"Suppose we tell each other stories or legends," I suggested.
"If you begin, I'll try to follow suit," said my aunt; "and I'm sure that Percival—" (for the first time she dropped the "Mr.") "will not refuse his little contribution to the general amusement."
Percival was silent, but I saw that one point was gained: the invalid would try to forget languor and suffering in the attempt to give a few minutes' passing amusement to his friends, if others broke the ice.
I had a short Legend ready, and not being troubled with shyness, began the story which follows. I fear that it is not quite original: certainly its lesson has been often taught; but not perhaps in just the same form as in my little narration.
Legend of a Self-made Grave.
It is said that in olden times, a man very covetous of gain, was tempted to make a compact with a spirit, who was not a spirit of light. In Oriental language, such a mythical being is called a "jin." Some service secretly rendered by the miser to the jin was to be rewarded by the gift of untold wealth.
The jin carried the man to a lonely spot near a dark, weed-overgrown morass, a place seldom visited by men, save some poor basket-makers, who went to gather reeds and rushes. The place was said to be haunted by snakes and other vermin. The miser, according to the jin's directions, had brought with him a heavy spade for digging, and a large sack to contain his gold.
"In this spot," quoth the jin, striking the earth with his foot, "thou shall find inexhaustible treasure. Only one limit is affixed to thy gains. When thou dost cease to dig, thou shalt cease to find." As he thus spake, the jin vanished from sight.
The man took his spade, plied it vigorously, and with wondrous success. First, silver coins; then, heavy gold ones—plentifully rewarded his toil. The miser never raised his eyes from the earth except ever and anon to glance timidly around, while his hand still used the spade, to see if any unwelcome intruder were watching him at his work. But no one interrupted him. The man's work was begun at dawn; he continued to dig at noon when the sun's fiercest rays blazed over his head, drawing up foul exhalations from the marsh. The digger dared not seek for shelter, lest his golden harvest should suddenly come to an end. His muscles ached; his mouth was parched with thirst: but the gold-seeker, though shining heaps lay around him, would not pause even to go for a draught of water.
As the sun sloped towards the west, strong fever came on the digger; but though already possessed of prodigious wealth, still he went on digging. At last, as night closed in, shivering and trembling, the miser felt that he must give over work: deep and long was the hole he had made by his diligent toil; large the golden harvest he had won. Yet was he loth to stay his hand, for the man remembered the words of the jin: "When thou dost cease to dig thou shalt cease to find."