Three apples fell from Heaven;—one for me, one for the story-teller, and one for him who entertained the company.
THE YOUNGEST OF THE THREE.
My grandmother once told me a story of a King who fell sick in his royal palace. All the doctors and magicians of the country gathered to consult, but they found no remedy. An old doctor, however, who was well versed in magic, said:
“There is only one remedy for our King. There is a certain garden in India and in it a tree upon which grows the Apple of Life. As soon as the King eats an apple of that tree he will be healed and become as sound as a new-born babe.”
“But I have heard,” answered the King, “that certain giants guard that tree, and pick off the fruit as soon as it is ripe, no mortal can get at it.”
Now the King had three sons standing near by. The eldest said:
“Long live the King! I will go and bring the Apple of Life for you;” and he took leave of his father.
After a long and perilous journey he came to the tree which bore the Apple of Life. But the night on which the fruit ripened a sound sleep overpowered his senses, and the giant came, and picking off the fruit went away. In the morning, the lad seeing the Apple had been picked off, returned home to tell of his ill-luck.
The following year the second brother undertook the expedition, but had the same unfortunate sleep during the critical night.