Part 6

Then Benten Sama thought, and that which she thought was good. It was the time of the red maple leaf[27] and Tatsu Hima[28] ruled. Benten Sama asked her aid, as she flaunted her banners upon the hillside, and that night there came a fearful storm. The storm howled and shrieked, and all the people cowered in terror. All night it raged, and the thunder god gave five mighty roars, and at each roar a dragon lay dead.

And when the sun god lighted the world, all was still and smiling, the Marsh of the Dragons was gone, and in its stead rose an island, green and beautiful, and above it hovered Benten Sama, throned upon a rainbow.

Then were the people much pleased at their deliverance from the five Dragons of the Marsh, and they made a shrine to Benten Sama at that point where she had appeared.

And O Ume San married the fisherman and they lived happily ever after.

FOOTNOTES:

[26] A Japanese never asks for a wife himself. He always sends a professional matchmaker who is called a “Go-between.”

[27] November.

[28] Goddess of Autumn.

THE WATERFALL WHICH FLOWED SAKÉ

Once there was a poor woodcutter who toiled early and late for a living. He worked harder than others, because he loved his old father and mother dearly, and wished to give them all the good things of life. But though he was more diligent than any other woodcutter of the village, he never seemed able to gain enough _sen_ to buy _saké_ and tea, but only enough for rice and bread.

One day he climbed high up on the mountain to find the best wood. It was a very steep mountain, and no one else would try to climb so high. So he worked alone. Chop, chop, his axe broke the stillness and soon he had a goodly pile of logs.

Stopping for a moment to rest, he saw a badger lying asleep under a tree, and he thought to himself, “Aha, my fine little beastie! You will make a fine morsel for my father’s supper. He and my mother have not tasted meat for many a day.”

The longer he looked at the badger, however, the less he wanted to kill him. He was such a little creature and it seemed mean to kill a sleeping thing and one so much smaller than himself!

“No,” he said to himself at last, “I can not kill him! I will but work the harder that I may earn money to buy my parents some meat!”

Now the badger seemed to understand and approve of this resolve on the part of the young woodcutter. He opened one eye and then the other. Then he blinked saucily at the woodcutter.

“Thank you,” he said. “That was a wise conclusion.”

The young man dropped his axe and jumped high into the air, so great was his astonishment at hearing a badger talk.

“You couldn’t kill me if you tried,” said the badger. “Besides, I am far more useful to you alive than dead. And now, because you have proved yourself of a kind heart, I will show you kindness. Bring me the flat, white stone which lies beneath yonder pine tree.”

The woodcutter turned to obey, and suddenly stopped in wonder. Spread upon the stone was the finest feast he had ever seen. There were rice and _saké_, fish and _dango_,[29] and other good things. He sighed as he looked, for he wished he could take the food home to his parents.

“Sit and eat,” said the badger who answered his thoughts as if they had been spoken. “Your father and mother shall eat the same.”

The woodcutter obeyed, but when he tried to thank his little friend, he saw that the badger was gone and that, just where he had sat, there was a sparkling, tinkling waterfall. It rippled over stones and crags and sang a sweet little song, and as the woodcutter stooped to drink of it lo! the waterfall flowed with _saké_! It was the richest he had ever tasted and he filled his gourd with it and hurried home to share it with his parents.

When he arrived there and had told his story, his mother smiled and said, “Thou art a good son.”

“We have fared as well,” his father said, “for we found spread for us just such a feast as yours, though we knew not at all whence it came.”

Next day the young man went early to his work. As he climbed the mountain he saw, to his surprise, a troop of woodcutters following him, and each carried a gourd. Some one had overheard him tell his father of the waterfall which flowed _saké_, and all the woodcutters of the village wished to taste of the wonderful drink.

When they drank, however, they were filled with rage, for to them the waterfall flowed only water. Then they reviled the youth and cried,

“Base one, you have beguiled us here on false pretenses! You have spoken falsely! We have toiled here for nothing! You are an evil fellow!”

[Illustration: “THE WOODCUTTER STOOPED TO DRINK OF IT”]

But he replied calmly, “I did not ask you to come. For me the waterfall flows _saké_ still, as sweet as yester-eve.”

They went away in great anger, and as they went the waterfall almost seemed to laugh, so gayly did it tinkle over the stones. When the woodcutter drank, however, the laughter turned to music and a sweet voice crooned a gentle song,

“_Saké_ for him who is kind, Water for those who seek self, _Saké_ for him who is kind!”

Thereafter it was the same. Whenever the woodcutter, worn with toil, stooped to drink from the sparkling waterfall, or at night when he filled his gourd to bear to his father at home, the _saké_ flowed free and clear and delicious. And ever the tinkling voice repeated, over and over to the music of waters falling,

“_Saké_ to him who is kind.”

FOOTNOTES:

[29] A kind of dumpling.

THE BOY AND THE SPIRITS OF THINGS

There was once a little boy of the Ainu who was very wise. He seldom played with the other boys, for the spirits of things were his playmates. No one could see his playmates, but he talked to them and loved them better than all the children whom he knew.

“My friends tell me strange things,” he said; and his mother asked, “Who are your friends and what strange things do they tell you, my child?”

“My friends are the spirits of things,” the boy made answer. “I can not tell you what they say, but the spirit of the pine tree whispers to me the things the spirit of the north wind tells to him; the tall bamboo spirit bends down as the tree sways, and talks of the sun’s glowing rays; the birds and blossoms speak to me of the earth’s beauty. Even the common things have spirits and they tell me many things.”

The boy’s mother sighed, as she looked at him, for she thought he was too wise.

One day the boy fell ill. He was very sick, but no one knew what was the matter with him. He drooped from day to day and seemed not to care for anything. And it was the winter time.

[Illustration: “THE BIRDS AND BLOSSOMS SPEAK TO ME”]

One day his mother came to him and said, “My son, the first plum blossom is seen upon the trees. The sun is warm. Will you not go out of doors to see it?”

“The plum blossom spirit whispered me of its coming,” he said. “I will go and see.”

Then he crept slowly from the little thatched hut and, resting at the door, he saw the plum blossom and smelled its delicious fragrance. He smiled a little and then a queer look came into his eyes. He held his chin in the palm of his hand and sat quietly nodding his head once or twice as if saying, “Yes.”

At last his mother could bear no longer to be without his thoughts. She feared to lose him, and she felt jealous of everything that came near to him. “Tell me what you think, little son,” she said.

“I will tell you,” the boy answered. “Oftentimes a boy and girl come to play with me. They are Spirit Children and we play many things. To-day they have told me why I am ill. It is this. My grandfather had a fine axe. With it he made many things, a tray, and a pestle to pound millet, and others. But my father threw away the axe, forgetting how well it had served. Now it lies rusting, and the spirit of the axe is angry. Because the spirit of the axe is angry, it has made me ill. So, if you do not wish me to die, you must tell my father to seek the axe and do honor to its spirit.”

“It shall be as you say, my son,” said his mother, and she sought his father and told him all. Then he found the axe, and polished it carefully until it shone. He made for it a new handle of ironwood, and carved it with care. And to it he set up a worship stick. This stick was tall, and its feathers curled and waved in the breeze.

Then the spirit of the axe was happy, and the boy was made well, so that joy fell upon the soul of his mother.

And when he grew to be a man, he became a great augur, for the spirits of things came often to him and told him much that was concealed from other beings. For the spirits of things were his friends.

THE DAUGHTER OF A SAMURAI

There was once a daughter of a Samurai who was both beautiful and good. Her name was O Cho San. Her father was dead, and she worked very hard to support her mother who was ill. The mother had trained her daughter in the best of manners, therefore O Cho San had no trouble in finding work.

There was a certain nobleman in need of a maid servant, and he approached O Cho San and asked her to serve him.

“What would my duties be?” inquired the girl as she respectfully bowed to the ground before him. “I must hear, and then I can tell if I can do them.”

“They are all the common duties of a maid,” he replied--“all but one thing, which is most strange. You will have the care of the porcelain plates of my fathers.”

“But that is not a strange duty for a maid,” answered O Cho San. She smiled at him, showing her pretty white teeth and a dimple in one cheek. “I have washed china before this, and always with care.”

“Yet it is the one thing which is most hard,--to find a maid who will attend to this,” he answered. “Know, O Cho San, that the porcelain is priceless. There are twelve plates and each one is perfect. They are so old that they are of the fashion of the Owari potter who learned the secrets of Karatsu and made a flight of cranes across the blue sky.

“The porcelain is so beyond all value that my ancestor made the law that whoever broke a plate should straightway have a finger cut off. So you see the china must be washed with care.”

O Cho San clasped and unclasped her slender brown fingers nervously, then she hid them quite away in the sleeves of her kimono. Her cheek paled a little, but she said bravely, “I will take the place, most honorable sir, and I shall try to keep my fingers.”

Then she thought to herself, “It is not the most desirable of places to live where one loses a finger for each nick of china, but the _yen_ he pays are many more than I can earn elsewhere, and my dear mother must have tea and rice. Besides, it is not likely that such costly porcelain can be often used, and when it is, I shall offer many prayers that it be used in safety.”

So O Cho San served the nobleman faithfully.

It was easy to see that she was a favorite with all, for she had manners of such engaging gentleness that every one loved her. At first this pleased her. When, however, she found that even the master’s son was in love with her, she was unhappy.

She did not care at all for him, and she knew that to marry him would displease her master, who was kind to her. So she refused to listen to the young man, and this made him very angry. Being bad at heart, he resolved to be avenged upon her.

“I will ask my father to give a party at which the porcelain plates shall be used,” he said to himself. “She will surely break one, and then she will turn to me to save her from her punishment. If she does not, she will lose a finger;” and on his face there was a cruel frown.

As he had said, so it was done. The master gave a supper and the priceless dishes were used. Thanks to the kindness of the gods who watch over little maidens, O Cho San washed them, dried them on the softest of paper napkins, and set them carefully away all unbroken. But alas, when the master came to look them over, the bottom one of the pile was broken.

Great was the excitement.

O Cho San wept and proclaimed her innocence.

“Honorable Master,” she cried, “it is another hand than mine which has broken it. But if I am to be punished, cut a piece from my face instead of my hand. Then I may still work for my mother.”

[Illustration: “O CHO SAN PROCLAIMED HER INNOCENCE”]

“The law of my fathers required a finger for each plate broken,” said the master sorrowfully; for although he liked the gentle little maid and did not wish to hurt her, he feared to disobey the law.

“You shall not cut even her finger nail,” suddenly cried a rough voice. The group around O Cho San turned in astonishment to see who dared speak so to the master.

It was Genzaburo, a servant, very rough but honest and good.

“O Cho San may not be punished for what she has not done,” he said. “I myself broke the plate. You ask me why? Because I love O Cho San. She is as fair as the cherry bloom in early spring, but to me cold and remote as the snows upon the crest of the mountains. I thought to myself, she is a Samurai’s daughter and will never marry me. But if she lose a finger no one else will marry her. Therefore in time she will turn to me, and I shall win her for my wife. Then I broke the plate.”

“How did you break it?” demanded the master sternly.

“That I will show you,” said Genzaburo. “It was very simple. I was told to mend the lid of the box in which the plate was kept. Then I thought of the plates, and I drew forth one and _bang!_ my hammer fell upon it just like this!” and he brought his hammer down with great force.

There was a crash terrible to hear, a scream from O Cho San, an exclamation of rage from the master, for the hammer had descended upon the pile of plates, and of the beautiful porcelain nothing at all remained but fragments.

In all the confusion Genzaburo alone was calm. He stood smiling at the ruin he had wrought, and his master cried, “The man is quite mad! Take him away!”

“Not so, my master, I am not mad,” Genzaburo replied. “I did this thing with reason. Take all my fingers if you wish, or even my life if the commands of your honorable ancestors must be carried out. But I shall have the happiness of knowing that no more little maids can be frightened and mutilated by your cruelty.”

The nobleman gazed upon him in silence; but the son threw himself before his father.

“I beg you, oh my father, forgive this mad fellow,” he cried. “I too am in fault, for I persuaded you to give this entertainment in the hope that she would break a plate and then turn to me in her trouble.”

Then O Cho San knelt before him and said, “Honorable Master, since I am the occasion of this great trouble in your household, I beg you to permit me to go away and be not angry with either your son or your servant. Forgive them, and of your graciousness allow me to depart, since my only wish is to work for the welfare of my dear mother.”

Then was the nobleman greatly touched. Mindful of Genzaburo’s long service, he forgave him. He forgave his son, also; for since O Cho San loved him not, he needed no further punishment. Mindful still more of O Cho San’s pleasant services in his household, he said, “We will speak no more of the porcelain plates of my ancestors. O Cho San will not leave me. She shall continue to live in my service and her wages shall be increased.”

Then he gave her a reward, and she lived many years and earned much _yen_ for the welfare of her dear mother.

THE FISHES OF THE BOILING SPRING

Many, many years ago there lived at Atami a holy priest. Of all the poor people of the village, he was the very poorest, for he gave away nearly all that was given to him; and he was often hungry.

Atami was by the sea and the people lived on the sea’s bounty. When the winter swept down from Fuji San, and the storm god roared on the waves and frightened the fish away, then all the people hungered. The fathers and mothers hungered greatly, for they gave nearly all there was to the children, who were not, therefore, so much in want. But the priest hungered most of all; for he was the father of his people, and so gave them of his own share of food. Indeed, he gave them more than this; for, under the camphor tree which grew beside his little temple on the hill, he sat and prayed for his people, and the gods heard his prayers.

One day the fish were gone from the shore and the people were very hungry. The priest of Atami sat and prayed, and lo! the camphor tree opened, and there appeared to him a lovely goddess in a mantle of purple. Her face was fair and kind, but her eyes gleamed with displeasure, and she said, “Sit not here and pray for fish, oh foolish one! Even now the fish are upon your shore; behold them!” Then the tree closed and he saw her no more.

The priest was afraid and hastened to the shore; and there he saw a terrible sight and smelled a terrible smell.

The whole beach was covered with fishes. There were big fishes and little fishes, long fishes and fat fishes, and strange fishes that no one had ever seen before. They would have fed the village for many days, but alas! each fish was scalded as by fire and was crumbling into bits.

The good priest wept as if his heart would break, crying aloud, “Alas, my people, my people!”

Then he climbed high upon the hill above the village, and looked over the sea, hoping that he might learn what had caused the fish to die. There he prayed to the gods, “Open my eyes that I may see, and aid my people.”

Far out at sea, and under the surface of the water, he beheld a great turmoil. The waters boiled and bubbled as if in torment. And through the waters, the fishes leaped, and lo! they were scalded to death.

The priest called to the watchman, who stood upon the hill to tell the people when good fish came to the shore, “Haste! haste!” he said, “run to the temple and bring me a branch from the holy camphor tree which grows beside it. For thy life, haste!”

The watchman, being young, made great haste. Soon he brought back a bough of the tree. Its leaves were like green jade and it was of more avail than many demons.

Then the priest prayed upon the shore, while he waved his camphor branch in the air, “Oh Kwan-on, Goddess of Mercy,” he said, “look upon our distress and have pity upon my people. Give us fish lest we die. And cause the turmoil in the sea to cease.”

He threw the sacred bough far from him into the sea. Then there came a mighty rumbling, and the crest of the hill rose into a cone, and through it the waters burst, rising toward heaven in a stream so high that it seemed to reach the clouds.

Soon the people came with speed and made channels in the earth. The hot water flowed into the channels, and all who bathed therein were cured of their ailments; and the place was called the “Spring of Kindness.”

Then was the old priest much rejoiced, for the fish came back to his people, and there was food to eat. He dwelt long in the shrine on the hilltop, and his people were grateful to him, and made him many offerings.

And to this day the camphor tree grows, with its small, pointed, green-jade leaves, old, and strong, and fragrant, upon the hill of Atami.

[Illustration: KWAN-ON, GODDESS OF MERCY]

THE INAO OF THE AINU

In the beginning of things the world was very hot. The mountains breathed fire and smoke, even the snows were melted and the sun goddess shone fiercely, with a cruel light. She scorched the food of the people, and withered their flowers and trees.

But Okikurumi, a mighty fisherman, saw the sorrows of the Ainu and grieved. He was of a kind heart, and all the people loved him. He was tall and straight as a young bamboo, of gentle mien and thoughtful, wise for the safety of the Ainu whom he loved.

When, therefore, the land was scorched with the heat, and folk were starving, Okikurumi caught many fish and sent them to the Ainu by his wife.

She was named Tureshi, and she lived but to do the will of her lord.

“Go thou to the Ainu,” he said, “take this basket of fish. Put it in at the window of the chief man of the village and hasten back. I forbid the Ainu to question you or to look at you. Go!”

“Yes, my lord,” Tureshi answered; and she girdled her kimono about her and started upon her errand.

[Illustration: “OKIKURUMI WAS A MIGHTY FISHERMAN”]

Day after day she went to the aid of the suffering people. But they saw her not, for Okikurumi had commanded them to refrain from gazing upon the face of his wife.

At last, however, one man grew curious. He wished to see this forbidden being. “She is either the most beautiful person in the world or else she is so ugly that her husband feels shame to have her seen of other men,” he said to himself. “In any case I will find out.”