Chapter II (2)

“I spent it quite comfortably,” said Kihachi, “and I think the goblin is dead.” Then he showed the headman the rat and his cats, and told him what had happened in the night. The headman said, “It is well that you obeyed the old priest’s instructions to ‘seek small shelters.’ This goblin has haunted the temple for many months and no one who has come here has ever returned. Your cats are very lifelike; I believe that some day you will be a great artist. In the city yonder you will find my brother. Go to him and tell him your story. He will help you. You have done my village a good turn with your cats, so here is a present to help you along;” and he gave him twenty _yen_.

Then was Kihachi very glad in his heart, and he made his thanks to the headman and went his way.

And thereafter, when he became a great artist and taught many boys to draw, he laughed as he told his pupils, “My first great picture was a drawing of cats, and for it I received twenty _yen_.” And his pupils were much astonished and called him always “The Painter of Cats.”

FOOTNOTES:

[20] Sash.

[21] Punk.

[22] Good morning, Father--Good morning, Mother.

[23] Boy.

[24] Heavenly bamboo, a tree with bright scarlet berries.

[25] Hangings or pictures.

THE COMING OF BENTEN SAMA

Long ago the river of Kashigoye flowed into the sea by the Marsh of the Terrible Dragons. The dragons were five, and yearly they came forth and devoured the maidens of the village and there was no way to hinder. But the people cried loudly to Benten Sama, the goddess of mothers, the bestower of love and beauty.

Now Benten Sama had many sons: Daikoku, who gives wealth, Ebisu, who is the god of fishermen, Hatei, who is full of mirth, and others equally renowned.

Of all these sons, Benten Sama loved Ebisu best, and for his sake all fishermen were dear to her. When, therefore, O Ume San, daughter of the headman of the village, besought the blessing of the gentle goddess upon her lover, a fisherman, Benten Sama listened.

“Goddess of Mercy,” murmured the girl. “Send thy blessing upon him, for my honorable father will not consent to our union. He says, ‘When the five Dragons of the Marshlands are no more thou shalt marry this fisher lad.’ I pray you, gentle goddess, soften the heart of my father, and may thy son Ebisu bestow his favor upon Hakuga.”

Benten Sama listened to the girl’s prayer and smiled. She whispered to her son and he was kind. He filled Hakuga’s nets with fish and these brought many _yen_. He then approached the father of O Ume San and besought of him his daughter, his Go-between[26] saying, “Honorably deign to listen to the prayer of Hakuga and give to him your daughter, for he has many _yen_!” But the father replied ever the same, “When the five Marsh Dragons are no more,” and the Go-between returned sadly to Hakuga.

Then the maiden prayed again to Benten Sama and she said, “Kind Goddess, hear! Send some curse upon the five Marsh Dragons, that Hatei your son may bestow mirth upon us, for we are sad.”

Then Benten Sama thought, and that which she thought was good. It was the time of the red maple leaf[27] and Tatsu Hima[28] ruled. Benten Sama asked her aid, as she flaunted her banners upon the hillside, and that night there came a fearful storm. The storm howled and shrieked, and all the people cowered in terror. All night it raged, and the thunder god gave five mighty roars, and at each roar a dragon lay dead.

And when the sun god lighted the world, all was still and smiling, the Marsh of the Dragons was gone, and in its stead rose an island, green and beautiful, and above it hovered Benten Sama, throned upon a rainbow.

Then were the people much pleased at their deliverance from the five Dragons of the Marsh, and they made a shrine to Benten Sama at that point where she had appeared.

And O Ume San married the fisherman and they lived happily ever after.

FOOTNOTES:

[26] A Japanese never asks for a wife himself. He always sends a professional matchmaker who is called a “Go-between.”

[27] November.

[28] Goddess of Autumn.

THE WATERFALL WHICH FLOWED SAKÉ

Once there was a poor woodcutter who toiled early and late for a living. He worked harder than others, because he loved his old father and mother dearly, and wished to give them all the good things of life. But though he was more diligent than any other woodcutter of the village, he never seemed able to gain enough _sen_ to buy _saké_ and tea, but only enough for rice and bread.

One day he climbed high up on the mountain to find the best wood. It was a very steep mountain, and no one else would try to climb so high. So he worked alone. Chop, chop, his axe broke the stillness and soon he had a goodly pile of logs.

Stopping for a moment to rest, he saw a badger lying asleep under a tree, and he thought to himself, “Aha, my fine little beastie! You will make a fine morsel for my father’s supper. He and my mother have not tasted meat for many a day.”

The longer he looked at the badger, however, the less he wanted to kill him. He was such a little creature and it seemed mean to kill a sleeping thing and one so much smaller than himself!

“No,” he said to himself at last, “I can not kill him! I will but work the harder that I may earn money to buy my parents some meat!”

Now the badger seemed to understand and approve of this resolve on the part of the young woodcutter. He opened one eye and then the other. Then he blinked saucily at the woodcutter.

“Thank you,” he said. “That was a wise conclusion.”

The young man dropped his axe and jumped high into the air, so great was his astonishment at hearing a badger talk.

“You couldn’t kill me if you tried,” said the badger. “Besides, I am far more useful to you alive than dead. And now, because you have proved yourself of a kind heart, I will show you kindness. Bring me the flat, white stone which lies beneath yonder pine tree.”

The woodcutter turned to obey, and suddenly stopped in wonder. Spread upon the stone was the finest feast he had ever seen. There were rice and _saké_, fish and _dango_,[29] and other good things. He sighed as he looked, for he wished he could take the food home to his parents.

“Sit and eat,” said the badger who answered his thoughts as if they had been spoken. “Your father and mother shall eat the same.”

The woodcutter obeyed, but when he tried to thank his little friend, he saw that the badger was gone and that, just where he had sat, there was a sparkling, tinkling waterfall. It rippled over stones and crags and sang a sweet little song, and as the woodcutter stooped to drink of it lo! the waterfall flowed with _saké_! It was the richest he had ever tasted and he filled his gourd with it and hurried home to share it with his parents.

When he arrived there and had told his story, his mother smiled and said, “Thou art a good son.”

“We have fared as well,” his father said, “for we found spread for us just such a feast as yours, though we knew not at all whence it came.”

Next day the young man went early to his work. As he climbed the mountain he saw, to his surprise, a troop of woodcutters following him, and each carried a gourd. Some one had overheard him tell his father of the waterfall which flowed _saké_, and all the woodcutters of the village wished to taste of the wonderful drink.

When they drank, however, they were filled with rage, for to them the waterfall flowed only water. Then they reviled the youth and cried,

“Base one, you have beguiled us here on false pretenses! You have spoken falsely! We have toiled here for nothing! You are an evil fellow!”

But he replied calmly, “I did not ask you to come. For me the waterfall flows _saké_ still, as sweet as yester-eve.”

They went away in great anger, and as they went the waterfall almost seemed to laugh, so gayly did it tinkle over the stones. When the woodcutter drank, however, the laughter turned to music and a sweet voice crooned a gentle song,

“_Saké_ for him who is kind,
Water for those who seek self,
_Saké_ for him who is kind!”

Thereafter it was the same. Whenever the woodcutter, worn with toil, stooped to drink from the sparkling waterfall, or at night when he filled his gourd to bear to his father at home, the _saké_ flowed free and clear and delicious. And ever the tinkling voice repeated, over and over to the music of waters falling,

“_Saké_ to him who is kind.”

FOOTNOTES:

[29] A kind of dumpling.

THE BOY AND THE SPIRITS OF THINGS

There was once a little boy of the Ainu who was very wise. He seldom played with the other boys, for the spirits of things were his playmates. No one could see his playmates, but he talked to them and loved them better than all the children whom he knew.

“My friends tell me strange things,” he said; and his mother asked, “Who are your friends and what strange things do they tell you, my child?”

“My friends are the spirits of things,” the boy made answer. “I can not tell you what they say, but the spirit of the pine tree whispers to me the things the spirit of the north wind tells to him; the tall bamboo spirit bends down as the tree sways, and talks of the sun’s glowing rays; the birds and blossoms speak to me of the earth’s beauty. Even the common things have spirits and they tell me many things.”

The boy’s mother sighed, as she looked at him, for she thought he was too wise.

One day the boy fell ill. He was very sick, but no one knew what was the matter with him. He drooped from day to day and seemed not to care for anything. And it was the winter time.

One day his mother came to him and said, “My son, the first plum blossom is seen upon the trees. The sun is warm. Will you not go out of doors to see it?”

“The plum blossom spirit whispered me of its coming,” he said. “I will go and see.”

Then he crept slowly from the little thatched hut and, resting at the door, he saw the plum blossom and smelled its delicious fragrance. He smiled a little and then a queer look came into his eyes. He held his chin in the palm of his hand and sat quietly nodding his head once or twice as if saying, “Yes.”

At last his mother could bear no longer to be without his thoughts. She feared to lose him, and she felt jealous of everything that came near to him. “Tell me what you think, little son,” she said.

“I will tell you,” the boy answered. “Oftentimes a boy and girl come to play with me. They are Spirit Children and we play many things. To-day they have told me why I am ill. It is this. My grandfather had a fine axe. With it he made many things, a tray, and a pestle to pound millet, and others. But my father threw away the axe, forgetting how well it had served. Now it lies rusting, and the spirit of the axe is angry. Because the spirit of the axe is angry, it has made me ill. So, if you do not wish me to die, you must tell my father to seek the axe and do honor to its spirit.”

“It shall be as you say, my son,” said his mother, and she sought his father and told him all. Then he found the axe, and polished it carefully until it shone. He made for it a new handle of ironwood, and carved it with care. And to it he set up a worship stick. This stick was tall, and its feathers curled and waved in the breeze.

Then the spirit of the axe was happy, and the boy was made well, so that joy fell upon the soul of his mother.

And when he grew to be a man, he became a great augur, for the spirits of things came often to him and told him much that was concealed from other beings. For the spirits of things were his friends.

THE DAUGHTER OF A SAMURAI

There was once a daughter of a Samurai who was both beautiful and good. Her name was O Cho San. Her father was dead, and she worked very hard to support her mother who was ill. The mother had trained her daughter in the best of manners, therefore O Cho San had no trouble in finding work.

There was a certain nobleman in need of a maid servant, and he approached O Cho San and asked her to serve him.

“What would my duties be?” inquired the girl as she respectfully bowed to the ground before him. “I must hear, and then I can tell if I can do them.”

“They are all the common duties of a maid,” he replied--“all but one thing, which is most strange. You will have the care of the porcelain plates of my fathers.”

“But that is not a strange duty for a maid,” answered O Cho San. She smiled at him, showing her pretty white teeth and a dimple in one cheek. “I have washed china before this, and always with care.”

“Yet it is the one thing which is most hard,--to find a maid who will attend to this,” he answered. “Know, O Cho San, that the porcelain is priceless. There are twelve plates and each one is perfect. They are so old that they are of the fashion of the Owari potter who learned the secrets of Karatsu and made a flight of cranes across the blue sky.

“The porcelain is so beyond all value that my ancestor made the law that whoever broke a plate should straightway have a finger cut off. So you see the china must be washed with care.”

O Cho San clasped and unclasped her slender brown fingers nervously, then she hid them quite away in the sleeves of her kimono. Her cheek paled a little, but she said bravely, “I will take the place, most honorable sir, and I shall try to keep my fingers.”

Then she thought to herself, “It is not the most desirable of places to live where one loses a finger for each nick of china, but the _yen_ he pays are many more than I can earn elsewhere, and my dear mother must have tea and rice. Besides, it is not likely that such costly porcelain can be often used, and when it is, I shall offer many prayers that it be used in safety.”

So O Cho San served the nobleman faithfully.

It was easy to see that she was a favorite with all, for she had manners of such engaging gentleness that every one loved her. At first this pleased her. When, however, she found that even the master’s son was in love with her, she was unhappy.

She did not care at all for him, and she knew that to marry him would displease her master, who was kind to her. So she refused to listen to the young man, and this made him very angry. Being bad at heart, he resolved to be avenged upon her.

“I will ask my father to give a party at which the porcelain plates shall be used,” he said to himself. “She will surely break one, and then she will turn to me to save her from her punishment. If she does not, she will lose a finger;” and on his face there was a cruel frown.

As he had said, so it was done. The master gave a supper and the priceless dishes were used. Thanks to the kindness of the gods who watch over little maidens, O Cho San washed them, dried them on the softest of paper napkins, and set them carefully away all unbroken. But alas, when the master came to look them over, the bottom one of the pile was broken.

Great was the excitement.

O Cho San wept and proclaimed her innocence.

“Honorable Master,” she cried, “it is another hand than mine which has broken it. But if I am to be punished, cut a piece from my face instead of my hand. Then I may still work for my mother.”

“The law of my fathers required a finger for each plate broken,” said the master sorrowfully; for although he liked the gentle little maid and did not wish to hurt her, he feared to disobey the law.

“You shall not cut even her finger nail,” suddenly cried a rough voice. The group around O Cho San turned in astonishment to see who dared speak so to the master.

It was Genzaburo, a servant, very rough but honest and good.

“O Cho San may not be punished for what she has not done,” he said. “I myself broke the plate. You ask me why? Because I love O Cho San. She is as fair as the cherry bloom in early spring, but to me cold and remote as the snows upon the crest of the mountains. I thought to myself, she is a Samurai’s daughter and will never marry me. But if she lose a finger no one else will marry her. Therefore in time she will turn to me, and I shall win her for my wife. Then I broke the plate.”

“How did you break it?” demanded the master sternly.

“That I will show you,” said Genzaburo. “It was very simple. I was told to mend the lid of the box in which the plate was kept. Then I thought of the plates, and I drew forth one and _bang!_ my hammer fell upon it just like this!” and he brought his hammer down with great force.

There was a crash terrible to hear, a scream from O Cho San, an exclamation of rage from the master, for the hammer had descended upon the pile of plates, and of the beautiful porcelain nothing at all remained but fragments.

In all the confusion Genzaburo alone was calm. He stood smiling at the ruin he had wrought, and his master cried, “The man is quite mad! Take him away!”

“Not so, my master, I am not mad,” Genzaburo replied. “I did this thing with reason. Take all my fingers if you wish, or even my life if the commands of your honorable ancestors must be carried out. But I shall have the happiness of knowing that no more little maids can be frightened and mutilated by your cruelty.”

The nobleman gazed upon him in silence; but the son threw himself before his father.

“I beg you, oh my father, forgive this mad fellow,” he cried. “I too am in fault, for I persuaded you to give this entertainment in the hope that she would break a plate and then turn to me in her trouble.”

Then O Cho San knelt before him and said, “Honorable Master, since I am the occasion of this great trouble in your household, I beg you to permit me to go away and be not angry with either your son or your servant. Forgive them, and of your graciousness allow me to depart, since my only wish is to work for the welfare of my dear mother.”

Then was the nobleman greatly touched. Mindful of Genzaburo’s long service, he forgave him. He forgave his son, also; for since O Cho San loved him not, he needed no further punishment. Mindful still more of O Cho San’s pleasant services in his household, he said, “We will speak no more of the porcelain plates of my ancestors. O Cho San will not leave me. She shall continue to live in my service and her wages shall be increased.”

Then he gave her a reward, and she lived many years and earned much _yen_ for the welfare of her dear mother.

THE FISHES OF THE BOILING SPRING

Many, many years ago there lived at Atami a holy priest. Of all the poor people of the village, he was the very poorest, for he gave away nearly all that was given to him; and he was often hungry.

Atami was by the sea and the people lived on the sea’s bounty. When the winter swept down from Fuji San, and the storm god roared on the waves and frightened the fish away, then all the people hungered. The fathers and mothers hungered greatly, for they gave nearly all there was to the children, who were not, therefore, so much in want. But the priest hungered most of all; for he was the father of his people, and so gave them of his own share of food. Indeed, he gave them more than this; for, under the camphor tree which grew beside his little temple on the hill, he sat and prayed for his people, and the gods heard his prayers.

One day the fish were gone from the shore and the people were very hungry. The priest of Atami sat and prayed, and lo! the camphor tree opened, and there appeared to him a lovely goddess in a mantle of purple. Her face was fair and kind, but her eyes gleamed with displeasure, and she said, “Sit not here and pray for fish, oh foolish one! Even now the fish are upon your shore; behold them!” Then the tree closed and he saw her no more.

The priest was afraid and hastened to the shore; and there he saw a terrible sight and smelled a terrible smell.

The whole beach was covered with fishes. There were big fishes and little fishes, long fishes and fat fishes, and strange fishes that no one had ever seen before. They would have fed the village for many days, but alas! each fish was scalded as by fire and was crumbling into bits.

The good priest wept as if his heart would break, crying aloud, “Alas, my people, my people!”

Then he climbed high upon the hill above the village, and looked over the sea, hoping that he might learn what had caused the fish to die. There he prayed to the gods, “Open my eyes that I may see, and aid my people.”

Far out at sea, and under the surface of the water, he beheld a great turmoil. The waters boiled and bubbled as if in torment. And through the waters, the fishes leaped, and lo! they were scalded to death.

The priest called to the watchman, who stood upon the hill to tell the people when good fish came to the shore, “Haste! haste!” he said, “run to the temple and bring me a branch from the holy camphor tree which grows beside it. For thy life, haste!”

The watchman, being young, made great haste. Soon he brought back a bough of the tree. Its leaves were like green jade and it was of more avail than many demons.

Then the priest prayed upon the shore, while he waved his camphor branch in the air, “Oh Kwan-on, Goddess of Mercy,” he said, “look upon our distress and have pity upon my people. Give us fish lest we die. And cause the turmoil in the sea to cease.”

He threw the sacred bough far from him into the sea. Then there came a mighty rumbling, and the crest of the hill rose into a cone, and through it the waters burst, rising toward heaven in a stream so high that it seemed to reach the clouds.

Soon the people came with speed and made channels in the earth. The hot water flowed into the channels, and all who bathed therein were cured of their ailments; and the place was called the “Spring of Kindness.”

Then was the old priest much rejoiced, for the fish came back to his people, and there was food to eat. He dwelt long in the shrine on the hilltop, and his people were grateful to him, and made him many offerings.

And to this day the camphor tree grows, with its small, pointed, green-jade leaves, old, and strong, and fragrant, upon the hill of Atami.

THE INAO OF THE AINU

In the beginning of things the world was very hot. The mountains breathed fire and smoke, even the snows were melted and the sun goddess shone fiercely, with a cruel light. She scorched the food of the people, and withered their flowers and trees.

But Okikurumi, a mighty fisherman, saw the sorrows of the Ainu and grieved. He was of a kind heart, and all the people loved him. He was tall and straight as a young bamboo, of gentle mien and thoughtful, wise for the safety of the Ainu whom he loved.

When, therefore, the land was scorched with the heat, and folk were starving, Okikurumi caught many fish and sent them to the Ainu by his wife.

She was named Tureshi, and she lived but to do the will of her lord.

“Go thou to the Ainu,” he said, “take this basket of fish. Put it in at the window of the chief man of the village and hasten back. I forbid the Ainu to question you or to look at you. Go!”

“Yes, my lord,” Tureshi answered; and she girdled her kimono about her and started upon her errand.

Day after day she went to the aid of the suffering people. But they saw her not, for Okikurumi had commanded them to refrain from gazing upon the face of his wife.

At last, however, one man grew curious. He wished to see this forbidden being. “She is either the most beautiful person in the world or else she is so ugly that her husband feels shame to have her seen of other men,” he said to himself. “In any case I will find out.”

Thus he spoke, being of an evil nature and all unmindful of the benefits of Okikurumi. When Tureshi came to the window, therefore, he lay in wait, while Kusa-Hitari[30] sang in the night. Catching Tureshi by the hand he drew her into the house, and gazed upon her lovely face. For she was the most beautiful of women, her husband’s joy and pride. Then, she in great alarm fled from the Ainu to her husband’s side, crying out to Okikurumi, “My lord, I have obeyed you, but send me not again to these ungrateful people who disobey your commands. Their wretched lives are not worth the saving.”

Okikurumi was full of wrath and he declared that, henceforth and forever, the men of the Ainu should find food for their own women, since Tureshi could not go to them without insult.

Then were the men of the Ainu very sad, and many of them died and their chief men mourned.

So they took an _inao_[31] and set it up upon the sea shore. Its staff was straight and slender, and its curls and tassels floated free in the gentle breeze. By this they meant to worship the spirit of the sea and implore him to bring them good fortune.

Then the sea spirit, who loved not Okikurumi, was pleased with the _inao_ and sent them many fish.

But again there came a famine to the land of the Ainu, and it was worse than any that had gone before. The children hungered, and the mothers wept, and the old men set up an _inao_; but all was of no avail. At last they sought a wise man, and he gave them good counsel, saying, “Gather together all the crumbs which are left in the village, millet and rice malt, and make a little cup of wine.” This they did.

“Pour it into six cups of lacquer,” he said, and this they did. And the scent of the _saké_ rose upward, even unto heaven, and it was good.

The gods hastened from far and near to see whence came the delicious smell. They drank of the _saké_ and it was very good. Then they danced and sang and laughed in glee. And as they danced, one goddess pulled out two hairs from a deer and cast them far away, and lo! from the mountains came two herds of deer. Then another goddess plucked two scales from a fish and threw them far into the river, and behold, shoals of fish swam from the sea.

Then were the Ainu much rejoiced, and men went proudly forth upon the mountains to hunt the deer; and others sought the river and caught many fish. And from that day there was always fish and flesh in the land of the Ainu, and there was no more famine.

FOOTNOTES:

[30] Cricket.

[31] Prayer-plume.

THE GOBLIN TREE

A Samurai dwelt in the Oni province and his name was Satsuma Shichizaemon. He had a garden, the most beautiful of any in the village. It was filled with flowering plants, and the shrubs had a delicious fragrance which filled the air. Golden-hearted lilies floated upon the tiny lake, dwarf pines waved their branches over the water’s edge, and above all, dark and silent, towered a huge _enoki_, or goblin tree.

This tree had stood there for centuries, and no one had dared to cut a branch or even to pull one of its leaves.

Shichizaemon, however, was of a bad heart, and had no reverence for the things of his fathers. He wished the view from his window not to be hidden, and the _enoki_ stood between him and the valley. So he gave orders to have the tree cut down.

That night his mother dreamed a dream. She saw before her a terrible dragon-like monster whose forked tongue spit fire, and who said to her, “Mother of Satsuma Shichizaemon, beware! Your son shall die and all his house if he harm the _enoki_, for the spirits of the trees will not suffer insult to the goblin tree.”

Next day she told her son of her dream, but he only laughed at her, and said, “If all the spirits of the earth and air and water were to come to you in dreams, still I should make way with this tree.” Then he sent a woodman to cut down the tree.

As the tall tree fell with a crash so loud as to frighten all the household, Satsuma also fell to the ground.

“I am ill!” he cried. “The tree! The tree!” and he knew no more; for he was dead. Soon too his wife fell ill, and then his mother. Within a month there remained not one of all his people. Even the servants disappeared from earth, all crying as their spirits departed, “A-a-e-e-e-i! The tree! The tree!”

Long the dwelling was left deserted. Stagnant waterweeds fouled the lake, and even the songs of the birds seemed mournful and sad. At last it was remembered that there remained of the family of Satsuma but one person, a nun named Tikem, who dwelt in the temple at Yamashira. They sent to her saying, “O Tikem San, will you not come to the garden of your kinsman, and remove the terrible curse which rests upon it?”

“I will come,” she answered.

She came to the dwelling of Satsuma Shichizaemon, her kinsman, and all the people in the village watched in fear, lest the sickness of the goblin tree should come upon her. But O Tikem San feared not.

She abode in the house calmly attending to her duties, and she was well. Every day she went to the place where had stood the goblin tree, and there she offered up prayers for the kinsman who had perished. And there was no more curse, for the holiness of O Tikem San rested upon the place like a gentle breath from heaven. And all the children of the village played happily in the sunlit garden where once had been the goblin tree.

THE MAN WHO BECAME A SERPENT

There was once a hunter who shot a great bear, and the beast ran from him and entered a cave.

“I will go after it,” the hunter said to himself, “for, since it is wounded, it will be easy to kill it when it is trapped in the cave.”

So he went into the cave, but could find no bear. He saw its tracks, and they led down a dark passage which seemed to slope into the earth. He followed this passage a long way, but found no bear. Suddenly he came into an open space and saw before him a beautiful garden. It was filled with wonderful trees such as he had never before seen, and some of them bore strange fruits.

Now as there was no one to forbid, he plucked some berries and found that they were good. But suddenly he was overcome with a strange feeling, and gazing down upon himself, he saw that he was turned into a horrible serpent. Struck with terror, he cried, “What fearful thing has befallen me? I who was a man, ruler over all animals, even the four-footed kings of the forest, am become the lowest of the low, even a loathsome serpent.” He hung his head in shame, and crawled back through the cave, and lay down at the foot of a huge pine tree.

Wearied and distressed, at last he fell asleep and dreamed a dream. In his dream a woman appeared to him, who looked kindly upon him and said, “I feel sorrow for you, unhappy youth. I am the spirit of the pine tree, and you may hear me speak when the wind sweeps from Fuji San and whispers through my pines. This thing has happened to you because you ate the fruit of Fengtu,[32] of which no man may eat in safety. But you can be saved if you will obey me. Climb to the very topmost branches of this pine and hurl yourself down to earth. So you may return to your true self.”

The hunter awoke and, remembering his dream, said, “It would be better to be dashed to pieces than to remain alive and be a loathsome serpent. I will throw myself down from the tree and may the gods help me.”

Gliding carefully up to the very topmost branch, he poised for a moment, and then gave a mighty leap. He fell to the ground and for a long time he knew no more.

When he returned to himself, he stood at the foot of the great pine tree beside the crushed body of a huge serpent, and his own form was once more the form of a man. Then was his heart full of a great thanksgiving, and he straightway set up _inao_ beneath the kindly pine tree.

FOOTNOTES:

[32] Hades.

THE LAUGHING DUMPLING

There was once an old woman who laughed at everything. She was a very old woman, but she seemed young. That was because she laughed so much, for the god of laughter made all the lines in her face pleasant lines.

She laughed at rain, she laughed at drought, she laughed at poverty. She had never had a chance to laugh at wealth, for she was very, very poor. She made rice dumplings to sell, and so she was called by the people about her the “Laughing Dumpling.” Her name was really Sanja.

Sanja had but one wish. She never prayed to Juro-Jin[33] for good fortune, or to any of the gods for wealth; but she wished above all things to make the finest rice dumplings in all the city. She tried and tried, and each time she made them better than the last; but she never made them quite perfect, and so she was never quite satisfied. She never had quite all the rice she wanted to work with; for she was so poor that each grain seemed to her as dear as a piece of money to a miser.

But still she tried and still she laughed. One day she sat in her kitchen making her dumplings with her usual care. Her little house stood at the top of a hill, quite outside of the city, and as she worked and patted with her paddle, one of the finest of her dumplings, it slipped and rolled right out of the door and down the hill.

“Dear, dear!” she cried, “that will never, never do! I can’t afford to lose that dumpling. Perhaps I can catch it.”

So she sprang up and ran after it as fast as her feet would carry her. But the dumpling had a good start, and she could not catch it. She saw it ahead of her, and suddenly it bounced down a hole in the ground. She ran after it, and before she knew it, her _geta_[34] slipped into the hole and she dropped through.

“A-a-a-i!” she cried, “where am I going?”

She did not stop falling until her breath was almost gone. Then suddenly she found herself in a place she had never seen before. The trees and flowers looked strange, and she felt a little frightened and very much alone. But as she looked about her her heart grew lighter, for she saw a statue of Jizu and him she well knew. So she bowed to him, and said, “Good morning, my Lord Jizu. Have you seen a rice dumpling fall this way?”

“Good morning,” answered Jizu, with his very sweet smile. “Yes, I saw a dumpling and it went past here, down the hill, skipping as if it had legs.”

“Oh, thank you very much, then I must skip after it,” said Sanja.

“Not so,” answered Jizu, “do not go down there. An _Oni_[35] lives there, and he may do you harm.”

“But I must have my dumpling,” laughed the old woman; and she ran on in the direction the dumpling had taken. She had gone only a little way when she came to another statue of Jizu. Being a good woman as well as polite, she bowed to it very reverently, and said, “My good Lord Jizu, have you seen a dumpling pass this way?”

“As if it had wings, it flew past me,” said Jizu, smiling upon her most sweetly.

“Then I must hurry to catch it,” said the old woman.

But Jizu shook his head, “You must not think of that,” he said, “there is an Oni below there who is most wicked. He does not like old women at all, and he will surely be cruel to you if he does not eat you.”

“But I must have my dumpling,” said Sanja. “He’ll not eat me. I’m too tough. Tee-hee-hee!” and she ran laughing on her way.

As she went along she thought she smelled her dumpling, and, as she was very hungry, it smelled very good.

“If I ever catch that dumpling I will certainly eat every bit of it,” she said to herself. “I will punish it for giving me such a chase. Tee-hee-hee!” Then she felt a shadow across her face. She looked up and saw another statue of Jizu.

“Most gracious Lord Jizu,” she said, smiling up into his ever smiling face, “have you seen my dumpling pass this way?”

“Yes, it passed but a moment ago,” he answered, “but do not think of searching for it, for the Oni who lives beyond is very fierce and cruel, and he will certainly eat you. He is fond of dumplings, but he is much fonder of human meat.”

“One who is as old as I am hasn’t any very fresh meat on her bones, tee-hee-hee!” laughed Sanja. But as she spoke, she heard a terrible noise and her face turned pale.

“Get behind me quickly,” said Jizu, “here comes the Oni. Perhaps you may escape him if you hide behind me.”

O Sanja San crept quickly behind him. She found herself not so brave as she had thought, and she did not feel at all like laughing. She hid herself very carefully behind Jizu, and up came the Oni, very wild and fierce.

“Good morning, Lord Jizu,” he said, “I smell meat!”

Even for the Oni, Jizu’s smile was the same, and he made answer, “Good morning, Oni. Is it not dumpling that you smell? I saw one pass this way not long ago.”

“No, indeed,” said the Oni, “it is not dumpling. I know one passed this way, for I saw it. What I smell now is human meat!” and he sniffed and sniffed until Sanja shivered. But for all her fear, she wanted very much to laugh.

“I don’t smell it,” said Jizu, still smiling. “Are you sure it is not rice dumpling? It seems to me that I smell a little of it about you.”

“That is not strange,” said the Oni with a grin; “for when I saw that juicy dumpling rolling my way I caught it and ate it. It was good. I wish I had the person who made it!”

O Sanja San was as angry as she could be at the thought of his eating her dumpling. She was frightened, too, and she cowered closer in the shadow of the Lord Jizu.

“What I smell now is meat, fresh human meat, juicy, young and tender!” and the Oni sniffed again and smacked his lips very impolitely.

This was too much for Sanja. She could not help thinking of her wrinkled, withered flesh, and how far from juicy, young and tender it was. She laughed out loud, “Tee-hee-hee. Tee-hee-hee!”

The Oni’s ears were as good as his nose, and without a word he stretched out a long, hairy arm behind Jizu, and pulled her forth from her hiding place. She was frightened terribly, but still she laughed.

“Who are you?” demanded the Oni.

“I am the woman who made the dumpling,” she answered. “Why did you eat it?”

“Because it was good,” said the Oni.

“You couldn’t eat me for that reason,” said Sanja.

“I don’t intend to eat you,” said the Oni. “You will come home with me and cook. You needn’t be afraid. As long as you cook good dumplings for me nothing will harm you.”

“Very well,” said Sanja politely, for there was really nothing else to say.

The Oni put her in a boat and rowed away across a river to his castle. There she cooked for him such dishes as he had never before tasted, and they were good.

But when she came to make rice dumplings, the Oni said to her, “You are a good cook, but you are wasteful. When you cook rice put but one grain into the pot.”

“One grain!” she cried. “Tee-hee-hee! how could any one live on one grain of rice?”

“I will show you,” said the Oni. “For though you are a woman and think you know much, there are some things which I know better than you.”

Sanja was silent; but she tossed her head a little, and said to herself, “How impolite he is! And how vain to think he could possibly know more than I do!”

“Be sure you have your water boiling,” said the Oni. “Put one grain of rice in the pot, then take this paddle in your hand and if you want rice for ten persons stir ten times, in this way;” and he stirred the paddle about in the water. “See!” and lo! the grain of rice burst into ten pieces, and each piece into ten more, and each a perfect grain, until the pot was filled.

Sanja fairly gasped with astonishment.

“This is a magic paddle,” said the Oni; “and with it you can cook every thing, serve every one, and always have enough.”

So Sanja stayed with the Oni and cooked for him, and she gave perfect satisfaction. The dumplings she made were always perfect, and the rice pot was never empty, because of the magic paddle.

All went very well until one day Sanja grew homesick. She felt as if she could not stay with the Oni another day, and as if she would die if she could not go home. She thought and thought about it; and the little hut with its paper walls, and the cherry tree beside it seemed fairer than all the fine castles of Oni Land. So, one day when the Oni had gone off for a day’s hunting, she decided to try to escape. She stole out of the castle and down to the river’s bank; and there she found the boat in which the Oni had brought her. Quickly she got into it and began to row. She had reached the middle of the river, when she heard a loud cry from the shore. There was the Oni with all his friends, waving their hands wildly and calling loudly to her, “Come back, Laughing Dumpling, come back!”

She was afraid to go on and still more afraid to go back. She began to row harder than ever when she saw what the Oni was doing. He and all his friends stooped down and, making cups of their hands, they began to drink the water of the river. They drank and drank, and soon there was so little water left to float the boat that they could wade to her across the river bed. She was so frightened that she could hardly think. As they came nearer, however, she thought how funny they looked, wading out from the reedy shore, and she laughed, “Tee-hee-hee!”

The Oni stopped and looked at her, “How strange that she laughs at everything!” said one.

She laughed again, “Tee-hee-hee!”

“She shall not laugh at me!” cried her master; and he started fiercely toward her.

The Laughing Dumpling was not going to be caught if she could help it, for she felt that this was now no laughing matter. Wondering what she could do to get away, she thought of the magic paddle which was tucked in her belt, where she had always carried it. She drew it forth, and reaching over the side of the boat she quickly stirred the waters. Then, lo! they began to flow again. They flowed so fast that they washed the boat right into the shore. They filled the river so quickly that the Oni had to swim for their lives.

Sanja ran quickly away, as fast as she could go, past the three statues of Jizu, up the hill and, with difficulty, up through the very hole into which she had fallen.

When she reached home she sat down quite exhausted; but as soon as she could get her breath she laughed until she cried.

“I ought not to have taken away the Oni’s paddle,” she said; “but he ate my dumpling, and made me cook all these months without any pay. Now I shall be able to make fine dumplings for all Kyoto. Tee-hee-hee!”

And so she did. For the magic paddle kept her always supplied with rice, and everybody came to eat of the wonderful rice cakes and to see the Laughing Dumpling.

FOOTNOTES:

[33] God of Good Fortune.

[34] Wooden sandal.

[35] A Japanese ogre.

THE SACRIFICE TO KOMPIRA

Yamato and his army came one day to Lagami, and then crossing the mountain, they soon arrived at the Bay of Yedo.

“It will be easy to cross here,” cried the prince to his men. “The distance is small from one shore to the other. There is no water here to fear. We can soon conquer this obstacle.”

Kompira, god of the sea, heard the prince’s boast and was angry.

“I will show this proud fellow that he can not despise the least of my children,” he said wrathfully.

Then he blew upon the waves, and they lashed themselves into foam. They rose toward high heaven, and dashed against the ships of Yamato Take until they were beaten upon the rocks and nearly overwhelmed. There arose, also, a fearful storm; the lightnings flashed about the ships, and the thunder roared, and all were sore afraid.

“Ha, ha!” laughed Kompira, “I wonder if these mortals now see my power! They may well fear me, Kompira, the god of the sea!”

Yamato Take was sad. He gazed in the face of ruin.

“Behold,” he sighed. “This is the end of all my struggles. My ships will be dashed to pieces upon the rocks. We shall all perish in the sea or be taken prisoners by the enemy. The wrath of Kompira, great god of the sea, is turned against me, for I have offended him. There is no more hope.”

Then he laid his hand upon his second[36] sword; but his wife stayed his hand.

“Not so, my lord,” she cried, raising her beautiful pale face toward his. She loved him and was always with him, in peace or war.

She was very lovely, the Princess Ota Tachabana; and Yamato Take listened when she spoke.

“Not so, my dear lord,” she spoke again. “Victory shall be yours. We have but to appease the wrath of Kompira and all will be well. I, myself, will be the sacrifice needed for your dear safety.”

With that she raised both her hands to the sea and prayed, “O Kompira, great god of the sea, be not angry with my lord, for he is good. Send him a fortunate issue, and accept my sacrifice.”

Thus crying, she stood poised for a moment upon the prow of the ship, and then sprang into the sea.

Yamato gave a terrible cry and would have followed her, but his chief men laid hands upon him and would not let him go.

The wind sank to quietness, the waves grew calm, the storm ceased, and his headman cried, “My lord, the sacrifice is accepted. We may now pass quickly in safety. Because she would wish it, rouse yourself to strife and conquest.”

When morning broke, the ships were safely moored by the farther shore. As Yamato stepped out upon the sand, the lapping waves cast at his feet the comb of the princess, his wife. He picked it up and commanded that at that spot a temple should be raised to her memory.

Then he made a great conquest for his lord the emperor, and his soldiers boasted of him and said, “He is the greatest warrior in the world, the Prince Yamato Take!”

But he was no longer proud. Instead, when men praised him, and honors were showered upon him, he bent his head and said only, “Azuma! azuma! wa ya!”[37]

FOOTNOTES:

[36] Every Samurai carried two swords, a long one to slay his enemies, a short one to kill himself if about to be taken prisoner.

[37] “My wife, alas, my wife!”

THE TWO BROTHERS

There were once two brothers who were as different as day and night. The oldest, Kurobei, cared only for himself and thought of nothing but of what might advance his own interests. Moreover, he was very proud and haughty. The younger brother’s name was Kazuma. He was gentle and of a kind heart, and all the people loved him.

When therefore the father died, and the two brothers were left alone in the world (their mother having been dead for many years), there were those among the servants who said, “It is a pity that O Kazuma is not the elder, to rule the house; for his rule would be one of kindness.”

Both Kurobei and Kazuma loved their father and had been dutiful sons. Both had obeyed the old man and both had grieved at his death. They had him buried with every token of respect and they wept at his loss.

“My father is no more,” cried Kurobei. “I must place offerings upon his grave that all men may see that I hold him in respectful remembrance.”

But the younger brother wept most bitterly. “Alas! alas!” he cried. “My father is gone from me! No longer may we go to him each day and ask his advice upon the many things which trouble us! How shall we live? Let us each day place upon his grave flowers of remembrance. Perhaps his spirit may some day speak with us.”

Kurobei agreed to this and each morning the two brothers could be seen bearing flowers to their father’s grave, and there they talked to their father, telling him of all the doings of their lives.

And all the people saw and said, “How good Kurobei is! Though he has much to do, in the affairs of his home, still each day he takes his brother with him and goes to his father’s grave, lest the younger forget his filial piety.”

Thus things went on for twelve months, and the matter coming to the emperor’s ears, he appointed Kurobei to a high place in his household, saying, “One who so well serves his father will be faithful in office.” And Kazuma was much pleased at the honor shown to his brother, whom he dearly loved.