THE HUNGRY OLD WITCH

SHE was a witch, she was very old, and she was always hungry, and she lived long ago near a forest where now is Uruguay, and just in the corner where Brazil and Argentina touch. They were the days when mighty beasts moved in the marshes and when strange creatures with wings like bats flew in the air. There were also great worms then, so strong that they bored through mountains and rocks as an ordinary worm makes its way through clay. The size and the strength of the old witch may be guessed when you know that she once caught one of the giant worms and killed it for the sake of the stone in its head. And there is this about the stone—it is green in colour and shaped like an arrow-head a little blunted, and precious for those who know the secret, because he who has one may fly through the air between sunrise and sunset, but never in the night.

The old witch had another secret thing. It was a powder, and the knowledge of how to make it was hers alone and is now lost. All that is known of it is that it was made from the dried bodies of tree-frogs mixed with goat’s milk. With it she could, by sprinkling a little of it where wanted, make things grow wonderfully. She could also turn plants to animals with it, or change vines into serpents, thorn-bushes into foxes, little leaves into ants. Living creatures she also changed, turning cats into jaguars, lizards into alligators, and bats into horrible flying things.

This old witch had lived for hundreds of years, so long indeed that the memory of men did not know a time when she was not, and fathers and grandfathers and great grandfathers all had the same tale to tell of how she had always devoured cattle and pigs and goats, making no account at all of carrying off in one night all the animals of a village. To be sure, some had tried to fight her by shooting arrows, but it was of no use, for by her magic the shafts were bent into a shape like a letter V as soon as they touched her. So in time it came about that men would put outside the village in a corral one half of what they had raised in a year, letting the old witch take it, hoping that thus she would leave them in peace.

At last there grew up a lad, a sober fellow of courage, who said little and thought much, and he refused to take animals to the corral when the time came for the old witch to visit that place.

When the people asked him his reason for refusing, he said that he had had a dream in which he saw himself as a bird in a cage, but when he had been there a little while a sweet climbing vine had grown up about the cage and on this vine was a white flower which twisted its way in between the bars. Then, as he looked at it, the flower changed to a smiling maiden who held a golden key in her hand. This key she had given to him and with it he had opened the door of the cage. So, he went on to say, both he and the maiden had gone away. What the end of the dream was he did not know, for at that point he had wakened with the sound of singing and music in his ears, from which he judged that all turned out well, though he had not seen the end of it.

Because of this dream and what it might betoken he said that he would not put anything in the corral for the old witch, but instead would venture forth and seek her out, to the end that the land might be free from her witcheries and evil work. Nor could any persuade him to the contrary.

“It is not right,” he said, “that we should give away for nothing that which we have grown and tended and learned to love, nor is it right that we should feed and fatten the evil thing that destroys us.”

So the wise men of that place named the lad by a word which means Stout Heart, and because he was loved by all, many trembled and turned pale when the morning came on which he took his lance and alone went off into the forest, ready for whatever might befall.

For three days Stout Heart walked, and at last came to a place all grassy and flowery, where he sat down by the side of a lake under a tree. He was tired, for he had walked far that day and found that slumber began to overtake him. That was well enough, for he was used to sleep under the bare heavens, but with his slumber came confused dreams of harmful things which he seemed to see coming out of the ground, so he climbed into the tree, where he found a resting-place among the branches and was soon asleep.

While he slept there came to the side of the lake the old witch, who cast her basket net into the water and began to fish, and as she fished she sang in a croaking and harsh voice this:

“Things in the air,Things in the water—Nothing is fair,So come to the slaughter.”

“Things in the air,

Things in the water—

Nothing is fair,

So come to the slaughter.”

They were not the words, but that is what the words meant. But unpleasant as was the song, yet it worked a kind of charm, and things came to her, so that her basket net was filled again and again. The fish she cast into a kind of wicker cage, of which she had several.

Soon the croaking song chased sleep from the eyes of Stout Heart, and looking down he saw the wrinkled crone and the great pile of fish that she had cast on the bank, and his heart was grieved for two things—one that there was such waste of good life, the other that he had left his spear hidden in the grass. He grieved too, a little, because he knew that on account of his long walk he was weak from hunger and thirst. So there seemed little that could be done and he sat very still, trusting that until he was better prepared for action the old witch would not see him.

But all his stillness was of no avail. Looking at the shadow of the tree as it lay upon the surface of the water, she saw the lad’s shadow. Then she looked up and saw him. Had she had her magic green stone with her, things would have been far different and this tale all the shorter. But not having it and being quite unable to climb trees, she said:

“You are faint and hungry. Come down, come down, good lad, for I have much here that is good to eat.”

Hearing that, Stout Heart laughed, knowing that she was not to be trusted, and he told her that he was very well indeed where he was. So she tried another trick, spreading on the grass fruits and berries, and saying in a wheedling voice:

“Come, son, eat with me. I do not like to eat alone. Here are fresh fruits and here is honey. Come down that I may talk with you and treat you as a son, for I am very lonesome.”

But Stout Heart still laughed at her, although, to be sure, he was a lad of great appetite and his hungriness increased in him.

“Have you any other trap to set for me?” he asked.

Hearing that, the witch fell into a black and terrible rage, dancing about and gnashing her teeth, frothing at the mouth and hooking her long nails at him like a cat, and the sight of her was very horrible, but the lad kept his heart up and was well content with his place in the tree, the more as he saw her great strength. For in her rage she plucked a great rock the size of a man’s body from the earth where it was sunk deep, and cast it at the tree with such force that the tree shook from root to tip.

For a moment the old witch stood with knit brows, then she went on her hands and knees and fell to gathering up blades of grass until she had a little heap. All the time she was cursing and groaning, grumbling and snarling like a cat. When she had gathered enough grass she stood up and began to sprinkle a grayish powder over the grass heap, and as she did this she talked mumblingly, saying:

“Creep and crawl—creep and crawl!Up the tree-trunk, on the branch.Creep and crawl—creep and crawl!Over leaf and over twig.Seek and find the living thing.Pinch him, bite him, torture him.Creep and crawl—creep and crawl!Make him drop like rotting fruit.”

“Creep and crawl—creep and crawl!

Up the tree-trunk, on the branch.

Creep and crawl—creep and crawl!

Over leaf and over twig.

Seek and find the living thing.

Pinch him, bite him, torture him.

Creep and crawl—creep and crawl!

Make him drop like rotting fruit.”

So she went on, moving about in a little circle and sprinkling the powder over the grass. Presently the pile of grass began to move as if it hid some living thing, and soon the grass blades became smaller, rounded themselves, and turned brown. Then from them shot out fine hair-like points which became legs, and so each separate leaf turned to an ant. To the tree they scurried and up the trunk they swarmed, a little army marching over every leaf and twig until the green became brown, and louder and louder the old witch screamed, waving her arms the while:

“Creep and crawl—creep and crawl!Up the tree-trunk, on the branch.Creep and crawl—creep and crawl!”

“Creep and crawl—creep and crawl!

Up the tree-trunk, on the branch.

Creep and crawl—creep and crawl!”

The nearer to Stout Heart that they came, the louder she shrieked, leaping about and waving her long-taloned hands as she ordered:

“Seek and find the living thing.”

Then Stout Heart knew that trouble was brewing indeed, for against so many enemies there was no fighting. For a time he avoided them, but for a time only, and that by going higher and higher in the tree, crawling along the branch that hung over the lake, but nearer and nearer the ants came, and louder she bade them to

“Pinch him, bite him, torture him.”

At last there was nothing for it but to drop out of the tree, for he had been hanging to the end of a branch and the ants were already swarming over his hands and some running down his arms. So he let go his hold and went into the lake with a splash, down out of the sunshine and into the cool green-blue of the waters. He swam a little, trying to get out of the way before coming up, but had to put his head out soon to get a breath. Then suddenly he seemed to be in the middle of something that was moving about strangely, and it was with a sudden leaping of the heart that he found himself in the old witch’s basket net being drawn ashore. To be sure, he struggled and tried to escape, but it was of no use. What with her magic and her strength he was no more in her hands than is a little fish in the hands of a man. He was all mixed up with other lake things, with fish and with scum, with water-beetles and sticky weed, with mud and with wriggling creatures, and presently he found himself toppled head foremost into a basket, all dazed and weak. It was dark there, but by the bumping he knew that he was being carried somewhere.

Soon he was tumbled into an evil-smelling place and must have fallen into a trance, or slept. Again, he may not have known what passed because of the old witch’s enchantments, for when he came to himself he did not know whether he had been there for a long time or a little. But soon he made out that he was in a stone house and through a small hole in the wall saw that the place where the house stood was bare of grass and full of great gray rocks, and he remembered his dream and thought that it was all very unlike what had really happened.

But in that he was not altogether right, for while he was in no cage and no twining vine with glorious flower was there, yet there was something else. For after a little while a door opened, and he saw standing in a light that nearly blinded him with its brightness a maiden full of winning grace, and light and slender, who stretched out her hand to him and led him out of the dark into a great hall of stone with a vast fireplace. Then having heard his story, which brought tears to her blue eyes, she opened a lattice and showed him a little room where he might hide.

“For,” said she, “I also was brought to this place long ago, and when I came the old witch killed one who was her slave before me. But before she died she told me the story of the green stone which the witch has, and also how were used the magic powders. Since then I have been here alone and have been her slave. But now she will kill me and will keep you for her servant until she tires of you, when she will catch another. And so it has been for many, many years, and each one that dies has told the power of the green stone to the other, though none had dared to use it.”

Now hearing all that, Stout Heart was all for running away at once and taking the maiden from that dreadful place, but just as he opened his mouth to speak there came to their ears the voice of the old witch.

“Hide then,” said the maiden, “and all may yet go well. For I must go to get the green stone by means of which we may fly. With you I will dare. Alone I was afraid to venture.”

Even then he hesitated and did not wish to hide, but she thrust him into a little room and closed the door. Through the wall he heard the witch enter and throw a pile of wood on the hearth.

“I have a new prize,” said the ogress. “You I have fattened long enough and now you must be my meal. One slave at a time is enough for me, and the lad will do. Go then, fetch pepper and salt, red pepper and black, and see to it that you lose no time, for I am hungry and cannot wait.”

The girl went into another room and the witch fell on her knees and began to build a roaring fire. Soon the maiden reëntered, but running lightly, and as she passed the old woman she cast on her some of the magic powder which she had brought instead of salt and pepper. The hag had no idea that it was the powder that the girl had thrown, and thinking that she had been careless with the salt and pepper began to scold her, then getting to her feet took her by the hair, opened the door of the little room in which Stout Heart was, and little knowing that the lad was there cast her in, screaming:

“Stay there, useless one, until I am ready to roast you.”

The maiden thrust the green stone into the hands of Stout Heart and at once they flew through the window and out under the arch of the sky. As for the old witch, the powder did its work and she began to swell so that she could not pass out of any of the doors. But presently the boy and girl, from a height at which they could see below them the narrow valley and the witch house, saw that the old hag was struggling to get out by way of the roof.

The two lost no time then. They flew swift and high. But swift too was the witch. Her growing had finished and out over the top of the house she burst, and seeing the escaping pair, began to run in the direction they had taken.

So there was much speeding both in the air and on the earth, and unlucky it was for the two that the green stone allowed those who carried it to fly only in the daytime. All this the maiden told Stout Heart as they flew. The old witch well remembered that at night there was no power in the flying stone and was gleeful in her wicked old heart as she watched the sun and the lengthening shadows. So she kept on with giant strides and leapings, and going at such a rate that she was always very nigh under the two in the air. No deer, no huanaco could have bounded lighter over the ground than she did, and no ostrich could have moved swifter.

When the sun began to drop in the western sky, and he and she were looking at one another with concern as they flew, the maiden bethought her of a plan, and scattering some of the magic powder on the earth she rejoiced to see that the leaves on which the powder fell turned into rabbits. The sight of that the witch could not resist, and she stopped a moment to catch some of the little animals and swallow them, so a little time was won for the fliers.

But the hungry old witch soon went on and regained the time she had lost and was under them again, running as fast as ever. So more powder was scattered, this time on some thorn-bushes, which changed to foxes. Again the old woman stopped to eat and the two gained a little. But the sun was lower and they found themselves dropping ever nearer to the earth, flying indeed but little higher than the tree-tops, and as they saw, the old witch in her leaps lacked but little of touching them.

Ahead of them was the lake in which Stout Heart had been caught, the waters red as blood with the light of the western sky, but the power of the stone was failing with the waning day, and of the powder they had but a small handful left. As for the witch, so near was she that they could hear her breathing, could almost imagine that they felt her terrible claws in their garments.

On the bank of the lake the last handful of the magic powder was cast, and they saw the grass turn to ants and the stones to great turtles as they passed over the water, but so low that their feet almost touched the surface of the lake. The power of the stone was growing weak.

The old witch, seeing the turtles, stopped to swallow them, shells and heads, and that gave the youth and maiden time enough to reach the opposite shore, where the power of the stone was quite exhausted as the sun touched the rim of the earth. The gentle maiden clung to Stout Heart in great fear then as they saw the old witch plunge into the lake, for she could travel on water as fast as she could on land. Indeed, the fearful old woman cut through the waters so swiftly that a great wave leaped up on either side of her, and it was clear that before the sun had gone she would have her claws in the two friends.

But when she was in the middle of the lake the weight of the turtles she had swallowed began to bear her down. In vain she struggled, making a great uproar and lashing her hands and feet so furiously that the water became hot and a great steam rose up. Her force was spent and the turtles were like great stones within her, so she sank beneath the water, and was seen no more.

Great was the joy of the people when Stout Heart brought the maiden to his home, for she became his wife and was loved by all there as the fairest woman among them.

THE WONDERFUL MIRROR

THIS is the tale of Suso who was the daughter of a very rich man, a very kind-hearted one, too. Never was beggar turned from his door, nor in the length and breadth of his land was there hunger or want. And he loved Suso no less than she loved him. She was very close to his heart and all that could be done to make her happy he did. As for her, there was no pleasure in her day if she was not assured of his happiness.

When her sister had left home to be married, Suso and her father had gone about planning a great park which Suso was to have for her own, a park of terraced, flowered hills. And when it was finished, both birds and animals came to live there and the air was full of song. So in that place Suso played with her companions, and their hearts were in tune with the beauty all about. It was a never-ending pleasure to seek out new places in the great park, cool nooks in which were little waterfalls whose silver music mingled with the whispering of the leaves, or shaded spots where were ponds of crystal water and fountains and seats and bright green carpets of moss.

For a long time there was happiness, until, indeed, her father married again, for her mother had died when Suso was a small child. Then one day there was a cloud of grief in the maiden’s heart, because on a silent, moonlit night she had walked with her father and he had told her that he was troubled with a wasting sickness and feared that he had not long to live. Some enemy, he said, had cast a spell on him, so that day by day he grew weaker and weaker and weaker. Wise men and doctors had looked into the matter, had sat solemnly and thought, had guessed and wondered, but had agreed on one thing only—that something was wrong. What that something was they did not know, but they agreed that if the thing that was wrong could be discovered and removed, all would go well again. Because of what her father had told her, Suso was sad and often wandered to a quiet place where she could tell her troubles to the trees.

The stepmother was not at all fair in her ways and not only disliked Suso, but was very mean and treacherous, hiding her hatred from the father and petting Suso when he was near, stroking her hair and saying pretty things. So well did the wicked woman play her part that nothing could have made the father believe other than that she loved Suso quite as much as he did. For instance, on that moonlit night when he had told his daughter of his trouble, seeing her tears, for she had wept bitterly, he had said:

“But Suso, my dove, your mother will care for you tenderly when I am dead, for she loves you dearly.”

At that the girl stifled her sobs and dried her tears, lest the father she loved so well should be wounded by her grief, and seeing her calmed he had supposed that all was well and that his words had soothed her.

But see how it really was with Suso and her stepmother. There was one day, not long after, when father and stepmother and daughter were standing by the fountain, watching the wavering shadows flying across the green, when the man suddenly felt a clutching pain at his heart and was forced to sit down for very weakness. When he felt a little better and the first sharpness of the pain had gone, Suso walked with him to the house, and when he was comfortably seated and had a feather robe cast about him, he bade her return to her stepmother. That she did, because she was bid, although her wish would have been to sit at his feet. Because of her unwillingness and her grief she went softly, and not singing and dancing, as was her fashion. And what was her terror when she saw and heard the wicked woman talking to a great horned owl that sat in the hollow of an old tree! So terrible that seemed, that Suso could find nothing to say, but stood with clasped hands, her heart a-flutter. Seeing Suso, the woman motioned to the owl and the bird said no more, but sat listening, its head on one side. Then the stepmother took Suso by the hand and drew her into a place where they could be seen by the father, but far enough away to be out of earshot. But the father, seeing the woman and the maiden standing thus together, was happy, thinking that his daughter had a friend. It made him happier still to see the woman take Suso’s arm and pull it gently about her waist. But he did not hear what was said, for had he heard, it would have cut him to the heart.

This is what the woman said, and her voice was like a poison-dart as she whispered loud enough for the owl to hear:

“Suso, stand thus with your arm about my waist so that your father may see us together. Thus he will think that I love you.” Then she hissed in the girl’s ear: “But I hate you, hate you, hate you.”

And the owl lifted his head, blew a little and repeated softly: “Hate you—Hoo!—Hoo!”

From far off in the woods came the sound of an answering owl like an echo: “Hate you—Hoo!—Hoo!” and it seemed to Suso that all the world hated her for no cause, for the screeching parrots, too, repeated the cry. As for the sweet feathered things that she loved, they had all fled from that place.

Soon the stepmother spoke again and the owl dropped to a lower branch the better to hear. “Suso,” said the woman, “your father cannot live much longer. The spell is upon him and day by day he nears his death. Because of that I am glad, for when he dies, all this land, the house, and all its riches, must be mine.”

Hearing that vicious speech Suso was well nigh faint with fear and horror and would have sped to her father to warn him. But the woman caught her by the wrist, twisting it painfully, and pinched the soft place on her arm with her other hand, and stooping again so that it seemed to the watching father that she kissed Suso, she said:

“But see to it that you say no word, for the moment that you say anything but good of me, that moment your father will fall dead.”

So what was Suso to do?

Thus it was that Suso crept to quiet places and told her tale to the whispering leaves and to the evening breeze, and thus it was that in the midst of all that beauty of golden sunlight and silver-glinted waters and flower-twined forest she could not but be sad. For there were tears in her heart, and everything that her father did for her was as nothing and like a crumbling tower.

But she had told the trees (and trees bend their tops though they are foot-fast, and leaves, too, whisper one to another), so that the tale went abroad, though of this, Suso knew nothing.

Now while all this was going on there lived in the hills far off a youth, and his name was Huathia. Brown-haired he was and bright-eyed too, with clear skin and strong arms, and all who knew him said that he was a good lad and honest.

He was a herder of goats and llamas, and one day, as he was out in the vega with his flock, he chanced to see a falcon wheeling high in the air, carrying something in its beak that sent the rays of the sun flashing far, like silver light. Then the bird dipped with the thing it was carrying, looking like a glittering falling star, and Huathia for a moment lost sight of the bird as it dropped behind a bush. But it soon rose and took to flight, this time without the shining thing. So Huathia went to the place where the falcon had dropped, and there at the bottom of a little stream he saw a bright round piece of silver. The lad rescued it and looked at it with astonishment as it lay in his hand, a polished and smooth disc it was, that reflected his face as clearly as a mirror. So he kept it, wrapping it in a leaf, and took it that night to the place where the lad lived with another herdsman, a very wise and good man who knew many strange things, and he told the youth that it was the wonderful mirror of one called Paracaca, long since dead. He said that whoever looked in it saw his own face as others saw it, but the owner of the mirror saw something else, “for,” added he, “with it you may see the hidden spirit of other people, seeing through the mask they wear. And if a man has the face of a man but the heart of a fox then certainly while such a man beholds his own face, you shall see the other creature in him.”

Hearing that, the youth Huathia was much amazed at the magic of the thing and, holding it so that the face of his herder friend was shown in the mirror, saw, not the rough bearded face of the man alone, all knotted like a tree-trunk, but a face that was full of kindness and gentleness, at which he was glad.

So he placed the wonderful mirror in his bag and carried it about with him. The next day, while he was leaning against the trunk of a tree and playing on his flute, he seemed to hear a whispering, and putting his reed away he listened intently. Still and small, still and small were the voices that he heard, as tree-head bent to tree-head and leaf murmured to leaf, but soon he caught the rumour that ran, and learned the tale that in the country of the rich man there was a creature timorous and frail, whose gentle heart was heavy with sorrow, and that an unknown evil brooded dark.

No time lost he then, seeing that there was something of worth that he could possibly do, but gave the care of the goats and llamas to his friend, took his arrows and bow, his bag with a little food and the wonderful mirror, and after bidding his friend good-bye set off for the land of the rich man. What was strange was that while all had been silent in the soft green woods that morning, except for the sound of his flute, no sooner had he started on his way than a gay chorus came from the bright birds and the world was full of mirth. So, well content, he went on his way, a ragged herdsman, but light of heart and strong of limb and brave.

Into the land of the rich man he went and came in time to a place where sat the maiden under a tree, doves at her feet and glittering humming-birds about her head. When Suso saw the youth her heart leaped for joy, for she knew him for a kind lad, though never before had she set eyes on him.

“Are you a beggar and poor?” she asked. “For here there is plenty for all.”

“I am no beggar,” he answered, “and for myself I am well content with what I have. But it has been whispered about the world and I have heard the tale, that there is a great sorrow upon you, and that some unknown evil is destroying the beauty and the bliss of this place, so I have come to do what is to be done.”

At that Suso said no more but rose up and took Huathia by the hand and led him to her father. It was a day on which the good man was very weak, but seeing that his daughter was pleased with her new companion he ordered his servants to spread a table under the trees, and the three of them had a feast of goat’s milk and fruit, and cassava bread, though the father could eat but little. Then Huathia took his flute and played sweet music until the world seemed full of peace, and gripping grief had vanished. Suso, too, sang sweetly, so that for a moment the father thought that the shadow that was upon him was but a dream and might pass.

They talked long and long, the three of them, and Huathia learned much about the rich man’s failing strength, whereupon it came to him somehow, that by means of his wonderful mirror he might perchance discover what evil thing was about that place. To him the rich man said:

“If with this mirror you can find the hidden evil thing and can restore my strength again, then there is nothing too great that I own which may not be yours for the asking.”

“There is but one thing I want,” said Huathia. “For I love Suso the gentle and would marry her.”

The rich man thought long after this speech, stroking the hair of Suso who sat at his knee, for it had not entered into his mind that his daughter might be the gift which the youth demanded as his price. But looking at the maiden he saw that her eyes were cast down, though for a moment they had looked up swiftly as Huathia spoke. Then, too, it was certain that since the youth had been there, the song of the birds was louder in the thicket and the green of the trees brighter.

So the father said thoughtfully: “If you find the cause of the trouble that is upon me and relieve it so that I am healed again, then you may have my daughter for your wife, though you must promise me that you will stay in this place.”

That, Huathia promised readily enough, and stooped to Suso and kissed her, and having done so, went away to the dark pool in the woods to sleep, at the very moment the stepmother came out of the house to join her husband and his daughter.

As it happened that night, there was a thin new moon, and the youth slept but little because of the croaking noise made by the frogs. Presently, full awake, he sat up, and it seemed to him that the air was full of noise, not only of frogs but of the hooting of owls and the whirring of bats, and looking he saw the strange sight of a great white toad with two heads, and presently about that fearful thing other things gathered. From rock and hole came unclean creatures, abominable serpents and centipedes and great gray spiders, and all these gathered in a circle, the two-headed toad in the centre. With wide-open eyes Huathia watched, although the sight of so much that was noisome came near to benumbing and stupefying him, and incomplete shapes seemed to be looking at him with evil eyes from the black depth of the forest.

Soon the owl began to mourn and the song fell into words and the youth heard this:

“Who knows where hides our queen? Hoo! Hoo!”

And first one creature and then another answered:

“The toad, our queen, lies hid unsoughtBeneath the stone that men have wrought.”

“The toad, our queen, lies hid unsought

Beneath the stone that men have wrought.”

And so it went on, a mad and horrible concert, with bat and owl and great ghost-moth whirling about on silent wings, until sickened of it all Huathia rose up and clapping his hands to his ears fled from the place. And when he had gained a quiet and lonely spot he sat down, but in his ears rang what he had heard:

“The toad, our queen, lies hid unsoughtBeneath the stone that men have wrought.”

“The toad, our queen, lies hid unsought

Beneath the stone that men have wrought.”

So he wondered and wondered where could be the stone that men had wrought, and the story that men had told of a great temple on the mountains came to him. But that place seemed too far away.

When it was full day the youth went to the house, and in time the rich man came forth and greeted him. Then came the stepmother, who fixed her large dark eyes on Huathia, not looking at him straight, but sideways. Suso came shortly afterward and the youth could not take his eyes from her. It seemed to him that she was the most beautiful of living things as she sat on her stool by the side of her father, her hair touched by the golden light so that it seemed to be as full of ripples as a sun-kissed brook. So there was pleasant talk while they ate, and, after, a drinking-in of soft music as Huathia played on his flute. Suso sang when Huathia had finished, and though her song had a touch of sadness in it, it seemed to her pleased father that all on earth that was soft and shapely and fair was gathered there in that garden, until catching the eye of his wife he was reminded that his life was flowing away, and the old grief came upon him.

Somehow talk fell upon Huathia and his mirror and the strange way in which he had found it, and he took it from his bag. As he looked in it, Suso came and stood behind him, so that he saw the reflection of her face and the true picture of herself, and there was a gentleness there, the gentleness of the dove and the purity of the flower. The rich man came, too, looking over Huathia’s shoulder and saw his own reflection. But what the youth saw was a face that denoted great bravery and kindness. Seeing all this the stepmother stretched her hand across the table and took the mirror, gazing at the picture of her own dark beauty. Then Huathia stepped to her side and looked into the disc. He saw, not the dark eyes and night-black hair that she saw, not the face of a proud woman, but the face of a toad, and when she held the polished silver further off, the better to see, the toad-face changed, so that he saw a double-headed toad. But of that she knew nothing and did not even guess that he knew her for a vile witch and no true woman. And as she continued to gaze and her thoughts wandered, so did new things come into the picture that Huathia saw, and he beheld about her neck two writhing white snakes, a sight so horrible that he could scarcely hold his countenance or prevent himself from calling out. Having seen to her content, the woman rose from her stool and left the room.

The rich man, already tired, for his night’s sleep did not revive him, stood up and beckoned to the youth to give him an arm. Suso supported him on the other side and so they walked slowly to a seat beneath a great flowering bush near the house. Having found his seat and being wrapped in his feather mantle by Suso, he asked the youth to play the flute again. Huathia was ready and willing, but somehow the memory of the two-headed toad and the two white snakes made him nervous, and when he put his flute to his lips no sweet sounds came, but instead rude noises like the hissing of snakes and the croaking of frogs and the screeching of parrots. Even Suso stopped her ears and her father bade the youth cease his noise.

“Are you of those who make my last days the wearier with your noises?” he asked sorrowfully. Then he added: “For many nights I have dreamed of toads with two heads and of snakes that hung over me, and now you come with your flute and the noises that such evil things make. I had expected better of you, Huathia, seeing that I have treated you as a son.”

Huathia earnestly assured him that he had no wish to do other than to make music, and he ended by saying: “There is, I am sure, some enchantment in this place, for though the sun is warm I feel a chill, as if some clammy thing enfolded me.”

He shivered as he spoke, though he was a lad whose blood ran warm; not afraid, not given to idle fancies. Of a sudden his eyes fell upon a large grindstone that lay near by. It was a stone so great that two men could hardly make shift to raise it, and so it had been left there for years and grasses had grown about it. But when Huathia saw it, there leaped into his mind the song that he had heard:

“The toad, our queen, lies hid unsoughtBeneath the stone that men have wrought.”

“The toad, our queen, lies hid unsought

Beneath the stone that men have wrought.”

It had meant little in the night, but in a flash he saw that the grindstone was a stone wrought by men. So fitting an arrow to his bow he handed the weapon to Suso, telling her to shoot whatever evil thing was discovered when he lifted the stone. With a great effort he raised the stone suddenly, heavy though it was, lifting it high above his head, and there, in a hollow place where the stone had been, sat a large, white, double-headed toad.

“Shoot, Suso, shoot!” commanded the father. “Let not that evil thing escape. It is the creature that torments me at night.”

Swift flew the arrow and it pierced the body of the toad. At the same moment there fell from the roof of the house two monstrous white serpents where they had lain hidden. Like lightning Huathia, having seized the bow, sent two arrows flying, and each serpent was cut into halves. In less than three moments three evil things died, and it was like the sun coming from a cloud-veil, the way in which joy came to that place. The weakness of the father fell from him like a cloak. The bodies of the toad and the snakes withered and shrivelled, and as a light breeze sprang up, what was left of them was blown away as dust. There were soft stirrings in the thicket and the whole world burst into song. So both father and daughter knew then that the witcheries were gone and the evil creatures vanished for ever, and that all the trouble that had been upon that place came from the wicked stepmother.

So youth and maiden were married, and the father soon regained his health and strength, and in all the world there were no happier people than they.

THE TALE OF THE LAZY PEOPLE

IN Colombia, it seems, there were always monkeys, or if not always, at least as far as the memory of man goes. An old historian named Oviedo noted that and wrote: “When the Christians make an expedition to the interior and have to pass by woods, they ought to cover themselves well with their bucklers . . . for the monkeys throw down nuts and branches at them. . . . I knew one, a servant. This man threw a stone at a monkey, who caught it and returned it with such force that it knocked out four or five of Francisco’s teeth, and I know this to be true for I often saw the said Francisco, always without his teeth.”

Now one day a man told me the tale of the monkeys, and he talked and talked as he smoked, until the stars came out and shone clear and steady and the air was heavy with perfume, and owls and bats floated strangely, as they will do, and when he had finished he still talked, taking up forgotten ends of his tale and winding in and about, making a long affair of a short matter. But then he had nothing else to do but to talk and was mighty pleased, it seemed, to have someone to listen to him. Then, when we should have been sleeping, he went on talking, picking out a piece of the tale here and another piece there, and explaining until I was well nigh like to get the story tangled myself. But here is the meat of it:

Long, long ago there were no monkeys, and the trees were so full of fruit, and the vines of grapes, that the people became lazy, and at last did little but eat and sleep, being too idle to carry away the rinds and skins of the fruit that they lived on, and certainly too lazy to clean their thatched houses.

It was very pleasant at first, but soon not so pleasant, for winged things that bit and stung came in thousands to feed on the things thrown aside, and they, too, grew lazy, finding so much to eat ready at hand, and when people tried to brush them away there was a loud and angry buzz and much irritated stinging, so that soon every one was wonder-struck, not knowing exactly what to do. For a time it seemed easier to move the little village to a new spot and to build new houses, for the dwellings were light affairs and in a day or less a good house could be built. But then they lived by a lake from which the water for drinking was taken, and as it was but a little body of water, it was not long before the people had built right round the still pool and so were back again at the starting place. As for the stinging flies, they were soon worse than the mosquitoes, while a great wasp with pink head and legs and bands of black and gold on its body, though very pretty to see, was worst of all. So it was no easy matter to know what to do, and there was much talk and much argument, and all that the people agreed on was that something had to be done, and that, very soon.

One day there came to the village a queer and rather faded kind of man, ragged and tattered and torn as though he had scrambled for miles through the thorn-bush forest. He had rough yellow hair, and queer wrinkles at the corners of his eyes which made him look as if he were smiling. It was late in the afternoon when he came and the people were taking their rest after the noon meal, so no one took much notice of him although he went here and there, looking at things, and so walked round the lake. But the curiosity of everyone was excited when he was seen to make a basket, which he did quickly, and then commence to gather up the fruit skins and rinds in one place. Now and then some one or other raised himself in his hammock, with a mind to talk to him, but it seemed almost too much trouble, and when some great blue-winged butterfly fluttered past or some golden-throated humming-bird flashed in the sunlight, their eyes wandered away from the old man and they forgot him again. So the sunlight died and the forest was a velvet blackness and everyone slept, though the old man still worked on, and the next morning when the people awoke he was still working diligently, though he had but a small place cleared after all.

The very thought that any one would work all night made the head man shiver with a kind of excitement, yet he was very curious to know why the stranger went to so much trouble, seeing that he neither lived there nor was of the lake men. At the same time it made his spirit droop to think that if the place was to be cleared up, he and everyone else had a mountain of work in sight. So Tera, the head man, called to Cuco, who was his servant, telling him to bring the stranger to him, and Cuco, who was very respectful, said that he would attend to it. Then Cuco did his part by calling Yana and delivering the message to him. And Yana in turn told his servant, Mata, who told his servant, Pera, who told his servant, Racas, who told a boy, so that at last the message reached the old man. Then back went the old man, handed by the boy to Racas, by Racas to Pera, by Pera to Mata, by Mata to Yana, and by Yana to Cuco, so that at last he stood before Tera, the head man, and the others, being curious to know what was afoot, gathered about.

“What is your name, from where do you come, and what do you want?” asked Tera, putting his three questions at once, to save trouble. Then the head man looked at those about him with a little frown, as much as to say, “Note how wisely I act,” and each man who had heard, seeing that the head man looked his way, nodded at his neighbour, as though calling attention to the wisdom of the head man, so all went very well. But the little old man stood there very simply, making no fuss at all and quite unimpressed with the greatness of the great man.

“I want to work,” he answered. “I want to be told what you want done and to see that it is done.”

To be sure, the language that he spoke was one new to those who listened, but somehow they seemed to understand. But the thing that he said they found truly astonishing and could hardly believe their ears. But the head man, though as astonished as any one there, quickly regained his composure and asked this question:

“What is your trade?”

“I have no trade,” said the old man. “But I get things done.”

“What kind of things?”

“All kinds of things.”

“Do you mean big things, like house-building and all that?” asked the head man.

“Yes. And little things too, which are really big things when you come to consider,” said the old man, but that seemed an odd if not a silly thing to say, the head man thought.

“Little things left undone soon become big things,” explained the old man, and waved his hand in the direction of a heap of fruit skins and husks near by.

“Yes. Yes. But you must not preach to us, you know,” said Tera a little testily. “Tell me the names of the trades you have.”

So the little old man began to tell, naming big things and very little things, things important and things not important at all, and having finished, asked very politely whether any one there had anything to be done. As for pay he said that he wanted none at all and would take none, and he said that because some of those gathered about him began offering him things.

For instance, Pera said: “If you work for me, I will let you have one fish out of every ten that you catch, for I am a fisherman.” And Racas pushed him aside, saying: “But I will do better, for I am supposed to be fruit gatherer and will give you two things for every ten you gather.” And so it went, each bidding higher than his neighbour, until it came to the turn of the man whose duty it was to gather the rinds and fruit skins. He said, “I will let you have, not one out of ten, nor two out of ten, nor five out of ten that you gather, but ten out of ten, if you will work for me.” At that the old man said quite positively that he would take no pay at all.

No more was said then and the little old man turned away without as much as bowing to the head man, seeing which the head man waved his hand and said: “You may go, and so that you will lose no time, you need not bow to me.” And all the rest gathered there said very hastily: “Nor need you bow to me, either.”

The old man took small notice of any one, but went away singing, for he had a gay, light-hearted disposition, and having reached the place he had cleared, he took flat pieces of wood and began cutting out figures like little men, and each figure had a kind of handle that looked like a long tail. Nor did he cease whittling until he had made at least twenty wooden figures for each man in the village. Being finished he stood up to stretch his legs and straighten his back, and when the people asked him what the little figures were for, he shrugged his shoulders but spoke never a word. Then he lifted the figures that he had made, one by one, and set them upright in the sand until there was a long row of them, and took his place in front of them, like a general before his army. It was beautiful to look at, for one figure was as like another as one pin is like another, and for a moment even the old man stood admiring the line. After a moment he waved his hand in a peculiar way, spoke some magic word, and waved his hand again, at which each of the figures came to life and nodded its head, seeing which all the people laughed and clapped their hands. The ragged man bade them make no noise, but watch.

“Since you do not like to work,” he said, “I have made twenty figures for each of you, and they will work for you without pay, doing what you require them to do; only observe this, you must not give any figure more than one particular job. And now let each man or woman clap his hands three times, then call out the name of the thing to be done.”

When he had said this, the figures started running, twenty gathering in a circle about each man there, bowing from the hips and straightening themselves again, so that their tails of wood went up and down like pump-handles.

“Now see,” said the ragged man, “you have things to work for you, and as I call out, the figures will stand forth, each ready to do his task.” And he began calling, thus:

“Armadillo hunters, stand forth!” and a hundred and more active figures ran together like soldiers.

So he named others in order as:

Bread makers.

Cassava gatherers.

Despolvadores, who would gather up dust.

Esquiladors, who would shear the goats.

Farsante men, whose work was to amuse tired men.

Guardas, to keep order about the place.

Horneros, or bakers.

Industriosos, who were to do odd jobs everywhere.

Jumentos, whose work it was to carry burdens.

Labradores, to do heavy work and clear away garbage.

Moledores, to grind the corn.

Narradores, who told stories, related gossip and so on.

Olleros, or pot makers.

Pocilga figures, to attend to the pigs.

Queseros, to make cheese from goat’s milk.

Rumbosos, or proud-looking things to walk in parades.

Servidores, or food carriers.

Trotadores, to run errands.

Vaqueros, to attend to the cows.

So everyone was well pleased and each one had his twenty figures to do all that needed to be done, and all that day there was a great scraping and cleaning and carrying and currying and hurrying and scurrying. Silently the little figures worked, never stopping, never tiring, never getting in one another’s way, and all that the living people had to do was to rest and watch the men of wood, and keep their brains free for higher things. For it must be remembered that before the old man came there with his wonderful gift, the people had complained that there was so much to be done that they had no time to write poems or to make songs or to create music, and that with the daily tasks abolished their brains would be more active.

Not two days had passed before the children of the place complained that they did not have a chance and that they had so much to do, what with hunting for things lost, looking after their small brothers and sisters, keeping things in order, trying to remember things they were told, cleaning things, and a dozen other tasks, that they really had no time to play, much less to study. So they went in a body to the old man and asked him to give each child twenty figures to do odd things. There was a great deal of fire and expression in his eyes when he made answer that if the children really needed help he would lose no time in providing it. But the young people were quite positive that they were overworked, and the long and short of it was that the old man whittled out many, many more figures, and in another twenty-four hours each and every boy and girl had his own:

Abaniquero, or fan maker, so that none had to pluck a palm leaf.

Baliquero figure, to carry letters and messages.

Cabrero, to look after the goats.

Desalumbrado, to hunt for things in the dark.

Enseñador, or private teacher, who was never to scold.

Florista, to save them the trouble of gathering flowers.

Guasón figure, to amuse them.

Hojaldarista, whose work it was to make cakes.

Juego figure, to arrange games.

Keeper of things.

Lector, to read and tell stories.

Mimo, to act as clown.

Niñera, to look after younger children.

Obediencia figure, to make others obey.

Postor, to buy things for them.

Quitar figures, to take things away when children tired.

Recordación figures, or rememberers.

Solfeadors, to sing to them.

Tortada men, to make pies.

Volantes, as servants.

So things seemed to be going very well, and before a month had passed in all that place there was not a thing out of order, soiled, broken, bent, lost, misplaced, undone, unclean, or disorderly. Neither man nor woman nor child had to worry; dinners were always prepared, fruits gathered, beds made, houses in perfect order, and all was spick and span. All that the grown-up people had to do was to look on, and no one was proud of the order in his house because every other house in the place was as orderly. As for the children, they had nothing at all to do but to eat, drink, rest, and sleep. Then, presently, more figures were called for as this one or that wanted a larger house, a finer garden, or grander clothes.

But as the wooden figures became more numerous and as no figure could do more than one task, the ragged man had to make figures for the figures and servants for the servants, for as things went on, there had to be more fruit gatherers, more water carriers, more scavengers, more cooks, because the figures had to eat and drink. Thus it came to pass that before long, instead of their being twenty figures for each man, there were sixty or seventy, with new ones coming from the old man’s knife every day. Soon the lively manikins were everywhere, inside houses as well as outside, thick as flies in summer and certainly a great deal more persistent, for there could be no closing of doors against the manikins. Indeed, had anything like that been attempted there would have been a great cry for special door-openers. So, many houses were quite cluttered with wooden men, those who were on duty rushing about until it made the head swim to look at them, and those who were resting or sleeping, for soon they learned to rest and to sleep, lying about the floors, piled up in corners, or hanging to rafters by their tails. All that increase in help had made for the production of a thousand or more guardas, whose task it was to keep order, and they were everywhere, alert and watchful and officious, and the real people had to step about very gingerly sometimes, to avoid treading on them and annoying them.

At last there came a day when the people began to grow a little tired of doing nothing, and they told one another that a little help was a very good thing, but help in excess, too much of a good thing altogether. So there was a meeting and much talk and the manikin narradors, whose duty it was to carry gossip and the news, were very busy, rushing from here to there with their scraps of information.

“It is very clear that something must be done,” said Tera, the head man.

“But everythingisbeing done,” answered the little old man. “Ifeverythingis done, somethingmustbe done.”

“I did not mean that,” said Tera, who seemed a little testy. “I meant to say that these wooden men must be kept in their places.”

“But theyarein their places,” replied the old man. “Their place is everywhere because they do everything, so they are in their places.”

“You see, the days are so very long, so very dull,” said the man who wished to have time that he might become a poet. “At the shut of day we are not weary.”

“We do not want to be petted,” said another.

“The trouble is,” sighed a fat man, “you can’t be happy when everything is done for you.”

“And we don’t want to be nobodies,” shouted another.

Another said very mournfully: “It seems to me that when these wooden things do things with our things, then the things that they do and make and care for are not our things.”

“Too many ‘things’ in that speech,” said the fat man.

“Well, there are too many things,” answered the other. “Look at me. I used to be gardener and now I’m nothing. When my garden is dug and planted and tended and watered and the very flowers plucked by these wooden things, and when other wooden things pick up the leaves and pull the weeds and do everything, then my garden does not seem to be mine.” He added after awhile: “I hope you know what I mean, because it is not very clear to me, yet it is so. I remember——”

At that the little old man put up his hand and said: “But that is against the contract. You must not try to remember, really you must not, because there are manikins to do all the remembering, if you please.”

“Well, but I think——” began the man, when he was again interrupted.

“Please do not think,” said the little old man. “We have things to do the thinking, if you please.” He thought for a moment, his bent forefinger on his lips, then he said: “I’ll see what can be done. It is clear that you are not satisfied, although you have everything that you asked for and certainly all the time that you want.”

“Let us do something,” murmured Tera.

“I’m afraid there is nothing that you can do,” said the little old man, “because, as you see, everything is done, and when everything is done it is quite clear that something cannot be left to be done. The only thing that is clear is that there is nothing to be done.”

At that the meeting broke up and each went to his own hammock to think things over, and soon the general cry was: “We must have elbow room.” And hearing that, the little old man went to work and whittled more figures of wood, a whole army of them, ten for each living man, woman, and child, and in voices that creaked like wooden machinery they marched hither and thither, crying: “Elbow room. Elbow room!”

Soon there was confusion. It was manikin against manikin for a time, the Elbow-room-ers thrusting and pushing the other working manikins, some going about their work with frantic haste, others interfering with them, clutching at them and at the things they carried, a tangled knot of them sometimes staggering, to go down with a crash. Soon in every house was a jangling tumult, manikins and men running about in houses and dashing out into the open spaces outside; the noise of slamming doors and breaking pots; the clamour of animals. Above all could be heard everywhere cries of “We want elbow room! We want elbow room!” Soon men were running away from the houses with those strange swift manikins hanging to them sometimes beating them, while other manikins threw things out of the doors and through windows, food and household things. And excited children fled too, while their manikins ran at their sides, some chattering, some acting the clown as was their duty, some telling stories as they ran, while other strange little figures of wood ran bearing heavy burdens. It was all a dreadful mix-up with no one knowing what to do, no one knowing where to go, and everywhere the manikins who were guardas, or order keepers, ran about, tripping people and manikins alike in the effort to stop the rush. But when the day was near its end there were no people in the houses and the hammocks swung idly, for all the men and women and children, even the white-haired grandfathers and grandmothers, had fled to the further side of the lake, where they could have elbow room, leaving the houses and all that was in them to the manikins.

The next day, the people plucked their fruit for themselves and it seemed as though fruit was never sweeter. The water that they carried from the lake tasted better and cooler than water had for many a long day, and when night came they were happily tired and slept well, without any manikin to swing their hammocks and sing to them. And in the morning they woke early to discover the pink and gold of the sunrise most wonderful to see, and there was music in the sound of the wind among the grasses. So as the day passed they were both amazed and astonished at the wonderful and beautiful things that they had almost forgotten, the sight of butterflies fluttering from flower to flower, the shadows chasing across the hills, the richness of the green earth and the blueness of the sky, the gold of sunlight on the leaves, the rippling water and the bending trees; indeed the memory of the manikin days was like a fearful nightmare. Very light-hearted then they grew and the world was full of the music of their laughter and song, and briskly they worked, enjoying it all, building new houses and making things to put in them.

Meanwhile in the village things had gone queerly. For one thing the Elbow-room-ers kept up their crowding and pushing, so that the manikins trying to work at their old tasks (and there were many who went on just as before) were sadly hindered. There were other figures of wood with nothing to do, since the people they served were gone, and these fell to quarrelling among themselves and grew mischievous. For instance, the pot makers and the pot cleaners fell out, and the pot cleaners started to break the pots so that the pot makers would have more work to do. That meant that the clay gatherers and the clay diggers had to work harder, then because they worked harder, though to be sure all their work meant nothing and was little more than idle bustle, they grew hungrier and wanted more to eat. Because of all that the fruit gatherers had more to do and the water carriers had to work harder and the cassava bread makers had to bake as they had never baked before. That brought the fire builders into it, and of course the wood gatherers also, for they too had to work harder and to eat more, so still more work came on the food bringers. And all the time the Elbow-room-ers rushed about, always in groups of ten, driving and commanding, rushing on workers and sweeping them aside. So everywhere were little figures hurrying one after the other, going to and fro, busy about nothing, quarrelling about nothing, fighting about nothing.

The trouble came when the Elbow-room-ers interfered with the dogs and the cats, the goats and the hens, pushing and hustling them. For the animals, disliking all the disorder and clatter, fell upon the manikins, workers and idlers alike. Seeing that, the household utensils took a hand and the very pots and kettles ran or rolled or fell, spilling hot water over the wooden things with pump-handle tails. The very embers from the fires leaped into the fray. All the while from the metates in which the corn had been ground came a low growling, and the growling formed itself into words:

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