upon me a wife, whom he had educated for his own, and who possessed great wealth. When, therefore, I saw my friend being led to his death, I proclaimed myself the murderer, hoping thus to take his place. For his love I would willingly perish.”

It was now the turn of the third man, who was the real criminal. The judge asked him what he had to say for himself, and he answered:

“When I confessed, I told the truth. The burden which would have been mine had I allowed these two innocent men to suffer death for a crime that was my own would have been too heavy for me to bear, and I preferred to pay the penalty.”

For some time the judge considered the stories of the three men, then he said to the last one to speak:

“As you have declared the truth and thereby saved the lives of two innocent men, I pardon you. Study to amend your future life, and go in peace.”

The decision of the judge was praised by all the people, who were quick to acknowledge the generosity of the merchant who would have given his life to save his friend, and the honorable manner in which the guilty person had rescued from death the two who were innocent.

PUNCHKIN

Once upon a time there was a Rajah who had seven daughters. They were all good, beautiful and clever girls, but especially so was the youngest, whose name was Balna. The Rajah’s wife died when they were very little children, so these seven Princesses grew up without having a loving mother to watch over and care for them.

As soon as they were old enough, the Rajah’s daughters took turns every day to cook their father’s dinner, while he was busily engaged with his ministers in directing the affairs of his country.

About this time the Prime Minister died, leaving a widow and one daughter, and every day, when the Princesses were getting the Rajah’s dinner ready, the widow and her daughter would come and beg for some fire from the hearth. Balna would say to her sisters: “Let us send that woman away; why does she want our fire, when she has her own house? If we continue to allow her to come here, we shall some day be sorry for it.”

But the other sisters rebuked her, and so the widow continued to take some fire from the hearth, but while no one was looking, she would throw some mud into the dishes which were being prepared for the Rajah’s dinner.

One of the reasons that the daughters always prepared the food for their father was that there should be no danger of his being poisoned by his enemies, so when he found the mud mixed with his dinner he thought it was because they were careless; he knew they would not do such a thing on purpose. He loved them all very much, and hadn’t the heart to reprove them, even though his meals were spoiled for several days.

This happened so often that it puzzled him, and so he made up his mind one day to hide, and watch his daughters cooking; so, going into the room next to the kitchen, he saw everything through a hole in the wall.

His daughters carefully washed the rice and prepared the curry, and when these were ready, they put each dish on the fire. Very soon the widow came to the door, and begged for a few sticks from the fire with which to cook her own dinner. Balna was angry with her, as usual, and said: “Why don’t you keep fuel in your own house, instead of coming here every day and taking ours? Sisters, don’t give her any more wood; let her use her own.”

But the others said: “The poor woman is doing us no harm, so let her take a little wood and fire.” Balna replied, “Perhaps some day she will do us harm, and then we shall all be sorry for it.”

Then the Rajah saw the Prime Minister’s widow go to the hearth, and as she took the wood, throw some mud into each of the dishes.

This made him very angry, and he ordered that the woman be brought before him.

This was done, but the widow spoke to him so very cleverly, saying that she had done this thing only that she might gain an audience with him, and so cunningly did she speak that she actually pleased him well with her words, and instead of punishing her, the Rajah married her; so she and her daughter came to the palace to live.

The new Ranee hated the seven poor Princesses, and wanted to get rid of them, so that her daughter might have all their riches. She was very unkind to them, and made them as miserable as she could, giving them only bread to eat and water to drink, and very little of either. This was very hard for the seven poor Princesses, who had always been used to the best of everything, and each day they would sit by their dead mother’s tomb, and say:

“Oh, mother, cannot you see how unhappy and miserable your poor children are, and how our cruel stepmother is starving us?”

One day, while they were thus engaged, a beautiful pomelo tree grew up out of the grave, covered with fresh ripe pomelos, and the children certainly enjoyed the delicious fruit. And each day after this, instead of eating the poor food their stepmother provided for them, they would go to their mother’s grave and eat the pomelos which grew there on the tree.

The stepmother was astonished that the seven girls should eat nothing and yet be well, so she told her daughter to watch them.

Next day the Prime Minister’s daughter followed them, and saw the Princesses gather and eat the pomelos.

Balna saw the girl watching them, and said to her sisters: “Let us drive that girl away, or else she will tell her mother all about it, and then we shall be worse off than ever.”

But they said: “Do not be unkind, Balna. The girl would never be so cruel as to tell her mother. Let us instead ask her to come and have some of the fruit.” So they called to her, and gave her some of the pomelos.

As soon as she could, however, she left the Princesses, and went to her mother, and told her all about the pomelo tree. She said she had eaten some, and they were the nicest she had ever tasted.

This made the cruel Ranee very angry, and the next day she told the Rajah that she had a very bad headache, and would have to stay in bed.

The Rajah was much upset, and asked what he could do for her.

She replied that there was only one thing that would cure her, and that was to boil a fine pomelo tree, root and branch, that grew on his dead wife’s grave, and to put some of the water in which it had been boiled on her forehead. So the Raja did as the Ranee desired, and then she declared that she was quite well.

Next day the Princesses went as usual to their mother’s grave, and when they found that the pomelo tree had disappeared, they wept bitterly.

As they sat there crying they saw by the tomb a small tank filled with a rich cream-like substance, which hardened into a thick white cake. They ate some of this, and liked it. Next day the same thing happened, and so it went on for many days.

The cruel stepmother said to her daughter: “I don’t understand this; I have had the pomelo tree destroyed, and yet the Princesses are as well as ever, although they never eat the dinner I give them. You must watch them again.”

Next day, while the Princesses were eating the cream-cake, along came their stepmother’s daughter. Balna saw her first, and said: “Here comes that girl again. Let us sit around the edge of the tank and not allow her to see it, for if we give her some of the cake she will go and tell her mother, and that will be very unfortunate for us.”

But instead of following her advice the other sisters gave the girl some of the cake, and she went straight home and told her mother all about it.

This made the Ranee more angry than before, and she sent her servants to pull down the tomb and fill the little tank with the ruins. The next day she pretended to be very ill indeed, and told the rajah that she was at the point of death.

This grieved him greatly, and he asked her if there were any remedy he could get for her. She replied that only one thing could save her life, but this she knew he would not do. He said that whatever it was, he would do it.

Then she told him that if he would save her life, he must kill his seven daughters, and put some of their blood on her forehead and on the palms of her hands; that their death would be her life.

This made the Rajah very sad, but he had promised, and feared to break his word, so with a heavy heart he went to seek his daughters, whom he found crying by the ruins of their mother’s grave.

Knowing that he could not kill them he spoke kindly to them, and told them to come out into the jungle with him. There he made a fire, and cooked some rice, which they ate.

It was a hot afternoon and all the Princesses fell asleep, and then the Rajah stole away and left them, saying to himself, “It is better that my poor daughters die here rather than be killed by their stepmother.”

Then he shot a deer, and returning home, put some of its blood on the forehead and hands of the Ranee, who thought that he had really killed his daughters, and said she felt quite well.

When the seven Princesses awoke and found themselves all alone in the thick jungle, they were frightened, and called out as loud as they could, hoping to make their father hear; but he was too far away by that time.

It so happened that this very day the seven young sons of a neighboring Rajah chanced to be hunting in the same jungle, and as they were returning home, after the day’s sport was over, the youngest Prince said to his brothers: “Stop, I think I hear someone crying and calling out. Let us go in the direction of the sound, and find out what it is.”

So the seven Princes rode through the wood until they came to the place where the seven Princesses sat crying and wringing their hands. At the sight of them the young Princes were very much astonished, and still more so on learning their story. They then decided that each should take one of the unfortunate young ladies home with him and marry her.

The eldest Prince took the eldest Princess home with him and married her.

The second took the second; the third took the third; the fourth took the fourth; the fifth took the fifth; the sixth took the sixth, and the seventh, the handsomest of all the Princes, took the beautiful and clever Balna.

There was great rejoicing throughout the kingdom when the seven young Princes married the seven beautiful Princesses.

About a year later Balna had a little son, and his uncles and aunts were so fond of him that he was in great danger of being spoiled. None of the other Princesses had any children, so Balna’s son was acknowledged their heir by all of them.

They lived very happily for some time, when one day Balna’s husband decided to go out hunting, and away he went. They waited a long time for his return, but he never came back.

His six brothers went in search of him, but none of them returned. And the seven Princesses grieved greatly, for they feared that their kind husbands had been killed.

One day, not long after this, as Balna was rocking her baby’s cradle, and whilst her sisters were working in the room below, there came to the palace door a man in a long black cloak, who said he was a Fakir, and had come to beg. The servants would not let him enter the palace, saying that the Rajah’s sons had all gone away, and they feared that they were dead, and their widows must not be interrupted by his begging. But he said, “I am a holy man and you must let me in.” Then the stupid servants let him walk through the palace; they did not know that he was no Fakir, but a wicked Magician named Punchkin.

He wandered through the palace, looking at the beautiful things there, and at length reached the room where Balna sat singing to her little boy. The Magician thought her more beautiful than all the other beautiful things he had seen, and he asked her to go home with him and to marry him. But she said: “I fear my husband is dead, but my little boy is still very young; I will stay here and teach him to grow up to be a clever man, and when he is old enough he shall go out into the world and seek news of his father. Heaven forbid that I should ever leave him, or marry you.”

This made the Magician very angry, so he turned her into a little black dog, and led her away, saying, “Since you will not come with me of your own free will, I will make you.” So the poor Princess was dragged away, unable to escape or to let her sisters know what had become of her.

As Punchkin went through the palace gate the servants asked him where he got that pretty little dog, and he replied that one of the Princesses had given it to him, so they allowed him to depart.

Very soon the six elder Princesses heard their nephew cry, and when they went upstairs were much surprised to find him all alone, and Balna nowhere to be seen. They questioned the servants, and when they heard of the Fakir and the little black dog they guessed what had happened and sent in every direction, but neither the Fakir nor the dog was to be found. They could do nothing, and gave up all hopes of ever seeing their kind husbands and their sister and her husband again, and so devoted themselves to the care and teaching of their little nephew.

Time went on, and Balna’s son was fourteen years old. Then his aunts told him the whole story. No sooner had he heard this than he was seized with a great desire to go in search of his father and mother and uncles, and if he could find them alive to bring them home again. On learning his determination his aunts were much alarmed, saying, “We have lost our husbands and our sister and her husband and you are now our only hope; if you go away, what shall we do?” But he replied, “Do not be discouraged; I will soon return, and if it is possible will bring my mother and father and uncles with me.” So he set out on his travels, but for several months could learn nothing that would help him in his search.

After journeying many hundreds of weary miles, and having become almost hopeless of hearing anything further of his parents and uncles, he reached a country that was full of rocks and stones and trees, and there he saw a large palace with a high tower, near which was a Malee’s little house.

As he was looking about the Malee’s wife saw him, and ran out of the house and said: “My dear boy, who are you that dare venture to this dangerous place?”

He answered, “I am a Rajah’s son, and I am in search of my father and mother and my uncles, whom a wicked enchanter bewitched.”

Then said the Malee’s wife: “This country and this palace belong to a great Magician, who is all-powerful, and if anyone displeases him he turns them into stones and trees. All the rocks and trees you see here were once living people, and the enchanter turned them into what they now are. Some time ago a Rajah’s son came here, and soon afterwards came his six brothers, and all of them were turned into stones and trees; and these are not the only unfortunate ones, for up in that tower lives a beautiful Princess whom the Magician has kept prisoner there for twelve years, because she hates him and will not marry him.”

The young Prince said to himself, “At last I have found what I seek; these must be my parents and uncles.” So he told his story to the Malee’s wife, and begged her to help him. This she agreed to do, and advised him to disguise himself, lest the Magician should see him and turn him into stone. So she dressed him up in a saree, and pretended that he was her daughter.

One day, not long after this, as the Magician was walking in his garden he saw a little girl (as he thought) playing about, and asked her who she was. She told him she was the Malee’s daughter, and the Magician said, “You are a very pretty little girl, and to-morrow you shall take a present of flowers from me to the beautiful lady who lives in the tower.”

This delighted the young Prince, who went immediately to inform the Malee’s wife.

Now it happened that when Balna was married her husband had given her a small gold ring on which her name was engraved, and she had put it on her little son’s finger when he was a baby, and later on it was enlarged, so that he was still able to wear it. The Malee’s wife advised him to fasten this ring to the bouquet he was to present to his mother, and she would surely recognize it.

This the young Prince did the next day when he took the flowers to the imprisoned Princess. Balna knew the ring at once, and believed the story her son told her of his long search. She told him how the Magician had kept her shut up in the tower for twelve long years because she refused to marry him, and had kept her so closely guarded that there was no hope of release. She begged him to advise her what to do, and at the same time refused to allow him to endanger his own life by attempting to rescue her.

Balna’s son was a very clever boy, and he said: “Dear mother, have no fear; the first thing to do is to find out how far the Magician’s power extends, in order that we may be able to free my father and uncles. You have been angry with him for twelve long years, now speak kindly to him. Say that you have given up all hopes of seeing your husband again, and that you are willing to marry him. Then try to find out where his power lies, and if it is possible to put him to death.”

So the next day Balna sent for Punchkin, and spoke to him as her son had suggested. The Magician was overwhelmed with joy at this change, and asked that the wedding take place as soon as possible.

But she said that before she married him she must learn to know him better, they having been enemies for so long, and a closer acquaintance with him was necessary in order to strengthen their friendship. “And do tell me,” she said, “if you are quite immortal. Can death never come to you?”

“Why do you ask?” said he.

“Because,” she replied, “if I am to be your wife, I want to know all about you, so that if any calamity threatens you, I may help to overcome, or perhaps avert it.”

“Certainly I am not as others,” said he. “Far, far away, thousands of miles from here, is a desolate country covered with heavy jungles, in the midst of which grows a circle of palm trees, in the center of which stand six jugs full of water, piled one above the other, and below the sixth is a cage which contains a little green parrot. On this parrot my life depends, for if this parrot is killed I must die. But it is impossible that the parrot should come to any harm, both because of the inaccessibility of the country, and because I have many thousands of genii surrounding the palm trees, who kill anyone attempting to approach the place.”

All this Balna told her son, at the same time imploring him to make no attempt to kill the parrot.

But the young Prince replied: “Dear Mother, if I do not find that parrot, neither you nor my uncles can be liberated. Do not fear; I shall return in good season. In the meantime, keep the Magician in good humor, and put off the marriage with him in any way you can. Before he finds out the reason for the delay I will return.” With this he went away.

He travelled many weary miles through a very desolate country, and at last came to a thick jungle. Being very tired, he sat down under a tree and fell asleep. Suddenly he was awakened by a rustling sound, and looking about him, saw a large serpent making its way to an eagle’s nest which was in the tree beneath which he was, and in the nest were two young eagles. He at once drew his sword and killed the serpent. At this moment a rushing sound was heard in the air, and the two old eagles, who had been hunting food for their little ones, returned. They saw the dead serpent and the young Prince standing over it, and the mother eagle said to him: “For many years our young ones have been devoured by that cruel serpent, and you have now saved the lives of our children; whenever you may need our help, send to us, and as for these little eagles, take them, and let them be your servants.”

Then was the Prince glad. He told them of the spot he wished to reach, and so the two eaglets crossed their wings, on which he mounted, and they carried him far away over the thick jungles until he reached the circle of palm trees, in the midst of which stood the six jugs full of water. It was the hottest part of the day, and all round the trees the genii were fast asleep. There were many thousands of them, so that it would have been impossible for anyone to walk through their ranks, but they had not thought that an attempt to reach the spot could be made from above. Down swooped the strong-winged eaglets, and down jumped the Prince. In the twinkling of an eye he had overthrown the six jugs full of water, seized the little parrot, which he rolled up in his cloak, and mounted again into the air. Of course, this awoke the genii, who filled the air with their howls and screeches when they found the treasure gone.

Away flew the eaglets, and when they had reached their home in the tree the Prince said to the old eagles, “Here are your little ones, who have done me good service. If I ever need your help again I will not fail to ask you for it.” He then continued his journey on foot until he arrived at the Magician’s palace, at the door of which he sat down and began playing with the parrot.

Punchkin saw him, and came to him at once, and said: “My boy, where did you get that parrot? I pray you, give it to me.”

The Prince answered, “This parrot is a great pet of mine, and I cannot give it away.”

Then the Magician asked him to sell it to him if he would not give it, but this the Prince said he would not do.

Then was Punchkin filled with fear, and said he would give him anything he might ask for it.

The Prince answered, “Liberate at once the Rajah’s seven sons whom you turned into rocks and stones.”

“I will do it at once,” said the Magician. And with a wave of his wand Balna’s husband and his brothers resumed their natural shapes.

“Now give me the parrot,” implored Punchkin.

“Just wait a minute,” said the Prince. “You will first restore to life all whom you have thus imprisoned.”

This the Magician did immediately, and then, in a trembling voice, cried, “Give me my parrot.”

And now the whole garden was alive with people. Where there had been rocks and stones now stood Rajahs, Punts, Sirdars, men on horseback, pages and servants.

“Give me my parrot!” cried Punchkin. But the only reply the boy made was to break off one of its wings, and as he did so the Magician’s right arm fell off.

With his left arm outstretched Punchkin cried, “Give me my parrot!” Off came the second wing, and the Magician’s left arm fell to the ground.

On his knees he begged, “Give me my parrot!” Then the Prince pulled off the right leg, and the Magician’s right leg fell off. The parrot’s left leg came off, and at once Punchkin’s left leg fell down.

And now there remained only the Magician’s body and head, but still he cried, “Give me my parrot!”

“Take your parrot, then,” said the boy, and with this he wrung the bird’s neck and threw it at what was left of the Magician. As the parrot’s neck was wrung, Punchkin’s head twisted around, and with a groan, he fell dead.

Then they released Balna from the tower, and all of them returned to their own palace; and it can be imagined with what joy the seven husbands and seven wives and their nephew met again.

PRINCESS MOONLIGHT

Many years ago there lived a poor old bamboo-cutter, whose great sorrow it was that Heaven had sent no child to cheer his wife and himself in their old age. Every morning he went into the woods in search of the lithe bamboo, which he would split lengthwise or cut into joints, and these he would take home with him, and his wife would turn them into useful or ornamental articles for the household, and sell them.

While working at his task one day in a small grove of the slender trees that he had discovered, he was surprised by a soft, bright light which suddenly flooded the spot in which he was, and he was astonished to see that all this brilliance came from one bamboo.

Marvelling at the beautiful sight, he went to this bamboo stem, in the hollow of which was a tiny, but exceedingly beautiful, little girl, about three inches in height.

“As I have found you here where lies my daily work,” said the old man, “I must look upon you as a child sent from Heaven.” So, very carefully he took the exquisite little creature home to his wife, and both of them were filled with joy because there was now a child, come to them in a most marvelous manner, upon whom they could devote the love of their old age.

And with the child came good fortune, for from this time the old man found gold and precious stones in the notches of the bamboos when he cut them up, so that before long he was rich enough to retire, and he built a fine house in which they all lived very happily.

The bamboo child was no ordinary child, for in a very few months she was quite grown-up, and so beautiful was she that the old people treated her like a princess, and allowed no one to see her or wait upon her but themselves. Her very presence made them happy, and no trace of sorrow could exist where she was. And wherever she might be a beautiful, soft light made the place radiant. And so they called her Princess Moonlight, because they thought that only a daughter of the Moon God could give forth such a soft, bright light.

Of course, the fame of so lovely a Princess spread far and wide, and many were the suitors who sought to win her hand. Not only from that country, but from foreign lands did they come, and the house was constantly surrounded by those who hoped to catch even a glimpse of her through the windows, or as she walked in the garden. But to none of them would the old man grant permission to address his adopted daughter, and at last all but five of them lost hope, and departed to their homes.

These five were very determined knights, whose ardor became the greater as their quest became the more difficult. They stood outside the garden walls in sunshine and rain, eating only such food as was brought to them. They wrote letters and verses to the Princess, telling her of the great love for her which prevented them from returning to their own homes, and even from taking rest and sleep. But no word did they receive from the Princess.

Winter and Spring passed, and Summer came, and still the knights watched and waited. They besought the old man to intercede for them, but he answered that he was not her real father, and that he could not order her to obey him, and also that he would not ask her to do anything she did not wish to do.

At length the five knights returned to their homes, where they tried to forget Princess Moonlight, but this they could not do, so they again came to the bamboo-cutter’s house. This time they asked the old man to tell them if the Princess was determined to never see any men. They begged him to say that their love for her was boundless, and ask for an opportunity to plead their cause.

Now, the old man would gladly have seen his lovely foster-daughter married to one of these suitors, and he felt sorry for them, so he said to the Princess:

“Dear one, you know that I love you quite as much as though you were my real child, and that there is nothing I would not do to make you happy. I cannot live many more years, for I am already old, and it would be a great satisfaction for me to know that you are happily married before the time comes for me to die. Will you not consent to see these five brave knights, one at a time, and make up your mind which of them you will marry?”

The Princess replied that she could not love her own father any more than she loved him, and that her greatest wish was to please him. Still, she did not feel that she could see the five knights, even though assured that they were worthy, but would make one more trial of their love, and if they were successful in this, then would she grant their request. Each of them was to prove his love by bringing to her from a distant country something that she wished to possess.

The bamboo-cutter then went out to the five knights, and told them what the Princess had said, and all of them were satisfied, because the test given to each one would prevent jealousy between them.

So the next day Princess Moonlight sent word to the first knight that she wished him to bring her the stone bowl which had belonged to Buddha in India.

The second knight was to go to the Mountain of Horai, in the Eastern Sea, and to bring her a branch of the wonderful jewel-tree that grew on its topmost height.

The third knight was to search through China for the fire-rat, and to bring her its skin.

The fourth knight was to find the dragon whose right eye was a many-colored stone, and to bring the eye to her.

The fifth knight was to find the swallow which carried a shell in its stomach, and which lived in the Aegean Sea, and to bring her the shell.

These tasks seemed to the old man to be so impossible of accomplishment that he didn’t like to take the messages, but the Princess refused to make any change in them, so he gave them to the knights word for word.

The knights were so disheartened by the tests given them, that they returned to their homes, resolved to forget the beautiful Princess, but each found himself unable to do this, so before long they had all sent word that they were starting out on their respective quests.

Now travel in those days was not easy, but full of danger and difficulty, and the first knight lacked the courage to go to India. So he went to a temple in one of the large cities of Japan, and bribed the head priest to let him take away a stone bowl which was on the altar there. He wrapped this up very carefully, and after waiting for two years, took it to the old bamboo-cutter.

The Princess received the package, and unwrapped it, but saw at once that it was a sham, and not the bowl of Buddha, because it did not shine as the true one would have done. So she returned it to the knight, and refused to see him.

The second knight, with twelve skilled jewelers, went to an island he knew of, and there they designed a gold and silver branch which he was sure would satisfy the Princess. To hold this branch he had his goldsmiths make a beautiful box, and when sufficient time had elapsed he took it to the bamboo-cutter, asking him to tell the Princess that here was the branch of the wonderful jewel-tree that grew on the topmost height of Mount Horai.

Princess Moonlight opened the box and took out the jeweled branch, but she saw at once that it was not what the knight stated it to be. And even as she was looking at it, the old man was summoned to the door by the twelve jewelers who had designed and made the beautiful thing, but who had not been paid for their work. The Princess overheard their conversation with her foster-father, and then directed that they be well paid for what they had done. They then went away, after thanking the Princess for her kindness. But the knight returned to his home, a sadly disappointed man.

The task of the third knight was to get the skin of the fire-rat, whose virtue was that no fire could harm it. Now he had a friend who lived in China, and to him he wrote, offering him a very large sum of money if he would procure that which he desired.

This friend was very willing to accept the knight’s money, but wished to earn it without putting himself to any more trouble than was necessary, so he waited for quite a while, and then sent him the skin of an ordinary rat, also a message which told him of the hardships he had undergone in order to procure it.

This skin the third knight took to the bamboo-cutter, saying that he would wait outside the gate for the Princess’s answer.

The Princess took the package from the old man, and said she would test the skin by putting it in the fire before consenting to see the knight. This she did, and of course the skin just crackled and burned up at once, so she knew it was a fraud.

Thus the third knight failed to see her.

The task of the fourth knight was to find the dragon whose right eye was a many-colored stone, but instead of seeking it himself he called several of his retainers together, and ordered them to search through China and Japan, and not to return unless they brought it with them.

But they, having no idea of obeying what they considered to be an impossible order, merely used this as an excuse for taking a pleasant holiday.