 11. Prince Ivan and the Gray Wolf, a Russian folk story. In a far off land surrounded by snow-capped mountains, and watered by rivers that flowed swiftly down to the sea, dwelt a mighty czar. His people loved as well as feared him, for the glance of his eagle eye was very kind, and he was ever ready to listen to their pleas for help or justice. When he rode abroad on the great white horse that was shod with gold, they flocked to bless him, and throughout the whole of his wide dominion there was not one discontented man, woman, or child. He had no foes to trouble him, since rival monarchs knew full well that their troops would be dispersed like mist in sunlight before the charge of his victorious army. And his three sons, Dimitri, Vasili, and Ivan, were all that a father could desire. Yet the good czar's brow was clouded as he walked in his garden, and from time to time he uttered a deep sigh. This garden was his greatest pride. In days gone by the forests had been rifled of their most splendid trees that they might spread their shade over the rare and lovely flowers that travelers brought him from every part of the globe. The perfume of his million rose trees was carried on the wind for fifty miles beyond the palace, and so wonderful were their colors that the eyes of those who beheld them were dazzled by so much brilliance. There were the gorgeous orchids, which in order that the garden of their beloved czar might be the most beautiful in the world, men had risked their lives to obtain, and every imaginable kind of fruit hung in tempting clusters from the drooping boughs of the trees. To look at them was to make one's mouth water, and the sick folk in his kingdom shared with the czar the pleasures of taste and touch. The tree that gave him most pleasure bore nothing but golden apples. When spring came round and tender buds appeared upon the whispering branches, the czar caused a net of fine white seed pearls to be spread around it, so that the sweet-voiced choristers who filled his groves with music should not come near them. They might feast at will on every other in his garden, he said, but the golden apples they must leave for him. And as if in gratitude for his many kindnesses, even when the net of pearls was taken away, and the apples gleamed like fairy gold amidst the emerald green of their shapely leaves, not one of the birds approached them. When cares of state pressed heavily upon him, the czar sought rest beneath the loaded branches, and forgot his troubles in watching the sunlight play on the golden balls. Now all was changed, and the czar's deep sigh betoken feelings of deep annoyance. Morning after morning he found the apple tree stripped of its golden treasures, and its emerald leaves strewn on the ground. This was the work of the magic bird, who once upon a time had lived in the great cloud castles that gather in the west, but was now the slave of a distant king. The feathers of the magic bird were as radiant as the sun god's plumes, and her eyes as clear as crystal. When she had wrought her will on the apple trees, she would fly blithely home to the garden of her own master, and try as they would, not one of the czar's head gardeners could even catch sight of her. The good czar meditated much upon the matter, and one windy morning in autumn he called his three sons to him. My children, he said, the source of my grief is known to you, and I now entreat your help. Will you each in turn forgo your sleep that you may watch in my garden for the magic bird? To whom who shall capture her, I will give the half of my kingdom, and when I am called thence he shall reign in my stead. Willingly, O my father, answered each of his three sons, and Prince Dmitri, as the eldest, claimed the right to the first watch. The garden was flooded with moonlight, as the prince threw himself down on a moss-grown bank that faced the tree, and the fragrance of the roses soon worked its drowsy spell. From a grove of myrtles came the song of a sweet-voiced nightingale, she trailed, and in listening to her the prince fell fast asleep. When he awoke it was light again, the tree had been once more despoiled, and the magic bird had flown. The same thing occurred when Prince Vasili took his turn in watching. It is only fair to him to say that he did not fall asleep until the night was far spent, but as the east began to quiver with light, he too became overpowered with slumber. The magic bird was watching her opportunity, and yet again she robbed the tree. When questioned by the czar, both princes solemnly assured him that no strange bird had visited the garden during the night, but though he feigned would have believed them, he could not doubt the evidence of his eyes. It was now Prince Ivan's turn to watch. He was not nearly so good-looking as his brothers, but he had a stout heart and a cool head, and he made up his mind to keep awake at any cost. Instead of reclining on the ground, he perched himself in the boughs of the tree, and when the song of the nightingale threatened to lull him to sleep as it had done the elder princes, he put his fingers into his ears that he might not hear it. An hour passed slowly, a second, and then a third. Suddenly the whole garden was lit up as if with a burst of sunshine, and with rays of light flashing from every shaft of her golden feathers the magic bird flew down and began to peck at the shining apples. Prince Ivan, scarcely daring to breathe, stretched out his hand and caught as much of her tail as he could grasp. With a startled cry the magic bird spread her beautiful wings and wrenched herself free, leaving behind one glittering feather, which the prince held firmly. At break of day he took this to his father, humbly apologizing for his ill success in not having caught the magic bird herself. Nevertheless you have done well, my son, said the Tsar gratefully, and he placed the feather, which shone so brightly that at dusk it eliminated the whole room in a cabinet of cedar and mother of pearl. The magic bird came no more to the palace garden, and the precious tree was never again dispoiled of its golden apples, but the Tsar was not content. He sighed to possess the bird that had robbed him, and once more he summoned his three sons. My children, he said, I am sick with longing for the magic bird. Seek her, I pray you, and bring her to me. What I have promised already, then shall be yours. The princes assented gladly, each anxious to find the magic bird. Prince Ivan alone wished to please his father. His brothers were only thinking of the riches and honors they would gain for themselves. So dear was this youngest son to the monarch's heart, that he was loathed to part with him when the time came, but the youth insisted. It will not be for long, dear father, he cried. I shall soon return with the magic bird you sigh for. So the Tsar blessed him and let him go. Prince Ivan took the fleetest horse in the imperial stables and rode on and on for many days. At last he came to a bare field set in the midst of a fair green meadow, and in the center of this stood a block of rough gray stone. Inscribed upon the stone in crimson letters was a strange verse. Hungry and cold shall that man be who rides in pride straight up to me. To ride from the left means death and sorrow, though his horse shall live for many a morrow. He who rides from the right shall have good things all, but ere three days pass his horse shall fall. Prince Ivan was greatly troubled at the thought of losing his horse, but to ride from the right seemed the wisest course for him to pursue. Accordingly he did so, and so swift was his horse's flight that he had soon left the gray stone far behind. On the third day as he was passing the borders of a gloomy forest, a big gray wolf sprang out from a thicket and flying at his horse's throat threw him on the ground and killed him in spite of Ivan's gallant attempt to beat him off. Ivan would now have run the gray wolf through with the jeweled dagger his father had given him as a parting present, but before he could rise from the spot where he had been thrown, the creature spoke. Spare me, wise Prince. He entreated humbly. I have but done as I was commanded. My death will not give you back your horse, while if you spare my life I will be your friend forever and will carry you over the world. Prince Ivan saw that he would gain nothing by being revengeful, and mindful of his quest accepted the wolf's offer to be his steed. Tell me where you wish to go, dear master, said the gray wolf, and it shall be as you will. And true enough, when he heard the object of Prince Ivan's journey, he galloped even more swiftly than the horse had done. Till towards nightfall he came to a standstill behind a thick stone wall. On the other side of this wall, he said, his a terraced garden, and there, in a golden cage, is the magic bird. The garden is empty now, so no one will stay you if you capture her, but if you touch her cage there will be trouble. Dismounting from the gray wolf's back, Prince Ivan climbed the wall without much difficulty and quickly seized the magic bird. She fluttered so wildly, however, as he tried to hold her, though without uttering a sound, that he quite forgot the gray wolf's warning and hastened back for the cage. As he touched it, the stillness of the garden was broken by the peeling of bells and the clanking of armour, for the cage was connected with the palace courtyard by invisible wires. Before he could escape, Prince Ivan was surrounded by excited soldiers who quickly carried him before the king. Are you not ashamed, the monarch thundered, noting the young man's rich attire, to be caught in my garden like a common thief? Where do you come from and what is your name? I am the son of a great Tsar, the young prince answered, and they call me Ivan. My father has a very beautiful garden, in which grows a tree of golden apples that is the pride of his heart. Night after night your magic bird rifled this precious fruit, until I all but succeeded in capturing her. She was too quick for me, however, and flew away, leaving one feather in my hand. This feather I took to my father, who admired it greatly, and ever since has longed to possess the magic bird. Tsar Dolmat looked less angry, though he still frowned. If you had come to me, he said, and told me what you wanted, I would have made your father a present of the magic bird. As it is, I have feeling inclined to let all nations know how dishonorably you have acted. Prince Ivan bowed his head in shame, and after a searching glance at him the Tsar continued his speech. You shall go forth free, young prince, he said, if you will do me a service. In the realm of Tsar Afron, beyond the Thrice Ninth Kingdom, there is a gold-maned horse which belongs to him, and this I greatly covet. If you will procure it and bring it here to me, I will forgive your theft of the magic bird. And present her to you as a mark of honour. Prince Ivan promised to do his best, but he did not feel very hopeful as he rejoined the Grey Wolf, who was patiently waiting for him outside the wall. When Ivan had confessed the reason that led to his capture, the Grey Wolf patted his shoulder with one rough paw. It takes a wise man, he remarked, to own himself in the wrong, so he will say no more about it. Jump on my back again, and I will take you to the far famed realm of Tsar Afron, beyond the Thrice Ninth Kingdom. The Grey Wolf ran so swiftly that Ivan could scarcely see the country through which they passed, and after travelling for many nights and days, they reached at last their journey's end. The marble stables of the Tsar shone fair and stately in the morning light, and through a door which a careless groom had left half open, Prince Ivan made his way. The horse with the golden mane was feeding on the yellow pollen collected by the bees from the tall white lilies that edged the rose garden, and stared at Prince Ivan haughtily as he approached. Firmly grasping his golden mane, Prince Ivan let him out of the stall. The Grey Wolf had cautioned him more than once not to attempt to bring the golden bridle that hung above the door, but as he was leaving the stable the Prince suddenly thought how useful this would be, and turning back stretched out his hand and touched it. Immediately he did so. Bells peeled all over the palace, for, like the cage of the magic bird, the bridle was fastened to invisible wires. The stable guards came hurrying in full of alarm, and when they saw Prince Ivan they seized him angrily and took him before their master. Tsar Afran was even more indignant than Tsar Dolmat had been at the Prince's attempt to rob him. When he questioned him as to his birth and station his face became sterner still. Is this the deed of a gallant night? he asked with withering scorn. I have a great regard for your father's name, and if he would come to me openly and in good faith I would have gladly given you my gold-maned horse, but now all nations shall know of your dishonour, for such acts as yours must not go unpunished. This was more than Prince Ivan could bear, and with eager haste he protested his willingness to atone for his fault. Very well then, said Tsar Afran, I will take you at your word. Go forth and bring me Queen Helen the Beautiful, whom I have long loved with all my heart and soul. I have seen a picture of her in my seer's white crystal, and she is more fair to look upon than any other maid. I cannot reach her try as I may, since her kingdom is guarded by elves and goblins. If you can capture her for me and bring her here, in return I will give you anything you ask. Prince Ivan hurried away to the Grey Wolf, fearing that since he had disregarded his advice for a second time he might refuse to help him in this new enterprise. Once more he humbly confessed that he had been at fault, and once more the Grey Wolf consoled him. One must buy, wit, he growled. Well, jump on my back, and I will see what I can do for you. Then he ran so swiftly that it seemed as though his feet were winged, and the elves and goblins that guarded the kingdom of Helen the Beautiful scattered before him in all directions, thinking him to be a specter. When he came to the Golden Streamlet that bordered the Queen's magic garden, he told Prince Ivan that he must now dismount. Go back by the road we came, he commanded, and wait for me in the shade of that spreading oak tree we passed just now. Prince Ivan did as he was told, and the Grey Wolf crouched under a bush of juniper and waited until evening fell. As the light faded out of the sunset sky, and the pale little moon rose slowly over the mountaintops, Queen Helen walked in her garden. She was so fair and sweet to look upon that even the heart of the Grey Wolf was moved to admiration, and he wished her a worthier mate than the stern Tsar Afron, who knew not how to be gentle even in his love. After a while she approached the Streamlet, winding round her dainty threat a cloud of milk-white gossamer that she might not feel the touch of the evening breeze. Do not fear, sweet lady, I will not harm you, the Grey Wolf cried as he sprang from his hiding place and crossed the stream. Holding her tenderly by her flowing draperies, he leapt back to the other side and galloped with her to the Prince who waited under the spreading oak. When Queen and Prince beheld each other, it was as if a veil had fallen from their eyes. Never had the world appeared so beautiful, and as they gazed at each other in the soft twilight the Queen's fears fled. As for Prince Ivan, he knew from that moment that she was intended for his wife, and when they rode away together on the Grey Wolf's back he already felt she belonged to him. The journey was all too short, and soon Tsar Afron's palace loomed before them. Why are you weeping? the Grey Wolf inquired as their tears splashed on his head. Queen Helen could make no answer, but Prince Ivan's words poured forth like a raging flood. How can we help it, Grey Wolf, he cried, since we love each other and I must resign my beautiful Queen to the stern Tsar Afron or else be branded before all nations as a robber and a thief. I have kept my promise, Prince Ivan, said the Grey Wolf, and served you well, but I will do more for you still. By means of magic known to myself alone, I, the Grey Wolf, will take the form of beautiful Queen Helen. You shall leave the real Queen here, in the shade of this grove of pine trees, and when you have taken Tsar Afron his strange wolf bride, who will appear to him as a lovely woman with golden hair, he will give you the gold-meined horse, bid him farewell as quickly as you can, and taking her Queen behind you, ride swiftly towards the west. When I have given you time to journey far, I will ask Tsar Afron to let me walk with my maidens in the woods. Then, if you call me to your mind, I shall disappear from their midst even as they watch me, and join you and your Queen. Prince Ivan once more did as the Grey Wolf said, and great was the delight of the Tsar Afron as he beheld the tall and gracious woman whom the Prince presented to him. She was even more beautiful than he had imagined from her picture, and he would have given not only his gold-meined horse but his crown as well, to her captor had he desired it. Prince Ivan, however, asked nothing but the gold-meined horse, and was soon speeding across the plains with the real Queen Helen, nestling against his side. He rode towards the west, where lay the kingdom of Tsar Dolmat. Tsar Afron was more than content with his wolfish bride, who was not alarmed by his fierce caresses, and only smiled when he threatened to kill her if her love for him should waver for a single instant. On the fourth day after the marriage feast, she complained of feeling stifled in the royal palace. If I might walk in the meadows, she said, the breath of the cool fresh wind would refresh my spirit, and I could once more laugh with my lord. So the Tsar allowed her to walk with her maidens. Just at this time, the thought of the Grey Wolf flashed into Prince Ivan's head. I had forgotten him, he exclaimed remorsefully to his dear wife. What is he doing, I wonder? I wish we had him here. He had no sooner spoken, then there came a clap of thunder from the distant hills, and the Grey Wolf suddenly appeared. You must let the Queen ride the gold-meined horse alone, he told the Prince, and I will be your steed. Somewhat reluctantly, the Prince accepted his suggestion, and in this manner they rode to the verge of Tsar Dolmat's capital. The kindly looks of the Grey Wolf emboldened the Prince to ask him another favour. Since you can change yourself into a beautiful woman, and then back again into a Grey Wolf, could you not become for a time a gold-meined horse, so that I might give you to Tsar Dolmat and keep the real one for my dear Queen? The Grey Wolf readily assented, and striking his right paw three times in succession on a patch of bare earth, became the exact image of the gold-meined horse who bore the fair Queen Helen. Leaving the real horse with his bride in a flower-strewn meadow outside the city, Prince Ivan rode on to the Tsar. He was greeted by that monarch with every sign of joy, for the mane of the Grey Wolf horse shown in the sunshine like purest gold. The Tsar kissed Prince Ivan on either cheek, and leading him to his palace gave him a royal feast. For three whole days they reveled in the choicest wines and the richest vines the kingdom could supply. And on the third, Tsar Dolmat rewarded the Prince with many thanks and the gift of the magic bird in her golden cage. Prince Ivan felt now that his quest was over, and quickly regaining Queen Helen's side, he fastened the cage of the magic bird round the neck of the gold-meined horse, and rode with her towards his father's kingdom. Early the next afternoon they were joined by the Grey Wolf. Tsar Dolmat had ridden his newly acquired treasure in an open field, and had been heavily thrown for his pains by the false horse, which had then galloped away. As the Grey Wolf had been so good a friend to him, Prince Ivan could not refuse his request when he asked to be allowed to carry him, so once more the Queen alone sat on the gold-meined horse. Thus they rode on until they came to the place where the Grey Wolf had slain the horse which Prince Ivan had brought from his father's stable. Here the strange creature came to a sudden stop. I have done all that I said, and more, he told the Prince. Now I am your servant no longer, farewell. And he galloped back to the gloomy wood from which he had first come. Prince Ivan's sorrow at parting with him was very real, but in the pleasure afforded by the Queen's company he soon forgot his loss. When he came within sight of his father's realm he stopped by the shade of a belt of fir trees, and placing the cage of the magic bird and the golden bridle beneath their shade, he lifted down his beautiful Queen and rested with her on a bank of fern. They were weary after their long journey, and soon, talking together softly as ring doves coo in their nests, both fell asleep. Now Prince Dimitri and Prince Facili had fared badly on their travels, and were returning to the palace empty-handed and sadly out of temper, when they caught sight of the reclining forms of the two sleepers, with the gold-meined horse browsing close beside them. As they stared in amazement, an evil spirit of envy took possession of them, and there presently entered into their minds the thought of killing their brother. Each looked at the other, and then Prince Dimitri drew his sword, and ran it through Prince Ivan as he slept. He died without a murmur, and when the Queen awoke she found him lifeless. What is this you have done? she sobbed to the guilty princes. If you had met him in a fair fight and slain him thus, he might at least have struck a blow in self-defense, but you are cowards and dastards, fit only for ravens' food. In vain she wept and protested, as the princes drew lots for their dead brother's possessions. The Queen fell to the keeping of Prince Facili, and the gold-meined horse was judged to Prince Dimitri. In a passion of tears the Queen hid her face in her golden hair, as her would-be Lord spoke roughly to her. You are in our power, fair Helen, he said. We shall tell our father that it was we who found you, the magic bird, and the gold-meined horse. If you deny our words we will instantly put you to death, so look to it that you hold your tongue and keep our counsel. The poor Queen was so terrified by his cruel threat that speech foresook her, and when they arrived at the palace she was mute as some marble statue, and could not contradict the wicked statements which she heard them boldly utter. Prince Ivan lay dead with his face to the sky, but the wood elves guarded his body, so that neither beast nor bird came near to devour it until the end of thirty days. Then as the sun was sinking a raven seeking food for her young hopped on his breast and would have pecked at his eyes had not the gray wolf galloped up in the nick of time. He knew at once that the dead man must be Ivan, and pouncing upon one of the young birds would have torn at asunder in his rage. Do not touch my little birdling, fierce gray wolf, and treated the mother piteously. It has done you no harm, and deserves no ill from you. Then listen, the gray wolf replied. I will spare the life of your birdling if you will fly away beyond the thrace nine lands, and bring me back the water of death and the water of life from the crystal stream once they flow to the great forever. I will do what you wish, cried the raven, only do not touch my little son. And as she spoke she sped away. Three days and three nights had passed before she returned to the gray wolf, carrying two small vials. One held the water of life, the other the water of death, and as the gray wolf took them from her he gave a cry of triumph. With a snap of his teeth he bit the young raven in two, tearing it to pieces before its mother's frantic eyes. This done he broke one of the vials, and when he had sprinkled three drops of the water of death on the slain birdling immediately its torn body grew together again. Then he touched it with a few drops from the second vial, and a little thing spread its wings and flew off rejoicing. Thus the gray wolf knew that the raven had served him well, and he poured what was left of the waters of life and death over the body of the dead prince. In a few moments life came back to him, and stumbling to his feet he smiled at the gray wolf. Have I slept long? he asked dreamily. You would have slept forever had it not been for me, was the reply. And the prince listened with grieved surprise, as the gray wolf told him all that had happened. Your brother is going to bury your bride today, he ended by saying, We must hasten to the palace with all possible speed, mount on my back, and I will carry you once more. So they galloped to the palace of the old czar, and the gray wolf bade Prince Ivan farewell for the last time, as he dismounted at the great gates. The prince hurried into the banquet hall, and there, looking like some fair statue that had been molded from frozen snow, sat beautiful Queen Helen by Prince Facili's side. They had just returned from the wedding ceremony, and all the nobles were gathered round. When Queen Helen saw who had entered the hall, her speech came back to her, and she flew to her lover with a cry of rapture, and kissed him on the lips. This is my own dear husband, she cried. I belong to him, and not to the wicked prince I have married today. From the shelter of Ivan's breast, she told the czar all that had happened, and how it was to his youngest son that he owed, the gold-mained horse, and the magic bird. The joy of the czar at his favorite son's return was tempered by his grief and amazement at the conduct of the elder princes. They were cast into prison where they languished still, but Prince Ivan and the beautiful Queen Helen are as happy as the days are long, and the magic bird was allowed to return to her home in the golden west. End of Chapter 11. Read by Kalinda in Lüneborg, Germany. On February 7th, 2009. A Slice of Tongue, an Arabian story which suggests the merchant of Venice. Omer was a lazy fellow. There could be no doubt of this, since year after year he refused to bestow himself and still lived on with his parents. His sunny temper and pleasant ways made them forget his many faults, and though his father often reproached him for not making a home for himself as other young men were doing, he only laughed good-humoredly and kissed his mother. Why should I make a home for myself, he asked, when I am far happier here than I could be elsewhere? His mother smiled well satisfied, for her handsome boy was the very apple of her eye. The years went on, and the time came when the two old folks slept calmly side by side beneath the grass. Omer was left alone, and for the first time in his life he knew what it was to be really miserable. His honest grief became him so well that everyone was sorry for him, and many a neighbor offered him bite and sup, and strove to comfort him with homely sayings. It was late now for Omer to remember his father's advice, but still he did so. The first step to take it seemed to him was to get married, and accordingly, when the violence of his grief had somewhat worn off, he considered the various maidens in the village. There was Rosalie, who sang like a bird, and Greta, who danced divinely, and was so fair of face that the roses in her window blushed with envy. Neither Rosalie nor Greta, however, particularly attracted him, and his fancy fell on Fatima, who was somewhat shy, and of a beauty less pronounced than that of her rivals. But Fatima's eyes were the very color of his dear mother's, and he fancied he saw in them the same sweet gleam of affection that had made his home a haven of joy. Fatima, for her part, had long loved him in secret, but she wisely determined not to accept his suit until he could provide for her. It is time you began to work, dear Omer, she said, repeating his father's words. I will gladly be your wife when you can bring me 30 purses of gold, but not before. We cannot live on air, and it would not be fitting that your wife should work for you. Poor Omer shrugged his shoulders. What was he to do? His well-shaped hands had learned no craft, and without capital it was impossible to start a business. In his perplexity he thought of a rich Jew who often made loans to worthy tradesmen who found themselves in difficulties, and accordingly he repaired to this good man. Isakar eyed him shrewdly. You say you will pay me, he remarked, but when? I know you well young Omer, you are your father's son, but he was industrious and you are idle. How can I be certain that you intend to work? Omer assured him that once he was married to Fatima, he would leave no stone unturned to win a fortune. Lend me those 30 purses of gold, he urged, and you shall see. The Jew had no love for him in his heart since he himself had looked upon Fatima with envious eyes, but at last he agreed to advance the money. Before I do so, he said, you must sign this. And he laid before him a document to the effect that, if he, Omer, did not repay Isakar the 30 purses of gold within seven years, the Jew should cut off a slice of his tongue to the weight of a dracum. Lighthearted Omer signed the bond without the least a mirror. With Fatima for his wife he thought to himself joyfully, he could do anything, and long before the seven years were expired would be in a position to repay twice 30 purses of gold. He set about his arrangements for the wedding in the highest of spirits, and spent so much in Fatima's honour that before he knew what he was doing, half the money the Jew had lent him had disappeared. Never mind, he thought to himself, I shall soon make more. When the honeymoon was over, he opened a shop for such necessities as brooms, tobacco, salt and cheese, since he knew that whatever his neighbours could do without, they must have these. Greatly to everyone's surprise, for Omer's laziness was proverbial, the shop did well. Fatima loved her husband dearly, and though she found it impossible to keep him up to her own high standard of industry, she managed to induce him to give the shop at least a certain amount of attention. And when he slung off to lie on his back in some green meadow, and look at the sky and dream great dreams, she took his place, and proved so willing and accommodating a saleswoman that customers often chose the hour for shopping when they knew that Omer would be away. In the long knitted purse hidden under her mattress was a shining store of silver pieces, and but for Omer's extravagance, there would have been many more. It was well for the little household that Fatima was so clever a manager. Towards the end of the seventh year bad times came to the village, and no one had any money to spend. With a sudden shock, Omer realized that it would be impossible for him to pay back Izakar, and the thought plunged him into the deepest gloom. He could not sleep for thinking what it would feel like to have a slice cut off his tongue, and hearing him sigh so frequently, Fatima insisted on his telling her what was wrong. If I had only known, she cried, how you obtained those thirty purses of gold, I would never have allowed you to touch them. This was all that she said by way of reproach, and Omer had never loved her more than he did in the dark days that followed, when both went silently about their work, with downbent heads and somber eyes. One evening at sunset, Fatima thought of a plan, dividing her poor little savings into three portions. She wrapped one of these in a silken square, and called at the Caddy's house. Making a deep obeisance, she laid the money at his feet, and left without a word. This she did on the second, and the third night also, and as she was leaving for the last time, the Caddy stopped her. What would you have of me, he asked her kindly. O Caddy, she responded, grant me but this one boon, let me just for an hour, sit in your robes on the judgment seat on Friday, and I will bless you for the rest of my life. The Caddy would have refused outright, but Fatima was still a handsome woman, and the beautiful eyes that were raised to his so pleadingly were soft as velvet. It shall be as you wish, he said at last, but I shall stand behind the screen and listen to all you say. If during that hour your judgments are not just ones, I shall reverse them, and turn you out of the court as an imposter. Fatima thanked him with all her heart, and the following Friday saw her adorned in the Caddy's robes, and sitting in his place. The first case to be brought forward was that of Izakar and Omer. The shrunken face of the Jew was a light with malicious triumph. Now at last he would be avenged for the slight that the fair Fatima had put upon him in days gone by. Grinning with delight he listened to Omer's confession that he could not produce the gold, and hastened to demand that he should pay the penalty. You say well, said Fatima, he cannot pay you, and you are therefore entitled to a slice of his tongue. Have you a razor, Izakar? The Jew produced one eagerly, and Omer's brow grew pale as death, as he saw him feeling the sharp edge and noted his fiendish glee. He bore himself bravely nevertheless, and Fatima felt proud of her husband as he quietly advanced to await the Jew's pleasure. Be careful, she cautioned Izakar, that you do not draw a drop of blood, for this the bond does not entitle you to do. If you cut off either more or less than one single dragon, you will be punished with the utmost rigor of the law. It was now for Izakar to turn pale and tremble. There was such decision in the catty's voice that he knew it would be useless to appeal, and making a great show of magnanimity, he declared that in consideration of kindness shown to him by Omer's father in the past, he would forgive the debt of his son. The matter cannot end in this way, replied the catty sternly. You must keep to the bond. Cut off immediately one dragon of Omer's tongue, neither more nor less. Izakar, now thoroughly alarmed and fearful of his own life, fell on his knees and offered a ransom of thirty purses of gold that he might go free without attempting so impossible a task. As the catty still preserved a significant silence, he added that he would make no further claim upon Omer for the debt he had incurred. It is well, said the catty, and this declaration was promptly entered in the books. The true catty was greatly amused at Fatima's stratagem and refused to touch the thirty purses of gold that Izakar had paid into the court. They are yours, O wise woman, he said with a gracious smile, and Fatima hastened home in her own attire. Shortly afterwards her husband appeared, looking very subdued after the ordeal through which he had passed and eager to tell her what happened. He lost no time in describing the scene in court. That catty is not only a clever judge, he said, but a handsome fellow to boot. You should have seen the way that his eyes sparkled when Izakar paid him the gold. Was he as handsome as I am? laughed Fatima softly, and to Omer's amazement she showed him the thirty purses forfeited by his enemy. He wept with joy when he heard how she had saved him by her woman's wit, and from that day forward he became so industrious that fathers held him up as an example to their sons. End of Chapter 12. Read by Kalinda in Lüneburg, Germany, February 7th, 2009. Chapter 13 of Folktales for Many Lands This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Folktales for Many Lands by Lillian Gask Chapter 14. St. Christopher, a Roman Catholic legend There was once a man named Ophero, so tall and strong that he stood among his fellows as a sturdy oak in a grove of saplings. His eyes were keen and clear as some great eagles, his lips spoke nothing but gentle words, and his heart was as pure and tender as little childs. His spirit was brave and fearless, and while he was yet in the prime of his strength, he resolved to devote it to some good purpose. My friends, he said, when he had called together his companions, I must leave you now for something within me whispers that I was born to serve a king so great that fear is unknown to him, a king to whom all men bow. Then he strode away into the forest and was seen of them no more. For many a day, he traversed valley and mountain, inquiring of all he met who was the greatest king. At last he came to a splendid country where reigned a monarch of high renown. His armies were vast and powerful, and his fleet of warships was like a flock of birds bearing death on their grim, brown wings. When he was told that Ophero desired to serve him, he welcomed him gladly and liked the young man so well that he soon made him his trusted counselor and friend. It was Ophero's pride to see how all men trembled at his master's frown, and he could not believe that there lived a monarch greater than he. One day, however, when the king was present, a courtier made some remark about the evil one. His majesty's august brow grew pale, and Ophero could have sworn he saw his stern lips quiver. Pained and surprised, he humbly asked the king why he was troubled. I am afraid of the devil, said that monarch, although I fear no mortal man. He is the king of Hades and more powerful even than I. Then I must leave you, O king, cried Ophero with haste, since I have vowed to serve none other than the most powerful monarch in existence. And sorrowfully he turned away. Where is the devil? he asked the first man he met. He is everywhere, returned the traveler, looking round uneasily, and this was the usual answer that Ophero received to his inquiry. Wherever he went, men looked uneasy at the devil's name, but would not say where Ophero was most likely to meet with him. He found him at last among a group of idle men and maidens on the village green, and hailed him as his master. The devil was glad to have so strong a follower and amused himself by showing the astonished giant his power over rich and poor. There seemed to be no limit to his might. He swayed the nobles in their velvet robes and the peasants in their tattered garments. He is indeed master of the world, said Ophero, and though he liked not the devil's ways, he stifled his distaste that he might keep his word. One day his master led him through the outskirts of the town into the open country. We are going to visit a hermit, he said with a burst of laughter. He has left the town to be quit of me, but he will find me in his cave. Before Ophero could ask him what he meant to do with the good hermit, they came to a turn where four roads met. A rough wind swayed the branches of the trees, and a peel of thunder echoed among the lofty hills. It was neither wind nor thunder, however, that made the devil tremble, but the sight of a wooden cross which some pious folk had erected here. With gaunt arms pointing east and west, it stood immovable. The rain beat down on it mercilessly, as if to cleanse it from the roadside dust, and turning his head away that he might not see it, the devil hastened past. Not until it was far behind them had Ophero an opportunity of asking why he had trembled. I was afraid, answered his grim companion with another shudder. Afraid, repeated Ophero in puzzled tones, why, what was there to be afraid of? Did you not see the crucifix? cried the devil impatiently. The figure on it is that of Gluck Christ, and that is why I trembled. The giant had never heard that holy name before, and felt more perplexed than ever as he demanded. Who is this Christ whom you so fear? He is the King of Heaven, was the reluctant reply. Is he more powerful than you? persisted Ophero, planting himself in the center of the pathway so that his master could not pass on. He is more powerful, even than I, admitted the devil, his eyes becoming points of fire. Then I shall serve him, and him only, the giant cried, and turning on his heel he left the devil to go on his way alone. When Ophero reached the cross once more, a man was kneeling before it in prayer. As he rose from his knees, Ophero asked him the way to heaven. I cannot tell you, said the man, the way is long and hard to find. Tis well that Christ is merciful. Ophero met with like answers from many way fairers whom he questioned, but at last came one who advised him to consult the hermit. He is a holy man, he assured him earnestly, and has retired from the world that he may give his time to prayer and fasting. He thinks he can serve Christ this way better than any other. So Ophero sought the hermit and learned from him many things. He heard of the grandeur and goodness of Christ and the greatness of his kingdom. All that he said made Ophero more eager to serve him than ever, and when the hermit explained that no one could enter the heavenly kingdom until he was summoned there by Christ himself, he bowed his head in disappointment. How then can I serve this new master, he said, unless I can see him and hear his commands? Do as I do, replied the hermit. Give up the world and fast and pray. If I were to fast, said Ophero shrewdly, I should lose my strength, and then when he called me to work for him I should be useless. And although the hermit tried to persuade him he would not stay, but set off again on his journey, determined to find the way to heaven. Presently he met a company of pilgrims. They were dusty and travel-stained and very foot sore, but their faces shone with joy. There were men and women and little children, some came from distant lands and some from near, but one and all they were filled with a deep content. Who are you and whence do you travel? Ophero asked them wonderingly. We are the servants of Christ, they answered, and we are marching towards heaven. The path is rough and the way is long, but his many mansions await us. I will come with you and be his servant, too, said Ophero, and they welcomed him gladly. The way was long, as they had said, but to the giant the days passed quickly. He was learning so much that he could scarcely sleep for the wonder of it, and his face also shone with happiness. He grew very grave when he heard of the swift flowing river that almost crossed before they could hope to reach the kingdom of heaven. There is no bridge to span it, said an aged pilgrim, whose tottering limbs were now so feeble that but for Ophero's support they would hardly have borne him along. The trembling woman, the little child, must cross it alone in the gloom and darkness, for though they call no friendly boatman appears in sight. When Christ has need of us, his messenger will appear. He is clothed in raiment white as snow, and although his voice is always gentle, it is clearly heard in the rush and roar of the tempest as on a summer's day. At length the pilgrims came to the riverbank, and as the giant gazed at the foaming current, and saw the waves dashing against the shore, he marveled greatly at what he had been told. Surely he thought no feeble woman or little child could breast its waters and reach the other side. Even as he mused on this, the white-robed messenger called to an ailing girl who was almost too weak to move. Her master had need of her, he said, and in the fair courts of heaven she would be strong again. What joy was hers when she heard his voice, but alas, when she crept to the edge of the bank and saw the river that surfed beneath it, her heart grew sick with fear. She quivered and shook from head to foot and moaned that she dare not venture. An exceeding pity moved Ophero to go to her help. Do not weep, he said, but trust me. And taking her tenderly in his arms he lifted her onto his shoulder and bore her tenderly across. In spite of all his strength the pitiless current nearly swept him off his feet, and he fought with the icy waters as he had fought no mortal foe. The girl tried in vain to thank him as he placed her on the bank in safety. He would not let her speak. Tell Christ, he said, that I am his servant, and that until he shall summon me to his side I will help his pilgrims to cross the river of death. From henceforth this was his work. He had no time to wonder when his own call would come, for day and night there arrived at the banks of the river pilgrims from every climb, and since few had courage to face the dark waters alone, he crossed and recrossed it continually. In order that he might always be at hand he built himself a rough log hut by the waterside, and here he made his home. One night when the waves rolled fiercely and the wind blew high a pharaoh laid him down to sleep. Surely he thought no one would dare to cross in such a storm. His eyes had scarcely closed however when he heard a knocking on the door. Who are you? he cried as he threw it open. There was no answer, and by the light of his lantern he saw a wistful child on the riverbank. He was staring at the rushing waters with piteous dread, but the tone of his voice was clear and firm as he turned and spoke to a pharaoh. I must cross tonight, he said. A pharaoh looked at him with deep compassion. Poor child, he murmured, I am glad I heard you. With a tide like this it will be difficult even for me, giant as I am, but you would be swept away. With gentle hands he placed the boy on his shoulder and bidding him not to fear set out for the opposite shore. He had not overestimated the difficulties he had to face. Time after time he was beaten backward and the icy waters nearly engulfed them both. It took all his strength to bear up against them, and the weight of the child seemed greater than that of the heaviest man he had ever borne. When at last he climbed the steep, high bank. He was bruised as well as breathless, for the hidden rocks had worked him grievous harm. Tell Christ, he panted, and then he saw that the figure beside him was not that of a little child, but of a radiant being of kingly mean with a crown of glory on his brow. The giant knelt before him and the vision smiled. I am the Christ, he said, whom thou hast served so long. This night thou hast borne me across the river of death. Thou didst find me a heavy burden, for I bore the sins of the world. Then he named Giant Afaro Christopher, meaning he who hath carried Christ, and took him to Deval with him in his heavenly kingdom. CHAPTER 14 THE BASKET OF FLOWERS A story from the feudal times when the lord of the manor had full power over his vassals. John's wedding present from his master was a charming little cottage close to the great garden of the castle which he had made so beautiful. Early and late had he toiled over beds and borders, learning the habits of each tree and flower that he might know how best to grow them, and when he married a charming bride as fair as one of his own roses, his neighbours declared that he deserved his good fortune. The count, his master, was a just and kindly man, and fully appreciated his services. As time went on, and a little daughter was born to John and his wife, they felt they had nothing more to ask of heaven, and the child grew up in an atmosphere of love and sunshine until she was five years old. Then trouble came to the straw-thatched cottage, and the young mother was called away. John and his little Marie were left alone, and for many a day to come the songs of the birds sounded sad to them instead of sweet. Marie was just as good as her mother had been, and very soon she became the joy and comfort of her father's heart. Day after day she toddled beside him through the castle gardens, watching him at his work with her clear blue eyes, and shaking her sun-shiny hair over the flowers she loved. They were her only companions except her father, and she murmured to him the piteous story of how Fidel, her little dog, had eaten the nose of her best doll or hidden her ball. The ladies at the castle took a great fancy to the pretty little creature, and often when she was old enough the Countess had her up to the housekeeper's room that she might learn to embroider and put dainty stitches in the delicate fabrics court ladies wore. The grand cook too became one of her teachers, and Marie was taught how to concoct wonderful dishes out of very little, so that John fared well when he came in from work. At the age of fifteen his little daughter was a clever housekeeper, and it seemed as if the rest of his days were to be passed in peace. Marie had other accomplishments besides cooking and needlework. An old woman in the village whom she had befriended showed her how to weave beautiful baskets from the willows by the stream, and Marie was always inventing fresh patterns and different ways of twisting the pliant twigs so that her baskets might be different from those of anyone else. When she wanted a new gown or a dainty for her father, she would take some of these into the next town where they fetched a very good price. The best one of all, however, she reserved as a birthday present for the young Countess whom she had worshipped from her babyhood. The birthday of the Countess dawned clear and bright. Marie was up early, filling her basket with fragrant pinks and delicate lilies, and arranging these with so much skill that her father exclaimed with pride when her work was finished. Holding it very carefully before her, she shyly approached the castle, and was shown upstairs to her ladyship's own apartments. The young Countess was delighted with the tasteful gift, and leaving Marie in her bedroom flew off to show it to her mother. Hastening back, she thanked Marie once more and added graciously, It is your birthday too, dear girl, and this is my present to you. You must always think of me when you wear it. As she spoke, she displayed a simple white robe which she had lately purchased. It was trimmed with pale blue ribbons, and Marie flushed with delight as she curtsied and withdrew. Once outside the castle, she ran so quickly with her treasure that she was out of breath when she reached the cottage. Isn't it beautiful, Father? she cried, and shall I not look fine in it next Sunday? All the while they were at breakfast she could talk of nothing else, and her father rejoiced to see her pleasure. He was just going back to his work when the young Countess herself came to the door. She was pale and trembling, and her beautiful eyes were filled with reproach as she flung the flower-filled basket on the floor. Oh, Marie! she cried. How could you do it? Is this the way you repay my kindness? Give me back my mother's diamond ring at once, and I will forgive you, but you must never come near me again. In vain Marie protested that she had seen no ring, and that if she had she would have died rather than steal it. The Countess did not believe her. It was there on my dressing table when I left you in my room that I might show my mother your basket, she said indignantly. Our maid Henrietta noticed it there the moment before you came in, and no one entered afterwards but you and myself. I never saw it, repeated Marie. Do believe me, dear Countess, I would not rob you for anything in the world. Her father, deeply agitated, joined his pleading to hers. The young Countess turned hotly away. If you will not confess, she said, I shall send you to prison. And she swept away in a bitter anger. Marie and her father were overwhelmed with grief. He did not for one moment doubt her innocence, but he saw that circumstances were against her, and dazed and bewildered knew not what to do. The bailiff shortly afterwards appeared, and in spite of Marie's protestations carried her off to prison. Marie spent a terrible night, and when morning came was but a wreck of the bright young girl who had taken the young Countess that ill-fated basket of flowers. Her honest face, as she denied all knowledge of the ring, prepossessed the judge in her favour. But the maid Henrietta was so emphatic in saying that she had actually seen it on the dressing table before Marie entered the room, and had even noticed how the sunlight caused it to sparkle, that he had no choice but to find her guilty. Marie was sentenced to imprisonment, but the Count, in compassion for her father's distress, begged the judge to modify her punishment. She was accordingly set at liberty, but on condition that she should immediately leave that part of the country, and that her father should pay the value of the ring. The old gardener would not abandon her, so the little cottage was given up, and all their cherished possessions were sold to defray the cost of the missing ornament. The only thing that Marie retained, and a small old-fashioned portrait of her mother, was the Countess's basket, which she kept as a memento of that dreadful day. The poor old man was sick with trouble as he and Marie set off on their wanderings. He had worked hard all his life, and now, at the end of his days, it seemed as though this disgrace would kill him. His love for Marie was his only consolation, and the heroic fortitude with which she bore herself under this heavy trial made her more dear to him than ever. For days they wandered over the country, sleeping at night in the shelter of a hay-wreck, or under a hedge, with berries and fruit for their only food. Nature was kind to them, for the skies were clear, and the air so soft and balmy that it seemed like a caress. At last, when the old man's strength was all but spent, Marie saw before them a comfortable farmhouse. The porch was covered with roses, and the polished windows almost smiled at her. He or she felt they might meet with friends, and she was not disappointed. The farmer and his wife were kindly folk, and their hearts were moved to pity at the side of the forlorn wayfarers who approached their door. They invited them into the red-flagged kitchen and set before them milk and bread. When the wanderers had refreshed themselves, and receded on the wide oak settle, their compassionate hosts inquired their history, and on learning of their misfortunes and of what poor Marie had been accused. Their hearts went out to them. That is the way with those rich people, said the old farmer. They treat us as though we were dogs, and did not know what honour meant. Fancy serving you in that way, and doubting your daughter's words, when you had worked for them faithfully for so many years. But never mind. You shall make your home with us for the present, and when you are strong again we will see what you can do. So that night Marie and her father slept under a roof once more, and their prayers were full of gratitude to heaven. The old man soon recovered his wanted health, for the fare at the farm was good and plentiful, and the farmer's wife, who had taken a great fancy to Marie, was kindness itself. She had always longed for a daughter, and now, as she said, it seemed as though Providence had sent one. Her only son was a headstrong youth, but little at home, and up to the present had been no comfort to her. In spite of all that had befallen them, the next three years were happy ones, both for Marie and her father. The old man took as much pride in the garden of their kind friends, as he had done in that of the Count. He made it a bower of fragrance, and people came for miles to see his wonderful show of roses. The cuttings from his plants brought the farm a considerable sum, and Marie was so useful about the house, that the good wife often wondered how she had done without her before she came. Her baskets brought in quite as much pocket money as she required. If only I could prove my innocence of that dreadful theft, Marie would sometimes say to herself, as she worked in the long summer evenings, but she stifled her sighs lest they might sadden her father. As age came on him he forgot the past, and living only in the present passed his days in calm content. One morning, when she went to call him, she found him asleep. So fast asleep did she could not wake him. The little portrait of her mother lay in his open hand. In spite of her overwhelming sorrow at being left alone, Marie could only feel glad that his pilgrimage was at an end. This was the beginning of a very troubled time for the farmer and his wife, as well as for Marie herself. The preceding winter had tried the old couple greatly, and they felt too feeble now to work the farm by themselves. Their son was a clever fellow, and they knew that if he would only give his mind to his work, he could make the farm pay as well as it had done in years gone by. I will give everything over to you, my son, the farmer said, if you will solemnly promise that your mother and I shall be allowed to stay here for the rest of our lives, and that you will provide for us comfortably. Their son gladly agreed to this, for he was tired of roaming about, and glad to settle down. Marie, of course, was to stay on also. She did the work of two servants at least, so it was no particular credit to the man that he wished to keep her. While he remained single, things went on smoothly. But he soon took a wife from the village, a handsome and showy girl, who was of a jealous disposition, and knew as little how to keep house as she did how to hold her tongue. They had not been married a month before she fell out with the old people, and refused to allow them to sit either in the kitchen or in the parlor. They were turned out of their big bedroom, being made to sleep in a garret instead, and the food she supplied them with was both scanty and ill-cooked. It is hard to say what they would have done but for Marie, who put up with the young wife's temper with angelic sweetness, that she might still be near the dear old people who had befriended her. Before very long, however, her position became impossible. The young wife grew jealous of her loveliness, and sought by every means in her power to make her life unbearable. The climax came when she accused her of having stolen some linen that had been laid out to bleach in the sun, and had mysteriously disappeared. You were at your old tricks, she said to Marie, for she had heard her story, and the poor girl could have sunk into the earth with shame. Alas! I must leave you, she cried weepingly to the old couple. I cannot stay here any longer. If only I could die! For the first time since she left the castle, Marie gave way to despair. She had nowhere to go, for she was homeless. For a long while she wandered about the fields. When dusk gave place to darkness, she made her way to the little churchyard on the hill, where Sunday after Sunday she filled the basket on her father's grave with flowers. Here under the shade of a cypress, she laid herself down and cried herself to sleep. The moon shone down on the sleeping girl, turning her soft bright hair into a wreath of gold as it caught the light. Out of the darkness of the church porch stole a tall white figure that might have been an angel's. But the face was the face of a woman, and she bent over Marie. Do you not recognize me, dear child? I am the young Countess whom you used to love, and I have come to ask you to forgive me for my cruel doubts. Marie was two days at first to understand the meaning of her words, but presently, as she sat beside the Countess in a stately bedroom of the house where she was staying, she heard with joy that her innocence had been proved. Last year I was married, said the young Countess, and after our wedding my husband and I went back to the castle, which we left soon after you did. During our visit there was a violent storm, and one of the trees close by the window of the room where I used to sleep was struck by lightning and torn asunder. A great branch fell to the ground and out of this dropped a magpie's nest. My younger brothers who were with us flew to see what it contained and discovered a number of bright and shining treasures, among which we found that ring. It was clear that the magpie had carried it off after having flown in through my open window, and you, my poor Marie, were the sufferer. Marie broke into sobs. In the midst of her relief and gladness she could not help thinking of her father, and the Countess wept also. Presently she went on with her story. My father sent for Henrietta and forced her to confess that she had actually missed the ring before you came that morning. It was her jealousy of you that made her give false evidence, but I do not believe she has ever been happy since that day. We did all we could to find you, but in spite of our many inquiries we could hear nothing and thought you must be dead. A few days ago I came to visit a castle in this neighborhood, and my hostess brought me to-day to see the little church. As we strolled past the graves she showed me one which she said was always decked with flowers. It is that of an old gardener, she added, his daughter never forgets him. And there, full of lilies and roses I saw the basket that you had made for me. I knew it at once, for no one but you ever made them just that shape. I came back to-night because I could not sleep for thinking of the injustice that I had done you. Oh, my dear child, how sorry I am and what you must have suffered, but that is over now. You must come home with me and never leave me again. Marie did not forget the old couple who had been so good to her in her hour of need, and the first thing she did next day was to take the countess to see them. Owing to her good offices the son and his wife were given another farm, and the old people were reinstated as master and mistress of their own home, with a kind young woman to look after them. Marie returned to the castle with the countess, and the people of the village could not do enough to show their contrition for their want of faith in her in days gone by. A few years later she was happily married to a young gardener in the count's service, and went to live with him in the dear little cottage where she was born. The countess gave it to her as a wedding present, and here she and her husband spent many happy years with their children round them. End of Chapter 14 Chapter 15 of Folktales for Many Lands This is LibriVox Recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Accorded by Kalinda. Folktales for Many Lands by Lillian Gask. Chapter 15. The Monk and the Bird of Paradise. A familiar legend in Sweden, Austria, and Germany. On the banks of the Rhine stood a large monastery, where dwelt a company of monks. These holy men were not only distinguished for sanctity, but also for their wisdom and learning, and one of the foremost was Brother Bernard, whom all reverenced for his piety. From far and near students came to consult him, and his words were quoted as if he were an oracle. In spite of his holiness, however, Brother Bernard had serious misgivings as to the state of his own soul. He could not imagine himself living in paradise forever without becoming weary of it. Alas! he cried, we tire of everything upon this earth, and I fear that even in an eternity of bliss would at last become monotonous. The Vesper hymn is very sweet, but I should not care for it unceasingly. He was so tormented by this thought that he could neither read nor pray. At the foot of the mountain on which the monastery was built stood a great forest, and here he wandered for hours in the shade of the giant trees, so absorbed in his reflections that he paid no heed to where he trod. At last he prayed that God would work some miracle, that he might know that life in heaven would neither be dull nor dreary. After a while he grew fatigued by his long ramble, and looked around to see whence he had come. To his surprise he found himself in an unknown part of the forest, and on reaching a clearing where the sunlight streamed on the fallen needles of the pines, he threw himself into the midst of their fragrance to rest awhile. Just then a little bird, with plumage the color of the sky itself, alighted on the branch above him and began to sing. So pure and exquisite were its notes that Brother Bernard listened in ecstasy until the sweet song ceased. As the bird vanished the monk rose from his seat. Dear me, he cried, how stiff I am! I must have walked much further than I thought. In stooping to brush the pine needles from his robe, he noticed that his beard was snowy white, and that his hands were wrinkled like those of an old man. Even the forest itself looked changed to him, for the trees were larger, and the bushes had disappeared. He wondered if he could be dreaming, for otherwise he thought his senses must be deceiving him. With great difficulty he found his way back to the village, where he was surprised to meet unfamiliar faces. He rubbed his eyes again and again, feeling greatly disturbed. I thought that I knew everyone he muttered to himself, but here are people whom I never met before. Who are they, and why did they stare at me as if I were some wild man of the woods instead of hastening to kiss my hand and receive my benediction? He was too weary to question them, however, and made his way to the monastery. His astonishment increased when he found a stranger in charge of the gate instead of good brother Antoine, who had held the office for more than fifty years. Where is the porter, he asked him falteringly, and what has happened to cause the changes which I see around me? The brother looked at him curiously. I do not know what you mean, he said, for I have been porter here for thirty years, and I can assure you that there have been no changes in my time. Then what can have happened to me, exclaimed the bewildered monk. I went out this morning to walk in the forest, and on my return I find no trace of my old comrades. Just then two aged monks came slowly by, and brother Bernard stopped in front of them. Do you not recognize me? he asked. Is there no one here who knows brother Bernard? Brother Bernard said the oldest reflectively. We have no brother of that name in the monastery now, but I remember having read of him in our chronicles. He was a most holy man, with the simple faith of a little child. One morning they say he quitted the monastery and went to the forest that he might meditate and pray with nothing between him and the floor of heaven. He never returned, and though a diligent search was made, no trace of him could be found. It was thought that he had been carried up to the skies, like the prophet Elijah, in a chariot of fire, a fitting end to his life of sanctity. How long ago was this? asked brother Bernard tremblingly. A thousand years, said the old monk. You may see by our books that this is so. On hearing this brother Bernard fell on his knees. God heard my prayer and worked a miracle, he cried, that I might have faith. He sent his bird of paradise to sing to me, and while I listened a thousand years passed by, now indeed I believe and would faint enter his holy kingdom. He bowed his head in silence, and when they spoke to him again, they found that his spirit had passed away. The smile on his lips was so full of sweetness, that the monks marveled greatly, and they noted with awe that his wrinkled face had grown smooth again. God is good to his saints, murmured one monk. Amen. 16. The Farmer and the Noses In the neighbourhood of the city of Prague, there once lived a very eccentric farmer who was reputed to be extremely wealthy. He had a remarkably handsome daughter with a pair of fine dark eyes, who was a great favourite with many students at a neighbouring university. She would often chat with these when they passed her home in their country rambles, but she never showed more encouragement to one than to the other. So charming was Teresa, and so rich her father, that the name of her suitors was Legion. Teresa knew her own value well, and was not a ripe cherry ready to drop off the branch at a moment's touch. This only enhanced her attraction to her lovers, and several of them agreed upon the ingenious plan of entering her father's service during their vacation as ordinary farm-hands, so that one of their number might thus find an opportunity of winning her maidenly heart. The farmer was a shrewd old man, and soon discovered their wily plot. For the future, he declared, he would only take servants who agreed to remain in his employment for at least a year, and permit him to cut off the tips of their noses if they became discontented. He, for his part, would agree that he should forfeit the tip of his own nose if he lost his temper with them. Notwithstanding this extraordinary condition, so fascinating was Teresa and the reputation of his wealth that several of the university students entered his service. It was fine sport for the farmer, for he had the youths in the hollow of his hand. By putting upon them unexpected hardships, he surprised them into betraying discontent. He then demanded that they should pay the penalty and ignominiously dismiss them, minus the tips of their noses. At length, however, a young student named Coranda arrived on the scene, determined to win the farmer's daughter. The conditions were fully explained to him, so that he might have no just cause for a complaint if he did not comply with them. Remember, said the farmer, that if you come, you must stay until the cuckoo returns in the spring, and if in the meantime you show any signs of discontent, you too will forfeit the tip of your nose. Very well, said the student calmly, and with an affectionate glance at Teresa, took off his coat and prepared to work. The farmer began his usual tactics. At dinner and supper he offered the young man nothing to eat, yet smilingly inquired from time to time if he had had enough. Coranda replied with gay good humour that he was perfectly satisfied, but having no intention of starving, he coolly helped himself to a piece of bread and a thick slice of meat. The farmer turned pale with anger, and asked him how he dared to take such a liberty. I was hungry, Coranda replied, for I had not tasted food all day. However, he added, since you are not satisfied and I have made you angry, I will leave at once, after having sliced off the tip of your nose. The farmer saw that he was fairly caught in his own trap, and as he had no desire to be disfigured, he declared that he too was satisfied. After this he took good care that Coranda should have his share at mealtimes. When Sunday morning came, the farmer made another tempt to put him in the wrong. I am going to church with my wife and daughter, he said. You must prepare the soup during my absence. Here are meat, carrots, onions, and the pot. You will find parsley in the garden. See that your soup is good, or you will ruin it. Don't forget the herbs, he added. I like my broth well seasoned. Shortly after they had gone, Coranda began his soup making. He threw the meat and vegetables into the pot, filled it with water, and then went off to the garden for the parsley. He found other green things in plenty, but no parsley, though he searched under rose bushes and round the borders, and made himself very hot and uncomfortable in the process. The farmer's small dog frisked round him all the time, apparently delighted by his non-success. It refused to be driven away, and yelped and barked without ceasing. Suddenly Coranda remembered that for some absurd reason or other they had named a little brute Parsley. Aho! he said, I have it now! And without more ado he killed the dog and added it to the contents of the pot. In due time the farmer came home from church, looking very well pleased. Teresa had on a new frock trimmed with blue ribbons, and he chuckled with glee as a temerity of the rash student who thought to woo her. He's a handsome fellow, he said to himself, but it will spoil his beauty when I snip off the end of his nose. He had once proceeded to make matters uncomfortable for the young man. I hope your soup is good, he said, as his wife ladled him out a steaming plateful. It tasted abominable and was swimming with fat, but a gleam in the student's eye reminded him in time that if he gave way to temper his own nose would suffer. So he swallowed his anger, though not the soup. Parsley, he cried, looking round for his dog, come here! This soup is fit for you, and you shall have it. It is Parsley which gives my soup its excellent flavor, remarked the student with a roguish glance at Teresa, who demirally cast down her eyes. I could find none save the dog, and so I put him in the pot. On hearing this the farmer began to scold violently. I did merely what you told me, said the youth, but if you are angry I am ready to go, taking with me the tip of your nose. Oh, no! I am not angry, replied the farmer with a deep sigh. His face was contorted with rage, and the other servants had much to do to keep from laughing. Next morning the farmer went off to market. He would not leave either his wife or daughter at home, for he suspected them of favoring the handsome student. Before he set out he gave him his orders for the day, and in such a rude tone of voice that the young man flushed with anger. He was only to do what he saw the others doing, he was told, and the farmer added a slighting remark as to his general incapacity. Caranda sauntered round the farm, with his hands in his pockets, on the lookout for an opportunity to get even with his employer. By and by he noticed some workmen placing a ladder against an old barn, and waited to see what they were going to do. One after another they climbed to the roof, and began to take off the tiles as a preliminary to pulling down the building. Caranda lost no time in following their example. He fetched another ladder, and mounting the roof of the farmer's house, set to work to demolish this. When the farmer returned he was horrified to see that most of it was uncovered. Naturally indignant he attacked the young man bitterly, to be met with the same smiling good humor, and an offer to leave his service on the conditions agreed upon. The farmer once more could not find a word to say, and stalked away in gloomy anger. This sort of thing went on for some weeks. Try as he might he could not get the better of the quick-witted student, who scrupled at nothing in his determination to win Teresa for his bride. It was she whom the father at last consulted, for life was becoming a burden to him, and he was anxious to get rid of Caranda at any cost. Teresa considered a while, and there was an odd expression on her pretty lips when at last she spoke. Well, said she, you told him that he could not leave until he heard the cuckoo's call. Take him into the meadow behind the orchard. I will hide in the boughs of an apple tree, and imitate the cuckoo's voice. You were as clever as you are handsome, cried her father with great delight, and pretending to desire a private conversation with the student, he took him into the long meadow. Teresa, of course, was safely ensconced by this time in the spreading boughs of an apple tree. Cuckoo, cuckoo! she cried, so naturally that a robin on a neighboring bush was startled nearly out of his feathers. As the sound reached his ears, the farmer promptly gave the young man notice. Very good, master, replied Caranda, but this cuckoo's an early bird. I must have a look at her. Before the farmer could stop him, he ran to the orchard, and catching a glimpse of Teresa's frock through the gnarled brown boughs, he vigorously shook the apple tree. Down came the girl falling into his arms, and he held her there tightly, in spite of her mild struggles to escape. Rich! cried the farmer, be off at once before I put an end to you. Why should I be off? inquired Caranda, trying to look at Teresa's face, which was certainly pink enough for an apple blossom. Are you angry? It's a lovely cuckoo. Be gone! shouted the farmer, set my daughter free and away with you. Then allow me to cut off the tip of your nose, was the reply. And now Teresa succeeded in escaping from the arms that held her. The farmer stood aghast. No, no, he exclaimed into stressful tones. I cannot have that, but you must leave us. If you go at once, I will give you ten sheep. That's not enough, replied the student, shaking his head. Then ten cows, said the farmer hastily. No, I would rather keep to our agreement, replied Caranda, whipping out of his pocket a very large pen knife and opening one blade. Teresa sprang forward with a cry of horror. Once more the student caught her in his arms. Sh! Your father shall keep his nose, but he must give you to me for my wife. And he kissed her so ardently that if Teresa had any objection to make it was not heard. The farmer now forgot everything in his rage of the young man's boldness, but in the midst of his storming the fair Teresa threw her arms around his neck and implored him not to sacrifice his nose, since she was quite willing to marry this lover. The situation was not an easy one for the poor man, and at length he allowed himself to be appeased and admitted that Caranda had the best of the argument. There was no denying this. And as the young man would not relinquish his advantage, the farmer was forced to give a favourable answer to his suit. The wedding of the young people was celebrated very soon, and Caranda invited his defeated fellow students, who came with good grace. The farmer soon became reconciled to his son-in-law, and in due course was a great favourite with his grandchildren. If they were naughty or appeared discontented their father would threaten to cut off the tips of their noses, and then the old man might be seen tenderly rubbing his own. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Colinda. Folktales from Many Lands by Lillian Gask. Chapter 17 The Mouse Tower This is the legend of the Mouse Tower at Bingen on the Rhine. Hato, Bishop of Mayans, was rich and avaricious. Instead of devoting himself to prayer and almsgiving, he thought only of increasing his great wealth. And at a time when numbers of his people could not obtain sufficient food, his money chests were laden with gold. His farms were the most productive in the whole country, and whatever might happen to other folk, he did not seem to suffer. One spring the rivers overflowed, and the low lying land was flooded. The harvest failed, and famine was imminent. Finding themselves on the point of starvation, the villagers went to implore his aid. Take pity, good Bishop, on our hungry wives and little children, they entreated. They die with hunger while your granaries are full of wheat. But Bishop Hato only laughed. I cannot help that, he said. You must look after yourselves. And day after day he made them the same answer. My wheat is far too precious, he said at last, for me to bestow it on hungry rats. Even this, however, would not drive them off, for they were desperate. And, wearied at length by their importunities, Hato bade them go to one of his largest granaries, which happened to be empty, saying that there he would meet them and satisfy their demands. Now at last there was joy among the starving creatures. Their dim eyes brightened, and strength came back to their shrunken limbs as they dragged themselves to the granary, in which there was soon a large assembly. You shall have bread tonight, they told their little ones, and the children ceased their wailing. At the time appointed, Bishop Hato made his appearance, accompanied by a number of his servants. His cruel lips were pressed tightly together, and the fires of hatred burnt in his deep-set eyes as he surveyed the hungry crew through the open doors of the great granary. Instead of entering it, he told his servants to pull to the doors and bar them firmly. When this was done, he commanded that the building should be set on fire. Meanwhile the hungry men and women were thanking God for having softened his heart and calling down blessings on his name. Every moment they expected to see him enter, but the minutes wore on and he did not come. One of their number threw open a window that they might have more air, and as he did so, the Bishop's rage found vent in words. You have pestered me like rats, he said, and now you shall die like rats. As he spoke, the crackling of the flaming walls that hemmed them in made his meaning clear. Despite their shrieks and appeals for mercy, they were burnt alive, and though his servants were pale with horror, the Bishop calmly surveyed the scene. When the granary was but a mass of cinders, he went back to his palace with an easy mind to enjoy his luxurious dinner. That night his sleep was broken by queer little sounds, as if rats and mice were scampering over the floor and nibbling at something they had found. Next morning he was annoyed to find that the splendid portrait of himself in his Bishop's robes, which had been painted by a famous artist at great expense, was lying on the ground, nod to shreds. He could see the mark of the rat's sharp teeth on that part of the canvas where his face had been, and in spite of himself he shuddered at the sight. A few minutes later one of his servants burst in to tell him that a vast number of mice and rats were approaching his palace from the ruins of the granary. They are coming in this direction with all speed, my lord, he said with bated breath, and a panic of terror seized the man who had committed so evil a crime. Mounting his horse he went off at full gallop, but though the brute was fleet, and he spurred him on unmercifully, the Bishop found that the army of rats was gaining upon him. With wild terror he hurried down to the riverside, and jumping into a little boat, rode with all his might towards a tall stone tower built on a rock in the middle of the stream. Entering this with what hasty could, he quickly barred the door and crouched down in a dusty corner. He was safe, he thought, for a time at least. What was his horror presently, on peering through a narrow slit in the stone walls, to see that the rats and mice had devoured his horse, and were now swimming across the river? The current was swift and strong, but they gained the tower, and though he had barred the window, he could hear them climbing up the rough stone wall in all directions. He heard them gnawing at the doors and windows, and the poor starved people whom he had caused to perish did not suffer half what he suffered then. They were in at last, and sprang at him fiercely. He beat them off by the score, he trampled them under his feet, he tore them savagely with his hands, all to no purpose. He might just as well have tried to beat back the ocean. The rats surged against him like waves breaking on a cliff, and very soon the bishop was overwhelmed in the horrid flood. Little was left to tell of the tragedy when his servants plucked up courage to enter the building some days later. This is the story of the Mouse Tower near Bingen on the Rhine, which is still pointed out to strangers as the place where Bishop Haddow met his death. End of Chapter 17 Chapter 18 of Folktales from Many Lands This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Kalinda Folktales from Many Lands by Lillian Gask Chapter 18 The Four Seasons A bohemian folk story which has been retold in many tongues. There was not a prettier cottage on the borders of the forest than that which was the home of Claire and Laura. A beautiful rose tree clambered all over the little house, thrusting its clusters of small pink blossoms through the open windows, and nodding to Claire as though to say, You are as sweet as we are, and the sun shines on us all. The roses did not nod their heads at Laura, for she was as ugly and wicked as Claire was, lovely. Her face wore always a heavy frown, which her mothers reflected. For Laura was her favourite child, and she could not bear to see that her second daughter, for whom she had no spark of love, should be so much the more attractive of the two. Nature had been very kind to the little Claire. The roses had given their delicate colouring to her soft cheeks, and her pretty eyes were just the hue of a purple pansy. The red of the crimson berries that glinted among the evergreens when winter came was not more vivid than that of her lips, and her hair had the sheen of yellow corn when the sun is smiling on it. Laura could not look at her without a pang of envy, and longed to drive her away from home. One bitter day in winter, when a waste of snow surrounded the cottage and frozen icicles hung from the roof, Laura asked her mother if Claire might pick some violets in the woods for her. Violets exclaimed the mother, at this time of the year? Why, you must be dreaming, child! There is not a single flower in all the forest. But Laura insisted that Claire should be sent to seek for the flowers, and loathed to refuse her anything, her mother did as she was asked. Do not come back without them, or it will be the worst for you! Laura called from the doorway as she watched her little sister go shiveringly down the pathway that led to the forest. In its depths she knew there lurked gaunt gray wolves, and these were fierce with hunger. Claire knew this too, and her heart was faint with fear as she passed through the grove of fir trees. A cheery little robin hopped down from one of the branches, and sang a few bars of his winter song as if to comfort her. She had gone but a few paces further when she saw the red of his breast repeated in a glimmer of ruddy light in the distance. She hastened towards it, and found it came from a huge fire, round which were sitting twelve strange men. The faces of all were kindly, but while three had long white beards and snowy garments, three had golden beards and long green garments, three had auburn beards and yellow garments, and yet another triplet with long black beards were dressed in violet. One of the three whose hair was frosted looked up as she approached. May I warm myself at the fire, kind sir? She asked him timidly, and making room for her at once, he asked her why she wandered in the forest in such bitter weather. I was sent to pluck violets for my sister, Claire explained, and I dare not go home without them or she would be very angry. At this her questioner turned to one of the three men who were robed in purple. Violets are your concern, brother May. Can you not help the poor little thing? he asked. She will be frozen to death otherwise, for tonight will be colder than ever. To be sure I will, said brother May, laying a gentle hand on Claire's fair hair, and taking the staff from the white-haired man, he poked the fire. This was the signal for a most marvelous change in the forest. Ice and snow disappeared, and the air became soft and balmy. Birds sang in the branches overhead, and flowers sprang up as if by magic round the path which Claire had trodden. She filled her hands with fragrant violets and thanked the brothers for their help. You are welcome, dear child, they cried, and the old man took back his staff again, and in his turn poked the fire. Once more it was winter, and Claire hastened home to the cottage as quickly as she could. Both Laura and her mother were surprised to see her, for they had made sure that she would lose her way. Laura snatched at the violets only to toss them aside, and was so unkind for the rest of the day that Claire sobbed herself to sleep. Next morning she was again sent out in the snow. This time it was to seek wild strawberries in the forest, and her sister's look was so full of meaning as she said, Do not come home without them! That the poor little maiden trembled with fear as well as with cold, as she entered the gloomy wood. The same friendly robin fluttered across her path, and following the direction in which she flew, to her great delight she saw again the ruddy glow of the fire. The twelve strange men were still seated around it, and Brother January took her by the hand. Why are you here again, poor child? he asked her gently. It would surely be wiser for you to stay at home while King Frost rains over the land, for you are young and tender, and his grip is very cruel. I had to come, sir, Claire explained. My sister said she must have strawberries. We gathered some in June last year. Brother January turned to a companion dressed in flowing yellow. Strawberries are your concern, Brother June, he said. It isn't for you now to come to the aid of our little friend. I will do so with pleasure, said Brother June, taking the staff held out to him and giving the fire a vigorous poke. At this the winter disappeared, the trees sprang into full leaf, and crimson berries were seen amidst the creeping tendrils of the strawberry plant. Claire gathered as much of the sweet fruit as she could carry, and once more thanked her friends with a grateful smile. You are welcome, they cried in chorus, and as Brother January took back his staff, the winter once more spread its mantle over the earth. Instead of being grateful for the delicious fruit that Claire had brought her, Laura was more vexed than ever to find that she had not been eaten by wolves. Her mother too looked at the poor girl angrily, and sent her out to the barn, as if she could no longer bear the sight of her. Claire was barely awake next morning when she was told that she must go to the forest and bring home some apples for her sister Laura, who had a fancy for them. But it's so dark, dear mother, cried Claire in terror. Make hasten go, was the only answer, and as quickly as her numbed fingers would allow her, Claire finished her simple toilet and started on her way. The robin was still asleep, with his head tucked under his wing. But a tiny woodmouse poked out his head from his nests in the foot of a hollow tree, as he heard her footsteps upon the frozen snow. If you walk straight on, you will find your friends, he squeaked, and Claire thankfully followed his directions. Before long she was warming herself before the glowing fire, and the brothers were asking, with much sympathy, why she had been again sent to face the cold. Apples, cried brother January when she had told them. Ah, it's your concern now, brother September. Fourth with, September poked the fire, and lo and behold, it was cheery autumn, and the ground was strewn with crimson and russet leaves. A tree of wild apples close beside her was laden with fruit. Brother September turned to the child with a kindly smile. Gather two of them, he said. Claire picked two of the largest and finest, and when she had done so, September handed back his staff to January. He stirred the fire, and ice and snow reappeared. Laura made no effort to disguise her disappointment when Claire brought her the two apples. She ate them, however, and finding their flavor most delicious, commanded her to fetch her hood and cloak. In spite of all that her mother could say to dissuade her, she declared that she would go to the forest and gather some for herself. I shall find much finer ones than those you brought me, you greedy creature, she said to Claire as she flounced away, refusing her gentle offer to go with her. The sun shone brightly on the sparkling snow, and she took the same path that her sister had done. The robin glanced at her from his bright dark eyes, but he did not attempt to sing. He was frightened by something he saw in her face. It was the spirit of greed and envy. After wandering about for some time and to her great disgust finding nothing whatever in the way of fruit, Laura at last caught sight of the fire with the twelve men sitting round. Without a word of greeting she pushed her way into their midst, and held out her hands towards the glowing embers. What do you want? asked Brother January, somewhat netdled by her rude manners. Nothing from you, she answered roughly, scowling as she spoke. The old man poked the fire in silence, and the sky grew dark, a heavy snowstorm began to fall, and Laura tried in vain to make her way home again, but the great flakes, dropping silently one on another, made the path she had come by impossible to tread. She stumbled at last into a great drift, and was soon buried in its depths. Her mother grew more and more anxious about her as the day wore on, and when afternoon came set out to seek her in the forest. She also found her way to the glowing fire, and pushing aside Brother January, just as her daughter had done, proceeded to warm her hands. When asked what she wanted she gave the same rude answer with the same result. The old man poked the fire, and the snow fell swiftly and silently. Very soon she too was buried in a glistening bank, and Claire had neither mother nor sister left. With all their faults she had loved them fondly, and it would have been lonely for her in the cottage now, if it had not been for her friends of the forest. As each month of the year came round one paid her a visit, bringing flowers or fruit or glorious crimson leaves. The white-bearded man alone came empty-handed, but these sat with her beside the fire, and told her wonderful stories of winter in many lands. In the course of time she became a good and beautiful woman, and wedded a prince from a distant shore. End of Chapter 18, Chapter 19 of Folk Tales from Many Lands This is the LibriVox Recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Kalinda. Folk Tales from Many Lands by Lillian Gask Chapter 19 The Golden Fish A fairy story very popular with Russian children. Upon a certain island in the middle of the sea dwelt an old man and his wife. They were so poor that they often went short of bread, for the fish he caught were their only means of livelihood. One day when the man had been fishing for many hours without success, he hooked a small goldfish whose eyes shone as brightly as diamonds. Let me go, kind man! the little creature cried. I should not make a mouthful either for yourself or your wife, and my own mate waits for me down in the waters. The old man was so moved by his pleadings that he took him off the hook and threw him back into the sea. Before he swam off to rejoin his mate, the goldfish promised that in return for his kindness he would come to the fisherman's help if ever he wanted. Laughing merrily at this, for he did not believe that a fish could help him except by providing him with food, the old man went home and told his wife. What? she cried. You actually let him go when you had caught him? It was just like your stupidity. We have not a scrap of bread in the house, and now I suppose we must starve. Her reproaches continued for so long that though he scarcely believed what the fish had said, the poor old man thought that at least it would do no harm to put him to the test. He therefore hastened back to the shore and stood at the very edge of the waves. Golden fish, golden fish, he called. Come to me, I pray, with your tail in the water and your head lifted up towards me. As the last word was uttered, the goldfish popped up his head. You see I have kept my promise, he said. What can I do for you, my good friend? There is not a scrap of bread in the house, quavered the old man, and my wife is very angry with me for letting you go. Don't trouble about that, said the goldfish in an offhand manner. You will find bread and despair when you go home. And the old man hurried away to see if his little friend had spoken truly. Surely enough he found that the pan was full of fine white loaves. I did not do so badly for you after all, good wife, he said as they ate their supper, but his wife was anything but satisfied. The more she had, the more she wanted, and she lay awake planning what they should demand from the goldfish next. Wake up, you lazy man! She cried to her husband early next morning. Go down to the sea and tell your fish that I must have a new wash tub. The old man did as his wife bade him, and the moment he called the goldfish reappeared. He seemed quite willing to grant the new request, and on his return home, the old man found a beautiful new wash tub in the small yard at the back of their cabin. Why didn't you ask for a new cabin, too? His wife said angrily. If you had a grain of scents, you would have done this without being told. Go back at once and say that we must have one. The old man was rather ashamed to trouble his friend again so soon, but the goldfish was as obliging as ever. Very well, he said, a new cabin you shall have. And the old man found one so spick in span that he hardly dared cross the floor for fear of soiling it. It would have pleased him greatly had his wife been contented, but she, good woman, did nothing but grumble still. Tell your goldfish, she said next day, that I want to be a duchess, with many servants at my beck and call, and a splendid carriage to drive in. Once more her wish was granted, but now her husband's plight was hard indeed. She would not let him share her palace, but ordered him off to the stables, where he was forced to keep company with her grooms. In a few days, however, he grew reconciled to his lot, for here he could live in peace, while he learned that she was leading those around her a terrible life. It was not long before she sent for him again. Summon the goldfish, she commanded, haughtily, and tell him I wish to be queen of the waters, and to rule over all the fish. The poor old man felt sorry for the fish, if they had to be under her rule, for prosperity had quite spoiled her. However, he dared not disobey, and once more summoned his powerful friend. Make your wife the queen of the waters, exclaimed the goldfish. That is the last thing I should do. She is unfit to reign, for she cannot rule herself or her desires. I shall make her once more a poor old woman. Adieu, you shall see me no more. The old man returned sorrowfully with this unpleasant message, to find the palace transformed into a humble cabin, and his wife in a skirt of threadbare stuff in place of the rich brocade which she had worn of late. She was sad and humble, and much more easy to live with than she had been before. Her husband therefore had occasion many times to think gratefully of the goldfish, and sometimes, when drawing in his net, the glint of the sun upon the scales of his captives would give him a moment's hope, which alas, was as often disappointed, that once again he was to see his benefactor. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Kalinda. Folk Tales for Many Lands by Lillian Gask The Shepherd and the Dragon A Serviantail On a lofty mountain in Serbia, surrounded by his flock, sat a humble shepherd. The valley beneath him was veiled by a thin white haze, through which he could just see the tips of the stately beaches, on which the frost had already laid his crimson touch. Only the contented munching of the sheep on the close cropped grass, and the trailing sweetness of a lark's song high up in the blue, broke the placid stillness of the scene. The shepherd stretched himself yawning, and gazed at the sea and sky. He had nothing to do just then, and little to think of, for his life flowed on in an even course, and though he often wished that something would happen, he had never been disturbed. He was gazing dreamily at the cottage beyond the sheep-pens, where his wife was busy preparing his dinner, when he saw a dark form gliding stealthily through the grass, towards a big, bare rock. It was followed by another, and yet another. They were finely marked serpents with glistening scales, and each bore in its mouth a curious root, with which it touched the rock. More serpents still approached, and did the same, until suddenly the great rock fell asunder, showing a long passage in the ground, into which the serpents glided one by one. In his eagerness to see what they were after, the shepherd forgot his shuddering dislike of the venomous creatures, and pressed boldly into the rocky gallery. Soon he found himself in a large grotto lit by the gleam of the many precious gems that lined its walls. In its center stood a magnificent throne of gold set with emeralds and sapphires, and coiled upon this was an enormous serpent with gleaming eyes. The other serpents gathered round in complete silence, as the shepherd gazed in open-mouthed wonder. The great reptile closed his eyes, and immediately all were asleep. The shepherd seized the opportunity to wander round the grotto, examining the jewels with which it was so richly encrusted, and wishing that he could carry away some in his pocket. Finding it impossible to detach them, he thought he had bettered depart before the serpents awoke, and so he made his way back through the long passage, but the entrance was closed and he could not get out. Oddly enough he felt no alarm, and returning once more to the grotto, laid himself down beside the serpents and fell into a deep slumber. He was roused by the consciousness that the snakes were stirring. Opening his eyes he saw that all were gazing with heads erect at their grim monarch. Is it time, O King? Is it time? they cried. It is time, he answered after a long pause, and gliding down from his throne led them through the grotto back to the rock. It opened as he touched it, and every serpent passed slowly out before him. The shepherd would have followed, but the snake king barred his way with an angry hiss. Let me through, I entreat you, O gracious King, begged the shepherd. I shall lose my flock if I leave it longer, and my wife will be waiting for me at home. You entered our sleeping place without an invitation, and now you must stay, replied the king. But the shepherd pleaded so earnestly for his release that he was moved to clemency. I will let you go this time, he said, if you give me your solemn promise that you will reveal our hiding place to no one. The shepherd was quite ready to do this, and three times in succession he repeated after the serpent king the words of a solemn oath. This done he was allowed to pass out of the rock. The chestnut trees in the fertile valleys were now a mass of star-white blossoms, and the bleeding of the lambs told him that spring had come. Greatly bewildered he hurried towards his home, rather doubtful as to what reception his wife would give him. As he approached the cottage he saw a stranger standing by the door, and stepped into the shadow of a bush that he might wait unseen until he had gone. Is your husband at home, inquired the man, as the shepherd's wife, looking pale and thin, answered his law of knock? Alas, no, was her mournful reply. I have not seen him since last autumn, when he left me to tend his flock on the mountain side. I fear the wolves must have devoured him. Uncovering her head with her apron she burst into tears. Touched by her distress the shepherd now came forward. I am here, dear wife, he told her joyfully. The woman immediately stopped her weeping, and instead of bidding him welcome began to scold with a frowning face. Where have you been, you lazy fellow? she demanded. It was just like you to leave me to get through the winter as best I could. Answer me at once! The shepherd could not do this without breaking his oath, and there was something so strange in his manner, as he tried to parry her questions, that the curiosity of the stranger was aroused. Come, come, my good man, he said. Tell your wife the truth, and I will reward you with a piece of gold. Where did you sleep through the winter's nights, and what have you been doing? I slept in the sheep-pen, began the shepherd, and the stranger burst into a scornful laugh. You need not fancy we are foolish enough to believe that, he said. Out with it, man, we can see you are hiding something. Thus pressed the shepherd reluctantly confessed the existence of the grotto, and the stranger, who happened to be a magician in disguise, forced him not only to guide him thither, but to reveal the manner of entrance, a root that a serpent had discarded lay at their feet, and on touching the rock with this it opened immediately and let them through. The magician coveted the splendid jewels that lined the walls of the grotto as much as the shepherd had done, and conned through the book of spells that he drew from the fold of his garments to see if it would tell him how to gain possession of the rich store. I have it, he exclaimed. I shall now be rich as the heart of man can desire, and you, good shepherd, shall share my wealth. Replacing his book he was about to set fire to a small pellet which he produced from his pocket, when he was interrupted by a terrible hiss. Unseen by the intruders the king of the serpents had followed in the form of a green dragon, and now reproached the shepherd with much violence for having broken his oath. His rage was so great that the shepherd thought his end had come. Throw this over his head, muttered the magician in his ear, handing him a rope. Despite the trembling of his hand the shepherd made a cast which was successful, and as the loop encircled the neck of the king the rock burst asunder with a loud report that echoed from hill to hill. The next moment the shepherd found himself flying through space on the back of the green dragon. Such was the speed at which the wings of the fiery creature clove the air that the rushing of the wind in his rider's face was painful to endure. They went over mountains and overseas, over desert lands where sandstorms raged, and vultures lay in wait for the fainting camels, until at last they came to a wide plain watered by many rivers. The dragon flew higher and higher until the shepherd grew dizzy and lost his breath. His eyes were closed, but in the blue sky above him he could hear the sweet clear notes of a soaring lark. Dear bird, he cried, thou art precious to thy master, who made us all. Fly up to him, I pray thee, and beg him to send me help in my sorry plight. The lark flew up to heaven as he had bitten her, and returned with a green leaf from a tree in paradise in her tiny beak. Gladly she dropped this on the dragon's head, and as it touched him he fell to the ground and became once more a crawling serpent. When the shepherd regained consciousness he was on the mountain side, with his flocks around him and his faithful dog at his feet. The forest was still in its autumn glory of yellow and gold, and in the distance he could see his wife beckoning to him from his cottage door. I must have been dreaming, he said, as with thankful heart he went home to his dinner. He lived to a ripe old age in peace and quietness, and never again did he wish that something strange would happen.