Part 16

Salman was a strong and mighty man, He was as large as a hill, as powerful as a giant, and a terrible tyrant. He lived in one corner of the world, but his fame spread terror over all the earth. He had a horse of lightning, and his arms were as strong as iron. He assaulted men in their peaceful habitations, and took tribute from them; none could refuse to pay him tribute, else he would slaughter and destroy the people. In another portion of the earth there was another strong brigand, called Chal, who had a son named Rostom. This Rostom was a huge man, as large as a mountain, and greatly celebrated for his extraordinary strength and bravery. It was only the land of this Chal which did not pay tribute to Salman.

One day Chal mounted his horse and started, saying: "Let me go and see what kind of a man Salman is."

After a long journey he met a huge man mounted on a horse swift as lightning; the staff of his spear was as thick as a man's waist. Chal did not know that this was Salman himself; but nevertheless he prepared his spear for battle. To his surprise, the horseman gave spur to his horse and passed by Chal without even looking at his face. Upon this Chal was offended, and threw his spear after the horseman. Salman turned back, seized Chal, whom he bound under the belly of his horse, and galloped until he came to a tent pitched by a gurgling spring. He dismounted, nailed Chal's ear to the tent's beam, and lay down to sleep. Chal was almost mad with rage; he gnashed his teeth and muttered to himself:

"He did not speak a word to me, he did not tell me his name. I wish I might know who he is."

Salman soon waked, and asked:

"Fellow, who are you?"

"I am from Chal's country," answered Chal. He was so much afraid that he did not say that he was Chal himself.

"Ah!" exclaimed Salman, releasing Chal's ear, "why did you not tell me before? Go and bid Rostom, Chal's son, come hither that we may measure swords. There cannot be two men of equal strength; the world must know who is the stronger champion. I am Salman."

Chal returned to his house and sighed deeply. Rostom, hearing him sighing, said:

"How now, father? You are Chal and I am Rostom, your son, and yet you sigh! Nay, you must tell me your grief."

Chal told him of his meeting with Salman, and the latter's challenge to Rostom. Rostom took with him his cousin Vyjhan, and both disguised themselves, assuming the habit of pilgrims. Rostom kissed his white-hoofed horse on both eyes and said to his father:

"When I am in trouble my horse will know it and will beat the ground with his feet. Then bind my arms upon his back and set him free; he will come and find me."

Vyjhan, who accompanied Rostom on his journey, was far from being a common mortal. He had a wonderful voice; if he cried in the East his voice would be heard in the West. After traveling for a long time, Rostom and Vyjhan came to a city and encamped upon a meadow outside the town. Rostom was sleeping, when Vyjhan heard a terrible uproar in the city and went there to inquire the cause of the trouble. Some of the people were running like chased deer, some were tearing their hair, some beating their breasts, and all were weeping and wailing.

"Why, what is the matter?" asked Vyjhan.

"Salman has come, demanding seven years' tribute that is in arrears," the people answered.

Soon they collected the amount; but the question now arose, by whom they should send the tribute, because Salman would take away the man by whom the tribute was sent, and kill him.

"Give it to me, I will take it," said Vyjhan.

Soon Rostom heard in his sleep Vyjhan's shrill voice, saying:

"Help, Rostom! Salman is carrying me away."

Rostom got up and learned from the people what had happened, and lo! his white-hoofed horse came running and stood before him. Immediately Rostom jumped on the back of his horse, which galloped away and soon reached Salman's tent. Salman, having nailed Vyjhan's ear to the tent beam, came out to meet Rostom. Then and there took place a duel the most terrible that has ever been recorded in the history of the world. Bows and arrows, spears and swords were cut into pieces. Finally they came near one another, seized each other, and both were entangled in each other's hair.

Up to the present time they have not yet conquered one another, but are still struggling. Now and then they pull and shake each other so violently that the earth quakes, and that is what men call an earthquake; and Vyjhan's voice is still heard deeply from afar.

THE SPARROW AND THE TWO CHILDREN.

Vart was the name of a boy who was six years old, and Vartoohi was the name of his sister, who was five years of age. Varteni, their dear mother, had died, and Vartan, their father, had brought home a stepmother who had with her a boy of her own four years old. Vartan was a well-to-do farmer, and as he loved his children he brought them nice suits of clothes and dresses, delicious food, pretty toys and many other presents. The stepmother, being a wicked woman, envied the little half-orphans and wished to destroy them that she might secure every good thing for her own child. In order to attain her vile purpose she secretly boiled the seed which her husband was to sow in the field that year. The wheat, of course, did not grow, and as there was no crop, the farmer had to borrow to meet his expenses. The following year she played the same treacherous trick and increased the farmer's indebtedness so much that the poor man, giving up every hope of the farm, went away to sojourn in other countries to earn money. That was what the wicked woman desired with all her heart. She fed her son with meat and pies, while she gave the half-orphans only a handful of boiled wheat to eat. One day she decided to take Vart and Vartoohi to the river as if to bathe them, and there to drown them. That day the two innocent half-orphans had taken their handful of boiled wheat and were eating it in a corner of the yard. They saw a small sparrow which was jumping and hopping around them, and chirping and chattering as it leaped. Vart wanted to kill it with a stone, but Vartoohi prevented him. As they were eating their poor, scanty meal, they listened to the little birdie, and lo! they thought they could understand what it was chirping.

"Orphans, orphans! good little orphans!" the little sparrow was saying, "give me a few grains which I may take to my little ones in my tiny nest and I will give you good counsel."

The children cast a few grains to the bird, which after taking them to its nest came back, saying:

"Orphans, run! orphans, run! your stepmother will to-day take you to the river to drown you. Run, orphans, run!"

And the little sparrow flew away. Soon the stepmother came, saying:

"Get up, you dirty things! we will go to the river, where I may bathe you."

"You go first, mamma; we will come by and by," answered the orphans.

And following the advice of their little feathered friend they ran away to the mountains. The stepmother never searched for them, and the two children wandered in the forest until evening. At nightfall they entered the hollow trunk of an old sycamore tree, repeated the prayer which they had learned from their dead mother, and lay down to sleep embracing one another. Soon after daybreak the faithful sparrow came, and the two children waking heard it chirp to them:

"Orphans, good orphans, come and eat; there is boiled wheat for you."

They immediately got up and ran after the sparrow, which led them until they came where an old woman brought a kettleful of boiled wheat, and emptying it under a tree, went away. A great many little sparrows were gathered; the two half-orphans sat with them at the table. The good old woman used to bring the kettleful of wheat and empty it under that tree day after day. She did this in memory of her children and grandchildren, who had died when they were young boys and girls, and whom she had loved very much. She believed that these little birdies were the spirits of her dead little ones. So these two half-orphans lived with the little sparrows for a long time.

One day as the Prince was hunting in the forest he met Vart and Vartoohi, took them with him to the palace, loved them and adopted them as his son and daughter. The children were so pretty and amiable that all the court loved them dearly. But Vart and Vartoohi were not happy.

"What is the matter with you, my children?" asked the Prince; "what is the cause of your grief?"

"We long to see our dear papa who has gone away," answered Vart.

"And we long to see the little sparrow, our benefactor," added Vartoohi.

The Prince sent out men in search of Vartan, the father of the children; and finding him, brought him home. He punished his wife for her wickedness, and embraced his children. The Prince kept him also, as a messenger in the court. But who could find the sparrow? It came by itself one day, and alighting on the window where the orphans were, chirped:

"You blessed little orphans, you pitied my little ones and gave me grain, and lo! Heaven has bestowed upon you so many bounties. May you continue to be blessed and to be happy."

The Prince liked the little sparrow for its good services and permitted it to build its nest thereafter under the eaves of the palace. All sparrows which at the present time build their nests under the eaves of houses are the descendants of that good sparrow. Let us be good even to the sparrows and they may bring good to us.

THE OLD WOMAN AND THE CAT.

AN ARMENIAN NURSERY TALE. [3]

Once upon a time there was an old woman who had a goat. She milked the goat every day and kept the milk in the cupboard; but a sly cat came and licked it up. One day, however, the old woman succeeded in getting hold of the cat, and cutting off her tail as a punishment, let her go.

"Meow! meow!" cried the cat; "give me my tail!"

"Bring me my milk and I will give you your tail," said the old woman.

The cat went to the goat and said: "Goat, kind goat, do give me some milk! I will give it to the old woman and get back my tail."

"Bring me some boughs from yonder tree, and I will give you milk," answered the goat.

The cat went to the tree and said, "O good tree, do give me some boughs! I will take them to the goat, get a little milk and give it to the old woman, and get back my tail."

"Bring me some water and I will give you some boughs," answered the tree.

The cat went to the water-carrier and said, "Kind water-carrier, give me some water! I will take it to the tree and get some boughs, give them to the goat and get some milk, and give it to the old woman and get my tail."

"Bring me a pair of shoes and I will give you some water," said the water-carrier.

The cat went to the shoemaker and said, "Shoemaker, good shoemaker, do give me a pair of shoes! I will give them to the water-carrier, who will give me some water; I will take it to the tree and get some boughs for the goat; she will give me some milk, which I will take to the old woman and get my tail."

"Bring me an egg and I will give you a pair of shoes," said the shoemaker.

The cat went to the hen and said, "Hen, good hen, do lay me an egg! I will take it to the shoemaker and get a pair of shoes for the water-carrier; he will give me some water, which I will take to the tree and get some boughs for the goat; she will give me some milk, which I will take to the old woman and get my tail."

"Bring me some barley and I will lay an egg for you," answered the hen.

The cat went to the threshing-floor and said, "Threshing-floor, kind threshing-floor, do give me some barley!"

The threshing-floor said: "There, you may gather the scattered barley which my good master has left as food for the birdies and ants."

The cat gathered the barley and took it to the hen, which laid her an egg. She took the egg to the shoemaker and got a pair of shoes. She took the pair of shoes to the water-carrier and got a pailful of water for the tree. The tree gave her some boughs which she took to the goat. The goat gave her some milk which she took to the old woman.

"Here is your tail," said the old woman, "and be careful hereafter not to steal my milk."

The cat took her tail and tried to stick it in its place but she could not. She tried over and over again to stick it with resin, with tar and with glue, but it was of no use. So that cat has remained tailless to this day, as a sign of her being a thief.

Moral.--Wickedness is always punished. Nothing valuable can be gotten without labor. The mark of a great sin cannot be erased.

SIA-MANTO AND GUJE-ZARE.

NOTE.

Miss Alice Stone Blackwell was kind enough to put into English verse for me the following ballad. In some districts of Armenia this tragic story of Sia-Manto and Guje-Zare is told as a prose tale as are the other tales of this volume. In some other districts, especially near the foot of Mount Ararat, it has the form of a versified ballad and is sung with great relish by both the Armenians and the Kurds. According to the tradition of the natives, Sia-Manto was an Armenian youth and Guje-Zare a Kurdish maiden. They were both of noble birth. The Armenians and the Kurds, although close neighbors, never intermarry owing to their religious differences. The Kurds, however, very often kidnap Armenian girls, and as they are professed Mohammedans they find protection from the Turkish authorities, instead of being punished for their crimes. The Armenians, on the other hand, being despised as "Christian infidels," never dare to kidnap or elope with Kurdish girls. This is the only instance on record of a Kurdish maiden's elopement with an Armenian youth, and this is a mere tale.

A. G. S.

SIA-MANTO AND GUJE-ZARE.

It chanced that Sia-Manto in a dream Saw Guje-Zare; in his dream it seemed They were troth-plighted, and exchanged their rings. To Guje-Zare the same dream befell On the same night. Then Sia-Manto rose Long before dawn, and, mounting on his steed-- Red, spirited, a horse of lightning--rode Swift as an eagle to his sweetheart's tribe. An aged dame received him in her tent.

Lo! drums were beating, trumpets sounding loud. "Why is this mirth, and whose the festival?" He asked of his good hostess, the old dame. "'Tis Guje-Zare's wedding, O my son," She answered, "and the bridegroom from afar Has come to bear her with him to his home. This is the third day of the festival." Then Sia-Manto prayed with tearful eyes, Saying, "A token bear to her from me;" And from his finger drew and gave the ring Exchanged with Guje-Zare in his dream. The old dame took a kerchief many-hued, Put raisins in it, and with them the ring. Then to the bride she went, and wished her joy. The lovely girl received her and her gift; With fingers dyed with henna, she turned o'er And stirred the raisins; and among them, lo! The ring of the betrothal of her dream! She knew it at a glance; deeply she sighed; She paled, her eyes were darkened, and she swooned. The old dame held her, and with sorrow said: "O Guje-Zare! would I had been blind And had not seen this sight! What is thy pain? Dear soul, what ails thee? Ope thine eyes, thy lips! Tell me, what hast thou seen? What moves thee thus?" The voice of sympathy, the dame's warm touch, Roused Guje-Zare; faintly thus she spake: "O auntie, I implore thee, tell me true Where dwells the owner of this golden ring?" "A guest within my tent," replied the dame. Then Guje-Zare, sighing, said, "Behold, Of the festivities three days are past; To-morrow is the bridal's final day. Let Sia-Manto know there is one chance, But one; to-morrow morning I shall go Unto my mother's tomb; alone I go To weep there, and to bid her bones farewell. There may he come and find me. Tell him this." The dame to Sia-Manto told her tale.

That night long, Sia-Manto could not sleep. Ere dawn he rose, and hastened to the place. There, 'neath the silent dome, sleep fell on him. He wrapped his cloak about him, slept, and snored. Soon Guje-Zare came; and lo! he slept. She stood there long, and long she gazed on him; Pitying, she did not touch him. Sound he slept, And loud he snored, while by his side she stood. She blamed him, and condemned him in her heart; Two golden marbles from her pocket drew, And put them in his pocket, and went home.

'Twas noon when Sia-Manto woke from sleep. He looked around and beat his head, and came Again to his kind hostess. Mournfully, With broken heart, thus spake he to the dame: "Auntie, I sought the tomb; she was not there. I slept there; when I woke I was alone." "Ah!" said the dame. "Hast thou no token, look Within thy pocket?" And he looked, and lo! The pair of golden marbles. "This," she said, "Is Guje-Zare's token." "But," he asked, "What does it mean?" "By this," the matron said, "She meant, 'I see thou yet art but a boy, And not a man of love. Go play with boys; This undertaking is too great for thee.'"

Then Sia-Manto blushed with shame. In tears He begged the dame, "Go, auntie, go once more, For Heaven's sake, and let her speak to thee A last word. What she bids me, I will do."

The dame from Guje-Zare brought this word: "To-morrow is the bridal's closing day, The day of the procession. At that time The bridegroom and his men will bear me hence. If Sia-Manto is a man, and knows How to be loved, and love, let him come then, Full armed from head to foot, upon his steed, And take me. We will go to Ararat, And rest and love there, hidden in the mist."

Next morning, when the bridal train set forth, The bridegroom, with his forty horsemen, armed From head to foot, rode, bearing home the bride. And then like lightning Sia-Manto came, And snatched the bride, and set her on his steed; And swifter rode he than the eagle flies Chasing a dove; a journey of three days Was all passed over in that one wild ride. With the same swiftness the pursuers rode. The rider on the gray steed nearest pressed. "Who is it," Sia-Manto asked his love, "That risks his own life and his horse's thus?" "'Tis he," she answered, "from whom thou hast reft His plighted bride, the maid whom he had loved A year and longer. Do not blame him, dear; His heart is broken; he is full of rage."

He lifted Guje-Zare from the horse, And spread his cloak, and set her there to rest; Then, mounting, took his arrows and his sword, And furiously on the pursuers fell, And slew the forty horsemen and their steeds. Then he returned, and Guje-Zare bore Unto Mount Ararat, where they reposed, Hid in thick mist and fog. His weary head He laid in her soft lap, and fell asleep.

Soon Sia-Manto started suddenly; Warm tears had fallen from Guje-Zare's eyes Upon his face, and wakened him from sleep. "What is it, dear?" he said. "What hast thou seen? Tell me, why dost thou weep and tremble so?" "In this wild place a wonder I have seen. Forty wild bulls there were that came to drink At yonder spring, and with them was one cow. Then raged a fearful fight among the bulls; And the gray bull, victorious o'er the rest, Took him the cow. The thing reminded me Of our own case--the forty horsemen slain-- And I was so excited that I wept." He rose and took his arrow and his bow, Chased the gray bull, and shot it, and it fell, And rolled upon the ground. He rushed on it, And with his dagger strove to cut its throat; But the bull, bellowing madly, tossed its horns, And threw him down the precipice profound. And Sia-Manto fell upon his back Upon a sharp oak trunk, that pierced his chest Four spans and further. There he hung transfixed.

Then Guje-Zare, following him afar, Came to the precipice, and gazed around; Saw the wild bull in its last agony, And heard her Sia-Manto's mournful groans. She found his bow and arrow, picked them up, And bent her o'er the precipice's edge Until she saw where Sia-Manto hung. She tore her hair, and wailed this loud lament:

"O Sia-Manto, dost thou lie so low? Thy bow and arrow of pure silver are. Thou hadst no need to follow the wild bull. Oh, groan not, Sia-Manto, groan not so!" "My Guje-Zare," from below he called, "Weep not! Thy wailing causes me more pain Than this curst oak trunk."