Here the hero is Jack, who is hated by his step-mother. Since his father is not willing to turn him out of the house altogether, the step-mother manages to bring it about that Jack is set to watch the cattle, and she allows him only rotten food. An old man with whom he shares his victuals grants him three wishes in return for his kindness. He asks for a bow and a fife; and the old man gives him a bow that never misses its aim, and a fife that compels every one to dance. He also grants Jack's third wish, that every time his step-mother hurls a bad word at him or about him, she shall give forth another noise not permitted in polite society. When this happens that evening at home to the amusement of all, the step-mother plans to send the monk Tobias into the field the next day to punish Jack. However, Jack asks the monk to fetch from the brambles a bird which he has shot, and then he begins to play dance-music for the monk. All scratched and bloody, Tobias returns home. That night the father calls his son to account; but he is so pleased at the effects of the magic fife, that he decides not to punish the boy. The official, too, the bishop's agent, at whose court the next Friday step-mother and monk bring charges of witchcraft against Jack, has to hear the fife, and is obliged to dance until he promises to let Jack go unpunished.

The English story seems to have passed over into Holland, where in 1528 a Dutch form appeared, with some additions. A most significant modification appears in a German handling of the Dutch form, by Dieterich Albrecht in 1599:—

Here the hero is not a cowherd plagued by his malicious step-mother, but a simple-minded servant who serves an avaricious master for three years and receives as pay three pfennigs for the whole time. Pleased with his earnings, however, he goes away singing. When he meets two beggars who ask him for alms, he gives them his three coins. They grant him three wishes in return for his goodness; and he gets a "never-miss" crossbow, a magic fiddle that makes all dance, and the promise that no one shall ever be able to deny him a request. By a lake he meets a monk, who jeers at his shooting-ability, and undertakes, if the youth can bring down a raven there on the island, to swim over naked and fetch the bird. Soon, however, the monk regrets his bargain, for the crossbow does not miss. While the monk stands naked in the bushes on the island, the boy begins to fiddle. Wailing and moaning, the ecclesiastic promises the youth the hundred ducats that he has stolen from the monastery, and he is now permitted to return and get his clothes. But he treacherously follows the youth, lodges a complaint against him with the council of the nearest city, and succeeds in getting him condemned. When the youth is already on the gallows ladder, he requests the judge to allow him to play just one more song; and he makes all those present dance so violently, that the judge agrees to pardon him if he will only cease playing. Then the monk confesses his own theft and deceit, and receives his deserved punishment.

In this version, as Bolte and Polivka note (2 : 493), the chief deviations from the English-Dutch form of the story are the omission of the step-mother role, the nature of the third wish, and the modification of the character of the monk, who, from a mere tool of the step-mother, has here developed into a thieving rascal. A Czech redaction (1604) of the German poem substitutes for the runaway monk a Jew. This substitution is also found in the German prose tale "Von Knecht Treurecht" (about 1690).

Of the modern oral folk-versions of the story, some are based on the Middle-English droll; but by far the larger number omit the hostile step-mother, and retain only the dance of the monk or the Jew and the scene at the gallows. For a complete list of stories of this second type, see Bolte-Polivka, 2 : 495-501. All the variants, both literary and popular, cited in this bibliography, are Occidental; and we must inevitably conclude that the story was imported into the Philippines some time during the Spanish occupation of the Islands. Some rather important differences are presented by our versions, however; and these we shall call attention to briefly, first mentioning the details that definitely connect our forms with the European.

The opening of the story of "Cecilio" is like that of Albrecht's, given above. Our hero works four years for a cruel master, and receives five hundred centavos as pay,—a sum with which he is more than satisfied. At this point our story digresses. After two adventures with robbers, in the first of which he recovers his money by a lucky accident (this incident is considerably elaborated in the variant), he meets an old woman who lends him a magic cane, and with its help he is able to regain his money from a second robber. This feature of the magic beating-stick seems to be borrowed from the preceding story. He now returns the cane to the old woman, and she sells him a magic guitar. The next adventure—with his former master, who is substituted for the knavish monk—contains a distorted reminiscence of the shooting of the bird, and ends with the dance among the thorns (here bamboo-spines). The hero is bought off by his master, who immediately rushes to town and accuses him of theft. The rest is practically as in Albrecht.

While our version introduces two magic articles, it can be seen that the first does not properly belong to the story. The "three-wishes" incident, and accordingly the third wish itself, is lacking altogether. A rather artistic attempt to unify the story as a whole is the substitution of the rascally master introduced in the beginning of the story, for the knavish monk or Jew later on; though it is to be noticed that the narrator falls to motivate the hero's return to the house that he had apparently left for good when he was paid off. The episode of the shooting is obscure, and appears to be only a vague echo of the detail definitely connected with one of the three gifts in some of the European literary forms. Again, in "Cecilio" the musical instrument is a guitar instead of the usual violin or fife; while in the variant "Andoy" the magic cane is the only enchanted object, no musical instrument appearing at all. The episode of the two robbers killing each other over the treasure (paralleled in "Andoy," where two robbers fight with two hunters, and all four are killed) is an interesting addition, the source of which I am unable to point out. It may be derived from some moral tale related in kind to the "Vedabbha-jataka," No. 48; "Cento Novelle Antiche," No. 82; Morlini, No. 42; Chaucer's "Pardoner's Tale," etc.; although the characteristic treachery emphasized in those stories is lacking here. The incident is not found in other versions of our tale that I know of.

I am unable to name the immediate source of our story of "Cecilio" and of the two variants; though, as has been remarked above, it was pretty certainly European. None of the three seems to owe anything in particular to the Spanish ballad printed in the "Romancero General," No. 1265, which Bolte and Polivka think is based directly on Grimm, No. 110. The local modifications in our story, and the definite native atmosphere maintained throughout, suggest that it is not a recent importation.

An interesting animal version from South Africa, containing the magic bow and magic fiddle, is given by Honey (p. 14), "The Monkey's Fiddle." This story was doubtless taken over by the natives from the Dutch.



TALE 29

CHONGUITA.

Narrated by Pilar Ejercito, a Tagalog from Pagsanjan, Laguna. She heard the story from her aunt, who had heard it when she was still a little girl.

There was a king who had three sons, named Pedro, Diego, and Juan. One day the king ordered these three gentlemen to set out from the kingdom and seek their fortunes. The three brothers took different directions, but before they separated they agreed to meet in a certain place in the forest.

After walking for many days, Don Juan met an old man on the road. This old man gave Don Juan bread, and told him to go to a palace which was a mile away. "But as you enter the gate," said the old man, "you must divide the bread which I have given you among the monkeys which are guarding the gate to the palace; otherwise you will not be able to enter."

Don Juan took the bread; and when he reached the palace, he did as the old man had advised him. After entering the gate, he saw a big monkey. Frightened at the sight of the animal, Don Juan was about to tun away, when the animal called to him, and said, "Don Juan, I know that your purpose in coming here was to find your fortune; and at this very moment my daughter Chonguita will marry you." The archbishop of the monkeys was called, and Don Juan and Chonguita were married without delay.

A few days afterwards Don Juan asked permission from his wife to go to the place where he and his brothers had agreed to meet. When Chonguita's mother heard that Don Juan was going away, she said to him, "If you are going away, take Chonguita with you." Although Don Juan was ashamed to go with Chonguita because she was a monkey, he was forced to take her, and they set out together. When Don Juan met his two brothers and their beautiful wives at the appointed place, he could not say a word. Don Diego, noticing the gloomy appearance of his brother, said, "What is the matter with you? Where is your wife, Don Juan?"

Don Juan sadly replied, "Here she is."

"Where?" asked Don Pedro.

"Behind me," replied Don Juan.

When Don Pedro and Don Diego saw the monkey, they were very much surprised. "Oh!" exclaimed Don Pedro, "what happened to you? Did you lose your head?"

Don Juan could say nothing to this question. At last, however, he broke out, "Let us go home! Our father must be waiting for us." So saying, Don Juan turned around and began the journey. Don Pedro and Don Diego, together with their wives, followed Don Juan. Chonguita walked by her husband's side.

When the return of the three brothers was announced to the king, the monarch hastened to meet them on the stairs. Upon learning that one of his sons had married a monkey, the king fainted; but after he had recovered his senses, he said to himself, "This misfortune is God's will. I must therefore bear it with patience." The king then assigned a house to each couple to live in.

But the more the king thought of it, the greater appeared to be the disgrace that his youngest son had brought on the family. So one day he called his three sons together, and said to them, "Tell your wives that I want each one of them to make me an embroidered coat. The one who falls to do this within three days will be put to death." Now, the king issued this order in the hope that Chonguita would be put to death, because he thought that she would not be able to make the coat; but his hope was disappointed. On the third day his daughters-in-law presented to him the coats that they had made, and the one embroidered by Chonguita was the prettiest of all.

Still anxious to get rid of the monkey-wife, the king next ordered his daughters-in-law to embroider a cap for him in two days, under penalty of death in case of failure. The caps were all done on time.

At last, thinking of no other way by which he could accomplish his end, the king summoned his three daughters-in-law, and said, "The husband of the one who shall be able to draw the prettiest picture on the walls of my chamber within three days shall succeed me on the throne." At the end of the three days the pictures were finished. When the king went to inspect them, he found that Chonguita's was by far the prettiest, and so Don Juan was crowned king.

A great feast was held in the palace in honor of the new king. In the midst of the festivities Don Juan became very angry with his wife for insisting that he dance with her, and he hurled her against the wall. At this brutal action the hall suddenly became dark; but after a while it became bright again, and Chonguita had been transformed into a beautiful woman.

Notes.

A Visayan variant of this story, though differing from it in many details, is the story of the "Three Brothers," printed in JAFL 20 : 91-93.

A number of Indian Maerchen seem to be related more or less closely to our story. Benfey cites one (1 : 261) which appears in the "Asiatic Journal" for 1833.

Some princes are to obtain their wives by this device: each is to shoot an arrow; and where the arrow strikes, there will each find his bride. The arrow of the youngest hits a tamarind-tree; he is married to it, but his bride turns out to be a female monkey. However, he lives happily with her, but she never appears at his father's court. The sisters-in-law are curious to know what kind of wife he has. They persuade the father-in-law to give a least for all his sons' wives. The prince is grieved over the fact that the secret will come out. Then his wife comforts him; she lays off her monkey covering, and appears as a marvellously beautiful maiden. She enjoins him to preserve the monkey-skin carefully, since otherwise great danger threatens her; but he, in order to keep her in her present beautiful human form, burns the hide while she is at the feast. She disappears instantly. The prince seeks her again, and at last discovers her in heaven as the queen of the monkeys. There he remains with her.

In a Simla tale, "The Story of Ghose" (Dracott, 40 f.), the animal is a squirrel, which is finally changed by the god Mahadeo into a human being, after the little creature has performed many services for her husband. Somewhat analogous, also, is Maive Stokes, "The Monkey Prince" (No. x, p. 41 ff.). Compare also the notes to our No. 19 and Benfey's entire discussion of "The Enchanted Son of the Brahman" (1 : 254-269).

These forms are not close enough to our version, however, to justify our tracing it directly to any one of them. Both it and the Visayan variant are members of the European cycle of tales represented by Grimm's "Three Feathers" (No. 63). The skeleton outline of this family group Bolte and Polivka construct as follows (2 : 37):—

A father wishes to test the skill of his three sons (or their wives), and requests that they produce extraordinary or costly articles. The despised youngest son wins the reward with the help of an enchanted princess in the form of a cat, rat, frog, lizard, monkey, or as a doll, or night-cap, or stocking. At last she regains her human form. The disenchantment is sometimes accomplished by a kiss, or by beheading, or by the hero's enduring for three nights in silence the blows of spirits.

In only two of the variants cited by Bolte-Polivka (to Grimm, No. 63) is the animal wife a monkey,—Comparetti, No. 58, "Le Scimmie;" and Von Hahn, No. 67, "Die Aeffin." Of these, only the Greek story resembles our tale; but here the similarities are so many, that I will summarize briefly the main points of Von Hahn's version:—

An old king once called his three sons to him, and said, "My sons, I am old; I should like to have you married, so that I may celebrate your wedding with you before I die. Therefore each of you are to shoot an arrow into the air, and to follow its course, for there each will find what is appointed for him." The eldest shot first: his arrow carried him to a king's daughter, whom he married. The second obtained a prince's daughter. But the arrow of the third stuck in a dung-hill. He dug a hole in it, and came to a marble slab, which, when raised, disclosed a flight of stairs leading down. Courageously he descended, and came to a cellar in which a lot of monkeys were sitting in a circle. The mother of the monkeys approached him, and asked him what he wanted. He answered, that, according to the flight of his arrow, he was destined to have a monkey-wife. "Choose one for yourself," she said. "Here sit my maids; there, my daughters." He selected one, and took her back to his father. His brothers, however, ridiculed him.

After a time the eldest son asked the king to divide up his kingdom, as he was already old and was likely to die. "I'll give you three tasks," said the king to his sons. "The one who performs them best shall be king." The first count was to be won by the son whose house forty days thence was cleanest and most beautifully adorned. The youngest son was very sad when inspection-time approached. "Why so sad?" said his wife. He told her; and she said to him on the morning of the last day, "Go to my mother, and ask her for a hazel-nut and an almond." He did so. When the time for inspection arrived, the monkey-wife cracked the hazel-nut and drew from it a diamond covering for the whole house. From the almond she drew a very beautiful carpet for the king to walk on. Youngest son won the first count, naturally. The second task was to furnish the king with fresh fruits in the winter-time. The two oldest sons were unable to get any, but the youngest son got a fine supply from the monkeys' garden under the dunghill. The third count was to be won by the son whose wife should be declared the most beautiful at a feast to be given ten days thence. The monkey-wife sent her husband again for an almond, a hazel-nut, two stallions, and five servants. When he returned with them, she cracked the almond and drew from it a magnificent dress for herself. From the hazelnut she drew her own beauty, and handsome equipment for her husband. When she was arrayed, she rode into the courtyard of the king, and tried to escape without being recognized; but the king was too quick for her: she was caught, and her husband was declared the final winner. He became king when his father died.

This Greek story can hardly have any immediate relationship with "Chonguita," though it does appear in its first half to be connected with the 1833 Indian Maerchen given above. Our story, it will be noticed, lacks the shooting of arrows, so characteristic of the European forms; it mentions the monkey-kingdom to which the youngest prince was directed by an old man, and where Chonguita is forced on him; it represents the king as requiring his daughters-in-law to perform difficult tasks because he wishes to find an excuse for putting to death the animal-wife. Moreover, the three tasks themselves are different, although the first two are reminiscent of some found in the Occidental versions. For the third I know of no folk-tale parallel. On the whole, I am prone to believe that our story was not imported from Europe, but that it belongs to an Oriental branch of the family.

The disenchantment of the monkey-wife by hurling her in anger against the wall is exactly like the disenchantment of the frog-prince in Grimm, No. 1. This conceit is most unusual, and, it might be added, unreasonable. Hence this identity of detail in two stories so far removed in every other way is particularly striking. I know of no further occurrences of the incident.



TALE 30

THE GOLDEN LOCK.

Narrated by Vicente Hilario of Batangas, Batangas, who heard the story from an old man (now deceased) from the barrio of Balayan.

Long ago there lived in a distant kingdom an influential noble named Ludovico, who vastly increased his wealth by his marriage to a rich heiress called Clotilde. During the first ten years of their union she had never peeped out of her window or stirred out of her room: she only walked to the door of her chamber to bid farewell to her husband or to receive his parting kiss when he was off to attend to his official business, and to meet him with a tender embrace when he returned. Nobody else but Ludovico and her chaperon could see or talk with her: to these two persons only did Clotilde reveal her secrets and convey the thoughts of her spotless soul. She spent her time in voluntary seclusion, not in the luxuries of the court or the gaieties of society, but in embroidery, knitting, and in the unnecessary embellishment of her extremely lovely person.

But an incident now happened that seriously threatened to destroy the foundations of their blissful union, for there may be eddies and counter-currents in the steady and swift flow of a stream. The king invited all the nobles in the land to a sumptuous banquet to be given in one of the principal frontier cities. Ludovico was among the first persons to accept the king's invitation. When the luxurious repast was over, the guests gathered in groups around small tables in the adjoining grounds to while away the sultry hours and to discuss the questions of the day. One of these groups was composed of Ludovico and six other nobles, among whom was a bold, sharp-tongued rich youth named Pio. The conversation touched on topics concerning the fair sex, especially of women historically famous for their personal charms, virtues, and vices. The garrulous Pio ridiculed the noble constancy and other excellent traits of the fair Clotilde.

"I will bet you anything you want to bet, that you cannot learn the secrets of my wife in fifteen days," said Ludovico, his face flushed with wrath.

"All right," said Pio, exasperated by Ludovico's boast. "The loser shall be hanged. I will bet my life that I'll know the secrets of your wife within fifteen days."

The terms of the contract were carefully written down, solemnly ratified by the king, and signed by the two contestants and by the other high-born gentlemen.

Pio set out the next day for Ludovico's home town. The inexperienced youth looked in vain for Ludovico's residence. Finally he asked a jolly fellow, who showed him the house after a long roundabout conversation. Pio went upstairs, where he saw the gray-haired chaperon sitting alone in the spacious hall, which was decorated to vie in magnificence with the most gorgeously furnished apartment of the king. The accomplished Pio doffed his bonnet to the old woman, and politely asked for her mistress.

"Nobody but her husband and me is allowed to see her," said the ugly old hag.

Pio then sat down and began to talk to her. By his persuasive language and the magnetic touch of his hands he easily insinuated himself into her confidence. Then, dropping a piece of gold on her palm, he said, "Will you tell me the secrets of your mistress?"

The old woman looked at him suspiciously, but the brilliant coin proved too great a temptation for her. "Clotilde," she said, "has three golden [88] locks of hair under her left armpit. I know this fact, because I bathe her every day."

Pio heaved a deep groan and turned his face aside. After recovering himself, he dropped another gold-piece into the hand of the chaperon, and said, "Will you get one of those locks for me?"

She hesitated, but his eloquence was irresistible. "I'll give you the lock to-morrow," she said. Pio then departed, and she returned to her mistress.

Early the next morning, while the old woman was bathing Clotilde as usual, she pulled out one of Clotilde's golden locks. "Aray!" exclaimed Clotilde, "what's the matter with you?"

"Never mind, never mind!" said the old woman with many caresses. "This is the only reward I want for my many faithful services to you."

Ignorant of the treasonable intrigues of her chaperon, Clotilde said nothing more. Before noon Pio arrived. With trembling hands and pale cheeks, the old woman gave him the golden lock. She was amply rewarded with a purse of gold. Ignorant of the fatal consequences of her treacherous act, she gayly went back to Clotilde's private chamber.

Pio left the town late in the afternoon, and soon arrived at the capital. Ludovico was struck aghast at the sight of the golden lock. He at once wrote a letter to his wife which ran in part as follows:—

"I have spent ten years of my life in perfect happiness with you. I expected to enjoy such blissful days for a much longer period. But now everything is hopeless. My life shall be ended by violence, because of your faithlessness. We shall see each other no more. Receive the sad farewell of your Ludovico."

When Clotilde read this letter, she swooned. When she came to her senses, she awoke as from a trance. But when she beheld the letter again, she read again the opprobrious word "faithlessness" in her husband's handwriting. She did not know what act of disloyalty she had committed. She moved about in her room by fits and starts. At last a thought came to her mind: she sent for the best goldsmith in town, and told him to make her a gold slipper adorned with precious stones. Under her strict supervision the work was completed in a marvellously short time. Then she put on her best clothes and the precious slipper, and with all possible expedition set out for Ludovico.

Clotilde arrived in the city just a few minutes before the execution. She drove directly to the king's pavilion. Her only companion was the same old woman who had caused all this trouble. The turbulent persons who had gathered in the public square to witness the horrible spectacle were awed by the loveliness and magnificent attire of Clotilde. When she reached the king, and asked him for all the details concerning Ludovico's case, and when the king had given her all the information he could, she turned and pointed toward Pio, and said, "That man has stolen my other slipper which looks like this one I am wearing."

The king called Pio from the place where he was standing, and told him all about the fair lady's accusation. "I have not committed any crime against her," said Pio angrily. "I don't even know her. This is the first time I have ever seen her."

"Sir," said Clotilde sneeringly, "why, then, did you tell his Majesty and other persons that you have discovered my secrets? I am the wife of Ludovico, whose life you have threatened to end by your deceit. I know now by what means you got possession of my golden lock."

Clotilde's statement sealed Pio's fate. He was hanged in place of Ludovico, who deeply regretted having doubted his faithful wife. And what happened to the old woman, who preferred the gold of an impostor to the kindness of a virtuous woman? The hag was sentenced to spend the remainder of her life in a damp, dreary dungeon.

Notes.

A close Tagalog parallel is to be found in the last part of the metrical romance entitled (in English translation) "The Life of Duke Almanzor and the Kind and Clever Maria, in the Kingdom of Toledo when it was under the Moors." My copy bears no date, but Retana mentions an edition before 1898 (No. 4159). The poem is in 402 quatrains of 12-syllable lines. The section which resembles our story begins at line 1260, and may be paraphrased in prose as follows:—

Soon after this, Almanzor was baptized (he had been a Moor), and was married to Maria. After a few months of happy life, the duke was called away to Cordova on important business. When Duke Almanzor arrived at the court of the Governor of Cordova, he found that all the noblemen were present. As he arrived somewhat late, he excused himself by saying that he was newly married, and that he could not leave his wife any sooner. Among the nobles was a proud, self-confident man named Abdala, who, when Almanzor had finished speaking, remarked that he (Abdala) did not mean to marry, as he could very easily seduce any woman, be she unmarried or a wife. Almanzor was angered by this remark. He said to Abdala, "I have my wife in Toledo: go and see if you can seduce her." Abdala said that there was no doubt of his being able to do so. A wager of death for the loser was agreed upon.

Abdala immediately set out for Toledo. He tried to gain access to the duke's palace; but ever since her husband's departure, Maria had ordered the servants to keep all the windows and doors closed. Moreover, nobody but women were allowed to enter the palace. Abdala was about to give up in despair, when he met a sorceress, who offered to help him. This witch gained admittance into the palace, and was allowed to pass the night there. At midnight the hag secretly went to Maria's bedroom and jotted down a brief description of it. Then she cut off a lock of Maria's hair. The next morning the witch left the palace. She went to Abdala, and gave him the lock of hair, together with the description of the bedroom.

Abdala hurriedly returned to Cordova. When he reached the palace, the governor at once assembled the nobles. Abdala then showed the lock of hair, and described minutely Maria's bedroom. Almanzor was asked what he had to say. The noble duke said that he acknowledged to be true everything that Abdala had said. Then the governor ordered his guards to take the duke to prison. The duke was to be beheaded on the third day. While in prison, Duke Almanzor wrote to his wife, telling her of his coming death. Maria resolved at once to save her husband. She went to Cordova, carrying with her all her wealth. She had a famous jeweller make for her a large, beautiful ear-ring.

The third day came, and the soldiers took Duke Almanzor out of prison. The governor and all the nobles accompanied the duke to the plaza where he was to be executed. Maria stopped the procession, and addressed the governor thus: "My lord, do you see this ear-ring?" The governor nodded. "Then I ask you to give me justice. My other ear-ring was stolen by that gentleman who is standing near you," and she pointed at Abdala as she made the accusation. Abdala became very angry. He said, "I don't know you; I have never seen you before. How could I steal your ear-ring?"—"Do you say that you have never seen me before?" Maria asked. "I do say so," said Abdala emphatically. "Why, then, do you claim that you have been in my room, and that I gave you a lock of my hair?" Maria demanded. Abdala could not answer. "Answer, Abdala," the governor said, But Abdala could not utter a single word. At last he confessed that he had never seen Maria, and that the description of the room and the lock of hair had been furnished him by a sorceress. The governor then ordered him to be seized. Duke Almanzor was set free. His wife gently reprimanded him for risking his life so foolishly. As for Abdala, he was beheaded, and the sorceress who helped him was burned at the stake.

In our notes to No. 7 we have already summarized the first part of the "Story of Rodolfo." The last episode of this romance is an analogue of our present story, and runs briefly thus:—

After his marriage, Rodolfo went back to Valencia, and informed the king that he had found a virtuous woman and had married her. She was then in Babilonia. The king detained him for a few days in the palace. At the same time he sent Fortunato, a gallant, to court Rodolfo's wife, to test whether or not she was true to her husband. Fortunato went to Babilonia and declared his love to Estela; but she would have nothing to do with him. Ashamed to return to the palace without having won her affection, Fortunato stole her underskirt and took it to the king, stating that Estela had given it to him as a remembrance. Rodolfo was summoned: and when he saw the skirt with Adela's name on it, he was thunderstruck. The king then said, "You see, your wife is no more virtuous than my daughter Leocadia. Remember your boast; your life is forfeit." Rodolfo, however, asked for a complete investigation of his wife's alleged treachery. Estela was accordingly summoned to Valencia; and when asked how her underskirt happened to be there in the palace, she asked in turn who had brought it. "Fortunato," she was told. Then she said, "The underskirt is mine. The knight Fortunato declared his love to me, but I rejected it because I am married. He stole the underskirt while I was taking a bath, and ought to be punished." When confronted with the charge, Fortunato denied the theft, and maintained that he had been given the garment by Estela as a token of her love for him. When Rodolfo heard this denial, he begged the king to assemble all the dignitaries and judges in the kingdom. Before the court Rodolfo asked Fortunato for definite proof to back up his assertions. He was unable to give any, and was consequently sentenced to be deported for ten years to a lonely island. Rodolfo and his wife were now honored by the king, and Rodolfo was finally made a knight.

Although this portion of the romance is only a distant analogue of out story, inasmuch as it lacks both the wager and the clever trick of the wife to get her maligner to convict himself, I give it, because this same combination of the "chastity-wager" motive with the "hen-divided" motive (see first part of "Rodolfo," notes to No. 7) occurs in a Mentonese story, "La Femme Avisee" (Romania, II : 415-416). The tale may be briefly summarized:—

A prince benighted in a forest is entertained for the night at a countryman's house. At dinner the prince carves the fowl, and gives the head to the father, the stomach to the mother, and the heart to the daughter. On the old man's complaining later of his guest's strange division of the bird, the girl explains to her father just why the prince acted as he did. The prince overhears her, admires her wit, falls in love with her, and marries her. Some time afterward the prince is called to Egypt on business. He leaves his wife behind at home, and she promises to be very discreet. The prince communicates her promise to a friend, who wagers that he will be able to tell the prince of any defects on her body. The friend goes to the home of the prince and bribes the lady-in-waiting. She informs him, that, beautiful as the young wife is, she has a strawberry-mark on her shoulder. When the prince, on his return, is told this intimate detail by his friend, he is very angry, and, going home, accuses his wife of faithlessness. She proves her innocence by going before the king and swearing that her maligner has stolen one of her golden slippers. He denies the charge, and swears that he has never seen his accuser before. Thus self-convicted, he is imprisoned for many years.

The Mentonese folk-tale and "Rodolfo" emphasize not only the virtue of the wife, but her cleverness as well, and definitely connect the "Chastity Wager" cycle with our No. 7. While it would be difficult to maintain successfully that the "Chastity Wager" cycle and the "Clever Lass" group are descended from the same parent,—I really believe the latter to be much the older,—it seems that we have a sort of combination of the two as early as the time of the "Tuti-nameh" collection. In the following story taken from that compilation, traces of both cycles may be discerned, though clearly the tale is more nearly related as a whole to the "Chastity Wager" group. This Persian story is entitled "The Nobleman and the Soldier's Wife, whose Virtue he put to the Proof" (No. 4, pp. 42 ff., of "The Tootinameh; or, Tales of a Parrot" in the Persian Language, with an English Translation; Calcutta, 1792). An abridged version of it follows:—

In a certain city dwelt a military man who had a very beautiful wife. He was always under apprehension on her account; and one day, after he had been idle a long time, she asked him why he had quitted his profession. He answered, "I have no confidence in you, and therefore I do not go anywhere in quest of employment." The wife told him that he was perverse; for no one could seduce a virtuous woman, and a vicious woman no husband could guard successfully. Then she told him a story to illustrate the second type of wife. When he asked if she had anything more to say to him, she replied, "It is right for you to travel and seek service. I will give you a fresh nosegay: as long as the nosegay continues in this stare, you may be assured that I have not committed any bad action; if the nosegay should wither, you will then know that I have been guilty of some fault." The soldier heeded her words, and set out on a journey, taking the nosegay with him. When he arrived at a certain city, he entered the service of a nobleman of that place. Winter came on, and the nobleman was astonished to see the soldier wearing a fresh nosegay every day, though flowers were practically unattainable, and he asked him about it. The soldier told him that his wife had given the nosegay to him as an emblem of her chastity; that as long as it continued fresh, he was sure that her honor was unspotted.

Now, the nobleman had two cooks remarkable for their cunning and adroitness. To one of these he said, "Repair to the soldier's country, where, through artifice and deceit, contrive to form an intimacy with his wife, and return quickly with a particular account of her. Then we shall see whether this nosegay continues fresh or not." The cook, in accordance with his master's command, went to the soldier's city, and sent a procuress to the wife with his message. The wife did not assent directly, but told the procuress to send the man to her, so that she might see whether he was agreeable or not. The wife made a secret assignation with the cook, but trapped him in a dry well; and when he found that he could not get out, he confessed the nobleman's plot. When the cook did not return, the nobleman sent the second cook; but he fared no better: he too was captured in the same way by the clever wife. Now the nobleman resolved to go himself. He set out under the pretext of hunting, accompanied by the soldier. When they arrived at the soldier's city, the soldier went to his own home and presented the fresh nosegay to his wife, who told him all that had happened. So the next day the soldier conducted the nobleman to his home, where a hospitable entertainment was given him. The two cooks, under promise of subsequent liberty, consented to dress as women and wait on the guests. When the nobleman saw them, he failed to recognize them, for their long confinement and bad air had made them thin and pale. He asked the soldier about the "girls," but the soldier told the cooks to tell their own story. Then the nobleman recognized them; and when they testified to the woman's chastity, he was abashed, and asked forgiveness for his offences.

Another Oriental form of this story is given by Somadeva, chapter XIII (Tawney, 1 : 85 f.), "The Story of Devasmita." It runs in part as follows:—

Here, on the departure of the husband, the divinity Siva says to the couple, "Take each of you one of these red lotuses; and, if either of you shall be unfaithful during your separation, the lotus in the hand of the other shall fade, but not otherwise." Then the husband set out for another city, where he began to buy and sell jewels. Four merchants of that country, astonished at the never-fading lotus in his hand, wormed the secret out of the husband by making him drunk, and then planned the seduction of the wife out of mere curiosity. To aid them in their plan, they had recourse to a female ascetic. She went to the wife, and attempted to move her to pity by showing her a weeping bitch, which she said was once a woman, but was transformed into a dog because of her hard-heartedness [for this device worked with better success; see Gesta Romanorum, chap. XXVIII]. The wife divined the plot and the motive of the young merchants, and appeared to be glad to receive them; but when they came at appointed times, she drugged them, and branded them on the forehead with an iron dog's foot. Then she cast them out naked in a dung-heap. The procuress was later served even worse: her hose and ears were cut off. The young wife, fearing that for revenge the four merchants might go slay her husband, told her whole story to her mother-in-law. The mother-in-law praised her for her conduct, and devised a plan to save her son. The wise wife disguised herself as a merchant, and embarked in a ship to the country where her husband was. When she arrived there, she saw him in the midst of a circle of merchants. He, seeing her afar off in the dress of a man, thought to himself, "Who may this merchant be that looks so like my beloved wife?" But she went to the king, said that she had a petition to present, and asked him to assemble all his subjects. He did so, and asked her what her petition was. She replied, "There are residing here four escaped slaves of mine; let the king give them back to me." She was told to pick out her slaves, which she did, choosing the four merchants who had their heads tied up. When asked how these distinguished merchants' sons could be her slaves, she said, "Examine their foreheads, which I marked with a dog's foot." So done. The truth came out; the other merchants paid the wife a large sum of money to ransom the four, and also a fine to the king's treasury.

There can be no doubt of a rather close relationship between the Persian and the Indian stories; nor can there be any doubt, it seems to me, of the relationship of these two with the "Chastity Wager" cycle. The additional details in Somadeva's narrative connect it with European Maerchen; e.g., J. F. Campbell, No. 18, and Groome, No. 33.

Our story of the "Golden Lock," as well as the variants, is unquestionably an importation from Europe; but what the immediate source of the tale is, I am unable to say. For the convenience of any, however, who are interested in this group of stories, and care to make a further study of it, I give here a list of the occurrences of the tale in literature and in popular form. In literature, this story in Europe dates from the end of the twelfth century.

Roman de Guillaume de Dole (c. 1200). Ed. by G. Servois for the Soc. des Anc. Textes francais. Paris, 1893. Roman de la Violette (13th century). Ed. by Michel. 1834. Roman du Comte de Poitiers (13th century). Ed. by Michel. 1831. Le roi Flore et la belle Jehanne (a 13th century prose story). Published by L. Moland et C. d'Hericault in Nouvelles francaises en prose du xiiie siecle, 1856 : 87-157; also in Monmerque et Michel, Theatre francais au Moyen Age, 1842 : 417. Miracle de Othon, roy d'Espaigne (a 14th century miracle), in the Miracles de Nostre Dame. Published by G. Paris and U. Robert for the Soc. des Anc. Textes francais, 4 : 315-388; and in Monmerque et Michel, op. cit., p. 431 f. Perceforest, bk. iv, ch. 16, 17 (an episode, where the chastity token is a rose), retold by Bandello, part I, nov. 21 (cf. R. Koehler, in Jahrb. fuer rom. u. eng. lit., 8 : 51 f.). Boccaccio's Decameron, 2 : 9 (cf. Landau, Die Quellen des Dekameron, 1884 : 135 ff.).

Two important treatments of the story in dramatic form are sixteenth-century Spanish, Lope de Rueda's "Eufemia," where the heroine tricks her maligner by accusing him of having spent many nights with her and of finally having stolen a jewel from under her bed; he denies all knowledge of her (cf. J. L. Klein, Geschichte des Dramas, 9 [1872] : 144-156); and English, Shakespeare's "Cymbeline." For modern dramas and operas dealing with this theme, see G. Servois, op. cit., p. xvi, note 5. In ballad form the story occurs in "The Twa Knights" (Child, 5 : 21 ff., No. 268).

Popular stories belonging to this cycle and containing the wager are the following:—

J. F. Campbell, No. 18. J. W. Wolf, p. 355. Simrock, Deutsche Maerchen, No. 51 (1864 ed., p. 235). H. Proehle, No. 61, p. 179 (cf. also p. xlii). Ausland, 1856 : 1053, for a Roumanian story. F. Miklosisch, Maerchen und Lieder der Zigeuner der Bukowina, No. 14. D. G. Bernoni, Fiabe popolari veneziane, No. I. Gonzenbach, No. 7. G. Pitre, Nos. 73, 75. V. Imbriani, La Novellaja Fiorentina, p. 483.

Other folk-tales somewhat more distantly related are,—

Comparetti, Nos. 36 and 60. Webster, Basque Legends, p. 132. F. Kreutzwald, Estnische Maerchen (uebersetzt von F. Loewe), 2d Haelfte, No. 6. H. Bergh, Sogur m. m. fraa Valdris og Hallingdal, p. 16.

For the story in general, see the following:—

Landau on the Dekameron, op. cit. A. Rochs, Ueber den Veilchen Roman und die Wanderung der Euriant saga. Halle, 1882. (Reviewed as a worthless piece of work by R. Koehler in Literaturblatt fuer germ. und rom. Philologie, 1883 : No. 7.) R. Ohle, Shakespeares Cymbeline und seine Romanischen Vorlaeufer. Berlin, 1890. (This does not discuss the popular versions at all.) H. A. Todd, Guillaume de Dole, in Transactions and Proceedings of the Modern Language Association of America, 2 (1887) : 107 ff. Von der Hagen, Gesammtabenteuer, 3 : LXXXIII. G. Servois, op. cit., Introduction.

For some additional bibliographical items in connection with this cycle, see Koehler, "Literaturblatt," etc., p. 274. To the list above should be added finally, of course, the stories given in more detail earlier in this note.



TALE 31

WHO IS THE NEAREST RELATIVE?

Narrated by Leopoldo Uichanco, a Tagalog of Calamba, Laguna.

"On my life!" exclaimed old Julian one day to his grandson Antonio, who was clinging fast to his elbows and bothering him, as usual, "you will soon become insane with stories. Now, I will tell you a story on this condition: you must answer the question I shall put at the end of the narrative. If you give the correct answer, then I will tell you some more tales; if not, why, you must be unfortunate." Antonio nodded, and said, "Very well!" as he leaned on the table to listen to his grandfather. Then the old man began:—

"There was once a young man who had completed his course of study and was to be ordained a priest. Now, whenever a man was about to be entrusted with the duty of being a minister of God, and Christ's representative on earth, it was the custom to trace his ancestry back as far as possible, to see that there was no bad member on any branch of his family tree. Inquiries were made and information was sought regarding the young man's relatives. Unfortunately his mother's brother was an insurrecto. But the boy wanted very much to become a priest, so he set out for Mount Banahaw to look for his uncle.

"As he was walking along the mountain road, he came across his uncle, but neither knew the other. The uncle had a long bolo in his hand. 'Hold!' shouted the old man as the boy came in sight. 'Hands up!'

"'Mercy!' entreated the young man. 'I am a friend, not an enemy.'

"'What are you doing in this part of the country, then? Have you come to spy?'

"'No,' said the youth. 'I have come in search of my uncle named Paulino, general of the Patriots of Banahaw.'

"'And who are you to seek for him? What is your name?'

"'Federico.'

"The uncle stared at him. 'If that is so,' he said, 'I am the man you are looking for. I am your uncle.' Federico was amazed, but was very glad to have found his uncle so easily. Then the old man took his nephew to the cave where he dwelt with his soldiers.

"Weeks passed by, months elapsed, but Federico never thought of going back to his mother. So one day Federico's father went out to seek for his son, and soon found him and his uncle. The father, too, remained there with the soldiers, and never thought of going back home.

"One day Josefa received news that the bandits of Banahaw had been caught by the government authorities. Among the prisoners were her brother Paulino, her son Federico, and her husband. The captives were to be executed at sunrise without any trial. Josefa hurried to the capitan general, and pleaded with him to release her husband, her son, and her brother. Besides, the woman presented the officer with some gifts. She pleaded so hard, that finally the capitan general was moved with pity. He consented to release one of the prisoners, but one only. Josefa did not know what to do. Whom should she select of the three,—her husband, the other half of her life; her son, the fruit of her love; or her brother, that brother who came from the same womb and sucked the same milk from the same mother? To take one would mean to condemn the other two to death. She wished to save them all, but she was allowed to select only one."

"If you, Antonio, were in her place, whom would you select?" Antonio did not speak for some moments, but with knitted eyebrows looked up to the ceiling and tried to think of the answer.

"Nonsense!" exclaimed the grandfather; "you cannot find the answer in the ceiling! You really do not know, do you? Very well. I will give you until next Tuesday to get your answer. You have one week in which to think it out. Tell me the correct answer before you go to school on that day."

When Tuesday came, Antonio had gotten the answer to his grandfather's puzzle-tale; but the rascally little boy deceived the old man: he had sought the information from his uncle.

"If you were in the place of the woman," asked the playful grandfather with a smile on his face, "whom would you select?" Antonio timidlv said that he would select the brother.

"You are only guessing, aren't you?" said old Julian doubtfully.

"Bah! No, sir!" said the boy. "I can give you a reason for my selection."

"Very well, give your reason, then."

"The woman would be right in selecting her brother"—

"Because"—

"Because, what to a woman is a husband? She can marry again; she can find another."

"That is true," said the old man.

"And what to a woman is her son? Is it not possible to bear another one after she marries again?"

"To be sure," said old Julian.

"But," continued the boy, raising his voice, "is it possible for her to bring into the world another brother? Is it possible? The woman's parents were dead. Therefore she would be right in selecting her brother instead of her husband or her son."

"Exactly so, my boy," returned the satisfied old man, nodding his gray head. "Since you have answered correctly, to-morrow I will tell you another story."

Notes.

This saga-like story is of peculiar literary interest because of its ancient connections. I know of no modern analogues; but there are two very old parallels, as well as two unmistakable references to the identical situation in our story which date from before the Christian era, and also a Persian Maerchen that goes back as far as the twelfth century.

Herodotus (III, 119) first tells the story of a Persian woman who chooses rather to save the life of her brother than of her husband and children.

"When all the conspirators against Darius had been seized [i.e., Intaphernes, his children, and his family], and had been put in chains as malefactors condemned to death, the wife of Intaphernes came and stood continually at the palace-gates, weeping and wailing. So Darius after a while, seeing that she never ceased to stand and weep, was touched with pity for her, and bade a messenger go to her and say, 'Lady, King Darius gives thee as a boon the life of one of thy kinsmen; choose which thou wilt of the prisoners.' Then she pondered a while before she answered, 'If the king grants the life of one alone, I make choice of my brother.' Darius, when he heard the reply, was astonished, and sent again, saying, 'Lady, the king bids thee tell him why it is that thou passest by thy husband and thy children, and preferrest to have the life of thy brother spared. He is not so near to thee as thy children, not so dear as thy husband.' She answered, 'O king! if the gods will, I may have another husband and other children when these are gone; but, as my father and mother are no more, it is impossible that I should have another brother. That was my thought when I asked to have my brother spared.' The woman appeared to Darius to have spoken well, and he granted to her the one that she asked and her eldest son, he was so pleased with her. All the rest he put to death."

This story from the Greek historian clearly supplied not merely the thought but also the form of the reference in lines 909-912 of Sophocles' "Antigone." In Campbell's English translation of the Greek play, the passage, which is put into the mouth of the heroine, runs thus:—

"A husband lost might be replaced; a son, If son were lost to me, might yet be born; But with both parents hidden in the tomb, No brother may arise to comfort me."

Chronologically, the next two occurrences of the story are Indian. In the "Ucchanga-jataka" (Fausboell, No. 67, of uncertain date, but possibly going back to the third century B.C.) we are told—

"Three husbandmen were by mistake arrested on a charge of robbery, and imprisoned. The wife of one came to the King of Kosala, in whose realm the event took place, and entreated him to set her husband at liberty. The king asked her what relation each of the three was to her. She answered, 'One is my husband, another my brother, and the third is my son.' The king said, 'I am pleased with you, and I will give you one of the three; which do you choose?' The woman answered, 'Sire, if I live, I can get another husband and another son; but, as my parents are dead, I can never get another brother. So give me my brother, sire.' Pleased with the woman, the king set all three men at liberty."

In the Cambridge translation of this "Jataka," the verse reply of the woman is rendered thus:—

"A son's an easy find; of husbands too An ample choice throngs public ways. But where With all my pains another brother find?"

In the "Ramayana," the most celebrated art epic of India, we are told how, in the battle about Lanka, Lakshmana, the favorite brother and inseparable companion of the hero Rama, is to all appearances killed. Rama laments over him in these words: "Anywhere at all I could get a wife, a son, and all other relatives; but I know of no place where I might be able to acquire a brother. The teaching of the Veda is true, that Parjanya rains down everything; but also is the proverb true that he does not rain down brothers." (Ed. Gorresio, 6 : 24, 7-8.) This parallel was pointed out by R. Pischel in "Hermes," 28 (1893) : 465.

The Persian Maerchen alluded to above is cited by Th. Noeldeke in "Hermes," 29 : 155.

In this story the wife, when she is given the opportunity to choose which she will save of her three nearest relatives,—i.e., her husband, her son, and her brother, who have been selected to be the food for the man-eating snake that grows from the devil-prince Dahak's shoulder,—says, "I am still a young woman. I can get another husband, and it may happen that I might have another child by him: so that the fire of separation I can quench somewhat with the water of hope, and for the poison of the death of a husband find a cure in the antidote of the survival of a son; but it is not possible, since my father and mother are dead, for me to get another brother; therefore I bestow my love on him [i.e., she chooses the brother]." The Dahak is moved to pity, and spares her the lives of all three.

The riddle form in which our story is cast is possibly an invention of the narrator; but folk-tales ending thus are common (see notes to No. 12). Again, our story fails to state whether or not all three men were pardoned. The implication is that they were not. The localization of the events seems to point either to a long existence of the story in La Laguna province or to exceptional adaptive skill on the part of the narrator.



TALE 32

WITH ONE CENTAVO JUAN MARRIES A PRINCESS.

Narrated by Gregorio Frondoso, a Bicol, who heard the story from another Bicol student. The latter said that the story was traditional among the Bicols, and that he had heard it from his grandfather.

In ancient times, in the age of foolishness and nonsense, there lived a poor gambler. He was all alone in the world: he had no parents, relatives, wife, or children. What little money he had he spent on cards or cock-fighting. Every time he played, he lost. So he would often pass whole days without eating. He would then go around the town begging like a tramp. At last he determined to leave the village to find his fortune.

One day, without a single cent in his pockets, he set out on his journey. As he was lazily wandering along the road, he found a centavo, and picked it up. When he came to the next village, he bought with his coin a small native cake. He ate only a part of the cake; the rest he wrapped in a piece of paper and put in his pocket. Then he took a walk around the village; but, soon becoming tired, he sat down by a little shop to rest. While resting, he fell asleep. As he was lying on the bench asleep, a chicken came along, and, seeing the cake projecting from his pocket, the chicken pecked at it and ate it up. Tickled by the bird's beak, the tramp woke up and immediately seized the poor creature. The owner claimed the chicken; but Juan would not give it up, on the ground that it had eaten his cake. Indeed, he argued so well, that he was allowed to walk away, taking the chicken with him.

Scarcely had he gone a mile when he came to another village. There he took a rest in a barber-shop. He fell asleep again, and soon a dog came in and began to devour his chicken. Awakened by the poor bird's squawking, Juan jumped up and caught the dog still munching its prey. In spite of the barber's protest and his refusal to give up his dog, Juan seized it and carried it away with him. He proceeded on his journey until he came to another village. As he was passing by a small house, he felt thirsty: so he decided to go in and ask for a drink. He tied his dog to the gate and went in. When he came out again, he found his dog lying dead, the iron gate on top of him. Evidently, in its struggles to get loose, the animal had pulled the gate over. Without a word Juan pulled off one of the iron bars from the gate and took it away with him. When the owner shouted after him, Juan said, "The bar belongs to me, for your gate killed my dog."

When Juan came to a wide river, he sat down on the bank to rest. While he was sitting there, he began to play with his iron bar, tossing it up into the air, and catching it as it fell. Once he missed, and the bar fell into the river and was lost. "Now, river," said Juan, "since you have taken my iron bar, you belong to me. You will have to pay for it." So he sat there all day, watching for people to come along and bathe.

It happened by chance that not long after, the princess came to take her bath. When she came out of the water, Juan approached her, and said, "Princess, don't you know that this river is mine? And, since you have touched the water, I have the right to claim you."

"How does it happen that you own this river?" said the astonished princess.

"Well, princess, it would tire you out to hear the story of how I acquired this river; but I insist that you are mine."

Juan persisted so strongly, that at last the princess said that she was willing to leave the matter to her father's decision. On hearing Juan's story, and after having asked him question after question, the king was greatly impressed with his wonderful reasoning and wit; and, as he was unable to offer any refutation for Juan's argument, he willingly married his daughter to Juan.

Notes.

I know of no complete analogues of this droll; but partial variants, both serious and comic, are numerous. In our story a penniless, unscrupulous hero finds a centavo, and by means of sophistical arguments with foolish persons makes more and more profitable exchanges until he wins the hand of a princess. A serious tale of a clever person starting with no greater capital than a dead mouse, and finally succeeding in making a fortune, is the "Cullaka-setthi-jataka," No. 4. This story subsequently made its way into Somadeva's great collection (Tawney, 1 : 33-34), "The Story of the Mouse Merchant" (ch. VI). Here it runs approximately as follows:—

A poor youth, whose mother managed to give him some education in writing and ciphering, was advised by her to go to a certain rich merchant who was in the habit of lending capital to poor men of good family. The youth went; and, just as he entered the house, that rich man was angrily talking to another merchant's son: "You see this dead mouse here upon the floor; even that is a commodity by which a capable man would acquire wealth; but I gave you, you good-for-nothing fellow, many dinars, and, so far from increasing them, you have not even been able to preserve what you got." The poor stranger-youth at once said to the merchant that he would take the dead mouse as capital advanced, and he wrote a receipt for it. He sold the mouse as cat-meat to a certain merchant for two handfuls of gram. Next he made meal of the gram, and, taking his stand by the road, civilly offered food and drink to a band of wood-cutters that came by. Each, out of gratitude, gave him two pieces of wood. This wood he sold, bought more gram with a part of the price, and obtained more wood from the wood-cutters the next day, etc., until he was able in time to buy all their wood for three days. Heavy rains made a dearth of wood, and he sold his stock for a large sum. Then he set up a shop, began to traffic, and became wealthy by his own ability. Now he had a golden mouse made, which he sent to the rich merchant from whom he had gotten his start, and that merchant bestowed the hand of his daughter on the once poor youth.

The comic atmosphere, it will be seen, is altogether absent from this Buddhistic parable.

A slight resemblance to our story may be traced in Bompas, No. XLIX, "The Foolish Sons," where the clever youngest (of six brothers) manages to acquire ten rupees, starting with one anna. He proceeds by "borrowing," and paying interest in advance. The trick used here is the same as that practised on the foolish wife in "Wise Folks" (Grimm, No. 104), where a sharper buys three cows, and leaves one with the seller as a pledge for the price of the three (see Bolte-Polivka, 2 : 440 f.).

Much closer parallels than the preceding, to the incidents of out story, are to be found in a cycle of tales discussed by Bolte-Polivka (2 : 201-202) in connection with "Hans in Luck" (Grimm, No. 83). It will be recalled that in the Grimm story the foolish Hans exchanges successively gold for horse, horse for cow, cow for pig, pig for goose, goose for grindstone, which he is finally glad to get rid of by throwing it into the water. "A counterpart of this story," say Bolte and Polivka, "is the Maerchen of the 'profitable exchange,' in which a poor man acquires from another a hen because it has eaten up a pea or millet-seed that belonged to him; for the hen he gets a pig which has killed it; for the pig, a cow; for the cow, a horse. But when he finally levies his claim for damages upon a girl, and places her in a sack, his luck changes: strangers liberate the maiden without the knowledge of her captor, and put in her place a big dog, which falls upon him when he opens the sack." It is to be noted that the cycle as here outlined consists really of two parts,—the "biter biting" and the "biter bit." Cosquin (2 : 209) believes that the last two episodes—the maiden gained by chicanery, and the substitution of an animal for her in the sack—form a separate theme not originally a part of the cumulative motive; and, to prove his belief, he cites a number of Oriental tales containing the former, but lacking the cumulative motive (ibid., 209-212). Cosquin seems to be correct in this; although, on the other hand, he is able to cite only one story (Riviere, p. 95) in which there is not some trace of the "biter-bit" idea. Moreover, even in the animal stories belonging to this group,—and he analyzes Stokes, No. 17, and Riviere, p. 79,—the animal-rogue meets with an unlucky end. The same is true of Steel-Temple, No. 2, "The Rat's Wedding." In another Indian story, however, "The Monkey with the Tom-Tom" (Kingscote, No. XIV, a rather pointless tale), the monkey, whose last exchange is puddings for a tom-tom, is left at the top of a tree lustily beating his drum and enumerating his clever tricks. A very similar story is to be found in Rouse, p. 132, "The Monkey's Bargains." It will thus be seen that Bolte and Polivka's analysis holds for the larger number of human hero tales of this cycle, as well as for the animal tales; but that the first half of the sequence of events, where the hero's good luck is continually on the increase, is also to be found as a separate story,—Kingscote's, Rouse's, and our own.

The Filipino version appears to be old, and I am inclined to think that it is native; that is, if any stories may be called native. Several facts point to the primitiveness of the tale: (1) the local color and realistic touches, slight though they are; (2) the non-emphasis of the comic possibilities of the situations; (3) the somewhat unsystematic arrangement of incidents, the third demand and exchange (iron rod for dead dog) not appearing to be an upward progression; (4) the crudity of invention displayed in this same third exchange (though an iron-picketed fence seems modern). My reasons for thinking our story not imported from the Occident are the differences in beginning, middle, and end between it and the European versions cited by Bolte-Polivka (loc. cit.). The good luck coming to the hero from the exchange of dead animals suggests a distant basic connection between our story and the "Jataka," although it must be admitted that the idea could occur independently to many different peoples.



TALE 33

THE THREE HUMPBACKS.

Narrated by Pacita Cordero, a Tagalog from Pagsanjan, Laguna, who heard the story from her lavandera, or washer-woman.

Pablo was badly treated by his older brothers Pedro and Juan. The coarsest food was given to him. His clothes were ragged. He slept on the floor, while his two brothers had very comfortable beds. In fact, he was deprived of every comfort and pleasure.

In the course of time this unfortunate youth fell in love with a well-to-do girl, and after a four-years engagement they were married. Thus Pablo was separated from his brothers, to their great joy. Pedro and Juan now began spending their money lavishly on trifles. They learned how to gamble. Pablo, however, was now living happily and out of want with his wife. Every morning he went to fish, for his wife owned a large fishery.

One day, as Pablo was just leaving the house at the usual hour to go fishing, he said to his wife, "Wife, if two humpbacks like myself ever come here, do not admit them. As you know, they are my brothers, and they used to treat me very badly." Then he went away. That very afternoon Pedro and Juan came to pay their brother a visit. They begged Marta, Pablo's wife, to give them some food, for they were starving. They had squandered all their money, they said. Marta was so impressed by the wretched appearance of her brothers-in-law, that she admitted them despite her husband's prohibition. She gave them a dinner. When they had finished eating, she said to them, "It is now time for my husband to come home. He may take vengeance on you for your past unkindness to him, if he finds you here, so I'll hide you in two separate trunks. You stay there till to-morrow morning, and I'll let you out when my husband is gone again."

She had scarcely locked the trunks when Pablo entered. He did not find out that his brothers had been there, however. The next morning Pablo went to his work, as usual. Marta had so much to do about the house that day, that she forgot all about Pedro and Juan. The poor boys, deprived of air and food, died inside the trunks. Not until two days later did Marta think of the two humpbacks. She ran and opened the trunks, and found their dead bodies inside. Her next thought was how to dispose of them. At last a plan occurred to her. She called to her neighbor, and asked him to come bury one of her brothers-in-law who had just died in her house. She promised to pay him five pesos when he came back from his work.

The neighbor lifted the heavy body of Pedro, and, putting it on his shoulder, carried it away to a far place. There he dug a hole that was waist deep, put the corpse into it, and covered it up. Then he hastened back to Marta, and said, "Madam, I have buried the dead man in a very deep grave."

"No, you have not," said Marta. "What is that lying over there?" and she pointed to the corpse of Juan.

"That's very strange!" exclaimed the neighbor, scratching his head. "You are very artful," he said to the dead body of Juan. He was very angry with the corpse now, for he had not yet received his pay. So he bore the corpse of Juan to the seashore. He got a banca [89] and dug a very deep grave beneath the water. Then he said to the corpse, "If you can come out of this place, you are the wisest person in the world." He then returned to Marta's house.

On his way back he happened to look behind him, when he saw, to his great surprise, the humpback following him, carrying some fish. The gambler gazed at him; and when he saw that he resembled exactly the corpse that he had just buried, he said, "So you have come out of the grave again, have you, you naughty humpback!" And with these words he killed the humpback that very instant. This humpback was Marta's husband returning home from the fishery.

Thus Marta tried to deceive, but she was the one who was deceived.

The Seven Humpbacks.

Narrated by Teofilo Reyes, a Tagalog from Manila.

Once there lived seven brothers who were all humpbacks, and who looked very much alike. Ugly as these humpbacks were, still there was a lady who fell in love with one of them and married him. This lady, however, though she loved her husband well, was a very stingy woman. Finally the time came when the unmarried humpbacks had to depend on the other one for food. Naturally this arrangement was very displeasing to the wife; and in time her hate grew so intense, that she planned to kill all her brothers-in-law.

One day, when her husband was away on business, she murdered the six brothers. Next she hired a man to come and bury a corpse. She told him of only one corpse, because she wanted to deceive the man. When he had buried one of the bodies, he came back to get paid for his work. The woman, however, before he had time to speak, began to reproach him for not burying the man in the right place. "See here!" she said, showing him the corpse of the second brother, "you did not do your work well. Go and bury the body again. Remember that I will not pay you until you have buried the man so that he stays under the earth."

The man took the second corpse and buried it; but when he returned, there it was again. And so on: he repeated the operation until he thought that he had buried the same corpse six times. But after the sixth, the last humpback, had been buried, the married humpback came home from his work. When the grave-digger saw this other humpback, he immediately seized and killed him, thinking he was the same man he had buried so many times before.

When the wicked woman knew that her very husband had been killed, she died of a broken heart.

Notes.

A Pampango variant (c), which I have only in abstract, is entitled "The Seven Hunchbacked Brothers." It was collected by Wenceslao Vitug of Lubao, Pampanga. It runs thus:—

There were seven hunchbacked brothers that looked just alike. One of them married, and maintained the other six in his house. The wife, however, grew tired of them, and locked them up in the cellar, where they starved to death. In order to save burial-expenses, the woman fooled the grave-digger. When he had buried one man and returned for his money, she had another body lying where the first had lain, and told him that he could not have his money until the man was buried to stay. Thus the poor gravedigger buried all six corpses under the impression that he was working with the same one over and over again. On his way back from burying the sixth, he met the husband riding home on horseback. Thinking him to be the corpse, which he exactly resembled, the grave-digger cried out, "Ah! so this is the way you get ahead of me!" and he struck the living hunchback with his hoe and killed him.

This Pampango variant, although it is a little more specific than the Tagalog, is identical with our second version.

Our two stories and the variant represent a family of tales found scattered all over Europe. They are also connected distantly with one of the stories in the "1001 Nights," and thus with the Orient again. For a discussion of this cycle, see Clouston, "Popular Tales and Fictions," 2 : 332 ff., where are cited and abstracted versions from the Old-English prose form of the "Seven Wise Masters," from the Gesta Romanorum, also the fabliau "Destourmi;" then five other fabliaux from Legrand's and Barbasan's collections, especially the trouvere Dutant's "Les Trois Bossus;" and the second tale of the seventh sage in the "Mishle Sandabar," the Hebrew version of the book of Sindibad. On pp. 344-357 Clouston gives variants of the related story in which the same corpse is disposed of many times. For further bibliography, see Wilson's Dunlop, 2 : 42, note.

The nearest parallel I know of to our first story is Straparola, 5 : 3, from which it was probably derived.

There were three humpbacked brothers who looked very much alike. The wife of one of them, disobeying the order of her husband, secretly received her two brothers-in-law. When her husband returned unexpectedly, she hid the brothers in the kitchen, in a trough used for scalding pigs. There the two humpbacks smothered before the wife could release them. In order to rid herself of their corpses, she hired a body-carrier to cast one of them into the Tiber; and when he returned for his pay, she informed him that the corpse had come back. After the man had removed the second corpse, he met the humpbacked husband, whom he now likewise cast into the river.

The identity of this story with ours makes a direct connection between the two practically certain. The two stories differ in this respect, however: the Italian has a long introduction telling of the enmity between the hunchback brothers, and of the knavish tricks of Zambo, the oldest, who goes out to seek his fortune, and is finally married in Rome. All this detail is lacking in the Filipino version, as is likewise the statement (found in Straparola) that the wife rejoiced when she learned that she had been rid of her husband as well as of the corpses of her brothers-in-law.

In our other story and the Pampango variant we note some divergences from the preceding tale. Here the one married brother charitably supports his six indigent brothers, whom the wife subsequently murders. In the majority of the European versions the deaths are either accidental or are contrived by the husband and wife together (e.g., Gesta Romanorum; and Von der Hagen, No. 62). While I am inclined to think these two stories of ours imported, they do not appear to be derived immediately from the same source (Straparola). However, the facts that the seven men are brothers and are humpbacks, and that the husband is killed by mistake, make an Occidental source for our second story and for the Pampango variant most probable.

I know of no Oriental analogues to the story as a whole, though the trick of getting a number of corpses buried for one appears in several stories from Cochin-China, Siam, and the Malay Archipelago:—

(1) Landes, No. 180, which I summarize here from Cosquin (2 : 337):

In the course of some adventures more or less grotesque, four monks are killed at one time near an inn. The old woman who keeps this hostelry, fearful of being implicated in a murder, wishes to get rid of the corpses. She hides three of the bodies, and has one buried by a monk who is passing by. She pretends that the dead man is her nephew. The monk, returning to the inn after his task, is stupefied to see the corpse back there again. The old woman tells him not to be astonished, for her nephew loved her so much that he could not bear to leave her; he would have to be buried deeper. The monk carries this corpse away, and on his return has the same experience with the third and fourth corpses. After the last time, he meets, while crossing a bridge, another, live monk resembling those he has interred. "Halloo!" he says, "I have been burying you all day, and now you come back to be buried again!" With that he pushes the fifth monk into the river.

(2) Skeat, I : 36-37, "Father Follow-My-Nose and the Four Priests:"

Father Follow-My-Nose would walk straight, would climb over a house rather than turn aside. One day he had climbed up one side of a Jerai-tree and was preparing to descend, when four yellow-robed priests, lest he should fall, held a cloak for him. But he jumped without warning, and the four cracked their heads together and died. Old Father Follow-My-Nose travelled on till he came to the hut of a crone. The crone went back and got the bodies of the four priests. An opium-eater passed by; and the crone said, "Mr. Opium-Eater, if you'll bury me this yellow-robe here, I'll give you a dollar." The opium-eater agreed, and took the body away to bury it; but when he came back for his money, there was a second body waiting for him. "The fellow must have come to life again," he said; but he took the body and buried it too. After he had buried the fourth in like manner, it was broad daylight, and he was afraid to go collect his money.

(3) A story communicated to me by a Chinese student, Mr. Jut L. Fan of Canton, who says that he saw the tale acted at a popular theatre in Canton in 1913. The story I give is but the synopsis of the play:

In Canton, the capital of Kwong Tung, a mile's walk from the marketplace, stood a prehistoric abbey, away from the busy streets, and deep in the silent woods. In this old monastery an aged abbot ruled over five hundred young monks; but they were far from being like their venerable master. Men and women, rich and poor, for fear of the dread consequences if they should incur the displeasure of the gods, went in great numbers to worship in the ancient buildings, kneeling in long rows before the sacred figures and incense.

These gatherings made it possible for the young monks and the young girls to become intimately acquainted,—so intimate, that sometimes shame and disgrace followed. One young girl who had been seduced, on an appropriate occasion and after great consideration, persuaded seven of the disciples who had been engaged in her ruin to enter her house. Then she invited them into her private chamber. As if by chance, there came a sharp rap on the locked door; so she hid her unusual visitors in a big wardrobe. What this young lady next did might seem unnatural; but, with the help of her servants, she poured boiling oil into the wardrobe, and killed the miscreants.

She next hired a porter to convey one body to the river near by and bury it. This porter was not informed as to the number of corpses he would have to bury; but every time he came back for his pay, there was another body for him. So one after another he dropped the bodies of the young monks into the swift-flowing stream, wondering all the while by what magic the lifeless body managed to return to the original spot.

Just after he had disposed of the seventh, up came the old abbot himself, with dignified mien. "Ah! I see now how you return," said the drudger, and he laid hold of the priest and ended his natural days. The old abbot thus suffered the fate of his seven unworthy disciples.



TALE 34

RESPECT OLD AGE.

Narrated by Jose Ignacio, a Tagalog from Malabon, Rizal.

Once there lived a poor man who had to support his family, the members of which were a hot-headed wife who predominated over the will of her husband; a small boy of ten; and an old man of eighty, the boy's grandfather. This old man could no longer work, because of his feebleness. He was the cause of many quarrels between the husband and wife, but was loved by their son.

One rainy morning the husband was forced by his wife to send his father away. He called his son, and ordered him to carry a basket full of food and also a blanket. He told the boy that they were to leave the old man in a hut on their farm some distance away. The boy wept, and protested against this harsh treatment of his grandfather, but in vain. He then cut the blanket into two parts. When he was asked to explain his action, he said to his father, "When you grow old, I will leave you in a hut, and give you this half of the blanket." The man was astonished, hurriedly recalled his order concerning his father, and thereafter took good care of him.

The Golden Rule.

Narrated by Cipriano Serafica, a Pangasinan from Mangaldan, Pangasinan.

A long time ago there lived in a town a couple who had a son. The father of the husband lived with his son and daughter-in-law happily for many years. But when he grew very old, he became very feeble. Every time he ate at the table, he always broke a plate, because his hands trembled so. The old man's awkwardness soon made his son angry, and one day he made a wooden plate for his father to eat out of. The poor old man had to eat all his food from this wooden plate.

When the grandson noticed what his father had done, he took some tools and went down under the house. There he took a piece of board and began to carve it. When his father saw him and said to him, "What are you doing, son?" the boy replied to him, "Father, I am making wooden plates for you and my mother when you are old."

As the son uttered these words, tears gushed from the father's eyes. From that time on, the old man was always allowed to eat at the table with the rest of the family, nor was he made to eat from a wooden plate.

MORAL: Do unto others as you want them to do unto you.



Notes.

A Pampango variant of these stories, entitled "The Old Man, his Son, and his Grandson," and narrated by Eutiquiano Garcia of Mexico, Pampanga, has been printed by H. E. Fansler (p. 100). Mr. Garcia says that he heard the story told by his father at a gathering of a number of old story-tellers at his home during the Christmas vacation in 1908. The tale has every appearance of having long been naturalized in the Islands, if not of being native. It is brief, and may be reprinted here:—

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 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 back 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."

This exemplum is known in many countries and in many forms. For the bibliography, see Clouston, "Popular Tales and Fictions," 2 : 372-378; T. F. Crane, "Exempla of Jacques de Vitry" (FLS, 1890 : No. 288 and p. 260); Bolte-Polivka (on Grimm, No. 78), 2 : 135-140. The most complete of these studies is the last, in which are cited German, Latin, Dutch, English, French, Spanish, Greek, Croatian, Albanian, Bulgarian, Polish, Russian, Lettish, Turkish, and Indian versions. Full as Bolte-Polivka's list is, however, an old important Buddhistic variant has been overlooked by them,—the "Takkala-jataka," No. 446. This Indian form of the story, it seems to me, has some close resemblances to our Pampango variant; and I give it here briefly, summarizing from Mr. Rouse's excellent English translation:—

In a certain village of Kasi there lived a man who supported his old father. The father regretted seeing his son toil so hard for him, and against the son's will sent for a woman to be his daughter-in-law. Soon the son began to be pleased with his new wife, who took good care of his father. As time went on, however, she became tired of the old man, and planned to set his son against him. She accused her father-in-law of being not only very untidy, but also fierce and violent, and forever picking quarrels with her, and at last, by constant dinning her complaints in his ear, persuaded her husband to agree to take the old man into a cemetery, kill him, and bury him in a pit. Her small son, a wise lad of seven, overheard the plot, and decided to prevent his father from committing murder. The next day he insisted on accompanying his father and grandfather. When they reached the cemetery, and the father began to dig the pit, the small boy asked what it was for. The father replied,—

"Thy grandsire, son, is very weak and old, Opprest by pain and ailments manifold; Him will I bury in a pit to-day; In such a life I could not wish him stay."

The boy caught the spade from his father's hands, and at no great distance began to dig another pit. His father asked why he dug that pit; and he answered,—

"I too, when thou art aged, father mine, Will treat my father as thou treatest thine; Following the custom of the family, Deep in a pit I too will bury thee."

By repeating a few more stanzas the son convinced his father that he was about to commit a great crime. The father, penitent, seated himself in the cart with his son and the old man, and they returned home. There the husband gave the wicked wife a sound drubbing, bundled her heels over head out of the house, and bade her never darken his doors again. [The rest of the story, which has no connection with ours, tells how the little son by a trick made his mother repent and become a good woman, and brought about a reconciliation between her and his father.]