The Project Gutenberg eBook of Japanese folk stories and fairy tales
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Title: Japanese folk stories and fairy tales
Author: Mary F. Nixon-Roulet
Release date: March 30, 2024 [eBook #73293]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: American Book Company, 1908
Credits: Carla Foust, Joeri de Ruiter and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JAPANESE FOLK STORIES AND FAIRY TALES ***
JAPANESE FOLK STORIES AND FAIRY TALES
[Illustration: JAPANESE FOLK STORIES AND FAIRY TALES]
JAPANESE FOLK STORIES
AND
FAIRY TALES
BY
MARY F. NIXON-ROULET
AUTHOR OF “WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN,” “OUR LITTLE SPANISH
COUSIN,” “OUR LITTLE ALASKAN COUSIN,” ETC., ETC.
[Illustration: [Publisher's logo]]
NEW YORK ·:· CINCINNATI ·:· CHICAGO
AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1908, BY
AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY
ENTERED AT STATIONERS’ HALL, LONDON
COPYRIGHT, 1908, TOKYO
JAPANESE FOLK STORIES
W. P. I
TO
DR. ALFRED DE ROULET
CONTENTS
Page
The Choice of the Princess 9
The Mirror of the Sun Goddess 17
The Sworded Falcon 22
The Phantom Cats 27
The Sword of the Clustering Clouds of Heaven 35
The Boastful Bamboo 40
The Angel’s Robe 46
The Moon and the Cuckoo 50
The Hang-The-Money-Up Tree 54
The Goddess of Green-growing Things 58
The Knightly Waste-paper Man 62
The Hunter and the Priest 73
The Princess Moonbeam 78
The Single Lantern of Yamato 83
The Soul of the Samurai 87
The Dream of the Golden Box 91
The Princess of the Sea 96
The Firefly of Matsui 104
The Mountain Rose 107
The Evil One and the Rat 112
The Painter of Cats 115
The Coming of Benten Sama 124
The Waterfall Which Flowed Saké 128
The Boy and the Spirits of Things 133
The Daughter of a Samurai 137
The Fishes of the Boiling Spring 144
The Inao of the Ainu 149
The Goblin Tree 154
The Man Who Became a Serpent 158
The Laughing Dumpling 162
The Sacrifice to Kompira 173
The Two Brothers 177
The Princess and the Fox Baby 183
THE CHOICE OF THE PRINCESS
A beautiful princess lived in Inaba. She was called the Princess of
Yakami, and was the loveliest princess in all the land. Her skin was
like velvet, her hair was dark as night, and her eyes were as bright
and soft as the stars. She was sweet as well as fair, but willful, and
when they said, “Fair Princess, you must marry,” she replied, “The time
has not yet come. I see nowhere in Inaba the man who may be my lord.”
At this the court was in despair. The Princess would not marry until
she was quite ready,--that the counselors knew. They had not counseled
the little, pretty, willful princess for nothing. Had the king, her
father, lived it might have been different; but he was long since gone,
and the queen mother could do no more with the princess than could the
wise men of the kingdom. Early in her life the princess had learned
that there was just one thing she could say which no one could answer.
She had only to look very sweetly at whoever was trying to persuade her
to do something, and then, with a dainty little smile, say simply, “But
I don’t want to!”
That was all. No one, not even the wisest of the counselors, had ever
found an answer to that. It was a strange state of affairs; for all the
little princesses before had been gentle and sweet, and had done just
what they were told.
The counselors at length proclaimed that all young men of proper age
and rank should present themselves for the princess to look at and see
if she liked any of them well enough to marry.
The news of this quickly spread everywhere. It was no time at all
before the road to Yakami was seen crowded with youths. There were
youths tall and short, fat and thin, handsome and ugly, and each hoped
he would be the favored suitor.
Among others there came eighty-one brothers, each of whom had seen the
picture of the princess and wished to win her. These brothers were of
noble family, but the youngest was the only one who was really noble.
He was as brave as Yositumé! Eighty of the brothers were ugly and
jealous of one another. It seemed as if they could agree upon nothing
in all the world except treating the youngest meanly. They despised him
because he was so good and gentle, and never rude or quarrelsome.
The eighty-first brother never complained. He tried to please his
brothers; and when he found that he could not, he stayed away from
them as far as possible.
When, therefore, they went to wait on the princess, he lingered at the
back of the train; for his brothers scoffed at him and made him carry
their burdens, as if he had been a servant.
The eighty brothers went proudly ahead. As they toiled up a
mountain-side they came upon a poor little hare stretched out upon the
grass. All his fur had been pulled out and he was ill and wretched.
“Let me tell you what will cure you,” said one of the brothers, with a
wicked laugh to his companions. “Go down to the sea; bathe yourself in
the salt water, and then run to the top of the hill. The Wind God of
the hilltop will cure you, and your fur will grow again.”
“Thank you, noble prince,” said the hare; and as the eighty brothers
turned away laughing, he hurried to the sea shore.
Alas! the salt water hurt his tender skin, and the sun and wind burned
him so that he cried out with pain.
The eighty-first brother, trudging along with his brothers’ bundles,
heard the cry and hurried to see if some one was hurt.
“Poor little fellow!” he said, pityingly. “What is the matter?”
“Your voice is kind, your face is kind, and I feel that you have a kind
heart,” said the hare. “Perhaps you can help me if I tell you my story.”
“I will gladly do so if I can,” said the eighty-first brother.
“I was born in the Isle of Oki,” said the hare. “When I grew up I
longed to see the world, but I knew not how to reach the mainland.
After a long time, however, I thought of a way. Great numbers of
crocodiles were in the habit of coming to the beach to sun themselves.
One day I said to them boastfully, ‘There are more hares in Oki than
crocodiles in the sea.’
“‘Not so,’ said one of the crocodiles, ‘there are a great many more
crocodiles.’
“‘Let us count,’ I answered, ‘and then both will be satisfied. I can
count all of you crocodiles very easily. You have only to form a line
from here to Cape Kita, and let the nose of one be at the tail of
another, and I will run lightly across on your backs and count as I go.
Then we shall know how many crocodiles there are.’
“‘But how shall we know about the hares?’ asked a crocodile.
“‘Oh, that we can decide later,’ I answered.
“So they did as I had said. They formed in a line, and I ran across.
Their broad backs made a good bridge, but, alas, why did I not know
enough to hold my tongue? As I jumped from the last crocodile to
the bank, I cried, ‘I have fooled you well! I don’t care how many
crocodiles there are. I only used you as a bridge to reach the
mainland.’ But just as I said this, the last monster grabbed me with
his teeth and tore off all my fur.
[Illustration: “GO AND BATHE IN THE FRESH WATER OF THE RIVER”]
“‘You deserve to be killed,’ he said. ‘But I will let you go. In future
do not try to deceive creatures bigger than yourself.’”
“Indeed, he was quite right,” said the eighty-first brother. “You were
well paid for being deceitful; but I am very sorry for you.”
“Let me finish my story,” said the hare, hanging his head at this
rebuke. “As I lay here, smarting with pain, a train of princes passed
by. One of them told me to bathe in the sea and run in the wind. I did
so, and that is what put me in this painful state. Now what can I do,
for I can hardly bear my suffering?”
“It must have been my eighty brothers whom you met,” said the prince.
“I must try to help you, since they have been so cruel. Go and bathe in
the fresh water of the river. Then take pollen from the reeds and rub
yourself with it. Your skin will heal, and your fur will grow again.”
“Thank you, most noble prince,” cried the hare. “You are as good
as your eighty brothers are evil. You will find that I am not
ungrateful,” and he hastened to the river.
Soon he felt quite well; and he hurried away, scarcely waiting to bid
the prince good-by.
The eighty-first brother smiled to himself as he thought, “He is not so
grateful as he pretended.” Then he went on to the court.
The hare, however, was already there. He had heard the talk about the
wedding of the princess, and he saw how he could serve the one who had
been kind to him.
One of the hare’s brothers was a handsome little fellow who had been
given to the princess and who was a great favorite at the court. So the
hare of Inaba hurried to this brother and told him his story.
“Now, to help my prince to wed your princess,” he said. “Two such kind
souls should dwell together and make the world happier.”
“Trust me,” said his brother, who had grown wise since he came to the
palace and had learned court ways.
So when the eighty brothers presented themselves before the princess,
dressed all in their finest array, she received them scornfully and
sent them all away.
“Your faces smile,” she said, “but your hearts are cruel, and I will
have none of you.”
But when the eighty-first brother presented himself before her golden
throne, she stretched forth her hand and said, “Good heart and true, I
will share my throne with you and you alone!”
Then was the eighty-first brother glad; and all the people rejoiced and
the little hare danced merrily on two legs and said, “You see now, dear
Prince, that I am not ungrateful; for it is due to me that you are the
Choice of the Princess.”
THE MIRROR OF THE SUN GODDESS
Many, many years ago, when the gods reigned in high heaven, the country
of Nippon rose from the waters. Izanagi and Izananu, standing upon the
floating bridge of heaven, thrust down a glittering blade. They probed
the blue ocean and the drops from the sword’s point hardened and became
islands; and thus was created the “Land of Many Blades,” the isles of
Nippon.
Now Izanagi and Izananu were the highest of the gods of heaven, and
they had two children, Amaterasu and Susanoo. Susanoo was made god of
the sea, and his sister was the bright and beautiful sun goddess, whose
name meant Great Goddess of the Shining Heaven.
She reigned happily from her bright golden throne for many years, but
Susanoo, like many other brothers, was a tease, and he made his sister
very angry with some of his tricks. She was quite patient with him, as
elder sisters should be, but at last there came a time when she could
no longer stand his naughty ways.
Amaterasu sent Susanoo one day upon an errand, for she wished him to
find a goddess named Uke-mochi, who lived in the reedy moors. When
Susanoo found her he was tired and hungry, and so he asked her for
food. Uke-mochi took food from her mouth to give him and this made him
very angry. “Why feed me with foul things? You shall not live!” he
cried; and, drawing his sword, he struck her dead.
When he went home and told Amaterasu what he had done, his sister was
in a great rage and left her brother in total darkness. She fled to the
cave of Ameno and closed the entrance with a huge rock. Then was all
the earth dark, for the sun goddess no longer shed her light upon men.
So terrible was it upon earth that at last the other gods met together
near the cave, to consult and see what could be done.
They tried in every way to persuade Amaterasu to come forth, but she
sulked like a naughty child and would not shine upon them. At last they
thought of a plan to entice the goddess from her cavern by means of an
image of herself. So a mirror was made, very large and fine. It was
hung upon a tree, just before the door of the cave, and a strong hempen
cord was put in the hands of a god who hid himself beside the door.
A number of cocks were started to crowing, and the lovely goddess Uzumé
began to dance to music from a bamboo tube. The gods kept time by
striking two pieces of wood together, and one of them played a harp
made by placing six of their bows together with the strings upward and
drawing grass and rushes across them. Great bonfires were lighted, and
a huge drum was brought for Uzumé to dance upon. This she did with so
much spirit and grace that all the gods were delighted. They laughed
with joy, clapped their hands, and fairly shook high heaven with their
merriment.
[Illustration: “UZUMÉ BEGAN TO DANCE”]
Amaterasu heard the noise and could not understand it. She was annoyed
because the gods seemed to be having such a good time without her.
She had thought that they could not possibly get along unless she let
the light of her face shine upon them. She was naturally very curious
to find out what it was all about. So she pushed open the door of her
cave, just a little bit, and peeped out. There, by the light of the
bonfires she saw Uzumé’s graceful dancing, and heard her sing,
“Hito futa miyo
Itsu muyu nana
Ya koko no tari.”[1]
“Why does Uzumé dance and why do the gods laugh? I thought both heaven
and earth would be sad without me”, said Amaterasu crossly.
“Oh, no,” laughed Uzumé. “We rejoice because we have here a deity who
far surpasses you in beauty.”
“Where?” demanded the sun goddess indignantly. “Let me see her!” and as
she spoke she caught sight of her own reflection in the mirror.
She had never seen such a thing before and was greatly astonished. She
stepped outside her cave to see more plainly this radiant rival, when
lo! the god who was waiting, seized her and drew her forth, quickly
passing the rope across the cave door to prevent her return. Thus was
the sun goddess restored to earth.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] “Gods! behold the carven door,
Majesty appears! Rejoice!
Our hearts are fully satisfied!”
THE SWORDED FALCON
In the days of the Emperor Koan there lived near Koya a falcon which
had wings and a tail of swords. It was far more dreaded than a
porcupine of even the largest spines, and it used to lie in wait near
the village of Koya to carry off people and eat them.
No one was safe from the ferocious bird. Little people, playing beneath
the pines, happy in childish glee, were but tender morsels for the
cruel bird. Women resting under the long racemes of the woodland
wistaria, were attacked and dragged screaming to his nest. Even the men
working in the rice fields would sometimes hear a cry of agony and see
one of their number suddenly rise into the air in the clutches of the
monstrous bird.
The villagers despaired of ever being able to rid themselves of this
terrible creature. At last they sent a petition to the Mikado, urging
him to send some one to deliver them from the pest.
“Behold!” they cried, “We, the subjects of Your Majesty, are in much
fear and danger from this fierce creature, and we beseech you to save
us, your humble servants.”
The Mikado sent to their aid the brave Prince Yashimasa; and the Prince
tarried long in the village, for the bird was very wary and hid from
sight. When the Prince went out to seek him, the falcon would disguise
himself in various shapes. First, he would appear as a woman washing
clothes beside the river; then he would become a tree growing beside a
rippling waterfall; and again, he would look like a crane standing on
the reedy shore.
It took so long to find the creature that Prince Yashimasa tarried
for months in the house of Atago Shoji, a gentleman of the town. Thus
it came about that he loved Atago’s daughter, the fair and gentle
Shiragika, and the maiden returned his love. The two walked happily
together in the iris-bordered meadows, and chatted long and cheerfully
in the shade of the bamboo trees.
One day Prince Yashimasa found the nest of the falcon upon a hilltop
and he cried, “Aha! my fine fellow! At last I have you! Soon I shall
destroy you, and the village will no longer be in dread, but will
rejoice greatly.”
He hid himself in a bamboo thicket, armed with his bow and arrows, and
awaited the coming of the falcon.
[Illustration: “HE SENT HIS ARROW THROUGH ITS CRUEL HEART”]
At last it came, fierce and terrible. Its eyes gleamed like twin stars,
its tail spread like forked lightning, its wings of gleaming steel beat
the air like flames of fire!
“It is indeed the sworded falcon,” said Yashimasa, and, aiming
carefully, he sent his arrow through its cruel heart. The falcon
dropped dead, and Yashimasa hurried to the village to tell the news.
Then all the people rejoiced, singing the victor’s praises. “Hail to
the noble prince!” they cried. “He has delivered us from the evil claws
and the cruel beak of this demon-bird! Greatly will our lord the Mikado
reward him.”
But Shiragika wept and mourned, for now that her lover’s task was done,
she knew that he must return to his home. He must go alone, for it was
not fitting that she, a simple village maiden, should go with him to
the Emperor’s court.
“Yashimasa,” she wept. “Farewell forever. Forget me and be happy!”
“Never!” cried Yashimasa. “As soon as I have told the Mikado of the
success of my mission I will return to find you. Never will I forget
you;” and he bade her a tender farewell.
She waited long and looked for his return, but he came not, for the
Mikado sent him on other missions to far lands and he must obey. At
last, with her kimono sleeves loaded with stones, she dropped gently
to sleep in the great river. And as she sank to rest, she sighed,
“Yashimasa! In its death, the sworded falcon pierced my heart!”
When Yashimasa heard of her death, he mourned her truly; and when he
grew old he returned to Koya and died beside the stream where she had
perished.
THE PHANTOM CATS
A ruined temple stood in a lonely wood. All about it was a trackless
forest. The huge trees waved above it, the leaves in the thicket
whispered about it, the sun goddess seldom shone upon it with her light.
Uguisu,[2] poet of the woods, sang in the plum tree near by. He sang
the poet’s song to the plum tree which he loved:
“Send forth your fragrance upon the eastern winds,
Oh flower of the plum tree,
Forget not the spring because of the absence of the sun.”
Ruined though the temple was, it still held a shrine and hither came
Wakiki Mononofu, a young Samurai.[3] He was a brave young soldier who
was seeking his fortune in the wide, wide world. He had lost his way
and wandered in the forest seeking the path, until at length he came to
the little clear space where was the temple. A storm was coming up, and
a palace could not have seemed more welcome to the young warrior.
“Here is all I want,” he said to himself. “Here I shall have a shelter
from the storm god’s wrath, and a place to sleep and dream of glory and
adventure. What more could be desired?”
Then he wrapped himself in his mantle, curled up in a corner of the
sacred room, and soon fell asleep. But his slumber did not last long.
His pleasant dreams were disturbed by horrid sounds, and waking, he
sprang to his feet and looked out of the temple door.
There he saw a troop of monstrous cats which seemed in the weird
moonlight like phantoms, marching across the clear space in front of
the temple, and dancing a wild dance. As they danced they uttered
horrid sounds, yells, and wicked laughs; and through these he could
hear the words of a strange chant:
“Whisper not to Shippeitaro
That the Phantom Cats are near,
Whisper not to Shippeitaro
Lest he soon appear.”
Wakiki crouched low behind the door; for, brave as he was, there was
something so dreadful in the appearance of the creatures that he did
not want them to see him. Soon, however, with a chorus of wild yells,
they disappeared as quickly as they had come. Then Wakiki lay down and
slept again, nor did he waken until the sun goddess peered into the
temple and whispered to him that it was morning.
[Illustration: “A TROOP OF MONSTROUS CATS”]
By the morning light it was easy to find the path which the night’s
shadows had hidden from him, and being very hungry he started out to
seek some dwelling. The path led away from the temple, in an opposite
direction to that from which he had come the night before. Soon,
however, he came out of the forest and saw a little hamlet surrounded
by green fields.
“How fortunate I am,” he cried joyfully. “Here are houses, and so there
must be people, and people must have something to eat. If they are kind
they will share with me, and I am starving for a bowl of rice.”
He hurried to the nearest cottage, but as he approached he heard sounds
of bitter weeping. He went up to the door, and was met by a sweet young
girl whose eyes were red with crying. She greeted him kindly, and he
asked her for food.
“Enter and welcome,” said she. “My parents are about to be served with
breakfast. You shall join them, for no one must pass our door hungry.”
Thanking her the young warrior went in and seated himself upon the
floor. The parents of the young girl greeted him courteously. A small
table was set before him, and on it was placed rice and tea. He ate
heartily, and, when he had finished eating, rose to go.
“Thank you very many times for such a good meal, kind friends,” he said.
“You have been welcome. Go in peace,” said the master of the house.
“And may happiness be yours,” returned the young Samurai.
“Happiness can never again be ours,” said the old man, with a sad face,
as his daughter left the room. Her mother followed her and from behind
the paper partitions of the breakfast room, Wakiki could hear sounds as
if she were trying to comfort the young girl.
“You are then in trouble?” he asked, not liking to be inquisitive, and
yet wishing to show sympathy.
“Terrible trouble,” said the father. “There is no help! Know, gentle
Samurai, that there is within the forest a ruined temple. This shrine,
once the home of sacred things, is now the abode of horrors too
terrible for words. Each year a mountain spirit, a demon whom no one
has ever seen, demands from us a victim, upon pain of destroying the
whole village. The victim is placed in a cage and carried to the temple
just at sunset. There she is left and no one knows what is her fate,
for in the morning not a trace of her remains. It must always be the
fairest maiden of the village who is offered up and this year, alas, it
is my daughter’s turn;” and the old man buried his face in his hands
and groaned.
“I should think this strange thing would make the young girls of your
village far from vain and each would wish to be the ugliest,” said the
young warrior. “It is terrible indeed, but do not despair. I am sure
I shall find a way to help you.” He paused to think. “Tell me, who is
Shippeitaro?” he asked suddenly, as he remembered the scene of the
night before.
“Shippeitaro is a beautiful dog owned by our lord the prince,” said the
old man, wondering at the question.
“That will be just the thing,” cried the Samurai. “Keep your daughter
closely at home. Do not allow her out of your sight. Trust me and she
shall be saved.”
He hurried away, and having found the castle of the prince, he begged
that just for one night Shippeitaro be lent to him.
“Upon condition that you bring him back to me safe and sound,” said the
prince.
“To-morrow he shall return in safety,” the young warrior promised.
Taking Shippeitaro with him he returned to the village; and when
evening came, he placed the dog in the cage which was to have carried
the maiden.
“Take him to the ruined temple,” he said to the bearers, and they
obeyed.
When they reached the little shrine they placed the cage on the ground
and ran away to the village as fast as their legs could carry them.
The young warrior laughed softly, saying to himself, “For once fear is
greater than curiosity.”
He hid himself in the little temple as before, and so quiet was the
spot that he could scarcely keep awake. Soon he was aroused, however,
by the same weird chant he had heard the evening before. Through the
darkness came the same troop of fearful phantom cats led by a fierce
Tom cat, the largest he had ever seen. As they came, they chanted with
unearthly screeches,
“Whisper not to Shippeitaro,
That the phantom cats are near,
Whisper not to Shippeitaro
Lest he soon appear.”
The song was scarcely ended, when the great Tom cat caught sight of
the cage and sprang upon it with a fierce yowl. With one sweep of his
paw he tore open the lid, when instead of the dainty morsel he had
expected, out leaped Shippeitaro! The noble dog sprang upon the beast
and shook him as a cat shakes a rat, while the other beasts stood
still in amazement. Drawing his sword the young warrior dashed to
Shippeitaro’s aid and to such good purpose that in a few moments the
phantom cats were no more.
“Brave dog!” cried Wakiki. “You have delivered a whole village by your
courage! Let us return and tell the people what has happened, that all
men may do you honor.”
Patting the dog on the head he led him back to the village. There in
terror the maiden awaited his return, but great was her joy when she
heard of her deliverance.
“Oh, sir,” she cried. “I can never thank you! I am the only child of my
parents, and no one would have been left to care for them had I gone to
be the monster’s victim!”
“Do not thank me,” said the young warrior. “I have done little. All the
thanks of the village are due to the brave Shippeitaro. It was he who
destroyed the phantom cats.”
FOOTNOTES:
[2] The nightingale.
[3] Japanese word for soldier.
THE SWORD OF THE CLUSTERING CLOUDS OF HEAVEN
In the olden days the gods dwelt by the isles of the Land of Many
Blades, and there they used the swords, To-Nigiri and Ya-Nigiri. These
were magic blades, but they were not so keen and terrible as the sword
of the Clustering Clouds of Heaven.
And this is the story of that sword:
Amaterasu, the sun goddess, had a superb sword, whose flashing blade
was like a gleam of light. This sword she greatly prized, but a
malicious dragon stole it away and carried it to his den. The goddess
cried for aid to Susanoo, her brother, and he pursued the dragon. It
was a horrible beast with eight heads and terrible claws, and it roared
at the god with each of its eight mouths.
Susanoo was a crafty and clever warrior and he knew that he could
conquer the dragon only by guile. So he gave him soft words and smiles.
“What a wonderful warrior you would make, Sir Dragon,” he said. “Had
you but a sword you could conquer the world.”
“I am not without a weapon and that a magic one,” haughtily replied the
great beast as he flapped his mighty tail. “Behold!” and as he spoke
Susanoo saw that the magic sword was concealed beneath the dragon’s
tail.
“I drink to your health, O Wonderful One!” he cried. “May you live as
long as there is no one mightier.” And he offered him a huge draught of
_saké_.[4]
“That is wishing that I may live forever,” said the dragon, and he
drank off the _saké_ at a single gulp.
“You have said it,” said Susanoo with a deep reverence, and he offered
him a second cup for his second head. By the time the dragon had taken
eight cups, one for each of his great yawning mouths, his heads were so
dizzy that he did not know at all what he was doing, and so he lay down
to rest under the cliff.
Then Susanoo crept up and quickly struck off one of his heads and then
another, and another until only one was left. By that time the dragon
was quite wide-awake and very much enraged. He rushed at Susanoo and
would have devoured him had not Amaterasu seen her brother’s danger.
She sent a gleam of dazzling sunlight into the dragon’s eyes so that he
could not see where he was going. Then Susanoo cut off the last head,
and seizing the magic sword, bore it in triumph to his sister. She
placed it in a shrine for safe-keeping and there it remained for many a
day.
It was not to rest there always, however, for another hero was to wield
it, and this was Yamato-Daké, son of the Emperor Koan.
A terrible war was being waged with the savages in the eastern part
of Japan, and Yamato went forth to conquer them, bearing with him the
Sacred Sword. But the savages were not easy to overcome. They laid in
wait in the bamboo thickets and sent showers of poisoned arrows upon
Yamato’s men, who were sore afraid of them.
“A foe in the dark is as ten,” they cried. “We are beset by the
eight-headed dragon of Susanoo!” and all of Yamato’s words of cheer and
encouragement could scarce persuade them to go on to battle.
“How can we fight what we can not see?” they said.
The savages were well pleased and determined to destroy the whole army
at once. They therefore placed a huge ring of brushwood around Yamato’s
army and, setting fire to it, they marched away.
But Yamato prayed to the gods, and, drawing his magic sword, he cut and
hewed the grass in front of the fire until it drove back the flames.
Then there came a wind from heaven which fanned the fire until it
swept back whence it had come and lo! it overtook the savages and burnt
them until not one was left.
[Illustration: “YAMATO WENT FORTH TO CONQUER THEM”]
Then Yamato-Daké returned home with great rejoicing and all the people
met him with shouts.
“Hail to the Chief of the Sword of the Clustering Clouds of Heaven,”
they cried. “For he has rescued us from the savages of the East.”
And Yamato hung up the sword at the Holy Shrine of Atsuta, where it
rests to this day; and the Mikado said, “Henceforth shall it be called
the Grass Mower, and it shall be one of the three precious things of
the Mikados.”
But Yamato made answer, “As the deeds of the gods are greater than the
deeds of men, call it not Grass Mower to honor Yamato, but still let it
be known ever as the ‘Sword of the Clustering Clouds of Heaven.’”
FOOTNOTES:
[4] A Japanese liquor.
THE BOASTFUL BAMBOO
Beneath the gleaming snows of Fuji lay a great forest. There many giant
trees grew, the fir, the pine, the graceful bamboo, and the camellia
trees. The balmy azaleas and the crinkled iris bloomed in the shade.
The blue heavens were fleecy with snowy clouds, and gentle zephyrs
caressed the blossoms and made them bow like worshipers before a shrine.
Side by side there grew two bamboo trees. One of these was tall,
strong, and stately; and he reared his haughty head to heaven and bowed
not to the North Wind as he passed. The other was a slender bamboo, so
slight and delicate that it swayed with every breeze, and moaned with
fright when a storm swept down the wrath of the mountain.
The children loved the graceful bamboo, and named her Silver Mist; but
the big bamboo looked down upon her with scorn.
“You bend and bow to every breeze. Have you no pride? It is not fitting
that a bamboo should show fear. I stand straight and strong and bow to
no one,” he said.
“You are going to be of some great use in the world, I am sure,” said
the humble bamboo. “I am only fit to trim the houses for the New Year’s
feast. But you will become a beam in some great house or, maybe, even
in a palace.”
“Do not think I shall be only that,” cried the boastful bamboo with a
scornful laugh. “I am indeed intended for something great. I think I
shall be chosen for the mast of a mighty ship. Then will the wings of
the ship swell with the breeze, and it will fly over the ocean and I
shall see strange lands and new peoples. All men will behold me and
will say, ‘See the stately bamboo which graces yonder junk!’ As for
you, poor timorous one, you are not even brave enough to deck the New
Year’s feast. You will be used to make mats for people to tread under
foot.”
The slim little bamboo did not answer back. She only bent her head and
cried bitterly. The flowers felt sorry for her and breathed their soft
perfume about her to comfort her.
As the days went by the slim bamboo grew prettier, and the children
loved her more and more. They played beneath her waving branches, they
made flower chains and garlands and hung them from her boughs.
“See,” they cried in childish glee. “This is the Lady Silver Mist. Let
us tie a flower _obi_[5] around her slender waist;” and they bound a
girdle of flowers about her.
One day there came woodmen to the forest, and they chopped down many of
the trees, trampling the grass and the flowers under foot. When they
saw the big bamboo they said,
“Here is a tall, straight tree. It will do for a mast. We will cut it
first.”
“Good-by,” said the boastful bamboo to the slender one. “I am going to
see the world and do great things. Good-by, child, I hope you will not
be used to make rain coats. When I am on the bright and beautiful sea I
shall remember and pity you!”
“Good-by,” sighed his little comrade. “Good fortune go with you.”
The big bamboo was cut down, and the hillside saw him no more. When,
however, the woodmen came to the little tree, they smiled to see it so
beautifully garlanded with flowers and they said, “This little tree has
friends.”
Then the children took courage and ran to the woodcutters and cried,
“Pray do not cut down our tree! In all the forest we love it best. It
is the Lady Silver Mist and it has been our playmate for many moons.”
“You must dig it up and bear it away if you wish to save its life,”
said the chief woodman. “We are sent to this forest to clear it, so
that a grand palace may be built upon the hillside where all is so fair
and beautiful.”
“Gladly will we root her up and take her to our home,” answered the
eldest child; and very carefully they dug her up, not destroying even a
single root, for the woodman helped them, so kind was he and of a good
heart.
They placed the slim bamboo in a lovely garden beside the sea, and she
grew fair and stately and was happy. All around was calm and beautiful.
The sea waves lapped the coral strand. By day, the sun shone on the
tawny sands and turned them to gold; the sky was blue as a turquoise,
and pearly clouds floated across it like shadowy angel’s wings. By
night the moon goddess rose in silvery beauty and bathed the garden in
light; it kissed the leaves of the bamboo, until the dew sparkled upon
them like diamonds in a setting of silver.
Fragrant flowers bloomed at the bamboo’s feet: irises from their meadow
home, azaleas, rare lotus lilies, and a fringe of purple wistaria
wafting its breath in friendship upon her. Here she grew in strength
and grace. All things were her friends, for she gave to all of her
sweetness; and to the winds she bowed her head.
“Great North Wind,” she said gently, “how thou art strong!” And to the
South Wind she said, “How sweet and kind thou art!” To the flowers she
gave shade and to the children, who still loved her, companionship.
[Illustration: “THE GREAT BAMBOO, PROSTRATE UPON THE GROUND”]
One night she shivered and bowed her head very, very low, for there
came a storm from the sea, a storm so fierce and wild as to frighten
her very soul. The waves of the sea tossed the white foam heavenward;
they rose up in giant walls of fury until ships sunk in the troughs
between and were dashed to pieces. The beach was strewn with wrecks,
and when daylight came, Lady Silver Mist gazed upon the scene. She
recognized her old friend, the great bamboo, prostrate upon the ground,
while all around him lay bits of the junk over which he had reared his
haughty head.
“Alas! my poor friend!” she cried. “What a sad fate is yours! Would
that I could aid you.”
“No one can help me,” he replied with a moan. “Would that I had been
made into a common coolie pole with which to push a country junk! Then
might I have been useful for many years! No, my heart is broken, Silver
Mist. Farewell.”
He gave a long shuddering sigh and spoke no more. Soon some men who
came to clear up the wreckage, chopped the mast up for firewood; and
that was the end of the boastful bamboo.
FOOTNOTES:
[5] Sash.
THE ANGEL’S ROBE
Once an angel bore to earth the soul of a child. She bore it to a
little bamboo house beside a bamboo tree, and there it received a
loving welcome. Many friends gathered around to greet the little
newcomer as soon as they saw the kite[6] fly up from before the house.
Dear little kimonos were given the baby. One was of the finest silk and
embroidered with the crane and the pine; for these mean long life in
Japan.
The angel loved the little child she had brought, and she tarried long
at the window of the little bamboo house among the trees and flowers.
She felt glad that she had brought the little one to such a happy home.
She had left her robe in the trees; for it had caught there in her
flight, and she had not waited to remove it. A fisherman passing by,
saw the beautiful, floating silk and, loosening it, he said, “This is a
very pretty thing. I have never seen anything like it before. I shall
take it to my sweetheart.”
The angel heard him as she floated through the air, and she cried, “I
pray you, sir, give me back my robe! I may not return to heaven without
it!”
“Do not return, fair one,” he replied, dazzled by her radiant beauty.
“Stay here upon the earth and delight us all with your grace.”
“Not so, not so,” she cried in fear. “Know you not that an angel may
not stay long on earth and live! Her beauty fades, her soul grows sick
within her, and soon she is no more. Give me my robe and let me return,
for I pine for the pearly gates and the golden streets.”
“I will return it if you will dance for me,” said the fisherman; and
the angel consented.
“First give me my robe that my dance may be more perfect,” she said.
“No, no, my beauty,” he answered, “for then you will fly away and I
shall never see you dance.”
“Fie upon you, base mortal! Deceit was born of man; the heavens know it
not!” she said in displeasure.
Then the fisherman was much ashamed and gave her the robe; and she
danced for him a dance of wonderful grace and beauty, such as mortal
had never dreamed of before. He wished to gaze forever at the lovely,
floating being. The moonlight shone upon her, bathing her in silvery
light, beneath the feathery bamboo, with snow-capped Fuji above the
clouds, calm and serene.
While she danced, visions of heaven came to the fisherman, and when she
was wafted from his sight by a snowy cloud, he sank upon the ground
and, covering his face with his hands, he wept bitterly, as he cried,
“Alas! alas! Nevermore will things of earth seem fair!”
[Illustration: “SHE WAS WAFTED FROM HIS SIGHT”]
FOOTNOTES:
[6] In Japan a kite is always sent up from a house where a little boy
is born.
THE MOON AND THE CUCKOO
In the far years of the twelfth century the Lord Mikado was cursed with
a terrible illness. All Nippon prayed to the gods. Men offered all
their richest offerings to appease the wrath of heaven, but it availed
them naught. His Majesty grew worse and none of the great men who came
to him could divine the cause of his trouble.
Every temple was full of devotees. Each shrine had its worshipers, but
Sorrow was the guest at every door. His Majesty grew worse and worse,
and every night was stricken with a horrible nightmare.
At last it was noticed that each evening a dark cloud moved across
the heavens and hung over the palace. From it shone two fiery orbs,
gleaming fiercely. The priests prayed and threatened, but the brooding
demon remained. At last a young warrior whose name was Yorimasa came
forward and said, “Let me slay this horrid beast who, with his black
breath and fiery eyes, threatens the life of our beloved emperor. If I
fail I can but die and my life is the Mikado’s in any case. Let me go!”
[Illustration: “FROM IT SHONE TWO FIERY ORBS, GLEAMING FIERCELY”]
“Go, and the gods go with you!” the priests replied, and Yorimasa went
forth to conquer or to die.
He breathed a prayer to the great god Hachiman, his patron, and set a
heavy arrow in his well-strung bow. Twang, went the bow string, and
lo! the arrow brought the monster low. It was indeed a fiend, terrible
enough to have destroyed the emperor, for it had the head of a monkey,
the claws of a tiger, the body of a lion, and the tail of a mighty
serpent.
Yorimasa was brave, however, and he made at the beast with his good
sword. Nine times he plunged it into the ferocious monster’s breast,
and at last it fell dead.
The emperor now promptly recovered, and wishing to reward Yorimasa for
his bravery, he called him and said: “At the risk of your own life, you
have saved that of your emperor. What will you have in reward?”
Yorimasa answered, “Most August One, my life was your own. Why should I
not risk it to save that for which all Nippon would be honored to die?
I claim no reward. In my heart is joy that I have served my emperor.”
“But I will reward you,” said the Mikado. “For I should be as just as
you are generous. Here is the sword Shichi-no-O (the King of the Wild
Boars) for since you can wield a sword so nobly, it is fitting that
you have a noble sword, my brave Yorimasa. Two things delight the heart
of brave men, love and duty, woman and warfare. Since you have been
successful with the one, I will give you success with the other. It has
come to my ears that you love Ajama[7] and that she loves you. Take her
and may you be happy and may your children live and prosper and grow up
to serve their emperor as their father has served his.”
Then Yorimasa bent low before him and thanked him; and a gentleman of
the court composed a verse about Yorimasa, and sang a song to him in
which he compared his rapid rise into favor to the cuckoo’s flight
toward the crescent moon. But Yorimasa was as modest as he was brave
and would not admit that he deserved any special praise. So he answered
the poet’s song by singing these lines:
“Like the cuckoo
So high to soar
How is it so?
Only my bow I bent,
That only sent the shaft.”
But he and Ajama were soon married, and lived happily ever after, in
the sunshine of the Mikado’s favor.
FOOTNOTES:
[7] Ajama, Flowering Sweet Flag. In Japan all women are named for
flowers.
THE HANG-THE-MONEY-UP TREE
Once upon a time, nearly a thousand years ago, a man named
Ononatakamura offended the Mikado and was sent into exile. His wife
loved him dearly and wished to go with him, but, though she cried and
begged to be allowed to do so, the Mikado would not permit her.
In her despair at being separated from her beloved husband, she made
up her mind to go to the Sacred Shrine of Isé and pray for him. She
stole quietly away to the foot of Mt. Hi-yei, but not being used to
walking she soon grew weary and sat down to rest under a pine tree.
It was a beautiful country that she looked upon. The hillside bloomed
with flowers. The pines waved their green branches against the soft
blue sky, and, serene and lofty, the mountains rose heavenward. A kind
wind caressed her brow as she sat resting, and the murmur of the trees
seemed to bring her comfort.
A farmer coming that way, she spoke to him saying, “Good day, kind sir.
Pray tell me how far it is to the temple of Isé?”
“Twenty days’ journey,” he made answer, being a rude fellow and
unkind. He wished to annoy her, for he knew well it was not so far.
[Illustration: “I WILL HERE MAKE MY OFFERING”]
“Alas!” she sighed. “I shall never reach that sacred shrine! How then
shall my dear husband be brought back to me! Surely the gods will hear
the prayer of a faithful wife, no matter where she may be. I will here
make my offering and my prayers, and the Eternal Kindness will hear.”
Then she hung some coins upon a pine tree, and prayed earnestly that
the gods would bless her husband and take her to him.
The farmer heard her, but his heart was still hard, and when she went
aside to rest he tried to steal the money from the tree. But the gods
had heard her prayer, and the tree suddenly turned into a two-headed
serpent which spit fire at the thief’s approach. The farmer was so
terribly frightened, that he repented that he had been so unkind; and
he took the woman by the hand and led her in safety to the shrine she
sought.
Then were her prayers answered, for the gods softened the heart of the
Mikado, and when one told him of the devotion of this good wife, he
sent for her to come to his throne.
“So faithful a woman should have a reward,” he said. “What will you
that I bestow upon you?”
“The return of my husband, Most Revered One,” she answered; and
straightway he sent word to Ononatakamura to come back from exile.
Of the pine tree upon which the money had been hung they made a shrine.
Whoever was ill of any complaint, and prayed there, was made well; and
whoever besought there any favor of the gods was sure to receive it in
abundance. And from that time the place was called the “Shrine of the
Hang-the-Money-Up Tree.”
THE GODDESS OF GREEN-GROWING THINGS
Amaterasu, the sun goddess, loved the earth. So long had she shone upon
it with her gracious light that it was to her as a beloved child and
she wished for it all good things. When she found growing from the body
of Ukimochi, whom Susanoo had slain in wrath, a mulberry tree, and also
a silkworm, rice grains, barley and beans she said to herself,
“Behold, the gods make good to grow out of evil. From death comes life.
The slaying of Ukimochi was a deed of wrath, yet from it will come
peace to the people of the earth.”
She made barley and beans the seeds of dry places, and rice the seeds
of moor and fen. Mulberry trees she planted upon the hillsides, and
upon these she reared silkworms so that the art of silk-weaving might
begin.
Having thus given to the world things of such usefulness and beauty,
the sun goddess desired to have them cared for. So she commanded
Susanoo to send to earth his daughter, Mihashirano. He obeyed and the
daughter came down from heaven. But she could find no place to live,
and therefore wandered for a long time to and fro in Nippon.
One day a fisherman named Sakino, who lived at Itsuku, one of the isles
of the sea, was casting his nets near Okanoshima. As he fished he saw
a curious boat with a bright red sail coming towards him. There seemed
something strange about the boat; and Sakino waited until it sailed
close to him. Then he beheld upon it the goddess Mihashirano, who spoke
to him.
“Sakino,” she said, “long have I passed to and fro in the Isles of
Many Blades, and watched by field and moor and hillside to see the
life-giving seeds which Amaterasu bestowed upon you. Well nourished
have they been and watched so that you have had much rice and barley.
Now, wherefore have I not a shrine built in my honor, where men may
come to bring thanks, and where I may dwell in peace?
“Go thou to the Mikado and request that he build for me a temple at
Miyajima; then will I protect the Mikado’s land forever and ever.”
Sakino hastened to Kioto and revealed all this to the Mikado. At that
time there was a great famine in the far provinces of Nippon, and the
Mikado said, “The goddess is displeased with us, and so this famine has
come upon my people. Hasten your return to Itsuku and build there a
temple to do her honor. Here is much treasure; go quickly and build.”
[Illustration: “IT FLEW AHEAD OF SAKINO’S BOAT”]
Sakino was delighted with this task, and he hurried homeward as fast as
he was able. He could not at first decide which would be the best place
for the temple, so he sailed around the islands seeking the loveliest
spot. Then as he sailed a strange thing chanced; for from the very top
of the mountain flew a huge bird, and it flew ahead of Sakino’s boat
all the way. This he took as an omen, and he followed the bird closely
until it stopped and hovered over a wooded hillside.
“Here we shall build the temple of Mihashiranohime-o-kami, the gentle
goddess of the earth’s fruitfulness. We shall raise a temple to do
her honor,” he cried. “The torii shall rise up out of the sea; the
light-bearing pillars shall guard the entrance, and men shall come from
far and near to see the shrine. Then shall they see how the Goddess of
Green-growing Things is honored in the Land of Many Blades.”
This he did and the goddess dwelt happily in her abode, and there
was no more famine in the land; for the shrine of the Goddess of
Green-growing Things is to this very day honored in the isles of
Nippon.
THE KNIGHTLY WASTE-PAPER MAN
I
There was once a young noble who was very poor. He was a Samurai who
had offended his lord and so was obliged to leave his own province
and travel in search of employment. It was very hard for him to find
anything to do, for neither he nor his fair young wife had been taught
to work.
“Alas! my bride! White as the lily art thou and tender as the
carnation,--to what has thy love for me brought thee!” he cried.
But Tsuiu caressed him sweetly and said, “I am happy since my lord has
taken me with him. The good-luck god will surely hear our prayers and
we shall find a fortunate issue.”
Then was the soul of Shindo lightened and he strode along the highway
gladly, and Tsuiu walked beside him, and the breath of the morning was
sweet and kind. They walked for many hours and found no rest; but the
music of the grass-larks was sweet and the sun was bright.
But when the shadows began to fall, and the fireflies to flit among
the tall grasses, and the moon to creep slowly above the crest of the
mountains, the little wife drew closer to Shindo San; for in her terror
she saw robbers in every tree and bush.
“Be not afraid, my beloved,” he said, as he drew her within his
sheltering arms. “See! here is a pleasant knoll beneath this sendai
tree. Wrap yourself in my mantle. Pillow your head upon my arm. Then
may the god of dreams send you a good-luck dream and may your slumber
be sweet. I will watch!”
“I will obey, my lord,” said Tsuiu. She closed her eyes, and, holding
the left sleeve of her kimono across her face, she was soon fast asleep.
Shindo watched and waited, his hand upon his sword; but he too was
weary, and soon his eyes closed and his head drooped. He slept and
dreamed that two huge dragons came out of the West and sought to devour
them; and lo! as he cried aloud in terror for the safety of Tsuiu San,
a greater Dragon came out of the East and devoured the first two, and
he and his bride escaped.
Then he awoke suddenly and sprang to his feet, putting O Tsuiu San
behind him, for robbers were upon him, and there were two. He drew
his sword and fought fiercely, but they well-nigh overpowered him. He
felt his strength fail. The blood was gushing from a wound in his
arm. Suddenly there appeared upon the scene a ronin who quickly put to
flight the robbers and saved the life of Shindo.
Then he and O Tsuiu San thanked the ronin very heartily, and finding
the morning dawn at hand, and hearing the morning bell from a distant
temple, they started on their way.
“Tell me first, whence you come and whither you go,” said the ronin.
“For I well see that you are of better times, and that misfortune has
brought you here.”
“We are in dire distress,” said the Samurai, “and I have scarce a
_yen_[8] to buy rice for the breakfast of my wife.” Then he told all
their story to the ronin, who, being of a good heart, was grieved at
their sorrows.
“It is little that I can do for you myself,” he said, “since I am but
a wanderer with nothing in my sleeves. But come with me and I will
set you in the way of making a good but simple friend. Yonder are
the towers and temples of Yedo,” and he pointed to the roofs of a
city gleaming gold in the morning sun. “In a certain street lives a
tradesman, a poor fellow, yet of a good heart. He bears the name of
Chohachi. Seek him and tell him I commend you to his kindness. My road
lies elsewhere. _Sayonara!_”[9]
Bidding good-by to the ronin, the two hurried on and finding Chohachi,
he took them in and made them welcome. There they remained several
days until O Tsuiu San recovered from her fatigue, and Shindo from his
wound. Then Chohachi spoke.
“Honored One,” he said, “very welcome are you and yours to the shelter
of our roof tree, but the rice pot holds not enough for four. Is there
any way in which you are able to make the pot boil?”
“Good friend,” replied Shindo, “in the house of my fathers the rice pot
ever boiled without assistance from me. I know no way.”
Chohachi knit his brows.
“Can the Honorable One teach the young men to fence?”
“Alas,” cried Shindo. “I have little skill as a swordsman. I fear I
know not enough to teach fencing.”
“Can the Honorable One teach writing?” demanded Chohachi.
“Of that I know even less,” replied his guest, so mournfully that
Chohachi hastened to reassure him. “Some way shall be found to boil the
pot even if we have to hunt the magic paddle of the Oni.”
So the tradesman thought and thought.
“What can this dear fellow do?” he asked himself.
“It must be something of the easiest for he seems not to have much
thought for trading. I have it! He shall be a waste-paper man! A boy or
a simpleton could do that!”
So he purchased a light pole of bamboo with two baskets at the end, and
a pair of bamboo sticks. He called the Samurai “Chobei,” for Shindo was
too fine a name for a waste-paper man, and the Samurai was started in
business.
The first day Chobei lost himself, and had to pay a man to guide him
home. He had bought no waste paper and Chohachi laughed at him, and
scolded, too, saying,
“Call out! No one will know what you want if you walk about the streets
in silence like a monk!”
Chobei was anxious to do all things right, for it pained him to be
depending upon the good trader, and it hurt him still more to think of
little O Tsuiu San sitting all day over her embroidery, trying to earn
a few coins with which to boil the pot.
So, in order to grow used to the sound of his own voice, he went to an
open lot, where there was not a house in sight, and shouted, “Waste
paper! waste paper!” all day until he was hoarse. The street boys
thought he was mad, and they laughed at him and threw stones. Then
he went home more discouraged than ever, and Chohachi, choked with
laughter, explained again patiently,
“See, good Samurai, go into the back streets; rich people do not sell
waste papers. Talk with the women, engage them with pleasant words and
flattery, and then say, ‘Perhaps you have some waste paper to sell.’”
[Illustration: “CHOBEI WENT FORTH TO TRY AGAIN”]
So Chobei went forth to try again, and this time he sought in the
poorer streets. There young women were washing upon the steps, children
were playing upon the pavement, old women were talking in the doorways,
and to them all Chobei smiled and bowed, “May the sun goddess smile
upon you, honorable august Madame,” he would say with his most courtly
air. “That you and your honorable family are in good health is my wish.
It gives me pleasure to meet you. I am from a far street and I ask the
honor of your acquaintance. Have you any waste paper to sell?”
Although the good women understood, he might have left unsaid all his
remarks except the last. But they were pleased with his air, and they
ransacked their houses for waste paper. They called him the “Knightly
Waste-paper Man,” and soon he had a very good trade and earned many
_yen_, which Chohachi helped him carefully to spend. Then O Tsuiu San
and the little daughter whom the gods sent to them, were well cared
for.
II
One day the Knightly Waste-paper Man was crying his wares through the
streets when he saw a crowd about a man who had fallen by the way.
“’Tis but a starving beggar,” said one. But Chobei had learned much
in the days when he had walked the streets without a _sen_[10] in his
sleeves, and his heart was tender. He hurried to the beggar’s aid and
to his surprise found that he was no other than Bun-yemon, the ronin
who had helped him to escape from his home, when his lord was angry so
long ago. He caused him to be taken up and carried home.
That night Chobei talked long with Tsuiu.
“Gratitude is a sacred duty,” he said. “But for this ronin perhaps we
should have been murdered, and now that he has reached this low estate,
it is our place to help him, but how?” O Tsuiu San sighed.
“In all these years, my lord,” she said, “we have lived by the favor of
the gods, but we have saved nothing. How much should we give Bun-yemon?”
“Not less than twenty-five gold _rio_,[11]” said Chobei. “It is a
fortune! There is but one way in which we might obtain it. We might
sell Iroka.”
“Sell my daughter!” cried Tsuiu. “My lord, my lord!” and she wept
bitterly. Chobei wept also, but at last he said,
“It is terrible for me as well as for you, but do you not see that
there is no other way?”
“There is no other way,” said Tsuiu, to whom the will of her lord was
law.
Then they told Iroka all the story and she said,
“Honorable parents, there is no other way. Permit me to be sold, for it
is an honor for me to become a geisha for the debt of my parents.”
Therefore, with many tears, they sold Iroka and, as she was very
pretty, they obtained for her the sum of five and twenty gold _rio_.
This Chobei bore to Bun-yemon who refused to take it; but Chobei,
pretending to restore it to his own pocket, slipped it into a lacquered
box and departed. After he was gone, the wife of Bun-yemon found the
money, and her husband was very angry with her, that she had not
watched more carefully.
“This good fellow should never have given me the money,” he said. “He
is poor--only a waste-paper man. I will not take it for anything. You
must carry it back.”
“But I know not where he lives,” said the wife. “And since you have the
money, let me go to the pawnshop and redeem your jeweled sword, that we
may sell the sword for a larger sum. Then we can pay back Chobei and
still have something for ourselves.”
After much coaxing Bun-yemon at last consented to do this and redeemed
the sword. But the pawnbroker’s clerk was angry, for he had expected to
own the sword for the small sum which had been lent Bun-yemon. So he
accused Bun-yemon of stealing the money and officers came and carried
him to prison, setting a watch upon his wife.
She, however, determined to free her husband. The Machi-Bugyo of Yedo
was the most righteous of judges and she went straight to him, escaping
from the watchful eye of the officers when there was a fire in the
neighborhood and every one was much excited. She found the Machi-Bugyo,
as he was riding to inspect the firemen, and she knelt in the dust,
catching hold of his bridle rein.
“Most noble Machi-Bugyo,” she cried. “Honorably deign to listen. They
have taken my husband from me, and they accuse him unjustly. You, who
are the friend of the poor, save him!”
The Lord of the city listened, and, being of a good heart, he had
compassion upon the wife of Bun-yemon. He ordered the clerk of the
pawnbroker to appear before him, and also Bun-yemon. And Chobei,
hearing of the trouble, appeared and told that he had given the
twenty-five gold _rio_. Bun-yemon was therefore cleared from the charge
of theft.
“Go in peace,” said the Machi-Bugyo to him. “The master of the evil
clerk shall pay a fine of one hundred gold _rio_, because a master
should have only honest servants. The wicked clerk shall be put to
death, for he witnessed falsely against an innocent man. The gold shall
be given to Bun-yemon who must, with twenty-five _rio_, redeem the
daughter of Chobei.
“As for you, Chobei, you have done well in paying your debt of
gratitude at so great a cost to yourself; and your daughter is to be
commended for her obedience. Take this reward for you both,” and he
gave him a hundred _yen_. “Be dismissed, for I have spoken.”
Then were all happy, for Iroka was returned to her parents and Chobei’s
friend, Chohachi, was rewarded for his kindness of heart.
The whole matter soon coming to the ears of the Shogun, he commanded
the old lord of Chobei to forgive him and restore him to his home. Then
was Chobei, whom men again called Shindo, very happy, and he no longer
cried “Waste Paper!” through the back streets of Yedo. But there he is
not forgotten, for when the women gather to gossip they speak of him
with smiles, saying ever of him, “Isuzure wo kite mo kokoro wa nishiki
(coat of rags, heart of brocade).”
FOOTNOTES:
[8] Japanese coin equivalent to our dollar.
[9] Good-by.
[10] A Japanese coin equivalent to our cent.
[11] A Japanese ounce.
THE HUNTER AND THE PRIEST
There was once a hunter who dwelt in the village of Kyoto and sought
his game upon the mountain of Atagoyama. He was proud of being so
mighty a hunter, for he never came empty-handed from the forest; yet at
times he felt ill at ease. This was because he made a daily business of
killing, and so he was displeasing to the Buddha.[12]
To set his conscience at rest, therefore, he often made offerings of
rice and fruit to a certain holy priest who dwelt in a little shrine
upon the mountain-side.
The priest was very good. Studying the sacred books he dwelt in the
solitude of the forest. He was so far from the homes of men that he
would have fared ill had it not been for the visits of the hunter who
brought to him supplies of things to eat.
One day the hunter came to the temple.
“Honorable one,” he said politely, “I have brought you a bag of rice.
May each grain be a prayer for me.”
“Good friend,” said the priest, “I thank you, and in return I will show
you a miracle. For many years I have read and studied and reflected
upon the Holy Books and it may be that I am receiving my reward. Know
then, that each night the Buddha comes to me, here at the temple,
riding upon an elephant. Do you not believe? Then tarry and see.”
[Illustration: “I WILL SHOW YOU A MIRACLE”]
Speaking respectfully to the priest, the hunter said, “I long to see
this wonderful thing.” But in his heart he said to himself, “This thing
can not be true.”
Then he turned to the little temple boy and asked, “Have you seen this
marvel?”
“Six times I have seen Fugen Bosatsu and fallen before him,” said the
boy; and the hunter marveled again.
Dark and silent was the night, save for the wind spirit who swept
through the trees, now whispering softly, now moaning as if in pain.
Behind the clouds the moon hid herself, throwing now and again fitful
gleams across the little shrine at the door of which knelt the priest
and his acolyte. Behind them stood the hunter, his heart filled with
unbelief. No word was spoken and only a quick indrawing of the hunter’s
breath betokened his amazement as the vision came.
In the east arose a star, which grew and grew until the whole
mountain-side seemed light; and then there appeared a snow-white
elephant with six huge tusks. Upon his back was a rider, and as the
figures neared the temple, the priest and the temple boy threw
themselves upon the ground, praying aloud to the Fugen Bosatsu.
But the hunter had no prayer within his soul. This thing seemed to
him not holy but accursed, and, springing in front of the priest, he
set a shaft, drew his bow to the full, and sent his arrow straight to
the heart of the Buddha. Straight to the heart it went, clear to the
feathers of the shaft, and lo! a terrible cry rent the air. No longer
was there white light over the mountain. All was darkness.
“Demon in human form!” cried the priest. “Is it not enough that you
spend your vile life destroying God’s creatures upon the earth? To this
sin, must you add that of destroying Buddha himself?”
“Not so,” replied the hunter. “Be not so rash. Judgment of others is
far too great a sin for one so holy as yourself. Listen, and I will
explain what I have done. I have not destroyed the Buddha. You have
been deceived. Do you think it is possible that I could see Fugen
Bosatsu? I am a mighty hunter, stained with the blood of living
creatures. This is displeasing to the Buddha. Now then, would he reveal
himself to me? The boy too is but a lad, and why should he see holy
visions? You think because you have read and studied much, and because
you are of a pure life and a truthful tongue that the Buddha desires
to do you honor and reveal to you Fugen Bosatsu. No, good sir, for
were this true, you alone could see the vision and it would not be
vouchsafed to two sinful ones beside.
“Indeed, you saw not Fugen Bosatsu, but something deceiving and false;
and when the morning comes I will prove to you that I speak the truth.”
So when the morning broke in golden streams across the mountain-top the
hunter and the priest looked long and carefully, and they found a spot
of blood where had stood the vision of the night. Another and another
they found, forming a slender trail which led deep into the forest,
and ever the crimson trail grew larger and larger until at last they
found a pool of blood beside the body of a huge badger which lay dead,
pierced by an arrow.
“See,” said the hunter. “You have been deceived though you are far
holier than I. All your study can not teach you what I was taught by
common sense.”
FOOTNOTES:
[12] Buddhism does not approve the taking of life.
THE PRINCESS MOONBEAM
A woodman once dwelt with his wife at the edge of the forest, under the
shadow of the Honorable Mountain. The two were industrious and good,
but though they loved each other they were not happy. No children had
come to bless them and this the wife mourned deeply.
The husband pitied her and treated her very kindly, yet still she was
sad. As she gazed upon the snows of Fujiyama her heart swelled within
her and she prostrated herself and said, “Fuji no Yama, Honorable
Mountain, my heart is heavy because no childish arms encircle my neck,
no little head nestles in my bosom. From thy eternal purity send some
little white soul to comfort me!”
The Honorable Mountain spoke not; yet as she prayed, lo, from its
heights there sparkled and glowed a tiny light. Fitful and gleaming it
seemed, yet it had a silver radiance as of the moon.
The woodman’s wife beheld it, and she called to her husband eagerly,
“Come hither, I pray you. See the strange light which comes from Fuji
San. I seem to see a face smiling at me. It is the face of a little
child!”
Then her husband smiled at her fancy, but, because he loved her, he
said indulgently, “I will go and see what it is.”
“I thank you, my lord; go quickly!” she replied.
So, quickly he went to the forest, and as he neared a mountain stream,
with Fuji gleaming cold and white in the moonlight, he saw the strange
light, which seemed to hover and rest upon the branches of a tall
bamboo. Hastening thither he found there a moon child, a tiny, fragile,
fairy thing, more beautiful than any child he had ever seen.
“Little creature,” he said. “Who are you?”
“My name is Princess Moonbeam,” she answered sweetly. “My mother is the
Moon Lady, and she has sent me to Earth because every Moon Child must
do some good thing, else will its silvery light become pale and wan and
be of no avail.”
“Little Princess,” he said eagerly, “the best of good deeds is to
comfort a sad heart. Come home with me and be a child to my wife, who
weeps for children. Thus will your beams grow bright.”
“I will go with you,” said the little Moonbeam, and, rejoicing greatly,
he bore her tenderly to his wife.
“I bring you a treasure,” he said. “The Moon Lady sends you this beam
of light to lighten your sad heart.”
[Illustration: “LOVELIER GREW THE MOON CHILD EVERY YEAR”]
Then was his wife much overjoyed and she took the little creature to
her bosom and cared for her.
Lovelier grew the Moon Child every year and much she rejoiced the
hearts of her foster parents. Her hair was like a golden aureole about
her face. Her eyes were deep and tender, her cheeks were pale and
delicate, and about her there was a subtle and unearthly charm. Every
one loved her, even the emperor’s son, who, hunting in the forest, saw
her lighting up the humble cottage with her heavenly light. He loved
her dearly and she loved him, but alas! she could not marry him because
her life upon the earth could be but twenty years. Then she must return
to her home in the moon, for so willed her mother the Moon Lady.
At last the day came when she must go. Her parents wept, and could not
be consoled; and her lover, who was now the emperor, could not keep
her, although he besought High Heaven to spare her.
Her mother caught her up in a silver moonbeam; and all the way to the
Moon the little Princess wept silvery tears. As the tears fell from her
eyes, lo! they took wings and floated away looking for the form of her
beloved, the emperor, who might see her no more.
But the silver-bright tears are seen to this day floating hither and
yon about the vales and marshes of fair Nippon. The children chase
them with happy cries, and say, “See the fireflies! How fair they are!
Whence came they?”
Then their mothers relate to them the legend and say, “These are the
tears of the little Princess, flitting to seek her beloved”; and over
all, calm and eternal, smiles the Honorable Mountain.
THE SINGLE LANTERN OF YAMATO
There was a poor woman in Yamato who was very good. She prayed daily at
the graves of her parents, although she was very old. Daily she placed
there some grains of rice, although she was very, very poor. She went
to the temple whenever she was able, and prayed much. She was kind to
the poor and gave always to the hungry, so that often she went hungry
herself.
“It is better to be hungry than to grow hard of heart,” she said.
Now they made a grand temple in Yamato and all the people were proud
and gave to it many _yen_. They gave a lantern of bronze so wonderfully
fine that all men wondered, for the workmanship was delicate and
beautiful. The lantern makers had sat and wrought upon it for days with
matchless skill and patience. The stand was large and the light so
small as to seem but a mere glimmer of the light of the world.
Many lanterns were given to the temple and a rich man gave a thousand
large ones.
“All men shall see that I am of a generous heart,” he said proudly to
himself.
[Illustration: “SHE WENT TO THE TEMPLE AND PRAYED MUCH”]
The poor woman was grieved at heart.
“I have nothing to give,” she said. “The gods would accept nothing
that I have.” She looked carefully over her poor little house, but
alas! There was nothing any one would buy. She had only the barest
necessaries and these much worn and used for many years.
At last she bethought herself that she still possessed one thing which
she might sell. Her hair was yet long and black. It might not bring
much, but it would be worth something.
“I am too old to marry, no one cares how I look,” she said, smiling to
herself. “I will sell my hair to make a temple offering.”
So she sold it for a small sum, which happily she found was enough to
buy one little temple light. This she joyfully placed upon the shrine.
How tiny it looked beside the rich man’s great ones! Yet its light
seemed to her to warm her old heart into fresher life, and she was
happy.
That night there was a great festival in the temple. All the lamps were
lighted, from the great ones of the rich man to the tiny one which the
poor woman had placed there with such loving care.
The whole temple was aglow with light, and all the people praised the
rich man and said, “How generous he is! How great!”
But just as they were praising him and admiring the lights, there
sprang up a sudden fierce wind. It blew so wild a gust that the
light of all the great lanterns of the rich man went out, and all
was darkness. Yet not all--for lo! there gleamed through the gloom a
tiny light, as bright as the light of day. It was the little light of
the poor woman, which with its spark seemed to light the whole great
temple, and all the people wondered. Then they looked with care to see
whence came the little light and when they found it was the gift of so
humble a soul they marveled again. But the priest of the temple, who
was old and good and very wise, said, “Do not marvel! In the sight of
the All Knowing One, the poor gift of a good heart is more worthy than
all the splendor of the rich and proud.”
THE SOUL OF THE SAMURAI
Far upon a Western headland the pine trees waved their arms to the sea
and the sea god loved them and dashed his high foaming spray to send
them greeting. Giant _torii_[13] rose heavenward, that the Golden Crow,
the strange and mystic Hobo Bird, might rest there, in his swift flight
toward the sun god.
The sea flowed restless and proud at the foot of the cliffs and
the beach was soft and treacherous, and the sea god yearly claimed
a victim, when the air was heavy with the sweet scent of the wild
pittosporum.
O Nitta San was a great warrior. He fought for Go-Daigo the emperor and
was his faithful general. Many a battle he fought and won, though the
men of the Hojo Clan were many and strong and fought well. But when he
reached the headland of the pines, the soul of O Nitta San was heavy
within him.
“The men of the Hojo guard the sea with ships, they watch the hills
with archers,” he said to his head man. “They are as many as the waves
of the sea. Our fate is in the hands of the gods!”
“The favor of the gods must be won, O Nitta San,” said the head man.
“I am of small account, but let me throw myself into the sea, and
perchance the sea god may accept the sacrifice and smile upon you, my
master.”
“Not so,” replied O Nitta San. “I myself will appease the god of the
sea, that he may grant us a passage to conquer the city, for the glory
of my master the emperor.”
“Honorably the emperor will reward you,” said the head man bowing low,
but O Nitta San shook his head.
“I desire no reward,” he said. “Do you hear the chirp of that bird? In
a land where even the wild songsters of the forest cry ‘Chiu,’[14] do
not think a Samurai needs a reward.”
O Nitta San turned him to the cliffs, and he raised his hands to the
sea god and prayed long and earnestly. Then he drew from its scabbard
his sword, and lovingly he gazed upon its keen and shining blade. He
raised it toward the clouds and it gleamed in the moonlight like a
shimmering serpent.
“Beloved comrade, Soul of the Samurai,”[15] he cried. “Well have you
served me in many a fierce battle. You are a friend as well as a
servant. Now serve me once again and appease the wrath of the sea god!”
For a moment he lovingly laid the sword against his breast, then “God
of the Sea,” he cried aloud, “accept my sacrifice and care for the Soul
of the Samurai.” And so saying he cast far from him the sword.
[Illustration: “HE LAID HIS SWORD AGAINST HIS BREAST”]
It screamed through the air and smote the water, and a myriad sparkling
crystals rose into the air. They leaped to encircle the sword, as if
lovingly encrusting it with diamonds. It rose upon a wave, it fell, the
pearl-like foam covered it, and O Nitta San saw it no more.
But from the sea came a dull murmuring sound, and the waters rolled
back from the cliffs and a passageway appeared.
“Kompira has accepted my sacrifice,” cried O Nitta San. “We may pass
over in safety to conquest and glory.”
Then the army passed over at the edge of the cliff, and they fought a
mighty battle with the Hojo and took the city.
Go-Daigo was glad, and he greatly rewarded O Nitta San who was proud
and of a good heart fighting for the emperor.
He offered much rice and millet to Kompira, god of the sea, but never,
so long as he lived, did he smile when the sun-crested waves sparkled
and broke into diamonds before him, for he murmured to himself, “Oh,
Kompira, God of the Sea, deal gently with my offering, be kind to the
Soul of the Samurai.”
FOOTNOTES:
[13] An archway placed before certain shrines in Japan; originally a
perch for sacred fowl heralding the approach of day.
[14] Loyalty.
[15] In Japan, a title given to the sword.
THE DREAM OF THE GOLDEN BOX
Hojo Tokimasa had two daughters. Musako, the elder, was as beautiful as
the eight beauties of Omi. Her hair was as black as polished ebony, her
eyes were deep and dark and full of fire, her skin was smooth as ivory.
She was clever, too, as well as beautiful. But her sister Ume was the
favorite of her father.
Ume was sweet and gentle and her father thought to marry her well,
though she had not her sister’s beauty.
One night, Ume dreamed a good-luck dream, that a bird brought her a
golden box, and she told her sister, while she arranged the elder’s
ebon locks in the early morning.
“That is a dream of good omen,” said Musako. “Give it to me and I will
give you in return my golden mirror, into which I have so often gazed.”
Now little Ume did not wish to part with her good-luck dream at all;
but, more than anything in the world, she desired to share her sister’s
beauty. So she said, as she thrust a superb jade hairpin into place,
“I will give you the dream, fair sister, and may it bring you good
fortune; and so may I, gazing into your mirror, gain some of your
radiant beauty, for to you the gods have been kind.”
Musako smiled at the flattery, and thought much all day upon the happy
dream.
Late in the twilight, when the moon shone through the flowering plum
tree and the fragrance of the plum blossoms stole over the garden, and
the nightingale sang of love in the branches, there came a bold knock
at the castle gate.
When the gate was opened and the stranger bidden welcome in the name
of the god of hospitality, he spoke simply, “I am Yoritomo. The men of
the Taira pursue me, and Kiyomori, their chief, has slain my father and
many of my father’s house. You are my father’s friend. Of you I ask
shelter.”
“You are welcome,” said Hojo. “Abide with us until safety awaits you
without.”
Then Yoritomo thanked him and did remain. Ere long he sent his retainer
into Hojo’s presence to act as go-between, and ask him for the hand of
his daughter Ume. He had seen her. She was gentle and discreet. She was
the favorite of the old man, her father. Why should he not be adopted
into the family for her sake?
But his retainer desired ever the best for his beloved master. He had
seen the radiant beauty of Musako as she had walked in the arbor of
wistaria, herself a fairer flower, even, than the long purple racemes
swaying in the breeze. He decided in his own mind that the elder sister
was the one for his master.
[Illustration: “SHE ARRANGED HER SISTER’S EBON LOCKS”]
“The falcon may not mate with the dove,” he said to himself. “O Musako
San is far more beautiful than her sister and more clever. She will be
a better mate for my glorious master than the gentle dove her sister. I
shall request her hand of Hojo San.”
So he demanded O Musako San from her father, and that good man was much
distressed.
“Truly I should like to give my daughter to your master,” he said. “But
she is promised to a lord of the Taira Clan and I dare not break my
word to him.”
Then the retainer returned to Yoritomo very sad. He bore such glowing
accounts of the beauty and cleverness of O Musako San that Yoritomo’s
curiosity was fired, and by night he stole beneath the window where she
sat peering into the garden and wondering when the good-luck bird would
fly to her.
How fair she was! And when she saw the handsome youth who gazed so
ardently upon her, how kindly her eyes looked upon him! Yoritomo
determined that she and no other should be his wife. He stole her upon
her very wedding day, not, perhaps, without her father’s knowledge,
and through all the troubles of his career, she was his faithful wife.
But gazing into Musako’s mirror, the little sister grew fairer every
day, and she wedded a great lord and bore him many sons.
THE PRINCESS OF THE SEA
A beautiful princess lived in the depths of the sea. She was fairer
than any mortal maiden, and sweet as she was fair. Her voice was as
gentle as the sea waves lapping the strand, her sigh was as soft as the
sound of the wind through the reeds of the shore, and her laugh was
musical as the tinkle of water through the coral branches.
Her mother was no more, but her father, the old Sea King, adored
her and gave her all the treasures of the deep. Her necklace was of
coral, her girdle was of pearls, her hairpins were of curiously carved
tortoise shell, her kimono was embroidered with feathery seaweed, and
her floating _obi_ with delicate traceries of kelp, encircled her
slender waist.
The princess lived in a magnificent palace built of mother-of-pearl.
All the creatures of the sea had given to its adornment. Pearls gleamed
from its walls, amber pillars, like shafts of light, supported its
roof, while a million lights gleamed from branching corals. The walls
were tinted in exquisite colors and decorated with sprays of seaweed
floating in cool green waves in which the fish seemed really swimming,
so natural did they appear.
The princess did not always stay in this home, beautiful as it was. She
loved the fresh breath of the open sea. It brought the color into her
cheeks and made her happy. When she went forth she rode upon a dolphin,
who plunged through the sea foam and rode over the crested waves with
careless grace.
One day the princess mounted his back for a long ride. The next day
and the next she went again and always in the same direction. Then her
father noticed that she seemed sad, and he said to her, “Where do you
go each day, my daughter? Why is it that you do not stay at home?”
“It is lonely here, my father,” she answered. “I like to ride upon the
top of the waves, for there I can watch the strange beings who live
upon the land. You talk to me of marrying. Find me a sea-prince like
one of those mortals whom I have seen and I will marry him.”
“Whom have you seen?” demanded her father, much astonished, for he did
not know that she had ever seen a mortal.
“I know not his name,” said the maiden. “But I have seen him upon the
shore. He fishes there and I have heard many of the fishes say how kind
he is and how gentle. He is handsome, too. He fishes only for such
sea food as he must eat and he puts back into the water all those fish
which are not good for him to eat. Oh, my father! I love this youth!
He is so great and strong! Bring him to me!” and the little princess
clasped her hands together as she looked at her father.
But the Sea King was angry. “It is not fitting that you should think
such thoughts,” he said in high displeasure. “A sea princess should not
marry a mere mortal. Tarry at home henceforth! No more shall you go to
ride upon the dolphin!”
So the poor little princess stayed at home and pined. She missed the
fresh air of the upper sea and the sight of the blue sky, but above all
she missed the young fisherman. At last she grew weak and ill and her
father could endure it no longer.
“Are you pining still for that young mortal?” he asked one day; and she
replied,
“Oh, my father, unless I speak with him my heart will break!”
“Go to the shore where he fishes,” said the Sea King. “Change yourself
into a sea turtle and allow him to catch you in his net. You say he is
of such a wonderful kindness--well, Mortals do not eat such turtles;
and so if he throws you down upon the sands to die, I will rescue you,
but if he places you again in the water, I give my consent to your
bringing him here to my palace.”
This the wily old king said, thinking the fisherman would surely throw
the turtle aside; but the princess smiled happily, for she knew he
would prove kind.
Now Urashima, for that was the fisherman’s name, knew nothing at all of
all this. When therefore next day he found in his net a huge turtle, he
said to himself, “Well, my fine fellow, what a pity it is that you are
not eatable! You would make a good meal for my honorable parents were
you as good as you are big. But since you are not, run along home to
your friends,” and he dropped the turtle back into the waves.
What was his surprise to see rise from the sea and come toward him
across the crested waves, a huge dolphin, carrying on its back a sea
nymph fair as the dawn. She cast upon him a sun-bright glance and said,
“Come with me, oh Mortal! Come to the depths of my sea-girt home and
see my palace of emerald and pearl. I was that turtle which you cast
into the sea, for I took that form to see if you were of as great
kindness of heart as the fishes said.”
Urashima stood spellbound and stared at the vision of loveliness before
him.
“Come with me,” said the princess, again. “The coral caves await
you,--will you not come?”
[Illustration: “A DOLPHIN CARRYING ON ITS BACK A SEA NYMPH”]
“Not for all the wealth of the ocean would I leave my beloved home, but
to be with you, loveliest of sea nymphs,” cried Urashima, bewitched by
her beauty and loveliness.
He went with her to the depths of the ocean and there memory fell from
him, and he forgot his home. He thought only of the princess and basked
in the sunshine of her smile.
So they were married and lived happily, and even the old Sea King grew
to like Urashima and blessed him before he died.
Urashima had lived in the Dragon Palace of the Princess of the Sea
what seemed to him but a short time when memory came to him again.
He thought of his father and mother and of his little brothers and
sisters, and he grew sad. The princess watched him and her heart sank.
“He will go from me and not return,” she sighed. “Alas! alas! for
mortal love!”
Urashima at last said to the princess, “Beloved princess, I have spent
these months of our life together in happiness so great that I would
that it could last forever. I remember, however, my old home and the
dear ones I left there. Give me leave, therefore, to return to earth
for but a day, that I may see them once more. They know not where I
am. They know nothing of my happiness. Let me go, and quickly I will
return.”
“Alas, my beloved, you will never return,” she said. “Never more will
your deep sea home see you again,--that my poor heart tells me. But
if the yearning for home has seized you, I may not keep you here. Go,
but take this with you,” and she handed him a casket made of a single
pearl and set with a picture of the princess. “So long as you keep this
unopened you may return; but open it, and you will never see me again.
Farewell.”
So Urashima returned to earth bearing with him the little casket.
His home seemed strange to him. The village street was not what it used
to be; his father’s house no longer stood beneath the tall bamboo; he
saw no familiar faces. At last, puzzled and distressed, he asked a
passer-by if he knew aught of the people of Urashima.
“Urashima!” he answered in amazement. “He was drowned in the sea, many,
many years ago. His people all lie buried on the hill. Their very tombs
are lichen-grown with age.”
“Am I dreaming,” cried Urashima. “My Sea Princess, what have you done
to me?”
Then seizing the casket he gazed upon the face of the nymph and as
he did so a strange desire came over him to see what was within. He
opened it just a crack and a thin, gray smoke rose toward heaven, and
in the curling clouds he seemed to see the lovely form of the princess,
and her eyes gazed sadly at him. Then he looked down at himself in
wonder. From a stalwart youth he had become a white-haired old man;
and, weeping bitterly, he stretched forth his hands to the sea.
“Ah, my princess, farewell forever. Without thee I faint and die. Thy
love alone gave life,” and he sank down upon the sands and was no more.
He had been gone from earth a thousand years.
THE FIREFLY OF MATSUI
Shizoku of Matsui loved a maiden called Kennei-Botaru, for she was
bright and sparkling. Late one snowy night he was returning from a
wedding party when amidst the tiny snowflakes which were beginning to
fall, he saw a strange light flicker and flash before him.
“Kagaribo mo
Hotaru mo hikaru
Genji kama!”[16]
he exclaimed, wondering that the O-botaru (great firefly) should be
flitting about in winter snows.
As he gazed upon it, the creature flashed and darted toward him and so
annoyed him that he thrust at it with the stick he carried.
Hither and yon it flashed, like a will-o’-the-wisp until at last it
darted away into the garden of the house wherein dwelt his betrothed.
The next day he saw his beloved, and she said to him shyly, “Last
night I had a strange dream. I thought I had wings and could fly and
that I was flying through the night. It was cold and there was snow
in the air and I said to myself, ‘Where is my beloved that I may fly
to his breast and be warm?’ Then I saw you coming swiftly toward the
bridge with your lantern, though the moon shone bright in the heavens.
Then I flew to you, but you were not overjoyed to receive me. You
struck at me and drove me from you, and I fled in terror into the
garden where I hid myself in the heart of a plum blossom, and the
snow fell upon me and I was cold. Then I awoke and I was afraid, and
something whispered to me ‘His heart is cold to you as was the heart of
the plum blossom when the snow fell upon it!’ What means my dream?”
“Indeed, I can not tell,” he made answer. “But I know well you read its
meaning wrong. Were I to drive you from me and you to seek another,
then would your heart’s resting place be cold as was the plum blossom
of your dream. But trouble not yourself, beloved, for never shall I
drive you away,” and he smiled upon her and the heart of O Botaru San
was comforted.
[Illustration: “HE THRUST AT IT WITH THE STICK”]
FOOTNOTES:
[16] “Is that the glimmer of far festal fires,
Or the shimmering of the firefly?
Ah, it is the Genji!”
THE MOUNTAIN ROSE
Ota Dakwan was a noble _daimio_.[17] His castle was filled with
retainers who waited upon him, at his least word flying to obey his
commands. Men vied with each other to do him honor, bowing low before
him as he passed and saying “Behold Ota Dakwan, the Daimio!”
Young maidens blushed at his name and when the moon shone through the
lattice, sighed to the nightingale to sing the praises of this splendid
warrior.
Honors crowded thick upon him, but of it all he wearied and often
sought the forest, there to hunt in solitude. Where the great trees
spread their branches and the bamboos and the pines talked together he
spent many hours, returning to his castle at night, weary, but with his
game bag full.
Often people said to him, “What do you find so wonderful in the forests
of the hill country?”
“Sunlight and shade,” he answered, “everglade and waterfall, game to
hunt and no one to say me nay; above all, the mighty mountain, cool and
aloof as is the spirit of the great;” and at his answer men wondered.
One day Ota Dakwan hunted long upon the mountain-side, so long that he
wandered far from home and a great storm of rain came upon him, from
which there was no shelter. He was glad, therefore, when in a lonely
spot he saw a tiny cottage beside a grove of great bamboos, and he ran
to it for shelter.
Within was a young maiden who smiled upon him, but spoke not. She was
beautiful as a dream though poorly clad, and he said to her, “Will you
lend me a straw rain coat? for every tree in the forest sends down her
showers and I shall be drenched before I can reach my home.”
The maiden blushed deeply and without a word hastily left the room.
In a moment she returned, her delicate cheeks flushed pink, carrying
a _yamabuki_[18] blossom which she placed in his hand, still with no
word, only a sigh and a blush.
“What means this?” he asked, much puzzled. “I ask protection from the
rain and you give me a flower. Were you not as fair as the first cherry
blooms of spring, I could find it in my heart to be angry with you.
Speak!” But she only shook her head and sighed, and, angry at last,
he turned on his heel and left her, going forth into the rain, the
flower still in his hand.
[Illustration: “SHE RETURNED CARRYING A _YAMABUKI_”]
He, the adored of all Yedo, to be laughed at by a mere country maiden
who would not even speak to him! At this thought his heart rose within
him, but remembering how sweetly she smiled and how like a rose she
blushed, his anger melted away.
“She was as the flower she gave me, a mountain rose,” he thought to
himself. Then he raised the delicate blossom to his face and its
sweet scent was as the breath of morning, fresh and kind. The rain
ceased, and hurrying homeward he was met by his head man who greeted
him anxiously. To him he told his strange adventure, and the head
man said, “The poet says ‘the mountain rose has many petals but it
has no seed.’[19] The maiden meant to tell you in poetic vein that
she possessed no rain coat. She is the fair, dumb daughter of your
lordship’s keeper, and they are very poor.”
“They shall be so no longer,” said the daimio. “For one with so fair a
soul should have fairer surroundings, and one upon whom the gods have
laid a finger should have kindness from those of this world.”
Then he showed much kindness to her father, and to the maiden, sending
to them gifts of rice and tea and rich garments. And oftentimes,
when tired with his morning’s hunt, he would rest within the little
lonely hut, and Yamabuki would serve him a cup of tea with a shy grace.
Whenever he spoke to her it was with kindness and she would smile and
blush and sigh a little, while he murmured to himself, “The god of
silence laid his finger upon your lips, Yamabuki, little silent one.”
FOOTNOTES:
[17] Lord or knight.
[18] Wild rose.
[19] _Mino_, the Japanese word for “seed,” means also a rain coat.
THE EVIL ONE AND THE RAT
When the Spirit of Creation had finished his work, he came down from
Heaven and gazed upon what he had done.
He saw the mountains gleaming pure against the blue, the rivers winding
silvery to the sea, the rice fields lying warm and moist in the
valleys--and it was good. He gazed upon the trees waving in the wind,
the iris fields and the lotus ponds, the cherry blooms and the plum
blossoms, and he smiled well pleased.
Then the Evil One appeared to him and with a hateful voice said, “Do
not flatter yourself that you have done all well in this world. Indeed
you have not. There are many things which are neither pretty nor
useful. See how ugly this thistle is, and of what use is the bramble?
Had I made things I would have done much better.”
Then the Spirit of Creation was very angry. He thought a thing of wrath
and created a rat. It was large and fierce, and it quickly jumped into
the mouth of the Evil One and bit out his tongue. Then was the Evil One
in great rage and he uttered horrid cries and danced an evil dance
upon the grass. He thought to himself, “Since the rats are here, they
shall be made to be a torment to the earth,” and he made them increase
greatly until they overran the Land of the Ainu.
[Illustration: “HE DANCED AN EVIL DANCE UPON THE GRASS”]
At this the people were very unhappy. “Oh, Creating Spirit,” they
cried, “take away these pests, for they eat our grain and our rice,
they gnaw our huts, they frighten our children. Destroy them, oh kind
Creating Spirit.”
But the Spirit shook his head. “Not so,” he said, “I may not destroy
that which I have once made. But I will create another thing which
shall war with the rats, and so you shall be helped in your distress.”
He created straightway cats and the cats warred greatly upon the rats
so that they grew less. Then were the people pleased and rejoiced, but
an old man said to them, “Speak not evil of the rats, nor of anything
which the Creating Spirit has made. It must be that the Creating Spirit
is displeased when his works are spoken ill of, for he punished the
Evil One for so doing. Besides, everything created is of some use. Even
the rat bit off the tongue of the Evil One.”
THE PAINTER OF CATS
Once upon a time a long, long time ago there was a boy who was clever
and polite and kind, and it would seem as if he was a very fine boy
indeed. But he had one fault. He would draw pictures of cats.
Now that does not appear to be a very bad fault, but the trouble was
that Kihachi would not do anything else. He drew cats at school when he
should have been studying his lessons. He drew them when all the other
children were at play and when it would have been far better for him to
have been running and jumping.
When his brothers and sisters were sleeping peacefully at night upon
their wooden pillows, Kihachi would arise from his sleeping mat and,
stealing to the paper partitions of the little room into which streamed
the moonlight, he would draw cats. In the early morning when the sun
gleamed over the tiny garden and the dew lay like jewels upon the rice
fields, still Kihachi could be found drawing cats.
He drew large cats and small cats, mother cats and kittens. He drew
them even upon his clothes, and this caused his mother much annoyance,
though she was very patient. When, however, it came to pass that she
found a whole family of kittens playing their pranks, in pencil, upon
her own best _obi_,[20] she felt that something must be done.
“My lord,” she said to her husband, “this boy and his cats make me too
much trouble. I have done everything to cause him to stop, but to no
avail. I have even burned him with the _moxa_[21] but still he does not
cease. He says he can not. Our other sons are able to help you in the
field and our daughter is a great assistance to me in the household.
But Kihachi does not work, and his schoolmaster says he will not study.
He will do nothing but draw cats. What shall we do with him?”
“It may be that so strange a boy will grow up to be something quite
different from us,” said his father. “He is always agreeable. Every
morning he says most politely, ‘O hayo, O tat’ San, O hayo, O oka
San.’[22] It seems to me _Bot chan_[23] is not bad. Perhaps he would
make a good priest. Let us take him to the temple and see if he will
not there forget his cats.”
So they took him to the temple and the priest received them with
courtesy. “Enter, honorably enter!” he said, and they entered saying,
“We have brought to you our youngest boy in the hope that you will
graciously permit him to become your acolyte.”
The priest asked Kihachi many questions, very difficult ones, and these
he answered so cleverly that the old man said to the parents, “This
child is destined to be great. He is very clever. Leave him with me and
I will teach him all he needs to become a priest.”
So Kihachi stayed in the temple and he studied very hard. He liked to
get up early as the mists were breaking over Fuji San and the temple
bells were ringing in the dawn. He loved to sit in the twilight when
the flowers of the _yamabuki_ are mirrored in the still marsh waters.
He loved to pluck the primrose, flower of happiness, and to twine it
with the _nanten_[24] into wreaths for the shrine of Buddha. He liked
to read and to study the sacred books and he learned many prayers, but
still he liked to draw, and still he drew cats.
He drew them on the margins of the books, on the prayer rolls, on the
very _kakemonos_[25] of the temple, and this much displeased the good
old priest.
At last he could not stand it any longer and he called the boy to him.
Kihachi bowed very low, his hands and forehead touching the floor.
“Bot chan,” said the priest, “you will never make a good priest. You
may some day become a great artist, but you will never be anything
else. You had better go away from the temple and seek your fortune in
the world. Here is a bag of rice for you. Put it in a bundle of your
clothes, and go, and may good fortune go with you. I will give you one
last bit of advice. When darkness gathers, fear great places, seek
small shelter.”
Kihachi thanked the priest and went mournfully away from the temple. It
seemed to him as if he was always to be unhappy because of his cats,
but he could not help drawing them. He was afraid to go home, for he
knew his father would punish him for disobeying the priest. He did
not know what to do. At last he thought of a large temple in the next
village, and wondered if some of the priests there would not take him
for an acolyte.
“At least I can try,” he said, and hurried on, hoping to reach the
temple before night.
It was a long way, and his feet grew very sore and he was tired. So
it was a great disappointment when he reached the temple to find it
deserted. Not a priest was there to offer incense, not an acolyte to
ring the temple bells.
“How strange it is that everything is covered with dust! There are
cobwebs spun over the altars!” he said. “It seems to me an acolyte is
needed. I shall stay at least for the night and perhaps to-morrow the
priests may return. They will commend me if I make things very clean.”
He laid down his bundle and began to clean the temple with a will, and
soon it was quite free from dirt and dust. Then he sat down and rested,
but noticing a large screen with quite a blank space upon it, he drew
out his writing box and began to draw cats as hard as he could draw.
He thought nothing of how time was passing until suddenly he noticed it
was growing quite dark, and he began to be a little afraid. He looked
about him. How huge and deserted seemed the temple hall! How small a
boy he was! Then he remembered the old priest’s parting words, “When
darkness hovers, fear great places, seek small shelters.” Surely this
was a great place! He hunted about hoping to find a small place which
might be safer, and, surely enough, there was a tiny recess in the wall
with a door which could be slid into place. He entered and found there
was just room enough for him to curl up and go to sleep, which he
did, for he was so tired that sleep came to him quickly.
[Illustration: “HE BEGAN TO DRAW CATS”]
He slept soundly, but at last was awakened by a loud noise. It seemed
as if a thousand ogres were fighting, and with the noise of the
fighting came horrid screams. Kihachi was afraid to make a peephole in
the paper partition, and so he lay very still until at last there was a
more awful scream than before and the sound of a heavy fall. Then all
was still.
Kihachi lay quite still until the morning light began to creep into his
cabinet, and then he thought, “I must get up and ring the dawn bell;
for when the priests return they will be pleased to find that I have
attended to everything.”
So he jumped up and hastened to ring the bell. Pure and clear its tones
rang out over the cool morning air, and Kihachi noticed figures in the
valley below moving rapidly, and he said, “Here come the priests. I
hope they will be pleased with what I have done.”
Then he went to look at the cats he had drawn in the great temple hall
the night before. But what a sight met his eyes! Upon the floor of
the temple was a pool of blood and beside it the body of a fierce and
terrible rat, the largest he had ever seen. It was as large as a cow,
indeed it was a monster rat goblin.
“What killed you?” he cried, “there must have been a battle royal here
in the night, for I heard sounds as if an army of cats was let loose.”
Then his heart stood still, for he saw that the mouths of all the cats
he had drawn were covered with blood!
“My cats killed the rat goblin!” he cried joyfully; and at that moment
he heard steps and turning, saw the headman of the village with several
other men entering the temple.
“What does this mean?” asked the headman. “Do you not know that this
temple is haunted by a terrible rat goblin? Surely you did not spend
the night here?”
“I spent it quite comfortably,” said Kihachi, “and I think the goblin
is dead.” Then he showed the headman the rat and his cats, and told him
what had happened in the night. The headman said, “It is well that you
obeyed the old priest’s instructions to ‘seek small shelters.’ This
goblin has haunted the temple for many months and no one who has come
here has ever returned. Your cats are very lifelike; I believe that
some day you will be a great artist. In the city yonder you will find
my brother. Go to him and tell him your story. He will help you. You
have done my village a good turn with your cats, so here is a present
to help you along;” and he gave him twenty _yen_.
Then was Kihachi very glad in his heart, and he made his thanks to the
headman and went his way.
And thereafter, when he became a great artist and taught many boys to
draw, he laughed as he told his pupils, “My first great picture was a
drawing of cats, and for it I received twenty _yen_.” And his pupils
were much astonished and called him always “The Painter of Cats.”
FOOTNOTES:
[20] Sash.
[21] Punk.
[22] Good morning, Father--Good morning, Mother.
[23] Boy.
[24] Heavenly bamboo, a tree with bright scarlet berries.
[25] Hangings or pictures.
THE COMING OF BENTEN SAMA
Long ago the river of Kashigoye flowed into the sea by the Marsh of the
Terrible Dragons. The dragons were five, and yearly they came forth and
devoured the maidens of the village and there was no way to hinder. But
the people cried loudly to Benten Sama, the goddess of mothers, the
bestower of love and beauty.
Now Benten Sama had many sons: Daikoku, who gives wealth, Ebisu, who is
the god of fishermen, Hatei, who is full of mirth, and others equally
renowned.
Of all these sons, Benten Sama loved Ebisu best, and for his sake all
fishermen were dear to her. When, therefore, O Ume San, daughter of the
headman of the village, besought the blessing of the gentle goddess
upon her lover, a fisherman, Benten Sama listened.
“Goddess of Mercy,” murmured the girl. “Send thy blessing upon him, for
my honorable father will not consent to our union. He says, ‘When the
five Dragons of the Marshlands are no more thou shalt marry this fisher
lad.’ I pray you, gentle goddess, soften the heart of my father, and
may thy son Ebisu bestow his favor upon Hakuga.”
[Illustration: BENTEN SAMA]
Benten Sama listened to the girl’s prayer and smiled. She whispered to
her son and he was kind. He filled Hakuga’s nets with fish and these
brought many _yen_. He then approached the father of O Ume San and
besought of him his daughter, his Go-between[26] saying, “Honorably
deign to listen to the prayer of Hakuga and give to him your daughter,
for he has many _yen_!” But the father replied ever the same, “When the
five Marsh Dragons are no more,” and the Go-between returned sadly to
Hakuga.
Then the maiden prayed again to Benten Sama and she said, “Kind
Goddess, hear! Send some curse upon the five Marsh Dragons, that Hatei
your son may bestow mirth upon us, for we are sad.”
Then Benten Sama thought, and that which she thought was good. It was
the time of the red maple leaf[27] and Tatsu Hima[28] ruled. Benten
Sama asked her aid, as she flaunted her banners upon the hillside, and
that night there came a fearful storm. The storm howled and shrieked,
and all the people cowered in terror. All night it raged, and the
thunder god gave five mighty roars, and at each roar a dragon lay dead.
And when the sun god lighted the world, all was still and smiling, the
Marsh of the Dragons was gone, and in its stead rose an island, green
and beautiful, and above it hovered Benten Sama, throned upon a rainbow.
Then were the people much pleased at their deliverance from the five
Dragons of the Marsh, and they made a shrine to Benten Sama at that
point where she had appeared.
And O Ume San married the fisherman and they lived happily ever after.
FOOTNOTES:
[26] A Japanese never asks for a wife himself. He always sends a
professional matchmaker who is called a “Go-between.”
[27] November.
[28] Goddess of Autumn.
THE WATERFALL WHICH FLOWED SAKÉ
Once there was a poor woodcutter who toiled early and late for a
living. He worked harder than others, because he loved his old father
and mother dearly, and wished to give them all the good things of
life. But though he was more diligent than any other woodcutter of the
village, he never seemed able to gain enough _sen_ to buy _saké_ and
tea, but only enough for rice and bread.
One day he climbed high up on the mountain to find the best wood. It
was a very steep mountain, and no one else would try to climb so high.
So he worked alone. Chop, chop, his axe broke the stillness and soon he
had a goodly pile of logs.
Stopping for a moment to rest, he saw a badger lying asleep under a
tree, and he thought to himself, “Aha, my fine little beastie! You will
make a fine morsel for my father’s supper. He and my mother have not
tasted meat for many a day.”
The longer he looked at the badger, however, the less he wanted to
kill him. He was such a little creature and it seemed mean to kill a
sleeping thing and one so much smaller than himself!
“No,” he said to himself at last, “I can not kill him! I will but work
the harder that I may earn money to buy my parents some meat!”
Now the badger seemed to understand and approve of this resolve on the
part of the young woodcutter. He opened one eye and then the other.
Then he blinked saucily at the woodcutter.
“Thank you,” he said. “That was a wise conclusion.”
The young man dropped his axe and jumped high into the air, so great
was his astonishment at hearing a badger talk.
“You couldn’t kill me if you tried,” said the badger. “Besides, I am
far more useful to you alive than dead. And now, because you have
proved yourself of a kind heart, I will show you kindness. Bring me the
flat, white stone which lies beneath yonder pine tree.”
The woodcutter turned to obey, and suddenly stopped in wonder. Spread
upon the stone was the finest feast he had ever seen. There were rice
and _saké_, fish and _dango_,[29] and other good things. He sighed as
he looked, for he wished he could take the food home to his parents.
“Sit and eat,” said the badger who answered his thoughts as if they had
been spoken. “Your father and mother shall eat the same.”
The woodcutter obeyed, but when he tried to thank his little friend, he
saw that the badger was gone and that, just where he had sat, there was
a sparkling, tinkling waterfall. It rippled over stones and crags and
sang a sweet little song, and as the woodcutter stooped to drink of it
lo! the waterfall flowed with _saké_! It was the richest he had ever
tasted and he filled his gourd with it and hurried home to share it
with his parents.
When he arrived there and had told his story, his mother smiled and
said, “Thou art a good son.”
“We have fared as well,” his father said, “for we found spread for us
just such a feast as yours, though we knew not at all whence it came.”
Next day the young man went early to his work. As he climbed the
mountain he saw, to his surprise, a troop of woodcutters following him,
and each carried a gourd. Some one had overheard him tell his father
of the waterfall which flowed _saké_, and all the woodcutters of the
village wished to taste of the wonderful drink.
When they drank, however, they were filled with rage, for to them the
waterfall flowed only water. Then they reviled the youth and cried,
“Base one, you have beguiled us here on false pretenses! You have
spoken falsely! We have toiled here for nothing! You are an evil
fellow!”
[Illustration: “THE WOODCUTTER STOOPED TO DRINK OF IT”]
But he replied calmly, “I did not ask you to come. For me the waterfall
flows _saké_ still, as sweet as yester-eve.”
They went away in great anger, and as they went the waterfall almost
seemed to laugh, so gayly did it tinkle over the stones. When the
woodcutter drank, however, the laughter turned to music and a sweet
voice crooned a gentle song,
“_Saké_ for him who is kind,
Water for those who seek self,
_Saké_ for him who is kind!”
Thereafter it was the same. Whenever the woodcutter, worn with toil,
stooped to drink from the sparkling waterfall, or at night when he
filled his gourd to bear to his father at home, the _saké_ flowed free
and clear and delicious. And ever the tinkling voice repeated, over and
over to the music of waters falling,
“_Saké_ to him who is kind.”
FOOTNOTES:
[29] A kind of dumpling.
THE BOY AND THE SPIRITS OF THINGS
There was once a little boy of the Ainu who was very wise. He seldom
played with the other boys, for the spirits of things were his
playmates. No one could see his playmates, but he talked to them and
loved them better than all the children whom he knew.
“My friends tell me strange things,” he said; and his mother asked,
“Who are your friends and what strange things do they tell you, my
child?”
“My friends are the spirits of things,” the boy made answer. “I can not
tell you what they say, but the spirit of the pine tree whispers to me
the things the spirit of the north wind tells to him; the tall bamboo
spirit bends down as the tree sways, and talks of the sun’s glowing
rays; the birds and blossoms speak to me of the earth’s beauty. Even
the common things have spirits and they tell me many things.”
The boy’s mother sighed, as she looked at him, for she thought he was
too wise.
One day the boy fell ill. He was very sick, but no one knew what was
the matter with him. He drooped from day to day and seemed not to care
for anything. And it was the winter time.
[Illustration: “THE BIRDS AND BLOSSOMS SPEAK TO ME”]
One day his mother came to him and said, “My son, the first plum
blossom is seen upon the trees. The sun is warm. Will you not go out of
doors to see it?”
“The plum blossom spirit whispered me of its coming,” he said. “I will
go and see.”
Then he crept slowly from the little thatched hut and, resting at the
door, he saw the plum blossom and smelled its delicious fragrance. He
smiled a little and then a queer look came into his eyes. He held his
chin in the palm of his hand and sat quietly nodding his head once or
twice as if saying, “Yes.”
At last his mother could bear no longer to be without his thoughts. She
feared to lose him, and she felt jealous of everything that came near
to him. “Tell me what you think, little son,” she said.
“I will tell you,” the boy answered. “Oftentimes a boy and girl come to
play with me. They are Spirit Children and we play many things. To-day
they have told me why I am ill. It is this. My grandfather had a fine
axe. With it he made many things, a tray, and a pestle to pound millet,
and others. But my father threw away the axe, forgetting how well it
had served. Now it lies rusting, and the spirit of the axe is angry.
Because the spirit of the axe is angry, it has made me ill. So, if you
do not wish me to die, you must tell my father to seek the axe and do
honor to its spirit.”
“It shall be as you say, my son,” said his mother, and she sought
his father and told him all. Then he found the axe, and polished it
carefully until it shone. He made for it a new handle of ironwood, and
carved it with care. And to it he set up a worship stick. This stick
was tall, and its feathers curled and waved in the breeze.
Then the spirit of the axe was happy, and the boy was made well, so
that joy fell upon the soul of his mother.
And when he grew to be a man, he became a great augur, for the spirits
of things came often to him and told him much that was concealed from
other beings. For the spirits of things were his friends.
THE DAUGHTER OF A SAMURAI
There was once a daughter of a Samurai who was both beautiful and good.
Her name was O Cho San. Her father was dead, and she worked very hard
to support her mother who was ill. The mother had trained her daughter
in the best of manners, therefore O Cho San had no trouble in finding
work.
There was a certain nobleman in need of a maid servant, and he
approached O Cho San and asked her to serve him.
“What would my duties be?” inquired the girl as she respectfully bowed
to the ground before him. “I must hear, and then I can tell if I can do
them.”
“They are all the common duties of a maid,” he replied--“all but one
thing, which is most strange. You will have the care of the porcelain
plates of my fathers.”
“But that is not a strange duty for a maid,” answered O Cho San. She
smiled at him, showing her pretty white teeth and a dimple in one
cheek. “I have washed china before this, and always with care.”
“Yet it is the one thing which is most hard,--to find a maid who will
attend to this,” he answered. “Know, O Cho San, that the porcelain is
priceless. There are twelve plates and each one is perfect. They are so
old that they are of the fashion of the Owari potter who learned the
secrets of Karatsu and made a flight of cranes across the blue sky.
“The porcelain is so beyond all value that my ancestor made the law
that whoever broke a plate should straightway have a finger cut off. So
you see the china must be washed with care.”
O Cho San clasped and unclasped her slender brown fingers nervously,
then she hid them quite away in the sleeves of her kimono. Her cheek
paled a little, but she said bravely, “I will take the place, most
honorable sir, and I shall try to keep my fingers.”
Then she thought to herself, “It is not the most desirable of places to
live where one loses a finger for each nick of china, but the _yen_ he
pays are many more than I can earn elsewhere, and my dear mother must
have tea and rice. Besides, it is not likely that such costly porcelain
can be often used, and when it is, I shall offer many prayers that it
be used in safety.”
So O Cho San served the nobleman faithfully.
It was easy to see that she was a favorite with all, for she had
manners of such engaging gentleness that every one loved her. At first
this pleased her. When, however, she found that even the master’s son
was in love with her, she was unhappy.
She did not care at all for him, and she knew that to marry him would
displease her master, who was kind to her. So she refused to listen to
the young man, and this made him very angry. Being bad at heart, he
resolved to be avenged upon her.
“I will ask my father to give a party at which the porcelain plates
shall be used,” he said to himself. “She will surely break one, and
then she will turn to me to save her from her punishment. If she does
not, she will lose a finger;” and on his face there was a cruel frown.
As he had said, so it was done. The master gave a supper and the
priceless dishes were used. Thanks to the kindness of the gods who
watch over little maidens, O Cho San washed them, dried them on the
softest of paper napkins, and set them carefully away all unbroken. But
alas, when the master came to look them over, the bottom one of the
pile was broken.
Great was the excitement.
O Cho San wept and proclaimed her innocence.
“Honorable Master,” she cried, “it is another hand than mine which has
broken it. But if I am to be punished, cut a piece from my face instead
of my hand. Then I may still work for my mother.”
[Illustration: “O CHO SAN PROCLAIMED HER INNOCENCE”]
“The law of my fathers required a finger for each plate broken,” said
the master sorrowfully; for although he liked the gentle little maid
and did not wish to hurt her, he feared to disobey the law.
“You shall not cut even her finger nail,” suddenly cried a rough voice.
The group around O Cho San turned in astonishment to see who dared
speak so to the master.
It was Genzaburo, a servant, very rough but honest and good.
“O Cho San may not be punished for what she has not done,” he said.
“I myself broke the plate. You ask me why? Because I love O Cho San.
She is as fair as the cherry bloom in early spring, but to me cold
and remote as the snows upon the crest of the mountains. I thought to
myself, she is a Samurai’s daughter and will never marry me. But if she
lose a finger no one else will marry her. Therefore in time she will
turn to me, and I shall win her for my wife. Then I broke the plate.”
“How did you break it?” demanded the master sternly.
“That I will show you,” said Genzaburo. “It was very simple. I was told
to mend the lid of the box in which the plate was kept. Then I thought
of the plates, and I drew forth one and _bang!_ my hammer fell upon it
just like this!” and he brought his hammer down with great force.
There was a crash terrible to hear, a scream from O Cho San, an
exclamation of rage from the master, for the hammer had descended upon
the pile of plates, and of the beautiful porcelain nothing at all
remained but fragments.
In all the confusion Genzaburo alone was calm. He stood smiling at the
ruin he had wrought, and his master cried, “The man is quite mad! Take
him away!”
“Not so, my master, I am not mad,” Genzaburo replied. “I did this
thing with reason. Take all my fingers if you wish, or even my life if
the commands of your honorable ancestors must be carried out. But I
shall have the happiness of knowing that no more little maids can be
frightened and mutilated by your cruelty.”
The nobleman gazed upon him in silence; but the son threw himself
before his father.
“I beg you, oh my father, forgive this mad fellow,” he cried. “I too am
in fault, for I persuaded you to give this entertainment in the hope
that she would break a plate and then turn to me in her trouble.”
Then O Cho San knelt before him and said, “Honorable Master, since I
am the occasion of this great trouble in your household, I beg you
to permit me to go away and be not angry with either your son or your
servant. Forgive them, and of your graciousness allow me to depart,
since my only wish is to work for the welfare of my dear mother.”
Then was the nobleman greatly touched. Mindful of Genzaburo’s long
service, he forgave him. He forgave his son, also; for since O Cho San
loved him not, he needed no further punishment. Mindful still more of O
Cho San’s pleasant services in his household, he said, “We will speak
no more of the porcelain plates of my ancestors. O Cho San will not
leave me. She shall continue to live in my service and her wages shall
be increased.”
Then he gave her a reward, and she lived many years and earned much
_yen_ for the welfare of her dear mother.
THE FISHES OF THE BOILING SPRING
Many, many years ago there lived at Atami a holy priest. Of all the
poor people of the village, he was the very poorest, for he gave away
nearly all that was given to him; and he was often hungry.
Atami was by the sea and the people lived on the sea’s bounty. When the
winter swept down from Fuji San, and the storm god roared on the waves
and frightened the fish away, then all the people hungered. The fathers
and mothers hungered greatly, for they gave nearly all there was to
the children, who were not, therefore, so much in want. But the priest
hungered most of all; for he was the father of his people, and so gave
them of his own share of food. Indeed, he gave them more than this;
for, under the camphor tree which grew beside his little temple on the
hill, he sat and prayed for his people, and the gods heard his prayers.
One day the fish were gone from the shore and the people were very
hungry. The priest of Atami sat and prayed, and lo! the camphor
tree opened, and there appeared to him a lovely goddess in a mantle
of purple. Her face was fair and kind, but her eyes gleamed with
displeasure, and she said, “Sit not here and pray for fish, oh foolish
one! Even now the fish are upon your shore; behold them!” Then the tree
closed and he saw her no more.
The priest was afraid and hastened to the shore; and there he saw a
terrible sight and smelled a terrible smell.
The whole beach was covered with fishes. There were big fishes and
little fishes, long fishes and fat fishes, and strange fishes that no
one had ever seen before. They would have fed the village for many
days, but alas! each fish was scalded as by fire and was crumbling into
bits.
The good priest wept as if his heart would break, crying aloud, “Alas,
my people, my people!”
Then he climbed high upon the hill above the village, and looked over
the sea, hoping that he might learn what had caused the fish to die.
There he prayed to the gods, “Open my eyes that I may see, and aid my
people.”
Far out at sea, and under the surface of the water, he beheld a great
turmoil. The waters boiled and bubbled as if in torment. And through
the waters, the fishes leaped, and lo! they were scalded to death.
The priest called to the watchman, who stood upon the hill to tell the
people when good fish came to the shore, “Haste! haste!” he said, “run
to the temple and bring me a branch from the holy camphor tree which
grows beside it. For thy life, haste!”
The watchman, being young, made great haste. Soon he brought back a
bough of the tree. Its leaves were like green jade and it was of more
avail than many demons.
Then the priest prayed upon the shore, while he waved his camphor
branch in the air, “Oh Kwan-on, Goddess of Mercy,” he said, “look upon
our distress and have pity upon my people. Give us fish lest we die.
And cause the turmoil in the sea to cease.”
He threw the sacred bough far from him into the sea. Then there came
a mighty rumbling, and the crest of the hill rose into a cone, and
through it the waters burst, rising toward heaven in a stream so high
that it seemed to reach the clouds.
Soon the people came with speed and made channels in the earth. The hot
water flowed into the channels, and all who bathed therein were cured
of their ailments; and the place was called the “Spring of Kindness.”
Then was the old priest much rejoiced, for the fish came back to his
people, and there was food to eat. He dwelt long in the shrine on the
hilltop, and his people were grateful to him, and made him many
offerings.
And to this day the camphor tree grows, with its small, pointed,
green-jade leaves, old, and strong, and fragrant, upon the hill of
Atami.
[Illustration: KWAN-ON, GODDESS OF MERCY]
THE INAO OF THE AINU
In the beginning of things the world was very hot. The mountains
breathed fire and smoke, even the snows were melted and the sun goddess
shone fiercely, with a cruel light. She scorched the food of the
people, and withered their flowers and trees.
But Okikurumi, a mighty fisherman, saw the sorrows of the Ainu and
grieved. He was of a kind heart, and all the people loved him. He was
tall and straight as a young bamboo, of gentle mien and thoughtful,
wise for the safety of the Ainu whom he loved.
When, therefore, the land was scorched with the heat, and folk were
starving, Okikurumi caught many fish and sent them to the Ainu by his
wife.
She was named Tureshi, and she lived but to do the will of her lord.
“Go thou to the Ainu,” he said, “take this basket of fish. Put it in at
the window of the chief man of the village and hasten back. I forbid
the Ainu to question you or to look at you. Go!”
“Yes, my lord,” Tureshi answered; and she girdled her kimono about her
and started upon her errand.
[Illustration: “OKIKURUMI WAS A MIGHTY FISHERMAN”]
Day after day she went to the aid of the suffering people. But they saw
her not, for Okikurumi had commanded them to refrain from gazing upon
the face of his wife.
At last, however, one man grew curious. He wished to see this forbidden
being. “She is either the most beautiful person in the world or else
she is so ugly that her husband feels shame to have her seen of other
men,” he said to himself. “In any case I will find out.”
Thus he spoke, being of an evil nature and all unmindful of the
benefits of Okikurumi. When Tureshi came to the window, therefore, he
lay in wait, while Kusa-Hitari[30] sang in the night. Catching Tureshi
by the hand he drew her into the house, and gazed upon her lovely
face. For she was the most beautiful of women, her husband’s joy and
pride. Then, she in great alarm fled from the Ainu to her husband’s
side, crying out to Okikurumi, “My lord, I have obeyed you, but send me
not again to these ungrateful people who disobey your commands. Their
wretched lives are not worth the saving.”
Okikurumi was full of wrath and he declared that, henceforth and
forever, the men of the Ainu should find food for their own women,
since Tureshi could not go to them without insult.
Then were the men of the Ainu very sad, and many of them died and their
chief men mourned.
So they took an _inao_[31] and set it up upon the sea shore. Its staff
was straight and slender, and its curls and tassels floated free in the
gentle breeze. By this they meant to worship the spirit of the sea and
implore him to bring them good fortune.
Then the sea spirit, who loved not Okikurumi, was pleased with the
_inao_ and sent them many fish.
But again there came a famine to the land of the Ainu, and it was worse
than any that had gone before. The children hungered, and the mothers
wept, and the old men set up an _inao_; but all was of no avail. At
last they sought a wise man, and he gave them good counsel, saying,
“Gather together all the crumbs which are left in the village, millet
and rice malt, and make a little cup of wine.” This they did.
“Pour it into six cups of lacquer,” he said, and this they did. And the
scent of the _saké_ rose upward, even unto heaven, and it was good.
The gods hastened from far and near to see whence came the delicious
smell. They drank of the _saké_ and it was very good. Then they danced
and sang and laughed in glee. And as they danced, one goddess pulled
out two hairs from a deer and cast them far away, and lo! from the
mountains came two herds of deer. Then another goddess plucked two
scales from a fish and threw them far into the river, and behold,
shoals of fish swam from the sea.
Then were the Ainu much rejoiced, and men went proudly forth upon the
mountains to hunt the deer; and others sought the river and caught many
fish. And from that day there was always fish and flesh in the land of
the Ainu, and there was no more famine.
FOOTNOTES:
[30] Cricket.
[31] Prayer-plume.
THE GOBLIN TREE
A Samurai dwelt in the Oni province and his name was Satsuma
Shichizaemon. He had a garden, the most beautiful of any in the
village. It was filled with flowering plants, and the shrubs had a
delicious fragrance which filled the air. Golden-hearted lilies floated
upon the tiny lake, dwarf pines waved their branches over the water’s
edge, and above all, dark and silent, towered a huge _enoki_, or goblin
tree.
This tree had stood there for centuries, and no one had dared to cut a
branch or even to pull one of its leaves.
Shichizaemon, however, was of a bad heart, and had no reverence for the
things of his fathers. He wished the view from his window not to be
hidden, and the _enoki_ stood between him and the valley. So he gave
orders to have the tree cut down.
That night his mother dreamed a dream. She saw before her a terrible
dragon-like monster whose forked tongue spit fire, and who said to her,
“Mother of Satsuma Shichizaemon, beware! Your son shall die and all his
house if he harm the _enoki_, for the spirits of the trees will not
suffer insult to the goblin tree.”
[Illustration: “THE DWELLING WAS LEFT DESERTED”]
Next day she told her son of her dream, but he only laughed at her, and
said, “If all the spirits of the earth and air and water were to come
to you in dreams, still I should make way with this tree.” Then he sent
a woodman to cut down the tree.
As the tall tree fell with a crash so loud as to frighten all the
household, Satsuma also fell to the ground.
“I am ill!” he cried. “The tree! The tree!” and he knew no more;
for he was dead. Soon too his wife fell ill, and then his mother.
Within a month there remained not one of all his people. Even the
servants disappeared from earth, all crying as their spirits departed,
“A-a-e-e-e-i! The tree! The tree!”
Long the dwelling was left deserted. Stagnant waterweeds fouled the
lake, and even the songs of the birds seemed mournful and sad. At last
it was remembered that there remained of the family of Satsuma but one
person, a nun named Tikem, who dwelt in the temple at Yamashira. They
sent to her saying, “O Tikem San, will you not come to the garden of
your kinsman, and remove the terrible curse which rests upon it?”
“I will come,” she answered.
She came to the dwelling of Satsuma Shichizaemon, her kinsman, and all
the people in the village watched in fear, lest the sickness of the
goblin tree should come upon her. But O Tikem San feared not.
She abode in the house calmly attending to her duties, and she was
well. Every day she went to the place where had stood the goblin tree,
and there she offered up prayers for the kinsman who had perished. And
there was no more curse, for the holiness of O Tikem San rested upon
the place like a gentle breath from heaven. And all the children of the
village played happily in the sunlit garden where once had been the
goblin tree.
THE MAN WHO BECAME A SERPENT
There was once a hunter who shot a great bear, and the beast ran from
him and entered a cave.
“I will go after it,” the hunter said to himself, “for, since it is
wounded, it will be easy to kill it when it is trapped in the cave.”
So he went into the cave, but could find no bear. He saw its tracks,
and they led down a dark passage which seemed to slope into the earth.
He followed this passage a long way, but found no bear. Suddenly he
came into an open space and saw before him a beautiful garden. It was
filled with wonderful trees such as he had never before seen, and some
of them bore strange fruits.
Now as there was no one to forbid, he plucked some berries and found
that they were good. But suddenly he was overcome with a strange
feeling, and gazing down upon himself, he saw that he was turned into
a horrible serpent. Struck with terror, he cried, “What fearful thing
has befallen me? I who was a man, ruler over all animals, even the
four-footed kings of the forest, am become the lowest of the low, even
a loathsome serpent.” He hung his head in shame, and crawled back
through the cave, and lay down at the foot of a huge pine tree.
[Illustration: “HE STOOD BESIDE THE BODY OF A HUGE SERPENT”]
Wearied and distressed, at last he fell asleep and dreamed a dream. In
his dream a woman appeared to him, who looked kindly upon him and said,
“I feel sorrow for you, unhappy youth. I am the spirit of the pine
tree, and you may hear me speak when the wind sweeps from Fuji San and
whispers through my pines. This thing has happened to you because you
ate the fruit of Fengtu,[32] of which no man may eat in safety. But you
can be saved if you will obey me. Climb to the very topmost branches of
this pine and hurl yourself down to earth. So you may return to your
true self.”
The hunter awoke and, remembering his dream, said, “It would be better
to be dashed to pieces than to remain alive and be a loathsome serpent.
I will throw myself down from the tree and may the gods help me.”
Gliding carefully up to the very topmost branch, he poised for a
moment, and then gave a mighty leap. He fell to the ground and for a
long time he knew no more.
When he returned to himself, he stood at the foot of the great pine
tree beside the crushed body of a huge serpent, and his own form
was once more the form of a man. Then was his heart full of a great
thanksgiving, and he straightway set up _inao_ beneath the kindly pine
tree.
FOOTNOTES:
[32] Hades.
THE LAUGHING DUMPLING
There was once an old woman who laughed at everything. She was a very
old woman, but she seemed young. That was because she laughed so much,
for the god of laughter made all the lines in her face pleasant lines.
She laughed at rain, she laughed at drought, she laughed at poverty.
She had never had a chance to laugh at wealth, for she was very, very
poor. She made rice dumplings to sell, and so she was called by the
people about her the “Laughing Dumpling.” Her name was really Sanja.
Sanja had but one wish. She never prayed to Juro-Jin[33] for good
fortune, or to any of the gods for wealth; but she wished above all
things to make the finest rice dumplings in all the city. She tried
and tried, and each time she made them better than the last; but she
never made them quite perfect, and so she was never quite satisfied.
She never had quite all the rice she wanted to work with; for she was
so poor that each grain seemed to her as dear as a piece of money to a
miser.
But still she tried and still she laughed. One day she sat in her
kitchen making her dumplings with her usual care. Her little house
stood at the top of a hill, quite outside of the city, and as she
worked and patted with her paddle, one of the finest of her dumplings,
it slipped and rolled right out of the door and down the hill.
“Dear, dear!” she cried, “that will never, never do! I can’t afford to
lose that dumpling. Perhaps I can catch it.”
So she sprang up and ran after it as fast as her feet would carry her.
But the dumpling had a good start, and she could not catch it. She saw
it ahead of her, and suddenly it bounced down a hole in the ground. She
ran after it, and before she knew it, her _geta_[34] slipped into the
hole and she dropped through.
“A-a-a-i!” she cried, “where am I going?”
She did not stop falling until her breath was almost gone. Then
suddenly she found herself in a place she had never seen before. The
trees and flowers looked strange, and she felt a little frightened and
very much alone. But as she looked about her her heart grew lighter,
for she saw a statue of Jizu and him she well knew. So she bowed
to him, and said, “Good morning, my Lord Jizu. Have you seen a rice
dumpling fall this way?”
“Good morning,” answered Jizu, with his very sweet smile. “Yes, I saw
a dumpling and it went past here, down the hill, skipping as if it had
legs.”
“Oh, thank you very much, then I must skip after it,” said Sanja.
“Not so,” answered Jizu, “do not go down there. An _Oni_[35] lives
there, and he may do you harm.”
“But I must have my dumpling,” laughed the old woman; and she ran on in
the direction the dumpling had taken. She had gone only a little way
when she came to another statue of Jizu. Being a good woman as well as
polite, she bowed to it very reverently, and said, “My good Lord Jizu,
have you seen a dumpling pass this way?”
“As if it had wings, it flew past me,” said Jizu, smiling upon her most
sweetly.
“Then I must hurry to catch it,” said the old woman.
But Jizu shook his head, “You must not think of that,” he said, “there
is an Oni below there who is most wicked. He does not like old women at
all, and he will surely be cruel to you if he does not eat you.”
“But I must have my dumpling,” said Sanja. “He’ll not eat me. I’m too
tough. Tee-hee-hee!” and she ran laughing on her way.
As she went along she thought she smelled her dumpling, and, as she was
very hungry, it smelled very good.
“If I ever catch that dumpling I will certainly eat every bit of it,”
she said to herself. “I will punish it for giving me such a chase.
Tee-hee-hee!” Then she felt a shadow across her face. She looked up and
saw another statue of Jizu.
“Most gracious Lord Jizu,” she said, smiling up into his ever smiling
face, “have you seen my dumpling pass this way?”
“Yes, it passed but a moment ago,” he answered, “but do not think of
searching for it, for the Oni who lives beyond is very fierce and
cruel, and he will certainly eat you. He is fond of dumplings, but he
is much fonder of human meat.”
“One who is as old as I am hasn’t any very fresh meat on her bones,
tee-hee-hee!” laughed Sanja. But as she spoke, she heard a terrible
noise and her face turned pale.
“Get behind me quickly,” said Jizu, “here comes the Oni. Perhaps you
may escape him if you hide behind me.”
O Sanja San crept quickly behind him. She found herself not so brave
as she had thought, and she did not feel at all like laughing. She hid
herself very carefully behind Jizu, and up came the Oni, very wild and
fierce.
“Good morning, Lord Jizu,” he said, “I smell meat!”
Even for the Oni, Jizu’s smile was the same, and he made answer, “Good
morning, Oni. Is it not dumpling that you smell? I saw one pass this
way not long ago.”
“No, indeed,” said the Oni, “it is not dumpling. I know one passed this
way, for I saw it. What I smell now is human meat!” and he sniffed and
sniffed until Sanja shivered. But for all her fear, she wanted very
much to laugh.
“I don’t smell it,” said Jizu, still smiling. “Are you sure it is not
rice dumpling? It seems to me that I smell a little of it about you.”
“That is not strange,” said the Oni with a grin; “for when I saw that
juicy dumpling rolling my way I caught it and ate it. It was good. I
wish I had the person who made it!”
O Sanja San was as angry as she could be at the thought of his eating
her dumpling. She was frightened, too, and she cowered closer in the
shadow of the Lord Jizu.
“What I smell now is meat, fresh human meat, juicy, young and tender!”
and the Oni sniffed again and smacked his lips very impolitely.
This was too much for Sanja. She could not help thinking of her
wrinkled, withered flesh, and how far from juicy, young and tender it
was. She laughed out loud, “Tee-hee-hee. Tee-hee-hee!”
The Oni’s ears were as good as his nose, and without a word he
stretched out a long, hairy arm behind Jizu, and pulled her forth from
her hiding place. She was frightened terribly, but still she laughed.
“Who are you?” demanded the Oni.
“I am the woman who made the dumpling,” she answered. “Why did you eat
it?”
“Because it was good,” said the Oni.
“You couldn’t eat me for that reason,” said Sanja.
“I don’t intend to eat you,” said the Oni. “You will come home with me
and cook. You needn’t be afraid. As long as you cook good dumplings for
me nothing will harm you.”
“Very well,” said Sanja politely, for there was really nothing else to
say.
The Oni put her in a boat and rowed away across a river to his castle.
There she cooked for him such dishes as he had never before tasted, and
they were good.
But when she came to make rice dumplings, the Oni said to her, “You are
a good cook, but you are wasteful. When you cook rice put but one grain
into the pot.”
“One grain!” she cried. “Tee-hee-hee! how could any one live on one
grain of rice?”
“I will show you,” said the Oni. “For though you are a woman and think
you know much, there are some things which I know better than you.”
Sanja was silent; but she tossed her head a little, and said to
herself, “How impolite he is! And how vain to think he could possibly
know more than I do!”
“Be sure you have your water boiling,” said the Oni. “Put one grain of
rice in the pot, then take this paddle in your hand and if you want
rice for ten persons stir ten times, in this way;” and he stirred the
paddle about in the water. “See!” and lo! the grain of rice burst into
ten pieces, and each piece into ten more, and each a perfect grain,
until the pot was filled.
Sanja fairly gasped with astonishment.
“This is a magic paddle,” said the Oni; “and with it you can cook every
thing, serve every one, and always have enough.”
So Sanja stayed with the Oni and cooked for him, and she gave perfect
satisfaction. The dumplings she made were always perfect, and the
rice pot was never empty, because of the magic paddle.
[Illustration: “SHE GAVE PERFECT SATISFACTION”]
All went very well until one day Sanja grew homesick. She felt as if
she could not stay with the Oni another day, and as if she would die if
she could not go home. She thought and thought about it; and the little
hut with its paper walls, and the cherry tree beside it seemed fairer
than all the fine castles of Oni Land. So, one day when the Oni had
gone off for a day’s hunting, she decided to try to escape. She stole
out of the castle and down to the river’s bank; and there she found
the boat in which the Oni had brought her. Quickly she got into it and
began to row. She had reached the middle of the river, when she heard a
loud cry from the shore. There was the Oni with all his friends, waving
their hands wildly and calling loudly to her, “Come back, Laughing
Dumpling, come back!”
She was afraid to go on and still more afraid to go back. She began to
row harder than ever when she saw what the Oni was doing. He and all
his friends stooped down and, making cups of their hands, they began
to drink the water of the river. They drank and drank, and soon there
was so little water left to float the boat that they could wade to her
across the river bed. She was so frightened that she could hardly
think. As they came nearer, however, she thought how funny they looked,
wading out from the reedy shore, and she laughed, “Tee-hee-hee!”
The Oni stopped and looked at her, “How strange that she laughs at
everything!” said one.
She laughed again, “Tee-hee-hee!”
“She shall not laugh at me!” cried her master; and he started fiercely
toward her.
The Laughing Dumpling was not going to be caught if she could help it,
for she felt that this was now no laughing matter. Wondering what she
could do to get away, she thought of the magic paddle which was tucked
in her belt, where she had always carried it. She drew it forth, and
reaching over the side of the boat she quickly stirred the waters.
Then, lo! they began to flow again. They flowed so fast that they
washed the boat right into the shore. They filled the river so quickly
that the Oni had to swim for their lives.
Sanja ran quickly away, as fast as she could go, past the three statues
of Jizu, up the hill and, with difficulty, up through the very hole
into which she had fallen.
When she reached home she sat down quite exhausted; but as soon as she
could get her breath she laughed until she cried.
“I ought not to have taken away the Oni’s paddle,” she said; “but he
ate my dumpling, and made me cook all these months without any pay. Now
I shall be able to make fine dumplings for all Kyoto. Tee-hee-hee!”
And so she did. For the magic paddle kept her always supplied with
rice, and everybody came to eat of the wonderful rice cakes and to see
the Laughing Dumpling.
FOOTNOTES:
[33] God of Good Fortune.
[34] Wooden sandal.
[35] A Japanese ogre.
THE SACRIFICE TO KOMPIRA
Yamato and his army came one day to Lagami, and then crossing the
mountain, they soon arrived at the Bay of Yedo.
“It will be easy to cross here,” cried the prince to his men. “The
distance is small from one shore to the other. There is no water here
to fear. We can soon conquer this obstacle.”
Kompira, god of the sea, heard the prince’s boast and was angry.
“I will show this proud fellow that he can not despise the least of my
children,” he said wrathfully.
Then he blew upon the waves, and they lashed themselves into foam. They
rose toward high heaven, and dashed against the ships of Yamato Take
until they were beaten upon the rocks and nearly overwhelmed. There
arose, also, a fearful storm; the lightnings flashed about the ships,
and the thunder roared, and all were sore afraid.
“Ha, ha!” laughed Kompira, “I wonder if these mortals now see my power!
They may well fear me, Kompira, the god of the sea!”
Yamato Take was sad. He gazed in the face of ruin.
“Behold,” he sighed. “This is the end of all my struggles. My ships
will be dashed to pieces upon the rocks. We shall all perish in the sea
or be taken prisoners by the enemy. The wrath of Kompira, great god of
the sea, is turned against me, for I have offended him. There is no
more hope.”
Then he laid his hand upon his second[36] sword; but his wife stayed
his hand.
“Not so, my lord,” she cried, raising her beautiful pale face toward
his. She loved him and was always with him, in peace or war.
She was very lovely, the Princess Ota Tachabana; and Yamato Take
listened when she spoke.
“Not so, my dear lord,” she spoke again. “Victory shall be yours. We
have but to appease the wrath of Kompira and all will be well. I,
myself, will be the sacrifice needed for your dear safety.”
With that she raised both her hands to the sea and prayed, “O Kompira,
great god of the sea, be not angry with my lord, for he is good. Send
him a fortunate issue, and accept my sacrifice.”
Thus crying, she stood poised for a moment upon the prow of the ship,
and then sprang into the sea.
[Illustration: “SHE SPRANG INTO THE SEA”]
Yamato gave a terrible cry and would have followed her, but his chief
men laid hands upon him and would not let him go.
The wind sank to quietness, the waves grew calm, the storm ceased, and
his headman cried, “My lord, the sacrifice is accepted. We may now pass
quickly in safety. Because she would wish it, rouse yourself to strife
and conquest.”
When morning broke, the ships were safely moored by the farther shore.
As Yamato stepped out upon the sand, the lapping waves cast at his feet
the comb of the princess, his wife. He picked it up and commanded that
at that spot a temple should be raised to her memory.
Then he made a great conquest for his lord the emperor, and his
soldiers boasted of him and said, “He is the greatest warrior in the
world, the Prince Yamato Take!”
But he was no longer proud. Instead, when men praised him, and honors
were showered upon him, he bent his head and said only, “Azuma! azuma!
wa ya!”[37]
FOOTNOTES:
[36] Every Samurai carried two swords, a long one to slay his enemies,
a short one to kill himself if about to be taken prisoner.
[37] “My wife, alas, my wife!”
THE TWO BROTHERS
There were once two brothers who were as different as day and night.
The oldest, Kurobei, cared only for himself and thought of nothing but
of what might advance his own interests. Moreover, he was very proud
and haughty. The younger brother’s name was Kazuma. He was gentle and
of a kind heart, and all the people loved him.
When therefore the father died, and the two brothers were left alone in
the world (their mother having been dead for many years), there were
those among the servants who said, “It is a pity that O Kazuma is not
the elder, to rule the house; for his rule would be one of kindness.”
Both Kurobei and Kazuma loved their father and had been dutiful sons.
Both had obeyed the old man and both had grieved at his death. They had
him buried with every token of respect and they wept at his loss.
“My father is no more,” cried Kurobei. “I must place offerings upon his
grave that all men may see that I hold him in respectful remembrance.”
But the younger brother wept most bitterly. “Alas! alas!” he cried. “My
father is gone from me! No longer may we go to him each day and ask his
advice upon the many things which trouble us! How shall we live? Let
us each day place upon his grave flowers of remembrance. Perhaps his
spirit may some day speak with us.”
Kurobei agreed to this and each morning the two brothers could be seen
bearing flowers to their father’s grave, and there they talked to their
father, telling him of all the doings of their lives.
And all the people saw and said, “How good Kurobei is! Though he has
much to do, in the affairs of his home, still each day he takes his
brother with him and goes to his father’s grave, lest the younger
forget his filial piety.”
Thus things went on for twelve months, and the matter coming to the
emperor’s ears, he appointed Kurobei to a high place in his household,
saying, “One who so well serves his father will be faithful in office.”
And Kazuma was much pleased at the honor shown to his brother, whom he
dearly loved.
Kurobei went much to the palace and much enjoyed his new life. He said
to Kazuma, “You will see now that you must go alone to my father’s
grave, good brother, for I am much occupied with affairs. For the
honor of the family I must appear well at court, and my father would
wish it. I have gone to his grave daily these twelve months and never
omitted this respect; but now my duty to the emperor demands that the
rest of my time be spent at the palace. Go you therefore to the grave,
if you will, since you have no higher duty.”
“But my brother!” cried Kazuma in astonishment. “Will you neglect our
father’s grave altogether?”
“Not at all,” replied the elder brother. “Be not so hasty in your
judgments, for that is a sin. I shall place before his grave the day
lily which shall bloom daily, and thus shall I continue to do him
honor. I have chosen a handsome plant, and shall pay a gardener well to
tend it for me. The flowers shall stand in my stead before the grave,
and I shall have leisure to attend to my duties at the palace, coming
to visit my father only upon the days of special fête.”
“Alas, my brother,” cried Kazuma. “Plant not the lily of forgetfulness!”
Kurobei only said, “Trouble me no further, I have spoken.”
Then Kazuma spoke no more, but he went even more carefully each day to
his father’s grave and there he made offerings. He talked to the spirit
of his beloved father, and told him all things which occurred to him
each day.
The elder brother at first went upon the feast days, but as time passed
he went less and less, and at last he went not even upon the Feast of
the Dead, when every one should remember their dead with incense and a
bower of bamboo and bright berries.
This made Kazuma very sad, and at last he spoke.
“O Kurobei,” he said, “honorable brother, have you quite forgotten our
father? You never visit his grave.”
Kurobei was angry and spoke harshly. “Why do you bother me, troublesome
fellow? Did I not tell you I had no time to attend to it? I planted the
lily, and I pay the gardener to attend to it; I can not do more for my
duty lies elsewhere. Does not the lily fare well?”
“It fares well, my brother,” said Kazuma sadly; and to himself he
whispered, “the lily of forgetfulness.”
Then after his brother had gone to the palace he wept much and said,
“My brother’s heart has grown like a stone. He has forgotten my father
and all that he has for him is the lily of forgetfulness. I too shall
plant a flower, but mine shall be the aster for memory; for I shall
never, never, forget my honorable father. Each day I will tend the
aster with my own hands; for it is a sacred flower, the flower of
remembrance.”
Then he did as he said, and every day he tended the plants and prayed
beside his father’s grave. And every day he loved his father more and
more.
[Illustration: “EVERY DAY HE TENDED THE PLANTS”]
One day when he was tending the flower he heard a strange sound. He
listened and there seemed to come from the grave a whispering voice.
It said to him, “O Kazuma, I am sent to guard the spirit of your
honorable father. Long have you remembered your parent when your
brother had forgotten him. You have planted for him the sacred asters
of remembrance, and here they have bloomed in purple beauty. All these
things I have noticed and I am well pleased with your filial piety. So,
fear me not, faithful son. To you I shall be a spirit of kindness so
long as you live. I can read the future, and ever I shall whisper to
you in dreams of the night, and I shall direct you in the paths which
you should follow to meet success. Farewell!”
The voice ceased and Kazuma stood amazed before the asters and the day
lilies of his brother. He returned home greatly wondering, and told his
wife all that had happened.
That night, in sleep, the spirit came to him and told him all that he
should do to meet success; and when day came he obeyed the voice, and
all was well with him. And so it continued, for success waited upon him
at every turn, and his wife bore him many sons and all his life he was
happy and fortunate.
THE PRINCESS AND THE FOX BABY
A little princess sat beneath the cherry blooms in the royal garden. It
was spring and the whole garden was a mass of radiant pink bloom, as
soft as the sunset glow on the snows of Fuji San.
The little princess was as fair as the cherry blooms, and the petals
had drifted lovingly upon her. They had powdered the ground about her
like snowflakes, and rested upon her soft black hair like a coronet of
pearl.
As she sat and dreamed in the sunshine, the little princess was very
happy, and she said to herself, “What a beautiful world this is! I wish
every one was as happy as I am!” This she said because her heart was as
kind as her face was fair.
Then she heard a sudden rush and the patter of tiny feet, and a little
baby fox sprang over the garden wall and ran right under the princess’s
robe. She stooped and took it in her arms.
“Poor little frightened foxling,” she said. “What is the matter?”
But the little fox only tucked his sharp nose under her arm and
trembled all over.
Then the princess heard a shout and looking up, she saw some boys on
the wall.
“That is our fox,” they cried roughly, for they did not know she was a
princess. “Give it to us!”
“What are you going to do with it?” she asked.
“Kill it and eat the flesh for supper,” cried the biggest boy. “Then we
will sell the skin, and the liver can be sold to the magician doctor
who cures fever with it. We shall get many _bu_[38] for the fox, and we
can buy rice cakes and other things.”
The little fox seemed to understand, for he cowered closer to the
princess. He poked his nose into the palm of her hand and kissed it
gently.
“You may have the price of the foxling, but you may not have his life,
poor baby,” said the little princess. “Here,” she pulled her purse from
her kimono sleeve--“here is a gold piece for the flesh, and one for the
liver, one for the fur, and still another for the life of this poor
little bundle of fur. And pray the gods to give you kinder hearts in
your breasts, for neither the gods nor men like cruel souls.”
The boys quickly took the gold which she offered them, lest she should
change her mind and take back the coins, but she had no thought of
doing that. Gold was nothing to her, because of it she had plenty; but
the life of the fox baby seemed very precious.
“Fox Baby,” she said as she untied a string from his neck. “Where are
your father and mother?” The fox gave a sad little whine, and its
eyes seemed full of tears. From a bamboo thicket nearby came some
short, sharp barks. The fox baby barked in return, and the princess
saw peering from between the bamboo branches two old foxes who looked
anxiously at the baby.
“Really I believe these are your parents, foxling,” she said. “I shall
let you go to them. I would like to keep you for my playmate, you are
so soft and pretty; but you would be lonely, no matter how much I loved
you, and I never could be as your father and mother. So run along and
be happy.”
She stroked him gently and set him down, and with great leaps he was
off to the bamboo thicket. Then the princess watched with pleasure, for
the old foxes received him with joy; they licked him over and over, and
then, one on either side the baby fox, they trotted happily away. The
princess smiled ’neath the cherry blooms and was glad.
Summer bloomed and the lotus lay golden hearted on the waters’ brim. It
passed and the maples were scarlet and gold upon the hillsides. The sun
was a glory of burnished gold in the heavens, but within the palace
all was dark.
The little princess walked no more in the garden. She lay parched with
fever upon her slumber mat and her mother and father watched beside her
day and night. All the wise doctors in the land had been called to her
side.
“She can not live,” they said, “since sleep does not visit her
eyelids.” They tried by every means to make her sleep, but though her
eyelids were heavy and she longed for slumber, it came not, and every
day she grew weaker.
At last came the emperor’s magician and he gazed upon her long and
carefully. At last he said, “She is cast under a spell. Unless the
spell is broken she must die. One must sit beside her from the going
down of the sun until it rises again in golden splendor from behind the
mountains. That one will break the charm.”
“That is easy,” cried the princess’s maids. “We will watch to-night and
save her;” for the little princess was so sweet and good that every one
loved her. But lo! when the midnight came, the maidens felt a strange
charm steal over them, and a strange scent was wafted to them, and
strange music filled their ears, and they slept.
When morning came they wept and felt very sad; for the princess was
weaker and they had not broken the charm.
The princess’s old nurse was very angry.
“Foolish ones,” she cried. “You have idled and slept and my darling is
not yet well. I will watch to-night, for she grows weaker each day.”
But alas! the old nurse was no more fortunate than the maidens, for the
spell was woven about her also and she slept; and when she awoke, she,
too, wept bitterly.
Then all manner of people tried to withstand the charm and watch with
the sick maiden, and even the little princess’s father and mother, but
to no avail. And daily she grew weaker and weaker.
At last there came to the palace a young warrior, Ito San, who begged
to be allowed to watch one night.
“I love the princess,” he said. “Rather than sleep I shall die.” Then
he took his sword, keen and sharp, and placing the point beneath his
chin, rested the handle upon the floor. Each time his head drooped
in sleep, the point would bite and sting, and, struggling with the
drowsiness which overtook him, he would sit upright again. In this way
he conquered sleep.
When the princess opened her eyes she seemed less weak, and Ito gazed
upon her with love in his eyes. Then sleepily, she smiled upon him, and
at last she slept.
He sat beside her until morning not daring to move.
As the sunrise swept over the land, turning all to glowing beauty, he
heard a strange, weird chant; and the words of it were stranger still,
for the voice sang,
“Serve to the little princess
Broth of the finest rice;
Grate into it fox’s liver
For magical, healing spice.
For a wildwood fox, search far and near,
And the princess’s ills will disappear.”
“A fox’s liver,” cried the young warrior joyously. “My beloved, now
shall you be saved!” He repeated the song of the sunrise to the mother
of the princess and she told the emperor. Then he sent far and wide to
all the great hunters of the hills.
“Bring us the liver of a fox,” he commanded, “a clean and healthy fox.
Do this as quickly as possible, for my daughter is sick unto death.”
The hunters sought on every hill and in every valley, through every
tangled wildwood and over every moor, but they found no fox.
“There are no foxes!” they cried to the emperor. “We have searched far
and near, and not one is to be found.”
[Illustration: “HE SAT BESIDE HER, NOT DARING TO MOVE”]
Then the young warrior said, “I will find one. There must be a fox
somewhere in the wildwood for this gentle little heart who loved all
animals.”
Then Ito San hunted far and wide, but he found no foxes; for the
cunning animals had heard the proclamation of the emperor and had
hidden themselves. So Ito San returned to the palace with grief in his
heart, ready to slay himself in his despair.
At that moment he felt a hand touch his sleeve, and turning quickly he
saw a little old woman, with a queer little pointed face, and a mantle
of red fur wrapped about her. In her hand she bore a jar, and she said,
“Take this quickly and the princess will be well.”
“What is the price?” he asked.
“Alas!” she burst into tears. “The price is more than you could ever
pay, but the princess paid it long ago. Hasten to her!”
Then Ito saw that the jar contained fox’s liver and his heart bounded
for joy. He hurried to the palace, the words of the song in his ears.
“Serve to the little princess
Broth of the finest rice;
Grate into it fox’s liver
For magical, healing spice.
For a wildwood fox, search far and near,
And the princess’s ills will disappear.”
They gave her the broth of rice with the liver grated into it, and lo!
she was well. And as she lay dreaming happily of Ito San and his great
love for her, there came to her in her dream, a fox cub who said, “Dear
Princess, I am that little fox you saved long ago from the cruel boys.
My father and mother were not ungrateful. So my father gave you his
liver to make you well, and my mother, who would not live without him,
sends her red fur to keep you warm. And this is because you were kind
to the little foxling who was their baby.”
Then the princess awoke, and upon the sleeping mat there lay, soft and
warm and light, the skin of a red fox.
FOOTNOTES:
[38] A Japanese coin.
Transcriber’s Notes
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Small capitals are changed to all capitals.
Illustrations have been moved so they do not break up the paragraphs.
Footnotes have been moved to the end of the chapter.
Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been corrected
after careful comparison with other occurrences within the text and
consultation of external sources. Except for those changes noted below,
all misspellings in the text, and inconsistent or archaic usage, have
been retained.
The following corrections have been applied to the text (before/after):
(p. 10)
... the road to Yakima was ...
... the road to Yakami was ...
(p. 27)
... a young samurai. ...
... a young Samurai. ...
(p. 61)
... return to Itsuka and ...
... return to Itsuku and ...
(p. 72)
... kokoro wa nishike (coat ...
... kokoro wa nishiki (coat ...
(p. 79)
... a treasure,” he said, ...
... a treasure,” he said. ...
(p. 94)
... long purple racimes swaying ...
... long purple racemes swaying ...
(p. 104)
... the O-botaro (great firefly) ...
... the O-botaru (great firefly) ...
(p. 110)
... of all Yeddo, to be ...
... of all Yedo, to be ...
(p. 118)
... bit of advice, When ...
... bit of advice. When ...
(p. 150)
“OKI KURUMI WAS A MIGHTY FISHERMAN”
“OKIKURUMI WAS A MIGHTY FISHERMAN”
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