A DUNGAN BOOKS PUBLICATION
JAPANESE FAIRY TALES
I DEDICATE THIS BOOK TO YOU AND TO THE SWEET CHILD-FRIENDSHIP THAT YOU
GAVE ME IN THE DAYS SPENT WITH YOU BY THE SOUTHERN SEA, WHEN YOU USED TO
LISTEN WITH UNFEIGNED PLEASURE TO THESE FAIRY STORIES FROM FAR JAPAN. MAY
THEY NOW REMIND YOU OF MY CHANGELESS LOVE AND REMEMBRANCE.—Y. T. O.
Tokyo, 1908.
This collection of Japanese fairy tales is the outcome of a suggestion
made to me indirectly through a friend by Mr. Andrew Lang. They have been
translated from the modern version written by Sadanami Sanjin. These stories
are not literal translations, and though the Japanese story and all quaint
Japanese expressions have been faithfully preserved, they have been told more
with the view to interest young readers of the West than the technical
student of folk-lore.
Grateful acknowledgment is due to Mr. Y. Yasuoka, Miss Fusa Okamoto, my
brother Nobumori Ozaki, Dr. Yoshihiro Takaki, and Miss Kameko Yamao, who have
helped me with translations.
The story which I have named "The Story of the Man who did not Wish to
Die" is taken from a little book written a hundred years ago by one Shinsui
Tamenaga. It is named Chosei Furo, or "Longevity." "The Bamboo-cutter and the
Moon-child" is taken from the classic "Taketari Monogatari," and is NOT
classed by the Japanese among their fairy tales, though it really belongs to
this class of literature.
The pictures were drawn by Mr. Kakuzo Fujiyama, a Tokyo artist.
In telling these stories in English I have followed my fancy in adding
such touches of local color or description as they seemed to need or as
pleased me, and in one or two instances I have gathered in an incident from
another version. At all times, among my friends, both young and old, English
or American, I have always found eager listeners to the beautiful legends and
fairy tales of Japan, and in telling them I have also found that they were
still unknown to the vast majority, and this has encouraged me to write them
for the children of the West.
Y. T. O.
Tokyo, 1908.
CONTENTS
JAPANESE FAIRY TALES.
Long, long ago there lived, in Japan a brave warrior known to all
as Tawara Toda, or "My Lord Bag of Rice." His true name was
Fujiwara Hidesato, and there is a very interesting story of how he came
to change his name.
One day he sallied forth in search of adventures, for he had the nature
of a warrior and could not bear to be idle. So he buckled on his two swords,
took his huge bow, much taller than himself, in his hand, and slinging his
quiver on his back started out. He had not gone far when he came to the
bridge of Seta-no-Karashi spanning one end of the beautiful Lake Biwa. No
sooner had he set foot on the bridge than he saw lying right across his path
a huge serpent-dragon. Its body was so big that it looked like the trunk of
a large pine tree and it took up the whole width of the bridge. One of
its huge claws rested on the parapet of one side of the bridge, while its
tail lay right against the other. The monster seemed to be asleep, and as it
breathed, fire and smoke came out of its nostrils.
At first Hidesato could not help feeling alarmed at the sight of this
horrible reptile lying in his path, for he must either turn back or walk
right over its body. He was a brave man, however, and putting aside all fear
went forward dauntlessly. Crunch, crunch! he stepped now on the dragon's
body, now between its coils, and without even one glance backward he went on
his way.
He had only gone a few steps when he heard some one calling him
from behind. On turning back he was much surprised to see that the monster
dragon had entirely disappeared and in its place was a strange-looking man,
who was bowing most ceremoniously to the ground. His red hair streamed over
his shoulders and was surmounted by a crown in the shape of a dragon's head,
and his sea-green dress was patterned with shells. Hidesato knew at once that
this was no ordinary mortal and he wondered much at the strange
occurrence. Where had the dragon gone in such a short space of time? Or had
it transformed itself into this man, and what did the whole thing
mean? While these thoughts passed through his mind he had come up to
the man on the bridge and now addressed him:
"Was it you that called me just now?"
"Yes, it was I," answered the man: "I have an earnest request to make to
you. Do you think you can grant it to me?"
"If it is in my power to do so I will," answered Hidesato, "but first
tell me who you are?"
"I am the Dragon King of the Lake, and my home is in these waters just
under this bridge."
"And what is it you have to ask of me!" said Hidesato.
"I want you to kill my mortal enemy the centipede, who lives on
the mountain beyond," and the Dragon King pointed to a high peak on
the opposite shore of the lake.
"I have lived now for many years in this lake and I have a large family
of children and grand-children. For some time past we have lived in terror,
for a monster centipede has discovered our home, and night after night it
comes and carries off one of my family. I am powerless to save them. If it
goes on much longer like this, not only shall I lose all my children, but I
myself must fall a victim to the monster. I am, therefore, very unhappy, and
in my extremity I determined to ask the help of a human being. For many days
with this intention I have waited on the bridge in the shape of the
horrible serpent-dragon that you saw, in the hope that some strong brave
man would come along. But all who came this way, as soon as they saw
me were terrified and ran away as fast as they could. You are the
first man I have found able to look at me without fear, so I knew at
once that you were a man of great courage. I beg you to have pity upon me.
Will you not help me and kill my enemy the centipede?"
Hidesato felt very sorry for the Dragon King on hearing his story, and
readily promised to do what he could to help him. The warrior asked where the
centipede lived, so that he might attack the creature at once. The Dragon
King replied that its home was on the mountain Mikami, but that as it came
every night at a certain hour to the palace of the lake, it would be better
to wait till then. So Hidesato was conducted to the palace of the Dragon
King, under the bridge. Strange to say, as he followed his host downwards the
waters parted to let them pass, and his clothes did not even feel damp
as he passed through the flood. Never had Hidesato seen anything
so beautiful as this palace built of white marble beneath the lake. He had
often heard of the Sea King's palace at the bottom of the sea, where all the
servants and retainers were salt-water fishes, but here was a magnificent
building in the heart of Lake Biwa. The dainty goldfishes, red carp, and
silvery trout, waited upon the Dragon King and his guest.
Hidesato was astonished at the feast that was spread for him. The dishes
were crystallized lotus leaves and flowers, and the chopsticks were of the
rarest ebony. As soon as they sat down, the sliding doors opened and ten
lovely goldfish dancers came out, and behind them followed ten red-carp
musicians with the koto and the samisen. Thus the hours flew by till
midnight, and the beautiful music and dancing had banished all thoughts of
the centipede. The Dragon King was about to pledge the warrior in a fresh cup
of wine when the palace was suddenly shaken by a tramp, tramp! as if
a mighty army had begun to march not far away.
Hidesato and his host both rose to their feet and rushed to the balcony,
and the warrior saw on the opposite mountain two great balls of glowing fire
coming nearer and nearer. The Dragon King stood by the warrior's side
trembling with fear.
"The centipede! The centipede! Those two balls of fire are its eyes. It
is coming for its prey! Now is the time to kill it."
Hidesato looked where his host pointed, and, in the dim light of
the starlit evening, behind the two balls of fire he saw the long body of
an enormous centipede winding round the mountains, and the light in its
hundred feet glowed like so many distant lanterns moving slowly towards the
shore.
Hidesato showed not the least sign of fear. He tried to calm the Dragon
King.
"Don't be afraid. I shall surely kill the centipede. Just bring me my
bow and arrows."
The Dragon King did as he was bid, and the warrior noticed that he had
only three arrows left in his quiver. He took the bow, and fitting an arrow
to the notch, took careful aim and let fly.
The arrow hit the centipede right in the middle of its head, but instead
of penetrating, it glanced off harmless and fell to the ground.
Nothing daunted, Hidesato took another arrow, fitted it to the notch of
the bow and let fly. Again the arrow hit the mark, it struck the centipede
right in the middle of its head, only to glance off and fall to the ground.
The centipede was invulnerable to weapons! When the Dragon King saw that even
this brave warrior's arrows were powerless to kill the centipede, he lost
heart and began to tremble with fear.
The warrior saw that he had now only one arrow left in his quiver, and
if this one failed he could not kill the centipede. He looked across the
waters. The huge reptile had wound its horrid body seven times round the
mountain and would soon come down to the lake. Nearer and nearer gleamed
fireballs of eyes, and the light of its hundred feet began to throw
reflections in the still waters of the lake.
Then suddenly the warrior remembered that he had heard that human saliva
was deadly to centipedes. But this was no ordinary centipede. This was so
monstrous that even to think of such a creature made one creep with horror.
Hidesato determined to try his last chance. So taking his last arrow and
first putting the end of it in his mouth, he fitted the notch to his bow,
took careful aim once more and let fly.
This time the arrow again hit the centipede right in the middle of its
head, but instead of glancing off harmlessly as before, it struck home to the
creature's brain. Then with a convulsive shudder the serpentine body stopped
moving, and the fiery light of its great eyes and hundred feet darkened to a
dull glare like the sunset of a stormy day, and then went out in blackness. A
great darkness now overspread the heavens, the thunder rolled and the
lightning flashed, and the wind roared in fury, and it seemed as if the
world were coming to an end. The Dragon King and his children
and retainers all crouched in different parts of the palace, frightened to
death, for the building was shaken to its foundation. At last the dreadful
night was over. Day dawned beautiful and clear. The centipede was gone from
the mountain.
Then Hidesato called to the Dragon King to come out with him on
the balcony, for the centipede was dead and he had nothing more to
fear.
Then all the inhabitants of the palace came out with joy, and Hidesato
pointed to the lake. There lay the body of the dead centipede floating on the
water, which was dyed red with its blood.
The gratitude of the Dragon King knew no bounds. The whole family came
and bowed down before the warrior, calling him their preserver and the
bravest warrior in all Japan.
Another feast was prepared, more sumptuous than the first. All kinds of
fish, prepared in every imaginable way, raw, stewed, boiled and roasted,
served on coral trays and crystal dishes, were put before him, and the wine
was the best that Hidesato had ever tasted in his life. To add to the beauty
of everything the sun shone brightly, the lake glittered like a liquid
diamond, and the palace was a thousand times more beautiful by day than by
night.
His host tried to persuade the warrior to stay a few days, but Hidesato
insisted on going home, saying that he had now finished what he had come to
do, and must return. The Dragon King and his family were all very sorry to
have him leave so soon, but since he would go they begged him to accept a few
small presents (so they said) in token of their gratitude to him for
delivering them forever from their horrible enemy the centipede.
As the warrior stood in the porch taking leave, a train of fish
was suddenly transformed into a retinue of men, all wearing
ceremonial robes and dragon's crowns on their heads to show that they
were servants of the great Dragon King. The presents that they
carried were as follows:
First, a large bronze bell. Second, a bag of
rice. Third, a roll of silk. Fourth, a cooking
pot. Fifth, a bell.
Hidesato did not want to accept all these presents, but as the Dragon
King insisted, he could not well refuse.
The Dragon King himself accompanied the warrior as far as the bridge,
and then took leave of him with many bows and good wishes, leaving the
procession of servants to accompany Hidesato to his house with the
presents.
The warrior's household and servants had been very much concerned when
they found that he did not return the night before, but they finally
concluded that he had been kept by the violent storm and had taken shelter
somewhere. When the servants on the watch for his return caught sight of him
they called to every one that he was approaching, and the whole household
turned out to meet him, wondering much what the retinue of men, bearing
presents and banners, that followed him, could mean.
As soon as the Dragon King's retainers had put down the presents they
vanished, and Hidesato told all that had happened to him.
The presents which he had received from the grateful Dragon King were
found to be of magic power. The bell only was ordinary, and as Hidesato had
no use for it he presented it to the temple near by, where it was hung up, to
boom out the hour of day over the surrounding neighborhood.
The single bag of rice, however much was taken from it day after day for
the meals of the knight and his whole family, never grew less—the supply in
the bag was inexhaustible.
The roll of silk, too, never grew shorter, though time after time long
pieces were cut off to make the warrior a new suit of clothes to go to Court
in at the New Year.
The cooking pot was wonderful, too. No matter what was put into it, it
cooked deliciously whatever was wanted without any firing—truly a very
economical saucepan.
The fame of Hidesato's fortune spread far and wide, and as there was no
need for him to spend money on rice or silk or firing, he became very rich
and prosperous, and was henceforth known as My Lord Bag of Rice.
Long, long ago in Japan there lived an old man and his wife. The
old man was a good, kind-hearted, hard-working old fellow, but his
wife was a regular cross-patch, who spoiled the happiness of her home
by her scolding tongue. She was always grumbling about something
from morning to night. The old man had for a long time ceased to take
any notice of her crossness. He was out most of the day at work in
the fields, and as he had no child, for his amusement when he came
home, he kept a tame sparrow. He loved the little bird just as much as
if she had been his child.
When he came back at night after his hard day's work in the open air it
was his only pleasure to pet the sparrow, to talk to her and to teach her
little tricks, which she learned very quickly. The old man would open her
cage and let her fly about the room, and they would play together. Then when
supper-time came, he always saved some tit- bits from his meal with which to
feed his little bird.
Now one day the old man went out to chop wood in the forest, and the old
woman stopped at home to wash clothes. The day before, she had made some
starch, and now when she came to look for it, it was all gone; the bowl which
she had filled full yesterday was quite empty.
While she was wondering who could have used or stolen the starch, down
flew the pet sparrow, and bowing her little feathered head—a trick which she
had been taught by her master—the pretty bird chirped and said:
"It is I who have taken the starch. I thought it was some food put out
for me in that basin, and I ate it all. If I have made a mistake I beg you to
forgive me! tweet, tweet, tweet!"
You see from this that the sparrow was a truthful bird, and the
old woman ought to have been willing to forgive her at once when she asked
her pardon so nicely. But not so.
The old woman had never loved the sparrow, and had often quarreled with
her husband for keeping what she called a dirty bird about the house, saying
that it only made extra work for her. Now she was only too delighted to have
some cause of complaint against the pet. She scolded and even cursed the poor
little bird for her bad behavior, and not content with using these harsh,
unfeeling words, in a fit of rage she seized the sparrow—who all this time
had spread out her wings and bowed her head before the old woman, to show how
sorry she was—and fetched the scissors and cut off the poor little
bird's tongue.
"I suppose you took my starch with that tongue! Now you may see what it
is like to go without it! "And with these dreadful words she drove the bird
away, not caring in the least what might happen to it and without the
smallest pity for its suffering, so unkind was she!
The old woman, after she had driven the sparrow away, made some
more rice-paste, grumbling all the time at the trouble, and
after starching all her clothes, spread the things on boards to dry in
the sun, instead of ironing them as they do in England.
In the evening the old man came home. As usual, on the way back
he looked forward to the time when he should reach his gate and see
his pet come flying and chirping to meet him, ruffling out her feathers to
show her joy, and at last coming to rest on his shoulder. But to-night the
old man was very disappointed, for not even the shadow of his dear sparrow
was to be seen.
He quickened his steps, hastily drew off his straw sandals, and stepped
on to the veranda. Still no sparrow was to be seen. He now felt sure that his
wife, in one of her cross tempers, had shut the sparrow up in its cage. So he
called her and said anxiously:
"Where is Suzume San (Miss Sparrow) today?"
The old woman pretended not to know at first, and answered:
"Your sparrow? I am sure I don't know. Now I come to think of it,
I haven't seen her all the afternoon. I shouldn't wonder if the
un-grateful bird had flown away and left you after all your petting!"
But at last, when the old man gave her no peace, but asked her again and
again, insisting that she must know what had happened to his pet, she
confessed all. She told him crossly how the sparrow had eaten the rice-paste
she had specially made for starching her clothes, and how when the sparrow
had confessed to what she had done, in great anger she had taken her scissors
and cut out her tongue, and how finally she had driven the bird away and
forbidden her to return to the house again.
Then the old woman showed her husband the sparrow's tongue, saying:
"Here is the tongue I cut off! Horrid little bird, why did it eat all my
starch?"
"How could you be so cruel? Oh! how could you so cruel?" was all that
the old man could answer. He was too kind-hearted to punish his shrew of a
wife, but he was terribly distressed at what had happened to his poor little
sparrow.
"What a dreadful misfortune for my poor Suzume San to lose her tongue!"
he said to himself. "She won't be able to chirp any more, and surely the pain
of the cutting of it out in that rough way must have made her ill! Is there
nothing to be done?"
The old man shed many tears after his cross wife had gone to
sleep. While he wiped away the tears with the sleeve of his cotton robe,
a bright thought comforted him: he would go and look for the sparrow on
the morrow. Having decided this he was able to go to sleep at last.
The next morning he rose early, as soon as ever the day broke,
and snatching a hasty breakfast, started out over the hills and
through the woods, stopping at every clump of bamboos to cry:
"Where, oh where does my tongue-cut sparrow stay? Where, oh where, does
my tongue-cut sparrow stay!"
He never stopped to rest for his noonday meal, and it was far on in the
afternoon when he found himself near a large bamboo wood. Bamboo groves are
the favorite haunts of sparrows, and there sure enough at the edge of the
wood he saw his own dear sparrow waiting to welcome him. He could hardly
believe his eyes for joy, and ran forward quickly to greet her. She bowed her
little head and went through a number of the tricks her master had taught
her, to show her pleasure at seeing her old friend again, and, wonderful to
relate, she could talk as of old. The old man told her how sorry he was for
all that had happened, and inquired after her tongue, wondering how she
could speak so well without it. Then the sparrow opened her beak
and showed him that a new tongue had grown in place of the old one,
and begged him not to think any more about the past, for she was
quite well now. Then the old man knew that his sparrow was a fairy, and
no common bird. It would be difficult to exaggerate the old
man's rejoicing now. He forgot all his troubles, he forgot even how
tired he was, for he had found his lost sparrow, and instead of being
ill and without a tongue as he had feared and expected to find her,
she was well and happy and with a new tongue, and without a sign of
the ill-treatment she had received from his wife. And above all she was a
fairy.
The sparrow asked him to follow her, and flying before him she led him
to a beautiful house in the heart of the bamboo grove. The old man was
utterly astonished when he entered the house to find what a beautiful place
it was. It was built of the whitest wood, the soft cream-colored mats which
took the place of carpets were the finest he had ever seen, and the cushions
that the sparrow brought out for him to sit on were made of the finest silk
and crape. Beautiful vases and lacquer boxes adorned the tokonoma [Footnote:
An alcove where precious objects are displayed.] of every room.
The sparrow led the old man to the place of honor, and then, taking her
place at a humble distance, she thanked him with many polite bows for all the
kindness he had shown her for many long years.
Then the Lady Sparrow, as we will now call her, introduced all
her family to the old man. This done, her daughters, robed in dainty crape
gowns, brought in on beautiful old-fashioned trays a feast of all kinds of
delicious foods, till the old man began to think he must be dreaming. In the
middle of the dinner some of the sparrow's daughters performed a wonderful
dance, called the "suzume-odori" or the "Sparrow's dance," to amuse the
guest.
Never had the old man enjoyed himself so much. The hours flew by
too quickly in this lovely spot, with all these fairy sparrows to
wait upon him and to feast him and to dance before him.
But the night came on and the darkness reminded him that he had a long
way to go and must think about taking his leave and return home. He thanked
his kind hostess for her splendid entertainment, and begged her for his sake
to forget all she had suffered at the hands of his cross old wife. He told
the Lady Sparrow that it was a great comfort and happiness to him to find her
in such a beautiful home and to know that she wanted for nothing. It was his
anxiety to know how she fared and what had really happened to her that had
led him to seek her. Now he knew that all was well he could return
home with a light heart. If ever she wanted him for anything she had
only to send for him and he would come at once.
The Lady Sparrow begged him to stay and rest several days and enjoy the
change, but the old man said he must return to his old wife—who would
probably be cross at his not coming home at the usual time— and to his work,
and there-fore, much as he wished to do so, he could not accept her kind
invitation. But now that he knew where the Lady Sparrow lived he would come
to see her whenever he had the time.
When the Lady Sparrow saw that she could not persuade the old man
to stay longer, she gave an order to some of her servants, and they
at once brought in two boxes, one large and the other small. These
were placed before the old man, and the Lady Sparrow asked him to
choose whichever he liked for a present, which she wished to give him.
The old man could not refuse this kind proposal, and he chose
the smaller box, saying:
"I am now too old and feeble to carry the big and heavy box. As you are
so kind as to say that I may take whichever I like, I will choose the small
one, which will be easier for me to carry."
Then the sparrows all helped him put it on his back and went to the gate
to see him off, bidding him good-by with many bows and entreating him to come
again whenever he had the time. Thus the old man and his pet sparrow
separated quite happily, the sparrow showing not the least ill-will for all
the unkindness she had suffered at the hands of the old wife. Indeed, she
only felt sorrow for the old man who had to put up with it all his
life.
When the old man reached home he found his wife even crosser than usual,
for it was late on in the night and she had been waiting up for him for a
long time.
"Where have you been all this time?" she asked in a big voice. "Why do
you come back so late?"
The old man tried to pacify her by showing her the box of presents he
had brought back with him, and then he told her of all that had happened to
him, and how wonderfully he had been entertained at the sparrow's
house.
"Now let us see what is in the box," said the old man, not giving her
time to grumble again. "You must help me open it." And they both sat down
before the box and opened it.
To their utter astonishment they found the box filled to the brim with
gold and silver coins and many other precious things. The mats of their
little cottage fairly glittered as they took out the things one by one and
put them down and handled them over and over again. The old man was overjoyed
at the sight of the riches that were now his. Beyond his brightest
expectations was the sparrow's gift, which would enable him to give up work
and live in ease and comfort the rest of his days.
He said: "Thanks to my good little sparrow! Thanks to my good
little sparrow!" many times.
But the old woman, after the first moments of surprise and satisfaction
at the sight of the gold and silver were over, could not suppress the greed
of her wicked nature. She now began to reproach the old man for not having
brought home the big box of presents, for in the innocence of his heart he
had told her how he had refused the large box of presents which the sparrows
had offered him, preferring the smaller one because it was light and easy
to carry home.
"You silly old man," said she, "Why did you not bring the large
box? Just think what we have lost. We might have had twice as much
silver and gold as this. You are certainly an old fool!" she screamed,
and then went to bed as angry as she could be.
The old man now wished that he had said nothing about the big box, but
it was too late; the greedy old woman, not contented with the good luck which
had so unexpectedly befallen them and which she so little deserved, made up
her mind, if possible, to get more.
Early the next morning she got up and made the old man describe the way
to the sparrow's house. When he saw what was in her mind he tried to keep her
from going, but it was useless. She would not listen to one word he said. It
is strange that the old woman did not feel ashamed of going to see the
sparrow after the cruel way she had treated her in cutting off her tongue in
a fit of rage. But her greed to get the big box made her forget everything
else. It did not even enter her thoughts that the sparrows might be angry
with her—as, indeed, they were—and might punish her for what she had
done.
Ever since the Lady Sparrow had returned home in the sad plight in which
they had first found her, weeping and bleeding from the mouth, her whole
family and relations had done little else but speak of the cruelty of the old
woman. "How could she," they asked each other, "inflict such a heavy
punishment for such a trifling offense as that of eating some rice-paste by
mistake?" They all loved the old man who was so kind and good and patient
under all his troubles, but the old woman they hated, and they determined, if
ever they had the chance, to punish her as she deserved. They had not long to
wait.
After walking for some hours the old woman had at last found the bamboo
grove which she had made her husband carefully describe, and now she stood
before it crying out:
"Where is the tongue-cut sparrow's house? Where is the
tongue-cut sparrow's house?"
At last she saw the eaves of the house peeping out from amongst
the bamboo foliage. She hastened to the door and knocked loudly.
When the servants told the Lady Sparrow that her old mistress was at the
door asking to see her, she was somewhat surprised at the unexpected visit,
after all that had taken place, and she wondered not a little at the boldness
of the old woman in venturing to come to the house. The Lady Sparrow,
however, was a polite bird, and so she went out to greet the old woman,
remembering that she had once been her mistress.
The old woman intended, however, to waste no time in words, she
went right to the point, without the least shame, and said:
"You need not trouble to entertain me as you did my old man. I have come
myself to get the box which he so stupidly left behind. I shall soon take my
leave if you will give me the big box—that is all I want!"
The Lady Sparrow at once consented, and told her servants to bring out
the big box. The old woman eagerly seized it and hoisted it on her back, and
without even stopping to thank the Lady Sparrow began to hurry
homewards.
The box was so heavy that she could not walk fast, much less run, as she
would have liked to do, so anxious was she to get home and see what was
inside the box, but she had often to sit down and rest herself by the
way.
While she was staggering along under the heavy load, her desire to open
the box became too great to be resisted. She could wait no longer, for she
supposed this big box to be full of gold and silver and precious jewels like
the small one her husband had received.
At last this greedy and selfish old woman put down the box by
the wayside and opened it carefully, expecting to gloat her eyes on a mine
of wealth. What she saw, however, so terrified her that she nearly lost her
senses. As soon as she lifted the lid, a number of horrible and frightful
looking demons bounced out of the box and surrounded her as if they intended
to kill her. Not even in nightmares had she ever seen such horrible creatures
as her much-coveted box contained. A demon with one huge eye right in the
middle of its forehead came and glared at her, monsters with gaping
mouths looked as if they would devour her, a huge snake coiled and
hissed about her, and a big frog hopped and croaked towards her.
The old woman had never been so frightened in her life, and ran from the
spot as fast as her quaking legs would carry her, glad to escape alive. When
she reached home she fell to the floor and told her husband with tears all
that had happened to her, and how she had been nearly killed by the demons in
the box.
Then she began to blame the sparrow, but the old man stopped her
at once, saying:
"Don't blame the sparrow, it is your wickedness which has at last met
with its reward. I only hope this may be a lesson to you in
the future!"
The old woman said nothing more, and from that day she repented of her
cross, unkind ways, and by degrees became a good old woman, so that her
husband hardly knew her to be the same person, and they spent their last days
together happily, free from want or care, spending carefully the treasure the
old man had received from his pet, the tongue-cut sparrow.
Long, long ago in the province of Tango there lived on the shore
of Japan in the little fishing village of Mizu-no-ye a young
fisherman named Urashima Taro. His father had been a fisherman before him,
and his skill had more than doubly descended to his son, for Urashima was
the most skillful fisher in all that country side, and could catch more
Bonito and Tai in a day than his comrades could in a week.
But in the little fishing village, more than for being a clever fisher
of the sea was he known for his kind heart. In his whole life he had never
hurt anything, either great or small, and when a boy, his companions had
always laughed at him, for he would never join with them in teasing animals,
but always tried to keep them from this cruel sport.
One soft summer twilight he was going home at the end of a day's fishing
when he came upon a group of children. They were all screaming and talking at
the tops of their voices, and seemed to be in a state of great excitement
about something, and on his going up to them to see what was the matter he
saw that they were tormenting a tortoise. First one boy pulled it this way,
then another boy pulled it that way, while a third child beat it with a
stick, and the fourth hammered its shell with a stone.
Now Urashima felt very sorry for the poor tortoise and made up his mind
to rescue it. He spoke to the boys:
"Look here, boys, you are treating that poor tortoise so badly that it
will soon die!"
The boys, who were all of an age when children seem to delight in being
cruel to animals, took no notice of Urashima's gentle reproof, but went on
teasing it as before. One of the older boys answered:
"Who cares whether it lives or dies? We do not. Here, boys, go on, go
on!"
And they began to treat the poor tortoise more cruelly than
ever. Urashima waited a moment, turning over in his mind what would be
the best way to deal with the boys. He would try to persuade them to give
the tortoise up to him, so he smiled at them and said:
"I am sure you are all good, kind boys! Now won't you give me
the tortoise? I should like to have it so much!"
"No, we won't give you the tortoise," said one of the boys. "Why should
we? We caught it ourselves."
"What you say is true," said Urashima, "but I do not ask you to give it
to me for nothing. I will give you some money for it—in other words, the
Ojisan (Uncle) will buy it of you. Won't that do for you, my boys?" He held
up the money to them, strung on a piece of string through a hole in the
center of each coin. "Look, boys, you can buy anything you like with this
money. You can do much more with this money than you can with that poor
tortoise. See what good boys you are to listen to me"
The boys were not bad boys at all, they were only mischievous, and as
Urashima spoke they were won by his kind smile and gentle words and began "to
be of his spirit," as they say in Japan. Gradually they all came up to him,
the ringleader of the little band holding out the tortoise to him.
"Very well, Ojisan, we will give you the tortoise if you will give us
the money!" And Urashima took the tortoise and gave the money to the boys,
who, calling to each other, scampered away and were soon out of sight.
Then Urashima stroked the tortoise's back, saying as he did so:
"Oh, you poor thing! Poor thing!—there, there! you are safe now! They
say that a stork lives for a thousand years, but the tortoise for ten
thousand years. You have the longest life of any creature in this world, and
you were in great danger of having that precious life cut short by those
cruel boys. Luckily I was passing by and saved you, and so life is still
yours. Now I am going to take you back to your home, the sea, at once. Do not
let yourself be caught again, for there might be no one to save you next
time!"
All the time that the kind fisherman was speaking he was walking quickly
to the shore and out upon the rocks; then putting the tortoise into the water
he watched the animal disappear, and turned homewards himself, for he was
tired and the sun had set.
The next morning Urashima went out as usual in his boat. The weather was
fine and the sea and sky were both blue and soft in the tender haze of the
summer morning. Urashima got into his boat and dreamily pushed out to sea,
throwing his line as he did so. He soon passed the other fishing boats and
left them behind him till they were lost to sight in the distance, and his
boat drifted further and further out upon the blue waters. Somehow, he knew
not why, he felt unusually happy that morning; and he could not help wishing
that, like the tortoise he set free the day before, he had thousands
of years to live instead of his own short span of human life.
He was suddenly startled from his reverie by hearing his own
name called:
"Urashima, Urashima!"
Clear as a bell and soft as the summer wind the name floated over the
sea.
He stood up and looked in every direction, thinking that one of
the other boats had overtaken him, but gaze as he might over the
wide expanse of water, near or far there was no sign of a boat, so
the voice could not have come from any human being.
Startled, and wondering who or what it was that had called him
so clearly, he looked in all directions round about him and saw
that without his knowing it a tortoise had come to the side of the
boat. Urashima saw with surprise that it was the very tortoise he
had rescued the day before.
"Well, Mr. Tortoise," said Urashima, "was it you who called my name just
now?"
The tortoise nodded its head several times and said:
"Yes, it was I. Yesterday in your honorable shadow (o kage sama de) my
life was saved, and I have come to offer you my thanks and to tell you how
grateful I am for your kindness to me."
"Indeed," said Urashima, "that is very polite of you. Come up into the
boat. I would offer you a smoke, but as you are a tortoise doubtless you do
not smoke," and the fisherman laughed at the joke.
"He-he-he-he!" laughed the tortoise; "sake (rice wine) is my favorite
refreshment, but I do not care for tobacco."
"Indeed," said Urashima, "I regret very much that I have no "sake" in my
boat to offer you, but come up and dry your back in the sun— tortoises
always love to do that."
So the tortoise climbed into the boat, the fisherman helping him, and
after an exchange of complimentary speeches the tortoise said:
"Have you ever seen Rin Gin, the Palace of the Dragon King of the Sea,
Urashima?"
The fisherman shook his head and replied; "No; year after year the sea
has been my home, but though I have often heard of the Dragon King's realm
under the sea I have never yet set eyes on that wonderful place. It must be
very far away, if it exists at all!"
"Is that really so? You have never seen the Sea King's Palace? Then you
have missed seeing one of the most wonderful sights in the whole universe. It
is far away at the bottom of the sea, but if I take you there we shall soon
reach the place. If you would like to see the Sea King's land I will be your
guide."
"I should like to go there, certainly, and you are very kind to think of
taking me, but you must remember that I am only a poor mortal and have not
the power of swimming like a sea creature such as you are—"
Before the fisherman could say more the tortoise stopped
him, saying:
"What? You need not swim yourself. If you will ride on my back I will
take you without any trouble on your part."
"But," said Urashima, "how is it possible for me to ride on your small
back?"
"It may seem absurd to you. but I assure you that you can do so. Try at
once! Just come and get on my back, and see if it is as impossible as you
think!"
As the tortoise finished speaking, Urashima looked at its shell,
and strange to say be saw that the creature had suddenly grown so big that
a man could easily sit on its back.
"This is strange indeed!" said Urashima; "then. Mr. Tortoise, with your
kind permission I will get on your back. Dokoisho!" [Footnote: "All right"
(only used by lower classes).] he exclaimed as he jumped on.
The tortoise, with an unmoved face, as if this strange proceeding were
quite an ordinary event, said:
"Now we will set out at our leisure," and with these words he leapt into
the sea with Urashima on his back. Down through the water the tortoise dived.
For a long time these two strange companions rode through the sea. Urashima
never grew tired, nor his clothes moist with the water. At last, far away in
the distance a magnificent gate appeared, and behind the gate, the long,
sloping roofs of a palace on the horizon.
"Ya." exclaimed Urashima. "that looks like the gate of some large palace
just appearing! Mr. Tortoise, can you tell what that place is we can now
see?"
"That is the great gate of the Rin Gin Palace, the large roof that you
see behind the gate is the Sea King's Palace itself."
"Then we have at last come to the realm of the Sea King and to
his Palace," said Urashima.
"Yes, indeed," answered the tortoise, "and don't you think we have come
very quickly?" And while he was speaking the tortoise reached the side of the
gate. "And here we are, and you must please walk from here."
The tortoise now went in front, and speaking to the
gatekeeper, said:
"This is Urashima Taro, from the country of Japan. I have had the honor
of bringing him as a visitor to this kingdom. Please show him the way."
Then the gatekeeper, who was a fish, at once led the way through
the gate before them.
The red bream, the flounder, the sole, the cuttlefish, and all the chief
vassals of the Dragon King of the Sea now came out with courtly bows to
welcome the stranger.
"Urashima Sama, Urashima Sama! welcome to the Sea Palace, the home of
the Dragon King of the Sea. Thrice welcome are you, having come from such a
distant country. And you, Mr. Tortoise, we are greatly indebted to you for
all your trouble in bringing Urashima here." Then, turning again to Urashima,
they said, "Please follow us this way," and from here the whole band of
fishes became his guides.
Urashima, being only a poor fisher lad, did not know how to behave in a
palace; but, strange though it was all to him, he did not feel ashamed or
embarrassed, but followed his kind guides quite calmly where they led to the
inner palace. When he reached the portals a beautiful Princess with her
attendant maidens came out to welcome him. She was more beautiful than any
human being, and was robed in flowing garments of red and soft green like the
under side of a wave, and golden threads glimmered through the folds of her
gown. Her lovely black hair streamed over her shoulders in the fashion
of a king's daughter many hundreds of years ago, and when she spoke
her voice sounded like music over the water. Urashima was lost in
wonder while he looked upon her, and he could not speak. Then he
remembered that he ought to bow, but before he could make a low obeisance
the Princess took him by the hand and led him to a beautiful hall, and to
the seat of honor at the upper end, and bade him be seated.
"Urashima Taro, it gives me the highest pleasure to welcome you to my
father's kingdom," said the Princess. "Yesterday you set free a tortoise, and
I have sent for you to thank you for saving my life, for I was that tortoise.
Now if you like you shall live here forever in the land of eternal youth,
where summer never dies and where sorrow never comes, and I will be your
bride if you will, and we will live together happily forever
afterwards!"
And as Urashima listened to her sweet words and gazed upon her lovely
face his heart was filled with a great wonder and joy, and he answered her,
wondering if it was not all a dream:
"Thank you a thousand times for your kind speech. There is nothing
I could wish for more than to be permitted to stay here with you in this
beautiful land, of which I have often heard, but have never seen to this day.
Beyond all words, this is the most wonderful place I have ever seen."
While he was speaking a train of fishes appeared, all dressed
in ceremonial, trailing garments. One by one, silently and with
stately steps, they entered the hall, bearing on coral trays delicacies
of fish and seaweed, such as no one can dream of, and this wondrous feast
was set before the bride and bridegroom. The bridal was celebrated with
dazzling splendor, and in the Sea King's realm there was great rejoicing. As
soon as the young pair had pledged themselves in the wedding cup of wine,
three times three, music was played, and songs were sung, and fishes with
silver scales and golden tails stepped in from the waves and danced. Urashima
enjoyed himself with all his heart. Never in his whole life had he sat
down to such a marvelous feast.
When the feast was over the Princes asked the bridegroom if he
would like to walk through the palace and see all there was to be
seen. Then the happy fisherman, following his bride, the Sea
King's daughter, was shown all the wonders of that enchanted land
where youth and joy go hand in hand and neither time nor age can
touch them. The palace was built of coral and adorned with pearls, and
the beauties and wonders of the place were so great that the tongue fails
to describe them.
But, to Urashima, more wonderful than the palace was the garden
that surrounded it. Here was to be seen at one time the scenery of
the four different seasons; the beauties of summer and winter, spring and
autumn, were displayed to the wondering visitor at once.
First, when he looked to the east, the plum and cherry trees were seen
in full bloom, the nightingales sang in the pink avenues, and butterflies
flitted from flower to flower.
Looking to the south all the trees were green in the fullness of summer,
and the day cicala and the night cricket chirruped loudly.
Looking to the west the autumn maples were ablaze like a sunset sky, and
the chrysanthemums were in perfection.
Looking to the north the change made Urashima start, for the ground was
silver white with snow, and trees and bamboos were also covered with snow and
the pond was thick with ice.
And each day there were new joys and new wonders for Urashima, and so
great was his happiness that he forgot everything, even the home he had left
behind and his parents and his own country, and three days passed without his
even thinking of all he had left behind. Then his mind came back to him and
he remembered who he was, and that he did not belong to this wonderful land
or the Sea King's palace, and he said to himself:
"O dear! I must not stay on here, for I have an old father and mother at
home. What can have happened to them all this time? How anxious they must
have been these days when I did not return as usual. I must go back at once
without letting one more day pass." And he began to prepare for the journey
in great haste.
Then he went to his beautiful wife, the Princess, and bowing low before
her he said:
"Indeed, I have been very happy with you for a long time, Otohime Sama"
(for that was her name), "and you have been kinder to me than any words can
tell. But now I must say good-by. I must go back to my old parents."
Then Otohime Sama began to weep, and said softly and sadly:
"Is it not well with you here, Urashima, that you wish to leave me so
soon? Where is the haste? Stay with me yet another day only!"
But Urashima had remembered his old parents, and in Japan the duty to
parents is stronger than everything else, stronger even than pleasure or
love, and he would not be persuaded, but answered:
"Indeed, I must go. Do not think that I wish to leave you. It is
not that. I must go and see my old parents. Let me go for one day and
I will come back to you."
"Then," said the Princess sorrowfully, "there is nothing to be done. I
will send you back to-day to your father and mother, and instead of trying to
keep you with me one more day, I shall give you this as a token of our
love—please take it back with you;" and she brought him a beautiful lacquer
box tied about with a silken cord and tassels of red silk.
Urashima had received so much from the Princess already that he
felt some compunction in taking the gift, and said:
"It does not seem right for me to take yet another gift from you after
all the many favors I have received at your hands, but because it is your
wish I will do so," and then he added:
"Tell me what is this box?"
"That," answered the Princess "is the tamate-bako (Box of the
Jewel Hand), and it contains something very precious. You must not
open this box, whatever happens! If you open it something dreadful
will happen to you! Now promise me that you will never open this box!"
And Urashima promised that he would never, never open the box whatever
happened.
Then bidding good-by to Otohime Sama he went down to the seashore, the
Princess and her attendants following him, and there he found a large
tortoise waiting for him.
He quickly mounted the creature's back and was carried away over
the shining sea into the East. He looked back to wave his hand to Otohime
Sama till at last he could see her no more, and the land of the Sea King and
the roofs of the wonderful palace were lost in the far, far distance. Then,
with his face turned eagerly towards his own land, he looked for the rising
of the blue hills on the horizon before him.
At last the tortoise carried him into the bay he knew so well, and to
the shore from whence he had set out. He stepped on to the shore and looked
about him while the tortoise rode away back to the Sea King's realm.
But what is the strange fear that seizes Urashima as he stands and looks
about him? Why does he gaze so fixedly at the people that pass him by, and
why do they in turn stand and look at him? The shore is the same and the
hills are the same, but the people that he sees walking past him have very
different faces to those he had known so well before.
Wondering what it can mean he walks quickly towards his old home. Even
that looks different, but a house stands on the spot, and he calls out:
"Father, I have just returned!" and he was about to enter, when he saw a
strange man coming out.
"Perhaps my parents have moved while I have been away, and have
gone somewhere else," was the fisherman's thought. Somehow he began
to feel strangely anxious, he could not tell why.
"Excuse me," said he to the man who was staring at him, "but till within
the last few days I have lived in this house. My name is Urashima Taro. Where
have my parents gone whom I left here?"
A very bewildered expression came over the face of the man, and, still
gazing intently on Urashima's face, he said:
"What? Are you Urashima Taro?"
"Yes," said the fisherman, "I am Urashima Taro!"
"Ha, ha!" laughed the man, "you must not make such jokes. It is
true that once upon a time a man called Urashima Taro did live in
this village, but that is a story three hundred years old. He could
not possibly be alive now!"
When Urashima heard these strange words he was frightened, and said:
"Please, please, you must not joke with me, I am greatly perplexed. I am
really Urashima Taro, and I certainly have not lived three hundred years.
Till four or five days ago I lived on this spot. Tell me what I want to know
without more joking, please."
But the man's face grew more and more grave, and he answered:
"You may or may not be Urashima Taro, I don't know. But the
Urashima Taro of whom I have heard is a man who lived three hundred
years ago. Perhaps you are his spirit come to revisit your old home?"
"Why do you mock me?" said Urashima. "I am no spirit! I am a
living man—do you not see my feet;" and "don-don," he stamped on
the ground, first with one foot and then with the other to show the
man. (Japanese ghosts have no feet.)
"But Urashima Taro lived three hundred years ago, that is all I know; it
is written in the village chronicles, "persisted the man, who could not
believe what the fisherman said.
Urashima was lost in bewilderment and trouble. He stood looking
all around him, terribly puzzled, and, indeed, something in the appearance
of everything was different to what he remembered before he went away, and
the awful feeling came over him that what the man said was perhaps true. He
seemed to be in a strange dream. The few days he had spent in the Sea King's
palace beyond the sea had not been days at all: they had been hundreds of
years, and in that time his parents had died and all the people he had ever
known, and the village had written down his story. There was no use in
staying here any longer. He must get back to his beautiful wife beyond the
sea.
He made his way back to the beach, carrying in his hand the box which
the Princess had given him. But which was the way? He could not find it
alone! Suddenly he remembered the box, the tamate-bako.
"The Princess told me when she gave me the box never to open it— that
it contained a very precious thing. But now that I have no home, now that I
have lost everything that was dear to me here, and my heart grows thin with
sadness, at such a time, if I open the box, surely I shall find something
that will help me, something that will show me the way back to my beautiful
Princess over the sea. There is nothing else for me to do now. Yes, yes, I
will open the box and look in!"
And so his heart consented to this act of disobedience, and he tried to
persuade himself that he was doing the right thing in breaking his
promise.
Slowly, very slowly, he untied the red silk cord, slowly and wonderingly
he lifted the lid of the precious box. And what did he find? Strange to say
only a beautiful little purple cloud rose out of the box in three soft wisps.
For an instant it covered his face and wavered over him as if loath to go,
and then it floated away like vapor over the sea.
Urashima, who had been till that moment like a strong and handsome youth
of twenty-four, suddenly became very, very old. His back doubled up with age,
his hair turned snowy white, his face wrinkled and he fell down dead on the
beach.
Poor Urashima! because of his disobedience he could never return to the
Sea King's realm or the lovely Princess beyond the sea.
Little children, never be disobedient to those who are wiser than you
for disobedience was the beginning of all the miseries and sorrows of
life.
Long, long ago, there lived an old farmer and his wife who had
made their home in the mountains, far from any town. Their only
neighbor was a bad and malicious badger. This badger used to come out
every night and run across to the farmer's field and spoil the
vegetables and the rice which the farmer spent his time in
carefully cultivating. The badger at last grew so ruthless in his
mischievous work, and did so much harm everywhere on the farm, that the
good- natured farmer could not stand it any longer, and determined to
put a stop to it. So he lay in wait day after day and night after
night, with a big club, hoping to catch the badger, but all in vain.
Then he laid traps for the wicked animal.
The farmer's trouble and patience was rewarded, for one fine day
on going his rounds he found the badger caught in a hole he had dug
for that purpose. The farmer was delighted at having caught his enemy, and
carried him home securely bound with rope. When he reached the house the
farmer said to his wife:
"I have at last caught the bad badger. You must keep an eye on him while
I am out at work and not let him escape, because I want to make him into soup
to-night."
Saying this, he hung the badger up to the rafters of his storehouse and
went out to his work in the fields. The badger was in great distress, for he
did not at all like the idea of being made into soup that night, and he
thought and thought for a long time, trying to hit upon some plan by which he
might escape. It was hard to think clearly in his uncomfortable position, for
he had been hung upside down. Very near him, at the entrance to the
storehouse, looking out towards the green fields and the trees and the
pleasant sunshine, stood the farmer's old wife pounding barley. She looked
tired and old. Her face was seamed with many wrinkles, and was as brown
as leather, and every now and then she stopped to wipe the
perspiration which rolled down her face.
"Dear lady," said the wily badger, "you must be very weary doing such
heavy work in your old age. Won't you let me do that for you? My arms are
very strong, and I could relieve you for a little while!"
"Thank you for your kindness," said the old woman, "but I cannot let you
do this work for me because I must not untie you, for you might escape if I
did, and my husband would be very angry if he came home and found you
gone."
Now, the badger is one of the most cunning of animals, and he said again
in a very sad, gentle, voice:
"You are very unkind. You might untie me, for I promise not to try to
escape. If you are afraid of your husband, I will let you bind me again
before his return when I have finished pounding the barley. I am so tired and
sore tied up like this. If you would only let me down for a few minutes I
would indeed be thankful!"
The old woman had a good and simple nature, and could not think badly of
any one. Much less did she think that the badger was only deceiving her in
order to get away. She felt sorry, too, for the animal as she turned to look
at him. He looked in such a sad plight hanging downwards from the ceiling by
his legs, which were all tied together so tightly that the rope and the knots
were cutting into the skin. So in the kindness of her heart, and believing
the creature's promise that he would not run away, she untied the cord and
let him down.
The old woman then gave him the wooden pestle and told him to do
the work for a short time while she rested. He took the pestle,
but instead of doing the work as he was told, the badger at once
sprang upon the old woman and knocked her down with the heavy piece
of wood. He then killed her and cut her up and made soup of her,
and waited for the return of the old farmer. The old man worked hard
in his fields all day, and as he worked he thought with pleasure that no
more now would his labor be spoiled by the destructive badger.
Towards sunset he left his work and turned to go home. He was
very tired, but the thought of the nice supper of hot badger soup awaiting
his return cheered him. The thought that the badger might get free and take
revenge on the poor old woman never once came into his mind.
The badger meanwhile assumed the old woman's form, and as soon as he saw
the old farmer approaching came out to greet him on the veranda of the little
house, saying:
"So you have come back at last. I have made the badger soup and
have been waiting for you for a long time."
The old farmer quickly took off his straw sandals and sat down before
his tiny dinner-tray. The innocent man never even dreamed that it was not his
wife but the badger who was waiting upon him, and asked at once for the soup.
Then the badger suddenly transformed himself back to his natural form and
cried out:
"You wife-eating old man! Look out for the bones in the kitchen!"
Laughing loudly and derisively he escaped out of the house and ran away
to his den in the hills. The old man was left behind alone. He could hardly
believe what he had seen and heard. Then when he understood the whole truth
he was so scared and horrified that he fainted right away. After a while he
came round and burst into tears. He cried loudly and bitterly. He rocked
himself to and fro in his hopeless grief. It seemed too terrible to be real
that his faithful old wife had been killed and cooked by the badger while
he was working quietly in the fields, knowing nothing of what was going on
at home, and congratulating himself on having once for all got rid of the
wicked animal who had so often spoiled his fields. And oh! the horrible
thought; he had very nearly drunk the soup which the creature had made of his
poor old woman. "Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!" he wailed aloud. Now, not far
away there lived in the same mountain a kind, good-natured old rabbit. He
heard the old man crying and sobbing and at once set out to see what was the
matter, and if there was anything he could do to help his neighbor. The
old man told him all that had happened. When the rabbit heard the story he
was very angry at the wicked and deceitful badger, and told the old man to
leave everything to him and he would avenge his wife's death. The farmer was
at last comforted, and, wiping away his tears, thanked the rabbit for his
goodness in coming to him in his distress.
The rabbit, seeing that the farmer was growing calmer, went back to his
home to lay his plans for the punishment of the badger.
The next day the weather was fine, and the rabbit went out to find the
badger. He was not to be seen in the woods or on the hillside or in the
fields anywhere, so the rabbit went to his den and found the badger hiding
there, for the animal had been afraid to show himself ever since he had
escaped from the farmer's house, for fear of the old man's wrath.
The rabbit called out:
"Why are you not out on such a beautiful day? Come out with me, and we
will go and cut grass on the hills together."
The badger, never doubting but that the rabbit was his friend, willingly
consented to go out with him, only too glad to get away from the neighborhood
of the farmer and the fear of meeting him. The rabbit led the way miles away
from their homes, out on the hills where the grass grew tall and thick and
sweet. They both set to work to cut down as much as they could carry home, to
store it up for their winter's food. When they had each cut down all they
wanted they tied it in bundles and then started homewards, each
carrying his bundle of grass on his back. This time the rabbit made
the badger go first.
When they had gone a little way the rabbit took out a flint and steel,
and, striking it over the badger's back as he stepped along in front, set his
bundle of grass on fire. The badger heard the flint striking, and
asked:
"What is that noise. 'Crack, crack'?"
"Oh, that is nothing." replied the rabbit; "I only said 'Crack, crack'
because this mountain is called Crackling Mountain."
The fire soon spread in the bundle of dry grass on the badger's back.
The badger, hearing the crackle of the burning grass, asked, "What is
that?"
"Now we have come to the 'Burning Mountain,'" answered the rabbit.
By this time the bundle was nearly burned out and all the hair had been
burned off the badger's back. He now knew what had happened by the smell of
the smoke of the burning grass. Screaming with pain the badger ran as fast as
he could to his hole. The rabbit followed and found him lying on his bed
groaning with pain.
"What an unlucky fellow you are!" said the rabbit. "I can't imagine how
this happened! I will bring you some medicine which will heal your back
quickly!"
The rabbit went away glad and smiling to think that the punishment upon
the badger had already begun. He hoped that the badger would die of his
burns, for he felt that nothing could be too bad for the animal, who was
guilty of murdering a poor helpless old woman who had trusted him. He went
home and made an ointment by mixing some sauce and red pepper together.
He carried this to the badger, but before putting it on he told him that
it would cause him great pain, but that he must bear it patiently, because it
was a very wonderful medicine for burns and scalds and such wounds. The
badger thanked him and begged him to apply it at once. But no language can
describe the agony of the badger as soon as the red pepper had been pasted
all over his sore back. He rolled over and over and howled loudly. The
rabbit, looking on, felt that the farmer's wife was beginning to be
avenged.
The badger was in bed for about a month; but at last, in spite of the
red pepper application, his burns healed and he got well. When the rabbit saw
that the badger was getting well, he thought of another plan by which he
could compass the creature's death. So he went one day to pay the badger a
visit and to congratulate him on his recovery.
During the conversation the rabbit mentioned that he was going fishing,
and described how pleasant fishing was when the weather was fine and the sea
smooth.
The badger listened with pleasure to the rabbit's account of the way he
passed his time now, and forgot all his pains and his month's illness, and
thought what fun it would be if he could go fishing too; so he asked the
rabbit if he would take him the next time he went out to fish. This was just
what the rabbit wanted, so he agreed.
Then he went home and built two boats, one of wood and the other
of clay. At last they were both finished, and as the rabbit stood
and looked at his work he felt that all his trouble would be well rewarded
if his plan succeeded, and he could manage to kill the wicked badger
now.
The day came when the rabbit had arranged to take the badger fishing. He
kept the wooden boat himself and gave the badger the clay boat. The badger,
who knew nothing about boats, was delighted with his new boat and thought how
kind it was of the rabbit to give it to him. They both got into their boats
and set out. After going some distance from the shore the rabbit proposed
that they should try their boats and see which one could go the quickest. The
badger fell in with the proposal, and they both set to work to row as
fast as they could for some time. In the middle of the race the
badger found his boat going to pieces, for the water now began to
soften the clay. He cried out in great fear to the rabbit to help him.
But the rabbit answered that he was avenging the old woman's murder,
and that this had been his intention all along, and that he was happy
to think that the badger had at last met his deserts for all his
evil crimes, and was to drown with no one to help him. Then he raised
his oar and struck at the badger with all his strength till he fell
with the sinking clay boat and was seen no more.
Thus at last he kept his promise to the old farmer. The rabbit
now turned and rowed shorewards, and having landed and pulled his
boat upon the beach, hurried back to tell the old farmer everything,
and how the badger, his enemy, had been killed.
The old farmer thanked him with tears in his eyes. He said that till now
he could never sleep at night or be at peace in the daytime, thinking of how
his wife's death was unavenged, but from this time he would be able to sleep
and eat as of old. He begged the rabbit to stay with him and share his home,
so from this day the rabbit went to stay with the old farmer and they both
lived together as good friends to the end of their days.
The compass, with its needle always pointing to the North, is
quite a common thing, and no one thinks that it is remarkable now,
though when it was first invented it must have been a wonder.
Now long ago in China, there was a still more wonderful invention called
the shinansha. This was a kind of chariot with the figure of a man on it
always pointing to the South. No matter how the chariot was placed the figure
always wheeled about and pointed to the South.
This curious instrument was invented by Kotei, one of the three Chinese
Emperors of the Mythological age. Kotei was the son of the Emperor Yuhi.
Before he was born his mother had a vision which foretold that her son would
be a great man.
One summer evening she went out to walk in the meadows to seek the cool
breezes which blow at the end of the day and to gaze with pleasure at the
star-lit heavens above her. As she looked at the North Star, strange to
relate, it shot forth vivid flashes of lightning in every direction. Soon
after this her son Kotei came into the world.
Kotei in time grew to manhood and succeeded his father the Emperor Yuhi.
His early reign was greatly troubled by the rebel Shiyu. This rebel wanted to
make himself King, and many were the battles which he fought to this end.
Shiyu was a wicked magician, his head was made of iron, and there was no man
that could conquer him.
At last Kotei declared war against the rebel and led his army to battle,
and the two armies met on a plain called Takuroku. The Emperor boldly
attacked the enemy, but the magician brought down a dense fog upon the
battlefield, and while the royal army were wandering about in confusion,
trying to find their way, Shiyu retreated with his troops, laughing at having
fooled the royal army.
No matter however strong and brave the Emperor's soldiers were,
the rebel with his magic could always escape in the end.
Kotei returned to his Palace, and thought and pondered deeply as to how
he should conquer the magician, for he was determined not to give up yet.
After a long time he invented the shinansha with the figure of a man always
pointing South, for there were no compasses in those days. With this
instrument to show him the way he need not fear the dense fogs raised up by
the magician to confound his men.
Kotei again declared war against Shiyu. He placed the shinansha in front
of his army and led the way to the battlefield.
The battle began in earnest. The rebel was being driven backward by the
royal troops when he again resorted to magic, and upon his saying some
strange words in a loud voice, immediately a dense fog came down upon the
battlefield.
But this time no soldier minded the fog, not one was confused. Kotei by
pointing to the shinansha could find his way and directed the army without a
single mistake. He closely pursued the rebel army and drove them backward
till they came to a big river. This river Kotei and his men found was swollen
by the floods and impossible to cross.
Shiyu by using his magic art quickly passed over with his army and shut
himself up in a fortress on the opposite bank.
When Kotei found his march checked he was wild with disappointment, for
he had very nearly overtaken the rebel when the river stopped him.
He could do nothing, for there were no boats in those days, so
the Emperor ordered his tent to be pitched in the pleasantest spot
that the place afforded.
One day he stepped forth from his tent and after walking about for
a short time he came to a pond. Here he sat down on the bank and was lost
in thought.
It was autumn. The trees growing along the edge of the water
were shedding their leaves, which floated hither and thither on
the surface of the pond. By and by, Kotei's attention was attracted to
a spider on the brink of the water. The little insect was trying to get on
to one of the floating leaves near by. It did so at last, and was soon
floating over the water to the other side of the pond.
This little incident made the clever Emperor think that he might try to
make something that could carry himself and his men over the river in the
same way that the leaf had carried over the spider. He set to work and
persevered till he invented the first boat. When he found that it was a
success he set all his men to make more, and in time there were enough boats
for the whole army.
Kotei now took his army across the river, and attacked
Shiyu's headquarters. He gained a complete victory, and so put an end to
the war which had troubled his country for so long.
This wise and good Emperor did not rest till he had secured peace and
prosperity throughout his whole land. He was beloved by his subjects, who now
enjoyed their happiness of peace for many long years under him. He spent a
great deal of time in making inventions which would benefit his people, and
he succeeded in many besides the boat and the South Pointing shinansha.
He had reigned about a hundred years when one day, as Kotei was looking
upwards, the sky became suddenly red, and something came glittering like gold
towards the earth. As it came nearer Kotei saw that it was a great Dragon.
The Dragon approached and bowed down its head before the Emperor. The Empress
and the courtiers were so frightened that they ran away screaming.
But the Emperor only smiled and called to them to stop, and said:
"Do not be afraid. This is a messenger from Heaven. My time here
is finished!" He then mounted the Dragon, which began to ascend
towards the sky.
When the Empress and the courtiers saw this they all cried
out together:
"Wait a moment! We wish to come too." And they all ran and caught hold
of the Dragon's beard and tried to mount him.
But it was impossible for so many people to ride on the Dragon. Several
of them hung on to the creature's beard so that when it tried to mount the
hair was pulled out and they fell to the ground.
Meanwhile the Empress and a few of the courtiers were safely seated on
the Dragon's back. The Dragon flew up so high in the heavens that in a short
time the inmates of the Palace, who had been left behind disappointed, could
see them no more.
After some time a bow and an arrow dropped to the earth in the courtyard
of the Palace. They were recognized as having belonged to the Emperor Kotei.
The courtiers took them up carefully and preserved them as sacred relics in
the Palace.
Long, long ago there lived in Kyoto a brave soldier named
Kintoki. Now he fell in love with a beautiful lady and married her. Not
long after this, through the malice of some of his friends, he fell
into disgrace at Court and was dismissed. This misfortune so preyed
upon his mind that he did not long survive his dismissal—he died, leaving
behind him his beautiful young wife to face the world alone. Fearing her
husband's enemies, she fled to the Ashigara Mountains as soon as her husband
was dead, and there in the lonely forests where no one ever came except
woodcutters, a little boy was born to her. She called him Kintaro or the
Golden Boy. Now the remarkable thing about this child was his great strength,
and as he grew older he grew stronger and stronger, so that by the time he
was eight years of age he was able to cut down trees as quickly as the
woodcutters. Then his mother gave him a large ax, and he used to go out in
the forest and help the woodcutters, who called him "Wonder-child,"
and his mother the "Old Nurse of the Mountains," for they did not know her
high rank. Another favorite pastime of Kintaro's was to smash up rocks and
stones. You can imagine how strong he was!
Quite unlike other boys, Kintaro, grew up all alone in the
mountain wilds, and as he had no companions he made friends with all
the animals and learned to understand them and to speak their
strange talk. By degrees they all grew quite tame and looked upon Kintaro
as their master, and he used them as his servants and messengers. But his
special retainers were the bear, the deer, the monkey and the hare.
The bear often brought her cubs for Kintaro to romp with, and when she
came to take them home Kintaro would get on her back and have a ride to her
cave. He was very fond of the deer too, and would often put his arms round
the creature's neck to show that its long horns did not frighten him. Great
was the fun they all had together.
One day, as usual, Kintaro went up into the mountains, followed by the
bear, the deer, the monkey, and the hare. After walking for some time up hill
and down dale and over rough roads, they suddenly came out upon a wide and
grassy plain covered with pretty wild flowers.
Here, indeed, was a nice place where they could all have a good
romp together. The deer rubbed his horns against a tree for pleasure,
the monkey scratched his back, the hare smoothed his long ears, and
the bear gave a grunt of satisfaction.
Kintaro said, "Here is a place for a good game. What do you all say to a
wrestling match?"
The bear being the biggest and the oldest, answered for the others:
"That will be great fun," said she. "I am the strongest animal, so
I will make the platform for the wrestlers;" and she set to work with a
will to dig up the earth and to pat it into shape.
"All right," said Kintaro, "I will look on while you all wrestle with
each other. I shall give a prize to the one who wins in each round."
"What fun! we shall all try to get the prize," said the bear.
The deer, the monkey and the hare set to work to help the bear raise the
platform on which they were all to wrestle. When this was finished, Kintaro
cried out:
"Now begin! the monkey and the hare shall open the sports and the deer
shall be umpire. Now, Mr. Deer, you are to be umpire!"
"He, he!" answered the deer. "I will be umpire. Now, Mr. Monkey and Mr.
Hare, if you are both ready, please walk out and take your places on the
platform."
Then the monkey and the hare both hopped out, quickly and nimbly, to the
wrestling platform. The deer, as umpire, stood between the two and called
out:
"Red-back! Red-back!" (this to the monkey, who has a red back in Japan).
"Are you ready?"
Then he turned to the hare:
"Long-ears! Long-ears! are you ready?"
Both the little wrestlers faced each other while the deer raised a leaf
on high as signal. When he dropped the leaf the monkey and the hare rushed
upon each other, crying "Yoisho, yoisho!"
While the monkey and the hare wrestled, the deer called
out encouragingly or shouted warnings to each of them as the hare or
the monkey pushed each other near the edge of the platform and were
in danger of falling over.
"Red-back! Red-back! stand your ground!" called out the deer.
"Long-ears! Long-ears! be strong, be strong—don't let the monkey beat
you!" grunted the bear.
So the monkey and the hare, encouraged by their friends, tried
their very hardest to beat each other. The hare at last gained on
the monkey. The monkey seemed to trip up, and the hare giving him a
good push sent him flying off the platform with a bound.
The poor monkey sat up rubbing his back, and his face was very long as
he screamed angrily. "Oh, oh! how my back hurts—my back hurts me!"
Seeing the monkey in this plight on the ground, the deer holding
his leaf on high said:
"This round is finished—the hare has won."
Kintaro then opened his luncheon box and taking out a
rice-dumpling, gave it to the hare saying:
"Here is your prize, and you have earned, it well!"
Now the monkey got up looking very cross, and as they say in Japan "his
stomach stood up," for he felt that he had not been fairly beaten. So he said
to Kintaro and the others who were standing by:
"I have not been fairly beaten. My foot slipped and I tumbled. Please
give me another chance and let the hare wrestle with me for another
round."
Then Kintaro consenting, the hare and the monkey began to wrestle again.
Now, as every one knows, the monkey is a cunning animal by nature, and he
made up his mind to get the best of the hare this time if it were possible.
To do this, he thought that the best and surest way would be to get hold of
the hare's long ear. This he soon managed to do. The hare was quite thrown
off his guard by the pain of having his long ear pulled so hard, and the
monkey seizing his opportunity at last, caught hold of one of the hare's legs
and sent him sprawling in the middle of the dais. The monkey was now
the victor and received, a rice-dumpling from Kintaro, which pleased
him so much that he quite forgot his sore back.
The deer now came up and asked the hare if he felt ready for
another round, and if so whether be would try a round with him, and the
hare consenting, they both stood up to wrestle. The bear came forward
as umpire.
The deer with long horns and the hare with long ears, it must have been
an amusing sight to those who watched this queer match. Suddenly the deer
went down on one of his knees, and the bear with the leaf on high declared
him beaten. In this way, sometimes the one, sometimes the other, conquering,
the little party amused themselves till they were tired.
At last Kintaro got up and said:
"This is enough for to-day. What a nice place we have found
for wrestling; let us come again to-morrow. Now, we will all go home. Come
along!" So saying, Kintaro led the way while the animals followed.
After walking some little distance they came out on the banks of a river
flowing through a valley. Kintaro and his four furry friends stood and looked
about for some means of crossing. Bridge there was none. The river rushed
"don, don" on its way. All the animals looked serious, wondering how they
could cross the stream and get home that evening.
Kintaro, however, said:
"Wait a moment. I will make a good bridge for you all in a
few minutes."
The bear, the deer, the monkey and the hare looked at him to see what he
would do now.
Kintaro went from one tree to another that grew along the river bank. At
last he stopped in front of a very large tree that was growing at the water's
edge. He took hold of the trunk and pulled it with all his might, once,
twice, thrice! At the third pull, so great was Kintaro's strength that the
roots gave way, and "meri, meri" (crash, crash), over fell the tree, forming
an excellent bridge across the stream.
"There," said Kintaro, "what do you think of my bridge? It is
quite safe, so follow me," and he stepped across first. The four
animals followed. Never had they seen any one so strong before, and they
all exclaimed:
"How strong he is! how strong he is!"
While all this was going on by the river a woodcutter, who happened to
be standing on a rock overlooking the stream, had seen all that passed
beneath him. He watched with great surprise Kintaro and his animal
companions. He rubbed his eyes to be sure that he was not dreaming when he
saw this boy pull over a tree by the roots and throw it across the stream to
form a bridge.
The woodcutter, for such he seemed to be by his dress, marveled at all
he saw, and said to himself:
"This is no ordinary child. Whose son can he be? I will find out before
this day is done."
He hastened after the strange party and crossed the bridge behind them.
Kintaro knew nothing of all this, and little guessed that he was being
followed. On reaching the other side of the river he and the animals
separated, they to their lairs in the woods and he to his mother, who was
waiting for him.
As soon as he entered the cottage, which stood like a matchbox in the
heart of the pine-woods, he went to greet his mother, saying:
"Okkasan (mother), here I am!"
"O, Kimbo!" said his mother with a bright smile, glad to see her
boy home safe after the long day. "How late you are to-day. I feared that
something had happened to you. Where have you been all the time?"
"I took my four friends, the bear, the deer, the monkey, and the hare,
up into the hills, and there I made them try a wrestling match, to see which
was the strongest. We all enjoyed the sport, and are going to the same place
to-morrow to have another match."
"Now tell me who is the strongest of all?" asked his mother, pretending
not to know.
"Oh, mother," said Kintaro, "don't you know that I am the
strongest? There was no need for me to wrestle with any of them."
"But next to you then, who is the strongest?"
"The bear comes next to me in strength," answered Kintaro.
"And after the bear?" asked his mother again.
"Next to the bear it is not easy to say which is the strongest, for the
deer, the monkey, and the hare all seem to be as strong as each other," said
Kintaro.
Suddenly Kintaro and his mother were startled by a voice
from outside.
"Listen to me, little boy! Next time you go, take this old man with you
to the wrestling match. He would like to join the sport too!"
It was the old woodcutter who had followed Kintaro from the river. He
slipped off his clogs and entered the cottage. Yama-uba and her son were both
taken by surprise. They looked at the intruder wonderingly and saw that he
was some one they had never seen before.
"Who are you?" they both exclaimed.
Then the woodcutter laughed and said:
"It does not matter who I am yet, but let us see who has the strongest
arm—this boy or myself?"
Then Kintaro, who had lived all his life in the forest, answered the old
man without any ceremony, saying:
"We will have a try if you wish it, but you must not be angry whoever is
beaten."
Then Kintaro and the woodcutter both put out their right arms
and grasped each other's hands. For a long time Kintaro and the old
man wrestled together in this way, each trying to bend the other's
arm, but the old man was very strong, and the strange pair were
evenly matched. At last the old man desisted, declaring it a drawn
game.
"You are, indeed, a very strong child. There are few men who can boast
of the strength of my right arm!" said the woodcutter. "I saw you first on
the hanks of the river a few hours ago, when you pulled up that large tree to
make a bridge across the torrent. Hardly able to believe what I saw I
followed you home. Your strength of arm, which I have just tried, proves what
I saw this afternoon. When you are full-grown you will surely be the
strongest man in all Japan. It is a pity that you are hidden away in these
wild mountains."
Then he turned to Kintaro's mother:
"And you, mother, have you no thought of taking your child to
the Capital, and of teaching him to carry a sword as befits a samurai
(a Japanese knight)?"
"You are very kind to take so much interest in my son." replied
the mother; "but he is as you see, wild and uneducated, and I fear
it would be very difficult to do as you say. Because of his great strength
as an infant I hid him away in this unknown part of the country, for he hurt
every one that came near him. I have often wished that I could, one day, see
my boy a knight wearing two swords, but as we have no influential friend to
introduce us at the Capital, I fear my hope will never come true."
"You need not trouble yourself about that. To tell you the truth I am no
woodcutter! I am one of the great generals of Japan. My name is Sadamitsu,
and I am a vassal of the powerful Lord Minamoto-no- Raiko. He ordered me to
go round the country and look for boys who give promise of remarkable
strength, so that they may be trained as soldiers for his army. I thought
that I could best do this by assuming the disguise of a woodcutter. By good
fortune, I have thus unexpectedly come across your son. Now if you really
wish him to be a SAMURAI (a knight), I will take him and present him to the
Lord Raiko as a candidate for his service. What do you say to this?"
As the kind general gradually unfolded his plan the mother's heart was
filled with a great joy. She saw that here was a wonderful chance of the one
wish of her life being fulfilled—that of seeing Kintaro a SAMURAI before she
died.
Bowing her head to the ground, she replied:
"I will then intrust my son to you if you really mean what you say."
Kintaro had all this time been sitting by his mother's side listening to
what they said. When his mother finished speaking, he exclaimed:
"Oh, joy! joy! I am to go with the general and one day I shall be
a SAMURAI!"
Thus Kintaro's fate was settled, and the general decided to start for
the Capital at once, taking Kintaro with him. It need hardly be said that
Yama-uba was sad at parting with her boy, for he was all that was left to
her. But she hid her grief with a strong face, as they say in Japan. She knew
that it was for her boy's good that he should leave her now, and she must not
discourage him just as he was setting out. Kintaro promised never to forget
her, and said that as soon as he was a knight wearing two swords he would
build her a home and take care of her in her old age.
All the animals, those he had tamed to serve him, the bear, the deer,
the monkey, and the hare, as soon as they found out that he was going away,
came to ask if they might attend him as usual. When they learned that he was
going away for good they followed him to the foot of the mountain to see him
off.
"Kimbo," said his mother, "mind and be a good boy."
"Mr. Kintaro," said the faithful animals, "we wish you good health on
your travels."
Then they all climbed a tree to see the last of him, and from
that height they watched him and his shadow gradually grow smaller
and smaller, till he was lost to sight.
The general Sadamitsu went on his way rejoicing at having
so unexpectedly found such a prodigy as Kintaro.
Having arrived at their destination the general took Kintaro at once to
his Lord, Minamoto-no-Raiko, and told him all about Kintaro and how he had
found the child. Lord Raiko was delighted with the story, and having
commanded Kintaro to be brought to him, made him one of his vassals at
once.
Lord Raiko's army was famous for its band called "The Four
Braves." These warriors were chosen by himself from amongst the bravest
and strongest of his soldiers, and the small and well-picked band
was distinguished throughout the whole of Japan for the dauntless courage
of its men.
When Kintaro grew up to be a man his master made him the Chief of the
Four Braves. He was by far the strongest of them all. Soon after this event,
news was brought to the city that a cannibal monster had taken up his abode
not far away and that people were stricken with fear. Lord Raiko ordered
Kintaro to the rescue. He immediately started off, delighted at the prospect
of trying his sword.
Surprising the monster in its den, he made short work of cutting off its
great head, which he carried back in triumph to his master.
Kintaro now rose to be the greatest hero of his country, and great was
the power and honor and wealth that came to him. He now kept his promise and
built a comfortable home for his old mother, who lived happily with him in
the Capital to the end of her days.
Is not this the story of a great hero?
A STORY OF OLD JAPAN.
Many, many years ago there lived in Nara, the ancient Capital
of Japan, a wise State minister, by name Prince Toyonari Fujiwara.
His wife was a noble, good, and beautiful woman called Princess
Murasaki (Violet). They had been married by their respective
families according to Japanese custom when very young, and had lived
together happily ever since. They had, however, one cause for great
sorrow, for as the years went by no child was born to them. This made
them very unhappy, for they both longed to see a child of their own
who would grow up to gladden their old age, carry on the family name, and
keep up the ancestral rites when they were dead. The Prince and his lovely
wife, after long consultation and much thought, determined to make a
pilgrimage to the temple of Hase-no-Kwannon (Goddess of Mercy at Hase), for
they believed, according to the beautiful tradition of their religion, that
the Mother of Mercy, Kwannon, comes to answer the prayers of mortals in the
form that they need the most. Surely after all these years of prayer she
would come to them in the form of a beloved child in answer to
their special pilgrimage, for that was the greatest need of their
two lives. Everything else they had that this life could give them, but it
was all as nothing because the cry of their hearts was unsatisfied.
So the Prince Toyonari and his wife went to the temple of Kwannon
at Hase and stayed there for a long time, both daily offering incense and
praying to Kwannon, the Heavenly Mother, to grant them the desire of their
whole lives. And their prayer was answered.
A daughter was born at last to the Princess Murasaki, and great was the
joy of her heart. On presenting the child to her husband, they both decided
to call her Hase-Hime, or the Princess of Hase, because she was the gift of
the Kwannon at that place. They both reared her with great care and
tenderness, and the child grew in strength and beauty.
When the little girl was five years old her mother fell dangerously ill
and all the doctors and their medicines could not save her. A little before
she breathed her last she called her daughter to her, and gently stroking her
head, said:
"Hase-Hime, do you know that your mother cannot live any longer? Though
I die, you must grow up a good girl. Do your best not to give trouble to your
nurse or any other of your family. Perhaps your father will marry again and
some one will fill my place as your mother. If so do not grieve for me, but
look upon your father's second wife as your true mother, and be obedient and
filial to both her and your father. Remember when you are grown up to be
submissive to those who are your superiors, and to be kind to all those who
are under you. Don't forget this. I die with the hope that you will
grow up a model woman."
Hase-Hime listened in an attitude of respect while her mother spoke, and
promised to do all that she was told. There is a proverb which says "As the
soul is at three so it is at one hundred," and so Hase- Hime grew up as her
mother had wished, a good and obedient little Princess, though she was now
too young to understand how great was the loss of her mother.
Not long after the death of his first wife, Prince Toyonari
married again, a lady of noble birth named Princess Terute. Very
different in character, alas! to the good and wise Princess Murasaki,
this woman had a cruel, bad heart. She did not love her step-daughter
at all, and was often very unkind to the little motherless girl, saving to
herself:
"This is not my child! this is not my child!"
But Hase-Hime bore every unkindness with patience, and even waited upon
her step-mother kindly and obeyed her in every way and never gave any
trouble, just as she had been trained by her own good mother, so that the
Lady Terute had no cause for complaint against her.
The little Princess was very diligent, and her favorite studies
were music and poetry. She would spend several hours practicing every day,
and her father had the most proficient of masters he could find to teach her
the koto (Japanese harp), the art of writing letters and verse. When she was
twelve years of age she could play so beautifully that she and her
step-mother were summoned to the Palace to perform before the Emperor.
It was the Festival of the Cherry Flowers, and there were
great festivities at the Court. The Emperor threw himself into
the enjoyment of the season, and commanded that Princess Hase
should perform before him on the koto, and that her mother Princess
Terute should accompany her on the flute.
The Emperor sat on a raised dais, before which was hung a curtain
of finely-sliced bamboo and purple tassels, so that His Majesty might see
all and not be seen, for no ordinary subject was allowed to looked upon his
sacred face.
Hase-Hime was a skilled musician though so young, and often astonished
her masters by her wonderful memory and talent. On this momentous occasion
she played well. But Princess Terute, her step- mother, who was a lazy woman
and never took the trouble to practice daily, broke down in her accompaniment
and had to request one of the Court ladies to take her place. This was a
great disgrace, and she was furiously jealous to think that she had failed
where her step- daughter succeeded; and to make matters worse the Emperor
sent many beautiful gifts to the little Princess to reward her for playing
so well at the Palace.
There was also now another reason why Princess Terute hated
her step-daughter, for she had had the good fortune to have a son born to
her, and in her inmost heart she kept saying:
"If only Hase-Hime were not here, my son would have all the love of his
father."
And never having learned to control herself, she allowed this
wicked thought to grow into the awful desire of taking her
step-daughter's life.
So one day she secretly ordered some poison and poisoned some
sweet wine. This poisoned wine she put into a bottle. Into another
similar bottle she poured some good wine. It was the occasion of the
Boys' Festival on the fifth of May, and Hase-Hime was playing with
her little brother. All his toys of warriors and heroes were spread
out and she was telling him wonderful stories about each of them.
They were both enjoying themselves and laughing merrily with
their attendants when his mother entered with the two bottles of wine
and some delicious cakes.
"You are both so good and happy." said the wicked Princess Terute with a
smile, "that I have brought you some sweet wine as a reward— and here are
some nice cakes for my good children."
And she filled two cups from the different bottles.
Hase-Hime, never dreaming of the dreadful part her step-mother
was acting, took one of the cups of wine and gave to her little
step brother the other that had been poured out for him.
The wicked woman had carefully marked the poisoned bottle, but on coming
into the room she had grown nervous, and pouring out the wine hurriedly had
unconsciously given the poisoned cup to her own child. All this time she was
anxiously watching the little Princess, but to her amazement no change
whatever took place in the young girl's face. Suddenly the little boy
screamed and threw himself on the floor, doubled up with pain. His mother
flew to him, taking the precaution to upset the two tiny jars of wine which
she had brought into the room, and lifted him up. The attendants rushed for
the doctor, but nothing could save the child—he died within the hour
in his mother's arms. Doctors did not know much in those ancient
times, and it was thought that the wine had disagreed with the boy,
causing convulsions of which he died.
Thus was the wicked woman punished in losing her own child when she had
tried to do away with her step-daughter; but instead of blaming herself she
began to hate Hase-Hime more than ever in the bitterness and wretchedness of
her own heart, and she eagerly watched for an opportunity to do her harm,
which was, however, long in coming.
When Hase-Hime was thirteen years of age, she had already
become mentioned as a poetess of some merit. This was an
accomplishment very much cultivated by the women of old Japan and one held in
high esteem.
It was the rainy season at Nara, and floods were reported every day as
doing damage in the neighborhood. The river Tatsuta, which flowed through the
Imperial Palace grounds, was swollen to the top of its banks, and the roaring
of the torrents of water rushing along a narrow bed so disturbed the
Emperor's rest day and night, that a serious nervous disorder was the result.
An Imperial Edict was sent forth to all the Buddhist temples commanding the
priests to offer up continuous prayers to Heaven to stop the noise of the
flood. But this was of no avail.
Then it was whispered in Court circles that the Princess Hase,
the daughter of Prince Toyonari Fujiwara, second minister at Court,
was the most gifted poetess of the day, though still so young, and
her masters confirmed the report. Long ago, a beautiful and
gifted maiden-poetess had moved Heaven by praying in verse, had
brought down rain upon a land famished with drought—so said the
ancient biographers of the poetess Ono-no-Komachi. If the Princess Hase
were to write a poem and offer it in prayer, might it not stop the
noise of the rushing river and remove the cause of the Imperial
illness? What the Court said at last reached the ears of the Emperor
himself, and he sent an order to the minister Prince Toyonari to this
effect.
Great indeed was Hase-Hime's fear and astonishment when her father sent
for her and told her what was required of her. Heavy, indeed, was the duty
that was laid on her young shoulders—that of saving the Emperor's life by
the merit of her verse.
At last the day came and her poem was finished. It was written on
a leaflet of paper heavily flecked with gold-dust. With her father
and attendants and some of the Court officials, she proceeded to the bank
of the roaring tor