[1] From Indian Fairy Tales. By Joseph Jacobs (David Nutt).
Once upon a time there was a wee, wee Lambikin, who frolicked about on his little tottery legs, and enjoyed himself amazingly.
Now one day he set off to visit his Granny, and was jumping with joy to think of all the good things he should get from her, when whom should he meet but a Jackal, who looked at the tender young morsel and said, "Lambikin! Lambikin! I'll EAT YOU!"
But Lambikin only gave a little frisk and said,—
"To Granny's house I go,Where I shall fatter grow;Then you can eat me so."
The Jackal thought this reasonable, and let Lambikin pass.
By and by he met a Vulture, and the Vulture, looking hungrily at the tender morsel before him, said, "Lambikin! Lambikin! I'll EAT YOU!"
But Lambikin only gave a little frisk, and said,—
"To Granny's house I go,Where I shall fatter grow;Then you can eat me so."
The Vulture thought this reasonable, and let Lambikin pass.
And by and by he met a Tiger, and then a Wolf and a Dog and an Eagle, and all these, when they saw the tender little morsel, said, "Lambikin! Lambikin! I'll EAT YOU!"
But to all of them Lambikin replied, with a little frisk,—
"To Granny's house I go,Where I shall fatter grow;Then you can eat me so."
At last he reached his Granny's house, and said, all in a great hurry, "Granny, dear, I've promised to get very fat; so, as people ought to keep their promises, please put me into the corn-bin AT ONCE."
So his Granny said he was a good boy, and put him into the corn-bin, and there the greedy little Lambikin stayed for seven days, and ate, and ate, and ate, until he could scarcely waddle, and his Granny said he was fat enough for anything, and must go home. But cunning little Lambikin said that would never do, for some animal would be sure to eat him on the way back, he was so plump and tender.
"I'll tell you what you must do," said Master Lambikin; "you must make a little drumikin out of the skin of my little brother who died, and then I can sit inside and trundle along nicely, for I'm as tight as a drum myself."
So his Granny made a nice little drumikin out of his brother's skin, with the wool inside, and Lambikin curled himself up snug and warm in the middle and trundled away gayly. Soon he met with the Eagle, who called out,—
"Drumikin! Drumikin!Have you seen Lambikin?"
And Mr. Lambikin, curled up in his soft, warm nest, replied,—
"Fallen into the fire, and so will youOn little Drumikin! Tum-pa, tum-too!"
"How very annoying!" sighed the Eagle, thinking regretfully of the tender morsel he had let slip.
Meanwhile Lambikin trundled along, laughing to himself, and singing,—
"Tum-pa, tum-too;Tum-pa, tum-too!"
Every animal and bird he met asked him the same question,—
"Drumikin! Drumikin!Have you seen Lambikin?"
And to each of them the little slyboots replied,—
"Fallen into the fire, and so will youOn little Drumikin! Tum-pa, tum-too!"Tum-pa, tum-too! tum-pa, tum-too!"
Then they all sighed to think of the tender little morsel they had let slip.
At last the Jackal came limping along, for all his sorry looks as sharp as a needle, and he, too, called out,—
"Drumikin! Drumikin!Have you seen Lambikin?"
And Lambikin, curled up in his snug little nest, replied gayly,—
"Fallen into the fire, and so will youOn little Drumikin! Tum-pa—"
But he never got any further, for the Jackal recognized his voice at once, and cried, "Hullo! you've turned yourself inside out, have you? Just you come out of that!"
Whereupon he tore open Drumikin and gobbled up Lambikin.
[1] From Celia Thaxter's Stories and Poems for Children.
A little boy sat at his mother's knees, by the long western window, looking out into the garden. It was autumn, and the wind was sad; and the golden elm leaves lay scattered about among the grass, and on the gravel path. The mother was knitting a little stocking; her fingers moved the bright needles; but her eyes were fixed on the clear evening sky.
As the darkness gathered, the wee boy laid his head on her lap and kept so still that, at last, she leaned forward to look into his dear round face. He was not asleep, but was watching very earnestly a blackberry-bush, that waved its one tall, dark-red spray in the wind outside the fence.
"What are you thinking about, my darling?" she said, smoothing his soft, honey-colored hair.
"The blackberry-bush, mamma; what does it say? It keeps nodding, nodding to me behind the fence; what does it say, mamma?"
"It says," she answered, 'I see a happy little boy in the warm, fire-lighted room. The wind blows cold, and here it is dark and lonely; but that little boy is warm and happy and safe at his mother's knees. I nod to him, and he looks at me. I wonder if he knows how happy he is!
"'See, all my leaves are dark crimson. Every day they dry and wither more and more; by and by they will be so weak they can scarcely cling to my branches, and the north wind will tear them all away, and nobody will remember them any more. Then the snow will sink down and wrap me close. Then the snow will melt again and icy rain will clothe me, and the bitter wind will rattle my bare twigs up and down.
"'I nod my head to all who pass, and dreary nights and dreary days go by; but in the happy house, so warm and bright, the little boy plays all day with books and toys. His mother and his father cherish him; he nestles on their knees in the red firelight at night, while they read to him lovely stories, or sing sweet old songs to him,—the happy little boy! And outside I peep over the snow and see a stream of ruddy light from a crack in the window-shutter, and I nod out here alone in the dark, thinking how beautiful it is.
"'And here I wait patiently. I take the snow and the rain and the cold, and I am not sorry, but glad; for in my roots I feel warmth and life, and I know that a store of greenness and beauty is shut up safe in my small brown buds. Day and night go again and again; little by little the snow melts all away; the ground grows soft; the sky is blue; the little birds fly over crying, "It is spring! it is spring!" Ah! then through all my twigs I feel the slow sap stirring.
"'Warmer grow the sunbeams, and softer the air. The small blades of grass creep thick about my feet; the sweet rain helps swell my shining buds. More and more I push forth my leaves, till out I burst in a gay green dress, and nod in joy and pride. The little boy comes running to look at me, and cries, "Oh, mamma! the little blackberry-bush is alive and beautiful and green. Oh, come and see!" And I hear; and I bow my head in the summer wind; and every day they watch me grow more beautiful, till at last I shake out blossoms, fair and fragrant.
"'A few days more, and I drop the white petals down among the grass, and, lo! the green tiny berries! Carefully I hold them up to the sun; carefully I gather the dew in the summer nights; slowly they ripen; they grow larger and redder and darker, and at last they are black, shining, delicious. I hold them as high as I can for the little boy, who comes dancing out. He shouts with joy, and gathers them in his dear hand; and he runs to share them with his mother, saying, "Here is what the patient blackberry-bush bore for us: see how nice, mamma!"
"'Ah! then indeed I am glad, and would say, if I could, "Yes, take them, dear little boy; I kept them for you, held them long up to sun and rain to make them sweet and ripe for you;" and I nod and nod in full content, for my work is done. From the window he watches me and thinks, "There is the little blackberry-bush that was so kind to me. I see it and I love it. I know it is safe out there nodding all alone, and next summer it will hold ripe berries up for me to gather again."'"
Then the wee boy smiled, and liked the little story. His mother took him up in her arms, and they went out to supper and left the blackberry-bush nodding up and down in the wind; and there it is nodding yet.
[1] By William Allingham.
Up the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren't go a-huntingFor fear of little men.Wee folk, good folk,Trooping all together;Green jacket, red cap,And white owl's feather!
Down along the rocky shoreSome make their home—They live on crispy pancakesOf yellow tide-foam;Some in the reedsOf the black mountain-lake,With frogs for their watch-dogs,All night awake.
High on the hilltopThe old King sits;He is now so old and gray,He's nigh lost his wits.With a bridge of white mistColumbkill he crosses,On his stately journeysFrom Slieveleague to Rosses;Or going up with musicOn cold starry nights,To sup with the QueenOf the gay Northern Lights.
They stole little BridgetFor seven years long;When she came down againHer friends were all gone.They took her lightly back,Between the night and morrow;They thought that she was fast asleep,But she was dead with sorrow.They have kept her ever sinceDeep within the lake,On a bed of flag-leaves,Watching till she wake.
By the craggy hillside,Through the mosses bare,They have planted thorn-trees,For pleasure here and there.Is any man so daringAs dig them up in spite,He shall find their sharpest thornsIn his bed at night.
Up the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren't go a-huntingFor fear of little men.Wee folk, good folk,Trooping all together;Green jacket, red cap,And white owl's feather!
Once upon a time, there was a little brown Field Mouse; and one day he was out in the fields to see what he could see. He was running along in the grass, poking his nose into everything and looking with his two eyes all about, when he saw a smooth, shiny acorn, lying in the grass. It was such a fine shiny little acorn that he thought he would take it home with him; so he put out his paw to touch it, but the little acorn rolled away from him. He ran after it, but it kept rolling on, just ahead of him, till it came to a place where a big oak-tree had its roots spread all over the ground. Then it rolled under a big round root.
Little Mr. Field Mouse ran to the root and poked his nose under after the acorn, and there he saw a small round hole in the ground. He slipped through and saw some stairs going down into the earth. The acorn was rolling down, with a soft tapping sound, ahead of him, so down he went too. Down, down, down, rolled the acorn, and down, down, down, went the Field Mouse, until suddenly he saw a tiny door at the foot of the stairs.
The shiny acorn rolled to the door and struck against it with a tap. Quickly the little door opened and the acorn rolled inside. The Field Mouse hurried as fast as he could down the last stairs, and pushed through just as the door was closing. It shut behind him, and he was in a little room. And there, before him, stood a queer little Red Man! He had a little red cap, and a little red jacket, and odd little red shoes with points at the toes.
"You are my prisoner," he said to the Field Mouse.
"What for?" said the Field Mouse.
"Because you tried to steal my acorn," said the little Red Man.
"It is my acorn," said the Field Mouse; "I found it."
"No, it isn't," said the little Red Man, "I have it; you will never see it again."
The little Field Mouse looked all about the room as fast as he could, but he could not see any acorn. Then he thought he would go back up the tiny stairs to his own home. But the little door was locked, and the little Red Man had the key. And he said to the poor mouse,—
"You shall be my servant; you shall make my bed and sweep my room and cook my broth."
So the little brown Mouse was the little Red Man's servant, and every day he made the little Red Man's bed and swept the little Red Man's room and cooked the little Red Man's broth. And every day the little Red Man went away through the tiny door, and did not come back till afternoon. But he always locked the door after him, and carried away the key.
At last, one day he was in such a hurry that he turned the key before the door was quite latched, which, of course, didn't lock it at all. He went away without noticing,—he was in such a hurry.
The little Field Mouse knew that his chance had come to run away home. But he didn't want to go without the pretty, shiny acorn. Where it was he didn't know, so he looked everywhere. He opened every little drawer and looked in, but it wasn't in any of the drawers; he peeped on every shelf, but it wasn't on a shelf; he hunted in every closet, but it wasn't in there. Finally, he climbed up on a chair and opened a wee, wee door in the chimney-piece,—and there it was!
He took it quickly in his forepaws, and then he took it in his mouth, and then he ran away. He pushed open the little door; he climbed up, up, up the little stairs; he came out through the hole under the root; he ran and ran through the fields; and at last he came to his own house.
When he was in his own house he set the shiny acorn on the table. I guess he set it down hard, for all at once, with a little snap, it opened!—exactly like a little box.
And what do you think! There was a tiny necklace inside! It was a most beautiful tiny necklace, all made of jewels, and it was just big enough for a lady mouse. So the little Field Mouse gave the tiny necklace to his little Mouse-sister. She thought it was perfectly lovely. And when she wasn't wearing it she kept it in the shiny acorn box.
And the little Red Man never knew what had become of it, because he didn't know where the little Field Mouse lived.
[1] Adapted from the verse version, which is given here as an alternative.
Once upon a time there was a little Red Hen, who lived on a farm all by herself. An old Fox, crafty and sly, had a den in the rocks, on a hill near her house. Many and many a night this old Fox used to lie awake and think to himself how good that little Red Hen would taste if he could once get her in his big kettle and boil her for dinner. But he couldn't catch the little Red Hen, because she was too wise for him. Every time she went out to market she locked the door of the house behind her, and as soon as she came in again she locked the door behind her and put the key in her apron pocket, where she kept her scissors and a sugar cooky.
At last the old Fox thought up a way to catch the little Red Hen. Early in the morning he said to his old mother, "Have the kettle boiling when I come home to-night, for I'll be bringing the little Red Hen for supper." Then he took a big bag and slung it over his shoulder, and walked till he came to the little Red Hen's house. The little Red Hen was just coming out of her door to pick up a few sticks for kindling wood. So the old Fox hid behind the wood-pile, and as soon as she bent down to get a stick, into the house he slipped, and scurried behind the door.
In a minute the little Red Hen came quickly in, and shut the door and locked it. "I'm glad I'm safely in," she said. Just as she said it, she turned round, and there stood the ugly old Fox, with his big bag over his shoulder. Whiff! how scared the little Red Hen was! She dropped her apronful of sticks, and flew up to the big beam across the ceiling. There she perched, and she said to the old Fox, down below, "You may as well go home, for you can't get me."
"Can't I, though!" said the Fox. And what do you think he did? He stood on the floor underneath the little Red Hen and twirled round in a circle after his own tail. And as he spun, and spun, and spun, faster, and faster, and faster, the poor little Red Hen got so dizzy watching him that she couldn't hold on to the perch. She dropped off, and the old Fox picked her up and put her in his bag, slung the bag over his shoulder, and started for home, where the kettle was boiling.
He had a very long way to go, up hill, and the little Red Hen was still so dizzy that she didn't know where she was. But when the dizziness began to go off, she whisked her little scissors out of her apron pocket, and snip! she cut a little hole in the bag; then she poked her head out and saw where she was, and as soon as they came to a good spot she cut the hole bigger and jumped out herself. There was a great big stone lying there, and the little Red Hen picked it up and put it in the bag as quick as a wink. Then she ran as fast as she could till she came to her own little farm-house, and she went in and locked the door with the big key.
The old Fox went on carrying the stone and never knew the difference. My, but it bumped him well! He was pretty tired when he got home. But he was so pleased to think of the supper he was going to have that he did not mind that at all. As soon as his mother opened the door he said, "Is the kettle boiling?"
"Yes," said his mother; "have you got the little Red Hen?"
"I have," said the old Fox. "When I open the bag you hold the cover off the kettle and I'll shake the bag so that the Hen will fall in, and then you pop the cover on, before she can jump out."
"All right," said his mean old mother; and she stood close by the boiling kettle, ready to put the cover on.
The Fox lifted the big, heavy bag up till it was over the open kettle, and gave it a shake. Splash! thump! splash! In went the stone and out came the boiling water, all over the old Fox and the old Fox's mother!
And they were scalded to death.
But the little Red Hen lived happily ever after, in her own little farmhouse.
[1] From Horace E. Scudder's Doings of the Bodley Family in Town and Country (Houghton, Mifflin & Co.).
There was once't upon a timeA little small Rid Hin,Off in the good ould countryWhere yees ha' nivir bin.
Nice and quiet shure she was,And nivir did any harrum;She lived alane all be herself,And worked upon her farrum.
There lived out o'er the hill,In a great din o' rocks,A crafty, shly, and wickedOuld folly iv a Fox.
This rashkill iv a Fox,He tuk it in his headHe'd have the little Rid Hin:So, whin he wint to bed,
He laid awake and thaughtWhat a foine thing 'twad beTo fetch her home and bile her upFor his ould marm and he.
And so he thaught and thaught,Until he grew so thinThat there was nothin' left of himBut jist his bones and shkin.
But the small Rid Hin was wise,She always locked her door,And in her pocket pit the key,To keep the Fox out shure.
But at last there came a schameIntil his wicked head,And he tuk a great big bagAnd to his mither said,—
"Now have the pot all bilin'Agin the time I come;We'll ate the small Rid Hin to-night,For shure I'll bring her home."
And so away he wintWid the bag upon his back,An' up the hill and through the woodsSaftly he made his track.
An' thin he came alang,Craping as shtill's a mouse,To where the little small Rid HinLived in her shnug ould house.
An' out she comes hersel',Jist as he got in sight,To pick up shticks to make her fire:"Aha!" says Fox, "all right.
"Begorra, now, I'll have yeesWidout much throuble more;"An' in he shlips quite unbeknownst,An' hides be'ind the door.
An' thin, a minute afther,In comes the small Rid Hin,An' shuts the door, and locks it, too,An' thinks, "I'm safely in."
An' thin she tarns aroundAn' looks be'ind the door;There shtands the Fox wid his big tailShpread out upon the floor.
Dear me! she was so scharedWid such a wondrous sight,She dropped her apronful of shticks,An' flew up in a fright,
An' lighted on the bameAcross on top the room;"Aha!" says she, "ye don't have me;Ye may as well go home."
"Aha!" says Fox, "we'll see;I'll bring yees down from that."So out he marched upon the floorRight under where she sat.
An' thin he whiruled around,An' round an' round an' round,Fashter an' fashter an' fashter,Afther his tail on the ground.
Until the small Rid HinShe got so dizzy, shure,Wid lookin' at the Fox's tail,She jist dropped on the floor.
An' Fox he whipped her up,An' pit her in his bag,An' off he started all alone,Him and his little dag.
All day he tracked the woodUp hill an' down again;An' wid him, shmotherin' in the bag,The little small Rid Hin.
Sorra a know she knowedAwhere she was that day;Says she, "I'm biled an' ate up, shure,An' what'll be to pay?"
Thin she betho't hersel',An' tuk her schissors out,An' shnipped a big hole in the bag,So she could look about.
An' 'fore ould Fox could thinkShe lept right out—she did,An' thin picked up a great big shtone,An' popped it in instid.
An' thin she rins off home,Her outside door she locks;Thinks she, "You see you don't have me,You crafty, shly ould Fox."
An' Fox, he tugged awayWid the great big hivy shtone,Thimpin' his shoulders very badAs he wint in alone.
An' whin he came in sightO' his great din o' rocks,Jist watchin' for him at the doorHe shpied ould mither Fox.
"Have ye the pot a-bilin'?"Says he to ould Fox thin;"Shure an' it is, me child," says she;"Have ye the small Rid Hin?"
"Yes, jist here in me bag,As shure as I shtand here;Open the lid till I pit her in:Open it—niver fear."
So the rashkill cut the sthring,An' hild the big bag over;"Now when I shake it in," says he,"Do ye pit on the cover."
"Yis, that I will;" an' thinThe shtone wint in wid a dash,An' the pot oy bilin' watherCame over them ker-splash.
An' schalted 'em both to death,So they couldn't brathe no more;An' the little small Rid Hin lived safe,Jist where she lived before.
[1] A Southern nonsense tale.
Epaminondas used to go to see his Auntie 'most every day, and she nearly always gave him something to take home to his Mammy.
One day she gave him a big piece of cake; nice, yellow, rich gold-cake.
Epaminondas took it in his fist and held it all scrunched up tight, like this, and came along home. By the time he got home there wasn't anything left but a fistful of crumbs. His Mammy said,—
"What you got there, Epaminondas?"
"Cake, Mammy," said Epaminondas.
"Cake!" said his Mammy. "Epaminondas, you ain't got the sense you was born with! That's no way to carry cake. The way to carry cake is to wrap it all up nice in some leaves and put it in your hat, and put your hat on your head, and come along home. You hear me, Epaminondas?"
"Yes, Mammy," said Epaminondas.
Next day Epaminondas went to see his Auntie, and she gave him a pound of butter for his Mammy; fine, fresh, sweet butter.
Epaminondas wrapped it up in leaves and put it in his hat, and put his hat on his head, and came along home. It was a very hot day. Pretty soon the butter began to melt. It melted, and melted, and as it melted it ran down Epaminondas' forehead; then it ran over his face, and in his ears, and down his neck. When he got home, all the butter Epaminondas had was ON HIM. His Mammy looked at him, and then she said,—
"Law's sake! Epaminondas, what you got in your hat?"
"Butter, Mammy," said Epaminondas; "Auntie gave it to me."
"Butter!" said his Mammy. "Epaminondas, you ain't got the sense you was born with! Don't you know that's no way to carry butter? The way to carry butter is to wrap it up in some leaves and take it down to the brook, and cool it in the water, and cool it in the water, and cool it in the water, and then take it on your hands, careful, and bring it along home."
"Yes, Mammy," said Epaminondas.
By and by, another day, Epaminondas went to see his Auntie again, and this time she gave him a little new puppy-dog to take home.
Epaminondas put it in some leaves and took it down to the brook; and there he cooled it in the water, and cooled it in the water, and cooled it in the water; then he took it in his hands and came along home. When he got home, the puppy-dog was dead. His Mammy looked at it, and she said,—
"Law's sake! Epaminondas, what you got there?"
"A puppy-dog, Mammy," said Epaminondas.
"A PUPPY-DOG!" said his Mammy. "My gracious sakes alive, Epaminondas, you ain't got the sense you was born with! That ain't the way to carry a puppy-dog! The way to carry a puppy-dog is to take a long piece of string and tie one end of it round the puppy-dog's neck and put the puppy-dog on the ground, and take hold of the other end of the string and come along home, like this."
"All right, Mammy," said Epaminondas.
Next day, Epaminondas went to see his Auntie again, and when he came to go home she gave him a loaf of bread to carry to his Mammy; a brown, fresh, crusty loaf of bread.
So Epaminondas tied a string around the end of the loaf and took hold of the end of the string and came along home, like this. (Imitate dragging something along the ground.) When he got home his Mammy looked at the thing on the end of the string, and she said,—
"My laws a-massy! Epaminondas, what you got on the end of that string?"
"Bread, Mammy," said Epaminondas; "Auntie gave it to me."
"Bread!!!" said his Mammy. "O Epaminondas, Epaminondas, you ain't got the sense you was born with; you never did have the sense you was born with; you never will have the sense you was born with! Now I ain't gwine tell you any more ways to bring truck home. And don't you go see your Auntie, neither. I'll go see her my own self. But I'll just tell you one thing, Epaminondas! You see these here six mince pies I done make? You see how I done set 'em on the doorstep to cool? Well, now, you hear me, Epaminondas, YOU BE CAREFUL HOW YOU STEP ON THOSE PIES!"
"Yes, Mammy," said Epaminondas.
Then Epaminondas' Mammy put on her bonnet and her shawl and took a basket in her hand and went away to see Auntie. The six mince pies sat cooling in a row on the doorstep.
And then,—and then,—Epaminondas WAS careful how he stepped on those pies!
He stepped (imitate)—right—in—the—middle—of—every—one. . . . . . . . .And, do you know, children, nobody knows what happened next! The person who told me the story didn't know; nobody knows. But you can guess.
There was once a shepherd-boy who kept his flock at a little distance from the village. Once he thought he would play a trick on the villagers and have some fun at their expense. So he ran toward the village crying out, with all his might,—
"Wolf! Wolf! Come and help! The wolves are at my lambs!"
The kind villagers left their work and ran to the field to help him. But when they got there the boy laughed at them for their pains; there was no wolf there.
Still another day the boy tried the same trick, and the villagers came running to help and got laughed at again. Then one day a wolf did break into the fold and began killing the lambs. In great fright, the boy ran for help. "Wolf! Wolf!" he screamed. "There is a wolf in the flock! Help!"
The villagers heard him, but they thought it was another mean trick; no one paid the least attention, or went near him. And the shepherd-boy lost all his sheep.
That is the kind of thing that happens to people who lie: even when they tell the truth no one believes them.
Did you ever hear the old story about the foolish Frogs? The Frogs in a certain swamp decided that they needed a king; they had always got along perfectly well without one, but they suddenly made up their minds that a king they must have. They sent a messenger to Jove and begged him to send a king to rule over them.
Jove saw how stupid they were, and sent a king who could not harm them: he tossed a big log into the middle of the pond.
At the splash the Frogs were terribly frightened, and dove into their holes to hide from King Log. But after a while, when they saw that the king never moved, they got over their fright and went and sat on him. And as soon as they found he really could not hurt them they began to despise him; and finally they sent another messenger to Jove to ask for a new king.
Jove sent an eel.
The Frogs were much pleased and a good deal frightened when King Eel came wriggling and swimming among them. But as the days went on, and the eel was perfectly harmless, they stopped being afraid; and as soon as they stopped fearing King Eel they stopped respecting him.
Soon they sent a third messenger to Jove, and begged that they might have a better king,—a king who was worth while.
It was too much; Jove was angry at their stupidity at last. "I will give you a king such as you deserve!" he said; and he sent them a Stork.
As soon as the Frogs came to the surface to greet the new king, King Stork caught them in his long bill and gobbled them up. One after another they came bobbing up, and one after another the stork ate them. He was indeed a king worthy of them!
The Sun and the Wind once had a quarrel as to which was the stronger. Each believed himself to be the more powerful. While they were arguing they saw a traveler walking along the country highway, wearing a great cloak.
"Here is a chance to test our strength," said the Wind; "let us see which of us is strong enough to make that traveler take off his cloak; the one who can do that shall be acknowledged the more powerful."
"Agreed," said the Sun.
Instantly the Wind began to blow; he puffed and tugged at the man's cloak, and raised a storm of hail and rain, to beat at it. But the colder it grew and the more it stormed, the tighter the traveler held his cloak around him. The Wind could not get it off.
Now it was the Sun's turn. He shone with all his beams on the man's shoulders. As it grew hotter and hotter, the man unfastened his cloak; then he threw it back; at last he took it off! The Sun had won.
The little Jackal was very fond of shell-fish. He used to go down by the river and hunt along the edges for crabs and such things. And once, when he was hunting for crabs, he was so hungry that he put his paw into the water after a crab without looking first,—which you never should do! The minute he put in his paw, SNAP!—the big Alligator who lives in the mud down there had it in his jaws.
"Oh, dear!" thought the little Jackal; "the big Alligator has my paw in his mouth! In another minute he will pull me down and gobble me up! What shall I do? what shall I do?" Then he thought, suddenly, "I'll deceive him!"
So he put on a very cheerful voice, as if nothing at all were the matter, and he said,—
"Ho! ho! Clever Mr. Alligator! Smart Mr. Alligator, to take that old bulrush root for my paw! I'll hope you'll find it very tender!"
The old Alligator was hidden away beneath the mud and bulrush leaves, and he couldn't see anything. He thought, "Pshaw! I've made a mistake." So he opened his mouth and let the little Jackal go.
The little Jackal ran away as fast as he could, and as he ran he called out,—
"Thank you, Mr. Alligator! Kind Mr. Alligator! SO kind of you to let me go!"
The old Alligator lashed with his tail and snapped with his jaws, but it was too late; the little Jackal was out of reach.
After this the little Jackal kept away from the river, out of danger. But after about a week he got such an appetite for crabs that nothing else would do at all; he felt that he must have a crab. So he went down by the river and looked all around, very carefully. He didn't see the old Alligator, but he thought to himself, "I think I'll not take any chances." So he stood still and began to talk out loud to himself. He said,—
"When I don't see any little crabs on the land I most generally see them sticking out of the water, and then I put my paw in and catch them. I wonder if there are any fat little crabs in the water today?"
The old Alligator was hidden down in the mud at the bottom of the river, and when he heard what the little Jackal said, he thought, "Aha! I'll pretend to be a little crab, and when he puts his paw in, I'll make my dinner of him." So he stuck the black end of his snout above the water and waited.
The little Jackal took one look, and then he said,—
"Thank you, Mr. Alligator! Kind Mr. Alligator! You are EXCEEDINGLY kind to show me where you are! I will have dinner elsewhere." And he ran away like the wind.
The old Alligator foamed at the mouth, he was so angry, but the little Jackal was gone.
For two whole weeks the little Jackal kept away from the river. Then, one day he got a feeling inside him that nothing but crabs could satisfy; he felt that he must have at least one crab. Very cautiously, he went down to the river and looked all around. He saw no sign of the old Alligator. Still, he did not mean to take any chances. So he stood quite still and began to talk to himself,—it was a little way he had. He said,—
"When I don't see any little crabs on the shore, or sticking up out of the water, I usually see them blowing bubbles from under the water; the little bubbles go PUFF, PUFF, PUFF, and then they go POP, POP, POP, and they show me where the little juicy crabs are, so I can put my paw in and catch them. I wonder if I shall see any little bubbles to-day?"
The old Alligator, lying low in the mud and weeds, heard this, and he thought, "Pooh! THAT'S easy enough; I'll just blow some little crab-bubbles, and then he will put his paw in where I can get it."
So he blew, and he blew, a mighty blast, and the bubbles rose in a perfect whirlpool, fizzing and swirling.
The little Jackal didn't have to be told who was underneath those bubbles: he took one quick look, and off he ran. But as he went, he sang,—
"Thank you, Mr. Alligator! Kind Mr. Alligator! You are the kindest Alligator in the world, to show me where you are, so nicely! I'll breakfast at another part of the river."
The old Alligator was so furious that he crawled up on the bank and went after the little Jackal; but, dear, dear, he couldn't catch the little Jackal; he ran far too fast.
After this, the little Jackal did not like to risk going near the water, so he ate no more crabs. But he found a garden of wild figs, which were so good that he went there every day, and ate them instead of shell-fish.
Now the old Alligator found this out, and he made up his mind to have the little Jackal for supper, or to die trying. So he crept, and crawled, and dragged himself over the ground to the garden of wild figs. There he made a huge pile of figs under the biggest of the wild fig trees, and hid himself in the pile.
After a while the little Jackal came dancing into the garden, very happy and care-free,—BUT looking all around. He saw the huge pile of figs under the big fig tree.
"H-m," he thought, "that looks singularly like my friend, the Alligator. I'll investigate a bit."
He stood quite still and began to talk to himself,—it was a little way he had. He said,—
"The little figs I like best are the fat, ripe, juicy ones that drop off when the breeze blows; and then the wind blows them about on the ground, this way and that; the great heap of figs over there is so still that I think they must be all bad figs."
The old Alligator, underneath his fig pile, thought,—
"Bother the suspicious little Jackal, I shall have to make these figs roll about, so that he will think the wind moves them." And straightway he humped himself up and moved, and sent the little figs flying,—and his back showed through.
The little Jackal did not wait for a second look. He ran out of the garden like the wind. But as he ran he called back,—
"Thank you, again, Mr. Alligator; very sweet of you to show me where you are; I can't stay to thank you as I should like: good-by!"
At this the old Alligator was beside himself with rage. He vowed that he would have the little Jackal for supper this time, come what might. So he crept and crawled over the ground till he came to the little Jackal's house. Then he crept and crawled inside, and hid himself there in the house, to wait till the little Jackal should come home.
By and by the little Jackal came dancing home, happy and care-free,—BUT looking all around. Presently, as he came along, he saw that the ground was all scratched up as if something very heavy had been dragged over it. The little Jackal stopped and looked.
"What's this? what's this?" he said.
Then he saw that the door of his house was crushed at the sides and broken, as if something very big had gone through it.
"What's this? What's this?" the little Jackal said. "I think I'll investigate a little!"
So he stood quite still and began to talk to himself (you remember, it was a little way he had), but loudly. He said,—
"How strange that my little House doesn't speak to me! Why don't you speak to me, little House? You always speak to me, if everything is all right, when I come home. I wonder if anything is wrong with my little House?"
The old Alligator thought to himself that he must certainly pretend to be the little House, or the little Jackal would never come in. So he put on as pleasant a voice as he could (which is not saying much) and said,—
"Hullo, little Jackal!"
Oh! when the little Jackal heard that, he was frightened enough, for once.
"It's the old Alligator," he said, "and if I don't make an end of him this time he will certainly make an end of me. What shall I do?"
He thought very fast. Then he spoke out pleasantly.
"Thank you, little House," he said, "it's good to hear your pretty voice, dear little House, and I will be in with you in a minute; only first I must gather some firewood for dinner."
Then he went and gathered firewood, and more firewood, and more firewood; and he piled it all up solid against the door and round the house; and then he set fire to it!
And it smoked and burned till it smoked that old Alligator to smoked herring!