Читать книгу Types of Prose Narratives. A Text-Book for the Story Writer онлайн

79 страница из 79

Esprit Follet—the house-spirit of France.

Familiar spirit—a spirit or demon supposed to be summoned by a necromancer or a soothsayer from the unseen world to attend upon him as a servant.

Fay—the French word for fairy, anglicised.

Gnome—one of a fabulous race of dwarfed and misshapen earth-spirits or goblins, reputed to be special guardians of mines and miners. (gnome, from the Greek.)

Hag—a forbidding or malicious old woman; a witch. (haegtes, a fury.)

Hamadryad—a wood-nymph fabled to live and die with the tree she inhabited, the oak being considered as the tree preferred. (Greek mythology.)

Hornie, or Horny—the devil; so called because commonly represented with horns.

Imp—an evil spirit of low rank; a small, puny, or contemptible devil. (Russian folk tales often make use of this spirit.)

Undine—a female water-spirit without a soul, with which she might be endowed only by marrying a mortal and bearing a child. (unda, wave.)

Werwolf—a person who, according to mediæval superstition, became voluntarily or involuntarily a wolf and in that form practiced cannibalism. (wer, man + wulf, wolf.)

Wraith—a fantom of a living person, supposed to be ominous of that person's death.

Lamia—a female demon or vampire that enticed youths and fed upon their flesh and blood. (Classical mythology.)

Merrow—a mermaid. (Irish mythology.)

Monaciello—the house-spirit of Naples.

Nightmare—an evil spirit once supposed to oppress people during sleep. Called also Incubus. (niht, night + maere, a nightmare.)

Ogre—a demon or monster that was supposed to devour human beings. (ogre. The derivation is uncertain.)

Ouphe—an elf or fairy. (oaf = elf.)

Pigwidgeon—a very small fairy.

Sprite—a spirit of the earth or air.

Sylph—originally, a being, male or female, living in and on the air and intermediate between material and immaterial beings. (Used by Paracelsus. The word is undoubtedly of Greek origin.)

In the house of an honest farmer in Yorkshire, named George Gilbertson, a Boggart had taken up his abode. He here caused a good deal of annoyance, especially by tormenting the children in various ways. Sometimes their bread and butter would be snatched away, or their porringers of milk be capsized by an invisible hand; for the Boggart never let himself be seen; at other times the curtains of their beds would be shaken backwards and forwards, or a heavy weight would press on them and nearly suffocate them. The parents had often, on hearing their cries, to fly to their aid. There was a kind of closet, formed by a wooden partition on the kitchen stairs, and a large knot having been driven out of one of the deal boards of which it was made, there remained a hole. Into this one day the farmer's youngest boy stuck the shoe horn with which he was amusing himself, when immediately it was thrown out again, and hit the boy on the head. The agent was, of course, the Boggart, and it soon became the children's sport (called laking with Boggart) to put the shoe horn into the hole and have it shot back at them.

The Boggart at length proved such a torment that the farmer and his wife resolved to quit the house and let him have it all to himself. This decision was put into execution, and the farmer and his family were following the last loads of furniture, when a neighbor named John Marshall came up: "Well, Georgey," said he, "and soa you're leaving t'ould hoose at last?" "Heigh, Johnny, my lad, I'm forced tull it; for that villain Boggart torments us soa, we can neither rest neet nor day for't. It seems loike to have such a malice again t'poor bairns, it ommost kills my poor dame here at thoughts on't, and soa, ye see, we're forced to flitt loike." He scarce had uttered the words when a voice from a deep upright churn cried out: "Aye, aye, Johnny, we 're flitting, ye see." "Od hang thee," cried the poor farmer, "if I'd known thou'd been there, I wadn't ha' stirred a peg. Nay, nay, it's no use, Mally," said he to his wife, "we may as weel turn back to t'ould hoose as be tormented in another that's not so convenient."

From "English Fairy and Other Folk Tales." Selected and edited by Edwin Sidney Hartland (Walter Scott Pub. Co.).

Once in the little village of Babancal there lived a happy couple. They were poor and it was necessary for them both to work for their living. The husband's occupation was farming during the wet season and fishing during the dry season. The wife kept the house, helped the husband in some of his work, and in addition, made mats of buli, pandan, or ticay, and sacks of buli.

One night, at about six o'clock after a slight supper, when it was dolom (moonless), the husband went to fish. The wife remained alone at home and sat waiting for the husband, and, at the same time, making a mat. The house was lighted with a home-made lamp of bamboo and earth. The lampwick of ragged doth dipped in oil made from the fruit of the bitaog tree gave a very poor light.

At about midnight some one threw a dalag (a kind of fish) through the window. The wife was frightened and surprised. In a minute she recovered herself.

"Come in, Gregorio," she said, for she thought her husband was outside.

No one answered.

"Stop this nonsense. You know it is late now," she said angrily. "You had better come in and let us cook the fish and eat our supper." She did not rise from her seat and went on with her work.

In a few minutes a rod with another dalag hanging on it was thrust into the room. The fish fell on the floor before her.

"Oh, how foolish! Come in, I say," she said.

Hardly had she uttered the last word when the fish on the hook came down upon her head. She muttered some oaths and tried to catch the fish and take hold of the rod. But before she could do so, it was raised. Then she got up, took the lamp, and went to the window.

When she peeped out, she saw Cafre, the Spirit, grinning at her. His smile showed his large white teeth, forming a strong contrast with his dark complexion and the darkness of the night. The woman was frightened. She trembled and could not move an inch. She bent down her head to avoid his gaze. At last when she raised her eyes, he was gone.

—Benito C. Ebuen.

About a half mile from Noveleta there is a small pond. The tall bamboo trees that grow at the edge of the water bow their heads toward each other so that they form a complete vaulted arch over the pond. There are but small spaces left between the thick leaves above and so the sunshine can hardly go through them. The lilies, the sea weed, and the falling leaves of the bamboo trees, decaying under the water have deposited a deep layer of sediment.

A long time ago a shooting meteor from heaven fell on the water of this pond. This meteor bore within it a beautiful nymph named Bituin. Her slender white body, whose skin was very delicate, was covered with beautiful leaves of the lilies whenever she came out of the water. Every night numberless fireflies lighted her dwelling with their fresh rays. Bituin had a large diamond, which she always put on a floating leaf at the center of the pond to serve as a light when it was dark.

Bituin had no neighbors for a number of years, and so she was not familiar with the form of man. However, as time glided on she was known by many, who began to love her. She did not dare to speak with men, because she was not familiar with the ugly complexion of the skin of mortals. One night an aswang was passing by this pond, and he heard the musical vibration of the bamboo leaves in harmony with the whistling sound of the wings of fireflies. He stopped and admired the beautiful nymph, who was sitting on the water, watching the wonderful rays of light from her large diamond. He was led to wonder at her beauty, and he fell in love with her. He asked Bituin to approach him, but his words had hardly died from his ugly lips when Bituin upon hearing his unfamiliar voice disappeared. There began the sadness of this aswang. Every night he passed by the pond only to see and to speak with Bituin, the beautiful and elusive nymph. Yet all his hopes and efforts were in vain.

This aswang laid himself to die near a heap of hay. Here lived an army of small men called duendes. The duendes are usually good to those who are very strongly in love with women. At midnight one of these little creatures came out of the hay with a flute longer than himself. Little duende blew the flute, and the aswang thinking that the sweet vibration of the air came from the lips of Bituin, at once raised up his head and looked around. Aswang being a wild man said, "How is it that you little duendes are so troublesome?" "Master," said the little duende, "I came here to restore the broken heart of a lover and it is you." "How now can you comfort me?" said the aswang. "Come with me," said the little duende, "and show me where Bituin lives."

So they started toward the pond. On their way the duende, being as small as a little doll, often lost himself from the sight of his friend aswang. The duende was full of fun and jokes, and he was happy all the way. When they came near the pond little duende jumped over the thorny bushes that fringed the dwelling of Bituin. Now he rode on a lily leaf floating on the water, and he was singing a song at the same time that he was playing on his flute. He gathered some lily flowers and put one of them on his head. Duende skipped over the sea weeds as light as could be. Strange to say, the attractive music caught the ears of Bituin, and so she appeared before the duende. The music was so sweet, so charming, and so pleasant to her ears that fear of such a being never entered her thoughts. She approached the little duende, but he would not allow her to touch his enchanting flute. Aswang could not come inside. He tried to jump over the bushes, but he knew that he could not. All at once he roared with a sharp tone that put Bituin to flight, and she never returned again.

Duende blamed the aswang for roaring, but the broken-hearted aswang in anger said, "Why did you not catch hold of her?" Duende did not answer and tried to flee, but aswang held him by the neck and tore him to pieces. So from that time on the duendes have not often been heard of; and, if they ever come, they do evil things and cause misfortune to little children. None of the aswangs since has ever been afraid of small creatures.

—Emanuel E. Baja.

One harvest day, one of our neighbors, whose name is Juan, built a nipa hut on a farm amid his rice plantation. There he slept alone during the harvest time to look after his grain.

One night about twelve o'clock he began to feel the cold north wind, and the leaves began to rustle. By and by the wind stopped. He tried to sleep, but he could not, for the mosquitoes were too thick. He then went out of his hut and gathered some dry twigs and grasses and made a small fire to drive the mosquitoes away. When the fire began to kindle, he sat before his hut, facing a small hill. Not long afterward he heard the laughing of a child from the top of the hill. The child seemed to be very happy, for it laughed as hard as it could. Juan then began to wonder who the child was, for he knew that no one was living near him. Soon the laughing grew louder and louder and Juan began to be frightened. He supposed that the child was approaching him, but at once the laughing stopped and again everything was silent about the field. He looked around him several times because he did not know what kind of creature that child was, and he feared that she might take hold of him from behind.

While Juan was thinking of what to do, a girl with white complexion and golden hair appeared before him laughing as hard as she could. Juan then was about to run away and call for help, but he knew that there was no one to help him, so he gathered all his strength and courage and approached the girl with his bolo in hand and said, "Tell me who you are or else this night is your last." The girl did not answer him, but continued laughing. He struck at her, but she at once vanished away and reappeared behind him laughing as hard as she could. He struck at her several times. He did not touch her at all and she laughed louder. Juan then threw his bolo at her and ran home shouting as he went along calling for help, "St. John, St. Peter, St. Nicholas, come and help me!" When he came to the forest a cricket alighted on his coat and began to sing. He mistook it for the girl, so he ran very fast. When he came to the town, the policemen tried to stop him, but they could not. He tried to tell them that a girl was singing behind him, but he was so terribly frightened that his calling to the gods confused him, and while he was running he shouted, "St. John sings, St. John sings, etc.," until he came to his house. His family asked him what the matter was, but he could not speak because of fatigue. By this time the cricket had flown away. Later the family found out that Juan had seen a tianac.

—Santiago Ochoa.

Once there lived on a lonely farm about two miles from the town of San Juan two brothers whose names were Mariano and Pedro. They were the sons of a farmer named Rafael.

Along the road leading from this farm to the town there was not a single house. There was a big calumpang tree by this road about a mile from the farm. Some of its large branches almost touched the ground. Many stories had been told about this calumpang; some said that they saw a ghost in the form of a white dog under it; others said they saw it in the form of a tall, thin black man sitting sideways on a big branch with eyes as large as saucers and with a big cigar a meter long in his mouth.

One day Mariano with his little brother Pedro went to the town to attend a procession. It was night when they started for home. On their way when they were out of the town, they heard a noise on one side of the road not far from them. It seemed to them that the noise was caused by the walking of a carabao, which was going along the road in the same direction they were going. They could not tell whether it was a carabao or not, for the grass was very tall. At last at an open side of the road, where the noise was, Pedro saw a little white dog. "Mariano, Mariano, see that little dog," whispered Pedro, touching the back of his brother with his finger. Pedro looked at it with great surprise. He could hardly believe that the little creature could make such a loud noise. The oftener they looked at the dog, the larger it appeared. Pedro now began to think that this dog was the one that somebody had seen under the calumpang. He was afraid; he would not go behind nor before his brother; his hair stood on end, and he felt as if he were wearing a hat having a large brim; his heart beat faster than before, but he said not a word. The appearance of the dog reminded Mariano of the black man of the calumpang. For this reason he was more afraid than his little brother.

After a while a noise was again heard on the other side of the road. There appeared a white hog about the size of a carabao. It was also going in the same direction as the two brothers were. The hog was grunting, while there was seen coming from his mouth a continuous discharge of living charcoals. The minute the boys stopped, the dog and the hog stopped also. The two brothers intended to go back, but suddenly they heard another noise—pac, pac, pac. They looked behind them and saw a tall black horse mounted by a man dressed like the prince usually seen in comedies. The man's feet were so long that they almost touched the ground. The two brothers could do nothing but walk faster, in order that the horseman might not overtake them.

When they came near the calumpang, a black cloth was extended across the road. This cloth prevented their further advance, for it would bind them in case they should touch it. Mariano was then so much frightened that he could not keep from trembling. He felt as if the very hand of the black man of the calumpang was holding his head.

"Father, father!" cried Pedro with a prolonged voice, but nobody answered. The dog growled; the horse pounded the ground with his feet; the hog snorted, while a greater amount of charcoal than before poured out of its mouth; the black cloth waved, producing a sound like the groaning of a sick man. Pedro grabbed his brother by the waist so tightly that Mariano could hardly breathe. Then Mariano remembered that he had in his pocket the remainder of a candle which a sexton had given him at the procession. He quickly lighted it. Instantly the ghosts disappeared. Mariano and Pedro reached home, but alas! they could neither eat nor sleep, for it seemed to them as if the ghosts were still around them.

—Eusebio Ramos.

ssss1

Origin

The ethnologists are not agreed concerning the history of nursery sagas, or märchen, as they call them. Whether such stories as "Jack-the-Giant-Killer" are reduced and modified forms of once greater sagas or whether they are immature stories arrested in their growth toward sagas, the scientists are still discussing. But happily for the narrator, as we noticed before, the question of origin is not of prime importance. He need consider it only so far as it helps to reveal the distinctions of the type.

As the generic title indicates, nursery sagas are tales told to children after lessons are done. Nobody wants instruction; nobody wants facts. "Once upon a time in a certain village" is definite enough. What the listener desires is action, things a-doing, Jack to kill the giant, Cinderella to marry the prince, Tom Thumb to get safely home. The end is always happy, no matter how many troubles the hero or heroine encounters during the course of the narrative. The brothers Grimm expressed their realization that such an end is essential to a märchen. Their devoted scientific collecting and their charmingly sympathetic retelling have given back not only to Germany but also to the whole world much of its otherwise lost pleasure.

English nursery sagas

Good native nursery sagas are scarce in English. Many of our best known, like Cinderella, are importations. "Jack-the-Giant-Killer" and "Jack and the Bean-Stalk" and "Rumpelstiltskin"—or "Tom Tit Tot," as the older version has it—are recorded, however, as of English origin. They have been handed down verbally and in chapbooks and various other written forms for hundreds of years.

Distinguishing elements—the kind of hero

The most important distinguishing element of a nursery saga is the kind of hero. He is always human, very often sagacious of himself as well as finally fortunate because of the aid of some supernatural being or charm; but before the beginning of his adventure he is pretty generally considered foolish or a lazy ne'er-do-well. He is always of obscure origin, and is persistently ignored by history. The place where he lives or where he performs his deeds is selected at random, is of no practical importance, and might just as well have been any other. If the locality is definite and the details of the story are really pertinent, we have crossed the borderland into legend, which is very near to nursery saga. Indeed, say the students of folk-lore, the same story is often told in one country as a nursery saga and in another as a dignified national epic.

Rhymes

The uncouth rhymes occurring here and there within the story are to the nursery saga what the refrain is to the ballad—a sure sign of its type. All the original tales I dare say had rhymes at first, even if many are without them to-day.

The artificial nursery saga is not always marked off closely from the fairy story. Some writers do not appear to have felt the traditional distinctions; but, when a differentiation is made, it is on the basis of the chief actor. The irresistible Alice is a true nursery saga heroine. Whether in "Wonderland" or "Through the Looking Glass" her adventures are her adventures, and not a fairy's. And although the dialogue of the characters is imposed by the brilliant naïveté of the author, it is yet clearly within our classification—as the delectable rhymes attest.

Repetition of situation

Another characteristic you will observe is the repetition of situation: Cinderella goes to the ball more than once; Jack-of-the-Bean-Stalk visits the castle in the sky three times; the king's wife is allowed two false guesses; and there are Cormelian's and Thunderdell's heads to be cut off as well and Gallingantus's.

Two of our worthy literary men, G. K. Chesterton and Bernard Shaw, have recently bandied words over the value and significance of such heroes as Jack. When you come to write an original nursery saga, you can decide for yourself whether you want your hero to conquer a foe greater and stronger than he or whether you want your hero to conquer a foe lesser than he because he himself is greater and stronger than all his foes and conquers by the magic force of his personality. In making the decision, however, you should remember that "greater" and "lesser" are terms subject to a number of varying interpretations.

Supernatural element

After you have decided which kind your hero is to be, you must set about making him human despite the wonderful deeds you mean him to do. The more human, the more interesting; but he must be naturally human, not merely philosophically so. The homeliest touches of every-day life are exactly in keeping with your subject. No poetry here. If you have metrics interspersed, they must be "from jigging veins or rhyming mother wits." Nothing higher than "Fee, fi, fo, fum," or "Ninny, ninny not," or "Be bold, be bold, but not too bold," or "It is not so, nor 'twas not so, but indeed God forbid it should be so." Although your hero is to be human, he need not stand alone; he may have supernatural aid. A fairy, a witch, a charm, or anting-anting may help him. Success, of course, however, must ultimately depend upon his own bravery and wit. What makes the nursery saga different from the fairy story is just the element of the independence and prominence of the human hero. If supernatural agents are present in the nursery saga, they are only assistants: they are not the chief actors; in fact, they are usually at first opponents. The human person is the chief actor.

Tolstoy's Ivan the Fool surely wins by the force of his personality alone. He is one of the pure fools who think no evil and therefore make men good. Although he has the power the imps have given him to call up soldiers, rub gold out of oak leaves, and to cure the sick, he uses this power only for fool-wise ends: he heals beggars, gives away the gold, and makes the soldiers sing. Despite its didactic purpose, this is a typical märchen in having the human fool hero in repeated situations, chanting crude rhymes, and being assisted finally by the supernatural agents that first opposed him.

A few specific suggestions

When you come to the writing, remember that your story is for a child, grown-up or not grown-up, and that you must therefore make the language simple and vivid. Use a good many crude similes and metaphores. Be concrete in comparisons about size, shape, color, garb, and the like. Though you select your hero with care, you need make no fine distinctions of character, since broad strokes will be most effective. Endow your personages, both the hero and his enemy, with a few mannerisms and let them display these often. Get quickly into the action of the story and keep things lively to the end.

Working definition

Here is the working definition: A nursery saga is a narrative of imaginary events wherein is celebrated a hero of a more-or-less humble origin, a child's hero, who, by his own wit and energy, together with the possession of a charm, is enabled to do stupendous deeds, which bring to him material happiness.

We say that we are wise folks, but our people dispute the fact, saying, "No, no, we were wiser than you are." But shaskas tell us that before our grandfathers had learned anything, before their grandfathers were born——

There lived in a certain land an old man of this kind who instructed his three sons in reading and writing and all book learning. Then he said to them, "Now, my children, when I die, mind you, come and read prayers over my grave."

"Very good, father, very good," they replied.

The two elder brothers were such fine strapping fellows, so tall and stout! But as for the youngest one, Ivan, he was like a half-grown lad or a half-fledged duckling, terribly inferior to the others. Well, their old father died. At that very time there came tidings from the king that his daughter, the Princess Helena the Fair, had ordered a shrine to be built for her with twelve columns, with twelve rows of beams. In that shrine she was sitting upon a high throne and awaiting her bridegroom, the bold young youth who with a single bound of his swift steed should reach high enough to kiss her on the lips. A stir ran through the whole youth of the nation. They took to licking their lips and scratching their heads, and wondering to whose share so great an honor would fall.

"Brothers," said: Vanyusha (Ivan), "our father is dead; which of us is to read prayers over his grave?"

"Whoever feels inclined, let him go!" answered the brothers.

So Vanya went. But as for his elder brothers they did nothing but exercise their horses and curl their hair and dye their mustaches.

The second night came.

"Brothers," said Vanya, "I've done my share of reading. It is your turn now; which of you will go?"

"Whoever likes can go and read. We've business to look after; don't you meddle."

And they cocked their caps and shouted and whooped and flew this way and shot that way and roved about the open country.

So Vanyusha read prayers this time also—and on the third night, too.

Well, his brothers got ready their horses, combed out their mustaches and prepared to go next morning to test their mettle before the eyes of Helena the Fair.

"Shall we take the youngster?" they thought. "No, no. What would be the good of him? He'd make folks laugh and put us to confusion; let's go by ourselves."

So away they went. But Vanyusha wanted very much to have a look at the Princess Helena the Fair. He cried, cried bitterly, and went out to his father's grave. And his father heard him in his coffin, and came out to him, shook the damp earth off his body, and said, "Don't grieve, Vanya. I'll help you in your trouble."

And immediately the old man drew himself up and straightened himself and called aloud and whistled with a ringing voice, with a shrill whistle.

From goodness knows where appeared a horse, the earth quaking beneath it, a flame rushing from its ears and nostrils. To and fro it flew, and then stood still before the old man, as if rooted in the ground, and cried, "What are thy commands?"

Vanya crept into one of the horse's ears and out of the other, and turned into such a hero as no skazka can tell of, no pen describe! He mounted the horse, set his arms akimbo, and flew, just like a falcon, straight to the home of the Princess Helena. With a wave of his hand, with a bound aloft, he failed only by the breadth of two rows of beams. Back again he turned, galloped up, leapt aloft, and got within one beam row's breadth. Once more he turned, once more he wheeled, then shot past the eye like a streak of fire, took an accurate aim, and kissed the fair Helena right on the lips!

"Who is he? Who is he? Stop him!" was the cry. Not a trace of him was to be found!

Away he galloped to his father's grave, let the horse go free, prostrated himself on the earth, and besought his father's counsel. And the old man held counsel with him.

When he got home, he behaved as if he hadn't been anywhere. His brothers talked away, describing where they had been, what they had seen, and he listened to them as of old.

The next day there was a gathering again. In the princely halls there were more boyars and nobles than a single glance could take in. The elder brothers rode there. Their younger brother went there, too, but on foot, meekly and modestly, just as if he hadn't kissed the Princess, and seated himself in a distant corner. The Princess Helena asked for her bridegroom, wanted to show him to the world at large, wanted to give him half her kingdom; but the bridegroom did not put in an appearance! Search was made for him among the boyars, among the generals; everyone was examined in his turn—but with no result! Meanwhile, Vanya looked on, smiling and chuckling, and waiting till the bride should come to him herself.

"I pleased her then," says he, "when I appeared as a gay gallant; now let her fall in love with me in my plain caftan."

Then up she rose, looked around with bright eyes that shed a radiance on all who stood there, and saw and knew her bridegroom, and made him take his seat by her side, and speedily was wedded to him. And he—good heavens! How clever he turned out, and how brave, and what a handsome fellow! Only see him mount his flying steed, give his cap a cock, and stick his elbows akimbo! Why, you'd say he was a king, a born king! You'd never suspect he was once only Vanyusha.

From "Russian Fairy and Folk Tales." Translated and edited by W. R. S. Ralston (Hurst and Company).

Once there lived a youth by the name of Juan. He was the only son of a family and so he was dearly loved. One day his father said to him, "Juan, you are quite old now so you have to study." "Yes, father," said Juan obediently. Juan was then sent to a large town to school. But he did not study; he spent all his time going to places of amusement. When vacation was coming near, Juan bought a reader so that he could give proof that he studied. His father was very anxious to see him and so prepared a large fiesta in honor of his arrival. When Juan arrived, he would not speak his dialect, and if he was asked something he just answered "Si, señor." Everybody then was astonished; for all thought that he had learned so much that he had forgotten his own dialect.

One day Juan threw his father's plow into a well because he wanted to show the people that he knew how to divine. The father came to him then and said, "Dear Juan, will you tell me where I can find the plow which I lost yesterday?" "Ah, father!" said Juan, "there is no difficulty in finding it; fetch my book and I will look it up." The father obeyed instantly and Juan looked in his book and said:

"A B C, A B C,

Oh, my father's plow is lost!

A B C, A B C,

It has the well for a host."

"Well, my book tells me that it is in the bottom of the well." The father ordered the servants to look in the well, and sure enough they found the plow in it. The father was very proud of his son now, for he had had a real proof of his ability. So Juan was called prophet and his name was heard everywhere.

Once the princess of his country lost a very valuable ring, and the king offered to marry her to the one who could find the ring. But he ordered that anyone who might attempt and not guess rightly should be beheaded. Many of the wise men in the kingdom attempted to guess, but nobody was right and so they had to be killed. The rumors of Juan's knowledge reached the king's ears, so he sent a carriage to his home in order to bring him to the palace. Juan did not want to go because he knew that he would surely be killed. He could not disobey the king, however, and so he got into the carriage. As soon as he entered the carriage he became very sad and thoughtful and repented of having tricked his father. When they were quite near the town of the king, Juan opened his book and groaned sadly:

"Someone is to die,

Not far from here, oh, my!"

Instantly the carriage stopped and the driver presented himself before Juan and said, "Oh, sir! I beg you to pardon me; I am the one who stole the princess's ring. She was washing her hands in a dish one day and took the ring off her hand, and then threw the water away. While I was cleaning the garden I saw it and picked it up. Kindly forgive me, here is the ring!" Juan did not take the ring, but said, "I forgive you now; I thought you would not tell me anything about it, and I was going to tell the king to have you killed, for I knew, that you were the one who stole it; my book said so. As soon as we arrive at the palace, place the ring under the stairs and cover it with a cocoanut shell." The driver was very happy and promised to do everything he was commanded.

Juan was received with honors in the palace and when he was asked about the ring, he told everything about the theft of it from the information he had got from the driver and said, "My book tells me all of this and says that now it is under a cocoanut shell under the stairs." Everybody went down to look for it and they found it. Once more now Juan's knowledge was talked of everywhere. According to the king's promise, he was married to the princess. The marriage ceremony was celebrated with much pomp and splendor, and many kings from different countries came to attend it.

Once a neighbor king came to Juan's country. When he went to the palace and met the other king, he said, "If your son-in-law is really a prophet, I propose to you a wager. I have three watermelons in my ship; one of them has one seed, the other has two, and the other has three. Should your son-in-law guess which has one, which has two, and which has three seeds, I will give you half of my kingdom. But if he fails, you will have to give me half of yours." The king was well pleased to hear the proposal, and being confident of Juan's knowledge, he accepted it. Fortunately, while the two kings were conversing, the vassals of the foreign king stood near the door of Juan's room and talked about the watermelons. One of them said, "If I were the one to guess I would say that the smallest has three seeds, the largest has two, and the middle-sized has one, then I should be very rich and would be as powerful a king as our master." Juan, after hearing all that the men had said, went to his bed and pretended to be asleep. When the foreign king had gone away, his father-in-law went to awake him in his room, and told him everything about the challenge. Juan said that he was afraid of no defiance so long as he had his book. The next morning, when the king and he went to the boat, Juan told exactly the number of seeds in each watermelon, according to what he had heard, after reading, or rather feigning to read, some characters in his book. The fruits were cut open then and it was found out that Juan was right. The king, his father-in-law, was very happy and liked Juan very much, for he said that Juan was, without any doubt, the wisest man the world ever knew.

Not long after this another king came on a large ship loaded with money. He came to propose another challenge. He said that he had three earthen jars, filled with salt, water, and vinegar. And if Juan should guess what each contained, the load of this ship would be his father-in-law's; but if he should fail, the king had to give him in turn another ship full of money also. The king accepted the proposal immediately; but Juan was very sad because he knew that the king would order him to be beheaded if he should not guess rightly. So he decided to commit suicide before the day when he should appear before the contending monarchs. During the night he went down silently and threw himself in the river behind the palace, in which the foreign ship was anchored. He tried to drown himself, but he could not, for he knew how to swim. He heard then some men talking in the ship, and one of them said, "If that guesser could just know that the jar with white marking on the neck contains salt, and the one which has the largest lid holds vinegar, he would be the richest man on earth." Juan swam quietly back after hearing this and slept. The next morning Juan and the king went to the ship, and Juan, after turning back and forth the leaves of his reader, told rightly the contents of every jar. The king was very happy and held a large festival in honor of the wise Juan the Prophet.

Juan was afraid to hazard his life any more, so he burned his magic volume. From that time on he never guessed any more, because he said that his book was gone and so his knowledge, too.

—Bienvenido Gonzales.

Many years before the birth of Christ, when the victorious legions of Rome were gradually conquering the then known world, there lived in a foreign country a cruel and despotic king. He had a daughter in the very bloom and freshness of youth. She was so beautiful that many a young man of the country asked her father to allow him to be his son-in-law. The suitors were so many that the king determined to marry his daughter to somebody. But he could not find the right man. He sent proclamations to the different provinces of his kingdom, telling the people that he intended to marry his daughter to the man who could accomplish three things which the king would require the competitor to do; but if the competitor should fail to do the three things within the required time, his head should be cut off. Many young men attempted, but they were all killed.

Near the king's palace there was living at that time a shepherd. This man had, since his boyhood, devoted his life to the interests of his fellow countrymen. Everybody loved him.

One day while he was tending his sheep out in the fields, an old woman saw him and said, "Receive this pipe as a present from me. Whenever you want anything from any animal, blow this pipe and the desired animal will come to you. Keep this carefully for it will be of great service to you." The shepherd thanked her and went away. He wanted to know whether the woman was telling the truth or not. So he blew the pipe and said, "Come here, all the serpents." He no sooner said these words than hundreds of serpents came to him hissing and twisting. Then he dismissed them.

He decided to compete for the hand of the princess. So he went to the palace in the evening and expressed his desire. "Ha! ha!" said the king, "do you want to have your head cut off, young man?" "We will see the result," said the shepherd proudly. "All right," said the king; "the first thing you must do is to eat in one day all of the bread there is to be found in my granary. You must either eat the bread or lose your head."

"I will go to the granary now and begin eating," said the shepherd.

"Well, go!" said the king, and he told a soldier to conduct the shepherd to the granary. The shepherd was locked up in the granary with nobody but himself and the bread. He took out the pipe which he had concealed under his coat. He blew the instrument and said, "Come here, all of the rats." He had just finished his command when thousands of rats came to him. He told them to eat all of the bread. The rats were so numerous that all of the bread was eaten before daybreak. Not a single crumb was left. Many rats arrived too late to get their share.

When the king and his court went to the granary in the morning, they were surprised to see that the building which was full of bread the day before was now totally empty. "All right," said the king, "you have to do the second thing. You must separate in one day the grains of corn from the grains of rice. Go to my granary, where you will find the corn and the rice. Remember the punishment."

"All right," said the shepherd; "I'll go to the granary this evening and begin my work."

So he went to the building where the corn and the rice were and there he was locked up again. He then blew his pipe and said, "Come here, all of the ants." Just then millions of ants arrived. He told the big ants to pick up all of the grains of corn and place them on one side of the granary. To the small ants he assigned the work of selecting the grains of rice and placing them on the other side of the building. The ants were so numerous that the entire work was finished before morning.

The king and his court were surprised to see that the shepherd had done his work. "Very well," said the king, "you have to accomplish the third and last thing and then you may marry my daughter."

"I'll do the work this afternoon," said the shepherd. "Good!" said the king. "Come here this afternoon at two o'clock. I'll give you twelve wild hares. Tomorrow afternoon at two o'clock you must return them to me without a change in any of them. The number must be exact."

At two o'clock in the afternoon the shepherd went to the palace. The king gave him the twelve hares. They were no sooner in the hands of the shepherd than they ran away. The king and his court laughed loudly and said, "He will not catch them. He is sure to fail in his work."

"We will see," said the shepherd proudly. He then went to his cottage. He blew his pipe and said, "Come all of the twelve hares of the king." He had no sooner said these words than the twelve hares came to him and began to jump about him.

An hour later the king sent one of his servants to see whether the shepherd was out looking for the hares or not. When the servant reached the shepherd's cottage, he was surprised to see the hares sleeping quietly by the side of the shepherd. The servant went back to the king and related to him all that he saw. The king grew pale and did not know what to do. He told the princess to go to the shepherd and try to get one of the hares. So the princess disguised herself as a country girl and went to the shepherd's cottage. The shepherd recognized her immediately. Her solicitations were all in vain. At last the shepherd said, "I'll give you one of the hares if you scrub my kitchen for me." To prevent herself from being married to the shepherd she said "Yes." So the shepherd told her to do her work. When she had finished her work, the shepherd gave her one of the hares. When she was a hundred yards from the shepherd's cottage, the shepherd blew his pipe and said, "Come here, the hare with the princess." He had just finished speaking when the hare ran away from the princess to the side of the cottage.

The princess was crying when she reached the palace and told the king how she had been fooled. The king determined to get one of the hares by means of money. So he disguised himself as a merchant, mounted a horse with two panniers slung on the sides, and went to the shepherd's cottage. But the shepherd recognized him at once. His solicitations also were in vain. Even the bag of gold was useless. The shepherd would not allow himself to be fooled. At last he said, "I'll give you one of the hares if you wash my feet." To prevent the marriage of the princess with the shepherd, the king agreed. So he dismounted and washed the shepherd's dusty feet. Then the shepherd gave him one of the hares. The King put the animal in one pannier and went away. But his undertaking was unsuccessful. The note of the pipe and the cry of the shepherd excited the hare, who jumped out of the pannier and ran away.

The king went to the palace with a sad face. He told his courtiers how unsuccessful he had been, and went to his private room. The next day at two o'clock in the afternoon the shepherd returned the twelve hares. Not a single hare was changed.

But the king still refused to fulfill his promise. He told the shepherd to fill a bag with all the bad words he knew. The shepherd uttered every kind of bad words; but the bag was still empty. But one thing came to his mind. He said loudly, "The princess scrubbed my kitchen yesterday afternoon." The princess jumped from her seat and said, "The bag is full."

"No," said the king. "Continue." "The king," said the shepherd, "wa—wa—wash——" The king jumped from his throne and said, "That's enough," and tied the bag. The marriage was then arranged and the next day the shepherd and the princess were married.

From this time on the shepherd and princess lived happily for many years. He succeeded his father-in-law as king.

—Vincente M. Hilario.

ssss1

We now turn to a set of stories with a new basis, the symbolic-didactic narratives: fables, parables, and allegories. By the word "symbolic" we shall understand that the stories mean something more than appears on the surface. By "didactic," the fact that the narratives are told for the purpose of teaching a lesson. The hearer no more believes in the mere literal occurrence than does the narrator himself. The meaning is the concern of both. For the time being, the story-teller has set himself up as a preacher, or the preacher as a story-teller. His object is to make vivid and dramatic a lesson in manners, morals, religion, politics, or art.

ssss1

Æsop

The fable is a very old type of narrative, so old that critics are not sure of the place of its origin. Some think that it rose at the court of Crœsus with Æsop and spread eastward and westward. Others maintain that it came from India to the court of the Lydian king, and was adopted by Æsop, the king's state orator, as a most convenient device for impressing political lessons on a restless people in a scattered empire. Others say that there never was a man Æsop at all. But legend goes into detail to the effect that this ancient politician was once a slave and that he rose from his servile condition to be the counsellor of kings by the sheer force of his brains and an appreciation of practical problems (much as our self-made men of today have risen). Once even, when sent as a royal messenger to a rebellious and distant part of the empire, he quelled a mob and saved his own life by his ready wit in telling a story and applying the moral. He wrote nothing himself, legend goes on to admit, but he scattered his practical narratives far and wide, and they were finally collected as a distinct species of literature.

Other early fabulists

Whatever the truth of the legend may be, it is certain that there were in the Greek language early collections of fables called "Æsop." More than three hundred years before Christ, Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle translated stories from "Æsop." Plutarch and Lucian, in the second century after Christ, remade them. In the thirteenth century Marie de France versified a hundred of them, using an old English source which we cannot now find. She called her collection Ysopet, or "Little Æsop." Finally in 1447, Planudes, a monk of Constantinople, put forth in prose a collection of about three hundred stories, which bears the name of "Æsop."

Hitopadesa and Panchatantra

The East never stopped to cavil about the source of fables. It has always loved the type. The Hindoos have two very ancient Sanscrit collections of fable-like discourses—the "Panchatantra" (Five Books), written in prose, and the "Hitopadesa" (Friendly Instruction), in verse. These differ from ordinary sets of fables in having the principle of connection throughout and in being, instead of mere brief tales, rather romantic and dramatic dialogues and expositions designed as text-books for the instruction of princes and those called to govern. Many selections, however, have been taken out, translated, modified, and used either as whole stories or as elements of larger ones.

Reynard the Fox and beastiaries

The very widely read and extensively translated eleventh century "Reynard the Fox" is a beast-epic, and not a fable in the technical sense of the term. As likewise the bestiaries are not fables. Those quaint medieval collections of false lore, modeled probably on some earlier Greek or Latin physiologus, were meant as doctrinal expository allegories rather than zoological treatises or than narratives which would fall within our present classification. Yet they are allied to this group in that they are symbolic and didactic and permit unnatural natural history.

Some more writers of fables

There have always been men who wrote of their own times original satires in the form of fables, exposing vice and folly. Phædrus, a freedman of Augustus, wrote five such books in the reign of Tiberius. Dante, Petrarch, Boccaccio, and Poggio knew and used the type. The greatest name in modern literature in connection with the fable is that of the Frenchman Jean de la Fontaine, who lived at the court of Louis Fourteenth. He expressed in exquisite verse-narrative very high social maxims. Many of our finest well-known fables are paraphrases of his lines. His own favorite was the "Oak and the Reed." He is supposed to have drawn his inspirations from Phædrus. Our own English writers, Gay and Pope, Addison and Prior, Steele and Dodsley, Moore, Goldsmith, Cowper, and others, wrote fables both in prose and verse. Indeed, worthy old Henryson, of "Robin and Makyne" fame, wrote in the fifteenth century a book of "Morall Fables of Esope the Phrygian" in Chaucerian stanzas. One of these poems he calls the "Uplondish Mous and the Berger Mous." Kriloff, the Russian fabulist, who died in the middle of the nineteenth century, disputes the highest place with La Fontaine in the minds of many critics, especially for his originality. A twentieth century humorous set of rational apologues is George Ade's "Fables in Slang."

The popular "Uncle Remus" stories are negro animal-myths rather than fables. Though Kipling's first "Jungle Book" narratives are in effect sui generis, they belong with fable typically if anywhere, as the unnatural very natural beast philosophy evinces. "His Majesty's Servant," the last of the volume, is easily classified. Some of the later tales are animal-myths, however—to wit, "How Fear Came" and "How the Camel Got His Hump;" and some, like "The Miracle of Purun Bhagat," are legends; but the talk and actions of the animals in all are fable-wise. The French, it seems, have lately pushed the type the farthest, though in a logical direction. They have retained the animal talk and the satire, but have cast away the narrative. Under the patronage of Rostand, Sir Chanticler has come before the footlights. This play happens to be an anomalous union of the two old distinct meanings of the word "fable"—one, the undelying story of a drama; the other, a symbolic, usually satiric, didactic tale.

Working definition

In the narrative sense of the term, a fable is a very brief invented, double-meaning story in which a lesson of every day practical morality is taught. The kind of lesson is one of the points that distinguish fable from parable and allegory. The fable never aims higher than inculcating maxims of prudential conduct—industry, caution, foresight, and the like—and these it will sometimes recommend at the expense of the higher, self-forgetting virtues. A typical fable reaches just the pitch of morality which the world will approve. In spirit the fable is often humorous, often ironical. In diction it is always simple, forceful, and appropriate.

Three classes of fables have been noticed: (1) the rational—in which the actors and speakers are solely human beings or the gods of mythology, (2) the non-rational—in which the heroes are solely animals, trees, vegetables, or inanimate objects, (3) the mixed—in which the rational and non-rational are combined.

Classes of fables

Now what distinguishes all these from myth and legend is the presence of the evident and acknowledged didactic purpose. What distinguishes the first class, the rational fable, from a parable is the low plane of the motive. Above the utilitarian the fable never rises. If the fable teaches honesty, it teaches it merely as the best policy. What distinguishes the non-rational and the mixed fables from allegory is both the limitation of the moral and the kind of hero. The lesson of the fable is always piquant, single, and clear. The actors in a fable are always things concrete in nature as well as in the story.

The most popular, and hence the most typical of the three classes of fables, is the second, often called also the "beast fable." The beast fable departs somewhat from the laws of nature. In the dialogue, animals and inanimate objects act like human beings. A fox and a bear, for instance, will philosophize on politics. A lion and a mouse will exchange courtesies. But it is a remarkable feature of this type of story that we do not resent the incongruity. And that we do not resent it is because there is a truthfulness that is more interesting to us than is the natural order of the universe—namely, the truthfulness of characterization. Here the verisimilitude must be complete. Although acting the part of rational beings, the animals must be true to our accepted notion of their animal nature—a fox must be foxy; a bear, bearish; a lion, haughty; a mouse, timid; a cat, deceptive; a monkey, mischievous; a canary, dependent; an eagle, lofty; and so on, and so on. It is not necessary that they have no other characteristics, but it is necessary that they possess the commonly ascribed ones.

How to write an original fable

To write what is strictly a fable, a person will need to observe the distinctions of the type in general as cut off from parable on the one hand and allegory on the other, and to observe the distinctions of the subdivisions within the type. Then he must decide, of course, which subdivision he is going to follow, must select his moral, pick out his actors, think over their characteristics, and finally narrate a brief occurrence in a vivid, homely style. The dialogue, while correct, should be very colloquial. It is well for one to pay especial attention to author's narrative, likewise, that it may be informing though limited. After all is told, the writer may or may not affix a maxim at the end, definitely and neatly stated. In either case, however, the lesson taught should be unmistakable. Original and spirited fables could be written in the field of civic morals, about which the world has just begun to think seriously. Despite the good work that is being done in the name of charity, there is room surely for pleasant satire when a Happy Childhood Society gives elaborately dressed dolls to naked babies.

If one chooses to write a rational fable, where the actors are human beings, one must be careful not to write a parable. The lesson of a fable is always unsentimentally practical—not spiritual. Where the actors are gods, or gods and men, the student-writer must distinguish fable from myth. He should not aim at explaining a universal phenomenon, but simply at teaching a single, acute, work-a-day lesson.

Armenian proverbs that might be used for fable maxims

1. When a man sees that the water does not follow him, he follows the water.

2. Strong vinegar bursts the cask.

3. Dogs quarrel among themselves, but against the wolf they are united.

4. Only a bearded man can laugh at a beardless face.

5. Make friends with a dog, but keep a stick in your hand.

6. One should not feel hurt at the kick of an ass.

7. Running is also an art.

8. He who speaks the truth must have one foot in the stirrup.

9. Before Susan had done prinking, church was over.

10. When you are going in, first consider how you are coming out.

11. The ass knows seven ways of swimming, but when he sees the water he forgets them all.

12. A shrewd enemy is better than a stupid friend.

13. Because the cat could get no meat he said, "Today is Friday."

14. A goat prefers one goat to a whole herd of sheep.

15. A near neighbor is better than a distant kinsman.

16. When I have honey, the flies come even from Bagdad.

Jupiter, to reward the piety of a certain countryman, promised to give him whatever he would ask. The countryman desired that he might have the management of the weather in his own estate. He obtained his request, and immediately distributed rain, snow, and sunshine among his several fields as he thought the nature of the soil required. At the end of the year when he expected to see a more than ordinary crop, his harvest fell infinitely short of that of his neighbors. Thereupon he desired Jupiter to take the weather again into his own hands, for the countryman knew that otherwise he should utterly ruin himself.

—Spectator No. 25.

A drop of water fell out of a cloud into the sea, and finding itself lost amid such a countless number of its companions, broke out in complaint of its lot. "Alas! what an insignificant creature am I in this vast ocean of waters! My existence is of no concern to the universe; I am reduced to a kind of nothing, and I am less than the least works of God." It so happened that an oyster, which lay in the neighborhood of this drop, chanced to gape and swallow it up in the midst of its humble soliloquy. The drop lay a great while hardening in the shell till by degrees it was ripened into a pearl. The pearl fell into the hands of a diver, after a long series of adventures, and is at present the famous ornament fixed on the top of the Persian diadem.

—Persian fable. Adapted in the Spectator No. 293.

Once in the days of old a certain Grandee passed from his richly dight bed into the realm which Pluto sways. To speak more simply, he died. And so, as was anciently the custom, he appeared before the justice seat of Hades. Straightway he was asked, "Where were you born? What have you been?"

"I was born in Persia, and my rank was that of a Satrap. But, as my health was feeble during my lifetime, I never exercised any personal control in my province, but left everything to be done by my secretary."

"But you—what did you do?"

"I ate, drank, and slept; and I signed everything he set before me."

"In with him then at once to Paradise."

"How now, where is the justice of this?" thereupon exclaimed Mercury, forgetting all politeness.

"Ah, brother," answered Eacus, "you know nothing about it. But don't you see this? The dead man was a fool. What would have happened if he, who had such power in his hands, had unfortunately interfered in business? Why, he would have ruined the whole province. The tears which would have flowed then would have been beyond all calculation. Therefore, it is that he has gone into Paradise, because he did not interfere with business."

I was in court yesterday, and I saw a judge there. There can be no doubt that he will go into Paradise.

—Kriloff.

On the Mandara mountain there lived a Lion named Fierce-of-Heart, and he was perpetually making massacre of all the wild animals. The thing grew so bad that the beasts held a public meeting, and drew up a respectful remonstrance to the Lion in these words:

"Wherefore should your Majesty thus make carnage of us all? If it may please you, we ourselves will daily furnish a beast for your Majesty's meal." Thereupon the Lion responded, "If that arrangement is more agreeable to you, be it so;" and from that time a beast was allotted to him daily, and daily devoured. One day it came to the turn of an old hare to supply the royal table, who reflected to himself as he walked along, "I can but die, and will go to my death leisurely."

Now Fierce-of-Heart, the lion, was pinched with hunger, and seeing the Hare so approaching, he roared out, "How darest thou thus delay in coming?"

"Sire," replied the Hare, "I am not to blame. I was detained on the road by another lion, who exacted an oath from me to return when I should have informed your Majesty."

"Go," exclaimed King Fierce-of-Heart in a rage; "show me instantly where this insolent villain of a lion lives."

The Hare led the way accordingly until he came to a deep well, whereat he stopped, and said, "Let my lord the King come hither and behold him." The Lion approached, and beheld his own reflection in the water of the well, upon which, in his passion, he directly flung himself, and so perished.

—Hitopadesa. Translated by Sir Edwin Arnold.

The Fox and the Crab lived together like brothers; together they sowed their land, reaped the harvest, thrashed the grain and garnered it.

The Fox said one day: "Let us go to the hill-top, and whoever reaches it first shall carry off the grain for his own."

While they were (starting) to mount the steep, the Crab said:

"Do me a favor; before we set off running, touch me with your tail, so that I shall know it and be able to follow you."

The Crab opened his claws, and when the Fox touched him with his tail, he leaped forward and seized it, so that when the Fox reached the goal and turned around to see where the Crab was, the Crab fell upon the heap of grain and said: "These three bushels and a half are all mine." The Fox was thunderstruck and exclaimed:

"How did you get here, you rascal?"

This fable shows that deceitful men devise many methods and actions for getting things their own way, but that they are often defeated by the feeble.

—Turkish Fable. Translated by Epiphanius Wilson.

A certain fool kept constantly passing through the streets of a town.

"Who will buy wisdom?" he cried in a loud voice. A citizen met him on his way, accosted him, and presented him with some small pieces of money.

"Sell me a little wisdom," he said.

"Here it is," replied the other, cuffing him heartily, and immediately putting into his hands a long thread.

"If you wish in the future to be wise and prudent," said the hawker to him, "always keep as far away from fools as the length of this thread."

Moral: We should avoid all connection and communication with fools and cranks.

—Ibid.

The Archer and the Trumpeter were travelling together in a lonely place. The Archer boasted of his skill as a warrior, and asked the Trumpeter if he bore arms.

"No," replied the Trumpeter, "I cannot fight. I can only blow my horn, and make music for those who are at war."

"But I can hit a mark at a hundred paces," said the Archer. As he spoke, an eagle appeared, hovering over the tree tops. He drew out an arrow, fitted it on the string, shot at the bird, which straightway fell to the ground, transfixed to the heart.

"I am not afraid of any foe; for that bird might just as well have been a man," said the Archer proudly. "But you would be quite helpless if anyone attacked you."

They saw at the moment a band of robbers, approaching them with drawn swords. The Archer immediately discharged a sharp arrow which laid low the foremost of the wicked men. But the rest soon overpowered him and bound his hands.

"As for this trumpeter, he can do us no harm, for he has neither sword nor bow," they said, and did not bind him, but took away his purse and wallet.

Then the Trumpeter said: "You are welcome, friends, but let me play you a tune on my horn."

With their consent he blew loud and long on his trumpet, and in a short space of time the guards of the King came running up at the sound, and surrounded the robbers and carried them off to prison.

When they unbound the hands of the Archer, he said to the Trumpeter: "Friend, I have learned to-day that a trumpet is better than a bow; for you have saved our lives without doing harm to anyone."

This fable shows that one man ought not to despise the trade of another. It also shows that it is better to be able to gain the help of others than to trust to our own strength.

—Ibid.

It was a beautiful May morning. The air was soft and balmy, still retaining the freshness of the evening. Sir Butterfly woke up very early to go to the garden and pay a visit to the beautiful flowers that grew there. The garden looked inviting. For there was already Miss Sampaguita, fresh as the morning with little drops of dew on her cheeks; there was the tall and graceful Miss Champaka; there was Miss Ilang-ilang, giving perfume to the balmy air that kissed her; there was Miss Sunflower with her face toward the Eastern Gate—all of them were expecting early and courteous visitors.

However, Sir Butterfly was a shrewd critic, and could find faults in each one of these beauties. But when he came before Miss Rose, he found himself at a loss what to say. In fact, he was fascinated by her beauty, and soon began to flutter about her. After a while he addressed her in this way:

"Fair Rose, thou art the queen of flowers;

This throne I give alone to thee;

And this I'll say at all hours,

The sweetest nectar thine must be.

"Thy garment of the purest green

Befits right well thy being a queen;

And this I have to say to thee,

The sweetest nectar thine must be.

"Thy cheeks are rosy, lips are red

With tints of freshness never dead;

Come, give me a kiss, sweet Rose,

Of thine own nectar sweet, a dose."

Here Miss Rose interrupted him. "Nay, nay, please do not flatter me," she said in a tone of affected coquetry.

But Sir Butterfly continued his recitation:

"Thy graceful form invites me

A dear embrace to give thee."

Saying this, he drew near her and passed his arms around her body. But what an embrace! The thorns held him fast; he was now a wounded prisoner. In a tone of anger and despair he cried: "Let me free, you ugly, ugly Miss Rose!"

Moral: The seemingly desirable is not always desirable, or circumstances alter estimates.

—Máximo M. Kalaw.

Once a man owned two faithful servants, a hat and a pair of shoes. The shoes had always been jealous of the hat: in the first place, because the master carried the hat instead of the hat's carrying him; secondly, because the hat was given a great deal of care and had a regular place where it was put; while the shoes, who carried both the master and the hat, were just thrown anywhere after their service.

Of course the shoes did not feel satisfied with such partial treatment, and had long wished to have a short talk with the hat to discuss this matter of importance; but they had always been put far apart.

One day, while their master was asleep and while they were having a rest, a child got hold of the hat and the shoes as playthings. The shoes were then glad of this; for they could have a hearty chat. Soon afterwards, the child grew tired of playing and feel asleep. They then discussed their respective positions.

"Why is it, my friend," asked the shoes, who began the discussion, "that you are always carried by our master and taken good care of?"

"Don't be envious of my position, my friend shoes. Our master takes such good care of me because I protect the most important part of his body, while you, you just serve his feet," replied the hat.

"You are mistaken. Yes, you are entirely mistaken. I serve not only his feet, but his legs, body, and hands, and head too, and what is more, I, a servant, also serve you who are like myself," argued the shoes. The hat was ashamed because of what the shoes had expounded and was unable to continue the discussion.

Moral: When you occupy a position of dignity, don't think that those below you are your servants and their work is of little value; for generally those men are the ones who support you, and their services may be of more importance than yours.

—José R. Perez.

Once there lived a young crocodile on the bank of the Pasig River. He was so fierce and so greedy that no animals dared to approach him. One day while he was resting on a rock, he thought of getting married. He said aloud, "I will give all that I have for a wife." As he pronounced these words, a coquettish peahen passed near him. The naughty crocodile expressed his wish again. The coquette listened carefully, and began to examine the crocodile's looks.

She said to herself, "I will marry this crocodile. He is very rich. Oh, my! If I could only have all those pearls and diamonds, I should be the happiest wife in the world." She made up her mind to marry the crocodile. She then alighted on the rock where the crocodile was, who made his offer again with extreme politeness, as a hypocrite always does. She thought that the big eyes of the crocodile were two beautiful diamonds and that the rough skin was made of pearls, so she accepted the proposal. The crocodile asked the peahen to sit on his mouth, that she might not spoil her beautiful feathers with mud. The foolish bird did as she was told. What do you think happened! He made a good dinner of his new wife.

Moral: Be attracted by quality rather than wealth.

—Elisa R. Esquerra.

In olden times, when men lived to be two or three hundred years old, there dwelt a very poor family near a big forest. The household had but three members—a grandfather, a father, and a son. The grandfather was an old man of one hundred and twenty-five years. He was so old that the help of his housemates was needed to feed him. Many a time, and especially after meals, he related to his son and to his grandson his brave deeds while serving in the king's army, the responsible positions he filled after leaving a soldier's life; and he told entertaining stories of hundreds of years gone by. The father was not satisfied with the arrangement, however, and planned to get rid of the old man.

One day he said to his son, "At present, I am receiving a peso daily, but half of it is spent to feed your worthless grandfather. We do not get any real benefit from him. To-morrow let us bind him and take him to the woods, and leave him there to die."

"Yes, father," said the boy.

When the morning came, they bound the old man and took him to the forest. On their way home the boy said to his father, "Wait, I will go back, and get the rope." "What for?" asked his father, raising his voice. "To have it ready when your turn comes," replied the boy, believing that to cast every old man into the forest was the usual custom. "Ah! if that is likely to be the case with me, back we go, and get your grandfather again."

—Eutiquiano Garcia.

ssss1

Parable contrasted with fable

The parable, like the fable, is a short didactic story; but the lesson of the parable is always spiritual, though not necessarily religious. The fable never rises above the common-place: it preaches a worldly morality. Self-interest and prudence are its tenets; it often satirizes; it laughs at mankind. The parable, on the contrary, is always serious: it is earnest and high in its purpose. It tries to win mankind to generosity and self-forgetting, or tries to shame him for his neglect by presenting good deeds in contrast with his, or tries to drive him forth to an awe-struck repentance by a representation of righteous anger.

The actors in a parable never violate the laws of nature. If animals appear, for instance, they do not talk. They follow as the friends or subjects of man, as in actual life. Man's dominion over them is spiritual; hence they may have a place in the parable along with him but not without him.

Characteristics of parables

Where the parable departs from the true story is in the fact that the men in the parable are types, and the deeds are symbolic. We have not Mr. John W. Richards, a particular farmer and an individual, plowing a field of corn in Mason County, Illinois, on July 3; but instead we have such statements as these: "The Farmer went out to plow his corn," "The Sower went out to sow the seeds," "A Householder hired laborers for his vineyard;" or "Once a King had two servants," or "The Prodigal sat among the swine in a far country." If the name of an actor is ever individual—like that of Abraham, for instance, in Franklin's prose parable, or Abou Ben Adhem in Leigh Hunt's poem—the actor himself is nevertheless representative. Abraham stands for the whole Jewish people in its exclusiveness; and Abou Ben Adhem, for all doubters who yet love their fellow-men. A character's seeing of angels or hearing of the voice of the Deity does not break the versimilitude of parables; for these matters are readily taken subjectively.

The spiritual truth of a parable is generally independent and separable from the story, which can always be read as narrative of actual events, though it is meant to be symbolic. The interpretation comes from without. It is either left to be inferred by the reader or is written before or after the narrative in the form of a summarizing figure of speech or a detailed collated exposition. You remember that Christ took his disciples aside and explained his parables to them.

Tolstoy

Count Tolstoy has written many parables. He combines his teaching with virile realism until he is as enthusiastically read as are the popular and less spiritual authors. "What Men Live By" is an exquisite example of his teaching, and, while it embodies a church legend, is a regular parable in form. It has the requisite generic atmosphere about it: the shoemaker and his wife, the rich purchaser, the kind foster-mother, and the children are all types. The intense realism comes in in the representation of Russian life. The lesson is given in an orderly exposition after the narrative of events is finished.

Suggestions on writing parables

In writing an original parable, one should avoid the diction of the Bible, that is, should avoid phraseology archaic or especially religious; but it would be well to imitate the simplicity and straightforwardness of the Biblical narrative. A modern parable writer to be successful would avoid mawkishness, and what is popularly designated as "preaching,"—but he would shadow forth nevertheless very clearly a high, spiritual truth. He would study living examples carefully so as to express inevitable actions in a few luminous words. There are many noble lessons to be taught by the actions of typical men in typical situations.

Working definition

The adjectives symbolic, serious, spiritual, typical, and natural might be embodied in a working definition thus: A parable is a narrative of imaginary events, a symbolic didactic story, wherein the actors are always types of men or types of men and animals (never exclusively of animals), and whereof the lesson is always spiritual, single, and separate, and the tone is always serious, and the events always appear natural and customary.

A list of proverbs that might be expanded into parables

1. God understands the dumb.

2. What a man acquires in his youth serves as a crutch in his old age.

3. Begin with small things that you may achieve great.

4. He who steals an egg will steal a horse also.

5. One can spoil the good name of a thousand.

6. One bad deed begets another.

7. The grandfather ate unripe grapes and the grandson's teeth were set on edge.

8. What is play to the cat is death to the mouse (modern, political parable).

9. When a man grows rich, he thinks his walls are awry.

10. Better lose one's eyes than one's calling.

11. What the wind brings it will take away.

12. No one is sure that his light will burn till morning.

13. The scornful soon grow old.

14. A merry heart doeth good like a medicine.

15. Love ever so well, there is also hate; hate ever so much, there is also love.

16. To rise early is not everything; happy are they who have the help of God.

17. By asking, one finds the way to Jerusalem.

18. When God gives, he gives with both hands.

19. Until you see trouble you will never know joy.

20. We are intelligence, that we may be will.

21. Act only on that maxim which thou couldst will to become a universal law.

It once occurred to a certain king, that if he always knew the right time to begin everything; if he knew who were the right people to listen to, and whom to avoid; and, above all, if he always knew what was the most important thing to do, he would never fail in anything he might undertake.

And this thought having occurred to him, he had it proclaimed throughout his kingdom that he would give a great reward to any one who would teach him what was the right time for every action, and who were the most necessary people, and how he might know what was the most important thing to do.

And learned men came to the King, but they all answered his questions differently.

In reply to the first question, some said that to know the right time for every action, one must draw up in advance, a table of days, months and years, and must live strictly according to it. Only thus, said they, could everything be done at its proper time. Others declared that it was impossible to decide beforehand the right time for every action; but that, not letting oneself be absorbed in idle pastimes, one should always attend to all that was going on, and then do what was most needful. Others, again, said that however attentive the King might be to what was going on, it was impossible for one man to decide correctly what is the right time for every action, but that he should have a Council of wise men, who would help him to fix the proper time for everything.

But then again others said there were some things which could not wait to be laid before a Council, but about which one had at once to decide whether to undertake them or not. But in order to decide that, one must know beforehand what was going to happen. It is only magicians who know that; and, therefore, in order to know the right time for every action, one must consult magicians.

Equally various were the answers to the second question. Some said, the people the King most needed were his councillors; others, the priests; others, the doctors; while some said the warriors were the most necessary.

To the third question, as to what was the most important occupation: some replied that the most important thing in the world was science. Others said it was skill in warfare; and others, again, that it was religious worship.

All the answers being different, the King agreed with none of them, and gave the reward to none. But still wishing to find the right answers to his questions, he decided to consult a hermit, widely renowned for his wisdom.

The hermit lived in a wood which he never quitted, and he received none but common folk. So the King put on simple clothes, and before reaching the hermit's cell dismounted from his horse, and, leaving his bodyguard behind, went on alone.

When the King approached, the hermit was digging the ground in front of his hut. Seeing the King, he greeted him and went on digging. The hermit was frail and weak, and each time he stuck his spade into the ground and turned a little earth, he breathed heavily.

The King went up to him and said: "I have come to you, wise hermit, to ask you to answer three questions: How can I learn to do the right thing at the right time? Who are the people I most need, and to whom should I, therefore, pay more attention than to the rest? And what affairs are the most important, and need my first attention?"

The hermit listened to the King, but answered nothing. He just spat on his hand and recommenced digging.

"You are tired," said the King, "let me take the spade and work a while for you."

"Thanks," said the hermit, and, giving the spade to the King, he sat down on the ground.

When he had dug two beds, the King stopped and repeated his questions. The hermit again gave no answer, but rose, stretched out his hand for the spade, and said:

"Now rest awhile—and let me work a bit."

But the King did not give him the spade, and continued to dig. One hour passed, and another. The sun began to sink behind the trees, and the King at last stuck the spade into the ground, and said:

"I come to you, wise man, for an answer to my questions. If you can give me none, tell me so, and I will return home."

"Here comes some one running," said the hermit, "let us see who it is."

The King turned around, and saw a bearded man come running out of the wood. The man held his hands pressed against his stomach, and blood was flowing from under them. When he reached the King, he fell fainting on the ground moaning feebly. The King and the hermit unfastened the man's clothing. There was a large wound in his stomach. The King washed it as best as he could, and bandaged it with his handkerchief and with a towel the hermit had. But the blood would not stop flowing, and this King again and again removed the bandage soaked with warm blood, and washed and rebandaged the wound. When at last the blood ceased flowing, the man revived and asked for something to drink. The King brought fresh water and gave it to him. Meanwhile the sun had set, and it had become cool. So the King with the hermit's help, carried the wounded man into the hut and laid him on the bed. Lying on the bed the man closed his eyes and was quiet; but the King was so tired with his walk and with the work he had done, that he crouched down on the threshold, and also fell asleep—so soundly that he slept all through the short summer night. When he awoke in the morning, it was long before he could remember where he was, or who was the strange bearded man lying on the bed and gazing intently at him with shining eyes.

"Forgive me!" said the bearded man in a weak voice, when he saw that the King was awake and was looking at him.

"I do not know you, and have nothing to forgive you for," said the King.

"You do not know me, but I know you. I am that enemy of yours who swore to revenge himself on you because you executed his brother and seized his property. I knew you had gone alone to see the hermit, and I resolved to kill you on your way back. But the day passed and you did not return. So I came out from my ambush to find you, and I came upon your bodyguard, and they recognized me, and wounded me. I escaped from them, but should have bled to death had you not dressed my wound. I wished to kill you, and you have saved my life. Now if I live, and if you wish it, I will serve you as your most faithful slave, and will bid my sons do the same. Forgive me!"

The King was very glad to have made peace with his enemy so easily, and to have gained him for a friend, and he not only forgave him, but said he would send his servants and his own physician to attend him, and promised to restore his property.

Having taken leave of the wounded man, the King went out into the porch and looked around for the hermit. Before going away he wished once more to beg answer to the question he had put. The hermit was outside, on his knees, sowing seeds in the beds that had been dug the day before.

The King approached him, and said:

"For the last-time, I pray you to answer my questions, wise man."

"You have already been answered," said the hermit still crouching on his thin legs, and looking at the King, who stood before him.

"How answered? What do you mean?" asked the King.

"Do you not see," replied the hermit. "If you had not pitied my weakness yesterday, and had not dug these beds for me, but had gone your way, that man would have attacked you, and you would have repented of not having stayed with me. So the most important time was when you were digging the beds; and I was the most important man, and to do me good was your most important business. Afterwards, when that man ran to us, the most important time was when you were attending to him, for if you had not bound up his wounds he would have died without having made peace with you. So he was the most important man, and what you did for him was your most important business. Remember then: there is only one time that is important—Now! It is the most important time because it is the only time when we have any power. The most necessary man is he with whom you are, for no man knows whether he will ever have dealings with any one else: and the most important affair is, to do him good, because for that purpose alone was man sent into this life!"

—Count Leo M. Tolstoy.

"Twenty-Three Tales from Tolstoy," translated by L. and A. Maude (Oxford Press).

Once a rich man was riding on horseback over a desert. He was going to the palace to be knighted by the king. With him was his trusty servant, who was to take care of their baggage and their food. As the master's horse was stronger than the servant's, the master went very far ahead. At last he came to a lonely tree by the road. He intended to stop in the shade, but when he got there, he found a poor trader almost dying of hunger. He had pity on him, so he threw him a piece of cake, which fell on his breast. Alas! the poor man could not move his hands to pick it up. The master, however, would not dismount and help the wretched man, but started on, leaving him about to die.

Soon the servant came to the same place. His heart was greatly moved upon seeing the traveler's pitiful appearance. As the servant was about to drink a few drops of water that still remained in a bottle, the suffering man looked at him. Therefore, he dismounted from his horse, and poured the water into the man's mouth. After a while the man could move his body a little. The servant thought that with a cup of pure warm water the poor traveler would recover his strength. But no water could be found in the desert. So he killed his horse, took the blood from its heart, and gave it to the traveler. The servant did not leave the traveler until he could get up without help. At last the servant started on his journey with the baggage on his head, leaving his dead horse and the traveler in the middle of the desert. He left to the traveler some bread, clothes, the saddle and his hat.

It was evening when he arrived at the palace. His master had been waiting for him impatiently. Without asking a question, the master began to whip his servant, because he had lost everything except their baggage. The servant would have suffered more had not the king chanced to see him. Both were brought before the king, who asked the servant what the matter was. The poor servant knelt before the king with his hands crossed over his breast, and then told the whole story. Seeing that the servant was as respectful, brave, and kind as a knight ought to be, the king made him a noble instead of his master.

—Eusebio Ramos.

"Good people, alms! Alms for the poor!" whined an uncouth beggar who stood huddled close, to the cold stones of a shop wall, and there sought shelter from the wind.

Two brothers, well clad and warm, walking homeward together, turned and looked to see whence the appeal came. The elder carelessly tossed a silver piece into the out-stretched palm, and muttered, "Odious beggars!" Then he hastened on. The younger man, however, stopped and asked how such willing pauperism had gained ascendancy over pride. The alms-seeker then told a story of search for employment, of repeated failures, and of the final surrender of self-esteem. The youth pitied the vagrant, and offered to furnish him a method of gaining independence. He readily accepted the help and a new worker began to labor in the vineyards of the brothers.

Some years later, when the time arrived for the people to send a new burgher to the capital to represent them, men came from the city to ask the fruit-gatherers which of their employers should be the choice for the office. Then the chief of the workmen spoke out, "The elder will fling you a coin and a curse. The younger will give you laws and improvements for your city. He will teach you to earn the coin for yourself."

The next year the giver of charity went to the great council in Berlin, while the giver of alms superintended the vine-growing and envied his brother's good fortune.

—Dorothea Knoblock.

ssss1

The word allegory is used widely to signify any figurative and symbolic writing (proverb, parable, metaphor, simile, or allegory proper); but we are going to use it in its distinctive and academic sense as a rhetorical and narrative type.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.