TURKISH FAIRY TALES

Turkish Fairy Tales
AND FOLK TALES

Collected by Dʳ. Ignácz Kúnos
Translated from the Hungarian version
By
R.Nisbet.Bain.
Illustrated by
Celia Levetus
London
A. H. Bullen
18 Cecil Court, W.C.
1901

PREFACE

THESE stories were collected from the mouths of the Turkish peasantry by the Hungarian savant Dr. Ignatius Kunos, during his travels through Anatolia,[1] and published for the first time in 1889 by the well-known Hungarian Literary Society, “A Kisfaludy Társaság,” under the Title of Török Népmések (“Turkish Folk Tales”), with an introduction by Professor Vámbery. That distinguished Orientalist, certainly the greatest living authority on the primitive culture of the Turko-Tartaric peoples, who is as familiar with Uzbeg epics and Uiguric didactics as with the poetical masterpieces of Western Europe, is enthusiastic in his praises of these folk-tales. He compares the treasures of Turkish folk-lore to precious stones lying neglected in the byways of philology for want of gleaners to gather them in, and he warns the student of ethnology that when once the threatened railroad actually invades the classic land of Anatolia, these naively poetical myths and legends will, infallibly, be the first victims of Western civilization.

The almost unique collection of Dr. Ignatius Kunos may therefore be regarded as a brand snatched from the burning; in any case it is an important “find,” as well for the scientific folk-lorist as for the lover of fairy-tales pure and simple. That these stories should contain anything absolutely new is, indeed, too much to expect. Professor Vámbery himself traces affinities between many of them and other purely Oriental stories which form the bases of The Arabian Nights. A few Slavonic and Scandinavian elements are also plainly distinguishable, such, for instance, as that mysterious fowl, the Emerald Anka, obviously no very distant relative of the Bird Mogol and the Bird Zhar, which figure in my Russian Fairy Tales and Cossack Fairy Tales and Folk Tales respectively, while the story of the Enchanted Turban is, in some particulars, curiously like Hans Andersen’s story, The Travelling Companion. Nevertheless, these tales have a character peculiarly their own; above all, they are remarkable for a vivid imaginativeness, a gorgeous play of fancy, compared with which the imagery of the most popular fairy tales of the West seem almost prosaically jejune, and if, as Professor Vámbery suggests, these Népmések provide the sort of entertainment which beguiles the leisure of the Turkish ladies while they sip their mocha and whiff their fragrant narghilies, we cannot but admire the poetical taste and nice discrimination, in this respect, of the harem and the seraglio.

I have Englished these tales from the first Hungarian edition, so that this version is, perhaps, open to the objection of being a translation of a translation. Inasmuch, however, as I have followed my text very closely, and having regard to the fact that Hungarian and Turkish are closely cognate dialects (in point of grammatical construction they are practically identical), I do not think they will be found to have lost so very much of their original fragrance and flavour.

I have supplemented these purely Turkish with four semi-Turkish tales translated from the original Roumanian of Ispirescu’s Legende sau Basmele Românilorŭ. Bucharest, 1892. This collection, which I commend to the notice of the Folk-Lore Society, is very curious and original, abounding as it does in extraordinarily bizarre and beautiful variants of the best-known fairy tales, a very natural result of the peculiar combination in Roumanian of such heterogeneous elements as Romance, Slavonic, Magyar, and Turkish.

R. Nisbet Bain.

July 1896

CONTENTS

TURKISH FAIRY TALES

THE STAG-PRINCE

Once upon a time, when the servants of Allah were many, there lived a Padishah[2] who had one son and one daughter. The Padishah grew old, his time came, and he died; his son ruled in his stead, and he had not ruled very long before he had squandered away his whole inheritance.

One day he said to his sister: “Little sister! all our money is spent. If people were to hear that we had nothing left they would drive us out of doors, and we should never be able to look our fellow-men in the face again. Far better, therefore, if we depart and take up our abode elsewhere.” So they tied together the little they had left, and then the brother and sister quitted their father’s palace in the night-time, and wandered forth into the wide world.

They went on and on till they came to a vast sandy desert, where they were like to have fallen to the ground for the burning heat. The youth felt that he could go not a step further, when he saw on the ground a little puddle of water. “Little sister!” said he, “I will not go a step further till I have drunk this water.”

“Nay, dear brother!” replied the girl, “who can tell whether it be really water or filth? If we have held up so long, surely we can hold up a little longer. Water we are bound to find soon.”

“I tell thee,” replied her brother, “that I’ll not go another step further till I have drunk up this puddle, though I die for it,”—and with that he knelt down, sucked up every drop of the dirty water, and instantly became a stag.

The little sister wept bitterly at this mischance; but there was nothing for it but to go on as they were. They went on and on, up hill and down dale, right across the sandy waste till they came to a full spring beneath a large tree, and there they sat them down and rested. “Hearken now, little sister!” said the stag, “thou must mount up into that tree, while I go to see if I can find something to eat.” So the girl climbed up into the tree, and the stag went about his business, ran up hill and down dale, caught a hare, brought it back, and he and his sister ate it together, and so they lived from day to day and from week to week.

Now the horses of the Padishah of that country were wont to be watered at the spring beneath the large tree. One evening the horsemen led their horses up to it as usual, but, just as they were on the point of drinking, they caught sight of the reflection of the damsel in the watery mirror and reared back. The horsemen fancied that perhaps the water was not quite pure, so they drew off the trough and filled it afresh, but again the horses reared backwards and would not drink of it. The horsemen knew not what to make of it, so they went and told the Padishah.

“Perchance the water is muddy,” said the Padishah.

“Nay,” replied the horsemen, “we emptied the trough once and filled it full again with fresh water, and yet the horses would not drink of it.”

“Go again,” said their master, “and look well about you; perchance there is some one near the spring of whom they are afraid.”

The horsemen returned, and, looking well about the spring, cast their eyes at last upon the large tree, on the top of which they perceived the damsel. They immediately went back and told the Padishah. The Padishah took the trouble to go and look for himself, and raising his eyes perceived in the tree a damsel as lovely as the moon when she is fourteen days old, so that he absolutely could not take his eyes off her. “Art thou a spirit or a peri?”[3] said the Padishah to the damsel.

“I am neither a spirit nor a peri, but a mortal as thou art,” replied the damsel.

In vain the Padishah begged her to come down from the tree. In vain he implored her, nothing he could say would make her come down. Then the Padishah waxed wroth. He commanded them to cut down the tree. The men brought their axes and fell a-hewing at the tree. They hewed away at the vast tree, they hewed and hewed until only a little strip of solid trunk remained to be cut through; but, meanwhile, eventide had drawn nigh and it began to grow dark, so they left off their work, which they purposed to finish next day.

Scarcely had they departed when the stag came running out of the forest, looked at the tree, and asked the little sister what had happened. The girl told him that she would not descend from the tree, so they had tried to cut it down. “Thou didst well,” replied the stag, “and take care thou dost not come down in future, whatever they may say.” With that he went to the tree, licked it with his tongue, and immediately the tree grew bigger round the hewed trunk than before.

The Damsel and the Old Witch.—p. 5.

The next day, when the stag had again departed about his business, the Padishah’s men came and saw that the tree was larger and harder round the trunk than ever. Again they set to work hewing at the tree, and hewed and hewed till they had cut half through it; but by that time evening fell upon them again, and again they put off the rest of the work till the morrow and went home.

But all their labour was lost, for the stag came again, licked the gap in the tree with his tongue, and immediately it grew thicker and harder than ever.

Early next morning, when the stag had only just departed, the Padishah and his wood-cutters again came to the tree, and when they saw that the trunk of the tree had filled up again larger and firmer than ever, they determined to try some other means. So they went home again and sent for a famous old witch, told her of the damsel in the tree, and promised her a rich reward if she would, by subtlety, make the damsel come down. The old witch willingly took the matter in hand, and bringing with her an iron tripod, a cauldron, and sundry raw meats, placed them by the side of the spring. She placed the tripod on the ground, and the kettle on the top of it but upside down, drew water from the spring and poured it not into the kettle, but on the ground beside it, and with that she kept her eyes closed as if she were blind.

The damsel fancied she really was blind, and called to her from the tree. “Nay but, my dear elder sister! thou hast placed the kettle on the tripod upside down, and art pouring all the water on the ground.”

“Oh, my sweet little damsel!” cried the old woman, “that is because I have no eyes to see with. I have brought some dirty linen with me, and if thou dost love Allah, thou wilt come down and put the kettle right, and help me to wash the things.” Then the damsel thought of the words of the little stag, and she did not come down.

The next day the old witch came again, stumbled about the tree, laid a fire, and brought forth a heap of meal in order to sift it, but instead of meal she put ashes into the sieve. “Poor silly old granny!” cried the damsel compassionately, and then she called down from the tree to the old woman, and told her that she was sifting ashes instead of meal. “Oh, my dear damsel!” cried the old woman, weeping, “I am blind, I cannot see. Come down and help me a little in my affliction.” Now the little stag had strictly charged her that very morning not to come down from the tree whatever might be said to her, and she obeyed the words of her brother.

On the third day the old witch again came beneath the tree. This time she brought a sheep with her, and brought out a knife to flay it with, and began to jag and skin it from behind instead of cutting its throat. The poor little sheep bleated piteously, and the damsel in the tree, unable to endure the sight of the beast’s sufferings, came down from the tree to put the poor thing out of its misery. Then the Padishah, who was concealed close to the tree, rushed out and carried the damsel off to his palace.

The damsel pleased the Padishah so mightily that he wanted to be married to her without more ado; but the damsel would not consent till they had brought her her brother, the little stag: until she saw him, she said, she could have not a moment’s rest. Then the Padishah sent men out into the forest, who caught the stag and brought him to his sister. After that he never left his sister’s side. They lay down together, and together they rose up. Even when the Padishah and the damsel were wedded, the little stag was never far away from them, and in the evening when he found out where they were, he would softly stroke each of them all over with one of his front feet before going to sleep beside them, and say—

“This little foot is for my sister,
That little foot is for my brother.”

But time, as men count it, passes quickly to its fulfilment, more quickly still passes the time of fairy tales, but quickest of all flies the time of true love. Yet our little people would have lived on happily if there had not been a black female slave in the palace. Jealousy devoured her at the thought that the Padishah had taken to his bosom the ragged damsel from the tree-top rather than herself, and she watched for an opportunity of revenge.

Now there was a beautiful garden in the palace, with a fountain in the midst of it, and there the Sultan’s damsel used to walk about. One day, with a golden saucer in her hand and a silver sandal on her foot, she went towards the great fountain, and the black slave followed after her and pushed her in. There was a big fish in the basin, and it immediately swallowed up the Sultan’s pet damsel. Then the black slave returned to the palace, put on the golden raiment of the Sultan’s damsel, and sat down in her place.

In the evening the Padishah came and asked the damsel what she had done to her face that it was so much altered. “I have walked too much in the garden, and so the sun has tanned my face,” replied the girl. The Padishah believed her and sat down beside her, but the little stag came also, and when he began to stroke them both down with his fore-foot he recognized the slave-girl as he said—

“This little foot is for my sister,
And this little foot is for my brother.”

Then it became the one wish of the slave-girl’s heart to be rid of the little stag as quickly as possible, lest it should betray her.

So after a little thought she made herself sick, and sent for the doctors, and gave them much money to say to the Padishah that the only thing that could save her was the heart of the little stag to eat. So the doctors went and told the Padishah that the sick woman must swallow the heart of the little stag, or there was no hope for her. Then the Padishah went to the slave-girl whom he fancied to be his pet damsel, and asked her if it did not go against her to eat the heart of her own brother?

“What can I do?” sighed the impostor; “if I die, what will become of my poor little pet? If he be cut up I shall live, while he will be spared the torments of those poor beasts that grow old and sick.” Then the Padishah gave orders that a butcher’s knife should be whetted, and a fire lighted, and a cauldron of water put over the fire.

The poor little stag perceived all the bustling about and ran down into the garden to the fountain, and called out three times to his sister—

“The knife is on the stone,
The water’s on the boil,
Haste, little sister, hasten!”

And thrice she answered back to him from the fish’s maw—

“Here am I in the fish’s belly,
In my hand a golden saucer,
On my foot a silver sandal,
In my arms a little Padishah!”

For the Sultan’s pet damsel had brought forth a little son in the fish’s belly.

Now the Padishah was intent on catching the little stag when it ran down into the garden to the fountain, and, coming up softly behind it, heard every word of what the brother and sister were saying to each other. He quietly ordered all the water to be drained off the basin of the fountain, drew up the fish, cut open its belly, and what do you think he saw? In the belly of the fish was his wife, with a golden saucer in her hand, and a silver sandal on her foot, and a little son in her arms. Then the Padishah embraced his wife, and kissed his son, and brought them both to the palace, and heard the tale of it all to the very end.

But the little stag found something in the fish’s blood, and when he had swallowed it, he became a man again. Then he rushed to his sister, and they embraced and wept with joy over each other’s happiness.

But the Padishah sent for his black slave-girl, and asked her which she would like the best—four good steeds or four good swords. The slave-girl replied: “Let the swords be for the throats of my enemies, but give me the four steeds that I may take my pleasure on horseback.” Then they tied the slave-girl to the tails of four good steeds, and sent her out for a ride; and the four steeds tore the black girl into little bits and scattered them abroad.

But the Padishah and his wife lived happily together, and the king’s son who had been a stag abode with them; and they gave a great banquet, which lasted four days and four nights; and they attained their desires, and may ye, O my readers, attain your desires likewise.

THE THREE ORANGE-PERIS

In the olden times, when there were sieves in straws and lies in everything, in the olden times when there was abundance, and men ate and drank the whole day and yet lay down hungry, in those olden, olden times there was once a Padishah whose days were joyless, for he had never a son to bless himself with.

One day he was in the path of pleasure with his Vizier, and when they had drunk their coffee and smoked their chibooks, they went out for a walk, and went on and on till they came to a great valley. Here they sat down to rest a while, and as they were looking about them to the right hand and to the left, the valley was suddenly shaken as if by an earthquake, a whip cracked, and a dervish, a green-robed, yellow-slippered, white-bearded dervish, suddenly stood before them. The Padishah and the Vizier were so frightened that they dared not budge; but when the dervish approached them and addressed them with the words, “Selamun aleykyum,”[4] they took heart a bit, and replied courteously, “Ve aleykyum selam.”[5]

“What is thy errand here, my lord Padishah?” asked the dervish.

“If thou dost know that I am a Padishah, thou dost also know my errand,” replied the Padishah.

Then the dervish took from his bosom an apple, gave it to the Padishah, and said these words: “Give half of this to thy Sultana, and eat the other half thyself,” and with these words he disappeared.

Then the Padishah went home, gave half the apple to his consort, and ate the other half himself, and in exactly nine months and ten days there was a little prince in the harem. The Padishah was beside himself for joy. He scattered sequins among the poor, restored to freedom his slaves, and the banquet he gave to his friends had neither beginning nor end.

Swiftly flies the time in fairy tales, and the child had reached his fourteenth summer while yet they fondled him. One day he said to his father: “My lord father Padishah, make me now a little marble palace, and let there be two springs under it, and let one of them run with honey, and the other with butter!” Dearly did the Padishah love his little son, because he was his only child, so he made him the marble palace with the springs inside it as his son desired. There then sat the King’s son in the marble palace, and while he was looking at the springs that bubbled forth both butter and honey, he saw an old woman with a pitcher in her hand, and she would fain have filled it from the spring. Then the King’s son caught up a stone and flung it at the old woman’s pitcher, and broke it into pieces. The old woman said not a word, but she went away.

But the next day she was there again with her pitcher, and again she made as if she would fill it, and a second time the King’s son cast a stone at her and broke her pitcher. The old woman went away without speaking a word. She came on the third day also, and it fared with her pitcher then as on the first two days. Then the old woman spoke. “Oh, youth!” cried she, “’tis the will of Allah that thou shouldst fall in love with the three Orange-peris,” and with that she quitted him.

From thenceforth the heart of the King’s son was consumed by a hidden fire. He began to grow pale and wither away. When the Padishah saw that his son was ill, he sent for the wise men and the leeches, but they could find no remedy for the disease. One day the King’s son said to his father: “Oh, my dear little daddy Shah! these wise men of thine cannot cure me of my disease, and all their labours are in vain. I have fallen in love with the three Oranges, and never shall I be better till I find them.”

“Oh, my dear little son!” groaned the Padishah, “thou art all that I have in the wide world: if thou dost leave me, in whom can I rejoice?” Then the King’s son slowly withered away, and his days were as a heavy sleep; so his father saw that it would be better to let him go forth on his way and find, if so be he might, the three Oranges that were as the balsam of his soul. “Perchance too he may return again,” thought the Padishah.

So the King’s son arose one day and took with him things that were light to carry, but heavy in the scales of value, and pursued his way over mountains and valleys, rising up and lying down again for many days. At last in the midst of a vast plain, in front of the high-road, he came upon her Satanic Majesty the Mother of Devils, as huge as a minaret. One of her legs was on one mountain, and the other leg on another mountain; she was chewing gum (her mouth was full of it) so that you could hear her half-an-hour’s journey off; her breath was a hurricane, and her arms were yards and yards long.

“Good-day, little mother!” cried the youth, and he embraced the broad waist of the Mother of Devils. “Good-day, little sonny!” she replied. “If thou hadst not spoken to me so politely, I should have gobbled thee up.” Then she asked him whence he came and whither he was going.

“Alas! dear little mother,” sighed the youth, “such a terrible misfortune has befallen me that I can neither tell thee nor answer thy question.”

“Nay, come, out with it, my son,” urged the Mother of Devils.

“Well then, my sweet little mother,” cried the youth, and he sighed worse than before, “I have fallen violently in love with the three Oranges. If only I might find my way thither!”

“Hush!” cried the Mother of Devils, “it is not lawful to even think of that name, much less pronounce it. I and my sons are its guardians, yet even we don’t know the way to it. Forty sons have I, and they go up and down the earth more than I do, perchance they may tell thee something of the matter.” So when it began to grow dusk towards evening, ere yet the devil-sons had come home, the old woman gave the King’s son a tap, and turned him into a pitcher of water. And she did it not a moment too soon, for immediately afterwards the forty sons of the Mother of Devils knocked at the door and cried: “Mother, we smell man’s flesh!”

“Nonsense!” cried the Mother of Devils. “What, I should like to know, have the sons of men to do here? It seems to me you had better all clean your teeth.” So she gave the forty sons forty wooden stakes to clean their teeth with, and out of one’s tooth fell an arm, and out of another’s a thigh, and out of another’s an arm, till they had all cleaned their teeth. Then they sat them down to eat and drink, and in the middle of the meal their mother said to them: “If now ye had a man for your brother, what would ye do with him?”

“Do,” they replied, “why love him like a brother, of course!”

Then the Mother of Devils tapped the water-jar, and the King’s son stood there again. “Here is your brother!” cried she to her forty sons.

The devils thanked the King’s son for his company with great joy, invited their new brother to sit down, and asked their mother why she had not told them about him before, as then they might all have eaten their meal together.

“Nay but, my sons,” cried she, “he does not live on the same sort of meat as ye; fowls, mutton, and such-like is what he feeds on.”

At this one of them jumped up, went out, fetched a sheep, slew it, and laid it before the new brother.

“Oh, what a child thou art!” cried the Mother of Devils. “Dost thou not know that thou must first cook it for him?”

Then they skinned the sheep, made a fire, roasted it, and placed it before him. The King’s son ate a piece, and after satisfying his hunger, left the rest of it. “Why, that’s nothing!” cried the devils, and they urged him again and again to eat more. “Nay, my sons,” cried their mother, “men never eat more than that.”

“Let us see then what this sheep-meat is like,” said one of the forty brothers. So they fell upon it and devoured the whole lot in a couple of mouthfuls.

Now when they all rose up early in the morning, the Mother of Devils said to her sons: “Our new brother hath a great trouble.”—“What is it?” cried they, “for we would help him.”

“He has fallen in love with the three Oranges!”—“Well,” replied the devils, “we know not the place of the three Oranges ourselves, but perchance our aunt may know.”

“Then lead this youth to her,” said their mother; “tell her that he is my son and worthy of all honour, let her also receive him as a son and ease him of his trouble.” Then the devils took the youth to their aunt, and told her on what errand he had come.

Now this Aunt of the Devils had sixty sons, and as she did not know the place of the three Oranges, she had to wait till they came home. But lest any harm should happen to this her new son, she gave him a tap and turned him into a piece of crockery.

“We smell man’s flesh, mother,” cried the devils, as they crossed the threshold.

“Perchance ye have eaten man’s flesh, and the remains thereof are still within your teeth,” said their mother. Then she gave them great logs of wood that they might pick their teeth clean, and so be able to swallow down something else. But in the midst of the meal the woman gave the piece of crockery a tap, and when the sixty devils saw their little human brother, they rejoiced at the sight, made him sit down at table, and bade him fall to if there was anything there he took a fancy to. “My sons,” said the Mother of the Devils to her sixty sons when they all rose up early on the morrow, “this lad here has fallen in love with the three Oranges, cannot you show him the way thither?”

“We know not the way,” replied the devils; “but perchance our old great-aunt may know something about it.”

“Then take the youth thither,” said their mother, “and bid her hold him in high honour. He is my son, let him be hers also and help him out of his distress.” Then they took him off to their great-aunt, and told her the whole business. “Alas! I do not know, my sons!” said the old, old great-aunt; “but if you wait till the evening, when my ninety sons come home, I will ask them.”

Then the sixty devils departed and left the King’s son there, and when it grew dusk the Mother of the Devils gave the youth a tap, turned him into a broom, and placed him in the doorway. Shortly afterwards the ninety devils came home, and they also smelt the smell of man, and took the pieces of man’s flesh out of their teeth. In the middle of their meal their mother asked them how they would treat a human brother if they had one. When they had sworn upon eggs that they would not hurt so much as his little finger, their mother gave the broom a tap, and the King’s son stood before them.

The devil brothers entreated him courteously, inquired after his health, and served him so heartily with eatables that they scarcely gave him time to breathe. In the midst of the meal their mother asked them whether they knew where the three Oranges were, for their new brother had fallen in love with them. Then the least of the ninety devils leaped up with a shout of joy, and said that he knew.

“Then if thou knowest,” said his mother, “see that thou take this son of ours thither, that he may satisfy his heart’s desire.”

On arising next morning, the devil-son took the King’s son with him, and the pair of them went merrily along the road together. They went on, and on, and on, and at last the little devil said these words: “My brother, we shall come presently to a large garden, and in the fountain thereof are the three. When I say to thee: ‘Shut thine eye, open thine eye!’ lay hold of what thou shalt see.”

They went on a little way further till they came to the garden, and the moment the devil saw the fountain he said to the King’s son: “Shut thine eye and open thine eye!” He did so, and saw the three Oranges bobbing up and down on the surface of the water where it came bubbling out of the spring, and he snatched up one of them and popped it in his pocket. Again the devil called to him: “Open thine eye and shut thine eye!” He did so, and snatched up the second orange, and so with the third also in the same way. “Now take care,” said the devil, “that thou dost not cut open these oranges in any place where there is no water, or it will go ill with thee.” The King’s son promised, and so they parted, one went to the right, and the other to the left.

The King’s son went on, and on, and on. He went a long way, and he went a short way, he went across mountains and through valleys. At last he came to a sandy desert, and there he bethought him of the oranges, and drawing one out, he cut it open. Scarcely had he cut into it when a damsel, lovely as a Peri, popped out of it before him; the moon when it is fourteen days old is not more dazzling. “For Allah’s sake, give me a drop of water!” cried the damsel, and inasmuch as there was no trace of water anywhere, she vanished from the face of the earth. The King’s son grieved right sorely, but there was no help for it, the thing was done.

Again he went on his way, and when he had gone a little further he thought to himself, “I may as well cut open one more orange.” So he drew out the second orange, and scarcely had he cut into it than there popped down before him a still more lovely damsel, who begged piteously for water, but as the King’s son had none to give her, she also vanished.

“Well, I’ll take better care of the third,” cried he, and continued his journey. He went on and on till he came to a large spring, drank out of it, and then thought to himself: “Well, now I’ll cut open the third orange also.” He drew it out and cut it, and immediately a damsel even lovelier than the other two stood before him. As soon as she called for water, he led her to the spring and gave her to drink, and the damsel did not disappear, but remained there as large as life.

Mother-naked was the damsel, and as he could not take her to town like that, he bade her climb up a large tree that stood beside the spring, while he went into the town to buy her raiment and a carriage.

While the King’s son had gone away, a negro servant came to the spring to draw water, and saw the reflection of the damsel in the watery mirror. “Why, thou art something like a damsel,” said she to herself, “and ever so much lovelier than thy mistress; so she ought to fetch water for me, not I for her.” With that she broke the pitcher in two, went home, and when her mistress asked where the pitcher of water was, she replied: “I am much more beautiful than thou, so thou must fetch water for me, not I for thee.” Her mistress took up a mirror, held it before her, and said: “Methinks thou must have taken leave of thy senses; look at this mirror!” The Moor looked into the mirror, and saw that she was as coal-black as ever. Without another word she took up the pitcher, went again to the spring, and seeing the damsel’s face in the mirror, again fancied that it was hers.

“I’m right, after all,” she cried; “I’m ever so much more beautiful than my mistress.” So she broke the pitcher to pieces again, and went home. Again her mistress asked her why she had not drawn water. “Because I am ever so much more beautiful than thou, so thou must draw water for me,” replied she.

“Thou art downright crazy,” replied her mistress, drew out a mirror, and showed it to her; and when the Moor-girl saw her face in it, she took up another pitcher and went to the fountain for the third time. The damsel’s face again appeared in the water, but just as she was about to break the pitcher again, the damsel called to her from the tree: “Break not thy pitchers, ’tis my face thou dost see in the water, and thou wilt see thine own there also.”

The Moor-girl looked up, and when she saw the wondrously beautiful shape of the damsel in the tree, she climbed up beside her and spake coaxing words to her: “Oh, my little golden damsel, thou wilt get the cramp from crouching there so long; come, rest thy head!” And with that she laid the damsel’s head on her breast, felt in her bosom, drew out a needle, pricked the damsel with it in the skull, and in an instant the Orange-Damsel was changed into a bird, and pr-r-r-r-r! she was gone, leaving the Moor all alone in the tree.

Now when the King’s son came back with his fine coach and beautiful raiment, looked up into the tree, and saw the black face, he asked the girl what had happened to her. “A nice question!” replied the Moor-girl. “Why, thou didst leave me here all day, and wentest away, so of course the sun has tanned me black.” What could the poor King’s son do? He made the black damsel sit in the coach, and took her straight home to his father’s house.

In the palace of the Padishah they were all waiting, full of eagerness, to behold the Peri-Bride, and when they saw the Moorish damsel they said to the King’s son: “However couldst thou lose thy heart to a black maid?”

“She is not a black maid,” said the King’s son. “I left her at the top of a tree, and she was blackened there by the rays of the sun. If only you let her rest a bit she’ll soon grow white again.” And with that he led her into her chamber, and waited for her to grow white again.

Now there was a beautiful garden in the palace of the King’s son, and one day the Orange-Bird came flying on to a tree there, and called down to the gardener.

“What dost thou want with me?” asked the gardener.

“What is the King’s son doing?” inquired the bird.

“He is doing no harm that I know of,” replied the gardener.

“And what about his black bride?”

“Oh, she’s there too, sitting with him as usual.”

Then the little bird sang these words:

“She may sit by his side,
But she shall not abide;
For all her fair showing
The thorns are a-growing.
As I hop on this tree,
It will wither ’neath me.”

And with that it flew away.

The next day it came again, and inquired once more about the King’s son and his black consort, and repeated what it said before. The third day it did in like manner, and as many trees as it hopped upon withered right away beneath it.

One day the King’s son felt weary of his black bride, so he went out into the garden for a walk. Then his eye fell on the withered trees, and he called the gardener and said to him: “What is this, gardener? Why dost thou not take better care of thy trees? Dost thou not see that they are all withering away?” Then the gardener replied that it was of but little use for him to take care of the trees, for a few days ago a little bird had been there, and asked what the King’s son and his black consort were doing, and had said that though she might be sitting there, she should not sit for ever, but that thorns would grow, and every tree it lit upon should wither.

The Bang’s son commanded the gardener to smear the trees with bird-lime, and if the bird then lit upon it, to bring it to him. So the gardener smeared the trees with bird-lime, and when the bird came there next day he caught it, and brought it to the King’s son, who put it in a cage. Now no sooner did the black woman look upon the bird than she knew at once that it was the damsel. So she pretended to be very ill, sent for the chief medicine-man, and by dint of rich gifts persuaded him to say to the King’s son that his consort would never get well unless he fed her with such and such birds.

The King’s son saw that his consort was very sick, he sent for the doctor, went with him to see the sick woman, and asked him how she was to be cured. The doctor said she could only be cured if they gave her such and such birds to eat. “Why, only this very day have I caught one of such birds,” said the King’s son; and they brought the bird, killed it, and fed the sick lady with the flesh thereof. In an instant the black damsel arose from her bed. But one of the bird’s dazzling feathers fell accidentally to the ground and slipped between the planks, so that nobody noticed it.

Time went on, and the King’s son was still waiting and waiting for his consort to turn white. Now there was an old woman in the palace who used to teach the dwellers in the harem to read and write. One day as she was going down-stairs she saw something gleaming between the planks of the floor, and going towards it, perceived that it was a bird’s feather that sparkled like a diamond. She took it home and thrust it behind a rafter. The next day she went to the palace, and while she was away the bird’s feather leaped down from the rafter, shivered a little, and the next moment turned into a most lovely damsel. She put the room tidy, cooked the meal, set everything in order, and then leaped back upon the rafter and became a feather again. When the old woman came home she was amazed at what she saw. She thought: “Somebody must have done all this,” so she went up and down, backwards and forwards through the house, but nobody could she see.

Early next morning she again went to the palace, and the feather leaped down again in like manner, and did all the household work. When the old woman came home, she perceived the house all nice and clean, and everything in order. “I really must find out the secret of this,” thought she, so next morning she made as if she were going away as usual, and left the door ajar, but went and hid herself in a corner. All at once she perceived that there was a damsel in the room, who tidied the room and cooked the meal, whereupon the old woman dashed out, seized hold of her, and asked her who she was and whence she came. Then the damsel told her her sad fate, and how she had been twice killed by the black woman, and had come thither in the shape of a feather.

“Distress thyself no more, my lass,” said the old woman. “I’ll put thy business to rights, and this very day, too.” And with that she went straight to the King’s son and invited him to come and see her that evening. The King’s son was now so sick unto death of his black bride that he was glad of any excuse to escape from his own house, so the evening found him punctually at the old woman’s. They sat down to supper, and when the coffee followed the meats, the damsel entered with the cups, and when the King’s son saw her he was like to have fainted. “Nay, but, mother,” said the King’s son, when he had come to himself a little, “who is that damsel?”

“Thy wife,” replied the old woman.

“How didst thou get that fair creature?” inquired the King’s son. “Wilt thou not give her to me?”

“How can I give her to thee, seeing that she was thine own once upon a time,” said the old woman; and with that the old woman took the damsel by the hand, led her to the King’s son, and laid her on his breast. “Take better care of the Orange-Peri another time,” said she.

The King’s son now nearly fainted in real earnest, but it was from sheer joy. He took the damsel to his palace, put to death the black slave-girl, but held high festival with the Peri for forty days and forty nights. So they had the desire of their hearts, and may Allah satisfy your desires likewise.

THE ROSE-BEAUTY

Once upon a time in the old old days when straws were sieves, and the camel a chapman, and the mouse a barber, and the cuckoo a tailor, and the donkey ran errands, and the tortoise baked bread, and I was only fifteen years old, but my father rocked my cradle, and there was a miller in the land who had a black cat—in those olden times, I say, there was a King who had three daughters, and the first daughter was forty, and the second was thirty, and the third was twenty. One day the youngest daughter wrote this letter to her father: “My lord father! my eldest sister is forty and my second sister is thirty, and still thou hast given neither of them a husband. I have no desire to grow grey in waiting for a husband.”

The King read the letter, sent for his three daughters, and addressed them in these words: “Look now! let each one of you shoot an arrow from a bow and seek her sweetheart wherever her arrow falls!” So the three damsels took their bows. The eldest damsel’s arrow fell into the palace of the Vizier’s son, so the Vizier’s son took her to wife. The second girl’s arrow flew into the palace of the Chief Mufti’s son, so they gave her to him. The third damsel also fired her arrow, and lo! it stuck in the hut of a poor young labourer. “That won’t do, that won’t do!” cried they all. So she fired again, and again the arrow stuck in the hut. She aimed a third time, and a third time the arrow stuck in the hut of the poor young labourer. Then the King was wroth and cried to the damsel: “Look now, thou slut! thou hast got thy deserts. Thy sisters waited patiently, and therefore they have got their hearts’ desires. Thou wast the youngest of all, yet didst thou write me that saucy letter, hence thy punishment. Out of my sight, thou slave-girl, to this husband of thine, and thou shalt have nought but what he can give thee!” So the poor damsel departed to the hut of the labourer, and they gave her to him to wife.

They lived together for a time, and on the tenth day of the ninth month the time came that she should bear a child, and her husband, the labourer, hastened away for the midwife. While the husband was thus away his wife had neither a bed to lie down upon nor a fire to warm herself by, though grinding winter was upon them. All at once the walls of the poor hut opened hither and thither, and three beautiful damsels of the Peri race stepped into it. One stood at the damsel’s head, another at her feet, the third by her side, and they all seemed to know their business well. In a moment everything in the poor hut was in order, the princess lay on a beautiful soft couch, and before she could blink her eyes a pretty little new-born baby girl was lying by her side. When everything was finished the three Peris set about going, but first of all they approached the bed one by one, and the first said:

“Rosa be thy damsel’s name,
And she shall weep not tears but pearls!”

The second Peri approached the bed and said:

“Rosa be thy damsel’s name,
The rose shall blossom when she smiles!”

And the third Peri wound up with these words:

“Rosa be thy damsel’s name,
Sweet verdure in her footsteps spring!”

whereupon they all three disappeared.

Now all this time the husband was seeking a midwife, but could find one nowhere. What could he do but go home? But when he got back he was amazed to find everything in the poor hut in beautiful order, and his wife lying on a splendid bed. Then she told him the story of the three Peris, and there was no more spirit left in him, so astounded was he. But the little girl grew more and more lovely from hour to day, and from day to week, so that there was not another like her in the whole world. Whosoever looked upon her lost his heart at once, and pearls fell from her eyes when she wept, roses burst into bloom when she smiled, and a bright riband of fresh green verdure followed her footsteps. Whosoever saw her had no more spirit left in him, and the fame of lovely Rosa went from mouth to mouth.

At last the King of that land also heard of the damsel, and instantly made up his mind that she and nobody else should be his son’s consort. So he sent for his son, and told him that there was a damsel in the town of so rare a beauty that pearls fell from her eyes when she wept, roses burst into bloom when she smiled, and the earth grew fresh and green beneath her footsteps, and with that he bade him up and woo her.

Now the Peris had for a long time shown the King’s son the beautiful Rose-damsel in his dreams, and the sweet fire of love already burned within him; but he was ashamed to let his father see this, so he hung back a little. At this his father became more and more pressing, bade him go and woo her at once, and commanded the chief dame of the palace to accompany him to the hut of the labourer.

They entered the hut, said on what errand they came, and claimed the damsel for the King’s son in the name of Allah. The poor folks rejoiced at their good luck, promised the girl, and began to make ready.

Now this palace dame’s daughter was also a beauty, and not unlike Rosa. Terribly distressed was the dame that the King’s son should take to wife a poor labourer’s daughter, instead of her own child; so she made up her mind to deceive them and put her own daughter in Rosa’s place. So on the day of the banquet she made the poor girl eat many salted meats, and then brought a pitcher of water and a large basket, got into the bridal coach with Rosa and her own daughter, and set out for the palace. As they were on the road (and a very long time they were about it) the damsel grew thirsty and asked the palace dame for some water. “Not till thou hast given me one of thine eyes,” said the palace dame. What could the poor damsel do?—she was dying with thirst. So she cut out one of her eyes and gave it for a drink of water.

They went on and on, further and further, and the damsel again became thirsty and asked for another drink of water. “Thou shalt have it if thou give me thy other eye,” said the palace dame. And the poor damsel was so tormented with thirst that she gave the other eye for a drink of water.

The old dame took the two eyes, pitched the sightless damsel into the big basket, and left her all alone on the top of a mountain. But the beautiful bridal robe she put upon her own daughter, brought her to the King’s son, and gave her to him with the words: “Behold thy wife!” So they made a great banquet, and when they had brought the damsel to her bridegroom and taken off her veil, he perceived that the damsel who now stood before him was not the damsel of his dreams. As, however, she resembled her a little he said nothing about it to anybody. So they lay down to rest, and when they rose up again early next morning the King’s son was quite undeceived, for the damsel of his dreams had wept pearls, smiled roses, and sweet green herbs had grown up in her footsteps, but this girl had neither roses nor pearls nor green herbs to show for herself. The youth felt there was some trickery at work here. This was not the girl he had meant to have. “How am I to find it all out?” thought he to himself; but not a word did he say to any one.

While all these things were going on in the palace, poor Rosa was weeping on the mountain top, and such showers of pearls fell from her by dint of her sore weeping that there was scarce room to hold them all in the big basket. Now a mud-carrier happened to be passing by who was carting mud away, and hearing the weeping of the damsel was terribly afraid, and cried: “Who art thou?—A Jinn or a Peri?”—“I am neither a Jinn nor yet a Peri,” replied the damsel, “but the remains of a living child of man.” Whereupon the mud-raker took courage, opened the basket, and there a poor sightless damsel was sobbing, and her tears fell from her in showers of pearls. So he took the damsel by the hand and led her to his hut, and as the old man had nobody about him he adopted the damsel as if she were his own child and took care of her. But the poor girl did nothing but weep for her two eyes, and the old man had all he could do to pick up the pearls, and whenever they were in want of money he would take a pearl and sell it, and they lived on whatever he got for it.

Thus time passed, and there was mirth in the palace, and misery in the hut of the mud-raker. Now it chanced one day as fair Rosa was sitting in the hut, that something made her smile, and immediately a rose bloomed. Then the damsel said to her foster-father, the mud-raker: “Take this rose, papa, and go with it in front of the palace of the King’s son, and cry aloud that thou hast roses for sale that are not to be matched in the wide world. But if the dame of the palace comes out, see that thou dost not give her the rose for money, but say that thou wilt sell it for a human eye.”

So the man took the rose and stood in front of the palace, and began to cry aloud: “A rose for sale, a rose for sale, the like of which is nowhere to be found.” Now it was not the season for roses, so when the dame of the palace heard the man crying a rose for sale, she thought to herself: “I’ll put it in my daughter’s hair, and thus the King’s son will think that she is his true bride.” So she called the poor man to her, and asked him what he would sell the rose for? “For nothing,” replied the man, “for no money told down, but I’ll give it thee for a human eye.” Then the dame of the palace brought forth one of fair Rosa’s eyes and gave it for the rose. Then she took it to her daughter, plaited it in her hair, and when the King’s son saw the rose, he thought of the Peri of his dreams, but could not understand whither she had gone. Nevertheless he now fancied he was about to find out, so he said not a word to any one.

Meanwhile, the old man went home with the eye and gave it to the damsel, fair Rosa. Then she fitted it in its right place, sighed from her heart in prayer to Allah, who can do all things; and behold! she could see right well again with her one eye. The poor girl was so pleased that she could not help smiling, and immediately another rose sprang forth. This also she gave to her father that he might walk in front of the palace and give it for another human eye. The old man took the rose, and scarcely had he begun crying it before the palace when the old dame again heard him. “He has just come at the nick of time,” thought she; “the King’s son has begun to love my rose-bedizened daughter; if I can only get this rose also, he will love her still better, and this serving-wench will go out of his mind altogether.” So she called the mud-raker to her and asked for the rose, but again he would not take money for it, though he was willing to let her have it in exchange for a human eye. Then the old woman gave him the second eye, and the old man hastened home with it and gave it to the damsel. Rosa immediately put it in its proper place, prayed to Allah, and was so rejoiced when her two bright eyes sparkled with living light that she smiled all the day, and roses bloomed on every side of her. Henceforth she was lovelier than ever. Now one day beautiful Rosa went for a walk, and as she smiled continually as she walked along, roses bloomed around her and the ground grew fresh and green beneath her feet. The palace dame saw her and was terrified. What will become of me, she thought, if the affair of this damsel comes to be known? She knew where the poor mud-scraper lived, so she went all alone to his dwelling, and terrified him by telling him that he had an evil witch in his house. The poor man had never seen a witch, so he was terrified to death, and asked the palace dame what he had better do. “Find out, first of all, what her talisman is,” advised the palace dame, “and then I’ll come and do the rest.”

So the first thing the old man did when the damsel came home was to ask her how she, a mere child of man, had come to have such magic power. The damsel, suspecting no ill, said that she had got her talisman from the three Peris, and that pearls, roses, and fresh sweet verdure would accompany her so long as her talisman was alive.

“What then is thy talisman?” asked the old man.

“A little deer on the hill-top;
If it die, I also dead drop,”

answered she.

The next day the palace dame came thither in the utmost misery, heard all about it from the mud-scraper, and hastened home with great joy. She told her daughter that on the top of the neighbouring hill was a little deer which she should ask her husband to get for her. That very same day the Sultana told her husband of the little deer on the top of the hill, and begged and implored him to get her its heart to eat. And after not many days the Prince’s men caught the little deer and killed it, and took out its heart and gave it to the Sultana. At the same instant when they killed the little fawn fair Rosa died. The mud-raker sorrowed over her till he could sorrow no more, and then took and buried her.

Now in the heart of the little fawn there was a little red coral eye which nobody took any notice of. When the Sultana ate the heart, the little red coral eye fell out and rolled down the steps as if it wanted to hide itself.

Time went on, and in not more than nine months and ten days the Prince’s consort was brought to bed of a little daughter, who wept pearls when she cried, dropt roses when she smiled, and sweet green herbs sprang up in her footsteps.

When the Prince saw it he mused and mused over it, the little girl was the very image of fair Rosa, and not a bit like the mother who had borne her. So his sleep was no repose to him, till one night fair Rosa appeared to him in his dreams and spoke these words to him: “Oh, my prince! oh, my betrothed! my soul is beneath thy palace steps, my body is in the tomb, thy little girl is my little girl, my talisman is the little coral eye.”

The Prince had no sooner awakened than he went to the staircase and searched about, and lo! there was the little coral eye. He picked it up, took it into his chamber, and laid it on the table. Meanwhile, the little girl entered the room, saw the red coral, and scarcely had she laid hold of it than she vanished as if she had never been. The three Peris had carried off the child and taken her to her mother’s tomb, and scarcely had she placed the coral eye in the dead woman’s mouth than she awoke up to a new life.

But the King’s son was not easy in his mind. He went to the cemetery, had the tomb opened, and there in her coffin lay the Rose-beauty of his dreams, with her little girl in her arms and the coral talisman in her mouth. They arose from the tomb and embraced him, and pearls fell from the eyes of both of them as they wept, and roses from their mouths as they smiled, and sweet green herbs grew up in their footsteps.

The palace dame and her daughter paid for their crimes, but beautiful Rosa and her father and her mother, the Sultan’s daughter, were all re-united, and for forty days and forty nights they held high revel amidst the beating of drums and the tinkling of cymbals.

MAD MEHMED

Once upon a time in the old old days when the camel was only a spy, when toads rose in the air on wings, and I myself rode in the air while I walked on the ground, and went up hill and down dale at the same time, in those days, I say, there were two brothers who dwelt together.

All that they had inherited from their father were some oxen and other beasts, and a sick mother. One day the spirit of division seized upon the younger brother (he was half-witted besides, Allah help him!), and he went to his brother and said: “Look now, brother! at these two stables! One of them is as new as new can be, while the other is old and rotten. Let us drive our cattle hither, and whatever goes into the new stable shall be mine, and all the rest shall be thine.”

“Not so, Mehmed,” said the elder brother; “let whatever goes into the old stable be thine!” To this also the half-crazy Mehmed agreed. That same day they went and drove up their cattle, and all the cattle went into the new stable except a helpless old ox that was so blind that it mistook its way and went into the old stable instead. Mehmed said never a word, but took the blind old ox into the fields to graze; every morning early he drove it thither, and late every evening he drove it back again. One day when he was on the road, the wind began to shake a big wayside tree so violently that its vast branches whined and whimpered again. “Hi! whimpering old dad!” said the fool to the tree, “hast thou seen my elder brother?” But the tree, as if it didn’t hear, only went on whining. The fool flew into such a rage at this that he caught up his chopper and struck at the tree, when out of it gushed a whole stream of golden sequins. At this the fool rallied what little wits he had, hastened home, and asked his brother to lend him another ox, as he wanted to plough with a pair. He found a cart also, and some empty sacks. These he filled with earth, and set out forthwith for his tree. There he emptied his sacks of their earth, filled them with sequins instead, and when he returned home in the evening, his brother well-nigh dropped down for amazement at the sight of the monstrous treasure.

They could think of nothing now but dividing it, so the younger brother went to their neighbour for a three-peck measure to measure it with. Now the neighbour was curious to know what such clodpoles could have to measure. So he took and smeared the bottom of the measure with tar, and, sure enough, when the fool brought the measure back a short time afterwards, a sequin was sticking to the bottom of it. The neighbour immediately went and told it to another, who went and told it to a third, and so it was not long before everybody knew all about it.

Now the wiser brother knew not what might happen to them now that they had all this money, and he began to feel frightened. So he snatched up his pick and shovel, dug a trench, buried the treasure, and made off as fast as his heels could carry him. On the way it occurred to the wise brother that he had done foolishly in not shutting the door of the hut behind him, so he sent off his younger brother to do it for him. So the fool went back to the house, and he thought to himself: “Well, since I am here, I ought not to forget my old mother either.” So he filled a huge cauldron with water, boiled it, and soused his old mother in it so thoroughly that her poor old head was never likely to speak again. After that he propped the old woman against the wall with the broom, tore the door off its hinges, threw it over his shoulders, and went and rejoined his brother in the wood.

The elder brother looked at the door, and listened to the sad case of his poor old mother, but scold and chide his younger brother as he might the latter grew more cock-a-hoop than ever—he fancied he had done such a clever thing. He had brought the door away with him, he said, in order that no one might get into the house. The wise brother would have given anything to have got rid of the fool, and began turning over in his mind how he might best manage it. He looked before him and behind him, he looked down the high-road, and there were three horsemen galloping along. The thought instantly occurred to the pair of them that these horsemen were on their track, so they scrambled up a tree forthwith, door and all. They were scarcely comfortably settled when the three horsemen drove up beneath the tree and encamped there. The dusk of evening had come on at the very nick of time, so that they could not see the two brothers.

Now the two brothers would have done very well indeed up in the tree had not one of them been a fool. Mehmed the fool began to practise pleasantries which disturbed the repose of the horsemen beneath the tree. Presently, however, came a crash—bang!—and down on the heads of the three sleepers fell the great heavy door from the top of the tree. “The end of the world has come, the end of the world has come!” cried they, and they rushed off in such a fright that no doubt they haven’t ceased running to this very day. This finished the business so far as the elder brother was concerned. In the morning he arose and went on his way, and left the foolish younger brother by himself.

Thus poor silly Mehmed had to go forth into the wide world alone. He went on and on till he came to a village, by which time he was very hungry. There he stood in the gate of a mosque, and got one or two paras[6] from those who went in and out till he had enough to buy himself something to eat. At that moment a fat little man came out of the mosque, and casting his eyes on Mehmed, asked him if he would like to enter his service.

“I don’t mind if I do,” replied Mehmed, “but only on condition that neither of us is to get angry with the other for any cause whatever. If thou art wroth with me I’ll kill thee, and if I get wroth with thee thou mayest kill me also.” The fat man agreed to these terms, for there was a great lack of servants in that village.

In order to make short work of the fat little man the fool began by at once chasing all the hens and sheep off his master’s premises. “Art angry, master?” he then inquired of his lord. His master was amazed, but he only answered: “Angry? Not I! Why should I be?” At the same time he entrusted nothing more to him, but let him sit in the house without anything to do.

His master had a wife and child, and Mehmed had to look after them. He liked to dandle the child up and down, but he knocked it about and hurt it, so clumsy was he; so he soon had to leave that off. But the wife began to be afraid that her turn would come next, sooner or later, so she persuaded her husband to run away from the fool one night. Mehmed overheard what they said, hid himself in their storebox, and when they opened it in the next village out he popped.

After a while his master and his wife agreed together that they would go and sleep at night on the shores of a lake. They took Mehmed with them, and put his bed right on the water’s edge, that he might tumble in when he went to sleep. However, the fool was not such a fool but that he made his master’s wife jump into the lake instead of himself. “Art angry, master?” cried he.—“Angry indeed! How can I help being angry when I see my property wasted, and my wife and child killed, and myself a beggar—and all through thee!” Then the fool seized his master, put him in mind of their compact, and pitched him into the water.

Mehmed now found himself all alone, so he went forth into the wide world once more. He went on and on, did nothing but drink sweet coffee, smoke chibooks, look about over his shoulder, and walk leisurely along at his ease. As he was thus knocking about, he chanced to light upon a five-para piece, which he speedily changed for some lebleb,[7] which he immediately fell to chewing, and, as he chewed, part of it fell into a wayside spring, whereupon the fool began roaring loud enough to split his throat: “Give me back my lebleb, give me back my lebleb!” At this frightful bawling a Jinn popped up his head, and he was so big that his upper lip swept the sky, while his lower lip hid the earth. “What dost thou require?” asked the Jinn.—“I want my lebleb, I want my lebleb!” cried Mehmed.

The Jinn ducked down into the spring, and when he came up again, he held a little table in his hand. This little table he gave to the fool and said: “Whenever thou art hungry thou hast only to say: ‘Little table, give me to eat;’ and when thou hast eaten thy fill, say: ‘Little table, I have now had enough.’”

So Mehmed took the table and went with it into a village, and when he felt hungry he said: “Little table, give me to eat!” and immediately there stood before him so many beautiful, nice dishes that he couldn’t make up his mind which to begin with. “Well,” thought he, “I must let the poor people of the village see this wonder also,” so he went and invited them all to a great banquet.

The villagers came one after another, they looked to the right, they looked to the left, but there was no sign of a fire, or any preparations for a meal. “Nay, but he would needs make fools of us!” thought they. But the young man brought out his table, set it in the midst, and cried: “Little table, give me to eat!” and there before them stood all manner of delicious meats and drinks, and so much thereof that when the guests had stuffed themselves to the very throat, there was enough left over to fill the servants. Then the villagers laid their heads together as to how they might manage to have a meal like this every day. “Come now!” said some of them, “let us steal a march upon Mehmed one day and lay hands upon his table, and then there will be an end to the fool’s glory.” And they did so.

What could the poor, empty-bellied fool do then? Why he went to the wayside spring and asked again: “I want my lebleb, I want my lebleb!” And he asked and asked so long that at last the Jinn popped up his head again out of the spring and inquired what was the matter. “I want my lebleb, I want my lebleb!” cried the fool.—“But where’s thy little table?”—“They stole it.”

The big-lipped Jinn again popped down, and when he rose out of the spring again he had a little mill in his hand. This he gave to the fool and said to him: “Grind it to the right and gold will flow out of it, grind it to the left and it will give thee silver.” So the youth took the mill home and ground it first to the right and then to the left, and huge treasures of gold and silver lay heaped about him on the floor. So he grew such a rich man that his equal was not to be found in the village, nay, nor in the town either.

But no sooner had the people of the village got to know all about the little mill than they laid their heads together and schemed and schemed till the mill also disappeared[8] one fine morning from Mehmed’s cottage. Then Mehmed ran off to the spring once more and cried: “I want my lebleb, I want my lebleb!”

“But where is thy little table? Where is thy little mill?” asked the big-lipped Jinn.

“They have stolen them both from me,” lamented the witless one, and he wept bitterly.

Again the Jinn bobbed down, and this time he brought up two sticks with him. He gave them to the fool, and impressed upon him very strongly on no account to say: “Strike, strike, my little sticks!”

Mehmed took the sticks, and first he turned them to the right and then to the left, but could make nothing of them. Then he thought he would just try the effect of saying: “Strike, strike, my little sticks!” and no sooner were the words out of his mouth than the sticks fell upon him unmercifully, and belaboured him on every part of the body that can feel—the head, the foot, the arm, the back—till he was nothing but one big ache. “Stop, stop, my little sticks!” cried he, and lo! the two sticks were still. Then, for all his aches and pains, Mehmed rejoiced greatly that he had found out the mystery.

He had no sooner got home with the two sticks than he called together all the villagers, but said not a word about what he meant to do. In less than a couple of hours everybody had assembled there, and awaited the new show with great curiosity. Then Mehmed came with his two sticks and cried: “Strike, strike, my little sticks, strike, strike!” whereupon the two sticks gave the whole lot of them such a rub-a-dub-dubbing that it was as much as they could do to howl for mercy. “Now,” said Mehmed, who was getting his wits back again, “I’ll have no mercy till you have given back to me my little table and my little mill.”

The people of the village, all bruised and bleeding as they were, consented to everything, and hurried off for the little table and the little mill. Then Mehmed cried: “Stand still, my little sticks!” and there was peace and quiet as before.

Then the man took away the three gifts to his own village, and as he now had money he grew more sensible, and there also he found his brother. He gave all the buried treasure to his brother, and each of them sought out a damsel meet to be a wife, and married, and lived each in a world of his own. And there was not a wiser man in that village than Mad Mehmed now that he had grown rich.

THE GOLDEN-HAIRED CHILDREN

Once upon a time, in days long gone by, when my father was my father, and I was my fathers son, when my father was my son, and I was my father’s mother, once upon a time, I say, at the uttermost ends of the world, hard by the realm of demons, stood a great city.

In this same city there dwelt three poor damsels, the daughters of a poor wood-cutter. From morn to eve, from evening to morning, they did nothing but sew and stitch, and when the embroideries were finished, one of them would go to the market-place and sell them, and so purchase wherewithal to live upon.

Now it fell out, one day, that the Padishah of that city was wroth with the people, and in his rage he commanded that for three days and three nights nobody should light a candle in that city. What were these three poor sisters to do? They could not work in the dark. So they covered their window with a large thick curtain, lit a tiny rushlight, and sat them down to earn their daily bread.

On the third night of the prohibition, the Padishah took it into his head to go round the city himself to see whether every one was keeping his commandment. He chanced to step in front of the house of the three poor damsels, and as the folds of the curtain did not quite cover the bottom of the window he caught sight of the light within. The damsels, however, little suspecting their danger, went on sewing and stitching and talking amongst themselves about their poor affairs.

“Oh,” said the eldest, “if only the Padishah would wed me to his chief cook, what delicious dishes I should have every day. Yes, and I would embroider him for it a carpet so long that all his horses and all his men could find room upon it.”

“As for me,” said the middling damsel, “I should like to be wedded to the keeper of his wardrobe. What lovely splendid raiment I should then have to put on. And then I would make the Padishah a tent so large, that all his horses and all his men should find shelter beneath it.”

“Well,” cried the youngest damsel, “I’ll look at nobody but the Padishah himself, and if he would only take me to wife I would bear him two little children with golden hair. One should be a boy and the other a girl, and a half-moon should shine on the forehead of the boy, and a bright star should sparkle on the temples of the girl.”

The Padishah heard the discourse of the three damsels, and no sooner did the red dawn shine in the morning sky than he sent for all three to the palace. The eldest he gave to his head pantler, the second to his head chamberlain, but the youngest he took for himself.

And in truth it fared excellently well with the three damsels. The eldest got so many rich dishes to eat, that when it came to sewing the promised carpet she could scarce move her needle for the sleep of surfeit. So they sent her back again to the wood-cutters hut. The second damsel, too, when they dressed her up in gold and silver raiment, would not deign to dirty her fingers by making tents, so they sent her back too, to keep her elder sister company.

And how about the youngest? Well, after nine months and ten days the two elder sisters came sidling up to the palace to see if the poor thing would really be as good as her word, and bring forth the two wondrous children. In the gates of the palace they met an old woman, and they persuaded her with gifts and promises to meddle in the matter. Now this old woman was the devil’s own daughter, so that mischief and malice were her meat and drink. She now went and picked up two pups and took them with her to the sick woman’s bed.

And oh, my soul! the wife of the Padishah brought forth two little children like shining stars. One was a boy, the other a girl; on the boys forehead was a half-moon and on the girl’s a star, so that darkness was turned to light when they were by. Then the wicked old woman exchanged the children for the pups, and told it in the ears of the Padishah that his wife had brought forth two pups. The Padishah was like to have had a fit in the furiousness of his rage. He took his poor wife, buried her up to the waist in the ground, and commanded throughout the city that every passer-by should strike her on the head with a stone. But no sooner had the evil witch got hold of the two children, than she took them a long way outside the town, exposed them on the bank of a flowing stream, and returned to the palace right glad that she had done her work so well.

Now close to the water where the two children lay stood a hut where lived an aged couple. The old man had a she-goat which used to go out in the morning to graze, and come back in the evening to be milked, and that was how the poor people kept body and soul together. One day, however, the old woman was

The Golden-Haired Children.—p. 57.

surprised to find that the goat did not give one drop of milk. She complained about it to the old man her husband, and told him to follow the goat to see if perchance there was any one who stole the milk.

So the next day the old man went after the goat, which went right up to the water’s edge, and then disappeared behind a tree. And what do you think he saw? He saw a sight which would have delighted your eyes also—two golden-haired children were lying in the grass, and the goat went right up to them and gave them to suck. Then she bleated to them a little, and so left them and went off to graze. And the old man was so delighted at the sight of the little starry things, that he was like to have lost his head for joy. So he took the little ones (Allah had not blessed him with children of his own) and carried them to his hut and gave them to his wife. The woman was filled with a still greater joy at the children which Allah had given her, and took care of them, and brought them up. But now the little goat came bleating in as if in sore distress, but the moment she saw the children, she went to them and suckled them, and then went out to graze again.

But time comes and goes. The two wondrous children grew up and scampered up hill and down dale, and the dark woods were bright with the radiance of their golden hair. They hunted the wild beasts, tended sheep, and helped the old people by word and deed. Time came and went till the children had grown up, and the old people had become very old indeed. The golden-haired ones grew in strength while the silver-haired ones grew in feebleness, till, at last, one morning they lay dead there, and the brother and sister were left all alone. Sorely did the poor little things weep and wail, but was ever woe mended by weeping? So they buried their old parents, and the girl stayed at home with the little she-goat, while the lad went a-hunting, for how to find food was now their great care and their little care too.

One day, while he was hunting wild beasts in the forest, he met his father, the Padishah, but he did not know it was his father, neither did the father recognize his son. Yet the moment the Padishah beheld the wondrously beautiful child, he longed to clasp him to his breast, and commanded those about him to inquire of the child from whence he came.

Then one of the courtiers went up to the youth, and said: “Thou hast shot much game there, my Bey!”—“Allah also has created much,” replied the youth, “and there is enough for thee and for me also,” and with that he left him like a blockhead.

But the Padishah went back to his palace, and was sick at heart because of the boy; and when they asked what ailed him, he said that he had seen such a wondrously beautiful child in the forest, and that he loved him so that he could rest no more. The boy had the very golden hair and the same radiant forehead that his wife had promised him.

The old woman was sore afraid at these words. She hastened to the stream, saw the house, peeped in, and there sat a lovely girl, like a moon fourteen days old. The girl entreated the old woman courteously, and asked her what she sought. The old woman did not wait to be asked twice; indeed, her foot was scarce across the threshold when she began to ask the girl with honey-sweet words whether she lived all alone.

“Nay, my mother,” replied the girl; “I have a young brother. In the day-time he goes hunting, and in the evening he comes home.”

“Dost thou not grow weary of being all alone here by thyself?” inquired the witch.—“If even I did,” said the girl, “what can I do? I must fill up my time as best I may.”

“Tell me now, my little diamond! dost thou dearly love this brother of thine?”

“Of course I do.”

“Well, then, my girl,” said the witch, “I’ll tell thee something, but don’t let it go any further! When thy brother comes home this evening, fall to weeping and wailing, and keep it up with all thy might. When then he asks what ails thee, answer him not, and when he asks thee again, again give him never a word. When, however, he asks thee a third time, say that thou art tired to death with staying at home here all by thyself, and that if he loves thee, he will go to the garden of the Queen of the Peris, and bring thee from thence a branch. A lovelier branch thou hast never seen all thy life long.”—The girl promised she would do this, and the old woman went away.

Towards evening the damsel burst forth a-weeping and wailing till both her eyes were as red as blood. The brother came home in the evening, and was amazed to see his sister in such dire distress, yet could he not prevail upon her to tell him the cause of it. He promised her all the grass of the field and all the trees of the forest if she would only tell him what was the matter, and, to satisfy the desire of his sister’s heart, the golden-haired youth set off next morning for the garden of the fairy queen. He went on and on, smoking his chibook and drinking coffee, till he reached the boundaries of the fairy realm. He came to deserts where no caravan had ever gone; he came to mountains where no bird could ever fly; he came to valleys where no serpent can ever crawl. But his trust was in Allah, so he went on and on till he came to an immense desert which the eye of man had never seen nor the foot of man trodden. In the midst of it was a beautiful palace, and by the roadside sat the Mother of Devils, and the smell of her was as the pestilence in the air all round about her.

The youth went straight up to the Mother of Devils, hugged her to his breast, kissed her all over, and said: “Good-day, little mother mine! I am thine own true lad till death!” and he kissed her hand.

“A good-day to thee also, my little son!” replied the Mother of Devils. “If thou hadst not called me thy dear little mother, if thou hadst not embraced me, and if thy innocent mother had not been under the earth, I would have devoured thee at once. But tell me now, my little son, whither away?”

The poor youth said that he wanted a branch from the garden of the Queen of the Peris.

“Who put that word in thy mouth, my little son?” asked the woman in amazement. “Hundreds and hundreds of talismans guard that garden, and hundreds of souls have perished there by reason thereof.”

Yet the youth did not hold back. “I can but die once,” thought he.—“Thou dost but go to salute thy innocent, buried mother,” said the old woman; and then she made the youth sit down beside her and taught him the way: “Set out on thy quest at daybreak, and never stop till thou dost see right in front of thee a well and a forest. Draw forth thine arrows in this forest and catch five to ten birds, but catch them alive. Take these birds to the well, and when thou hast recited a prayer twice over, plunge the birds into the well and cry aloud for a key. A key will straightway be cast out of the well, take it to thee, and go on thy way. Thou wilt come presently to a large cavern; open the door thereof with thy key, and, as soon as thy foot is inside, stretch forth thy right hand into the blank darkness, grip fast hold of whatever thy hand shall touch, drag the thing quickly forth, and cast the key back into the well again. But look not behind thee all the time, or Allah have mercy on thy soul!”

Next day, when the red dawn was in the sky, the youth went forth on his quest, caught the five to ten birds in the forest, got hold of the key, opened therewith the door of the cavern, and—oh, Allah!—stretched forth his right hand, gripped hold of something, and, without once looking behind him, dragged it all the way to his sister’s hut, and never stopped till he got there. Only then did he cast his eyes upon what he had in his hand, and it was neither more nor less than a branch from the garden of the Queen of the Peris. But what a branch it was! It was full of little twigs, and the twigs were full of little leaves, and there was a little bird on every little leaf, and every little bird had a song of its own. Such music, such melody was there as would have brought even a dead man to life again. The whole hut was filled with joy.

Next day the youth again went forth to hunt, and, as he was pursuing the beast of the forest, the Padishah saw him again. He exchanged a word or two with the youth, and then returned to his palace, but he was now sicker than ever, by reason of his love for his son.

Then the old woman strolled off to the hut again, and there she saw the damsel sitting with the magic branch in her hand.

“Well, my girl!” said the old woman, “what did I tell thee? But that’s nothing at all. If thy brother would only fetch thee the mirror of the Queen of the Peris, Allah knows that thou wouldst cast that branch right away. Give him no peace till he get it for thee.”

The witch had no sooner departed than the damsel began screaming and wailing so that her brother was at his wit’s end how to comfort her. He said he would take the whole world on his shoulders to please her, went straight off to the Mother of Devils, and besought her so earnestly that she had not the heart to say him nay.

“Thou hast made up thy mind to go under the sod to thy innocent, buried mother, I see,” cried she, “for not by hundreds but by thousands have human souls perished in this quest of thine.” Then she instructed the youth whither he should go and what he should do, and he set off on his way. He took an iron staff in his hand and tied iron sandals to his feet, and he went on and on till he came to two doors, as the Mother of Devils told him he would beforehand. One of these doors was open, the other was closed. He closed the open door and opened the closed door, and there, straight before him, was another door. In front of this door was a lion and a sheep, and there was grass before the lion and flesh before the sheep. He took up the flesh and laid it before the lion, then he took up the grass and laid it before the sheep, and they let him enter unharmed. But now he came to a third door, and in front of it were two furnaces, and fire burned in the one and ashes smouldered in the other. He put out the flaming furnace, stirred up the cinders in the smouldering furnace till they blazed again, and then through the door he went into the garden of the Peris, and from the garden into the Peri palace. He snatched up the enchanted mirror, and was hastening away with it when a mighty voice cried out against him so that the earth and the heavens trembled. “Burning furnace, seize him, seize him!” cried the voice, just as he came up to the furnace.

“I can’t,” answered the first furnace, “for he has put me out!” But the other furnace was grateful to him for kindling it into a blaze again, so it let him pass by too.

“Lion, lion, tear him to pieces!” cried the mighty voice from the depths of the palace, when the youth came up to the two beasts.

“Not I,” answered the lion, “for he helped me to a good meal of flesh!”—Nor would the sheep hurt him either, because he had given it the grass.—“Open door! let him not out!” cried the voice from within the palace.—“Nay, but I will!” replied the door; “for had he not opened me I should be closed still!”—and so the golden-haired youth was not very long in getting home, to the great joy of his sister. She snatched at the mirror and instantly looked into it, and—Allah be praised!—she saw the whole world in it. Then the damsel thought no more of the Peribranch, for her eyes were glued to the mirror.

Again the youth went a-hunting, and again he caught the eye of the Padishah. But the sight of the youth this third time so touched the fatherly heart of the Padishah that they carried him back to his palace half fainting. Then the witch guessed only too well how matters stood.

So she arose and went to the damsel, and so filled her foolish little head with her tales that she persuaded her not to give her brother rest day and night till he had brought her the Queen of the Peris herself. “That’ll make him break his hatchet anyhow!” thought the old woman. But the damsel rejoiced beforehand at the thought of having the Queen of the Peris also, and in her impatience could scarce wait for her brother to come home.

When her brother came home she shed as many tears as if she were a cloud dripping rain. In vain her brother tried to prove to her how distant and how dangerous was the way she would fain have him go. “I want the Queen of the Peris, and have her I must,” cried the damsel.

So again the youth set out on his journey, went straight to the Mother of Devils, pressed her hand, kissed her lips, pressed her lips and kissed her hand, and said: “Oh, my mother! help me in this my sore need!” The Mother of Devils was amazed at the valour of the man, and never ceased dissuading him from his purpose, for every human soul that goes on such a quest must needs perish.—“Die I may, little mother!” cried the youth, “but I will not come back without her.”

So what could the Mother of Devils do but show him the way? “Go the same road,” said she, “that led thee to the branch, and then go on to where thou didst find the mirror. Thou wilt come at last to a large desert, and beyond the desert thou wilt see two roads, but look neither to the right hand nor yet to the left, but go right on through the sooty darkness betwixt them. When now it begins to grow a little lighter, thou wilt see a large cypress wood, and in this cypress wood a large tomb. In this tomb, turned to stone, are all those who ever desired the Queen of the Peris. Stop not there, but go right on to the palace of the Queen of the Peris and call out her name with the full strength of thy lungs. What will happen to thee after that not even I can tell thee.”

Next day the youth set out on his journey. He prayed by the wayside well, opened all the gates he came to, and, looking neither to the right hand nor to the left, went on straight before him through the sooty darkness. All at once it began to grow a little lighter, and a large cypress wood appeared right in front of him. The leaves of the trees were of a burning green, and their drooping crowns hid snow-white tombs. Nay, but they were not tombs, but stones as big as men. Nay, but they were not stones at all, but men who had turned, who had stiffened, into stone. There was neither man, nor spirit, nor noise, nor breath of wind, and the youth froze with horror to his very marrow. Nevertheless he plucked up his courage and went on his way. He looked straight before him all the time, and his eyes were almost blinded by a dazzling light. Was it the sun he saw? No, it was the palace of the Queen of the Peris! Then he rallied all the strength that was left in him and shouted the name of the Queen of the Peris with all his might, and the words had not yet died away upon his lips when his whole body up to his knee-cap stiffened into stone. Again he shouted with all his might, and he turned to stone up to his navel. Then he shouted for the last time with all his might, and stiffened up to his throat first and then up to his head, till he became a tombstone like the rest.

But now the Queen of the Peris came into her garden, and she had silver sandals on her feet and a golden saucer in her hand, and she drew water from a diamond fountain, and when she watered the stone youth, life and motion came back to him.

“Well, thou youth thou,” said the Queen of the Peris, “’tis not enough, then, that thou hast taken away my Peri branch and my magic mirror, but thou must needs, forsooth, venture hither a third time! Thou shalt share the fate of thy innocent buried mother, stone thou shalt become and stone shalt thou remain. What brought thee hither?—speak!”

“I came for thee,” replied the youth very courageously.

“Well, as thou hast loved me so exceedingly, no harm shall befall thee, and we will go away together.”

Then the youth begged her to have compassion on all the men she had turned to stone and give them back their lives again. So the Peri returned to her palace, packed up her baggage, which was small in weight but priceless in value, filled the little golden saucer with water, and sprinkled therewith all the stones and the whole multitude of the stones became men. They all took horse, and as they quitted the Peri realm, the earth trembled beneath them and the sky was shaken as if the seven worlds and the seven heavens were mingled together, so that the youth would have died of fright if the Queen of the Peris had not been by his side. Never once did they look behind them, but galloped on and on till they came to the house of the youth’s sister, and such was their joy and gladness at seeing each other again that place could scarce be found for the Queen of the Peris. But now the youth was in no great hurry to go hunting as before, for he had changed hearts with the lovely Queen of the Peris, and she was his and he was hers.

Now when the Queen of the Peris had heard the history of the children and their parents, and the fate of their innocent mother, she said one morning to the youth: “Go a-hunting in the forest, and thou wilt meet the Padishah. The first thing he will do will be to invite thee to the palace, but beware lest thou accept his invitation.” And so indeed it turned out. Scarcely had he taken a turn in the wood than the Padishah stood before him, and, one word leading to another, he invited the youth to his palace, but the youth would not go.

Early next morning the Peri awoke the children, clapped her hands together and called her Lala,[9] and immediately a huge negro sprang up before them. So big was he that one of his lips touched the sky while the other swept the earth. “What dost thou command me, my Sultana?” cried the Lala.

“Fetch me hither my father’s steed!” commanded the Peri.

The negro vanished like a hurricane, and, a moment afterwards, the steed stood before them, and the like of it was not to be found in the wide world.

The youth leaped upon the horse, and the splendid suite of the Padishah was already waiting for him at the roadside.

But—O Allah, forgive me!—I have forgotten the best of the story. The Peri charged the youth as he quitted her to take heed, while he was in the palace of the Padishah, to the neighing of his horse. At the first neighing he was to hasten back.

So the youth went to meet the Padishah on his diamond-bridled charger, and behind him came a gay and gallant retinue. He saluted the people on the right hand and on the left all the way to the palace, and there they welcomed him with a pomp the like of which was never known before. They ate and drank and made merry till the Padishah could scarce contain himself for joy, but then the steed neighed, the youth arose, and all their entreaties to him to stay could not turn him from his set purpose. He mounted his horse, invited the Padishah to be his guest on the following day, and returned home to the Peri and his own sister.

Meanwhile the Peri dug up the mother of the children, and so put her to rights again by her Peri arts that she became just as she was in the days of her first youth. But she spake not a word about the mother to the children, nor a word about the children to the mother. On the morning of the reception of guests she rose up early and commanded that on the spot where the little hut stood a palace should rise, the like of which eye hath never seen nor ear heard of, and there were as many precious stones heaped up there as were to be found in the whole kingdom. And then the garden that surrounded that palace! There were multitudes of flowers, each one lovelier than the other, and on every flower there was a singing bird, and every bird had feathers aglow with light, so that one could only look at it all open-mouthed and cry: “Oh! oh!” And the palace itself was full of domestics, there were black harem slaves, and white captive youths, and dancers and singers, and players of stringed instruments—more than thou canst count, count thou never so much, and words cannot tell of the splendour of the retinue which went forth to greet the Padishah as a guest.

“These children are not of mortal birth!” thought the Padishah to himself, when he beheld all these marvels, “or if they are of mortal birth a Peri must have had a hand in the matter.”

They led the Padishah into the most splendid room of the palace, they brought him coffee and sherbet, and then the music spoke to him, and the singing birds—oh! a man could have listened to them for ever and ever! Then rich meats on rare and precious dishes were set before him, and then the dancers and the jugglers diverted him till the evening.

At eventide the servants came and bowed before the Padishah and said: “My lord! peace be with thee! They await thee in the harem!” So he entered the harem, and there he saw before him the golden-haired youth, with a beautiful half-moon shining on his forehead, and his bride, the Peri-Queen, and his own consort, the Sultana, who had been buried in the earth, and by her side a golden-haired maiden with a star sparkling on her forehead. There stood the Padishah as if turned to stone, but his consort ran up to him and kissed the edge of his garment, and the Peri-Queen began to tell him the whole of her life and how everything had happened.

The Padishah was nigh to dying in the fulness of his joy. He could scarce believe his eyes, but he pressed his consort to his breast and embraced the two beauteous children, and the Queen of the Peris likewise. He forgave the sisters of the Sultana their offences, but the old witch was mercilessly destroyed by lingering tortures. But he and his consort and her son and the Queen of the Peris, and his daughter, and his daughter’s bridegroom sat down to a great banquet and made merry. Forty days and forty nights they feasted, and the blessing of Allah was upon them.

THE HORSE-DEVIL AND THE WITCH

There was once upon a time a Padishah who had three daughters. One day the old father made him ready for a journey, and calling to him his three daughters straightly charged them to feed and water his favourite horse, even though they neglected everything else. He loved the horse so much that he would not suffer any stranger to come near it.

So the Padishah went on his way, but when the eldest daughter brought the fodder into the stable the horse would not let her come near him. Then the middling daughter brought the forage, and he treated her likewise. Last of all the youngest daughter brought the forage, and when the horse saw her he never budged an inch, but let her feed him and then return to her sisters. The two elder sisters were content that the youngest should take care of the horse, so they troubled themselves about it no more.

The Padishah came home, and the first thing he asked was whether they had provided the horse with everything. “He wouldn’t let us come near him,” said the two elder sisters; “it was our youngest sister here who took care of him.”

No sooner had the Padishah heard this than he gave his youngest daughter to the horse to wife, but his two other daughters he gave to the sons of his Chief Mufti and his Grand Vizier, and they celebrated the three marriages at a great banquet, which lasted forty days. Then the youngest daughter turned into the stable, but the two eldest dwelt in a splendid palace. In the daytime the youngest sister had only a horse for a husband and a stable for a dwelling; but in the night-time the stable became a garden of roses, the horse-husband a handsome hero, and they lived in a world of their own. Nobody knew of it but they two. They passed the day together as best they could, but eventide was the time of their impatient desires.

One day the Padishah held a tournament in the palace. Many gallant warriors entered the lists, but none strove so valiantly as the husbands of the Sultan’s elder daughters.

“Only look now!” said the two elder daughters to their sister who dwelt in the stable, “only look now! how our husbands overthrow all the other warriors with their lances; our two lords are not so much lords as lions! Where is this horse-husband of thine, prythee?”

On hearing this from his wife, the horse-husband shivered all over, turned into a man, threw himself on horseback, told his wife not to betray him on any account, and in an instant appeared within the lists. He overthrew every one with his lance, unhorsed his two brothers-in-law, and re-appeared in the stable again as if he had never left it.

The next day, when the sports began again, the two elder sisters mocked as before, but then the unknown hero appeared again, conquered and vanished. On the third day the horse-husband said to his wife: “If ever I should come to grief or thou shouldst need my help, take these three wisps of hair, burn them, and it will help thee wherever thou art.” With that he hastened to the games again and triumphed over his brothers-in-law. Every one was amazed at his skill, the two elder sisters likewise, and again they said to their younger sister: “Look how these heroes excel in prowess! They are very different to thy dirty horse-husband!”

The girl could not endure standing there with nothing to say for herself, so she told her sisters that the handsome hero was no other than her horse-husband—and no sooner had she pointed at him than he vanished from before them as if he had never been. Then only did she call to mind her lord’s command to her not to betray her secret, and away she hurried off to the stable. But ’twas all in vain, neither horse nor man came to her, and at midnight there was neither rose nor rose-garden.

“Alas!” wept the girl, “I have betrayed my lord, I have broken my word, what a crime is mine!” She never closed an eye all that night, but wept till morning. When the red dawn appeared she went to her father the Padishah, complained to him that she had lost her horse-husband, and begged that she might go to the ends of the earth to seek him. In vain her father tried to keep her back, in vain he pointed out to her that her husband was now most probably among devils, and she would never be able to find him—turn her from her resolution he could not. What could he do but let her go on her way?

With a great desire the damsel set out on her quest, she went on and on till her tender body was all aweary, and at last she sank down exhausted at the foot of a great mountain. Then she called to mind the three hairs, and she took out one and set fire to it—and lo! her lord and master was in her arms again, and they could not speak for joy.

“Did I not bid thee tell none of my secret?” cried the youth sorrowfully; “and now if my hag of a mother see thee she will instantly tear thee to pieces. This mountain is our dwelling-place. She will be here immediately, and woe to thee if she see thee!”

The poor Sultan’s daughter was terribly frightened, and wept worse than ever at the thought of losing her lord again, after all her trouble in finding him. The heart of the devil’s son was touched at her sorrow: he struck her once, changed her into an apple, and put her on the shelf. The hag flew down from the mountain with a terrible racket, and screeched out that she smelt the smell of a man, and her mouth watered for the taste of human flesh. In vain her son denied that there was any human flesh there, she would not believe him one bit.

“If thou wilt swear by the egg not to be offended, I’ll show thee what I’ve hidden,” said her son. The hag swore, and her son gave the apple a tap, and there before them stood the beautiful damsel. “Behold my wife!” said he to his mother. The old mother said never a word, what was done could not be undone. “I’ll give the bride something to do all the same,” thought she.

They lived a couple of days together in peace and quiet, but the hag was only waiting for her son to leave the house. At last one day the youth had work to do elsewhere, and scarcely had he put his foot out of doors when the hag said to the damsel: “Come, sweep and sweep not!” and with that she went out and said she should not be back till evening. The girl thought to herself again and again: “What am I to do now? What did she mean by ‘sweep and sweep not’?” Then she thought of the hairs, and she took out and burned the second hair also. Immediately her lord stood before her and asked her what was the matter, and the girl told him of his mother’s command: “Sweep and sweep not!” Then her lord explained to her that she was to sweep out the chamber, but not to sweep the ante-chamber.

The girl did as she was told, and when the hag came home in the evening she asked the girl whether she had accomplished her task. “Yes, little mother,” replied the bride, “I have swept and I have not swept.”—“Thou daughter of a dog,” cried the old witch, “not thine own wit but my son’s mouth hath told thee this thing.”

The next morning when the hag got up she gave the damsel vases, and told her to fill them with tears. The moment the hag had gone the damsel placed the three vases before her, and wept and wept, but what could her few teardrops do to fill them? Then she took out and burned the third hair.

Again her lord appeared before her, and explained to her that she must fill the three vases with water, and then put a pinch of salt in each vase. The girl did so, and when the hag came home in the evening and demanded an account of her work, the girl showed her the three vases full of tears. “Thou daughter of a dog!” chided the old woman again, “that is not thy work; but I’ll do for thee yet, and for my son too.”

The next day she devised some other task for her to do; but her son guessed that his mother would vex the wench, so he hastened home to his bride. There the poor thing was worrying herself about it all alone, for the third hair was now burnt, and she did not know how to set about doing the task laid upon her. “Well, there is now nothing for it but to run away,” said her lord, “for she won’t rest now till she hath done thee a mischief.” And with that he took his wife, and out into the wide world they went.

In the evening the hag came home, and saw neither her son nor his bride. “They have flown, the dogs!” cried the hag, with a threatening voice, and she called to her sister, who was also a witch, to make ready and go in pursuit of her son and his bride. So the witch jumped into a pitcher, snatched up a serpent for a whip, and went after them.

The demon-lover saw his aunt coming, and in an instant changed the girl into a bathing-house, and himself into a bath-man sitting down at the gate. The witch leaped from the pitcher, went to the bath-keeper, and asked him if he had not seen a young boy and girl pass by that way.

“I have only just warmed up my bath,” said the youth, “there’s nobody inside it; if thou dost not believe me, thou canst go and look for thyself.” The witch thought: “’Tis impossible to get a sensible word out of a fellow of this sort,” so she jumped into her pitcher, flew back, and told her sister that she couldn’t find them. The other hag asked her whether she had exchanged words with any one on the road. “Yes,” replied the younger sister, “there was a bath-house by the roadside, and I asked the owner of it about them; but he was either a fool or deaf, so I took no notice of him.”

“’Tis thou who wert the fool,” snarled her elder sister. “Didst thou not recognize in him my son, and in the bath-house my daughter-in-law?” Then she called her second sister, and sent her after the fugitives.

The devil’s son saw his second aunt flying along in her pitcher. Then he gave his wife a tap and turned her into a spring, but he himself sat down beside it, and began to draw water out of it with a pitcher. The witch went up to him, and asked him whether he had seen a girl and a boy pass by that way.

“There’s drinkable water in this spring,” replied he, with a vacant stare, “I am always drawing it.” The witch thought she had to do with a fool, turned back, and told her sister that she had not met with them. Her sister asked her if she had not come across any one by the way. “Yes, indeed,” replied she, “a half-witted fellow was drawing water from a spring, but I couldn’t get a single sensible word out of him.”

“That half-witted fellow was my son, the spring was his wife, and a pretty wiseacre thou art,” screeched her sister. “I shall have to go myself, I see,” and with that she jumped into her pitcher, snatched up a serpent to serve her as a whip, and off she went.

Meanwhile the youth looked back again, and saw his mother coming after them. He gave the girl a tap and changed her into a tree, but he himself turned into a serpent, and coiled himself round the tree. The witch recognized them, and drew near to the tree to break it to pieces; but when she saw the serpent coiled round it, she was afraid to kill her own son along with it, so she said to her son: “Son, son! show me, at least, the girl’s little finger, and then I’ll leave you both in peace.” The son saw that he could not free himself from her any other way, and that she must have at least a little morsel of the damsel to nibble at. So he showed her one of the girl’s little fingers, and the old hag wrenched it off, and returned to her domains with it. Then the youth gave the girl a tap and himself another tap, put on human shape again, and away they went to the girl’s father, the Padishah. The youth, since his talisman had been destroyed, remained a mortal man, but the diabolical part of him stayed at home with his witch-mother and her kindred. The Padishah rejoiced greatly in his children, gave them a wedding-banquet with a wave of his finger, and they inherited the realm after his death.

THE CINDER-YOUTH

Once upon a time that was no time, in the days when the servants of Allah were many and the misery of man was great, there lived a poor woman who had three sons and one daughter. The youngest son was half-witted, and used to roll about all day in the warm ashes.

One day the two elder brothers went out to plough, and said to their mother: “Boil us something, and send our sister out with it into the field.”—Now the three-faced devil had pitched his tent close to this field, and in order that the girl might not come near them he determined to persuade her to go all round about instead of straight to them.

The mother cooked the dinner and the girl went into the field with it, but the devil contrived to make her lose her road, so that she wandered further and further away from the place where she wanted to go. At last, when her poor head was quite confused, the devil’s wife appeared before her and asked the terrified girl what she meant by trespassing there. Then she talked her over and persuaded her to come home with her, that she might hide her from the vengeance of the devil, her husband.

But the three-faced devil had got home before them, and when they arrived the old woman told the girl to make haste and get something ready to eat while her maid-servant stirred up the fire. But scarcely had she begun to get the dish ready than the devil crept stealthily up behind her, opened his mouth wide, and swallowed the girl whole, clothes and all.

Meanwhile her brothers were waiting in the field for their dinner, but neither the damsel nor the victuals appeared. Afternoon came and went and evening too, and then the lads went home, and when they heard from their mother that their sister had gone to seek them early in the morning they suspected what had happened—their little sister must have fallen into the hands of the devil. The two elder brothers did not think twice about it, but the elder of them set off at once to seek his sister.

He went on and on, puffing at his chibook, sniffing the perfume of flowers and drinking coffee, till he came to an oven by the wayside. By the oven sat an old man, who asked the youth on what errand he was bent. The youth told him of his sister’s case, and said he was going in search of the three-faced devil, and would not be content till he had killed him.—“Thou wilt never be able to slay the devil,” said the man, “till thou hast eaten of bread that has been baked in this oven.”—The youth thought this no very difficult matter, took the loaves out of the oven, but scarcely had he bitten a piece out of one of them than the oven, the man, and the loaves all disappeared before his eyes, and the bit he had taken swelled within him so that he nearly burst.

The youth hadn’t gone two steps further on when he saw on the highway a large cauldron, and the cauldron was full of wine. A man was sitting in front of the cauldron, and he asked him the way, and told him the tale of the devil. “Thou wilt never be able to cope with the devil,” said the man, “if thou dost not drink of this wine.” The youth drank, but: “Woe betide my stomach, woe betide my bowels!” for so plagued was he that he could not have stood upright if he had not seen two bridges before him. One of these bridges was of wood and the other was of iron, and beyond the two bridges were two apple-trees, and one bore unripe bitter apples and the other sweet ripe ones.

The three-faced devil was waiting on the road to see which bridge he would choose, the wooden or the iron one, and which apples he would eat, the sour or the sweet ones. The youth went along the iron bridge, lest the wooden one might break down, and plucked the sweet apples, because the green ones were bitter. That was just what the devil wanted him to do, and he at once sent his mother to meet the youth and entice him into his house as he had done his sister, and it was not long before he also found his way into the devil’s belly.

And next in order, the middling brother, not wishing to be behind-hand, also went in search of his kinsmen. He also could not eat of the bread his inside also was plagued by the wine, he went across the iron bridge and ate of the sweet apples, and so he also found his way into the devil’s belly. Only the youngest brother who lay among the ashes remained. His mother besought him not to forsake her in her old age. If the others had gone he at least could remain and comfort her, she said. But the youth would not listen. “I will not rest,” said Cinderer, “till I have found the three lost ones, my two brothers and my sister, and slain the devil.” Then he rose from his chimney corner, and no sooner had he shaken the ashes from off him than such a tempest arose that all the labourers at work in the fields left their ploughs where they stood, and ran off as far as their eyes could see. Then the youngest son gathered together the ploughshares and bade a blacksmith make a lance of them, but a lance of such a kind as would fly into the air and come back again to the hand that hurled it without breaking its iron point. The smith made the lance, and the youth hurled it. Up into the air flew the lance, but when it came down again on to the tip of his little finger it broke to pieces. Then the youth shook himself still more violently in the ashes, and again the labourers in the field fled away before the terrible tempest which immediately arose, and the youth gathered together a still greater multitude of ploughshares and took them to the smith. The smith made a second lance, and that also flew up into the air and broke to pieces when it came down again. Then the youth shook himself in the ashes a third time, and such a hurricane arose that there was scarce a ploughshare in the whole country-side that was not carried away. It was only with great difficulty that the smith could make the third lance, but when that came down on the youth’s finger it did not break in pieces like the others. “This will do pretty well,” said the youth, and catching up the lance he went forth into the wide world.