OLD
Deccan Days
OR
HINDOO FAIRY LEGENDS
CURRENT IN SOUTHERN INDIA.

COLLECTED FROM ORAL TRADITION,
By M. FRERE.

WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND NOTES,
By SIR BARTLE FRERE.

PHILADELPHIA
J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.
1870.

———
Lippincott’s Press, Philadelphia.
———

VICRAM MAHARAJAH—p. [133].

CONTENTS.

INTRODUCTION.

A FEW words seem necessary regarding the origin of these stories, in addition to what the Narrator says for herself in her Narrative, and what is stated in the Collector’s “Apology.”

With the exception of two or three, which will be recognized as substantially identical with stories of Pilpay or other well-known Hindoo fabulists, I never before heard any of these tales among the Mahrattas, in that part of the Deccan where the Narrator and her family have lived for the last two generations; and it is probable that most of the stories were brought from among the Lingaets of Southern India, the tribe, or rather sect, to which Anna de Souza tells us her family belonged before their conversion to Christianity.

The Lingaets form one of the most strongly marked divisions of the Hindoo races south of the river Kistna. They are generally a well-favored, well-to-do people, noticeable for their superior frugality, intelligence and industry, and for the way in which they combine and act together as a separate body apart from other Hindoos. They have many peculiarities of costume, of social ceremony and of religion, which strike even a casual observer; and though clearly not aboriginal, they seem to have much ground for their claim to belong to a more ancient race and an earlier wave of immigration than most of the Hindoo nations with which they are now intermingled.

The country they inhabit is tolerably familiar to most English readers on Indian subjects, for it is the theatre of many of the events described in the great Duke’s earlier despatches, and in the writings of Munro, of Wilkes, and of Buchanan. The extraordinary beauty of some of the natural features of the coast scenery, and the abundance of the architectural and other remains of powerful and highly civilized Hindoo dynasties, have attracted the attention of tourists and antiquaries, though not to the extent their intrinsic merit deserves. Some knowledge of the land tenures and agriculture of the country is accessible to readers of Indian blue-books.

But of all that relates to the ancient history and politics of the former Hindoo sovereigns of these regions very little is known to the general reader, though from their power, and riches and long-sustained civilization, as proved by the monuments these rulers have left behind them there are few parts of India better worth the attention of the historian and antiquary.

Of the inner life of the people, past or present, of their social peculiarities and popular beliefs, even less is known or procurable in any published form. With the exception of a few graphic and characteristic notices of shrewd observers like Munro, little regarding them is to be found in the writings of any author likely to come in the way of ordinary readers.

But this is not from want of materials: a good deal has been published in India, though, with the common fate of Indian publications, the books containing the information are often rare in English collections, and difficult to meet with in England, except in a few public libraries. Of unpublished material there must be a vast amount, collected not only by the government servants, but by missionaries, and others residing in the country, who have peculiar opportunities for observation, and for collecting information not readily to be obtained by a stranger or an official. Collections of this kind are specially desirable as regards the popular non-Brahminical superstitions of the lower orders.

Few, even of those who have lived many years in India and made some inquiry regarding the external religion of its inhabitants, are aware how little the popular belief of the lower classes has in common with the Hindooism of the Brahmins, and how much it differs in different provinces, and in different races and classes in the same province.

In the immediate vicinity of Poona, where Brahminism seems so orthodox and powerful, a very little observation will satisfy the inquirer that the favorite objects of popular worship do not always belong to the regular Hindoo Pantheon. No orthodox Hindoo deity is so popular in the Poona Deccan as the deified sage Vithoba and his earlier expounders, both sage and followers being purely local divinities. Wherever a few of the pastoral tribes are settled, there Byroba, the god of the herdsmen, or Kundoba, the deified hero of the shepherds, supersedes all other popular idols. Byroba the Terrible, and other remnants of Fetish or of Snake-worship, everywhere divide the homage of the lower castes with the recognized Hindoo divinities, while outside almost every village the circle of large stones sacred to Vetal, the demon-god of the outcast helot races, which reminds the traveler of the Druid circles of the northern nations, has for ages held, and still holds, its ground against all Brahminical innovations.

Some of these local or tribal divinities, when their worshipers are very numerous or powerful, have been adopted into the Hindoo Olympus as incarnations or manifestations of this or that orthodox divinity, and one or two have been provided with elaborate written legends connecting them with some known Puranic character or event; but, in general, the true history of the local deity, if it survives at all, is to be found only in popular tradition; and it thus becomes a matter of some ethnological and historical importance to secure all such fleeting remnants of ancient superstition before they are forgotten as civilization advances.

Some information of this kind is to be gleaned even from the present series of legends, though the object of the collector being simply amusement, and not antiquarian research, any light which is thrown on the popular superstitions of the country is only incidental.

Of the superhuman personages who appear in them, the “Rakshas” is the most prominent. This being has many features in common with the demoniacal Ogre of other lands. The giant bulk and terrible teeth of his usual form are the universal attributes of his congener. His habit of feasting on dead bodies will remind the reader of the Arabian Ghoul, while the simplicity and stupidity which qualify the supernatural powers of the Rakshas, and usually enable the quick-witted mortal to gain the victory over him, will recall many humorous passages in which giants figure in our own Norse and Teutonic legends.

The English reader must bear in mind that in India beings of this or of very similar nature are not mere traditions of the past, but that they form an important part of the existing practical belief of the lower orders. Grown men will sometimes refuse every inducement to pass at night near the supposed haunt of a Rakshas, and I have heard the cries of a belated traveler calling for help attributed to a Rakshas luring his prey.

Nor is darkness always an element in this superstition: I have known a bold and experienced tracker of game gravely assert that some figures which he had been for some time keenly scanning on the bare summit of a distant hill were beings of this order, and he was very indignant at the laugh which his observation provoked from his less-experienced European disciple. “If your telescope could see as far as my old eyes,” the veteran said, “or if you knew the movements of all the animals of this hunting-ground as well as I do, you would see that those must be demons and nothing else. No men nor animals at this time of day would collect on an open space and move about in that way. Besides, that large rock close by them is a noted place for demons; every child in the village knows that.”

I have heard another man of the same class, when asked why he looked so intently at a human footstep in the forest pathway, gravely observed that the footmark looked as if the foot which made it had been walking heel-foremost, and must therefore have been made by a Rakshas, “for they always walked so when in human form.”

Another expressed particular dread of a human face, the eyes of which were placed at an exaggerated angle to each other, like those of a Chinese or Malay, “because that position of the eyes was the only way in which you could recognize a Rakshas in human shape.”

In the more advanced and populous parts of the country the Rakshas seems giving way to the “Bhoot,” which more nearly resembles the mere ghost of modern European superstition; but even in this diluted form such beings have an influence over Indian imaginations to which it is difficult in these days to find any parallel in Europe.

I found, quite lately, a traditionary order in existence at Government House, Dapoorie, near Poona, which directed the native sentry on guard “to present arms if a cat or dog, jackal or goat, entered or left the house or crossed near his beat” during certain hours of the night, “because it was the ghost” of a former governor, who was still remembered as one of the best and kindest of men.

How or when the custom originated I could not learn, but the order had been verbally handed on from one native sergeant of the guard to another for many years, without any doubts as to its propriety or authority, till it was accidentally overheard by an European officer of the governor’s staff.

In the hills and deserts of Sind the belief in beings of this order, as might be expected in a wild and desolate country, is found strong and universal; there, however, the Rakshas has changed his name to that of our old friend the “Gin” of the Arabian Nights, and he has somewhat approximated in character to the Pwcca or Puck of our own country. The Gin of the Beelooch hills is wayward and often morose, but not necessarily malignant. His usual form is that of a dwarfish human being, with large eyes and covered with long hair, and apt to breathe with a heavy snoring kind of noise. From the circumstantial accounts I have heard of such “Gins” being seen seated on rocks at the side of lonely passes, I suspect that the great horned eagle-owl, which is not uncommon in the hill-country of Sind, has to answer for many well-vouched cases of Gin apparition.

The Gin does not, however, always retain his own shape; he frequently changes to the form of a camel, goat or other animal. If a Gin be accidentally met, it is recommended that the traveler should show no sign of fear, and, above all, keep a civil tongue in his head, for the demon has a special aversion to bad language. Every Beelooch has heard of instances in which such chance acquaintanceships with Gins have not only led to no mischief, but been the source of much benefit to the fortunate mortal who had the courage and prudence to turn them to account; for a Gin once attached to a man will work hard and faithfully for him, and sometimes show him the entrance to those great subterranean caverns under the hills, where there is perpetual spring, and trees laden with fruits of gold and precious stones; but the mortal once admitted to such a paradise is never allowed to leave it. There are few neighborhoods in the Beelooch hills which cannot show huge stones, apparently intended for building, which have been, “as all the country-side knows,” moved by such agency, and the entrance to the magic cavern is never very far off, though the boldest Beelooch is seldom very willing to show or to seek for the exact spot.

Superstitions nearly identical were still current within the last forty years, when I was a boy, on the borders of Wales. In Cwm Pwcca (the Fairies’ Glen), in the valley of the Clydach, between Abergavenny and Merthyr, the cave used to be shown into which a belated miner was decoyed by the Pwccas, and kept dancing for ten years; and a farm-house on the banks of the Usk, not far off, was, in the last generation, the abode of a farmer who had a friendly Pwcca in his service. The goblin was called Pwcca Trwyn, as I was assured from his occasionally being visible as a huge human nose. He would help the mortal by carrying loads and mending hedges, but usually worked only while the farmer slept at noon, and always expected as his guerdon a portion of the toast and ale which his friend had for dinner in the field. If none was left for him, he would cease to work; and he once roused the farmer from his noontide slumbers by thrashing him soundly with his own hedging-stake.

The Peris or Fairies of these stories have nothing distinctive about them. Like the fairies of other lands, they often fall in love with mortal men, and are visible to the pure eyes of childhood when hidden from the grosser vision of maturer years.

Next to the Rakshas, the Cobra, or deadly hooded snake, plays the most important part in these legends as a supernatural personage. This is one only of the many traces still extant of that serpent-worship formerly so general in Western India. I have no doubt that Mr. Ferguson, in his forthcoming work on Bhuddhist antiquities, will throw much light on this curious subject. I will, therefore, only now observe that this serpent-worship as it still exists is something more active than a mere popular superstition. The Cobra, unless disturbed, rarely goes far from home, and is supposed to watch jealously over a hidden treasure. He is always, in the estimation of the lower classes, invested with supernatural powers, and according to the treatment he receives he builds up or destroys the fortunes of the house to which he belongs. No native will willingly kill him if he can get rid of him in any other way; and the poorer classes always, after he is killed, give him all the honors of a regular cremation, assuring him, with many protestations, as the pile burns, “that they are guiltless of his blood; that they slew him by order of their master,” or “that they had no other way to prevent his biting the children or the chickens.”

A very interesting discussion on the subject of the Snake Race of Ancient India, between Mr. Bayley and Baboo Rajendralal Mitr, will be found in the Proceedings of the Asiatic Society of Bengal, for February, 1867.

THE COLLECTOR’S APOLOGY.

THE collection of these legends was commenced with the object of amusing a favorite young friend of mine. It was continued, as they appeared in themselves curious illustrations of Indian popular tradition, and in the hope that something might thus be done to rescue them from the danger of oral transmission.

Though varied in their imagery, the changes between the different legends are rung upon very few themes, as if purposely confined to what was most familiar to the people. The similarity between the incidents in some of these and in favorite European stories, particularly modern German ones, is curious; and the leading characteristics peculiar to all orthodox fairy tales are here preserved intact. Step-mothers are always cruel, and step-sisters, their willing instruments; giants and ogres always stupid; youngest daughters more clever than their elder sisters; and the Jackal (like his European cousin the Fox) usually overcomes every difficulty, and proves a bright moral example of the success of wit against brute force—the triumph of mind over matter.

It is remarkable that in the romances of a country where women are generally supposed by us to be regarded as mere slaves or intriguers, their influence (albeit most frequently put to proof behind the scenes) should be made to appear so great, and, as a rule, exerted wholly for good; and that, in a land where despotism has such a firm hold on the hearts of the people, the liberties of the subject should be so boldly asserted as by the old Milkwoman to the Rajah in “Little Surya Bai,” or the old Malee[1] to the Rajah in “Truth’s Triumph;” and few, probably would have expected to find the Hindoos owning such a romance as “Brave Seventee Bai;”[2] or to meet with such stories as “The Valiant Chattee-maker,” and “The Blind Man, the Deaf Man and the Donkey,” among a nation which, it has been constantly asserted, possesses no humor, no sense of the ridiculous, and cannot understand a joke.

In “The Narrator’s Narrative” Anna Liberata de Souza’s own story is related, as much as possible, in her own words of expressive but broken English. She did not, however, tell it in one continuous narrative: it is the sum of many conversations I had with her during the eighteen months that she was with us.

The legends themselves are altered as little as possible: half their charm, however, consisted in the Narrator’s eager, flexible voice and graphic gestures.

I often asked her if there were no stories of elephants having done wonderful deeds (as from their strength and sagacity one would have imagined them to possess all the qualifications requisite to heroes of romance); but, strange to say, she knew of none in which elephants played any part whatsoever.

As regards the Oriental names, they have generally been written as Anna pronounced them. It was frequently not possible to give the true orthography, and the correctly spelt name does not always give a clue to the popular pronunciation. So with the interpretations and geography. Where it is possible to identify what is described, an attempt has been made to do so; but for other explanations Anna’s is the sole authority: she was quite sure that “Seventee Bai” meant the “Daisy Lady,” though no botanist would acknowledge the plant under that name; and she was satisfied that all gentlemen who have traveled know where “Agra Brum” is, though she had never been there, and no such province appears in any ordinary Gazeteer or description of the city of Akbar.

These few legends, told by one old woman to her grandchildren, can only be considered as representatives of a class. “That world,” to use her own words, “is gone;” and those who can tell us about it in this critical and unimaginative age are fast disappearing too before the onward march of civilization; yet there must be in the country many a rich gold mine unexplored. Will no one go to the diggings?

M. F.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Gardener.

[2] Was this narrative of feminine sagacity invented by some old woman, who felt aggrieved at the general contempt entertained for her sex?

THE NARRATOR’S NARRATIVE.

MY grandfather’s family were of the Lingaet caste, and lived in Calicut; but they went and settled near Goa at the time the English were there. It was there my grandfather became a Christian. He and his wife, and all the family, became Christians at once, and when his father heard it he was very angry, and turned them all out of the house. There were very few Christians in those days. Now you see Christians everywhere, but then we were very proud to see one anywhere. My grandfather was Havildar[3] in the English army, and when the English fought against Tippo Sahib, my grandmother followed him all through the war. She was a very tall, fine, handsome woman, and very strong; wherever the regiment marched she went, on, on, on, on (great deal hard work that old woman done). Plenty stories my granny used to tell about Tippo and how Tippo was killed, and about Wellesley Sahib, and Monro Sahib, and Malcolm Sahib, and Elphinstone Sahib.[4] Plenty things had that old woman heard and seen. Ah, he was a good man, Elphinstone Sahib! My granny used often to tell us how he would go down and say to the soldiers, “Baba,[5] Baba, fight well. Win the battles, and each man shall have his cap full of money; and after the war is over I’ll send every one of you to his own home.” (And he did do it.) Then we children plenty proud, when we heard what Elphinstone Sahib had said. In those days the soldiers were not low-caste people like they are now. Many, very high-caste men, and come from very far, from Goa, and Calicut, and Malabar to join the English.

My father was a tent lascar,[6] and when the war was over my grandfather had won five medals for all the good he had done, and my father had three; and my father was given charge of the Kirkee stores.[7] My grandmother and mother, and all the family, were in those woods behind Poona at time of the battle at Kirkee.[8] I’ve often heard my father say how full the river was after the battle—baggage and bundles floating down, and men trying to swim across—and horses and all such a bustle. Many people got good things on that day. My father got a large chattee,[9] and two good ponies that were in the river, and he took them home to camp; but when he got there the guard took them away. So all his trouble did him no good.

We were poor people, but living was cheap, and we had plenty comfort.

In those days house rent did not cost more than half a rupee[10] a month, and you could build a very comfortable house for a hundred rupees. Not such good houses as people now live in, but well enough for people like us. Then a whole family could live as comfortably on six or seven rupees a month as they can now on thirty. Grain, now a rupee a pound, was then two annas a pound. Common sugar, then one anna a pound, is now worth four annas a pound. Oil which then sold for six pice a bottle, now costs four annas. Four annas’ worth of salt, chillies, tamarinds, onions and garlic, would then last a family a whole month; now the same money would not buy a week’s supply. Such dungeree[11] as you now pay half rupee a yard for, you could then buy from twenty to forty yards of, for the rupee. You could not get such good calico then as now, but the dungeree did very well. Beef then was a pice a pound, and the vegetables cost a pie a day. For half a rupee you could fill the house with wood. Water also was much cheaper. You could then get a man to bring you two large skins full, morning and evening, for a pie; now he would not do it under half a rupee or more. If the children came crying for fruit, a pie would get them as many guavas as they liked in the bazaar. Now you’d have to pay that for each guava. This shows how much more money people need now than they did then.[12]

The English fixed the rupee to the value of sixteen annas, in those days there were some big annas, and some little ones, and you could sometimes get twenty-two annas for a rupee.

I had seven brothers and one sister. Things were very different in those days to what they are now. There were no schools then to send the children to; it was only the great people who could read and write. If a man was known to be able to write he was plenty proud, and hundreds and hundreds of people would come to him to write their letters. Now you find a pen and ink in every house! I don’t know what good all this reading and writing does. My grandfather couldn’t write, and my father couldn’t write, and they did very well; but all’s changed now.

My father used to be out all day at his work, and my mother often went to do coolie-work,[13] and she had to take my father his dinner (my mother did plenty work in the world); and when my granny was strong enough she used sometimes to go into the bazaar, if we wanted money, and grind rice for the shop-keepers, and they gave her half a rupee for her day’s work, and used to let her have the bran and chaff besides. But afterward she got too old to do that, and besides there were so many of us children. So she used to stay at home and look after us while my mother was at work. Plenty bother ’tis to look after a lot of children. No sooner my granny’s back turned than we all run out in the sun, and play with the dust and stones on the road.

Then my granny would call out to us, “Come here, children, out of the sun, and I’ll tell you a story. Come in; you’ll all get headaches.” So she used to get us together (there were nine of us, and great little fidgets, like all children), into the house; and there she’d sit on the floor, and tell us one of the stories I tell you. But then she used to make them last much longer, the different people telling their own stories from the beginning as often as possible; so that by the time she’d got to the end, she had told the beginning over five or six times. And so she went on, talk, talk, talk, Mera Bap reh![14] Such a long time she’d go on for, till all the children got quite tired and fell asleep. Now there are plenty schools to which to send the children, but there were no schools when I was a young girl; and the old women, who could do nothing else, used to tell them stories to keep them out of mischief.

We used sometimes to ask my grandmother, “Are those stories you tell us really true? Were there ever such people in the world?” She generally answered, “I don’t know, but maybe there are somewhere.” I don’t believe there are any of those people living; I dare say, however, they did once live; but my granny believed more in those things than we do now. She was a Christian, she worshiped God and believed in our Saviour, but still she would always respect the Hindoo temples. If she saw a red stone, or an image of Gunputti[15] or any of the other Hindoo gods, she would kneel down and say her prayers there, for she used to say, “Maybe there’s something in it.”

About all things she would tell us pretty stories—about men, and animals, and trees, and flowers, and stars. There was nothing she did not know some tale about. On the bright cold-weather nights, when you can see more stars than at any other time of the year, we used to like to watch the sky, and she would show us the Hen and Chickens,[16] and the Key,[17] and the Scorpion, and the Snake, and the Three Thieves climbing up to rob the Ranee’s silver bedstead, with their mother (that twinkling star far away) watching for her sons’ return. Pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat, you can see how her heart beats, for she is always frightened, thinking, “Perhaps they will be caught and hanged!”

Then she would show us the Cross,[18] that reminds us of our Saviour’s, and the great pathway of light[19] on which He went up to heaven. It is what you call the Milky Way. My granny usen’t to call it that: she used to say that when our Lord returned up to heaven that was the way He went, and that ever since it has shone in memory of His ascension, so beautiful and bright.

She always said a star with a smoky tail (comet) meant war, and she never saw a falling star without saying, “There’s a great man died;” but the fixed stars she used to think were all really good people, burning like bright lamps before God.

As to the moon, my granny used to say she’s most useful to debtors who can’t pay their debts. Thus: A man who borrows money he knows he cannot pay, takes the full moon for witness and surety. Then, if any man so silly as to lend him money and go and ask him for it, he can say, “The moon’s my surety; go catch hold of the moon!” Now, you see, no man can do that; and what’s more, when the moon’s once full, it grows every night less and less, and at last goes out altogether.

All the Cobras in my grandmother’s stories were seven-headed. This puzzled us children, and we would say to her, “Granny, are there any seven-headed Cobras now? For all the Cobras we see that the conjurors bring round have only one head each.” To which she used to answer, “No, of course there are no seven-headed Cobras now. That world is gone, but you see each Cobra has a hood of skin; that is the remains of another head.” Then we would say, “Although none of those old seven-headed Cobras are alive now, maybe there are some of their children living somewhere.” But at this my granny used to get vexed, and say, “Nonsense! you are silly little chatter-boxes; get along with you!” And, though we often looked for the seven-headed Cobras, we never could find any of them.

My old granny lived till she was nearly a hundred; when she got very old she rather lost her memory, and often made mistakes in the stories she told us, telling a bit of one story and then joining on to it a bit of some other; for we children bothered her too much about them, and sometimes she used to get very tired of talking, and when we asked her for a story, would answer, “You must ask your mother about it; she can tell you.”

Ah! those were happy days, and we had plenty ways to amuse ourselves. I was very fond of pets; I had a little dog that followed me everywhere, and played all sorts of pretty tricks, and I and my youngest brother used to take the little sparrows out of their nests on the roof of our house and tame them. These little birds got so fond of me they would always fly after me; as I was sweeping the floor one would perch on my head, and two or three on my shoulders, and the rest come fluttering after. But my poor father and mother used to shake their heads at me when they saw this, and say, “Ah, naughty girl, to take the little birds out of their nests: that stealing will bring you no good.” All my family were very fond of music. You know that Rosie (my daughter) sings very nicely and plays upon the guitar, and my son-in-law plays on the pianoforte and the fiddle (we’ve got two fiddles in our house now), but Mera Bap reh! how well my grandfather sang! Sometimes of an evening he would drink a little toddy,[20] and be quite cheerful, and sing away; and all we children liked to hear him. I was very fond of singing. I had a good voice when I was young, and my father used to be so fond of making me sing, and I often sang to him that Calicut song about the ships sailing on the sea[21] and the little wife watching for her husband to come back, and plenty more that I forget now; and my father and brothers would be so pleased at my singing, and laugh and say, “That girl can do anything.” But now my voice is gone, and I didn’t care to sing any more since my son died, and my heart been so sad.

In those days there were much fewer houses in Poona than there are now, and many more wandering gipsies, and such like. They were very troublesome, doing nothing but begging and stealing, but people gave them all they wanted, as it was believed that to incur their ill-will was very dangerous. It was not safe even to speak harshly of them. I remember one day, when I was quite a little girl, running along by my mother’s side, when she was on her way to the bazaar: we happened to pass the huts of some of these people, and I said to her “See, mother, what nasty, dirty people those are; they live in such ugly little houses, and they look as if they never combed their hair nor washed.” When I said this, my mother turned round quite sharply and boxed my ears, saying, “Because God has given you a comfortable home and good parents, is that any reason for you to laugh at others who are poorer and less happy?” “I meant no harm,” I said; and when we got home I told my father what my mother had done, and he said to her, “Why did you slap the child?” She answered, “If you want to know, ask your daughter why I punished her. You will then be able to judge whether I was right or not.” So I told my father what I had said about the gipsies, and when I told him, instead of pitying me, he also boxed my ears very hard. So that was all I got for telling tales against my mother!

But they both did it, fearing if I spoke evil of the gipsies and were not instantly punished, some dreadful evil would befall me.

It was after my granny that I was named “Anna Liberata.” She died after my father, and when I was eleven years old. Her eyes were quite bright, her hair black, and her teeth good to the last. If I’d been older then, I should have been able to remember more of her stories. Such a number as she used to tell! I’m afraid my sister would not be able to remember any of them. She has had much trouble; that puts those sort of things out of people’s heads; besides, she is a goose. She is younger than I am, although you would think her so much older, for her hair turned gray when she was very young, while mine is quite black still. She is almost bald too, now, as she pulled out her hair because it was gray. I always said to her, “Don’t do so; for you can’t make yourself any younger, and it is better, when you are getting old, to look old. Then people will do whatever you ask them! But however old you may be, if you look young, they’ll say to you, ‘You are young enough and strong enough to do your own work yourself.’”

My mother used to tell us stories too; but not so many as my granny. A few years ago there might be found several old people who knew those sorts of stories; but now children go to school, and nobody thinks of remembering or telling them—they’ll soon be all forgotten. It is true there are books with some stories something like these, but they always put them down wrong. Sometimes when I cannot remember a bit of a story, I ask some one about it; then they say, “There is a story of that name in my book. I don’t know it, but I’ll read.” Then they read it to me, but it is all wrong, so that I get quite cross, and make them shut up the book. For in the books they cut the stories quite short, and leave out the prettiest part, and they jumble up the beginning of one story with the end of another—so that it is altogether wrong.

When I was young, old people used to be very fond of telling these stories; but instead of that, it seems to me that now the old people are fond of nothing but making money.

Then I was married. I was twelve years old then. Our native people have a very happy life till we marry. The girls live with their father and mother and brothers and sisters, and have got nothing to do but amuse themselves, and got father and mother to take care of them; but after they’re married they go to live at their husband’s house, and the husband’s mother and sisters are often very unkind to them.

You English people can’t understand that sort of thing. When an Englishman marries, he goes to a new house, and his wife is the mistress of it; but our native people are very different. If the father is dead, the mother and unmarried sisters live in the son’s house, and rule it; his wife is nothing in the house. And the mother and sisters say to the son’s wife, “This is not your house—you’ve not always lived in it; you cannot be mistress here.” And if the wife complains to her husband, and he speaks about it, they say, “Very well, if you are such an unnatural son, you’d better turn your mother and sisters out of doors; but while we live here, we’ll rule the house.” So there is always plenty fighting. It’s not unkind of the mother and sisters—it’s custom.

My husband was a servant in Government House—that was when Lord Clare was governor here. When I was twenty years old, my husband died of a bad fever, and left me with two children—the boy and the girl, Rosie.

I had no money to keep them with, so I said, “I’ll go to service,” and my mother-in-law said, “How can you go with two children, and so young, and knowing nothing?” But I said, “I can learn, and I’ll go;” and a kind lady took me into her service. When I went to my first place, I hardly knew a word of English (though I knew our Calicut language, and Portuguese, and Hindostani, and Mahratti well enough), and I could not hold a needle. I was so stupid, like a Coolie-woman;[22] but my mistress was very kind to me, and I soon learnt; she did not mind the trouble of teaching me. I often think, “Where find such good Christian people in these days?” To take a poor, stupid woman and her two children into the house—for I had them both with me, Rosie and the boy. I was a sharp girl in those days; I did my mistress’ work and I looked after the children too. I never left them to any one else. If she wanted me for a long time, I used to bring the children into the room and set them down on the floor, so as to have them under my own eye whilst I did her work. My mistress was very fond of Rosie, and used to teach her to work and read. After some time my mistress went home, and since then I have been in eight places.

My brother-in-law was valet at that time to Napier Sahib, up in Sind. All the people and servants were very fond of that Sahib. My brother-in-law was with him for ten years; and he wanted me to go up there to get place as ayah, and said, “You quick, sharp girl, and know English very well; you easily get good place and make plenty money.” But I such a foolish woman I would not go. I write and tell him, “No, I can’t come, for Sind such a long way off, and I cannot leave the children.” I plenty proud then. I give up all for the children. But now what good? I know your language. What use? To blow the fire? I only a miserable woman, fit to go to cook-room and cook the dinner. So go down in the world, a poor woman (not much good to have plenty in head and empty pocket!) but if I’d been a man I might now be a Fouzdar.[23]

I was at Kolapore[24] at the time of the mutiny, and we had to run away in the middle of the night; but I’ve told you before all about that. Then seven years ago my mother died (she was ninety when she died), and we came back to live at Poona, and my daughter was married, and I was so happy and pleased.

I gave a feast then to three hundred people, and we had music and dancing, and my son, he so proud he dancing from morning to night, and running here and there arranging everything; and on that day I said, “Throw the doors open, and any beggar, any poor person come here, give them what they like to eat, for whoever comes shall have enough, since there’s no more work for me in the world.” So, thinking I should be able to leave service, and give up work, I spent all the money I had left. That was not very much, for in sending my son to school I’d spent a great deal. He was such a beauty boy—tall, straight, handsome—and so clever. They used to say he looked more like my brother than my son, and he said to me, “Mammy, you’ve worked for us all your life; now I’m grown up, I’ll get a clerk’s place and work for you. You shall work no more, but live in my house.” But last year he was drowned in the river. That was my great sad. Since then I couldn’t lift up my head. I can’t remember things now as I used to do, and all is muddled in my head, six and seven. It makes me sad sometimes to hear you laughing and talking so happy with your father and mother and all your family, when I think of my father, and mother, and brothers, and husband, and son, all dead and gone! No more happy home like that for me. What should I care to live for? I would come to England with you, for I know you would be good to me and bury me when I die, but I cannot go so far from Rosie. My one eye put out, my other eye left. I could not lose it too. If it were not for Rosie and her children I should like to travel about and see the world. There are four places I have always wished to see—Calcutta, Madras, England and Jerusalem (my poor mother always wished to see Jerusalem, too—that her great hope); but I shall not see them now. Many ladies wanted to take me to England with them, and if I had gone I should have saved plenty money, but now it is too late to think of that. Besides, it would not be much use. What’s the good of my saving money? Can I take it away with me when I die? My father and grandfather did not do so, and they had enough to live on till they died. I have enough for what I want, and I’ve plenty poor relations. They all come to me, asking for money, and I give it them. I thank our Saviour there are enough good Christians here to give me a slice of bread and cup of water when I can’t work for it. I do not fear to come to want.

Government House,
Parell, Bombay, 1866.

FOOTNOTES:

[3] Sergeant of native troops.

[4] The Duke of Wellington, Sir Thomas Monro, Sir John Malcolm and Mr. Mountstuart Elphinstone.

[5] My children.

[6] Tent-pitcher.

[7] The Field Arsenal at Kirkee (near Poona).

[8] The battle which decided the fate of the Deccan, and led to the downfall of Bajee Row Peishwa, and extinction of Mahratta rule. Fought 13th November, 1817. See [Note A].

[9] A Jar.

[10] The following shows the Narrator’s calculation of currency:

1 Pie = ¼ of a cent.
3 Pie = 1 Pice.
4 Pice = 1 Anna.
16 Annas = 1 Rupee = about 50 cents.

[11] A coarse cotton cloth.

[12] See [Note B].

[13] Such work as is done by the Coolie caste, chiefly fetching and carrying heavy loads.

[14] Oh, my Father!

[15] The Hindoo God of Wisdom.

[16] The Pleiades.

[17] The Great Bear.

[18] The Southern Cross.

[19] The Milky Way. This is an ancient Christian legend.

[20] An intoxicating drink made from the juice of the palm tree.

[21] See [Note C].

[22] A low caste—hewers of wood and drawers of water.

[23] Chief Constable.

[24] Capital of the Kolapore State, in the Southern Mahratta country.

[!-- blank page --]

Old Deccan Days.

I.
PUNCHKIN.

ONCE upon a time there was a Rajah[25] who had seven beautiful daughters. They were all good girls; but the youngest, named Balna,[26] was more clever than the rest. The Rajah’s wife died when they were quite little children, so these seven poor Princesses were left with no mother to take care of them.

The Rajah’s daughters took it by turns to cook their father’s dinner every day,[27] whilst he was absent deliberating with his ministers on the affairs of the nation.

About this time the Purdan[28] died, leaving a widow and one daughter; and every day, every day, when the seven Princesses were preparing their father’s dinner, the Purdan’s widow and daughter would come and beg for a little fire from the hearth. Then Balna used to say to her sisters, “Send that woman away; send her away. Let her get the fire at her own house. What does she want with ours? If we allow her to come here, we shall suffer for it some day.” But the other sisters would answer, “Be quiet, Balna; why must you always be quarreling with this poor woman? Let her take some fire if she likes.” Then the Purdan’s widow used to go to the hearth and take a few sticks from it; and, whilst no one was looking, she would quickly throw some mud into the midst of the dishes which were being prepared for the Rajah’s dinner.

Now the Rajah was very fond of his daughters. Ever since their mother’s death they had cooked his dinner with their own hands, in order to avoid the danger of his being poisoned by his enemies. So, when he found the mud mixed up with his dinner, he thought it must arise from their carelessness, as it appeared improbable that any one should have put mud there on purpose; but being very kind, he did not like to reprove them for it, although this spoiling of the currie was repeated many successive days.

At last, one day, he determined to hide and watch his daughters cooking, and see how it all happened; so he went into the next room, and watched them through a hole in the wall.

There he saw his seven daughters carefully washing the rice and preparing the currie, and as each dish was completed, they put it by the fire ready to be cooked. Next he noticed the Purdan’s widow come to the door, and beg for a few sticks from the fire to cook her dinner with. Balna turned to her, angrily, and said, “Why don’t you keep fuel in your own house, and not come here every day and take ours? Sisters, don’t give this woman any more; let her buy it for herself.”

Then the eldest sister answered, “Balna, let the poor woman take the wood and the fire; she does us no harm.” But Balna replied, “If you let her come here so often, maybe she will do us some harm, and make us sorry for it, some day.”

The Rajah then saw the Purdan’s widow go to the place where all his dinner was nicely prepared, and, as she took the wood, she threw a little mud into each of the dishes.

At this he was very angry, and sent to have the woman seized and brought before him. But when the widow came, she told him that she had played this trick because she wanted to gain an audience with him; and she spoke so cleverly, and pleased him so well with her cunning words, that instead of punishing her, the Rajah married her, and made her his Ranee,[29] and she and her daughter came to live in the palace.

The new Ranee hated the seven poor Princesses, and wanted to get them, if possible, out of the way, in order that her daughter might have all their riches and live in the palace as Princess in their place; and instead of being grateful to them for their kindness to her, she did all she could to make them miserable. She gave them nothing but bread to eat, and very little of that, and very little water to drink; so these seven poor little Princesses, who had been accustomed to have everything comfortable about them, and good food and good clothes all their lives long, were very miserable and unhappy; and they used to go out every day and sit by their dead mother’s tomb and cry; and used to say,

“Oh mother, mother, cannot you see your poor children, how unhappy we are, and how we are starved by our cruel step-mother?”

One day, whilst they were sobbing and crying, lo and behold! a beautiful pomelo tree[30] grew up out of the grave, covered with fresh ripe pomeloes, and the children satisfied their hunger by eating some of the fruit; and every day after this, instead of trying to eat the nasty dinner their step-mother provided for them, they used to go out to their mother’s grave and eat the pomeloes which grew there on the beautiful tree.

Then the Ranee said to her daughter, “I cannot tell how it is: every day those seven girls say they don’t want any dinner, and won’t eat any; and yet they never grow thin nor look ill; they look better than you do. I cannot tell how it is;” and she bade her watch the seven Princesses and see if any one gave them anything to eat.

So next day, when the Princesses went to their mother’s grave, and were eating the beautiful pomeloes, the Purdan’s daughter followed them and saw them gathering the fruit.

Then Balna said to her sisters, “Do you see that girl watching us? Let us drive her away or hide the pomeloes, else she will go and tell her mother all about it, and that will be very bad for us.”

But the other sisters said, “Oh no, do not be unkind, Balna. The girl would never be so cruel as to tell her mother. Let us rather invite her to come and have some of the fruit;” and calling her to them, they gave her one of the pomeloes.

No sooner had she eaten it, however, than the Purdan’s daughter went home and said to her mother, “I do not wonder the seven Princesses will not eat the nasty dinner you prepare for them, for by their mother’s grave there grows a beautiful pomelo tree, and they go there every day and eat the pomeloes. I ate one, and it was the nicest I have ever tasted.”

The cruel Ranee was much vexed at hearing this, and all next day she stayed in her room, and told the Rajah that she had a very bad headache. The Rajah at hearing this was deeply grieved, and said to his wife, “What can I do for you?” She answered, “There is only one thing that will make my headache well. By your dead wife’s tomb there grows a fine pomelo tree; you must bring that here, and boil it, root and branch, and put a little of the water in which it has been boiled on my forehead, and that will cure my headache.” So the Rajah sent his servants, and had the beautiful pomelo tree pulled up by the roots, and did as the Ranee desired; and when some of the water in which it had been boiled was put on her forehead, she said her headache was gone and she felt quite well.

Next day, when the seven Princesses went as usual to the grave of their mother, the pomelo tree had disappeared. Then they all began to cry very bitterly.

Now there was by the Ranee’s tomb a small tank,[31] and as they were crying they saw that the tank was filled with a rich cream-like substance, which quickly hardened into a thick white cake. At seeing this all the Princesses were very glad, and they ate some of the cake, and liked it; and next day the same thing happened, and so it went on for many days. Every morning the Princesses went to their mother’s grave, and found the little tank filled with the nourishing cream-like cake. Then the cruel step-mother said to her daughter: “I cannot tell how it is: I have had the pomelo tree which used to grow by the Ranee’s grave destroyed, and yet the Princesses grow no thinner nor look more sad, though they never eat the dinner I give them. I cannot tell how it is!”

And her daughter said, “I will watch.”

Next day, while the Princesses were eating the cream cake, who should come by but their step-mother’s daughter? Balna saw her first, and said, “See, sisters, there comes that girl again. Let us sit round the edge of the tank, and not allow her to see it; for if we give her some of our cake, she will go and tell her mother, and that will be very unfortunate for us.”

The other sisters, however, thought Balna unnecessarily suspicious, and instead of following her advice, they gave the Purdan’s daughter some of the cake, and she went home and told her mother all about it.

The Ranee, on hearing how well the Princesses fared, was exceedingly angry, and sent her servants to pull down the dead Ranee’s tomb and fill the little tank with the ruins. And not content with this, she next day pretended to be very, very ill—in fact, at the point of death; and when the Rajah was much grieved, and asked her whether it was in his power to procure her any remedy, she said to him: “Only one thing can save my life, but I know you will not do it.” He replied, “Yes, whatever it is, I will do it.” She then said, “To save my life, you must kill the seven daughters of your first wife, and put some of their blood on my forehead and on the palms of my hands, and their death will be my life.” At these words the Rajah was very sorrowful; but because he feared to break his word, he went out with a heavy heart to find his daughters.

He found them crying by the ruins of their mother’s grave.

Then, feeling he could not kill them, the Rajah spoke kindly to them, and told them to come out into the jungle with him; and there he made a fire and cooked some rice, and gave it to them. But in the afternoon, it being very hot, the seven Princesses all fell asleep, and when he saw they were fast asleep, the Rajah, their father, stole away and left them (for he feared his wife), saying to himself: “It is better my poor daughters should die here than be killed by their step-mother.”

He then shot a deer, and returning home, put some of the blood on the forehead and hands of the Ranee, and she thought then that he had really killed the Princesses, and said she felt quite well.

Meantime the seven Princesses awoke, and when they found themselves all alone in the thick jungle they were much frightened, and began to call out as loud as they could, in hopes of making their father hear; but he was by that time far away, and would not have been able to hear them, even had their voices been as loud as thunder.

It so happened that this very day the seven young sons of a neighboring Rajah chanced to be hunting in that same jungle, and as they were returning home after the day’s sport was over, the youngest Prince said to his brothers: “Stop, I think I hear some one crying and calling out. Do you not hear voices? Let us go in the direction of the sound, and try and find out what it is.”

So the seven Princes rode through the wood until they came to the place where the seven Princesses sat crying and wringing their hands. At the sight of them the young Princes were very much astonished, and still more so on learning their story; and they settled that each should take one of these poor forlorn ladies home with him and marry her.

So the first and eldest Prince took the eldest Princess home with him, and married her.

And the second took the second;

And the third took the third;

And the fourth took the fourth;

And the fifth took the fifth;

And the sixth took the sixth;

And the seventh, and handsomest of all, took the beautiful Balna.

And when they got to their own land, there was great rejoicing throughout the kingdom at the marriage of the seven young Princes to seven such beautiful Princesses.

About a year after this Balna had a little son, and his uncles and aunts were all so fond of the boy that it was as if he had seven fathers and seven mothers. None of the other Princes or Princesses had any children, so the son of the seventh Prince and Balna was acknowledged their heir by all the rest.

They had thus lived very happily for some time, when one fine day the seventh Prince (Balna’s husband) said he would go out hunting, and away he went; and they waited long for him, but he never came back.

Then his six brothers said they would go and see what had become of him; and they went away, but they also did not return.

And the seven Princesses grieved very much, for they felt sure their kind husbands must have been killed.

One day, not long after this had happened, as Balna was rocking her baby’s cradle, and whilst her sisters were working in the room below, there came to the palace door a man in a long black dress, who said that he was a Fakeer,[32] and came to beg. The servants said to him, “You cannot go into the palace—the Rajah’s sons have all gone away; we think they must be dead, and their widows cannot be interrupted by your begging.” But he said, “I am a holy man; you must let me in.” Then the stupid servants let him walk through the palace, but they did not know that this man was no Fakeer, but a wicked Magician named Punchkin.

Punchkin Fakeer wandered through the palace, and saw many beautiful things there, till at last he reached the room where Balna sat singing beside her little boy’s cradle. The Magician thought her more beautiful than all the other beautiful things he had seen, insomuch that he asked her to go home with him and to marry him. But she said, “My husband, I fear, is dead, but my little boy is still quite young; I will stay here and teach him to grow up a clever man, and when he is grown up he shall go out into the world, and try and learn tidings of his father. Heaven forbid that I should ever leave him or marry you.” At these words the Magician was very angry, and turned her into a little black dog, and led her away, saying, “Since you will not come with me of your own free will, I will make you.” So the poor Princess was dragged away, without any power of effecting an escape, or of letting her sisters know what had become of her. As Punchkin passed through the palace gate the servants said to him, “Where did you get that pretty little dog?” And he answered, “One of the Princesses gave it to me as a present.” At hearing which they let him go without further questioning.

Soon after this the six elder Princesses heard the little baby, their nephew, begin to cry, and when they went up stairs they were much surprised to find him all alone, and Balna nowhere to be seen. Then they questioned the servants, and when they heard of the Fakeer and the little black dog, they guessed what had happened, and sent in every direction seeking them, but neither the Fakeer nor the dog were to be found. What could six poor women do? They had to give up all hopes of ever seeing their kind husbands, and their sister and her husband again, and they devoted themselves thenceforward to teaching and taking care of their little nephew.

Thus time went on, till Balna’s son was fourteen years old. Then one day his aunts told him the history of the family; and no sooner did he hear it than he was seized with a great desire to go in search of his father and mother and uncles, and bring them home again if he could find them alive. His aunts, on learning his determination, were much alarmed and tried to dissuade him, saying, “We have lost our husbands, and our sister and her husband, and you are now our sole hope; if you go away, what shall we do?” But he replied, “I pray you not to be discouraged; I will return soon, and, if it is possible, bring my father and mother and uncles with me.” So he sat out on his travels, but for some months he could learn nothing to help him in his search.

At last, after he had journeyed many hundreds of weary miles, and become almost hopeless of ever being able to hear anything further of his parents, he one day came to a country which seemed full of stones and rocks and trees, and there he saw a large palace with a high tower; hard by which was a Malee’s[33] little house.

As he was looking about, the Malee’s wife saw him, and ran out of the house and said, “My dear boy, who are you that dare venture to this dangerous place?” And he answered, “I am a Rajah’s son, and I come in search of my father and my uncles, and my mother whom a wicked enchanter bewitched.” Then the Malee’s wife said, “This country and this palace belong to a great Enchanter; he is all-powerful, and if any one displeases him, he can turn them into stones and trees. All the rocks and trees you see here were living people once, and the Magician turned them to what they now are. Some time ago a Rajah’s son came here, and shortly afterward came his six brothers, and they were all turned into stones and trees; and these are not the only unfortunate ones, for up in that tower lives a beautiful Princess, whom the Magician has kept prisoner there for twelve years, because she hates him and will not marry him.”

Then the little Prince thought, “These must be my parents and my uncles. I have found what I seek at last.” So he told his story to the Malee’s wife, and begged her to help him to remain in that place a while, and inquire further concerning the unhappy people she mentioned; and she promised to befriend him, and advised his disguising himself, lest the Magician should see him, and turn him likewise into stone. To this the Prince agreed. So the Malee’s wife dressed him up in a saree,[34] and pretended that he was her daughter.

One day, not long after this, as the Magician was walking in his garden, he saw the little girl (as he thought) playing about, and asked her who she was. She told him she was the Malee’s daughter, and the Magician said, “You are a pretty little girl, and to-morrow you shall take a present of flowers from me to the beautiful lady who lives in the tower.”

The young Prince was much delighted at hearing this, and after some consultation with the Malee’s wife, he settled that it would be more safe for him to retain his disguise, and trust to the chance of a favorable opportunity for establishing some communication with his mother, if it were indeed she.

Now it happened that at Balna’s marriage her husband had given her a small gold ring, on which her name was engraved, and she put it on her little son’s finger when he was a baby, and afterward, when he was older, his aunts had had it enlarged for him, so that he was still able to wear it. The Malee’s wife advised him to fasten the well-known treasure to one of the bouquets he presented to his mother, and trust to her recognizing it. This was not to be done without difficulty, as such a strict watch was kept over the poor Princess (for fear of her ever establishing communication with her friends) that though the supposed Malee’s daughter was permitted to take her flowers every day, the Magician or one of his slaves was always in the room at the time. At last one day, however, opportunity favored him, and when no one was looking the boy tied the ring to a nosegay and threw it at Balna’s feet. The ring fell with a clang on the floor, and Balna, looking to see what made the strange sound, found the little ring tied to the flowers. On recognizing it, she at once believed the story her son told her of his long search, and begged him to advise her as to what she had better do; at the same time entreating him on no account to endanger his life by trying to rescue her. She told him that for twelve long years the Magician had kept her shut up in the tower because she refused to marry him, and she was so closely guarded that she saw no hope of release.

Now Balna’s son was a bright, clever boy; so he said, “Do not fear, dear mother; the first thing to do is to discover how far the Magician’s power extends, in order that we may be able to liberate my father and uncles, whom he has imprisoned in the form of rocks and trees. You have spoken to him angrily for twelve long years; do you now rather speak kindly. Tell him you have given up all hopes of again seeing the husband you have so long mourned, and say you are willing to marry him. Then endeavor to find out what his power consists in, and whether he is immortal or can be put to death.”

Balna determined to take her son’s advice; and the next day sent for Punchkin and spoke to him as had been suggested.

The Magician, greatly delighted, begged her to allow the wedding to take place as soon as possible.

But she told him that before she married him he must allow her a little more time, in which she might make his acquaintance, and, that, after being enemies so long, their friendship could but strengthen by degrees. “And do tell me,” she said, “are you quite immortal? Can death never touch you? And are you too great an enchanter ever to feel human suffering?”

“Why do you ask?” said he.

“Because,” she replied, “if I am to be your wife, I would fain know all about you, in order, if any calamity threatens you, to overcome, or, if possible, to avert it.”

“It is true,” he said, “that I am not as others. Far, far away, hundreds of thousands of miles from this, there lies a desolate country covered with thick jungle. In the midst of the jungle grows a circle of palm trees, and in the centre of the circle stand six chattees full of water, piled one above another; below the sixth chattee is a small cage which contains a little green parrot: on the life of the parrot depends my life, and if the parrot is killed I must die. It is, however,” he added, “impossible that the parrot should sustain any injury, both on account of the inaccessibility of the country, and because, by my appointment, many thousand evil genii surround the palm trees, and kill all who approach the place.”

Balna told her son what Punchkin had said, but, at the same time, implored him to give up all idea of getting the parrot.

The prince, however, replied, “Mother, unless I can get hold of that parrot, you and my father and uncles cannot be liberated: be not afraid, I will shortly return. Do you, meantime, keep the Magician in good humor—still putting off your marriage with him on various pretexts; and before he finds out the cause of delay I will return.” So saying, he went away.

Many, many weary miles did he travel, till at last he came to a thick jungle, and being very tired, sat down under a tree and fell asleep. He was awakened by a soft rustling sound, and looking about him, saw a large serpent which was making its way to an eagle’s nest built in the tree under which he lay, and in the nest were two young eagles. The Prince, seeing the danger of the young birds, drew his sword and killed the serpent; at the same moment a rushing sound was heard in the air, and the two old eagles, who had been out hunting for food for their young ones, returned. They quickly saw the dead serpent and the young Prince standing over it; and the old mother eagle said to him, “Dear boy, for many years all our young have been devoured by that cruel serpent: you have now saved the lives of our children; whenever you are in need, therefore, send to us and we will help you; and as for these little eagles, take them, and let them be your servants.”

At this the Prince was very glad, and the two eaglets crossed their wings, on which he mounted; and they carried him far, far away over the thick jungles, until he came to the place where grew the circle of palm trees, in the midst of which stood the six chattees full of water. It was the middle of the day. All round the trees were the genii fast asleep: nevertheless, there were such countless thousands of them that it would have been quite impossible for any one to walk through their ranks to the place. Down swooped the strong-winged eaglets—down jumped the prince: in an instant he had overthrown the six chattees full of water, and seized the little green parrot, which he rolled up in his cloak; while, as he mounted again into the air, all the genii below awoke, and, finding their treasure gone, set up a wild and melancholy howl.

Away, away flew the little eagles till they came to their home in the great tree; then the Prince said to the old eagles, “Take back your little ones; they have done me good service; if ever again I stand in need of help, I will not fail to come to you.” He then continued his journey on foot till he arrived once more at the Magician’s palace, where he sat down at the door and began playing with the parrot. The Magician saw him, and came to him quickly, and said, “My boy, where did you get that parrot? Give it to me, I pray you.” But the Prince answered, “Oh no, I cannot give away my parrot; it is a great pet of mine; I have had it many years.” Then the Magician said, “If it is an old favorite, I can understand your not caring to give it away; but come, what will you sell it for?” “Sir,” replied the Prince, “I will not sell my parrot.”

Then the Magician got frightened, and said, “Anything, anything; name what price you will, and it shall be yours.” “Then,” the Prince answered, “I will that you liberate the Rajah’s seven sons who you turned into rocks and trees.” “It is done as you desire,” said the Magician, “only give me my parrot.” (And with that, by a stroke of his wand, Balna’s husband and his brothers resumed their natural shapes.) “Now give me my parrot,” repeated Punchkin. “Not so fast, my master,” rejoined the Prince; “I must first beg that you will restore to life all whom you have thus imprisoned.”

The Magician immediately waved his wand again; and whilst he cried in an imploring voice, “Give me my parrot!” the whole garden became suddenly alive: where rock and stones and trees had been before, stood Rajahs and Punts[35] and Sirdars,[36] and mighty men on prancing horses, and jeweled pages and troops of armed attendants.

“Give me my parrot!” cried Punchkin. Then the boy took hold of the parrot, and tore off one of his wings; and as he did so the Magician’s right arm fell off.

Punchkin then stretched out his left arm, crying, “Give me my parrot!” The Prince pulled off the parrot’s second wing, and the Magician’s left arm tumbled off.

“Give me my parrot!” cried he, and fell on his knees. The Prince pulled off the parrot’s right leg—the Magician’s right leg fell off: the Prince pulled off the parrot’s left leg—down fell the Magician’s left.

Nothing remained of him save the limbless body and the head; but still he rolled his eyes, and cried, “Give me my parrot!” “Take your parrot, then,” cried the boy, and with that he wrung the bird’s neck and threw it at the Magician; and as he did so, Punchkin’s head twisted round, and with a fearful groan he died!

Then they let Balna out of the tower; and she, her son and the seven Princes went to their own country, and lived very happily ever afterward. And as to the rest of the world, every one went to his own house.

FOOTNOTES:

[25] King.

[26] The Little One.

[27] See [Notes] at the end.

[28] Or, more correctly, Prudhan, Prime Minister.

[29] Queen.

[30] Citrus decumana—the Shaddock of the West Indies.

[31] Reservoir for water.

[32] Holy beggar.

[33] Gardener’s.

[34] A woman’s dress.

[35] Principal ministers.

[36] Nobles or chiefs.

II.
A FUNNY STORY.

ONCE upon a time there were a Rajah and Ranee who were much grieved because they had no children, and the little dog in the palace had also no little puppies. At last the Rajah and Ranee had some children, and it also happened that the pet dog in the palace had some little puppies; but, unfortunately, the Ranee’s two children were two little puppies! and the dog’s two little puppies were two pretty little girls! This vexed her majesty very much; and sometimes when the dog had gone away to its dinner, the Ranee used to put the two little puppies (her children) into the kennel, and carry away the dog’s two little girls to the palace. Then the poor dog grew very unhappy, and said, “They never will leave my two little children alone. I must take them away into the jungle, or their lives will be worried out.” So one night she took the little girls in her mouth and ran with them to the jungle, and there made them a home in a pretty cave in the rock, beside a clear stream; and every day she would go into the towns and carry away some nice currie and rice to give her little daughters; and if she found any pretty clothes or jewels that she could bring away in her mouth, she used to take them also for the children.

Now it happened some time after this, one day, when the dog had gone to fetch her daughters’ dinner, two young Princes (a Rajah and his brother) came to hunt in the jungle, and they hunted all day and found nothing. It had been very hot, and they were thirsty; so they went to a tree which grew on a little piece of high ground, and sent their attendants to search all round for water; but no one could find any. At last one of the hunting dogs came to the foot of the tree quite muddy, and the Rajah said, “Look, the dog is muddy: he must have found water: follow him, and see where he goes.” The attendants followed the dog, and saw him go to the stream at the mouth of the cave where the two children were; and the two children also saw them, and were very much frightened and ran inside the cave. Then the attendants returned to the two Princes, and said, “We have found clear, sparkling water flowing past a cave, and, what is more, within the cave are two of the most lovely young ladies that eye ever beheld, clothed in fine dresses and covered with jewels; but when they saw us they were frightened and ran away.” On hearing this the Princes bade their servants lead them to the place; and when they saw the two young girls, they were quite charmed with them, and asked them to go to their kingdom and become their wives. The maidens were frightened; but at last the Rajah and his brother persuaded them, and they went, and the Rajah married the eldest sister, and his brother married the youngest.

When the dog returned, she was grieved to find her children gone, and for twelve long years the poor thing ran many, many miles to find them, but in vain. At last one day she came to the place where the two Princesses lived. Now it chanced that the eldest, the wife of the Rajah, was looking out of the window, and seeing the dog run down the street, she said, “That must be my dear long-lost mother.” So she ran into the street as fast as possible, and took the tired dog in her arms, and brought her into her own room, and made her a nice comfortable bed on the floor, and bathed her feet, and was very kind to her. Then the dog said to her, “My daughter, you are good and kind, and it is a great joy to me to see you again; but I must not stay; I will first go and see your younger sister, and then return.” The Ranee answered, “Do not do so, dear mother; rest here to-day; to-morrow I will send and let my sister know, and she, too, will come and see you.” But the poor, silly dog would not stay, but ran to the house of her second daughter. Now the second daughter was looking out of the window when the unfortunate creature came to the door, and seeing the dog she said to herself, “That must be my mother. What will my husband think if he learns that this wretched, ugly, miserable-looking dog is my mother?” So she ordered her servants to go and throw stones at it, and drive it away, and they did so; and one large stone hit the dog’s head, and she ran back, very much hurt, to her eldest daughter’s house. The Ranee saw her coming, and ran out into the street and brought her in in her arms, and did all she could to make her well, saying, “Ah, mother, mother! why did you ever leave my house?” But all her care was in vain: the poor dog died. Then the Ranee thought her husband might be vexed if he found a dead dog (an unclean animal) in the palace; so she put the body in a small room into which the Rajah hardly ever went, intending to have it reverently buried; and over it she placed a basket turned topsy-turvy.

It so happened, however, that when the Rajah came to visit his wife, as chance would have it, he went through this very room: and tripping over the upturned basket, called for a light to see what it was. Then, lo and behold! there lay the statue of a dog, life size, composed entirely of diamonds, emeralds, and other precious stones, set in gold! So he called out to his wife, and said, “Where did you get this beautiful dog?” And when the Ranee saw the golden dog, she was very much frightened, and, I’m sorry to say, instead of telling her husband the truth, she told a story, and said, “Oh, it is only a present my parents sent me.”

Now see what trouble she got into for not telling the truth.

“Only!” said the Rajah; “why this is valuable enough to buy the whole of my kingdom. Your parents must be very rich people to be able to send you such presents as this. How is it you never told me of them? Where do they live?” (Now she had to tell another story to cover the first.) She said, “In the jungle.” He replied, “I will go and see them; you must take me and show where they live.” Then the Ranee thought, “What will the Rajah say when he finds I have been telling him such stories? He will order my head to be cut off.” So she said, “You must first give me a palanquin, and I will go into the jungle and tell them you are coming;” but really she determined to kill herself, and so get out of her difficulties. Away she went; and when she had gone some distance in her palanquin, she saw a large white ants’ nest, over which hung a cobra, with its mouth wide open; then the Ranee thought, “I will go to that cobra and put my finger in his mouth, that he may bite me, and so I shall die.” So she ordered the palkee-bearers to wait, and said she would be back in a while, and got out, and ran to the ants’ nest, and put her finger in the cobra’s mouth. Now a large thorn had run, a short time before, into the cobra’s throat, and hurt him very much; and the Ranee, by putting her finger into his mouth, pushed out this thorn; then the cobra, feeling much better, turned to her, and said, “My dear daughter, you have done me a great kindness; what return can I make you?” The Ranee told him all her story, and begged him to bite her, that she might die. But the cobra said, “You did certainly very wrong to tell the Rajah that story; nevertheless, you have been very kind to me. I will help you in your difficulty. Send your husband here. I will provide you with a father and mother of whom you need not be ashamed.” So the Ranee returned joyfully to the palace, and invited her husband to come and see her parents.

When they reached the spot near where the cobra was, what a wonderful sight awaited them! There, in the place which had before been thick jungle, stood a splendid palace, twenty-four miles long and twenty-four miles broad, with gardens and trees and fountains all round; and the light shining from it was to be seen a hundred miles off. The walls were made of gold and precious stones, and the carpets cloth of gold. Hundreds of servants, in rich dresses, stood waiting in the long, lofty rooms; and in the last room of all, upon golden thrones, sat a magnificent old Rajah and Ranee, who introduced themselves to the young Rajah as his papa and mamma-in-law. The Rajah and Ranee stayed at the palace six months, and were entertained the whole of that time with feasting and music; and they left for their own home loaded with presents. Before they started, however, the Ranee went to her friend, the cobra, and said, “You have conjured up all these beautiful things to get me out of my difficulties, but my husband, the Rajah, has enjoyed his visit so much that he will certainly want to come here again. Then, if he returns and finds nothing at all, he will be very angry with me.” The friendly cobra answered, “Do not fear. When you have gone twenty-four miles on your journey, look back, and see what you will see.” So they started; and on looking back at the end of twenty-four miles, saw the whole of the splendid palace in flames, the fire reaching up to heaven. The Rajah returned to see if he could help anybody to escape, or invite them in their distress to his court; but he found that all was burnt down—not a stone nor a living creature remained!

Then he grieved much over the sad fate of his parents-in-law.

When the party returned home, the Rajah’s brother said to him, “Where did you get these magnificent presents?” He replied, “They are gifts from my father and mother-in-law.” At this news the Rajah’s brother went home to his wife very discontented, and asked her why she had never told him of her parents, and taken him to see them, whereby he might have received rich gifts as well as his brother. His wife then went to her sister, and asked how she had managed to get all the things. But the Ranee said, “Go away, you wicked woman. I will not speak to you. You killed the poor dog, our mother.”

But afterward she told her all about it.

The sister then said, “I shall go and see the cobra, and get presents too.” The Ranee then answered,—“You can go if you like.”

So the sister ordered her palanquin, and told her husband she was going to see her parents, and prepare them for a visit from him. When she reached the ants’ nest, she saw the cobra there, and she went and put her finger in his mouth, and the cobra bit her, and she died.

III.
BRAVE SEVENTEE BAI.

SIU RAJAH,[37] who reigned long years ago in the country of Agrabrum, had an only son, to whom he was passionately attached. The Prince, whose name was Logedas, was young and handsome, and had married the beautiful Princess, Parbuttee Bai.

Now it came to pass that Siu Rajah’s Wuzeer[38] had a daughter called Seventee Bai (the Daisy Lady), who was as fair as the morning, and beloved by all for her gentleness and goodness; and when Logedas Rajah saw her, he fell in love with her, and determined to marry her. But when Siu Rajah heard of this he was very angry, and sent for his son, and said: “Of all that is rich and costly in my kingdom I have withheld nothing from you, and in Parbuttee Bai you have a wife as fair as heart could wish; nevertheless, if you are desirous of having a second wife, I freely give you leave to do so; there are daughters of many neighboring kings who would be proud to become your Queen, but it is beneath your dignity to marry a Wuzeer’s daughter; and, if you do, my love for you shall not prevent my expelling you from the kingdom.” Logedas did not heed his father’s threat, and he married Seventee Bai; which the Rajah learning, ordered him immediately to quit the country; but yet, because he loved him much, he gave Logedas many elephants, camels, horses, palanquins and attendants, that he might not need help on the journey, and that his rank might be apparent to all.

So Logedas Rajah and his two young wives set forth on their travels. Before, however, they had gone very far, the Prince dismissed the whole of his retinue, except the elephant on which he himself rode, and the palanquin, carried by two men, in which his wives traveled. Thus, almost alone, he started through the jungle in search of a new home; but, being wholly ignorant of that part of the country, before they had gone very far they lost their way. The poor Princesses were reduced to a state of great misery; day after day they wandered on, living on roots or wild berries and the leaves of trees pounded down; and by night they were terrified by the cries of wild beasts in search of prey. Logedas Rajah became more melancholy and desponding every day; until, one night, maddened by the thought of his wives’ sad condition, and unable longer to bear the sight of their distress, he got up, and casting aside his royal robes, twisted a coarse handkerchief about his head, after the manner of a fakeer’s (holy beggar’s) turban, and throwing a woolen cloak around him, ran away in disguise into the jungle.

A little while after he had gone, the Wuzeer’s daughter awoke and found Parbuttee Bai crying bitterly. “Sister dear,” said she, “what is the matter?” “Ah, sister,” answered Parbuttee Bai, “I am crying because in my dreams I thought our husband had dressed himself like a fakeer and run away into the jungle; and I awoke, and found it was all true: he has gone, and left us here alone. It would have been better we had died than that such a misfortune should have befallen us.” “Do not cry,” said Seventee Bai: “if we cry we are lost, for the palkee-bearers[39] will think we are only two weak women, and will run away, and leave us in the jungle, out of which we can never get by ourselves. Keep a cheerful mind, and all will be well; who knows but we may yet find our husband? Meanwhile, I will dress myself in his clothes, and take the name of Seventee Rajah, and you shall be my wife; and the palkee-bearers will think it is only I that have been lost; and it will not seem very wonderful to them that in such a place as this a wild beast should have devoured me.”

Then Parbuttee Bai smiled and said, “Sister, you speak well; you have a brave heart. I will be your little wife.”

So Seventee Bai dressed herself in her husband’s clothes, and next day she mounted the elephant as he had done, and ordered the bearers to take up the palkee in which Parbuttee Bai was, and again attempt to find their way out of the jungle. The palkee-bearers wondered much to themselves what had become of Seventee Bai, and they said to one another, “How selfish and how fickle are the rich! See now our young Rajah, who married the Wuzeer’s daughter and brought all this trouble on himself thereby (and in truth ’tis said she was a beautiful lady), he seemed to love her as his own soul; but now that she has been devoured by some cruel animal in this wild jungle, he appears scarcely to mourn her death.”

After journeying for some days under the wise direction of the Wuzeer’s daughter, the party found themselves getting out of the jungle, and at last they came to an open plain, in the middle of which was a large city. When the citizens saw the elephant coming they ran out to see who was on it, and returning, told their Rajah that a very handsome Rajah, richly dressed, was riding toward the city, and that he brought with him his wife—a most lovely Princess. Whereupon the Rajah of that country sent to Seventee Bai, and asked her who she was, and why she had come? Seventee Bai replied, “My name is Seventee Rajah. My father was angry with me, and drove me from his kingdom; and I and my wife have been wandering for many days in the jungle, where we lost our way.”

The Rajah and all his court thought they had never seen so brave and royal-looking a Prince; and the Rajah said that if Seventee Rajah would take service under him, he would give him as much money as he liked. To whom the Wuzeer’s daughter replied: “I am not accustomed to take service under anybody; but you are good to us in receiving us courteously and offering us your protection; therefore, give me whatever post you please, and I will be your faithful servant.” So the Rajah gave Seventee Bai a salary of £24,000 a-year and a beautiful house, and treated her with the greatest confidence, consulting her in all matters of importance, and entrusting her with many state affairs; and from her gentleness and kindness, none felt envious at her good fortune, but she was beloved and honored by all; and thus these two Princesses lived for twelve years in that city. No one suspected that Seventee Bai was not the Rajah she pretended to be, and she most strictly forbade Parbuttee Bai’s making a great friend of anybody, or admitting any one to her confidence; for, she said, “Who knows, then, but some day you may, unawares, reveal that I am only Seventee Bai; and, though I love you as my very sister, if that were told by you, I would kill you with my own hands.”

Now the King’s palace was on the side of the city nearest to the jungle, and one night the Ranee was awakened by loud and piercing shrieks coming from that direction; so she woke her husband, and said, “I am so frightened by that terrible noise that I cannot sleep. Send some one to see what is the matter.” And the Rajah called all his attendants, and said, “Go down toward the jungle and see what that noise is about.” But they were all afraid, for the night was very dark, and the noise very dreadful, and they said to him: “We are afraid to go. We dare not do so by ourselves. Send for this young Rajah who is such a favorite of yours, and tell him to go. He is brave. You pay him more than you do us all. What is the good of your paying him so much, unless he can be of use when he is wanted?” So they all went to Seventee Bai’s house, and when she heard what was the matter, she jumped up, and said she would go down to the jungle and see what the noise was.

This noise had been made by a Rakshas,[40] who was standing under a gallows on which a thief had been hanged the day before. He had been trying to reach the corpse with his cruel claws; but it was just too high for him, and he was howling with rage and disappointment. When, however, the Wuzeer’s daughter reached the place, no Rakshas was to be seen; but in his stead a very old woman, in a wonderful glittering saree, sitting wringing her withered hands under the gallows tree, and above, the corpse, swaying about in the night wind. “Old woman,” said Seventee Bai, “what is the matter?” “Alas!” said the Rakshas (for it was he), “my son hangs above on that gallows. He is dead, he is dead! and I am too bent with age to be able to reach the rope and cut his body down.” “Poor old woman!” said Seventee Bai; “get upon my shoulders, and you will then be tall enough to reach your son.” So the Rakshas mounted on Seventee Bai’s shoulders, who held him steady by his glittering saree. Now, as she stood there, Seventee Bai began to think the old woman was a very long time cutting the rope round the dead man’s neck; and just at that moment the moon shone out from behind a cloud, and Seventee Bai, looking up, saw that instead of a feeble old woman, she was supporting on her shoulders a Rakshas, who was tearing down portions of the flesh and devouring it. Horror-stricken, she sprang back, and with a shrill scream the Rakshas fled away, leaving in her hands the shining saree.

Seventee Bai did not choose to say anything about this adventure to the Ranee, not wishing to alarm her; so she merely returned to the palace, and said that the noise was made by an old woman whom she had found crying under the gallows. She then returned home, and gave the bright saree to Parbuttee Bai.

One fine day, some time after this, two of the Rajah’s little daughters thought they would go and see Parbuttee Bai; and as it happened, Parbuttee Bai had on the Rakshas’ saree, and was standing by the half-closed window shutters looking out, when the Princesses arrived at her house. The little Princesses were quite dazzled by the golden saree, and running home said to their mother, “That young Rajah’s wife has the most beautiful saree we ever saw. It shines like the sun, and dazzles one’s eyes. We have no sarees half so beautiful, and although you are Ranee, you have none so rich as that. Why do you not get one too?”

When the Ranee heard about Parbuttee Bai’s saree she was very eager to have one like it; and she said to the Rajah, “Your servant’s wife is dressed more richly than your Ranee. I hear Parbuttee Bai has a saree more costly than any of mine. Now, therefore, I beg you to get me one like hers; for I cannot rest until I have one equally costly.”

Then the Rajah sent for Seventee Bai, and said, “Tell me where your wife got her beautiful golden saree; for the Ranee desires to have one like it.” Seventee Bai answered, “Noble master, that saree came from a very far country—even the country of the Rakshas. It is impossible to get one like it here; but if you give me leave I will go and search for their country, and, if I succeed in finding it, bring you home sarees of the same kind.” And the Rajah was very much pleased, and ordered Seventee Bai to go. So she returned to her house and bade good-bye to Parbuttee Bai, and warned her to be discreet and cautious; and then, mounting her horse, rode away in search of the Rakshas’ country.

Seventee Bai traveled for many days through the jungle, going one hundred miles every day, and staying to rest every now and then at little villages on her road. At last one day, after having gone several hundred miles, she came to a fine city situated on the banks of a beautiful river, and on the city walls a proclamation was painted in large letters. Seventee Bai inquired of the people what it meant, who told her that it was to say the Rajah’s daughter would marry any man who could tame a certain pony belonging to her father, which was very vicious.

“Has no one been able to manage it?” asked Seventee Bai. “No one,” they said. “Many have tried, but failed miserably. The pony was born on the same day as the Princess. It is so fierce that no one can approach it; but when the Princess heard how wild it was, she vowed she would marry no one who could not tame it. Every one who likes is free to try.” Then Seventee Bai said, “Show me the pony to-morrow. I think I shall be able to tame it.” They answered, “You can try if you like, but it is very dangerous, and you are but a youth.” She replied, “God gives his strength to the weak. I do not fear.” So she went to sleep, and early next morning they beat a drum all round the town to let every one know that another man was going to try and tame the Rajah’s pony, and all the people flocked out of their houses to see the sight. The pony was in a field near the river, and Seventee Bai ran up to it, as it came running toward her intending to trample her to death, and seized it firmly by the mane, so that it could neither strike her with its fore legs nor kick her. The pony tried to shake her off, but Seventee Bai clung firmly on, and finally jumped on its back; and when the pony found that it was mastered, it became quite gentle and tame. Then Seventee Bai, to show how completely she had conquered, put spurs to the pony to make it jump the river, and the pony immediately sprang up in the air and right across the river (which was a jump of three miles), and this it did three times (for it was strong and agile, and had never been ridden before); and when all the people saw this they shouted for joy, and ran down to the river bank and brought Seventee Bai, riding in triumph on the pony, to see the Rajah. And the Rajah said, “Oh, best of men, and worthy of all honor, you have won my daughter.” So he took Seventee Bai to the palace and paid her great honor, and gave her jewels and rich clothes, and horses and camels innumerable. The Princess also came to greet the winner of her hand. Then they said, “To-morrow shall be the wedding day.” But Seventee Bai replied, “Great Rajah and beautiful Princess, I am going on an important errand of my own Rajah’s; let me, I pray you, first accomplish the duty on which I am bound, and on my way home I will come through this city and claim my bride.” At this they were both pleased, and the Rajah said, “It is well spoken. Do not let us hinder your keeping faith with your own Rajah. Go your way. We shall eagerly await your return, when you shall claim the Princess and all your possessions, and we will have such a gay wedding as was not since the world began.” And they went out with her to the borders of their land, and showed her on her way.

So the Wuzeer’s daughter traveled on in search of the Rakshas’ country, until at last one day she came in sight of another fine large town. Here she rested in the house for travelers for some days. Now the Rajah of this country had a very beautiful daughter, who was his only child, and for her he had built a splendid bath. It was like a little sea, and had high marble walls all around, with a hedge of spikes at the top of the walls, so high that at a distance it looked like a great castle. The young Princess was very fond of it, and she vowed she would only marry a man who could jump across her bath on horseback. This had happened some years before, but no one had been able to do it, which grieved the Rajah and Ranee very much; for they wished to see their daughter happily married. And they said to her, “We shall both be dead before you get a husband. What folly is this, to expect that any one should be able to jump over those high marble walls, with the spikes at the top!” The Princess only answered, “Then I will never marry. It matters not; I will never have a husband who has not jumped those walls.”

So the Rajah caused it to be proclaimed throughout the land that he would give his daughter in marriage, and great riches, to whoever could jump, on horseback, over the Princess’ bath.

All this Seventee Bai learnt as soon as she arrived in the town, and she said, “To-morrow I will try and jump over the Princess’ bath.” The country people said to her, “You speak foolishly: it is quite impossible.” She replied, “Heaven, in which I trust, will help me.” So next day she rose up, and saddled her horse, and led him in front of the palace, and there she sprang on his back, and going at full gallop, leapt over the marble walls, over the spikes high up in the air, and down on to the ground on the other side of the bath; and this she did three times, which, when the the Rajah saw, he was filled with joy, and sent for Seventee Bai, and said, “Tell me your name, brave Prince; for you are the only man in the world—you have won my daughter.” Then the Wuzeer’s daughter replied, “My name is Seventee Rajah. I come from a far country on a mission from my Rajah to the country of the Rakshas; let me therefore, I pray you, first do my appointed work, and if I live to return, I will come through this country and claim my bride.” To which the Rajah consented, for he did not wish the Princess, his daughter, to undertake so long and tiresome a journey. It was therefore agreed that the Princess should await Seventee Bai’s return at her father’s court, and that Seventee Bai herself should immediately proceed on her journey.

From this place she went on for many, many days without adventure, and traversed a dense jungle, for her brave heart carried her through all difficulties. At last she arrived at another large city, beautifully situated by a lake, with blue hills rising behind it, and sheltering it from the cutting winds; little gardens filled with pomegranates, jasmine and other fragrant and lovely flowers reached down from the city to the water’s edge.

Seventee Bai, tired with her long journey, rode up to one of the Malees’ houses, where the hospitable inmates, seeing she was a stranger and weary, offered her food and shelter for the night, which she thankfully accepted.

As they all sat round the fire cooking their evening meal, Seventee Bai asked the Malee’s wife about the place and the people, and what was going on in the town. “Much excitement,” she replied, “has of late been caused by our Rajah’s dream, which no one can interpret.” “What did he dream?” asked Seventee Bai. “Ever since he was ten years old,” she replied, “he has dreamed of a fair tree growing in a large garden. The stem of the tree is made of silver, the leaves are pure gold, and the fruit is bunches of pearls. The Rajah has inquired of all his wise men and seers where such a tree is to be found; but they all replied, ‘There is no such tree in the world;’ wherefore he is dissatisfied and melancholy. Moreover, the Princess, his daughter, hearing of her father’s dream, has determined to marry no man save the finder of this marvelous tree.” “It is very odd,” said Seventee Bai; and, their supper being over, she dragged her mattress outside the little house (as a man would have done), and, placing it in a sheltered nook near the lake, knelt down, as her custom was, to say her prayers before going to sleep.

As she knelt there, with her eyes fixed on the dark water, she saw, on a sudden, a glorious shining light coming slowly toward her, and discovered, in a minute or two more, that a very large cobra was crawling up the steps from the water’s edge, having in his mouth an enormous diamond, the size and shape of an egg, that sparkled and shone like a little sun, or as if one of the stars had suddenly dropped out of heaven. The cobra laid the diamond down at the top of the steps, and crawled away in search of food. Presently returning when the night was far spent, he picked up the diamond again, and slid down the steps with it into the lake. Seventee Bai knew not what to make of this, but she resolved to return to the same place next night and watch for the cobra.

Again she saw him bring the diamond in his mouth, and take it away with him after his evening meal; and again, a third night, the same thing. Then Seventee Bai determined to kill the cobra, and if possible secure the diamond. So early next morning she went into the bazaar, and ordered a blacksmith to make her a very strong iron trap, which should catch hold of anything it was let down upon so firmly as to require the strength of twelve men to get out of it. The blacksmith did as he was ordered, and made a very strong trap; the lower part of it was like knives, and when it caught hold of anything it required the strength of twelve men to break through it and escape.

Seventee Bai had this trap hung up by a rope to a tree close to the lake, and all around she scattered flowers and sweet scents, such as cobras love; and at nightfall she herself got into the tree just above the trap, and waited for the cobra to come as he was wont.

About twelve o’clock the cobra came up the steps from the lake in search of food. He had the diamond in his mouth, and, attracted by the sweet scents and flowers, instead of going into the jungle, he proceeded toward the tree in which Seventee Bai was.

When Seventee Bai saw him, she untied the rope and let down the trap upon him; but for fear he might not be quite dead, she waited till morning before going to get the diamond.

As soon as the sun was up, she went to look at her prey. There he lay cold and dead, with the diamond, which shone like a mountain of light, in his mouth. Seventee Bai took it, and, tired by her night of watching, thought she would bathe in the lake before returning to the Malee’s cottage. So she ran and knelt down by the brink, to dip her hands and face in the cool water; but no sooner did she touch its surface with the diamond, than it rolled back in a wall on either hand, and she saw a pathway leading down below the lake, on each side of which were beautiful houses and gardens full of flowers, red, and white, and blue. Seventee Bai resolved to see whither this might lead, so she walked down the path until she came opposite a large door. She opened it, and found herself in a more lovely garden than she had ever seen on earth; tall trees laden with rich fruit grew in it, and on the boughs were bright birds singing melodiously, while the ground was covered with flowers, among which flew many gaudy butterflies.

In the centre of the garden grew one tree more beautiful than all the rest: the stem was of silver, the leaves were golden, and the fruit was clusters of pearls. Swinging amid the branches sat a young girl, more fair than any earthly lady; she had a face like the angels which men only see in dreams; her eyes were like two stars, her golden hair fell in ripples to her feet; she was singing to herself. When she saw the stranger, she gave a little cry, and said, “Ah, my lord, why do you come here?” Seventee Bai answered, “May I not come to see you, beautiful lady?” Then the lady said, “Oh, sir, you are welcome; but if my father sees you here, he will kill you. I am the great Cobra’s daughter, and he made this garden for me to play in, and here I have played these many, many years all alone, for he lets me see no one, not even of our own subjects. I never saw any one before you. Speak, beautiful Prince—tell me how you came here, and who you are?” Seventee Bai answered, “I am Seventee Rajah: have no fear—the stern Cobra is no more.” Then the lady was joyful, when she heard that the Cobra who had tyrannized over her was dead, and she said her name was Hera Bai (the Diamond Lady), and that she was possessor of all the treasures under the lake; and she said to Seventee Bai, “Stay with me here; you shall be king of all this country, and I will be your wife.” “That cannot be,” answered Seventee Bai, “for I have been sent on a mission by my Rajah, and I must continue my journey until I have accomplished it; but if you love me as I love you, come rather with me to my own land, and you shall be my wife.” Hera Bai shook her head. “Not so, dearest,” she said, “for if I go with you, all the people will see how fair I am, and they will kill you, and sell me for a slave; and so I shall bring evil upon you, and not good. But take this flute, dear husband (and saying this, she gave Seventee Bai a little golden flute); whenever you wish to see me, or are in need of my aid, go into the jungle and play upon it, and before the sound ceases I will be there; but do not play it in the towns, nor yet amid a crowd.” Then Seventee Bai put the flute in the folds of her dress, and she bade farewell to Hera Bai and went away.

When she came back to the Malee’s cottage, the Malee’s wife said to her, “We became alarmed about you, sir; for two days we have seen nothing of you; and we thought you must have gone away. Where have you been so long?” Seventee Bai answered, “I had business of my own in the bazaar” (for she did not choose to tell the Malee’s wife that she had been under the lake); “now go and inquire what time your Rajah’s Wuzeer can give a stranger audience, for I must see him before I leave this city.” So the Malee’s wife went; whilst she was gone, Seventee Bai went down again to the edge of the lake, and there reverently burnt the cobra’s body, both for the sake of Hera Bai, and because the cobra is a sacred animal. Next day (the Malee’s wife having brought a favorable answer from the palace) Seventee Bai went to see the Wuzeer. Now the Wuzeer wondered much why she came to see him, and he said, “Who are you, and what is your errand?” Whereupon she answered, “I am Seventee Rajah. I am going a long journey on my own Rajah’s account, and happening to be passing through this city, I came to pay you a friendly visit.” Then the Wuzeer became quite cordial, and talked with Seventee Bai about the country and the city, and the Rajah and his wonderful dream. And Seventee Bai said, “What do you suppose your Rajah would give to any one who could show him the tree of which he has so often dreamed?” The Wuzeer replied, “He would certainly give him his daughter in marriage and the half of his kingdom.” “Very well,” said Seventee Bai, “tell your master that, upon these conditions, if he likes to send for me, I will show him the tree; he may look at it for one night, but he cannot have it for his own.”

The Wuzeer took the message to the Rajah, and next day the Wuzeer, the Sirdars, and all the great men of the court, went in state by the Rajah’s order to the Malee’s hut, to say that he was willing to grant all Seventee Rajah’s demands, and would like to see the tree that very night. Seventee Bai thereupon promised the Wuzeer that if the Rajah would come with his court, he should see the reality of his dream. Then she went into the jungle and played on her little flute, and Hera Bai immediately appeared as she had seen her before, swinging in the silver tree; and when she heard what Seventee Bai wanted, she bade her bring the Rajah, who should see it without fail.

When the Rajah came, he and all his court were overcome with astonishment; for there, in the midst of the desolate jungle, was a beautiful palace; fountains played in every court, the rooms were richly decorated with thousands and thousands of shining jewels; a light as clear as day filled all the place, soft music was played around by unseen hands, sweet odors filled the air, and in the midst of the palace garden there grew a silver tree, with golden leaves and fruit of pearls.

The next morning all had disappeared; but the Rajah, enchanted with what he had seen, remained true to his promise, and agreed to give Seventee Bai the half of his kingdom and his daughter in marriage; for, said he to himself, “A man who can convert the jungle into a paradise in one night must surely be rich enough and clever enough to be my son-in-law.” But Seventee Bai said, “I am now employed on an errand of my Rajah’s; let me, I beg, first accomplish it, and on my homeward journey I will remain a while in this town, and will marry the Princess.” So they gave him leave to go, and the Rajah and all the great men of his kingdom accompanied Seventee Bai to the borders of their land. Thence the Wuzeer’s daughter went on journeying many days until she had left that country far behind; but as yet she had gained no clue as to the way to the Rakshas’ land. In this difficulty she bethought her of Hera Bai, and played upon the little golden flute. Hera Bai immediately appeared, saying, “Husband, what can I do for you?” Seventee Bai answered, “Kind Hera, I have now been wandering in this jungle for many days, endeavoring in vain to discover the Rakshas’ country, whither my Rajah has ordered me to go. Can you help me to get there?” She answered, “You cannot go there by yourself. For a six months’ journey round their land there is placed a Rakshas’ guard, and not a sparrow could find his way into the country without their knowledge and permission. No men are admitted there, and there are more Rakshas employed in keeping guard than there are trees on the face of the earth. They are invisible, but they would see you, and instantly tear you to pieces. Be, however, guided by me, and I will contrive a way by which you may gain what you seek. Take this ring (and so saying, she placed a glorious ring on Seventee Bai’s finger); it was given me by my dearest friend, the Rajah of the Rakshas’ daughter, and will render you invisible. Look at that mountain, whose blue head you can just see against the sky; you must climb to the top of that, for it stands on the borders of the Rakshas’ territory. When there, turn the stone on the ring I have given you toward the palm of your hand, and you will instantly fall through the earth into the space below the mountain where the Rakshas’ Rajah holds his court, and find yourself in his daughter’s presence. Tell her you are my husband; she will love and help you for my sake.” Hera Bai so saying disappeared, and Seventee Bai continued her journey until she reached the mountain top, where she turned the ring round as she had been bidden, and immediately found herself falling through the earth, down, down, down, deeper and deeper, until at last she arrived in a beautiful room, richly furnished, and hung round with cloth of gold. In every direction, as far as the eye could reach, were thousands and thousands of Rakshas, and in the centre of the room was a gold and ivory throne, on which sat the most beautiful Princess that it is possible to imagine. She was tall and of a commanding aspect; her black hair was bound by long strings of pearl; her dress was of fine spun gold, and round her waist was clasped a zone of restless, throbbing, light-giving diamonds; her neck and her arms were covered with a profusion of costly jewels; but brighter than all shone her bright eyes, which looked full of gentle majesty. She could see Seventee Bai, although her attendants could not, because of the magic ring; and as soon as she saw her she started and cried, “Who are you? How came you here?” Seventee Bai answered, “I am Seventee Rajah, the husband of the Lady Hera, and I have come here by the power of the magic ring you gave her.” The Rakshas’ Princess then said, “You are welcome: but you must know that your coming is attended with much danger; for, did the guard placed around me by my father know of your presence, they would instantly put you to death, and I should be powerless to save you. Tell me why did you come?” Seventee Bai answered, “I came to see you, beautiful lady; tell me your name, and how it is you are here all alone.” She replied, “I am the Rakshas’ Rajah’s only daughter, and my name is Tara Bai (the Star Lady), and because my father loves me very much he has built this palace for me, and placed this great guard of Rakshas all round for many thousand miles, to prevent any one coming in or out without his permission.

“So great is the state they keep that I seldom see my father and mother; indeed, I have not seen them for several years. Nevertheless, I will go now in person to implore their protection for you; for though I never saw king nor prince before, I love you very much.”

So saying, she arose to go to her father’s court, bidding Seventee Bai await her return.

When the Rajah and Ranee of the Rakshas heard that their daughter was coming to see them, they were very much surprised, and said, “What can be the matter with our daughter? Can she be ill? or can our Tara Bai be unhappy in the beautiful house we have given her?” And they said to her, “Daughter, why do you come? what is the matter?” She answered, “Oh, my father! I come to tell you I should like to be married. Cannot you find some beautiful Prince to be my husband?” Then the Rajah laughed, and said, “You are but a child still, my daughter; nevertheless, if you wish for a husband, certainly, if any Prince comes here, and asks you in marriage, we will let you wed him.” She said, “If some brave and beautiful Prince were to come here, and get through the great guard you have placed around the palace, would you indeed protect him for my sake, and not allow them to tear him in pieces?” The Rajah answered, “If such a one come, he shall be safe.” Then Tara Bai was very joyful, and ran and fetched Seventee Bai, and said to her father and mother, “See here is Seventee Rajah, the young Prince of whom I spoke.” And when the Rajah and Ranee saw Seventee Bai they were greatly astonished, and could not think how she had managed to reach their land, and they thought she must be very brave and wise to have done so. And because also Seventee Bai looked a very noble Prince, they were the more willing that she should marry Tara Bai, and said, “Seventee Rajah, we are willing you should be our son-in-law, for you look good and true, and you must be brave, to have come so long and dangerous a journey for your wife; now, therefore, you shall be married; the whole land is open to you, and all that we have is yours; only take good care of our dear daughter, and if ever she or you are unhappy, return here and you shall find a home with us.” So the wedding took place amidst great rejoicings. The wedding festivities lasted twelve days, and to it came hundreds and hundreds of thousands of Rakshas from every country under heaven; from the north and the south and the east and the west, from the depths of the earth and the uttermost parts of the sea. Troop after troop they came flocking in, an ever-increasing crowd, from all parts of this wide world, to be present at the marriage of their master’s daughter.

It would be impossible to count all the rich and costly presents that the Rakshas’ Rajah and Ranee gave Tara Bai. There were jewels enough to fill the seas; diamonds and emeralds, rubies, sapphires and pearls; gold and silver, costly hangings, carved ebony and ivory, more than a man could count in a hundred years; for the Rajah gave his daughter a guard of 100,000,000,000,000 Rakshas, and each Rakshas carried a bundle of riches, and each bundle was as big as a house! and so they took leave of the Rakshas’ Rajah and Ranee, and left the Rakshas’ country.

When they got to the country of the Rajah who had dreamed about the silver tree, with leaves of gold and fruit of pearl (because the number of their retinue was so great that if they had come into a country they would have devoured all that was in it like a swarm of locusts), Seventee Bai and Tara Bai determined that Tara Bai should stay with the guard of Rakshas in the jungle, on the borders of the Rajah’s dominions, and that Seventee Bai should go to the city, as she had promised, to marry the Rajah’s daughter. And there they stayed a week, and the Rajah’s daughter was married with great pomp and ceremony to Seventee Bai; and when they left the city the Rajah gave Seventee Bai and the bride, his daughter, horses and camels and elephants, and rich robes and jewels innumerable; and he and all his court accompanied them to the borders of the land.

Thence they went to the country where lived the Princess whose great marble bath Seventee Bai had jumped over; and there Seventee Bai was married to her, amid great rejoicings, and the wedding was one of surpassing splendor, and the wedding festivities lasted for three whole days.

And leaving that city, they traveled on until they reached the city where Seventee Bai had tamed the Rajah’s wild pony, and there they spent two days in great honor and splendor, and Seventee Bai married that Princess also; so with her five wives—that is to say, Hera Bai the Rajah of the Cobras’ daughter, Tara Bai the Rajah of the Rakshas’ daughter, and the three other Princesses—and a great tribe of attendants and elephants and camels and horses, she returned to the city where she had left Parbuttee Bai.

Now when news was brought to Seventee Bai’s master (the friendly Rajah), of the great cavalcade that was approaching his city, he became very much alarmed, taking Seventee Bai for some strange Rajah who had come to make war upon him. When Seventee Bai heard how alarmed he was, she sent a messenger to him, on a swift horse, to say, “Be not alarmed; it is only thy servant, Seventee Rajah, returning from the errand on which thou didst send him.” Then the Rajah’s heart was light, and he ordered a royal salute to be fired, and went out with all his court to meet Seventee Bai, and they all went together in a state procession into the city. And Seventee Bai said to the Rajah, “You sent your servant to the Rakshas’ country to fetch a golden saree for the Ranee. Behold, I have done as you wish.” And so saying, she gave to the Rajah five Rakshas’ bundles of rich hangings and garments covered with jewels (that is to say, five housefuls of costly things; for each Rakshas carried as much in the bundle on his shoulders as a house would hold); and to the Wuzeer she gave two bundles.

After this, Seventee Bai discharged almost all her immense train of attendants (for fear they should create a famine in the land), sending them to their own houses with many valuable presents; and she took the three Princesses, her wives, to live with her and Parbuttee Bai; but Hera Bai and Tara Bai, on account of their high rank and their surpassing beauty, had a splendid palace of their own in the jungle, of which no one knew but Seventee Bai.

Now when she again saw Seventee Bai, the Rajah’s little daughter said to her father, “Father, I do not think there is such a brave and beautiful Prince in all the world as this Seventee Rajah. I would rather have him for my husband than any one else.” And the Rajah said, “Daughter, I am very willing you should marry him.” So it was settled Seventee Bai should marry the little Princess; but she said to the Rajah, “I am willing to marry your daughter, but we must have a very grand wedding; give me time, therefore, to send into all the countries round, and invite all their Rajahs to be present at the ceremony.” And to this the Rajah agreed.

Now, about this time, Seventee Bai one day found Parbuttee Bai crying, and said to her, “Little sister, why are you unhappy?” And Parbuttee Bai answered, “Oh sister, you have brought us out of all our difficulties, and won us honor and great riches, but yet I do not feel merry; for I cannot help thinking of our poor husband, who is now, maybe, wandering about a wretched beggar, and I long with my whole heart to see him again.” Then Seventee Bai said, “Well, cheer up, do not cry; mind those women do not find out I am not Seventee Rajah. Keep a good heart, and I will try and find your husband for you.” So Seventee Bai went into the jungle palace to see Hera Bai, and said to her, “I have a friend whom I have not seen since he became mad twelve years ago, and ran away into the jungle disguised as a Fakeer. I should like very much to find out if he is still alive. How can I learn?” Now Hera Bai was a very wise Princess, and she answered, “Your best plan will be to provide a great feast for the poor, and cause it to be proclaimed in all lands, far and near, that you are about to give it as a thank-offering for all the blessings God has bestowed on you. The poor will flock from all countries to come to it, and perhaps among the rest you may find your friend.”

Seventee Bai did as Hera Bai had advised, causing two long tables to be spread in the jungle, whereat hundreds of poor from all parts of the world were daily entertained; and every day, for six months, Seventee Bai and Parbuttee Bai walked down the long rows of people, apparently to see how they were all getting on, but in reality to look for Logedas Rajah; but they found him not.

At last one day, as Seventee Bai was going her accustomed round, she saw a wretched wild-looking man, black as pitch, with tangled hair, a thin wrinkled face, and in his hand a wooden bowl, such as Fakeers carry about to collect broken meat and scraps of bread in, and touching Parbuttee Bai, she said to her, “See, Parbuttee, there is your husband.” When Parbuttee Bai saw this pitiful sight (for it was, indeed, Logedas, but so changed and altered that even his wives hardly recognized him), she began to cry. Then Seventee Bai said, “Do not cry; go home quickly. I will take care of him.” And when Parbuttee Bai was gone, she called one of the guard and said to him, “Catch hold of that man and put him in prison.” Then Logedas Rajah said, “Why do you seize me? I have done no harm to any one.” But Seventee Bai ordered the guard not to heed his remonstrances, but to take him to prison instantly, for she did not wish the people around to discover how interested she was in him. So the guard took Logedas Rajah away to lock him up. Poor Logedas Rajah said to them, “Why has this wicked Rajah had me taken prisoner? I have harmed no one. I have not fought, nor robbed; but for twelve years I have been a wretched beggar, living on the bread of charity.” For he did not tell them he was a Rajah’s son, for he knew they would only laugh at him. They replied. “You must not call our Rajah wicked; it is you that are wicked, and not he, and doubtless he will have your head cut off.”

When they put him in prison he begged them again to say what was to be done to him. “Oh!” said they, “you will certainly be hanged to-morrow morning, or perhaps, if you like it better, beheaded, in front of the palace.”

Now as soon as Seventee Bai got home, she sent for her head servants, and said to them, “Go at once to the prison, and order the guard to give you up the Fakeer I gave into their charge, and bring him here in a palanquin, but see that he does not escape.” Then Seventee Bai ordered them to lock up Logedas in a distant part of the palace, and commanded that he should be washed, and dressed in new clothes, and given food, and that a barber should be sent for, to cut his hair and trim his beard. Then Logedas said to his keepers, “See how good the Rajah is to me! He will not surely hang me after this.” “Oh, never fear,” they answered; “when you are dressed up and made very smart, it will be a much finer sight to see you hanged than before.” Thus they tried to frighten the poor man. After this Seventee Bai sent for all the greatest doctors in the kingdom, and said to them, “If a Rajah wanders about for twelve years in the jungle, until all trace of his princely beauty is lost, how long will it take you to restore him to his original likeness?” They answered, “With care and attention it may be done in six months.” “Very well,” said Seventee Bai, “there is a friend of mine now in my palace of whom this is the case. Take him and treat him well, and at the end of six months I shall expect to see him restored to his original health and strength.”

So Logedas was placed under the doctors’ care; but all this time he had no idea who Seventee Bai was, nor why he was thus treated. Every day Seventee Bai came to see him and talk to him. Then he said to his keepers, “See, good people, how kind this great Rajah is, coming to see me every day; he can intend for me nothing but good.” To which they would answer, “Don’t you be in a hurry; none can fathom the hearts of kings. Most probably, for all this delay, he will in the end have you taken and hanged.” Thus they amused themselves by alarming him.

Then, some day, when Seventee Bai had been more than usually kind, Logedas Rajah would say again, “I do not fear the Rajah’s intentions toward me. Did you not notice how very kind he was to-day!” And to this his keepers would reply—

“Doubtless it is amusing for him, but hardly, we should think, for you. He will play with you probably for some time (as a cat does with a mouse); but in three months is the Rajah’s birthday; most likely he is keeping you to kill you then.” And so the time wore on.

Seventee Bai’s birthday was fixed for the day also of her wedding with the Rajah’s daughter. For this great event immense preparations were made all over the plain outside the city walls. Tents made of cloth of gold were pitched in a great square, twelve miles long and twelve miles broad, for the accommodation of the neighboring Rajahs, and in the centre was a larger tent than all the rest, covered with jewels and shining like a great golden temple, in which they were to assemble.

Then Seventee Bai said to Parbuttee Bai, “On my birthday I will restore you to your husband.” But Parbuttee Bai was vexed and said, “I cannot bear the thought of him; it is such a terrible thing to think of our once handsome husband as none other than that miserable Fakeer.”

Seventee Bai smiled. “In truth,” she said, “I think you will find him again altered, and for the better. You cannot think what a change rest and care have made in him; but he does not know who we are, and as you value my happiness, tell no one now that I am not the Rajah.” “Indeed I will not, dearest sister,” answered Parbuttee Bai. “I should in truth be loath to vex you, after all you have done for me; for owing to you here have we lived happily for twelve years like sisters, and I do not think as clever a woman as you was ever before born in this world.”

Among other guests invited to the wedding were Siu Rajah and his wife, and the Wuzeer, Seventee Bai’s father, and her mother. Seventee Bai arranged thrones for them all, made of gold and emeralds, and diamonds, and rubies, and ivory. And she ordered that in the seat of honor on her left-hand side should be placed the Wuzeer, her father, and next to him her mother, and next to them Siu Rajah and his wife, and after them all the other Rajahs and Ranees, according to their rank; and all the Rajahs and Ranees wondered much that the place of honor should have been given to the stranger Wuzeer. Then Seventee Bai took her most costly Rajah dress, and ordered that Logedas Rajah should be clothed in it, and escorted to the tent; and she took off the man’s clothes which she had worn, and dressed herself in a saree. When she was dressed in it she looked a more lovely woman than she had before looked a handsome man. And she went to the tent leading Parbuttee Bai, while with her came Hera Bai and Tara Bai of more than mortal beauty, and the three other Princesses clothed in the most costly robes. Then before all the Rajahs and Ranees, Seventee Bai knelt down at Logedas Rajah’s feet, and said to him, “I am your true wife. O husband, have you forgotten her whom you left in the jungle with Parbuttee Bai twelve years ago? See here she also is; and behold these rich jewels, these tents of gold, these hangings of priceless worth, these elephants, camels, horses, attendants and all this wealth. It is all yours, as I am yours; for I have collected all for you.”

Then Logedas Rajah wept for joy, and Siu Rajah arose and kissed Seventee Bai, and said to her, “My noble daughter, you have rescued my son from misery, and done more wisely and well than woman ever did before. May all honor and blessing attend you henceforth and for ever.”

And the assembled Rajahs and Ranees were surprised beyond measure, saying, “Did any one ever hear of a woman doing so much?” But more than any was the good Rajah astonished, whom Seventee Bai had served so well for twelve years, and whose daughter she was to have married that day, when he learnt that she was a woman! It was then agreed by all that Logedas Rajah should on that day be newly married to his two wives, Parbuttee Bai and Seventee Bai; and should also marry the six other beautiful Princesses—the Princess Hera Bai, the Princess Tara Bai, the Rajah’s little daughter, and the three other Princesses; and that he should return with his father to his own kingdom. And the weddings took place amid great splendor and rejoicings unheard of; and of all the fine things that were seen and done on that day it is impossible to tell. And afterward Logedas Rajah and his eight wives, and his father and mother, and the Wuzeer and his wife, and all their attendants, returned to their own land, where they all lived very happily ever after. And so may all who read this story live happily too.

FOOTNOTES:

[37] Or Singh Rajah, the Lion King.

[38] Or Vizier.

[39] I.e., palanquin-bearers.

[40] Gigantic demoniacal ogres, who can at will assume any shape. Their chief terrestrial delight is said to be digging dead bodies out of their graves and devouring them.

IV.
TRUTH’S TRIUMPH.

SEVERAL hundred years ago there was a certain Rajah who had twelve wives, but no children, and though he caused many prayers to be said, and presents made in temples far and near, never a son nor a daughter had he. Now this Rajah had a Wuzeer who was a very, very wise old man, and it came to pass that one day, when he was traveling in a distant part of his kingdom, accompanied by this Wuzeer and the rest of his court, he came upon a large garden, in walking round which he was particularly struck by a little tree which grew there. It was a bringal[41] tree, not above two feet in height. It had no leaves, but on it grew a hundred and one bringals. The Rajah stopped to count them, and then turning to the Wuzeer in great astonishment, said, “It is to me a most unaccountable thing, that this little tree should have no leaves, but a hundred and one bringals growing on it. You are a wise man—can you guess what this means?” The Wuzeer replied, “I can interpret this marvel to you, but if I do, you will most likely not believe me; promise therefore that if I tell you, you will not cause me to be killed as having told (as you imagine) a lie.” The Rajah promised, and the Wuzeer continued: “The meaning of this little bringal tree, with the hundred and one bringals growing on it, is this. Whoever marries the daughter of the Malee in charge of this garden will have a hundred and one children—a hundred sons and one daughter.” The Rajah said, “Where is the maiden to be seen?” The Wuzeer answered, “When a number of great people like you and all your court come into a little village like this, the poor people, and especially the children, are frightened and run away and hide themselves; therefore, as long as you stay here as Rajah you cannot hope to see her. Your only means will be to send away your suite, and cause it be announced that you have left the place. Then, if you walk daily in this garden, you may some morning meet the pretty Guzra Bai,[42] of whom I speak.”

Upon this advice the Rajah acted; and one day whilst walking in the garden he saw the Malee’s young daughter, a girl of twelve years old, busy gathering flowers. He went forward to accost her, but she, seeing that he was not one of the villagers, but a stranger, was shy, and ran home to her father’s house.

The Rajah followed, for he was very much struck with her grace and beauty; in fact, he fell in love with her as soon as he saw her, and thought he had never seen a king’s daughter half so charming.

When he got to the Malee’s house the door was shut; so he called out, “Let me in, good Malee; I am the Rajah, and I wish to marry your daughter.” The Malee only laughed, and answered, “A pretty tale to tell a simple man, indeed! You a Rajah! why the Rajah is miles away. You had better go home, my good fellow, for there’s no welcome for you here!” But the Rajah continued calling till the Malee opened the door; who then was indeed surprised, seeing it was truly no other than the Rajah, and he asked what he could do for him.

The Rajah said, “I wish to marry your beautiful daughter, Guzra Bai.” “No, no,” said the Malee, “this joke won’t do. None of your Princes in disguise for me. You may think you are a great Rajah and I only a poor Malee, but I tell you that makes no difference at all to me. Though you were king of all the earth, I would not permit you to come here and amuse yourself chattering to my girl, only to fill her head with nonsense, and to break her heart.”

“In truth, good man, you do me wrong,” answered the Rajah, humbly: “I mean what I say; I wish to marry your daughter.”

“Do not think,” retorted the Malee, “that I’ll make a fool of myself because I’m only a Malee, and believe what you’ve got to say, because you’re a great Rajah. Rajah or no Rajah is all one to me. If you mean what you say, if you care for my daughter and wish to be married to her, come and be married; but I’ll have none of your new-fangled forms and court ceremonies hard to be understood; let the girl be married by her father’s hearth and under her father’s roof, and let us invite to the wedding our old friends and acquaintance whom we’ve known all our lives, and before we ever thought of you.”

The Rajah was not angry, but amused, and rather pleased than otherwise at the old man’s frankness, and he consented to all that was desired.

The village beauty, Guzra Bai, was therefore married with as much pomp as they could muster, but in village fashion, to the great Rajah, who took her home with him, followed by the tears and blessings of her parents and playmates.

The twelve kings’ daughters were by no means pleased at this addition to the number of the Ranees; and they agreed amongst themselves that it would be highly derogatory to their dignity to permit Guzra Bai to associate with them, and that the Rajah, their husband, had offered them an unpardonable insult in marrying a Malee’s daughter, which was to be revenged upon her the very first opportunity.

Having made this league, they tormented poor Guzra Bai so much that to save her from their persecutions, the Rajah built her a little house of her own, where she lived very, very happily for a short time.

At last one day he had occasion to go and visit a distant part of his dominions, but fearing his high-born wives might ill-use Guzra Bai in his absence, at parting he gave her a little golden bell,[43] saying, “If while I am away you are in any trouble, or any one should be unkind to you, ring this little bell, and wherever I am I shall instantly hear it, and will return to your aid.”

No sooner had the Rajah gone, than Guzra Bai thought she would try the power of the bell. So she rang it. The Rajah instantly appeared. “What do you want?” he said. “Oh, nothing,” she replied. “I was foolish. I could hardly believe what you told me could be true, and thought I would try.” “Now you will believe, I hope,” he said, and went away. A second time she rang the bell. Again the Rajah returned. “Oh, pardon me, husband,” she said; “it was wrong of me not to trust you, but I hardly thought you could return again from so far.” “Never mind,” he said, “only do not try the experiment again.” And again he went away. A third time she rang the golden bell. “Why do you ring again, Guzra Bai?” asked the Rajah sternly, as for a third time he returned. “I don’t know, indeed; indeed I beg your pardon,” she said; “but I know not why, I felt so frightened.” “Have any of the Ranees been unkind to you?” he asked. “No, none,” she answered; “in fact, I have seen none of them.” “You are a silly child,” said he, stroking her hair. “Affairs of the state call me away. You must try and keep a good heart till my return;” and for the fourth time he disappeared.

A little while after this, wonderful to relate, Guzra Bai had a hundred and one children!—a hundred boys and one girl. When the Ranees heard this, they said to each other, “Guzra Bai, the Malee’s daughter, will rank higher than us; she will have great power and influence as mother to the heir to the Raj;[44] let us kill these children, and tell our husband that she is a sorceress; then will he love her no longer, and his old affection for us will return.” So these twelve wicked Ranees all went over to Guzra Bai’s house. When Guzra Bai saw them coming, she feared they meant to do her some harm, so she seized her little golden bell, and rang, and rang, and rang—but no Rajah came. She had called him back so often that he did not believe she really needed his help. And thus the poor woman was left to the mercy of her implacable enemies.

Now the nurse who had charge of the hundred and one babies was an old servant of the twelve Ranees, and moreover a very wicked woman, able and willing to do whatever her twelve wicked old mistresses ordered. So when they said to her, “Can you kill these children?” she answered, “Nothing is easier; I will throw them out upon the dust-heap behind the palace, where the rats and hawks and vultures will have left none of them remaining by to-morrow morning.” “So be it,” said the Ranees. Then the nurse took the hundred and one little innocent children—the hundred little boys and the one little girl—and threw them behind the palace on the dust-heap, close to some large rat-holes; and after that, she and the twelve Ranees placed a very large stone in each of the babies’ cradles, and said to Guzra Bai, “Oh, you evil witch in disguise, do not hope any longer to impose by your arts on the Rajah’s credulity. See, your children have all turned into stones. See these, your pretty babies!”—and with that they tumbled the hundred and one stones down in a great heap on the floor. Then Guzra Bai began to cry, for she knew it was not true; but what could one poor woman do against thirteen? At the Rajah’s return the twelve Ranees accused Guzra Bai of being a witch, and the nurse testified that the hundred and one children she had charge of had turned into stones, and the Rajah believed them rather than Guzra Bai, and he ordered her to be imprisoned for life.

Meanwhile a Bandicote[45] had heard the pitiful cries of the children, and taking pity on them, dragged them all, one by one, into her hole, out of the way of kites and vultures. She then assembled all the Bandicotes from far and near, and told them what she had done, begging them to assist in finding food for the children. Then every day a hundred and one Bandicotes would come, each bringing a little bit of food in his mouth, and give it to one of the children; and so day by day they grew stronger and stronger, until they were able to run about, and then they used to play of a morning at the mouth of the Bandicote’s hole, running in there to sleep every night. But one fine day who should come by but the wicked old nurse! Fortunately, all the boys were in the hole, and the little girl, who was playing outside, on seeing her ran in there too, but not before the nurse had seen her. She immediately went to the twelve Ranees and related this, saying, “I cannot help thinking some of the children may still be living in those rat-holes. You had better send and have them dug out and killed.” “We dare not do that,” answered they, “for fear of causing suspicion; but we will order some laborers to dig up that ground and make it into a field, and that will effectually smother any of the children who may still be alive.” This plan was approved and forthwith carried into execution; but the good Bandicote, who happened that day to be out on a foraging expedition in the palace, heard all about it there, and immediately running home, took all the children from her hole to a large well some distance off, where she hid them in the hollows behind the steps leading down to the well, laying one child under each step.