Chapter X: Front Matter (10)

“But it must be so, your majesty,” replied the vizier; “and in order to prove the truth of what I have heard, I pray you to call together all the maids in your palace and order them to jump over a pit, which must be dug. We’ll soon find out whether there is any man there.”

The king had the pit dug, and commanded all the maids belonging to the palace to try to jump it. All of them tried, but only one succeeded. That one was found to be a man!

Thus was the queen satisfied, and the faithful old vizier saved.

Afterward, as soon as could be, the vizier’s son married the old farmer’s daughter; and a most happy marriage it was.

_The Selfish Sparrow and the Houseless Crows_

A sparrow once built a nice little house for herself, and lined it well with wool and protected it with sticks, so that it resisted equally the summer sun and the winter rains. A Crow who lived close by had also built a house, but it was not such a good one, being only made of a few sticks laid one above another on the top of a prickly-pear hedge. The consequence was that one day, when there was an unusually heavy shower, the Crow’s nest was washed away, while the Sparrow’s was not at all injured.

In this extremity the Crow and her mate went to the Sparrow, and said: “Sparrow, Sparrow, have pity on us and give us shelter, for the wind blows and the rain beats, and the prickly-pear hedge-thorns stick into our eyes.” But the Sparrow answered: “I’m cooking the dinner; I cannot let you in now; come again presently.”

In a little while the Crows returned and said: “Sparrow, Sparrow, have pity on us and give us shelter, for the wind blows and the rain beats, and the prickly-pear hedge-thorns stick into our eyes.” The Sparrow answered: “I’m eating my dinner; I cannot let you in now; come again presently.”

The Crows flew away, but in a little while returned, and cried once more: “Sparrow, Sparrow, have pity on us and give us shelter, for the wind blows and the rain beats, and the prickly-pear hedge-thorns stick into our eyes.” The Sparrow replied: “I’m washing the dishes; I cannot let you in now; come again presently.”

The Crows waited a while and then called out: “Sparrow, Sparrow, have pity on us and give us shelter, for the wind blows and the rain beats, and the prickly-pear hedge-thorns stick into our eyes.” But the Sparrow would not let them in; she only answered: “I’m sweeping the floor; I cannot let you in now; come again presently.”

Next time the Crows came and cried: “Sparrow, Sparrow, have pity on us and give us shelter, for the wind blows and the rain beats, and the prickly-pear hedge-thorns stick into our eyes.” She answered: “I’m making the beds; I cannot let you in now; come again presently.”

So, on one pretense or another she refused to help the poor birds. At last, when she and her children had had their dinner, and she had prepared and put away the dinner for next day, and had put all the children to bed and gone to bed herself, she cried to the Crows: “You may come in now and take shelter for the night.” The Crows came in, but they were much vexed at having been kept out so long in the wind and the rain, and when the Sparrow and all her family were asleep, the one said to the other: “This selfish Sparrow had no pity on us; she gave us no dinner, and would not let us in till she and all her children were comfortably in bed; let us punish her.” So the two Crows took all the nice dinner the Sparrow had prepared for herself and her children to eat the next day, and flew away with it.

_The Lambikin_

Once upon a time there was a wee, wee Lambikin, who frolicked about on his little tottery legs, and enjoyed himself amazingly.

Now one day he set off to visit his granny, and was jumping with joy to think of all the good things he should get from her, when whom should he meet but a jackal, who looked at the tender young morsel and said: “Lambikin! Lambikin! I’ll EAT YOU!”

But Lambikin only gave a little frisk, and said:

“To granny’s house I go,
Where I shall fatter grow,
Then you can eat me so.”

The jackal thought this reasonable, and let Lambikin pass.

By and by he met a vulture, and the vulture, looking hungrily at the tender morsel before him, said: “Lambikin! Lambikin! I’ll EAT YOU!”

But Lambikin only gave a little frisk, and said:

“To granny’s house I go,
Where I shall fatter grow,
Then you can eat me so.”

The vulture thought this reasonable, and let Lambikin pass.

And by and by he met a tiger, and then a wolf, and a dog, and an eagle; and all these, when they saw the tender little morsel, said: “Lambikin! Lambikin! I’ll EAT YOU!”

But to all of them Lambikin replied, with a little frisk:

“To granny’s house I go,
Where I shall fatter grow,
Then you can eat me so.”

At last he reached his granny’s house, and said, all in a hurry: “Granny dear, I’ve promised to get very fat; so, as people ought to keep their promises, please put me into the corn-bin _at once_.”

So his granny said he was a good boy, and put him into the corn-bin, and there the greedy little Lambikin stayed for seven days, and ate, and ate, and ate, until he could scarcely waddle, and his granny said he was fat enough for anything, and must go home. But cunning little Lambikin said that would never do, for some animal would be sure to eat him on the way back, he was so plump and tender.

“I’ll tell you what you must do,” said Master Lambikin; “you must make a little drumikin out of the skin of my little brother who died, and then I can sit inside and trundle along nicely, for I’m as tight as a drum myself.”

So his granny made a nice little drumikin out of his brother’s skin, with the wool inside, and Lambikin curled himself up snug and warm in the middle, and trundled away gaily. Soon he met the eagle, who called out:

“Drumikin! Drumikin!
Have you seen Lambikin?”

And Mr. Lambikin, curled up in his soft warm nest, replied:

“Fallen into the fire, and so will you
On, little Drumikin. Tum-pa, tum-too!”

“How very annoying!” sighed the eagle, thinking regretfully of the tender morsel he had let slip.

Meanwhile Lambikin trundled along, laughing to himself, and singing:

“Tum-pa, tum-too;
Tum-pa, tum-too!”

Every animal and bird he met asked him the same question:

“Drumikin! Drumikin!
Have you seen Lambikin?”

And to each of them the little slyboots replied:

“Fallen into the fire, and so will you
On, little Drumikin. Tum-pa, tum-too;
Tum-pa, tum-too; tum-pa, tum-too!”

Then they all sighed to think of the tender little morsel they had let slip.

At last the jackal came limping along, for all his sorry looks as sharp as a needle, and he too called out:

“Drumikin! Drumikin!
Have you seen Lambikin?”

And Lambikin, curled up in his snug little nest, replied gaily:

“Fallen into the fire, and so will you
On, little Drumikin. Tum-pa——”

But he never got any farther, for the jackal recognized his voice at once, and cried: “Hullo! you’ve turned yourself inside out, have you? Just you come out of that!”

Whereupon he tore open drumikin and gobbled up Lambikin.

_The Town Mouse and the Country Mouse_

Once upon a time a Town Mouse met a Country Mouse on the outskirts of a wood. The Country Mouse was sitting under a hazel thicket plucking nuts.

“Busy harvesting, I see,” said the Town Mouse. “Who would think of our meeting in this out-of-the-way part of the world?”

“Just so,” said the Country Mouse.

“You are gathering nuts for your winter store?” said the Town Mouse.

“I am obliged to do so if we intend having anything to live upon during the winter,” said the Country Mouse.

“The husk is big and the nut full this year, enough to satisfy any hungry body,” said the Town Mouse.

“Yes, you are right there,” said the Country Mouse; and then she related how well she lived and how comfortable she was at home.

The Town Mouse maintained that she was the better off, but the Country Mouse said that nowhere could one be so well off as in the woods and hills. The Town Mouse, however, declared she was best off; and as they could not agree on this point they promised to visit each other at Christmas; then they could see for themselves which was really the more comfortable.

The first visit was to be paid by the Town Mouse.

Now, although the Country Mouse had moved down from the mountains for the winter, the road to her house was long and tiring, and one had to travel up hill and down dale; the snow lay thick and deep, so the Town Mouse found it hard work to get on, and she became both tired and hungry before she reached the end of her journey.

“How nice it will be to get some food,” she thought.

The Country Mouse had scraped together the best she had. There were nut kernels, polypody, and other sorts of roots, and many other good things which grow in woods and fields. She kept it all in a hole far under ground, so the frost could not reach it, and close by was a running spring, open all the winter, so she could drink as much water as she liked. There was an abundance of all she had, and they ate both well and heartily; but the Town Mouse thought it was very poor fare indeed.

“One can, of course, keep body and soul together on this,” said she; “but I don’t think much of it. Now you must be good enough to visit me and taste what we have.”

Yes, that her hostess would, and before long she set out. The Town Mouse had gathered together all the scraps from the Christmas fare which the woman of the house had dropped on the floor during the holidays—bits of cheese, butter, and tallow ends, cake-crumbs, pastry, and many other good things. In the dish under the ale-tap she had drink enough; in fact, the place was full of all kinds of dainties.

They ate and fared well; the Country Mouse seemed never to have enough; she had never tasted such delicacies. But then she became thirsty, for she found the food both strong and rich, and now she wanted something to drink.

“We haven’t far to go for the beer we shall drink,” said the Town Mouse, and jumped upon the edge of the dish and drank till she was no longer thirsty; she did not drink too much, for she knew the Christmas beer was strong. The Country Mouse, however, thought the beer a splendid drink; she had never tasted anything but water, so she took one sip after another, but as she could not stand strong drink she became dizzy before she left the dish.

The drink got into her head and down into her toes and she began running and jumping about from one beer-barrel to the other, and to dance and tumble about on the shelves among the cups and mugs; she squeaked and squealed as if she were intoxicated.

“You must not carry on as if you had just come from the backwoods and make such a row and noise,” said the Town Mouse; “the master of the house is a bailiff, and he is very strict indeed,” she said.

The Country Mouse said she didn’t care either for bailiffs or beggars. But the cat sat at the top of the cellar steps, lying in wait, and heard all the chatter and noise. When the woman of the house went down to draw some beer and lifted the trap-door the cat slipped by into the cellar and struck its claws into the Country Mouse. Then there was quite another sort of dance.

The Town Mouse slid back into her hole and sat in safety looking on, while the Country Mouse suddenly became sober when she felt the claws of the cat in her back.

“Oh, my dear bailiff, oh, dearest bailiff, be merciful and spare my life and I will tell you a fairy tale,” she said.

“Well, go on,” said the cat.

“Once upon a time there were two little mice,” said the Country Mouse, squeaking slowly and pitifully, for she wanted to make the story last as long as she could.

“Then they were not lonely,” said the cat dryly and curtly.

“And they had a steak which they were going to fry.”

“Then they could not starve,” said the cat.

“And they put it out on the roof to cool,” said the Country Mouse.

“Then they did not burn themselves,” said the cat.

“But there came a fox and a crow and ate it all up,” said the Country Mouse.

“Then I’ll eat you,” said the cat. But just at that moment the woman shut the trap-door with a slam, which so startled the cat that she let go her hold of the mouse. One bound and the Country Mouse found herself in the hole with the Town Mouse.

From there a passage led out into the snow, and you may be sure the Country Mouse did not wait long before she set out homeward.

“And this is what you call living at ease and being well off,” she said to the Town Mouse. “Heaven preserve me from having such a fine place and such a master! Why, I only just got away with my life!”

_The Greedy Cat_

Once on a time there was a man who had a Cat, and she was so awfully big, and such a beast to eat, he couldn’t keep her any longer. So she was to go down to the river with a stone round her neck, but before she started she was to have a meal of meat. So the goody set before her a bowl of porridge and a little trough of fat. That the creature crammed into her, and ran off and jumped through the window. Outside stood the goodman by the barndoor threshing.

“Good day, goodman,” said the Cat.

“Good day, pussy,” said the goodman; “have you had any food to-day?”

“Oh, I’ve had a little, but I’m ‘most fasting,” said the Cat; “it was only a bowl of porridge and a trough of fat—and, now I think of it, I’ll take you too,” and so she took the goodman and gobbled him up.

When she had done that, she went into the byre, and there sat the goody milking.

“Good day, goody,” said the Cat.

“Good day, pussy,” said the goody; “are you here, and have you eaten up your food yet?”

“Oh, I’ve eaten a little to-day, but I’m ‘most fasting,” said pussy; “it was only a bowl of porridge, and a trough of fat, and the goodman—and, now I think of it, I’ll take you too,” and so she took the goody and gobbled her up.

“Good day, you cow at the manger,” said the Cat to Daisy the cow.

“Good day, pussy,” said the bell-cow; “have you had any food to-day?”

“Oh, I’ve had a little, but I’m ‘most fasting,” said the Cat; “I’ve only had a bowl of porridge, and a trough of fat, and the goodman, and the goody—and, now I think of it, I’ll take you too,” and so she took the cow and gobbled her up.

Then off she set into the home-field, and there stood a man picking up leaves.

“Good day, you leaf-picker in the field,” said the Cat.

“Good day, pussy; have you had anything to eat to-day?” said the leaf-picker.

“Oh, I’ve had a little, but I’m ‘most fasting,” said the Cat; “it was only a bowl of porridge, and a trough of fat, and the goodman, and the goody, and Daisy the cow—and, now I think of it, I’ll take you too.” So she took the leaf-picker and gobbled him up.

Then she came to a heap of stones, and there stood a stoat and peeped out.

“Good day, Mr. Stoat of Stoneheap,” said the Cat.

“Good day, Mrs. Pussy; have you had anything to eat to-day?”

“Oh, I’ve had a little, but I’m ‘most fasting,” said the Cat; “it was only a bowl of porridge, and a trough of fat, and the goodman, and the goody, and the cow, and the leaf-picker—and, now I think of it, I’ll take you too.” So she took the stoat and gobbled him up.

When she had gone a bit farther, she came to a hazel-brake, and there sat a squirrel gathering nuts.

“Good day, Sir Squirrel of the Brake,” said the Cat.

“Good day, Mrs. Pussy; have you had anything to eat to-day?”

“Oh, I’ve had a little, but I’m ‘most fasting,” said the Cat; “it was only a bowl of porridge, and a trough of fat, and the goodman, and the goody, and the cow, and the leaf-picker, and the stoat—and, now I think of it, I’ll take you too.” So she took the squirrel and gobbled him up.

When she had gone a little farther, she saw Reynard the fox, who was prowling about by the woodside.

“Good day, Reynard Slyboots,” said the Cat.

“Good day, Mrs. Pussy; have you had anything to eat to-day?”

“Oh, I’ve had a little, but I’m ‘most fasting,” said the Cat; “it was only a bowl of porridge, and a trough of fat, and the goodman, and the goody, and the cow, and the leaf-picker, and the stoat, and the squirrel—and, now I think of it, I’ll take you too.” So she took Reynard and gobbled him up.

When she had gone a little farther she met Long Ears, the hare.

“Good day, Mr. Hopper the hare,” said the Cat.

“Good day, Mrs. Pussy; have you had anything to eat today?”

“Oh, I’ve had a little, but I’m ‘most fasting,” said the Cat; “it was only a bowl of porridge, and a trough of fat, and the goodman, and the goody, and the cow, and the leaf-picker, and the stoat, and the squirrel, and the fox—and, now I think of it, I’ll take you too.” So she took the hare and gobbled him up.

When she had gone a bit farther she met a wolf.

“Good day, you Greedy Graylegs,” said the Cat.

“Good day, Mrs. Pussy; have you had anything to eat to-day?”

“Oh, I’ve had a little, but I’m ‘most fasting,” said the Cat; “it was only a bowl of porridge, and a trough of fat, and the goodman, and the goody, and the cow, and the leaf-picker, and the stoat, and the squirrel, and the fox, and the hare—and, now I think of it, I may as well take you too.” So she took and gobbled up Graylegs too.

So she went on into the wood, and when she had gone far and farther than far, o’er hill and dale, she met a bear-cub.

“Good day, you bare-breeched bear,” said the Cat.

“Good day, Mrs. Pussy,” said the bear-cub; “have you had anything to eat to-day?”

“Oh, I’ve had a little, but I’m ‘most fasting,” said the Cat; “it was only a bowl of porridge, and a trough of fat, and the goodman, and the goody, and the cow, and the leaf-picker, and the stoat, and the squirrel, and the fox, and the hare, and the wolf—and, now I think of it, I may as well take you too.” And so she took the bear-cub and gobbled him up.

When the Cat had gone a bit farther, she met a she-bear, who was tearing away at a stump till the splinters flew, so angry was she at having lost her cub.

“Good day, you Mrs. Bruin,” said the Cat.

“Good day, Mrs. Pussy; have you had anything to eat to-day?”

“Oh, I’ve had a little, but I’m ‘most fasting,” said the Cat; “it was only a bowl of porridge, and a trough of fat, and the goodman, and the goody, and the cow, and the leaf-picker, and the stoat, and the squirrel, and the fox, and the hare, and the wolf, and the bear-cub—and, now I think of it, I’ll take you too,” and so she took Mrs. Bruin and gobbled her up too.

When the Cat got still farther on, she met Baron Bruin himself.

“Good day, you Baron Bruin,” said the Cat.

“Good day, Mrs. Pussy,” said Bruin; “have you had anything to eat to-day?”

“Oh, I’ve had a little, but I’m ‘most fasting,” said the Cat; “it was only a bowl of porridge, and a trough of fat, and the goodman, and the goody, and the cow, and the leaf-picker, and the stoat, and the squirrel, and the fox, and the hare, and the wolf, and the bear-cub, and the she-bear—and, now I think of it, I’ll take you too,” and so she took Bruin and ate him up too.

So the Cat went on and on, and farther than far, till she came to the abodes of men again, and there she met a bridal train on the road.

“Good day, you bridal train on the king’s highway,” said she.

“Good day, Mrs. Pussy; have you had anything to eat to-day?”

“Oh, I’ve had a little, but I’m ‘most fasting,” said the Cat; “it was only a bowl of porridge, and a trough of fat, and the goodman, and the goody, and the cow, and the leaf-picker, and the stoat, and the squirrel, and the fox, and the hare, and the wolf, and the bear-cub, and the she-bear, and the he-bear—and, now I think of it, I’ll take you too,” and so she rushed at them, and gobbled up both the bride and bridegroom, and the whole train, with the cook and the fiddler, and the horses and all.

When she had gone still farther, she came to a church, and there she met a funeral.

“Good day, you funeral train,” said she.

“Good day, Mrs. Pussy; have you had anything to eat to-day?”

“Oh, I’ve had a little, but I’m ‘most fasting,” said the Cat; “it was only a bowl of porridge, and a trough of fat, and the goodman, and the goody, and the cow, and the leaf-picker, and the stoat, and the squirrel, and the fox, and the hare, and the wolf, and the bear-cub, and the she-bear, and the he-bear, and the bride and bridegroom, and the whole train—and, now, I don’t mind if I take you too,” and so she fell on the funeral train and gobbled up both the body and the bearers.

Now when the Cat had got the body in her, she was taken up to the sky, and when she had gone a long, long way, she met the moon.

“Good day, Mrs. Moon,” said the Cat.

“Good day, Mrs. Pussy; have you had anything to eat to-day?”

“Oh, I’ve had a little, but I’m ‘most fasting,” said the Cat; “it was only a bowl of porridge, and a trough of fat, and the goodman, and the goody, and the cow, and the leaf-picker, and the stoat, and the squirrel, and the fox, and the hare, and the wolf, and the bear-cub, and the she-bear, and the he-bear, and the bride and bridegroom, and the whole train, and the funeral train—and, now I think of it, I don’t mind if I take you too,” and so she seized hold of the moon, and gobbled her up, both new and full.

So the Cat went a long way still, and then she met the sun.

“Good day, you sun in heaven.”

“Good day, Mrs. Pussy,” said the sun; “have you had anything to eat to-day?”

“Oh, I’ve had a little, but I’m ‘most fasting,” said the Cat; “it was only a bowl of porridge, and a trough of fat, and the goodman, and the goody, and the cow, and the leaf-picker, and the stoat, and the squirrel, and the fox, and the hare, and the wolf, and the bear-cub, and the she-bear, and the he-bear, and the bride and bridegroom, and the whole train, and the funeral train, and the moon—and, now I think of it, I don’t mind if I take you too,” and so she rushed at the sun in heaven and gobbled him up.

So the cat went far and farther than far, till she came to a bridge, and on it she met a big billy-goat.

“Good day, you Billy-goat on Broad-bridge,” said the Cat.

“Good day, Mrs. Pussy; have you had anything to eat to-day?” said the billy-goat.

“Oh, I’ve had a little, but I’m ‘most fasting; I’ve only had a bowl of porridge, and a trough of fat, and the goodman, and the goody in the byre, and Daisy the cow at the manger, and the leaf-picker in the home-field, and Mr. Stoat of Stoneheap, and Sir Squirrel of the Brake, and Reynard Slyboots, and Mr. Hopper the hare, and Greedy Graylegs the wolf, and Bare-breech the bear-cub, and Mrs. Bruin, and Baron Bruin, and a bridal train on the king’s highway, and a funeral at the church, and Lady Moon in the sky, and Lord Sun in heaven—and, now I think of it, I’ll take you too.”

“That we’ll fight about,” said the billy-goat, and butted at the Cat till she fell right over the bridge into the river, and there she burst.

So they all crept out one after the other, and went about their business, and were just as good as ever, all that the Cat had gobbled up. The goodman of the house, and the goody in the byre, and Daisy the cow at the manger, and the leaf-picker in the home-field, and Mr. Stoat of Stoneheap, and Sir Squirrel of the Brake, and Reynard Slyboots, and Mr. Hopper the hare, and Greedy Graylegs the wolf, and Bare-breech the bear-cub, and Mrs. Bruin, and Baron Bruin, and the bridal train on the highway, and the funeral train at the church, and Lady Moon in the sky, and Lord Sun in heaven.

_Well Done: Ill Paid_

Once upon a time there was a man who had to drive his sledge to the wood for fuel, and a bear met him on the way.

“Hand over your horse,” growled the bear, “or I’ll kill all your sheep by summer.”

“Oh, Heaven help me!” said the man. “There’s not a stick of firewood in the house; you must let me drive home a load of fuel, else we shall be frozen to death. I’ll bring the horse to you to-morrow morning.”

Yes; on these terms he might drive the wood home, that was a bargain; but Bruin said, if he didn’t come back, he should lose all his sheep by summer.

So the man got the wood on the sledge and rattled homeward, but he wasn’t over-pleased with his bargain, you may fancy.

So just then a fox met him. “Why, what’s the matter?” said the fox. “Why are you so down in the mouth?”

“Oh, if you want to know,” said the man, “I met a bear up yonder in the wood, and I had to give my word to him to bring Dobbin back to-morrow, at this very hour; for if he didn’t get him, he said he would tear all my sheep to death by summer.”

“Stuff! Nothing worse than that?” said the fox. “If you’ll give me your fattest wether I’ll soon set you free; see if I don’t.”

Yes, the man gave his word, and swore he would keep it true.

“Well, when you come with Dobbin, to-morrow, for the bear,” said the fox, “I’ll make a clatter up in the heap of stones yonder, and so, when the bear asks what that noise is, you must say it is Peter the Marksman, who is the best shot in the world. And after that you must help yourself.”

Now, next day, off set the man, and when he met the bear something began to make a clatter up in the heap of stones.

“Hist, hist! what’s that?” said the bear.

“Oh, that’s Peter the Marksman, to be sure,” said the man. “He’s the best shot in the world; I know him by his voice.”

“Have you seen any bear about here, Eric?” shouted out a voice in the wood.

“Say no,” said the bear.

“No, I haven’t seen any,” said Eric.

“What’s that, then, that stands alongside your sledge?” bawled out the voice in the wood.

“Say it’s an old fir-stump,” said the bear.

“Oh, it’s only an old fir-stump,” said the man.

“Such fir-stumps we take in our country and roll them on our sledges,” bawled out the voice. “If you can’t do it yourself, I’ll come and help you.”

“Say you can help yourself, and roll me up on the sledge,” said the bear.

“No, thank ye, I can help myself well enough,” said the man, and rolled the bear on the sledge.

“Such fir-stumps we always bind fast on our sledges in our part of the world,” bawled out the voice. “Shall I come and help you?”

“Say you can help yourself, and bind me fast, do,” said the bear.

“No, thanks, I can help myself well enough,” said the man, who set to binding Bruin fast with all the ropes he had, so that at last the bear couldn’t stir a paw.

“Such fir-stumps we always drive our ax into, in our part of the world,” bawled out the voice, “for then we guide them better going down steep pitches.”

“Pretend to drive the ax into me, do now,” said the bear.

Then the man took up his ax, and at one blow split the bear’s skull, so that Bruin lay dead in a trice; and so the man and the fox were great friends, and on the best of terms.

But when they came near the farm, the fox said: “I’ve no mind to go right home with you, for I can’t say I like your dogs; so I’ll just wait here, and you can bring the wether to me; but mind you pick out one nice and fat.”

Yes, the man would be sure to do that, and thanked the fox much for his help. So when he had put the horse into the stable he went across to the sheep-pen.

“Where are you going?” asked his wife.

“Oh, I am only going over to the sheep-pen to fetch a fat ram for that good fox who saved our horse,” said the man, “as I have promised him one.”

“Why on earth give that thief of a fox any ram?” said the woman. “We have got the horse quite safe and the bear besides, and the fox has stolen more geese from us than the ram is worth; or, if he hasn’t already taken them, he is sure to do so some time. No, take the most savage pair of those dogs of yours and let them loose on him, then perhaps we’ll get rid of that thieving old rascal,” said the woman.

The man thought this was sensible advice and took two of his savage red dogs, put them in a bag and set out with them.

“Have you got the ram?” said the fox.

“Yes, come and fetch it,” said the man, undoing the string round the bag and setting the dogs at the fox.

“Ugh!” said the fox, bounding away, “the old saying: ‘Well done: ill paid,’ is only too true; and now I find it is also true that one’s relations are one’s worst enemies,” and he panted as he saw the red dogs at his heels.

_Reynard and Chanticleer_

Once on a time there was a cock who stood on a dungheap and crew and flapped his wings. Then the fox came by.

“Good day,” said Reynard. “I heard you crowing so nicely; but you can stand on one leg and crow, and wink your eyes?”

“Oh, yes,” said Chanticleer, “I can do that very well.” So he stood on one leg and crew; but he winked only with one eye, and when he had done that he made himself big and flapped his wings, as though he had done a great thing.

“Very pretty, to be sure,” said Reynard. “Almost as pretty as when the parson preaches in church; but can you stand on one leg and wink both your eyes at once? I hardly think you can.”

“Can’t I, though!” said Chanticleer, and stood on one leg, and winked both his eyes and crew. But Reynard caught hold of him, took him by the throat, and threw him over his back, so that he was off to the wood before he had crowed his crow out, as fast as Reynard could lay legs to the ground.

When they had come under an old spruce fir, Reynard threw Chanticleer on the ground, and set his paw on his breast, and was going to take a bite.

“You are a heathen, Reynard!” said Chanticleer. “Good Christians say grace, and ask a blessing before they eat.”

But Reynard would be no heathen. God forbid it! So he let go his hold, and was about to fold his paws over his breast and say grace—when pop! up flew Chanticleer into a tree.

“You sha’n’t get off, for all that,” said Reynard to himself. So he went away, and came again with a few chips which the woodcutters had left. Chanticleer peeped and peered to see what they could be.

“What in the world have you there?” he asked.

“These are letters I have just got,” said Reynard. “Won’t you help me to read them, for I don’t know how to read writing?”

“I’d be so happy, but I dare not read them now,” said Chanticleer, “for here comes a hunter. I see him, I see him, as I sit by the tree-trunk.”

When Reynard heard Chanticleer chattering about a hunter, he took to his heels as quick as he could.

So this time Reynard was made game of again!

_Father Bruin in the Corner_

Once on a time there was a man who lived far, far away in the wood. He had many, many goats and sheep, but never a one could he keep for fear of Graylegs, the wolf.

At last he said: “I’ll soon trap Grayboots,” and so he set to work digging a pitfall. When he had dug it deep enough, he put a pole down in the midst of the pit, and on the top of the pole he set a board, and on the board he put a little dog. Over the pit itself he spread boughs and branches and leaves, and other rubbish, and a-top of all he strewed snow, so that Graylegs might not see there was a pit underneath.

So when it got on in the night, the little dog grew weary of sitting there. “Bow-wow, bow-wow,” it said, and bayed at the moon. Just then up came a fox, slouching and sneaking, and thought here was a fine time for marketing, and with that gave a jump—head over heels down into the pitfall.

And when it got a little farther on in the night, the little dog got so weary and hungry, and it fell to yelping and howling. “Bow-wow, bow-wow,” it cried out. Just at that very moment up came Graylegs, trotting and trotting. He, too, thought he should get a fat steak, and he, too, made a spring—head over heels down into the pitfall.

When it was getting on toward gray dawn in the morning, down fell snow, with a north wind, and it grew so cold that the little dog stood and froze, and shivered and shook; it was so weary and so hungry. “Bow-wow, bow-wow, bow-wow,” it called out, and barked and yelped and howled. Then up came a bear, tramping and tramping along, and thought to himself how he could get a morsel for breakfast at the very top of the morning, and so he thought and thought among the boughs and branches till he too went bump—head over heels down into the pitfall.

So when it got a little farther on in the morning, an old beggar wife came walking by, who toddled from farm to farm with a bag on her back. When she set eyes on the little dog that stood there and howled, she couldn’t help going near to look and see if any wild beasts had fallen into the pit during the night. So she crawled up on her knees and peeped down into it.

“Art thou come into the pit at last, Reynard?” she said to the fox, for he was the first she saw; “a very good place, too, for such a hen-roost robber as thou. And thou, too, Graypaw,” she said to the wolf; “many a goat and sheep hast thou torn and rent, and now thou shalt be plagued and punished to death. Bless my heart! Thou, too, Bruin! Art thou, too, sitting in this room, thou mare-flayer? Thee, too, will we strip, and thee shall we flay, and thy skull shall be nailed up on the wall.” All this the old lass screeched out as she bent over toward the bear. But just then her bag fell over her ears, and dragged her down, and slap! down went the old crone—head over heels into the pitfall.

So there they all four sat and glared at one another, each in a corner—the fox in one, Graylegs in another, Bruin in a third, and the old crone in a fourth.

But as soon as it was broad daylight, Reynard began to peep and peer, and to twist and turn about, for he thought he might as well try to get out.

But the old lass cried out: “Canst thou not sit still, thou whirligig thief, and not go twisting and turning? Only look at Father Bruin himself in the corner, how he sits as grave as a judge,” for now she thought she might as well make friends with the bear. But just then up came the man who owned the pitfall. First he drew up the old wife, and after that he slew all the beasts, and spared neither Father Bruin himself in the corner, nor Graylegs, nor Reynard the whirligig thief. That night, at least, he thought he had made a good haul.

_Why the Sea is Salt_

Once upon a time, long, long ago, there were two brothers, the one rich and the other poor. When Christmas eve came the poor one had not a bite in the house, either of meat or bread; so he went to his brother and begged him, in Heaven’s name, to give him something for Christmas Day. It was by no means the first time that the brother had been forced to give something to him, and he was not better pleased at being asked now than he generally was.

“If you will do what I ask you, you shall have a whole ham,” said he. The poor one immediately thanked him and promised this.

“Well, here is the ham, and now you must go straight to Dead Man’s Hall,” said the rich brother, throwing the ham to him.

“Well, I will do what I have promised,” said the other, and he took the ham and set off. He went on and on for the livelong day, and at nightfall he came to a place where there was a bright light.

“I have no doubt this is the place,” thought the man with the ham, and he drew near an old man with a long white beard who was standing in the outhouse chopping Yule-logs.

“Good evening,” said the man with the ham.

“Good evening to you. Where are you going at this late hour?” said the man.

“I am going to Dead Man’s Hall, if only I am in the right track,” answered the poor man.

“Oh, yes, you are right enough, for it is here,” said the old man. “When you get inside they will all want to buy your ham, for they don’t get much meat to eat there. But you must not sell it unless you can get for it the hand-mill which stands behind the door. When you come out again I will teach you how to stop the hand-mill, which is useful for almost everything.”

So the man with the ham thanked the other for his good advice and rapped at the door.

When he got in, everything happened just as the old man had said it would: all the people, great and small, came round him like ants on an ant-hill, and each tried to outbid the other for the ham.

“By rights my old woman and I ought to have it for our Christmas dinner, but since you have set your hearts upon it I must just give it up to you,” said the man. “But if I sell it I will have the hand-mill which is standing there behind the door.”

At first they would not hear to this, and haggled and bargained with the man, but he stuck to what he had said, and the people were forced to give him the hand-mill. When the man came out again into the yard he asked the old wood-cutter how he was to stop the hand-mill, and when he had learned that, he thanked him and set off home with all the speed he could, but did not get there until after the clock had struck twelve on Christmas eve.

“But where in the world have you been?” said the old woman. “Here I have sat waiting hour after hour, and have not even two sticks to lay across each other under the Christmas porridge-pot.”

“Oh, I could not come before. I had something of importance to see about, and a long way to go, too; but now you shall just see!” said the man, and then he set the hand-mill on the table and bade it first grind light, then a tablecloth, and then meat, and beer, and everything else that was good for a Christmas eve’s supper; and the mill ground all that he ordered. “Bless me!” said the old woman as one thing after another appeared; and she wanted to know where her husband had got the mill from, but he would not tell her that.

“Never mind where I got it. You can see that it is a good one, and the water that turns it will never freeze,” said the man. So he ground meat and drink and all kinds of good things to last all Christmastide, and on the third day he invited all his friends to come to a feast.

Now, when the rich brother saw all that there was at the banquet, and in the house, he was both vexed and angry, for he grudged everything his brother had. “On Christmas eve he was so poor that he came to me and begged for a trifle, for Heaven’s sake, and now he gives a feast as if he were both a count and a king!” thought he. “But tell me, I pray you, where you got your riches from?” said he to his brother.

“From behind the door,” said he who owned the mill, for he did not choose to satisfy his brother on that point; but later in the evening, when he had taken a drop too much, he could not refrain from telling how he had come by the hand-mill. “There you see what has brought me all my wealth!” said he, and brought out the mill and made it grind first one thing and then another. When the brother saw that, he insisted on having the mill, and after a great deal of persuasion got it; but he had to give three hundred dollars for it, and the poor brother was to keep it till the haymaking was over, for he thought: “If I keep it as long as that, I can make it grind meat and drink that will last many a long year.” During that time you may imagine that the mill did not grow rusty, and when hay-harvest came the rich brother got it, but the other had taken good care not to teach him how to stop it. It was evening when the rich man got the mill home, and in the morning he bade his wife go out and spread the hay after the mowers, and he would attend to the house himself that day.

So when dinner-time drew near he set the mill on the kitchen table and said: “Grind herrings and milk pottage, and do it both quickly and well.”

So the mill began to grind herrings and milk pottage, and first all the dishes and tubs were filled, and then the food came out all over the kitchen floor. The man twisted and turned the mill and did all he could to make it stop, but howsoever he turned and screwed, it went on grinding, and in a short time the pottage rose so high that the man was like to be drowned. So he threw open the parlor door, but it was not long before the mill had ground the parlor full too, and it was with difficulty and danger that the man could go through the stream of pottage and get hold of the door-latch. When he had the door open he did not stay long in the room, but ran out, and the herrings and pottage came after him, and streamed out over both farm and field. Now, the wife, who was out spreading the hay, began to think dinner was long in coming, and said to the women and the mowers: “Though the master does not call us home, we may as well go. It may be that he finds he is not good at making pottage, and I should do well to help him.” So they began to straggle homeward, but when they had got a little way up the hill they met the herrings and pottage and bread, all pouring forth and winding about one over the other, and the man himself in front of the flood. “Would to Heaven that each of you had a hundred stomachs! Take care that you are not drowned in the pottage,” he cried as he went by them as if mischief were at his heels, down to where his brother dwelt. Then he begged him, for pity’s sake, to take the mill back again, and that in an instant, “for,” said he, “if it grind one hour more the whole district will be destroyed by herrings and pottage.” But the brother would not take it until the other paid him three hundred dollars, and that he was obliged to do. Now the poor brother had both the money and the mill again. So it was not long before he had a farmhouse much finer than that in which his brother lived, but the mill ground him so much money that he covered it with plates of gold; and the farmhouse lay close by the seashore, so it shone and glittered far out to sea. Every one who sailed by there now had to put in to visit the rich man in the gold farmhouse, and every one wanted to see the wonderful mill, for the report of it spread far and wide, and there was no one who had not heard tell of it.

After a long, long time a skipper came who wished to see the mill. He asked if it could make salt. “Yes, it could make salt,” said he who owned it, and when the skipper heard that he wished with all his might and main to have the mill, let it cost what it might, for, he thought, if he had it he would get off having to sail far away over the perilous sea for freights of salt. At first the man would not hear of parting with it, but the skipper begged and prayed, and at last the man sold it to him, and got many, many thousand dollars for it. When the skipper had the mill on his back he did not long stay there, for he was so afraid that the man would change his mind, and he had no time to ask how he was to stop its grinding, but got on board his ship as fast as he could.

When he had gone a little way out to sea he took the mill on deck. “Grind salt, and grind both quickly and well,” said the skipper. So the mill began to grind salt till it spouted out like water, and when the skipper had the ship filled he wanted to stop the mill, but whichever way he turned it and howsoever much he tried it went on grinding, and the heap of salt grew higher and higher, until at last the ship sank. There lies the mill at the bottom of the sea, and still, day by day, it grinds on; and that is why the sea is salt.

_Gudbrand on the Hillside_

There was once upon a time a man whose name was Gudbrand. He had a farm which lay far away up on the side of a hill, and therefore they called him Gudbrand on the hillside.

He and his wife lived so happily together, and agreed so well, that whatever the man did the wife thought it so well done that no one could do it better. No matter what he did, she thought it was always the right thing.

They lived on their own farm, and had a hundred dollars at the bottom of their chest and two cows in their cow-shed. One day the woman said to Gudbrand:

“I think we ought to go to town with one of the cows and sell it, so that we may have some ready money by us. We are pretty well off, and ought to have a few shillings in our pocket like other people. The hundred dollars in the chest we mustn’t touch, but I can’t see what we want with more than one cow, and it will be much better for us, as I shall have only one to look after instead of the two I have now to mind and feed.”

Yes, Gudbrand thought, that was well and sensibly spoken. He took the cow at once and went to town to sell it; but when he got there no one would buy the cow.

“Ah, well!” thought Gudbrand, “I may as well take the cow home again. I know I have both stall and food for it, and the way home is no longer than it was here.” So he strolled homeward again with the cow.

When he had got a bit on the way he met a man who had a horse to sell, and Gudbrand thought it was better to have a horse than a cow, and so he changed the cow for the horse.

When he had gone a bit farther he met a man who was driving a fat pig before him, and then he thought it would be better to have a fat pig than a horse, and so he changed with the man.

He now went a bit farther, and then he met a man with a goat, and so he thought it was surely better to have a goat than a pig, and changed with the man who had the goat.

Then he went a long way, till he met a man who had a sheep. He changed with him, for he thought it was always better to have a sheep than a goat.

When he had got a bit farther he met a man with a goose, and so he changed the sheep for the goose. And when he had gone a long, long way he met a man with a cock. He changed the goose with him, for he thought this wise: “It is surely better to have a cock than a goose.”

He walked on till late in the day, when he began to feel hungry. So he sold the cock for sixpence and bought some food for himself. “For it is always better to keep body and soul together than to have a cock,” thought Gudbrand.

He then set off again homeward till he came to his neighbor’s farm, and there he went in.

“How did you get on in town?” asked the people.

“Oh, only so-so,” said the man. “I can’t boast of my luck, nor can I grumble at it either.” And then he told them how it had gone with him from first to last.

“Well, you’ll have a fine reception when you get home to your wife,” said the man. “Heaven help you! I should not like to be in your place.”

“I think I might have fared much worse,” said Gudbrand; “but whether I have fared well or ill, I have such a kind wife that she never says anything, no matter what I do.”