JAPANESE FOLK STORIES AND FAIRY TALES

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A beautiful princess lived in Inaba. She was called the Princess of Yakami, and was the loveliest princess in all the land. Her skin was like velvet, her hair was dark as night, and her eyes were as bright and soft as the stars. She was sweet as well as fair, but willful, and when they said, “Fair Princess, you must marry,” she replied, “The time has not yet come. I see nowhere in Inaba the man who may be my lord.”

At this the court was in despair. The Princess would not marry until she was quite ready,—that the counselors knew. They had not counseled the little, pretty, willful princess for nothing. Had the king, her father, lived it might have been different; but he was long since gone, and the queen mother could do no more with the princess than could the wise men of the kingdom. Early in her life the princess had learned that there was just one thing she could say which no one could answer. She had only to look very sweetly at whoever was trying to persuade her to do something, and then, with a dainty little smile, say simply, “But I don’t want to!”

That was all. No one, not even the wisest of the counselors, had ever found an answer to that. It was a strange state of affairs; for all the little princesses before had been gentle and sweet, and had done just what they were told.

The counselors at length proclaimed that all young men of proper age and rank should present themselves for the princess to look at and see if she liked any of them well enough to marry.

The news of this quickly spread everywhere. It was no time at all before the road to Yakami was seen crowded with youths. There were youths tall and short, fat and thin, handsome and ugly, and each hoped he would be the favored suitor.

Among others there came eighty-one brothers, each of whom had seen the picture of the princess and wished to win her. These brothers were of noble family, but the youngest was the only one who was really noble. He was as brave as Yositumé! Eighty of the brothers were ugly and jealous of one another. It seemed as if they could agree upon nothing in all the world except treating the youngest meanly. They despised him because he was so good and gentle, and never rude or quarrelsome.

The eighty-first brother never complained. He tried to please his brothers; and when he found that he could not, he stayed away from them as far as possible.

When, therefore, they went to wait on the princess, he lingered at the back of the train; for his brothers scoffed at him and made him carry their burdens, as if he had been a servant.

The eighty brothers went proudly ahead. As they toiled up a mountain-side they came upon a poor little hare stretched out upon the grass. All his fur had been pulled out and he was ill and wretched.

“Let me tell you what will cure you,” said one of the brothers, with a wicked laugh to his companions. “Go down to the sea; bathe yourself in the salt water, and then run to the top of the hill. The Wind God of the hilltop will cure you, and your fur will grow again.”

“Thank you, noble prince,” said the hare; and as the eighty brothers turned away laughing, he hurried to the sea shore.

Alas! the salt water hurt his tender skin, and the sun and wind burned him so that he cried out with pain.

The eighty-first brother, trudging along with his brothers’ bundles, heard the cry and hurried to see if some one was hurt.

“Poor little fellow!” he said, pityingly. “What is the matter?”

“Your voice is kind, your face is kind, and I feel that you have a kind heart,” said the hare. “Perhaps you can help me if I tell you my story.”

“I will gladly do so if I can,” said the eighty-first brother.

“I was born in the Isle of Oki,” said the hare. “When I grew up I longed to see the world, but I knew not how to reach the mainland. After a long time, however, I thought of a way. Great numbers of crocodiles were in the habit of coming to the beach to sun themselves. One day I said to them boastfully, ‘There are more hares in Oki than crocodiles in the sea.’

“‘Not so,’ said one of the crocodiles, ‘there are a great many more crocodiles.’

“‘Let us count,’ I answered, ‘and then both will be satisfied. I can count all of you crocodiles very easily. You have only to form a line from here to Cape Kita, and let the nose of one be at the tail of another, and I will run lightly across on your backs and count as I go. Then we shall know how many crocodiles there are.’

“‘But how shall we know about the hares?’ asked a crocodile.

“‘Oh, that we can decide later,’ I answered.

“So they did as I had said. They formed in a line, and I ran across. Their broad backs made a good bridge, but, alas, why did I not know enough to hold my tongue? As I jumped from the last crocodile to the bank, I cried, ‘I have fooled you well! I don’t care how many crocodiles there are. I only used you as a bridge to reach the mainland.’ But just as I said this, the last monster grabbed me with his teeth and tore off all my fur.

Many, many years ago, when the gods reigned in high heaven, the country of Nippon rose from the waters. Izanagi and Izananu, standing upon the floating bridge of heaven, thrust down a glittering blade. They probed the blue ocean and the drops from the sword’s point hardened and became islands; and thus was created the “Land of Many Blades,” the isles of Nippon.

Now Izanagi and Izananu were the highest of the gods of heaven, and they had two children, Amaterasu and Susanoo. Susanoo was made god of the sea, and his sister was the bright and beautiful sun goddess, whose name meant Great Goddess of the Shining Heaven.

She reigned happily from her bright golden throne for many years, but Susanoo, like many other brothers, was a tease, and he made his sister very angry with some of his tricks. She was quite patient with him, as elder sisters should be, but at last there came a time when she could no longer stand his naughty ways.

Amaterasu sent Susanoo one day upon an errand, for she wished him to find a goddess named Uke-mochi, who lived in the reedy moors. When Susanoo found her he was tired and hungry, and so he asked her for food. Uke-mochi took food from her mouth to give him and this made him very angry. “Why feed me with foul things? You shall not live!” he cried; and, drawing his sword, he struck her dead.

When he went home and told Amaterasu what he had done, his sister was in a great rage and left her brother in total darkness. She fled to the cave of Ameno and closed the entrance with a huge rock. Then was all the earth dark, for the sun goddess no longer shed her light upon men. So terrible was it upon earth that at last the other gods met together near the cave, to consult and see what could be done.

They tried in every way to persuade Amaterasu to come forth, but she sulked like a naughty child and would not shine upon them. At last they thought of a plan to entice the goddess from her cavern by means of an image of herself. So a mirror was made, very large and fine. It was hung upon a tree, just before the door of the cave, and a strong hempen cord was put in the hands of a god who hid himself beside the door.

A number of cocks were started to crowing, and the lovely goddess Uzumé began to dance to music from a bamboo tube. The gods kept time by striking two pieces of wood together, and one of them played a harp made by placing six of their bows together with the strings upward and drawing grass and rushes across them. Great bonfires were lighted, and a huge drum was brought for Uzumé to dance upon. This she did with so much spirit and grace that all the gods were delighted. They laughed with joy, clapped their hands, and fairly shook high heaven with their merriment.

In the days of the Emperor Koan there lived near Koya a falcon which had wings and a tail of swords. It was far more dreaded than a porcupine of even the largest spines, and it used to lie in wait near the village of Koya to carry off people and eat them.

No one was safe from the ferocious bird. Little people, playing beneath the pines, happy in childish glee, were but tender morsels for the cruel bird. Women resting under the long racemes of the woodland wistaria, were attacked and dragged screaming to his nest. Even the men working in the rice fields would sometimes hear a cry of agony and see one of their number suddenly rise into the air in the clutches of the monstrous bird.

The villagers despaired of ever being able to rid themselves of this terrible creature. At last they sent a petition to the Mikado, urging him to send some one to deliver them from the pest.

“Behold!” they cried, “We, the subjects of Your Majesty, are in much fear and danger from this fierce creature, and we beseech you to save us, your humble servants.”

The Mikado sent to their aid the brave Prince Yashimasa; and the Prince tarried long in the village, for the bird was very wary and hid from sight. When the Prince went out to seek him, the falcon would disguise himself in various shapes. First, he would appear as a woman washing clothes beside the river; then he would become a tree growing beside a rippling waterfall; and again, he would look like a crane standing on the reedy shore.

It took so long to find the creature that Prince Yashimasa tarried for months in the house of Atago Shoji, a gentleman of the town. Thus it came about that he loved Atago’s daughter, the fair and gentle Shiragika, and the maiden returned his love. The two walked happily together in the iris-bordered meadows, and chatted long and cheerfully in the shade of the bamboo trees.

One day Prince Yashimasa found the nest of the falcon upon a hilltop and he cried, “Aha! my fine fellow! At last I have you! Soon I shall destroy you, and the village will no longer be in dread, but will rejoice greatly.”

He hid himself in a bamboo thicket, armed with his bow and arrows, and awaited the coming of the falcon.

A ruined temple stood in a lonely wood. All about it was a trackless forest. The huge trees waved above it, the leaves in the thicket whispered about it, the sun goddess seldom shone upon it with her light.

Uguisu,[2] poet of the woods, sang in the plum tree near by. He sang the poet’s song to the plum tree which he loved:

Ruined though the temple was, it still held a shrine and hither came Wakiki Mononofu, a young Samurai.[3] He was a brave young soldier who was seeking his fortune in the wide, wide world. He had lost his way and wandered in the forest seeking the path, until at length he came to the little clear space where was the temple. A storm was coming up, and a palace could not have seemed more welcome to the young warrior.

“Here is all I want,” he said to himself. “Here I shall have a shelter from the storm god’s wrath, and a place to sleep and dream of glory and adventure. What more could be desired?”

Then he wrapped himself in his mantle, curled up in a corner of the sacred room, and soon fell asleep. But his slumber did not last long. His pleasant dreams were disturbed by horrid sounds, and waking, he sprang to his feet and looked out of the temple door.

There he saw a troop of monstrous cats which seemed in the weird moonlight like phantoms, marching across the clear space in front of the temple, and dancing a wild dance. As they danced they uttered horrid sounds, yells, and wicked laughs; and through these he could hear the words of a strange chant:

Wakiki crouched low behind the door; for, brave as he was, there was something so dreadful in the appearance of the creatures that he did not want them to see him. Soon, however, with a chorus of wild yells, they disappeared as quickly as they had come. Then Wakiki lay down and slept again, nor did he waken until the sun goddess peered into the temple and whispered to him that it was morning.

In the olden days the gods dwelt by the isles of the Land of Many Blades, and there they used the swords, To-Nigiri and Ya-Nigiri. These were magic blades, but they were not so keen and terrible as the sword of the Clustering Clouds of Heaven.

And this is the story of that sword:

Amaterasu, the sun goddess, had a superb sword, whose flashing blade was like a gleam of light. This sword she greatly prized, but a malicious dragon stole it away and carried it to his den. The goddess cried for aid to Susanoo, her brother, and he pursued the dragon. It was a horrible beast with eight heads and terrible claws, and it roared at the god with each of its eight mouths.

Susanoo was a crafty and clever warrior and he knew that he could conquer the dragon only by guile. So he gave him soft words and smiles.

“What a wonderful warrior you would make, Sir Dragon,” he said. “Had you but a sword you could conquer the world.”

“I am not without a weapon and that a magic one,” haughtily replied the great beast as he flapped his mighty tail. “Behold!” and as he spoke Susanoo saw that the magic sword was concealed beneath the dragon’s tail.

“I drink to your health, O Wonderful One!” he cried. “May you live as long as there is no one mightier.” And he offered him a huge draught of saké.[4]

“That is wishing that I may live forever,” said the dragon, and he drank off the saké at a single gulp.

“You have said it,” said Susanoo with a deep reverence, and he offered him a second cup for his second head. By the time the dragon had taken eight cups, one for each of his great yawning mouths, his heads were so dizzy that he did not know at all what he was doing, and so he lay down to rest under the cliff.

Then Susanoo crept up and quickly struck off one of his heads and then another, and another until only one was left. By that time the dragon was quite wide-awake and very much enraged. He rushed at Susanoo and would have devoured him had not Amaterasu seen her brother’s danger. She sent a gleam of dazzling sunlight into the dragon’s eyes so that he could not see where he was going. Then Susanoo cut off the last head, and seizing the magic sword, bore it in triumph to his sister. She placed it in a shrine for safe-keeping and there it remained for many a day.

It was not to rest there always, however, for another hero was to wield it, and this was Yamato-Daké, son of the Emperor Koan.

A terrible war was being waged with the savages in the eastern part of Japan, and Yamato went forth to conquer them, bearing with him the Sacred Sword. But the savages were not easy to overcome. They laid in wait in the bamboo thickets and sent showers of poisoned arrows upon Yamato’s men, who were sore afraid of them.

“A foe in the dark is as ten,” they cried. “We are beset by the eight-headed dragon of Susanoo!” and all of Yamato’s words of cheer and encouragement could scarce persuade them to go on to battle.

“How can we fight what we can not see?” they said.

The savages were well pleased and determined to destroy the whole army at once. They therefore placed a huge ring of brushwood around Yamato’s army and, setting fire to it, they marched away.

But Yamato prayed to the gods, and, drawing his magic sword, he cut and hewed the grass in front of the fire until it drove back the flames. Then there came a wind from heaven which fanned the fire until it swept back whence it had come and lo! it overtook the savages and burnt them until not one was left.

Beneath the gleaming snows of Fuji lay a great forest. There many giant trees grew, the fir, the pine, the graceful bamboo, and the camellia trees. The balmy azaleas and the crinkled iris bloomed in the shade. The blue heavens were fleecy with snowy clouds, and gentle zephyrs caressed the blossoms and made them bow like worshipers before a shrine.

Side by side there grew two bamboo trees. One of these was tall, strong, and stately; and he reared his haughty head to heaven and bowed not to the North Wind as he passed. The other was a slender bamboo, so slight and delicate that it swayed with every breeze, and moaned with fright when a storm swept down the wrath of the mountain.

The children loved the graceful bamboo, and named her Silver Mist; but the big bamboo looked down upon her with scorn.

“You bend and bow to every breeze. Have you no pride? It is not fitting that a bamboo should show fear. I stand straight and strong and bow to no one,” he said.

“You are going to be of some great use in the world, I am sure,” said the humble bamboo. “I am only fit to trim the houses for the New Year’s feast. But you will become a beam in some great house or, maybe, even in a palace.”

“Do not think I shall be only that,” cried the boastful bamboo with a scornful laugh. “I am indeed intended for something great. I think I shall be chosen for the mast of a mighty ship. Then will the wings of the ship swell with the breeze, and it will fly over the ocean and I shall see strange lands and new peoples. All men will behold me and will say, ‘See the stately bamboo which graces yonder junk!’ As for you, poor timorous one, you are not even brave enough to deck the New Year’s feast. You will be used to make mats for people to tread under foot.”

The slim little bamboo did not answer back. She only bent her head and cried bitterly. The flowers felt sorry for her and breathed their soft perfume about her to comfort her.

As the days went by the slim bamboo grew prettier, and the children loved her more and more. They played beneath her waving branches, they made flower chains and garlands and hung them from her boughs.

“See,” they cried in childish glee. “This is the Lady Silver Mist. Let us tie a flower obi[5] around her slender waist;” and they bound a girdle of flowers about her.

One day there came woodmen to the forest, and they chopped down many of the trees, trampling the grass and the flowers under foot. When they saw the big bamboo they said,

“Here is a tall, straight tree. It will do for a mast. We will cut it first.”

“Good-by,” said the boastful bamboo to the slender one. “I am going to see the world and do great things. Good-by, child, I hope you will not be used to make rain coats. When I am on the bright and beautiful sea I shall remember and pity you!”

“Good-by,” sighed his little comrade. “Good fortune go with you.”

The big bamboo was cut down, and the hillside saw him no more. When, however, the woodmen came to the little tree, they smiled to see it so beautifully garlanded with flowers and they said, “This little tree has friends.”

Then the children took courage and ran to the woodcutters and cried, “Pray do not cut down our tree! In all the forest we love it best. It is the Lady Silver Mist and it has been our playmate for many moons.”

“You must dig it up and bear it away if you wish to save its life,” said the chief woodman. “We are sent to this forest to clear it, so that a grand palace may be built upon the hillside where all is so fair and beautiful.”

“Gladly will we root her up and take her to our home,” answered the eldest child; and very carefully they dug her up, not destroying even a single root, for the woodman helped them, so kind was he and of a good heart.

They placed the slim bamboo in a lovely garden beside the sea, and she grew fair and stately and was happy. All around was calm and beautiful. The sea waves lapped the coral strand. By day, the sun shone on the tawny sands and turned them to gold; the sky was blue as a turquoise, and pearly clouds floated across it like shadowy angel’s wings. By night the moon goddess rose in silvery beauty and bathed the garden in light; it kissed the leaves of the bamboo, until the dew sparkled upon them like diamonds in a setting of silver.

Fragrant flowers bloomed at the bamboo’s feet: irises from their meadow home, azaleas, rare lotus lilies, and a fringe of purple wistaria wafting its breath in friendship upon her. Here she grew in strength and grace. All things were her friends, for she gave to all of her sweetness; and to the winds she bowed her head.

“Great North Wind,” she said gently, “how thou art strong!” And to the South Wind she said, “How sweet and kind thou art!” To the flowers she gave shade and to the children, who still loved her, companionship.

Once an angel bore to earth the soul of a child. She bore it to a little bamboo house beside a bamboo tree, and there it received a loving welcome. Many friends gathered around to greet the little newcomer as soon as they saw the kite[6] fly up from before the house. Dear little kimonos were given the baby. One was of the finest silk and embroidered with the crane and the pine; for these mean long life in Japan.

The angel loved the little child she had brought, and she tarried long at the window of the little bamboo house among the trees and flowers. She felt glad that she had brought the little one to such a happy home.

She had left her robe in the trees; for it had caught there in her flight, and she had not waited to remove it. A fisherman passing by, saw the beautiful, floating silk and, loosening it, he said, “This is a very pretty thing. I have never seen anything like it before. I shall take it to my sweetheart.”

The angel heard him as she floated through the air, and she cried, “I pray you, sir, give me back my robe! I may not return to heaven without it!”

“Do not return, fair one,” he replied, dazzled by her radiant beauty. “Stay here upon the earth and delight us all with your grace.”

“Not so, not so,” she cried in fear. “Know you not that an angel may not stay long on earth and live! Her beauty fades, her soul grows sick within her, and soon she is no more. Give me my robe and let me return, for I pine for the pearly gates and the golden streets.”

“I will return it if you will dance for me,” said the fisherman; and the angel consented.

“First give me my robe that my dance may be more perfect,” she said.

“No, no, my beauty,” he answered, “for then you will fly away and I shall never see you dance.”

“Fie upon you, base mortal! Deceit was born of man; the heavens know it not!” she said in displeasure.

Then the fisherman was much ashamed and gave her the robe; and she danced for him a dance of wonderful grace and beauty, such as mortal had never dreamed of before. He wished to gaze forever at the lovely, floating being. The moonlight shone upon her, bathing her in silvery light, beneath the feathery bamboo, with snow-capped Fuji above the clouds, calm and serene.

While she danced, visions of heaven came to the fisherman, and when she was wafted from his sight by a snowy cloud, he sank upon the ground and, covering his face with his hands, he wept bitterly, as he cried, “Alas! alas! Nevermore will things of earth seem fair!”

In the far years of the twelfth century the Lord Mikado was cursed with a terrible illness. All Nippon prayed to the gods. Men offered all their richest offerings to appease the wrath of heaven, but it availed them naught. His Majesty grew worse and none of the great men who came to him could divine the cause of his trouble.

Every temple was full of devotees. Each shrine had its worshipers, but Sorrow was the guest at every door. His Majesty grew worse and worse, and every night was stricken with a horrible nightmare.

At last it was noticed that each evening a dark cloud moved across the heavens and hung over the palace. From it shone two fiery orbs, gleaming fiercely. The priests prayed and threatened, but the brooding demon remained. At last a young warrior whose name was Yorimasa came forward and said, “Let me slay this horrid beast who, with his black breath and fiery eyes, threatens the life of our beloved emperor. If I fail I can but die and my life is the Mikado’s in any case. Let me go!”

Once upon a time, nearly a thousand years ago, a man named Ononatakamura offended the Mikado and was sent into exile. His wife loved him dearly and wished to go with him, but, though she cried and begged to be allowed to do so, the Mikado would not permit her.

In her despair at being separated from her beloved husband, she made up her mind to go to the Sacred Shrine of Isé and pray for him. She stole quietly away to the foot of Mt. Hi-yei, but not being used to walking she soon grew weary and sat down to rest under a pine tree. It was a beautiful country that she looked upon. The hillside bloomed with flowers. The pines waved their green branches against the soft blue sky, and, serene and lofty, the mountains rose heavenward. A kind wind caressed her brow as she sat resting, and the murmur of the trees seemed to bring her comfort.

A farmer coming that way, she spoke to him saying, “Good day, kind sir. Pray tell me how far it is to the temple of Isé?”

“Twenty days’ journey,” he made answer, being a rude fellow and unkind. He wished to annoy her, for he knew well it was not so far.

Amaterasu, the sun goddess, loved the earth. So long had she shone upon it with her gracious light that it was to her as a beloved child and she wished for it all good things. When she found growing from the body of Ukimochi, whom Susanoo had slain in wrath, a mulberry tree, and also a silkworm, rice grains, barley and beans she said to herself,

“Behold, the gods make good to grow out of evil. From death comes life. The slaying of Ukimochi was a deed of wrath, yet from it will come peace to the people of the earth.”

She made barley and beans the seeds of dry places, and rice the seeds of moor and fen. Mulberry trees she planted upon the hillsides, and upon these she reared silkworms so that the art of silk-weaving might begin.

Having thus given to the world things of such usefulness and beauty, the sun goddess desired to have them cared for. So she commanded Susanoo to send to earth his daughter, Mihashirano. He obeyed and the daughter came down from heaven. But she could find no place to live, and therefore wandered for a long time to and fro in Nippon.

One day a fisherman named Sakino, who lived at Itsuku, one of the isles of the sea, was casting his nets near Okanoshima. As he fished he saw a curious boat with a bright red sail coming towards him. There seemed something strange about the boat; and Sakino waited until it sailed close to him. Then he beheld upon it the goddess Mihashirano, who spoke to him.

“Sakino,” she said, “long have I passed to and fro in the Isles of Many Blades, and watched by field and moor and hillside to see the life-giving seeds which Amaterasu bestowed upon you. Well nourished have they been and watched so that you have had much rice and barley. Now, wherefore have I not a shrine built in my honor, where men may come to bring thanks, and where I may dwell in peace?

“Go thou to the Mikado and request that he build for me a temple at Miyajima; then will I protect the Mikado’s land forever and ever.”

Sakino hastened to Kioto and revealed all this to the Mikado. At that time there was a great famine in the far provinces of Nippon, and the Mikado said, “The goddess is displeased with us, and so this famine has come upon my people. Hasten your return to Itsuku and build there a temple to do her honor. Here is much treasure; go quickly and build.”

I

There was once a young noble who was very poor. He was a Samurai who had offended his lord and so was obliged to leave his own province and travel in search of employment. It was very hard for him to find anything to do, for neither he nor his fair young wife had been taught to work.

“Alas! my bride! White as the lily art thou and tender as the carnation,—to what has thy love for me brought thee!” he cried.

But Tsuiu caressed him sweetly and said, “I am happy since my lord has taken me with him. The good-luck god will surely hear our prayers and we shall find a fortunate issue.”

Then was the soul of Shindo lightened and he strode along the highway gladly, and Tsuiu walked beside him, and the breath of the morning was sweet and kind. They walked for many hours and found no rest; but the music of the grass-larks was sweet and the sun was bright.

But when the shadows began to fall, and the fireflies to flit among the tall grasses, and the moon to creep slowly above the crest of the mountains, the little wife drew closer to Shindo San; for in her terror she saw robbers in every tree and bush.

“Be not afraid, my beloved,” he said, as he drew her within his sheltering arms. “See! here is a pleasant knoll beneath this sendai tree. Wrap yourself in my mantle. Pillow your head upon my arm. Then may the god of dreams send you a good-luck dream and may your slumber be sweet. I will watch!”

“I will obey, my lord,” said Tsuiu. She closed her eyes, and, holding the left sleeve of her kimono across her face, she was soon fast asleep.

Shindo watched and waited, his hand upon his sword; but he too was weary, and soon his eyes closed and his head drooped. He slept and dreamed that two huge dragons came out of the West and sought to devour them; and lo! as he cried aloud in terror for the safety of Tsuiu San, a greater Dragon came out of the East and devoured the first two, and he and his bride escaped.

Then he awoke suddenly and sprang to his feet, putting O Tsuiu San behind him, for robbers were upon him, and there were two. He drew his sword and fought fiercely, but they well-nigh overpowered him. He felt his strength fail. The blood was gushing from a wound in his arm. Suddenly there appeared upon the scene a ronin who quickly put to flight the robbers and saved the life of Shindo.

Then he and O Tsuiu San thanked the ronin very heartily, and finding the morning dawn at hand, and hearing the morning bell from a distant temple, they started on their way.

“Tell me first, whence you come and whither you go,” said the ronin. “For I well see that you are of better times, and that misfortune has brought you here.”

“We are in dire distress,” said the Samurai, “and I have scarce a yen[8] to buy rice for the breakfast of my wife.” Then he told all their story to the ronin, who, being of a good heart, was grieved at their sorrows.

“It is little that I can do for you myself,” he said, “since I am but a wanderer with nothing in my sleeves. But come with me and I will set you in the way of making a good but simple friend. Yonder are the towers and temples of Yedo,” and he pointed to the roofs of a city gleaming gold in the morning sun. “In a certain street lives a tradesman, a poor fellow, yet of a good heart. He bears the name of Chohachi. Seek him and tell him I commend you to his kindness. My road lies elsewhere. Sayonara!”[9]

Bidding good-by to the ronin, the two hurried on and finding Chohachi, he took them in and made them welcome. There they remained several days until O Tsuiu San recovered from her fatigue, and Shindo from his wound. Then Chohachi spoke.

“Honored One,” he said, “very welcome are you and yours to the shelter of our roof tree, but the rice pot holds not enough for four. Is there any way in which you are able to make the pot boil?”

“Good friend,” replied Shindo, “in the house of my fathers the rice pot ever boiled without assistance from me. I know no way.”

Chohachi knit his brows.

“Can the Honorable One teach the young men to fence?”

“Alas,” cried Shindo. “I have little skill as a swordsman. I fear I know not enough to teach fencing.”

“Can the Honorable One teach writing?” demanded Chohachi.

“Of that I know even less,” replied his guest, so mournfully that Chohachi hastened to reassure him. “Some way shall be found to boil the pot even if we have to hunt the magic paddle of the Oni.”

So the tradesman thought and thought.

“What can this dear fellow do?” he asked himself.

“It must be something of the easiest for he seems not to have much thought for trading. I have it! He shall be a waste-paper man! A boy or a simpleton could do that!”

So he purchased a light pole of bamboo with two baskets at the end, and a pair of bamboo sticks. He called the Samurai “Chobei,” for Shindo was too fine a name for a waste-paper man, and the Samurai was started in business.

The first day Chobei lost himself, and had to pay a man to guide him home. He had bought no waste paper and Chohachi laughed at him, and scolded, too, saying,

“Call out! No one will know what you want if you walk about the streets in silence like a monk!”

Chobei was anxious to do all things right, for it pained him to be depending upon the good trader, and it hurt him still more to think of little O Tsuiu San sitting all day over her embroidery, trying to earn a few coins with which to boil the pot.

So, in order to grow used to the sound of his own voice, he went to an open lot, where there was not a house in sight, and shouted, “Waste paper! waste paper!” all day until he was hoarse. The street boys thought he was mad, and they laughed at him and threw stones. Then he went home more discouraged than ever, and Chohachi, choked with laughter, explained again patiently,

“See, good Samurai, go into the back streets; rich people do not sell waste papers. Talk with the women, engage them with pleasant words and flattery, and then say, ‘Perhaps you have some waste paper to sell.’”

There was once a hunter who dwelt in the village of Kyoto and sought his game upon the mountain of Atagoyama. He was proud of being so mighty a hunter, for he never came empty-handed from the forest; yet at times he felt ill at ease. This was because he made a daily business of killing, and so he was displeasing to the Buddha.[12]

To set his conscience at rest, therefore, he often made offerings of rice and fruit to a certain holy priest who dwelt in a little shrine upon the mountain-side.

The priest was very good. Studying the sacred books he dwelt in the solitude of the forest. He was so far from the homes of men that he would have fared ill had it not been for the visits of the hunter who brought to him supplies of things to eat.

One day the hunter came to the temple.

“Honorable one,” he said politely, “I have brought you a bag of rice. May each grain be a prayer for me.”

“Good friend,” said the priest, “I thank you, and in return I will show you a miracle. For many years I have read and studied and reflected upon the Holy Books and it may be that I am receiving my reward. Know then, that each night the Buddha comes to me, here at the temple, riding upon an elephant. Do you not believe? Then tarry and see.”

A woodman once dwelt with his wife at the edge of the forest, under the shadow of the Honorable Mountain. The two were industrious and good, but though they loved each other they were not happy. No children had come to bless them and this the wife mourned deeply.

The husband pitied her and treated her very kindly, yet still she was sad. As she gazed upon the snows of Fujiyama her heart swelled within her and she prostrated herself and said, “Fuji no Yama, Honorable Mountain, my heart is heavy because no childish arms encircle my neck, no little head nestles in my bosom. From thy eternal purity send some little white soul to comfort me!”

The Honorable Mountain spoke not; yet as she prayed, lo, from its heights there sparkled and glowed a tiny light. Fitful and gleaming it seemed, yet it had a silver radiance as of the moon.

The woodman’s wife beheld it, and she called to her husband eagerly, “Come hither, I pray you. See the strange light which comes from Fuji San. I seem to see a face smiling at me. It is the face of a little child!”

Then her husband smiled at her fancy, but, because he loved her, he said indulgently, “I will go and see what it is.”

“I thank you, my lord; go quickly!” she replied.

So, quickly he went to the forest, and as he neared a mountain stream, with Fuji gleaming cold and white in the moonlight, he saw the strange light, which seemed to hover and rest upon the branches of a tall bamboo. Hastening thither he found there a moon child, a tiny, fragile, fairy thing, more beautiful than any child he had ever seen.

“Little creature,” he said. “Who are you?”

“My name is Princess Moonbeam,” she answered sweetly. “My mother is the Moon Lady, and she has sent me to Earth because every Moon Child must do some good thing, else will its silvery light become pale and wan and be of no avail.”

“Little Princess,” he said eagerly, “the best of good deeds is to comfort a sad heart. Come home with me and be a child to my wife, who weeps for children. Thus will your beams grow bright.”

“I will go with you,” said the little Moonbeam, and, rejoicing greatly, he bore her tenderly to his wife.

“I bring you a treasure,” he said. “The Moon Lady sends you this beam of light to lighten your sad heart.”

There was a poor woman in Yamato who was very good. She prayed daily at the graves of her parents, although she was very old. Daily she placed there some grains of rice, although she was very, very poor. She went to the temple whenever she was able, and prayed much. She was kind to the poor and gave always to the hungry, so that often she went hungry herself.

“It is better to be hungry than to grow hard of heart,” she said.

Now they made a grand temple in Yamato and all the people were proud and gave to it many yen. They gave a lantern of bronze so wonderfully fine that all men wondered, for the workmanship was delicate and beautiful. The lantern makers had sat and wrought upon it for days with matchless skill and patience. The stand was large and the light so small as to seem but a mere glimmer of the light of the world.

Many lanterns were given to the temple and a rich man gave a thousand large ones.

“All men shall see that I am of a generous heart,” he said proudly to himself.

Far upon a Western headland the pine trees waved their arms to the sea and the sea god loved them and dashed his high foaming spray to send them greeting. Giant torii[13] rose heavenward, that the Golden Crow, the strange and mystic Hobo Bird, might rest there, in his swift flight toward the sun god.

The sea flowed restless and proud at the foot of the cliffs and the beach was soft and treacherous, and the sea god yearly claimed a victim, when the air was heavy with the sweet scent of the wild pittosporum.

O Nitta San was a great warrior. He fought for Go-Daigo the emperor and was his faithful general. Many a battle he fought and won, though the men of the Hojo Clan were many and strong and fought well. But when he reached the headland of the pines, the soul of O Nitta San was heavy within him.

“The men of the Hojo guard the sea with ships, they watch the hills with archers,” he said to his head man. “They are as many as the waves of the sea. Our fate is in the hands of the gods!”

“The favor of the gods must be won, O Nitta San,” said the head man. “I am of small account, but let me throw myself into the sea, and perchance the sea god may accept the sacrifice and smile upon you, my master.”

“Not so,” replied O Nitta San. “I myself will appease the god of the sea, that he may grant us a passage to conquer the city, for the glory of my master the emperor.”

“Honorably the emperor will reward you,” said the head man bowing low, but O Nitta San shook his head.

“I desire no reward,” he said. “Do you hear the chirp of that bird? In a land where even the wild songsters of the forest cry ‘Chiu,’[14] do not think a Samurai needs a reward.”

O Nitta San turned him to the cliffs, and he raised his hands to the sea god and prayed long and earnestly. Then he drew from its scabbard his sword, and lovingly he gazed upon its keen and shining blade. He raised it toward the clouds and it gleamed in the moonlight like a shimmering serpent.

“Beloved comrade, Soul of the Samurai,”[15] he cried. “Well have you served me in many a fierce battle. You are a friend as well as a servant. Now serve me once again and appease the wrath of the sea god!” For a moment he lovingly laid the sword against his breast, then “God of the Sea,” he cried aloud, “accept my sacrifice and care for the Soul of the Samurai.” And so saying he cast far from him the sword.

Hojo Tokimasa had two daughters. Musako, the elder, was as beautiful as the eight beauties of Omi. Her hair was as black as polished ebony, her eyes were deep and dark and full of fire, her skin was smooth as ivory. She was clever, too, as well as beautiful. But her sister Ume was the favorite of her father.

Ume was sweet and gentle and her father thought to marry her well, though she had not her sister’s beauty.

One night, Ume dreamed a good-luck dream, that a bird brought her a golden box, and she told her sister, while she arranged the elder’s ebon locks in the early morning.

“That is a dream of good omen,” said Musako. “Give it to me and I will give you in return my golden mirror, into which I have so often gazed.”

Now little Ume did not wish to part with her good-luck dream at all; but, more than anything in the world, she desired to share her sister’s beauty. So she said, as she thrust a superb jade hairpin into place, “I will give you the dream, fair sister, and may it bring you good fortune; and so may I, gazing into your mirror, gain some of your radiant beauty, for to you the gods have been kind.”

Musako smiled at the flattery, and thought much all day upon the happy dream.

Late in the twilight, when the moon shone through the flowering plum tree and the fragrance of the plum blossoms stole over the garden, and the nightingale sang of love in the branches, there came a bold knock at the castle gate.

When the gate was opened and the stranger bidden welcome in the name of the god of hospitality, he spoke simply, “I am Yoritomo. The men of the Taira pursue me, and Kiyomori, their chief, has slain my father and many of my father’s house. You are my father’s friend. Of you I ask shelter.”

“You are welcome,” said Hojo. “Abide with us until safety awaits you without.”

Then Yoritomo thanked him and did remain. Ere long he sent his retainer into Hojo’s presence to act as go-between, and ask him for the hand of his daughter Ume. He had seen her. She was gentle and discreet. She was the favorite of the old man, her father. Why should he not be adopted into the family for her sake?

But his retainer desired ever the best for his beloved master. He had seen the radiant beauty of Musako as she had walked in the arbor of wistaria, herself a fairer flower, even, than the long purple racemes swaying in the breeze. He decided in his own mind that the elder sister was the one for his master.

A beautiful princess lived in the depths of the sea. She was fairer than any mortal maiden, and sweet as she was fair. Her voice was as gentle as the sea waves lapping the strand, her sigh was as soft as the sound of the wind through the reeds of the shore, and her laugh was musical as the tinkle of water through the coral branches.

Her mother was no more, but her father, the old Sea King, adored her and gave her all the treasures of the deep. Her necklace was of coral, her girdle was of pearls, her hairpins were of curiously carved tortoise shell, her kimono was embroidered with feathery seaweed, and her floating obi with delicate traceries of kelp, encircled her slender waist.

The princess lived in a magnificent palace built of mother-of-pearl. All the creatures of the sea had given to its adornment. Pearls gleamed from its walls, amber pillars, like shafts of light, supported its roof, while a million lights gleamed from branching corals. The walls were tinted in exquisite colors and decorated with sprays of seaweed floating in cool green waves in which the fish seemed really swimming, so natural did they appear.

The princess did not always stay in this home, beautiful as it was. She loved the fresh breath of the open sea. It brought the color into her cheeks and made her happy. When she went forth she rode upon a dolphin, who plunged through the sea foam and rode over the crested waves with careless grace.

One day the princess mounted his back for a long ride. The next day and the next she went again and always in the same direction. Then her father noticed that she seemed sad, and he said to her, “Where do you go each day, my daughter? Why is it that you do not stay at home?”

“It is lonely here, my father,” she answered. “I like to ride upon the top of the waves, for there I can watch the strange beings who live upon the land. You talk to me of marrying. Find me a sea-prince like one of those mortals whom I have seen and I will marry him.”

“Whom have you seen?” demanded her father, much astonished, for he did not know that she had ever seen a mortal.

“I know not his name,” said the maiden. “But I have seen him upon the shore. He fishes there and I have heard many of the fishes say how kind he is and how gentle. He is handsome, too. He fishes only for such sea food as he must eat and he puts back into the water all those fish which are not good for him to eat. Oh, my father! I love this youth! He is so great and strong! Bring him to me!” and the little princess clasped her hands together as she looked at her father.

But the Sea King was angry. “It is not fitting that you should think such thoughts,” he said in high displeasure. “A sea princess should not marry a mere mortal. Tarry at home henceforth! No more shall you go to ride upon the dolphin!”

So the poor little princess stayed at home and pined. She missed the fresh air of the upper sea and the sight of the blue sky, but above all she missed the young fisherman. At last she grew weak and ill and her father could endure it no longer.

“Are you pining still for that young mortal?” he asked one day; and she replied,

“Oh, my father, unless I speak with him my heart will break!”

“Go to the shore where he fishes,” said the Sea King. “Change yourself into a sea turtle and allow him to catch you in his net. You say he is of such a wonderful kindness—well, Mortals do not eat such turtles; and so if he throws you down upon the sands to die, I will rescue you, but if he places you again in the water, I give my consent to your bringing him here to my palace.”

This the wily old king said, thinking the fisherman would surely throw the turtle aside; but the princess smiled happily, for she knew he would prove kind.

Now Urashima, for that was the fisherman’s name, knew nothing at all of all this. When therefore next day he found in his net a huge turtle, he said to himself, “Well, my fine fellow, what a pity it is that you are not eatable! You would make a good meal for my honorable parents were you as good as you are big. But since you are not, run along home to your friends,” and he dropped the turtle back into the waves.

What was his surprise to see rise from the sea and come toward him across the crested waves, a huge dolphin, carrying on its back a sea nymph fair as the dawn. She cast upon him a sun-bright glance and said,

“Come with me, oh Mortal! Come to the depths of my sea-girt home and see my palace of emerald and pearl. I was that turtle which you cast into the sea, for I took that form to see if you were of as great kindness of heart as the fishes said.”

Urashima stood spellbound and stared at the vision of loveliness before him.

“Come with me,” said the princess, again. “The coral caves await you,—will you not come?”

Shizoku of Matsui loved a maiden called Kennei-Botaru, for she was bright and sparkling. Late one snowy night he was returning from a wedding party when amidst the tiny snowflakes which were beginning to fall, he saw a strange light flicker and flash before him.

he exclaimed, wondering that the O-botaru (great firefly) should be flitting about in winter snows.

As he gazed upon it, the creature flashed and darted toward him and so annoyed him that he thrust at it with the stick he carried.

Hither and yon it flashed, like a will-o’-the-wisp until at last it darted away into the garden of the house wherein dwelt his betrothed.

The next day he saw his beloved, and she said to him shyly, “Last night I had a strange dream. I thought I had wings and could fly and that I was flying through the night. It was cold and there was snow in the air and I said to myself, ‘Where is my beloved that I may fly to his breast and be warm?’ Then I saw you coming swiftly toward the bridge with your lantern, though the moon shone bright in the heavens. Then I flew to you, but you were not overjoyed to receive me. You struck at me and drove me from you, and I fled in terror into the garden where I hid myself in the heart of a plum blossom, and the snow fell upon me and I was cold. Then I awoke and I was afraid, and something whispered to me ‘His heart is cold to you as was the heart of the plum blossom when the snow fell upon it!’ What means my dream?”

“Indeed, I can not tell,” he made answer. “But I know well you read its meaning wrong. Were I to drive you from me and you to seek another, then would your heart’s resting place be cold as was the plum blossom of your dream. But trouble not yourself, beloved, for never shall I drive you away,” and he smiled upon her and the heart of O Botaru San was comforted.

Ota Dakwan was a noble daimio.[17] His castle was filled with retainers who waited upon him, at his least word flying to obey his commands. Men vied with each other to do him honor, bowing low before him as he passed and saying “Behold Ota Dakwan, the Daimio!”

Young maidens blushed at his name and when the moon shone through the lattice, sighed to the nightingale to sing the praises of this splendid warrior.

Honors crowded thick upon him, but of it all he wearied and often sought the forest, there to hunt in solitude. Where the great trees spread their branches and the bamboos and the pines talked together he spent many hours, returning to his castle at night, weary, but with his game bag full.

Often people said to him, “What do you find so wonderful in the forests of the hill country?”

“Sunlight and shade,” he answered, “everglade and waterfall, game to hunt and no one to say me nay; above all, the mighty mountain, cool and aloof as is the spirit of the great;” and at his answer men wondered.

One day Ota Dakwan hunted long upon the mountain-side, so long that he wandered far from home and a great storm of rain came upon him, from which there was no shelter. He was glad, therefore, when in a lonely spot he saw a tiny cottage beside a grove of great bamboos, and he ran to it for shelter.

Within was a young maiden who smiled upon him, but spoke not. She was beautiful as a dream though poorly clad, and he said to her, “Will you lend me a straw rain coat? for every tree in the forest sends down her showers and I shall be drenched before I can reach my home.”

The maiden blushed deeply and without a word hastily left the room. In a moment she returned, her delicate cheeks flushed pink, carrying a yamabuki[18] blossom which she placed in his hand, still with no word, only a sigh and a blush.

“What means this?” he asked, much puzzled. “I ask protection from the rain and you give me a flower. Were you not as fair as the first cherry blooms of spring, I could find it in my heart to be angry with you. Speak!” But she only shook her head and sighed, and, angry at last, he turned on his heel and left her, going forth into the rain, the flower still in his hand.

When the Spirit of Creation had finished his work, he came down from Heaven and gazed upon what he had done.

He saw the mountains gleaming pure against the blue, the rivers winding silvery to the sea, the rice fields lying warm and moist in the valleys—and it was good. He gazed upon the trees waving in the wind, the iris fields and the lotus ponds, the cherry blooms and the plum blossoms, and he smiled well pleased.

Then the Evil One appeared to him and with a hateful voice said, “Do not flatter yourself that you have done all well in this world. Indeed you have not. There are many things which are neither pretty nor useful. See how ugly this thistle is, and of what use is the bramble? Had I made things I would have done much better.”

Then the Spirit of Creation was very angry. He thought a thing of wrath and created a rat. It was large and fierce, and it quickly jumped into the mouth of the Evil One and bit out his tongue. Then was the Evil One in great rage and he uttered horrid cries and danced an evil dance upon the grass. He thought to himself, “Since the rats are here, they shall be made to be a torment to the earth,” and he made them increase greatly until they overran the Land of the Ainu.

Once upon a time a long, long time ago there was a boy who was clever and polite and kind, and it would seem as if he was a very fine boy indeed. But he had one fault. He would draw pictures of cats.

Now that does not appear to be a very bad fault, but the trouble was that Kihachi would not do anything else. He drew cats at school when he should have been studying his lessons. He drew them when all the other children were at play and when it would have been far better for him to have been running and jumping.

When his brothers and sisters were sleeping peacefully at night upon their wooden pillows, Kihachi would arise from his sleeping mat and, stealing to the paper partitions of the little room into which streamed the moonlight, he would draw cats. In the early morning when the sun gleamed over the tiny garden and the dew lay like jewels upon the rice fields, still Kihachi could be found drawing cats.

He drew large cats and small cats, mother cats and kittens. He drew them even upon his clothes, and this caused his mother much annoyance, though she was very patient. When, however, it came to pass that she found a whole family of kittens playing their pranks, in pencil, upon her own best obi,[20] she felt that something must be done.

“My lord,” she said to her husband, “this boy and his cats make me too much trouble. I have done everything to cause him to stop, but to no avail. I have even burned him with the moxa[21] but still he does not cease. He says he can not. Our other sons are able to help you in the field and our daughter is a great assistance to me in the household. But Kihachi does not work, and his schoolmaster says he will not study. He will do nothing but draw cats. What shall we do with him?”

“It may be that so strange a boy will grow up to be something quite different from us,” said his father. “He is always agreeable. Every morning he says most politely, ‘O hayo, O tat’ San, O hayo, O oka San.’[22] It seems to me Bot chan[23] is not bad. Perhaps he would make a good priest. Let us take him to the temple and see if he will not there forget his cats.”

So they took him to the temple and the priest received them with courtesy. “Enter, honorably enter!” he said, and they entered saying, “We have brought to you our youngest boy in the hope that you will graciously permit him to become your acolyte.”

The priest asked Kihachi many questions, very difficult ones, and these he answered so cleverly that the old man said to the parents, “This child is destined to be great. He is very clever. Leave him with me and I will teach him all he needs to become a priest.”

So Kihachi stayed in the temple and he studied very hard. He liked to get up early as the mists were breaking over Fuji San and the temple bells were ringing in the dawn. He loved to sit in the twilight when the flowers of the yamabuki are mirrored in the still marsh waters. He loved to pluck the primrose, flower of happiness, and to twine it with the nanten[24] into wreaths for the shrine of Buddha. He liked to read and to study the sacred books and he learned many prayers, but still he liked to draw, and still he drew cats.

He drew them on the margins of the books, on the prayer rolls, on the very kakemonos[25] of the temple, and this much displeased the good old priest.

At last he could not stand it any longer and he called the boy to him. Kihachi bowed very low, his hands and forehead touching the floor.

“Bot chan,” said the priest, “you will never make a good priest. You may some day become a great artist, but you will never be anything else. You had better go away from the temple and seek your fortune in the world. Here is a bag of rice for you. Put it in a bundle of your clothes, and go, and may good fortune go with you. I will give you one last bit of advice. When darkness gathers, fear great places, seek small shelter.”

Kihachi thanked the priest and went mournfully away from the temple. It seemed to him as if he was always to be unhappy because of his cats, but he could not help drawing them. He was afraid to go home, for he knew his father would punish him for disobeying the priest. He did not know what to do. At last he thought of a large temple in the next village, and wondered if some of the priests there would not take him for an acolyte.

“At least I can try,” he said, and hurried on, hoping to reach the temple before night.

It was a long way, and his feet grew very sore and he was tired. So it was a great disappointment when he reached the temple to find it deserted. Not a priest was there to offer incense, not an acolyte to ring the temple bells.

“How strange it is that everything is covered with dust! There are cobwebs spun over the altars!” he said. “It seems to me an acolyte is needed. I shall stay at least for the night and perhaps to-morrow the priests may return. They will commend me if I make things very clean.”

He laid down his bundle and began to clean the temple with a will, and soon it was quite free from dirt and dust. Then he sat down and rested, but noticing a large screen with quite a blank space upon it, he drew out his writing box and began to draw cats as hard as he could draw.

He thought nothing of how time was passing until suddenly he noticed it was growing quite dark, and he began to be a little afraid. He looked about him. How huge and deserted seemed the temple hall! How small a boy he was! Then he remembered the old priest’s parting words, “When darkness hovers, fear great places, seek small shelters.” Surely this was a great place! He hunted about hoping to find a small place which might be safer, and, surely enough, there was a tiny recess in the wall with a door which could be slid into place. He entered and found there was just room enough for him to curl up and go to sleep, which he did, for he was so tired that sleep came to him quickly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So O Cho San served the nobleman faithfully.

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

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

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

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

Great was the excitement.

O Cho San wept and proclaimed her innocence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who are you?” demanded the Oni.

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

“Because it was good,” said the Oni.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sanja fairly gasped with astonishment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kurobei went much to the palace and much enjoyed his new life. He said to Kazuma, “You will see now that you must go alone to my father’s grave, good brother, for I am much occupied with affairs. For the honor of the family I must appear well at court, and my father would wish it. I have gone to his grave daily these twelve months and never omitted this respect; but now my duty to the emperor demands that the rest of my time be spent at the palace. Go you therefore to the grave, if you will, since you have no higher duty.”

“But my brother!” cried Kazuma in astonishment. “Will you neglect our father’s grave altogether?”

“Not at all,” replied the elder brother. “Be not so hasty in your judgments, for that is a sin. I shall place before his grave the day lily which shall bloom daily, and thus shall I continue to do him honor. I have chosen a handsome plant, and shall pay a gardener well to tend it for me. The flowers shall stand in my stead before the grave, and I shall have leisure to attend to my duties at the palace, coming to visit my father only upon the days of special fête.”

“Alas, my brother,” cried Kazuma. “Plant not the lily of forgetfulness!”

Kurobei only said, “Trouble me no further, I have spoken.”

Then Kazuma spoke no more, but he went even more carefully each day to his father’s grave and there he made offerings. He talked to the spirit of his beloved father, and told him all things which occurred to him each day.

The elder brother at first went upon the feast days, but as time passed he went less and less, and at last he went not even upon the Feast of the Dead, when every one should remember their dead with incense and a bower of bamboo and bright berries.

This made Kazuma very sad, and at last he spoke.

“O Kurobei,” he said, “honorable brother, have you quite forgotten our father? You never visit his grave.”

Kurobei was angry and spoke harshly. “Why do you bother me, troublesome fellow? Did I not tell you I had no time to attend to it? I planted the lily, and I pay the gardener to attend to it; I can not do more for my duty lies elsewhere. Does not the lily fare well?”

“It fares well, my brother,” said Kazuma sadly; and to himself he whispered, “the lily of forgetfulness.”

Then after his brother had gone to the palace he wept much and said, “My brother’s heart has grown like a stone. He has forgotten my father and all that he has for him is the lily of forgetfulness. I too shall plant a flower, but mine shall be the aster for memory; for I shall never, never, forget my honorable father. Each day I will tend the aster with my own hands; for it is a sacred flower, the flower of remembrance.”

Then he did as he said, and every day he tended the plants and prayed beside his father’s grave. And every day he loved his father more and more.

A little princess sat beneath the cherry blooms in the royal garden. It was spring and the whole garden was a mass of radiant pink bloom, as soft as the sunset glow on the snows of Fuji San.

The little princess was as fair as the cherry blooms, and the petals had drifted lovingly upon her. They had powdered the ground about her like snowflakes, and rested upon her soft black hair like a coronet of pearl.

As she sat and dreamed in the sunshine, the little princess was very happy, and she said to herself, “What a beautiful world this is! I wish every one was as happy as I am!” This she said because her heart was as kind as her face was fair.

Then she heard a sudden rush and the patter of tiny feet, and a little baby fox sprang over the garden wall and ran right under the princess’s robe. She stooped and took it in her arms.

“Poor little frightened foxling,” she said. “What is the matter?”

But the little fox only tucked his sharp nose under her arm and trembled all over.

Then the princess heard a shout and looking up, she saw some boys on the wall.

“That is our fox,” they cried roughly, for they did not know she was a princess. “Give it to us!”

“What are you going to do with it?” she asked.

“Kill it and eat the flesh for supper,” cried the biggest boy. “Then we will sell the skin, and the liver can be sold to the magician doctor who cures fever with it. We shall get many bu[38] for the fox, and we can buy rice cakes and other things.”

The little fox seemed to understand, for he cowered closer to the princess. He poked his nose into the palm of her hand and kissed it gently.

“You may have the price of the foxling, but you may not have his life, poor baby,” said the little princess. “Here,” she pulled her purse from her kimono sleeve—“here is a gold piece for the flesh, and one for the liver, one for the fur, and still another for the life of this poor little bundle of fur. And pray the gods to give you kinder hearts in your breasts, for neither the gods nor men like cruel souls.”

The boys quickly took the gold which she offered them, lest she should change her mind and take back the coins, but she had no thought of doing that. Gold was nothing to her, because of it she had plenty; but the life of the fox baby seemed very precious.

“Fox Baby,” she said as she untied a string from his neck. “Where are your father and mother?” The fox gave a sad little whine, and its eyes seemed full of tears. From a bamboo thicket nearby came some short, sharp barks. The fox baby barked in return, and the princess saw peering from between the bamboo branches two old foxes who looked anxiously at the baby.

“Really I believe these are your parents, foxling,” she said. “I shall let you go to them. I would like to keep you for my playmate, you are so soft and pretty; but you would be lonely, no matter how much I loved you, and I never could be as your father and mother. So run along and be happy.”

She stroked him gently and set him down, and with great leaps he was off to the bamboo thicket. Then the princess watched with pleasure, for the old foxes received him with joy; they licked him over and over, and then, one on either side the baby fox, they trotted happily away. The princess smiled ’neath the cherry blooms and was glad.

Summer bloomed and the lotus lay golden hearted on the waters’ brim. It passed and the maples were scarlet and gold upon the hillsides. The sun was a glory of burnished gold in the heavens, but within the palace all was dark.

The little princess walked no more in the garden. She lay parched with fever upon her slumber mat and her mother and father watched beside her day and night. All the wise doctors in the land had been called to her side.

“She can not live,” they said, “since sleep does not visit her eyelids.” They tried by every means to make her sleep, but though her eyelids were heavy and she longed for slumber, it came not, and every day she grew weaker.

At last came the emperor’s magician and he gazed upon her long and carefully. At last he said, “She is cast under a spell. Unless the spell is broken she must die. One must sit beside her from the going down of the sun until it rises again in golden splendor from behind the mountains. That one will break the charm.”

“That is easy,” cried the princess’s maids. “We will watch to-night and save her;” for the little princess was so sweet and good that every one loved her. But lo! when the midnight came, the maidens felt a strange charm steal over them, and a strange scent was wafted to them, and strange music filled their ears, and they slept.

When morning came they wept and felt very sad; for the princess was weaker and they had not broken the charm.

The princess’s old nurse was very angry.

“Foolish ones,” she cried. “You have idled and slept and my darling is not yet well. I will watch to-night, for she grows weaker each day.”

But alas! the old nurse was no more fortunate than the maidens, for the spell was woven about her also and she slept; and when she awoke, she, too, wept bitterly.

Then all manner of people tried to withstand the charm and watch with the sick maiden, and even the little princess’s father and mother, but to no avail. And daily she grew weaker and weaker.

At last there came to the palace a young warrior, Ito San, who begged to be allowed to watch one night.

“I love the princess,” he said. “Rather than sleep I shall die.” Then he took his sword, keen and sharp, and placing the point beneath his chin, rested the handle upon the floor. Each time his head drooped in sleep, the point would bite and sting, and, struggling with the drowsiness which overtook him, he would sit upright again. In this way he conquered sleep.

When the princess opened her eyes she seemed less weak, and Ito gazed upon her with love in his eyes. Then sleepily, she smiled upon him, and at last she slept.

He sat beside her until morning not daring to move.

As the sunrise swept over the land, turning all to glowing beauty, he heard a strange, weird chant; and the words of it were stranger still, for the voice sang,

“A fox’s liver,” cried the young warrior joyously. “My beloved, now shall you be saved!” He repeated the song of the sunrise to the mother of the princess and she told the emperor. Then he sent far and wide to all the great hunters of the hills.

“Bring us the liver of a fox,” he commanded, “a clean and healthy fox. Do this as quickly as possible, for my daughter is sick unto death.”

The hunters sought on every hill and in every valley, through every tangled wildwood and over every moor, but they found no fox.

“There are no foxes!” they cried to the emperor. “We have searched far and near, and not one is to be found.”