Chapter I: Part 1

WONDER TALES FROM TIBET

by
ELEANORE MYERS JEWETT

Illustrations by
MAURICE DAY

BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, & COMPANY
1922

DEDICATED TO MY MOTHER

PREFACE

The Siddhi-kur is a strange and mysterious creature! He is so old that we cannot even guess at his age, and he has traveled so many leagues from the land that originally produced him that we really do not know how much of him is as he was, and how much of him has been changed by time and place. Dusky little boys and girls in faraway India, long, long ago, were the first to listen to the stories that gathered around the figure of the Siddhi-kur, tales of wonder and magic which always ended with the hint of another, even better one to follow. Then from India, still in the unknown long ago, wandering tribes, or perhaps occasional single travelers, carried the stories into the highlands of Tibet. There they grew and flourished, till the Siddhi-kur in his mango tree, with his clever wit and quaint sense of humor, and the ever persevering Khan’s Son, became as familiar to Kalmuck and Mongolian children as St. George and his dragon are to us. Some European travelers, hearing the tales from the people and realizing their unusual qualities, their picturesqueness, their fun and adventure, collected them and brought them home. They were first published in 1866 by a German scholar, Bernhardt Jülg, and it is from his pamphlet, “Kalmükische Märchen,” and an English translation of the same (“Sagas from the Far East,” by R. H. Busk, 1873), that I have drawn the following stories, changing and adapting them freely to suit Occidental ethics and taste.

I was first moved to put them into book form because of the interest they aroused in a certain small group of boys and girls to whom I told them, one hot, happy summer not so very long ago. The element of repetition, the distinctly human characters, the atmosphere of another land and strange people, and the romance of quest—these things give to the Wonder Tales from Tibet the appeal to the childhood of all times and all races, which is their reason for having lived so long and traveled so far, and reason, too, for believing they will hold the interest of our modern American girls and boys.

Eleanore Myers Jewett.

CONTENTS

PAGE
Preface vii
The Clever Prince and the Stupid Brother 1
The White Bird’s Wife 27
The Promise of Massang 50
How Six Friends Sought Adventure 76
The Secret of the Khan’s Barber 97
The Prince with the Golden Mouth 112
The Strange Adventure of Schalu’s Wife 133
The Fortunes of Shrikantha 146
Sunshine and Moonshine 164

ILLUSTRATIONS

The two friends felt themselves picked up and whizzed
through the air Frontispiece

PAGE
In and out among the shallows and deep pools they flashed 6
She noticed a richly carved table in the corner, with a
gold cage upon it 33
Up the ladder and into the room climbed a little old woman 59
Quite unexpectedly they came at length to a little log hut 81
In a flash he had caught her up and had left the palace roof
far behind 94
Together they dragged the chest ashore and set Shrikantha free 152
He found a great red door set deep into the face of the rock 169

WONDER TALES FROM TIBET

THE CLEVER PRINCE AND THE STUPID BROTHER

Long years ago there lived in the Far East a Prince and his Brother, sons of the Great Khan. The Prince was a wise and clever youth, but his Brother was stupid and ignorant beyond belief. The Khan tried in vain to have this lazy fellow educated and finally, when all else had failed, sent him to school to seven learned magicians who lived in a cave on the outskirts of his realm. There was nothing in the way of magic, either white or black, good or evil, which these seven wise men did not know, but because they had wicked, cruel hearts, they left the good alone and practised their art only for selfish and evil purposes. They took the stupid Brother because the Khan bade them do so, and they promised to teach him all the art of magic, but inwardly they resolved that he should learn none of it and merely be their tool and helper. And so it was. For seven years the stupid Brother worked with the magicians, and in all that time he learned not one thing, so that at the end he knew no more than at the beginning. His brother, the Prince, thinking that all might not be well, went one day to the cave and stood all day long at the door, watching his Brother and the seven wise men at work. And so very quick and clever he was that at the end of the day he had mastered no small bit of the art of magic himself. Seeing, however, how things stood with his Brother, and that it was useless for him to remain longer, he bade him come away, and the two straightway set off together toward their home.

The mind of the Prince was full of the wonderful secrets of magic which he had just learned, and he was eager to try his power and skill at the game; so at length, as they neared the palace,—“Brother,” said he, “go you to the old stable behind the hill, and there you will find a splendid steed as white as milk. I pray you, lead him gently to market, sell him, and bring the money to me, but remember this: on no account let him take you near the cave of the seven magicians!”

“Willingly,” said the stupid Brother, and off he set for the stable. He was too slow and dull to be really surprised at seeing a fine white horse standing unhitched in an open stall where there had been no horses before; he only thought what a great pity it would be to sell the animal as the Prince had bidden him. Far better would he like to keep it for himself. At any rate, he would take a ride first and perhaps go to the cave and show his new possession to his friends, the wise men. Scarcely had he formed this thought in his mind and leaped upon the steed’s back, when the animal dashed off, swift as the wind, down the road which led to the cave of the wizards. Too late did the stupid Brother remember the Prince’s warning to avoid that place of all others; he could not turn the horse to right or left, or slacken his speed until at length he stopped of his own accord right in front of the door of the cave. The lad got down and tried to turn the horse’s head and lead him home; he coaxed and scolded and even beat and kicked the poor beast, but all to no avail. Then, looking up, he spied the seven magicians standing in a row and smiling at him.

“It is useless,” said one, “you will never get that horse beyond our gate, so you might as well sell him to us.”

“Very well,” said the stupid Brother sulkily, giving a final kick. “How much will you give me for him?”

Now the magicians knew that this was no ordinary horse, but in reality the Prince, who had changed himself thus in order to test his skill in magic.

By their charms and spells they had drawn him straight to their cave, for they were not at all pleased to find he had learned the secret of their magic, and now they were minded to destroy him if they could. So they bargained with the stupid Brother for the horse, paid him a good price and sent him away, never dreaming that he was in reality leaving the Prince behind him.

“Alas!” thought the poor Prince, “now is my last hour come! By all the hidden powers of magic, I wish that some living creature would come by into which I could transform myself and so escape!”

Before the cave of the magicians flowed a brook, and the Prince had no sooner formed this wish in his heart than a tiny fish came swimming by. Quick as a flash, the great white steed disappeared, for the Prince had changed himself into the little minnow and was swimming rapidly away. The magicians saw their prey disappearing and immediately transformed themselves into seven larger fish and gave chase. In and out among the shallows and deep pools they flashed, the little fish and the seven great ones after it, on and on, and ever the great fish gained upon the little one, until the foremost of the seven could almost seize it in his mouth.

“Alack-a-day!” sighed the Prince, “now indeed is my last hour come! By all the power of magic spells, I wish that some living creature would come by into which I could transform myself and so escape!”

He had scarcely uttered this wish to himself when a white bird flew low over the brook, and in a flash the minnow was gone, and the Prince was flying swiftly over the fields in the form of a white dove. But he was none too quick, for the seven magicians had become seven great hawks and were circling over him. The Prince sped on like the wind over hills and valleys, on and on until at length, quite out of breath and spent, he came to a tall shining mountain. In the heart of this mountain was a cave wherein dwelt a hermit, a wise and good man, whose name was Nagarguna. To this refuge the Prince now sped, and the hawks were almost upon him when he flew against the rough wooden door of the cave and beat his wings wildly upon it. Nagarguna opened it, the dove flew in and fell exhausted upon the floor.

“What is the matter, little creature?” said the hermit, picking up the white bird and holding him gently in his hands.

“I am pursued!” gasped the Prince, “my life is in great danger. I pray you, good master, hear me, and do what I bid you, that my life may be saved!” He paused to take a breath, and in that moment there came a knocking at the door of the cave which had swung to after the Prince had entered.

“Even now,” continued the Prince, “there stand seven men without, clothed in white. Before you open the door to them, let me change myself into the largest bead in that chaplet which you wear around your neck. When they come in, they will ask you for it. Give them the beads, but before you do so, break the string on which they are strung so that they will fall to the ground. If you do this, I can do the rest by my power of magic.”

Meanwhile the knocking upon the door grew louder and louder, and so, hastily promising to do as the Prince had said, Nagarguna opened it. Without stood seven men with white hair and long white cotton robes. Very old and wise they looked, but their eyes were wicked.

“What would you, sirs?” said Nagarguna. They stepped into the cave and, looking sharply around, spied the chaplet of beads about the hermit’s neck. The white dove, of course, had vanished by this time.

“I pray you,” said the foremost of the seven men, “let us have the chaplet that hangs about your neck. We have long heard the fame of you, have come from afar to see you, and would greatly like to carry away a token from you.”

“Gladly will I give it to you,” said the hermit, but in slipping the chaplet from his neck he managed to break the string, and the beads went clattering to the floor, all but the largest one, which still clung to the string. And all the little beads became worms and wriggled upon the ground, and the seven magicians changed themselves into seven large fowls and began pecking at the worms until they were all eaten up. Then, at length, the largest bead fell, and scarcely had it touched the earth before it became a youth, the Prince himself, who stood straight, tall and fair, with a staff in his hands. With this he slew the seven fowls quickly, one by one, and cast them out of the cave, where they became the dead bodies of the seven wicked magicians. Then he turned back, weary and exhausted, into the cave, but Nagarguna looked upon him coldly and with displeasure.

“You have done evil, my son,” said he, “for you have taken life, even the lives of seven men; and it will not easily be forgiven you.”

The Prince bowed his head humbly before Nagarguna. “Truly,” said he, “I did not wish the death of these men, but they wickedly sought my life. Only to defend myself from a like fate did I lift my hand to slay another.”

“Even so,” replied Nagarguna, “and well I know your heart is not evil, and that only because you knew of no better way to defend yourself did you resort to barbarous killing. But by knowledge, my son, are all good things accomplished, all wrong ones avoided. Had your knowledge been perfect, you would not have found it necessary to take the life of any living creature, even in self-defense.”

“Then, Father,” said the Prince, “let me stay with you and learn true wisdom. I am sorry for this wrong, done in ignorance, and any task, no matter how hard, which you want me to perform, I will do faithfully to show my true repentance.”

“Well said!” And Nagarguna smiled upon the Prince. “If you keep this spirit of humility within you, when the time has come for you to rule this land, you will be a wise and good king, and your people will be happy and prosperous beneath your sway. Come, now, I will tell you a task worthy a brave man’s strength and skill, and when you shall have accomplished it, you shall dwell with me and learn wisdom until it is time for you to be king over your people.”

The Prince and the hermit forthwith sat down side by side upon the rough floor of the cave (for it was quite bare of furnishings) and Nagarguna told of the great work which the Prince was to do.

“There is,” said he, “in a very far country a creature called the Siddhi-kur. Very strange he is, being gold from his waist up, emerald from his waist down, with a head that looks like mother-of-pearl and a shining crown upon it. The Siddhi-kur is a creature of magic—good magic—and the land wherein he is shall be blessed with knowledge, wealth and long life. Now, if you can capture the Siddhi-kur and bring him to me, we will place him in a cool grove here upon this shining mountain, and then our people in the valley, your people and my people, will be mightily blessed above all others. They shall have gold in abundance, and what is far better, they shall have a great store of wisdom and knowledge, and long life in which to use it.”

“That is indeed a noble task,” said the Prince, “and with great joy will I undertake it. Only tell me how I may reach the Siddhi-kur and how he may be captured.”

“Mark well my words,” replied the hermit, “and I will tell you all.”

For an hour or more they talked, and Nagarguna told the Prince how he should go to find the Siddhi-kur, of all the dangers he would meet by the way and how he should overcome them. And the Prince plied him with many questions and put away carefully in his mind all the directions and warnings that were given him. At length the master arose and, going into a dark recess of the cave, brought forth an axe, a sack, a cord and a basket. These he spread out before the Prince.

“In this basket,” said he, handing it to the lad, “are the magic barley corns which you will use as I have directed you, and also a cake which grows not less, no matter how much you eat of it. The cake will keep you from hunger as the barley corns will keep you from fear.” Then, picking up the axe, the sack and the cord, he continued, “When at length you have found the Siddhi-kur, do not fail to tell him that this is the magic axe ‘White Moon,’ that this sack is the marvellous sack of many colors, in which, though it appears so small, there is space to stow away a hundred creatures, and that, finally, this is the cord of a hundred threads, each one different in hue, and each strong enough to bind and hold the mightiest ox. When you have shown him all these things, he will yield himself quietly to you. Arise then, my son, and start upon your way, and peace and good fortune attend you!”

The Prince arose, his heart high with courage, and slinging the sack, cord and axe over his shoulder, the basket on his arm, he turned to bid Nagarguna farewell.

“One thing more,” said the hermit, “and this is more important than all else that I have told you. When once you have got the Siddhi-kur upon your back and are returning to me, remember, open not your lips nor say one word for any cause whatever until you have reached the door of my cave and have given the Siddhi-kur into my keeping!”

Promising to remember this above all else, the Prince bade good-by to Nagarguna, receiving his blessing again, and set forth with a quick step and a light heart upon his great adventure.

THE PRINCE AND THE SIDDHI-KUR

Northward went the Prince, northward in a straight line as the crow flies, though the way was hard and rough, and many times he could find no shelter from storm and night. At length, when he had traveled a hundred miles, he came to a valley, deep and dark and mysterious. This, he knew, was the spot where Nagarguna had warned him he would meet with his first adventure. Gripping his sack, axe, cord and basket with a firm hand, he climbed down the rocky sides, though it grew ever darker and darker as he descended. The loose stones slipped from beneath his feet, and a great roaring sound filled his ears as he neared the bottom, where a muddy river rushed along. At last he reached the bank of this stream and stood there, wondering at the noise and rush of it and at the strange half-darkness that surrounded him. Suddenly the noise grew greater, and from the stream, the banks of the ravine, and seemingly from the air itself appeared great ghostly forms, very tall and fierce, and they rushed upon the Prince as though to kill him.

“These are the ghosts of giants who lived long ages ago,” thought the lad, remembering Nagarguna’s words. “I must not fear them!” And covering his eyes with his sleeve, he scattered a few grains of the magic barley corn in the air and waited, listening. The strange, ghostly sounds grew less, and even the roar and rush of the torrent seemed to become more distant. For some little time the Prince waited, with his sleeve across his eyes, and when the noise had grown quite faint and indistinct, he looked around him. No longer was he standing at the bottom of the dark valley with the muddy river rushing beside him! To his astonishment, he found himself, instead, on the top of a hill on the opposite side of it; the sunlight was bright and warm upon him, and an open meadow land sloped gently away before him. Casting one look down into the depths, at the muddy, horrible stream far below, he turned his back upon it with a sigh of relief.

“There is one adventure safely passed!” said he to himself, and trudged onward.

Again there was a long journey, and sometimes the way was rough and hard, and sometimes it was pleasant and easy. But northward still it lay in a straight line, and the Prince was weary enough when he had gone another hundred miles and had come to the second stage of his adventure.

He had reached a broad meadow full of tall lank grass, with a little stream winding through the center of it. On the bank of this quiet meadow brook he stood and gazed around, wondering, for the sunlight, so bright a moment ago, seemed to be fading. The soft babbling of the water grew suddenly loud and harsh, the air dark and murky, and there darted from the tall, rank grass on every side a throng of strange, ghostly figures. Very small they were and dim and vague, but their faces were ugly, and they swarmed around the Prince in countless numbers, as if they would cover and overwhelm him. He bent his head and gasped for breath, muttering to himself, “These must be they of whom Nagarguna told me, the ghosts of wicked dwarfs who lived and died long years ago!” He covered his eyes with his sleeve and cast the magic barley corn in the air, then waited, listening. The noise of the stream died down, and the sound of the rushing, ghostly forms ceased; and when the Prince looked about him again, he found himself on the other side of the little winding stream, with the sunlight pouring down upon him and the tall grass waving at his feet.

“There is my second adventure safely passed!” thought he, and turning his back upon the meadow and brook, he journeyed on.

Northward he traveled still, and if the way had been hard before, it was ten times harder now. Over rugged crags the Prince scrambled, across bare deserts where there was no water and no rest for his burning feet,—only sand, sand, sand and a tiresome wind. On and on he went until at last another hundred miles had been left behind him, and he saw lying just ahead a beautiful garden. As the Prince entered it, he thought that never before had he seen anything half so lovely. Strange, brilliant flowers grew in rich profusion on all sides, filling the air with a soft, sweet fragrance. Birds with bright plumage flashed by, and the sound of their incessant sweet singing mingled with the splash of water in an unseen fountain. The Prince loitered along the path delighted, drinking in eagerly all the beauty of sight and sound and scent. At length, turning a corner, he came upon the fountain sparkling in the sun. Crystal clear it was and very beautiful, and beside it was a marble bench looking cool and restful. The Prince sank down upon it, for he felt suddenly very weary, but scarcely had he seated himself before the sunlight disappeared and a strange half darkness covered him. The sound of the splashing water grew louder, but it was very pleasant to hear, and mingled with it was a whispering and pattering as of small voices and tiny feet, and a brushing as of garments against the bushes. He looked around him and then stood up the better to see. From behind every flower and bush danced forth a little form, shimmery and indistinct but beautiful beyond belief.

“Oh, you lovely, lovely creatures!” exclaimed the Prince aloud. “But I must not look at you, for truly you must be they of whom the master told me,—the ghosts of little children who lived and died long years ago and were forgotten!”

Slowly and reluctantly the Prince, covering his eyes with his sleeve, cast the magic barley corns in the air and waited. The little silken sounds ceased, the splash of the water grew softer, and when he looked about him again he found himself standing on the other side of the fountain, with the garden behind him and a cool shady grove in front of him. And by a tree at the entrance to the grove, looking at him, stood the Siddhi-kur!

The Prince knew him at once by the shining gold and the emerald green of his body, by his head which looked like mother-of-pearl, and by the fair gold crown upon it. As he was looking at him, the Siddhi-kur turned and fled, and the Prince ran after him. Deep into the grove they sped, this way and that, and a long chase they had of it, until at last the Siddhi-kur reached the middle of the grove where stood his favorite mango tree, and before the Prince could touch him, he had climbed up to the very top of it, and there he sat, looking down and laughing.

The Prince waited only to catch his breath, and then, seizing his axe, he raised it high above his shoulder, exclaiming, “Oh, Siddhi-kur, come down! Nagarguna, the hermit, has need of you! Come down, I pray you, or with my magic axe, ‘White Moon,’ I will fell your mango tree!”

“Nay, do not so!” cried the Siddhi-kur, gazing in terror at the uplifted axe. “Do not cut down my mango tree with the terrible ‘White Moon’; much rather would I descend to you!”

“Come, then, quickly!” said the Prince, laying aside his axe and picking up the sack and cord. On seeing these, the Siddhi-kur hastily climbed down from the tree and stood beside the Prince, trembling.

“See, now,” continued the lad, holding the sack wide open. “Resistance is useless, for here I have the magic sack of many colors, in which, though it looks so small, is space to stow away a hundred creatures. You shall ride in it upon my back, and the neck of it shall be tied around your neck with this magic cord of a hundred threads, each of a different kind, and each strong enough to bind an ox. Be content, then, come with me, and you shall dwell happily in a cool grove on the shining mountain, beside the good Nagarguna.”

The Siddhi-kur sighed deeply. “Resistance is indeed vain!” said he, “since you have the axe, the sack and the cord. So take me on your back and let us be about our way, for he who cannot mend his fortunes should make the best of them.”

The Prince was overjoyed that his adventure should be thus accomplished so easily, and without more ado he settled the Siddhi-kur comfortably in the sack, tied the mouth of it with the cord of a hundred threads, balanced it upon his back, and picking up the axe, “White Moon,” started on his homeward journey. Very proud he felt, and very well satisfied. He ate of the magic cake which grew not less, and being much refreshed, he walked bravely along, though the way was twice as hard as it had been before, owing to the heavy burden on his back.

After they had proceeded a long way in silence, the Siddhi-kur spoke:

“Of a truth,” said he, “the way is long and I grow weary. I pray you, Prince, tell me now a tale, that the hours may seem the shorter to us both.”

But the Prince, remembering how Nagarguna had bade him above all else not to open his lips on the homeward way, merely shook his head and said nothing.

“Oh,” said the Siddhi-kur, “the Prince is wise beyond his years! He has learned the lesson of silence! Keep, then, your thoughts to yourself, but if you are minded to listen, I will tell you a story, a wonder tale, which will make the time pass quickly and pleasantly. Only nod your head, if you are willing, and I will begin.”

Now the Prince was very weary, and the hours seemed long indeed. “Surely,” he thought, “there can be no harm in merely listening, and perhaps the Siddhi-kur can tell a wonderful tale which it will be pleasant and profitable to hear.” So he nodded assent, and the Siddhi-kur straightway began.

TALE ONE

THE WHITE BIRD’S WIFE

Many, many years ago, when the world was young, there lived in a country very fair and full of flowers an old man who had three daughters. They were simple, humble folk and owned little save a herd of goats, and these were dearer to the old man than anything else in the world, dearer even than his three fine daughters. Every day one of the girls went forth with the flock and tended them upon the hillside, and woe be to her if, when she returned at night, one of the little beasts was hurt or missing! The father stood by the gate of their yard and counted them all as they ran in at evening, and often he felt of each and caressed it, murmuring terms of endearment which might better have been spent on his daughters, to whom he never showed any affection at all.

One day, when it was the turn of the eldest to tend the flock, she returned at night, very late, and with eyes red and swollen with weeping. The cause of her grief soon appeared; one of the goats was missing, and the angry father lost no time in venting his wrath in shrill words of abuse and cruel blows. The poor girl crept away to bed, crying and complaining, but to all her sisters’ questions she answered no word save to bid them crossly to be quiet. Yet there was something in her manner which led the other two to believe that she had met with some strange adventure, and they talked long together, wondering and guessing as to what it might have been.

The next morning the second daughter set forth to watch the goats, and returned late at night as the first had done, weary and crying bitterly, for another goat had been lost. And if the father had been angry and cruel before, he was twice as much so now. He beat the poor girl’s shoulders with his heavy stick and cursed her till she fled in terror to her bed and lay there, trembling and weeping in the dark. But when the youngest daughter asked her gently what had happened, and how she had lost the goat, she was bidden to hold her peace, and could learn nothing. She noticed, however, that her two sisters now exchanged looks of understanding, and whispered much together, stopping at once when she came by. She was filled with curiosity and could scarcely sleep that night for eagerness to try her luck with the flock next day, and see if any strange adventure would befall her.

Early in the morning Ananda (for that was the youngest daughter’s name) set forth with the goats to the hillside, resolved to be very alert and avoid all the trouble her sisters had fallen into. The weather was unusually warm and sultry, and about noon a great sense of heaviness and sleep came upon her, so that, in spite of all her efforts, her eyes would no longer stay open. She lay down under a tree, thinking she would let herself sleep for just a few moments, but when she awoke she found, to her dismay, that the moments had lengthened into hours, the sun was nigh setting, and while she had slept one of the goats had gone astray.

“Alas!” she thought. “My father will kill me if another goat is lost! I must find it, though I hunt all night!” She began looking hurriedly everywhere, in all the pastures where the flock were wont to stray, on the neighboring hillsides and in the valleys, calling the goat by name and watching in the soft ground for the mark of his hoofs. At last, a long distance from where the others had grazed, she found the impression of the hoofs of a single goat leading away along the muddy banks of a stream. These she followed eagerly, hoping with every step to see her missing charge in the distance. The marks led steadily on, and she followed farther and farther until at length she found herself in a strange country full of great rocks and dark-mouthed caves. The hoof marks left the bank of the stream at this point, led directly to a cave in the side of a hill, and there stopped short. The mouth of the cave was closed by a big red door, and Ananda, pushing against it, found that it opened easily, leading into a passageway dim and damp. At the end of this passage was another door which shone in the dark, making the way almost bright before it. This, she found, was of solid gold and, wondering much, she tried it and found that it, too, opened readily. Beyond was another passage, shorter than the first and lighted by the radiance of the gold door behind her. Ananda hastened to the end of it, where she found, to her astonishment, two doors, side by side, one of mother-of-pearl and the other of emerald. By this time she had quite forgotten the goat, so filled was she with wonder and curiosity. She lost no time in pushing against the mother-of-pearl door, but, though she threw all her weight upon it, she could not make it yield an inch. So, turning with a sigh, she tried the emerald door, which opened at once; stepping across the threshold, she found herself in a large vaulted room, brilliantly lighted by lamps which swung from the ceiling. On every side were signs of luxury and wealth, soft divans, curious rich furnishings, and on the floor, in careless piles, gold coins and precious stones,—diamonds, rubies, emeralds and many others, beyond all power to count. Ananda rubbed her eyes, thinking she must still be sleeping. There appeared to be no living being in the room, so she began peering around in this corner and that, wondering more and more as she came upon one rich object after another. Suddenly she was startled by a voice quite close behind her.

“Good day, fair damsel!” it said. “May I ask what it is you are looking for?”

Ananda wheeled around in terror, but there was no person visible behind her. Only she noticed a richly carved table in the corner with a gold cage upon it, and in the cage a beautiful snow-white bird.

“Who could have been speaking?” said she to herself, still looking in every direction, and, as if in answer to her thought, the white bird moved on his golden perch and spoke again.

“Damsel, I bid you good day, and welcome to my dwelling. But pray tell me what it is you are seeking?”

Ananda stared in astonishment. “So it was you who spoke!” said she. “In truth, I hadn’t noticed you before!” And then, bethinking her of the question twice asked, and not yet answered, she continued, “I beg your pardon—I have come to seek my father’s goat which is lost. I followed his hoof marks to the door of this cave and had hoped to find him within.”

“I can restore your goats to you,” said the bird, “that which you lost to-day, and those which your sisters lost before you.”

“Oh, you are most kind!” cried the girl. “Give them to me, I beg, and I will hasten home and trouble you no longer!”

“Not so fast! Not so fast!” replied the bird. “Wait and hear my conditions. Your sisters refused them with scorn and preferred to endure all the ill-treatment and abuse at home rather than to consider for a moment what I proposed.”

“They must be hard conditions indeed,” said Ananda, “to make me refuse them and go home goatless to my angry father! Tell me, good bird—what are they?”

“This is the bargain I propose,” said the white bird slowly. “If you will marry me and live in luxury here, in my palace cave, I will send all the goats straightway back to your father. Moreover, you shall have all that your heart can desire, in so far as wealth can give it. Come, now! I will let you have fifteen minutes in which to consider. Sit down upon that divan yonder, and when your mind is made up, speak and I will listen.” Then the white bird began busily pecking grains of food from the cup in his cage, as if he had nothing further to say on the subject.

Slowly Ananda walked over to the divan and sat down. “If I go home without the goat,” she reasoned with herself, “my father will nigh kill me in his anger—and yet, to marry a white bird, truly that would be a very sorry adventure. But (looking around the brightly lighted room) life at home is poor and dull, and here would be much to amuse and interest me. And even a white bird might prove a good companion, if I had no other.” She arose and walked back to the cage with a decided step.

“I will marry you!” said she to the white bird.

“Good!” said he, and rising on his perch, fluttered his wings. Immediately there appeared before Ananda a table spread with a fine cloth and having upon it the best supper her eyes had ever looked on.

“Sit down and eat,” continued the white bird, “for you must be hungry. The goats are even now on their way homeward and will find your father’s pen unguided, with the rest of the flock, to-night.”

So Ananda married the white bird and lived in the palace cave, and for a long time her days were full of wonder and delight. There seemed no end to the treasures around her, and she had but to form a wish in her mind to have it straightway granted. But after awhile she began to grow lonely. Every morning the white bird disappeared (whither, she never knew), and all day long she must remain by herself in the great vaulted room. In the evening the white bird would return, but after all, he was poor company compared with her two sisters, and she began to regret what she had done and long to be at home again. The white bird brought her news of the outside world and tried to cheer her by talk and gossip, and one time he told her of a fair which was to be held next day in a near-by village. Ananda sighed deeply as he told of it.

“How I should love to go to that fair!” said she. “It is so long since I have seen any of my kind.”

“My dear,” said the white bird, “I think it unwise for you to go; my heart tells me that ill will come of it. Nevertheless, if you greatly desire it, if nothing else will make you happy, you shall have your wish. Go to the fair and stay all day. Indeed, if you go at all, you must promise me faithfully not to return until six o’clock in the evening.”

Ananda was delighted, readily gave the desired promise and bustled eagerly about, preparing for the morrow. The next day she started forth bright and early and in good time reached the fair grounds. Such a merry time she had from the very start! She made friends with everybody around her, and having plenty of money to spend on herself and others, she soon found herself extremely popular. She saw all there was to be seen and did all there was to be done, and the morning was gone before she knew it.

Early in the afternoon there rode into the fair grounds a stranger on a snow-white horse. Very tall and strong he was, and good to look upon, and he was dressed in silk and cloth-of-gold, like a prince. Everybody began at once to ask everybody else who he was and whence he came, and it soon appeared that nobody at the fair had ever seen or heard of him before. All talked and marvelled at his handsome face, fine carriage and princely clothes, and wherever he went, a little crowd followed after him, watching curiously everything he did. Ananda saw him too, and when she looked into his face, all the happiness suddenly died within her, and she wished mightily that she had never come to the fair at all, for she knew that she loved him with all her heart. She wandered away from her gay young companions and stood watching the stranger from a distance and feeling very sorrowful.

“What ails you, my girl?” a thin, cracked voice suddenly said in her ear, and looking around she saw a little old woman, very bent and aged, and with a shrewd, wrinkled face. “What ails you?” she repeated, tapping the ground with her staff. And because Ananda did not seem to be able to do otherwise, she told her frankly the whole thing.

“Alas, good mother,” she said, “I have fallen in love with yonder princely stranger!”

“And why should that make you unhappy?” said the old woman. “Why should you not hope to marry him as well as any other; you are a pretty wench, to be sure!”

“I am already married to the white bird,” said Ananda, with a sigh.

“That is as it should be, my dear! That is as it should be!” And the old woman broke into a cackling laugh.

“How can that be?” cried Ananda crossly, for she was quite bewildered.

“Because, my dear, yonder princely stranger is the white bird himself in his right and proper form.”

Ananda could only gasp with amazement, and the crone continued, “He is bewitched, that is all!” And then she moved off as if she had done with the subject, but Ananda ran after her and, catching her by the sleeve, made her stop.

“Tell me! Tell me!” she cried. “Can I not break the spell? Is there no way in which I can keep him in his right form?”

“Let me go!” snapped the old woman. “Yes, of course there is a way! Go home at once, before he can reach there, and you will find his gold cage and perch and bird feathers in a corner of the vaulted room. Take these and burn them; then when he comes back, he will keep his man form forever.”

Scarcely waiting to murmur her thanks, Ananda started for home, running all the way and arriving at the red door of the cave quite out of breath and exhausted. She soon found the gold cage and perch and the white bird feathers in a corner of the vaulted room, as the old woman had said, and these she quickly took outside and burned, until nothing remained but a little pile of ashes. Then she sat down happily beside the red door to await the return of the White Bird Prince.

Before long she caught sight of him riding towards her, and she jumped up and ran to meet him. But he, when he saw her, stopped short and looked down upon her very sorrowfully.

“Ananda,” said he, “you have broken your word; you have come home before me. Alas, nothing but ill can come of it!” They moved on slowly until they came to the little pile of ashes which was all that was left of the golden cage and perch, and the white feathers. The White Bird Prince got down from his horse and stood looking at it for a long time in silence. Then he turned to Ananda and said, “You have burnt my bird form, my perch and my cage, have you not?”

“Yes,” replied Ananda, beginning to cry, “but I did it that you might keep your man form forever, my dear husband.”

“In burning my feathers,” he continued, “you have burnt my soul, and now I shall be taken from you, and we can never see each other again.”

“No! no! don’t say that!” cried Ananda wildly. “If through my fault you have lost your soul, surely I can win it back for you! I cannot, cannot lose you now that I have got you in your own true form!”

The White Bird Prince looked upon her kindly, but there was little hope in his face as he spoke.

“Because you have burnt my soul, to-night there will come a throng of good and evil spirits who will fight for me, and at the end of seven days and seven nights the victorious ones will carry me away. And then I shall never be able to see my dear wife again. Nevertheless, there is one way in which you can save me, though I fear it is far too hard a task for any woman. If, for seven days and seven nights, while the good and evil spirits are fighting for me, you can beat with a staff upon the mother-of-pearl door outside our palace, without rest or pause for a single moment, then at the end of that time you will be able to break through the door and win back my soul for me. If you can do that, the good and evil spirits will be forced to flee, and you and I may dwell in peace together.”

“Surely,” cried Ananda joyfully, “that is not such a hard task, and for love of you, I can easily perform it! Give me a stout staff that I may be ready!”

That evening, when the sun had set, there came a great company of good and evil spirits as the prince had foretold, and they strove together outside the cave, and the din of their fighting was terrible to hear. But Ananda heeded them not. With a mighty staff she beat upon the mother-of-pearl door, all that night and the next day and the next, never pausing a moment, though she grew so weary she could scarcely stand or see. For seven days and seven nights she hammered on the door, and in the very last hour it began to give way beneath her blows. But in that hour her strength failed her, and she dropped exhausted and senseless to the ground and slept, unknowing, while the spirits carried away her beloved husband. When she came to herself again and found that he was gone, her grief knew no bounds.

“But weeping will do no good!” she said to herself at last. “I will rise up and search for my prince, though I have to go to the ends of the world to find him!”

So, drying her eyes, she took a stout staff in her hand and set forth at once, though she still ached with weariness and knew not which way to turn first.

It would be long to tell of her journey and of the adventures she met with by the way. Far and wide she traveled over the face of the earth, neither pausing nor resting, but ever seeking the White Bird Prince. At last, one day, when she was walking through a deep and lovely valley, to her unbounded joy she heard the prince’s voice calling her from the top of a mountain. Quickly and happily she climbed to the top, though the way was rough and hard beyond anything she had yet experienced. But when she had reached the summit, her husband was nowhere to be seen, and she was about to give up in despair when she heard his voice again from the depths of the valley. So she hurried breathlessly down again, and there, seated beside a stream and waiting for her, was the White Bird Prince himself. With a cry of joy she ran toward him, and they kissed and caressed and were happy beyond measure, but their joy was short.

“My dear wife,” said the Prince, “most grateful am I for this meeting, but now we must part again. The evil spirits have me in their power and have made me their water-bearer, and all day long I travel from the depths of the valley to the top of the mountain and back again, carrying water for them in a huge jug. And now I must return again to my labor.”

“Let me stay with you!” cried Ananda eagerly. “Have I not gone to the ends of the earth to find you?”

“That may not be,” replied the Prince; “nevertheless, since your love for me is so great, perhaps you can even yet win back my soul for me.”

“How? Oh, tell me how!” said Ananda. “Nothing can be too hard for my love!”

“Go back, then,” replied her husband, “go back to our palace cave and there build for me another golden cage and perch like those you burned. When they are finished, sit down before the cage and sing, and put into your song all your love for me. If your love is strong enough, it will woo my soul back in the form of a bird, and I shall return and take my soul again, the magic spell under which I used to live will be broken, and you and I can dwell together in our true forms happily and lovingly for the rest of our lives.”

At this point in the story the Siddhi-kur stopped short and said no more.

“Well, did she do it? Did Ananda sing the song and woo back the soul of the White Bird Prince?” asked the Khan’s son, forgetting in his interest all about Nagarguna and his command to keep silent.

“Of course she did!” replied the Siddhi-kur, “and her song was so full of love and beauty that its like has never been heard, even to this very day. But see now, you have broken silence, my son, and so I am free once more to go back to my mango tree in the cool grove beside the garden of ghost children. Farewell! And be you wiser in future!”

And with that, the Siddhi-kur jumped lightly from the sack on the Prince’s back and in a flash had vanished in the distance.

It profited nothing for the Prince to rage at himself and his folly. There was nothing left to do but to go back all the way he had come and fetch the Siddhi-kur again, for never would he dare to face Nagarguna with his task unaccomplished. So, taking a bite from his magic cake, which grew not less, he turned about and set forth once more to the northward. Over the same rough road he traveled, meeting the same adventures and passing them safely by, until at last he came again to the beautiful garden of ghost children and found the Siddhi-kur sitting in his mango tree and smiling down upon him. Now, after he had captured the Siddhi-kur as before and set him on his back, and after they had gone far on the homeward way in silence, that creature of magic spoke again, saying,

“Truly, O Khan’s son, this is a long and wearisome journey. Tell me, I beg you, some tale of marvel that the way may seem shorter and pleasanter to us both.” But, as his suggestion received no reply, he continued:

“Since you are minded to keep silence at any cost, at least you can have no objection to my telling you a story. I have a goodly one in my mind even now, and if you say nothing to prevent me, I shall begin at once.” After waiting for a moment in silence, the Siddhi-kur began his second tale.

TALE TWO

THE PROMISE OF MASSANG

Long ago, there dwelt by the bank of a river a very poor man who had nothing in the world but a cow. “If only I had a calf too,” he would say to himself, “I would be so much better off, for then I could sell the calf and with the money buy goods and trade with them, and in time might even become rich.” So he wished and wished for a calf, and prayed to his gods and recited many magic forms; and every morning he went hopefully into the shed where his cow was kept, thinking he might find the longed-for calf beside her. At last, one morning he heard a strange noise in the shed and rushed out, feeling sure that his wishes and prayers were at length to be rewarded. What was his surprise when he reached the shed to see, standing by the cow, not a calf at all, but a boy, tall and thin and very ragged, with bushy hair and clear brown eyes. His disappointment and anger rose at the sight.

“What are you doing here, you young beggar?” he shouted. “Trying to steal my cow, I suppose—the only thing I have in the world!” Seizing a great staff, he went at the boy as if to kill him, and the lad shrank back against the wall.

“Kill me not, master!” he cried. “I had no thought of evil towards you. I am alone and friendless and have come begging you to take me as your son.”

The man put down his staff and laughed loudly and disagreeably. “My son!” said he; “as if I did not have enough to do in keeping this poor body and soul together without taking upon me the care of another! Son, indeed, when I wanted a calf! Nay, I’ve a mind to kill you for your folly!” And he advanced angrily toward the boy again.