The Pomegranate King

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Title:     The Pomegranate King
Author: Anonymous [More Titles by Anonymous]

There was once a Mahárájá, called the Anárbásá, or Pomegranate King; and a Mahárání called the Gulíanár, or Pomegranate-flower. The Mahárání died leaving two children: a little girl of four or five years old, and a little boy of three. The Mahárájá was very sorry when she died, for he loved her dearly. He was exceedingly fond of his two children, and got for them two servants: a man to cook their dinner, and an ayah to take care of them. He also had them taught to read and write. Soon after his wife's death the neighbouring Rájá's daughter's husband died, and she said if any other Rájá would marry her, she would be quite willing to marry him, and she also said she would like very much to marry the Pomegranate Rájá. So her father went to see the Pomegranate Rájá, and told him that his daughter wished to marry him. "Oh," said the Pomegranate Rájá, "I do not want to marry again, for if I do, the woman I marry will be sure to be unkind to my two children. She will not take care of them. She will not pet them and comfort them when they are unhappy." "Oh," said the other Rájá, "my daughter will be very good to them, I assure you." "Very well," said the Mahárájá, "I will marry her." So they were married.

For two or three months everything went on well, but then the new Rání, who was called the Sunkásí Mahárání, began to beat the poor children, and to scold their servants. One day she gave the boy such a hard blow on his cheek that it swelled. When the Mahárájá came out of his office to get his tiffin, he saw the boy's swollen face, and, calling the two servants, he said, "Who did this? how did my boy get hurt?" They said, "The Rání gave him such a hard blow on his cheek that it swelled, and she gets very angry with us if we say anything about her ill-treatment of the children, or how she scolds us." The Mahárájá was exceedingly angry with his wife for this, and said to her, "I never beat my children. Why should you beat them? If you beat them I will send you away." And he went off to his office in a great rage. The Rání was very angry. So she told the little girl to go with the ayah to the bazar. The ayah and the little girl set off, never suspecting any evil. As soon as they had gone, the Rání took the little boy and told him she would kill him. The boy went down on his knees and begged her to spare his life. But she said, "No; your father is always quarrelling with me, beating me, and scolding me, all through your fault." The boy begged and prayed again, saying he would never be naughty any more. The Rání shook her head, and taking a large knife she cut off his head. She then cut him up and made him into a curry. She then buried his head, and his nails, and his feet in the ground, and she covered them well with earth, and stamped the ground well down so that no one should notice it had been disturbed. When the Pomegranate Rájá came home to his dinner, she put the curry and some rice on the table before him; but the Rájá, seeing his boy was not there, would not eat. He went and looked everywhere for his son, crying very much, and the little girl cried very much too, for she loved her brother dearly. After they had hunted for him for some time, the little boy appeared. His father embraced him. "Where have you been?" said he. "I cannot eat my dinner without you." The little boy said, "Oh, I was in the jungle playing with other boys." They then sat down to dinner, and the curry changed into a kid curry. The Rání was greatly astonished when she saw the boy. She said to herself, "I cut his head off; I cut him into little pieces, and I made him into a curry, and yet he is alive!" She then went into the garden to see if his head, and nails, and feet were in the hole where she had buried them. But they were not there; it was quite empty. She then called a sepoy, and said to him, "If you will take two children into the jungle and kill them, I will give you as much money as you like." "All right," said the sepoy. She then brought the children, and told him to take them to the jungle. So he took them away to the jungle, but he had not the heart to kill them, for they were exceedingly beautiful, and he left them in the jungle near their dead mother's grave. Then he returned to the Rání, saying he had done as she wished, and she gave him as much money as he wanted.

The poor Pomegranate Rájá was very unhappy when he saw his children were not in the palace, and that they could not be found. He asked his Rání where they were, but she said she did not know; they had gone out to play and had never returned. From the day he lost his children the Pomegranate Rájá became melancholy. He did not love the Rání any more; he hated her.

Meanwhile the children lived in a little house built close to their mother's grave. God had given her life again that she might take care of them. But they did not know she was their mother; they thought she was another woman sent to take care of them. God sent also a man to teach them. Somehow or other the Rání Sunkásí heard they were still alive in the jungle. She did not know how she could kill them. So at last she pretended she was very ill, and she said to the Rájá, "The doctor says that in the jungle there are two children, and he says if you will have them killed, and will bring their livers for me to stand on when I bathe, then I shall get well." The Rájá sent a second sepoy to kill the children, and this man killed them and brought their livers to the Rání. She stood on them while bathing, and then said she was quite well. She then threw the livers into the garden, and during the night a tree grew up there with two large beautiful flowers on it. Next morning the Rání looked out and said, "I will gather those flowers to-day." Every day she said she would gather them, and every day she forgot. At last one day she said, "Every day I forget to gather those flowers, but to-day I really will do so," and she sent her servant to pluck them. So he went out, and, just as he was going to gather them, the flowers flew up just out of his reach. Then the Rání went down, and when she was going to pick them they flew up so high that they could not be seen. Every day she tried to gather them, and every day they went high up, and came back again to the tree as soon as she had gone. Then the flowers disappeared and two large fruits came in their stead. The Rání looked out of her window: "Oh, what delicious fruits! I'll eat them all myself. I won't give a bit to anybody, and I'll eat them by myself quite quietly." She went down to the garden, but they flew high up into the sky, and then they came down again. So this went on, day after day, until she got so cross she ordered the tree to be cut down. But it was of no use. The tree was cut down, but the fruits flew high up into the sky, and in the night the tree grew up again and the fruits came back again to it. And so this went on for many days. Every day she cut down the tree, and every night it grew up again, but she could never get the fruits. At last she became very angry, and had the tree hewn into tiny bits and all the bits thrown away, but still the tree grew again in the night, and in the morning the fruits were hanging on it. So she went to the Rájá and told him that in the garden was a tree with two fruits, and every time she tried to get them, the fruits went up into the air. She had had the tree cut down ever so many times, and it always grew up again in the night and the fruits returned to it. "Why cannot you leave the tree alone?" said the Rájá. "But I should like to see if what you say is true." So the Rájá and the Rání went down to the garden, and the Rání tried to get the fruits, but she could not, for they went right up into the air.

That evening the Rájá went alone to the garden to gather the fruits, and the fruits of themselves fell into his hand. He took them into his room, and putting them on a little table close to his bed, he lay down to sleep. As soon as he was in bed a little voice inside one of the fruits said, "Brother;" and a little voice in the other fruit said, "Sister, speak more gently. To-morrow the Rájá will break open the fruits, and if the Rání finds us she will kill us. Three times has God made us alive again, but if we die a fourth time he will bring us to life no more." The Rájá listened and said, "I will break them open in a little while." Then he went to sleep, and after a little he woke and said, "A little while longer," and went to sleep again. Several times he woke up and said, "I will break the fruits open in a little while," and went to sleep. At last he took a knife and began cutting the fruits open very fast, and the little boy cried, "Gently, gently, father; you hurt us!" So then the Rájá cut more gently, and he stopped to ask, "Are you hurt?" and they said, "No." And then he cut again and asked, "Are you hurt?" and they said, "No." And a third time he asked, "Are you hurt?" and they answered, "No." Then the fruits broke open and his two children jumped out. They rushed into their father's arms, and he clasped them tight, and they cried softly, that the Rání might not hear.

He shut his room up close, and fed and dressed his children, and then went out of the room, locking the door behind him. He had a little wooden house built that could easily catch fire, and as soon as it was ready he went to the Rání and said, "Will you go into a little house I have made ready for you while your room is getting repaired?" "All right," said the Rání; so she went into the little house, and that night a man set it on fire, and the Rání and everything in it was burnt up. Then the Pomegranate Rájá took her bones, put them into a tin box, and sent them as a present to her mother. "Oh," said the mother, "my daughter has married the Pomegranate Mahárájá, and so she sends me some delicious food." When she opened the box, to her horror she found only bones! Then she wrote to the Mahárájá, "Of what use are bones?" The Mahárájá wrote back, "They are your bones; they belong to you, for they are your daughter's bones. She ill-treated and killed my children, and so I had her burnt."

The Pomegranate Rájá and his children lived very happily for some time, and their dead mother, the Gulíanár Rání, having a wish to see her husband and her children, prayed to God to let her go and visit them. God said she could go, but not in her human shape, so he changed her into a beautiful bird, and put a pin in her head, and said, "As soon as the pin is pulled out you will become a woman again." She flew to the palace where the Mahárájá lived, and there were great trees about the palace. On one of these she perched at night. The doorkeeper was lying near it. She called out, "Doorkeeper! doorkeeper!" and he answered, "What is it? Who is it?" And she asked, "Is the Rájá well?" and the doorkeeper said, "Yes." "Are the children well?" and he said, "Yes." "And all the servants, and camels, and horses?" "Yes." "Are you well?" "Yes." "Have you had plenty of food?" "Yes." "What a great donkey your Mahárájá is!" And then she began to cry very much, and pearls fell from her eyes as she cried. Then she began to laugh very much, and great big rubies fell from her beak as she laughed. The next morning the doorkeeper got up and felt about, and said, "What is all this?" meaning the pearls and the rubies, for he did not know what they were. "I will keep them." So he picked them all up and put them into a corner of his house. Every night the bird came and asked after the Mahárájá and the children and the servants, and left a great many pearls and rubies behind her. At last the doorkeeper had a whole heap of pearls and rubies.

One day a Fakír came and begged, and as the doorkeeper had no pice, or flour, or rice to give, he gave him a handful of pearls and rubies. "Well," said the Fakír to himself, "I am sure these are pearls and rubies." So he tied them up in his cloth. Then he went to the Rájá to beg, and the Rájá gave him a handful of rice. "What!" said the Fakír, "the great Mahárájá only gives me a handful of rice when his doorkeeper gives me pearls and rubies!" and he turned to walk away. But the Mahárájá stopped him. "What did you say?" said he, "that my doorkeeper gave you pearls and rubies?" "Yes," said the Fakír, "your doorkeeper gave me pearls and rubies." So the Mahárájá went to the doorkeeper's house, and when he saw all the pearls and rubies that were there, he thought the man had stolen them from his treasury. The Mahárájá had not as many pearls and rubies as his doorkeeper had. Then turning to the doorkeeper he asked him to tell him truly where and how he had got them. "Yes, I will," said the doorkeeper. "Every night a beautiful bird comes and asks after you, after your children, after all your elephants, horses, and servants; and then it cries, and when it cries pearls drop from its eyes; and then it laughs, and rubies fall from its beak. If you come to-night I dare say you will see it." "All right," said the Pomegranate Rájá.

So that night the Mahárájá pulled his bed out under the tree on which the bird always perched. At night the bird came and called out, "Doorkeeper! doorkeeper!" and the doorkeeper answered, "Yes, lord." And the bird said, "Is your Mahárájá well?" "Yes." "Are the children well?" "Yes." "And all his servants, horses, and camels and elephants--are they well?" "Yes." "Are you well?" "Yes." "Have you had plenty of food?" "Yes." "What a fool your Mahárájá is!" And then she cried, and the pearls came tumbling down on the Mahárájá's eyes, and the Mahárájá opened one eye and saw what a beautiful bird it was. And then it laughed, and rubies fell from its beak on to the Mahárájá.

Next morning the Mahárájá said he would give any one who would catch the bird as much money as he wanted. So he called a fisherman, and asked him to bring his net and catch the bird when it came that night. The fisherman said he would for one thousand rupees. That night the fisherman, the Mahárájá, and the doorkeeper, all waited under the tree. Soon the bird came, and asked after the Mahárájá, after his children, and all his servants and elephants, and camels and horses, and then after the doorkeeper, and then it called the Mahárájá a fool. Then it cried, and then it laughed, and just as it laughed the fisherman threw the net over the bird and caught it. Then they shut it up in an iron cage, and the next morning the Mahárájá took it out and stroked it, and said, "What a sweet little bird! what a lovely little bird!" And the Mahárájá felt something like a pin in its head, and he gave a pull, and out came the pin, and then his own dear wife, the Pomegranate-flower Rání, stood before him. The Rájá was exceedingly glad, and so were his two children. And there were great rejoicings, and they lived happily ever after.

Told by Dunkní at Simla, 26th July, 1876.

NOTES.

FAIRY TALE TRANSLATED BY MAIVE STOKES.

WITH NOTES BY MARY STOKES

THE POMEGRANATE KING.

1. Such is the story as told by Dunkní in 1876; at that time, when it was read over to her, she said it was correct. On my asking her in 1878, when the story was going through the press, to explain some points in it, such as why the children said they had been brought to life three times, the boy having only died twice, and the girl once, she told me the following variation: After the attempt to get rid of the boy by making him into a curry had failed, the Rání Sunkásí sent for a sepoy and bade him carry the two children to the jungle and there kill them; and as a proof of their death he was to bring her their livers. Once in the jungle with the children, the sepoy had not the heart to kill them; so he left them in it, and brought the livers of two goats to Sunkásí Rání. She buried the livers in the garden and was content; but some months later as she was walking (literally "eating the air") in the jungle she saw her step-children playing about; she returned to the palace, sent for the sepoy, and asked him why he had not killed the children. "I did kill them," said the sepoy, "and brought you their livers." "Those livers were not the children's livers," answered the Rání; "I have just seen the children alive and playing in the jungle." "They must have been other people's children that you saw," said the sepoy, "yours I killed." "Do not tell me lies," said the Rání. "Now you must at once go to the jungle, kill the children, and bring me their eyes." The sepoy went to find the children, but when he found them he could not kill them, so he took them to some people who lived in a hut, and said to these people, "Take great care of the two children. Be very kind to them." He then killed two goats and took their eyes to the Rání, who was now satisfied for some time. But one day another of the Pomegranate Rájá's sepoys passed near the hut, and saw the children playing about. So he went to Sunkásí Rání and told her the children were alive and well. At this the Rání was very angry, and she thought, "It is of no use my sending the first sepoy again to kill them. I will send this man." She said, therefore, to the second sepoy, "If you will kill these children for me, you shall have a great reward." The sepoy agreed, went to the little hut, and seized the children. The poor people who took care of the children begged and prayed him to have pity on them; but the sepoy said, "No." He had the Rání's orders to kill them, and they must and should be killed. And so he killed them and brought their livers to the Rání as she had bidden him. Sunkásí Rání was very happy when she saw the livers, and she buried them close to a large tank that was in her garden.

Some three months later her servants came to her and told her a beautiful large bél-fruit was floating on the water of the tank. Sunkásí Rání went at once with them to the tank, and when she saw the fruit she was seized with a great longing to have it. So she sent all her servants, one after the other, into the tank to fetch it; but all to no purpose, for as soon as any one of them got close to the fruit it floated away from him. Then the Rání herself went into the tank. She, however, was not a whit more able to get it: when she thought she had only to put out her hand to take it, the fruit rose up into the air, and fell into the water again as soon as she had come up out of the tank. She went to the Mahárájá and told him of this lovely bél-fruit, and then went to her room while he came down to the tank. He said, "I should like to catch the fruit: I wonder if I can do so. What a lovely fruit!" As soon as he put his hand into the water the fruit came floating towards him, and floated into it. "I think this fruit is quite ripe," said the Mahárájá. "Quite ripe," said the servants, and they struck it with a stone to break it open. "Oh, you hurt us! you hurt us!" cried little voices from inside the bél-fruit. "Gently, gently; don't hurt us." The Mahárájá and all the servants were greatly surprised, and the Mahárájá went to Sunkásí Rání, and told her all about the little voices. She at once guessed her step-children were in the fruit, so she said to the Mahárájá, "You had better take the fruit to the jungle and there break it open with a big stone, so that anything inside it may be crushed to bits." "I will not do that," said the Mahárájá. Then he went back to his servants and made them cut the fruit's rind very carefully cross-ways and the fruit broke into halves: in one half sat his little son, in the other his little daughter. As soon as the halves were laid on the ground the children stepped out, and at once grew to their natural size. Their father was very angry when he saw them. "Why, I thought you were at school," said he. "The Mahárání told me you were at school. Why are you not there? What funny (Dunkní's own word) children you are to get into this bél-fruit! What made you like to live in a fruit?" But to all his questionings and scoldings the children said not one word. At last he sent them up to the palace, and there they stayed with him for some three months. But the Mahárání said to him, "These are not your children. Yours are at school." "They are my children," he answered.

All this time the Mahárání hated them more and more, and at last she went to them and said, "Now I really will kill you." "Just as you please," answered the children; "we don't mind being killed. You may kill us three times, four times, as often as you like: it does not matter in the least; for God will always bring us to life again."

At this Sunkásí Rání flew into a rage and she called her servants and said, "Kill these children, cut them into mince-meat and throw them to the crows and kites. When the crows and kites have eaten them, they cannot come to life any more." So the servants killed the children, and chopped them up very fine and fed the crows and kites with their flesh; and now the Mahárání was very happy.

Some months later, as she was walking in her garden, she saw two beautiful flower-buds on a large bél-tree that grew in it. She showed them to the gardener, and asked if he had seen them before. "Never," said the man. "On this tree there have never been either flowers or fruit till now." "Gather the flowers for me," said the Rání, "I do so wish to have them." The gardener said to her, "Wait till the buds are fully blown and then I will gather them for you." At the end of three or four days the Rání Sunkásí asked if the buds had grown into large flowers, and the gardener said, "Yes, to-day I will gather them for you." He got a long, long bamboo cane, and tied a piece of wood cross-ways on one of its ends so as to make a sort of hook wherewith to catch hold of and break off the flowers. He tried and tried to get them, but all in vain. Then he made all the servants try. It was of no use, no one could make the hook touch the flowers. They always bent themselves just out of its reach. Then Sunkásí Rání tried, but with no better success. She told the Mahárájá, who said, "I will try to-morrow to gather these wonderful flowers."

That night as the Rání lay in her bed she suddenly thought, "Those children are in the flowers," and she determined to be with her husband when he gathered them, to get them into her own hands some way or other.

The next morning Anárbásá Mahárájá and his wife went to the bél-tree, and as soon as he held out his hand towards the flowers, they dropped into it. "What lovely flowers! What beautiful flowers! Do give them to me," said Sunkásí Rání. "No," said the Mahárájá, "I will keep them myself." Then he carried them to his room and laid them on the table while he shut the door and the venetians. Then he came and sat down before them: he took them in his hand, and looked at them and laid them again on the table; then he took them and smelt them, and they smelt, oh! so sweet. This he did many times. At last he held them to his ears, for the adventure of the bél-fruit had made him wise (hushyár), and he heard little tiny voices, saying, "Papa" (Dunkní's own word), "we want to stay with you; we should like to be with you." The Mahárájá looked very carefully at the flowers, and at last, in one of them he saw a little splinter of wood like a thorn sticking: he pulled this out, and his own little son stood before him. Then he looked at the other flower, and in that, too, was a little splinter of wood sticking. When he pulled it out his little girl stood there.

The Mahárájá was vexed with his children, and asked them why they were so naughty, and why they liked to live in fruits and flowers instead of staying in the palace or going to school. The children answered, "We go to school sometimes, and then we come back and live in our flowers, and then we return to school, and then we come back to our flower-homes again." "This is a lie you are telling me," said their father. "You know quite well you have not been at school at all." The Mahárání came in to hear what all this talking meant, and when she saw the children she said to Anárbásá Mahárájá, "These are not your children, yours are at school." "They are my children," he answered, "and they have never been at school at all, and they are very naughty." He then sent them away to play, and the Rání returned to her room. But he sat alone in his room, for he was angry and cross. As he sat there one of his chaprásís came to him and said, "Maháráj, you do not know how ill the Mahárání treats your children, or you would not be angry with them. She has killed them several times, and sent them away into the jungle; and after they came out of the bél-fruit she killed them and chopped them into small pieces, and fed the kites and crows with their flesh." When the Mahárájá heard all this, he said to the chaprásí, "You must have a beautiful little house built for me; you must take care that it is chiefly made of wood; the flooring must be very thin and of wood; and the hollow place under the flooring must be filled with dry wood. Then you must put plenty of flowers inside the house, and plenty outside so as to make it very pretty."

As soon as the house was ready the Mahárájá went to his wife and asked her if she would go out with him to eat the air. "I should like to show you a new house I have had built for you," he said. So she went with him and thought her new house lovely. While she was inside looking at the pretty flowers in the rooms, the Mahárájá slipped out, and bolted the door so that she could not escape, and he told his servants to set fire to the wood under the flooring. When the flames began to rise the Rání got very frightened. She rushed to the window and called to the Mahárájá and his servants, who were standing there looking on, to save her. No one said anything to her. "Save me," she cried, "or I shall be burnt to death." "If you are burnt, what does it matter?" said the Mahárájá. "You ill-treated my children; you killed them; so, now burn."

As soon as she was burnt to death the Mahárájá had all her bones collected and put into four dishes, and he gave them to one of his servants to take to Sunkásí Rání's mother. When her mother uncovered dish after dish and found nothing but bones, she asked the servant, "Of what use are bones?" "These are your daughter's bones," said he: "therefore Anárbásá Mahárájá sent them to you. Sunkásí Rání ill-treated and killed his children, and so he burnt her."

The rest of the story she pronounced exact (thík).

2. The bél-tree is the _Ægle Marmelos of botanists.

3. With the different deaths and transformations of the children compare in this book: Phúlmati Rání, pp. 3 and 4: the Kite's Children, p. 22: the Bél-Princess, pp. 144, 145, 148: and in Old Deccan Days Surya Bai, pp. 85, 86. In "Die goldenen Kinder" (Schott's Wallachische Maerchen) the golden children are killed and buried (p. 122). From their hearts spring two apple-trees having golden leaves and apples. The trees are destroyed; but a sheep has eaten an apple and then has two golden lambs. The step-mother kills them at once and sends the maid to wash the entrails in the stream, intending to cook them for her husband to eat (compare the curry in the "Pomegranate King," p. 8; the broth (Suhr) in Grimm's "von dem Machandelboom," Kinder und Hausmaerchen, vol. I. p. 271; and the stew in the Devonshire story, "The Rose-Tree," told in Henderson's Folk-lore of the Northern Counties of England, p. 314). A piece of the entrail escapes, and as it floats away it swells and swells. On reaching the opposite bank it bursts, and out of it step the golden children. In a Hungarian story the children, one with a planet and one with a sun on his forehead, and each with a ring on his arm, are killed by a wicked woman who wants her daughter to take their mother's place as queen. They turn first into two golden pear-trees. These are destroyed by fire, but one glowing coal from the fire is eaten by an old she-goat. The old goat then has two little golden-fleeced kids. They are killed, an old crow swallows a piece of the entrails as they are being washed in the brook; she flies to the seventy-seventh island in the ocean, builds a nest and lays two golden eggs. Out of the eggs come the golden-haired children with their planet, sun and golden rings. The old crow sends them for seven years to school to a hermit (here is the holy man again, see p. 283 of these notes), and then flies home with them to their father. The pillar of salt, into which their mother was changed, answers all the king's questions. It is not said that she regained her human form ("Die verwandelten Kinder," Stier's Ungarische Volksmaerchen, p. 58). In a Siebenburg story, "Die beiden goldenen Kinder," the children are killed by an envious woman who becomes queen in their mother's place. From their remains spring two golden pine-trees which are burnt; a sheep eats two of the sparks and has two golden lambs that are killed; from two pieces of the entrails step forth the golden-haired children (Haltrich's Siebenbuergische Maerchen, pp. 2, 3). In this tale the children are restored to their father, the king, by the intervention of God himself (p. 4), who in these Siebenbuergische Maerchen plays a part just as often as "Khudá" does in the Indian tales, taking for the purpose the form of a "good old man," and often wearing a grey mantle that reminds one of Odin. In the Netherlandish story of "The knight with the swan" (Thorpe's Northern Mythology, vol. III. p. 302), King Oriant's mother persuades the king his wife gave him seven puppies instead of seven children (each born with a silver chain round its neck in "proof of their mother's nobility"). She sends the children to the forest to be destroyed. They are left there alive, and are fostered by an old man. When the queen-mother learns this, she sends servants to kill them. These are content with depriving six of the children of their silver chains, on which the children instantly become swans. (The seventh child is absent and so is saved.) A goldsmith makes two beakers out of one of the chains, and keeps the others intact. When the chains are hung again round the five swans' necks, and the beaker shown to the sixth, they regain their human forms. See also paragraph 8 of the notes to Phúlmati Rání.

4. With the children in the fruit and flowers compare in these stories, Phúlmati Rání, p. 3: Loving Lailí, p. 81: the Bél-Princess, p. 146, and paragraph 5 of the notes to that story, p. 283: and in Old Deccan Days, "Surya Bai," p. 86: and "Anár Rání and her two maids," p. 95. With these may be compared the Polish Madey (Naake's Slavonic Fairy Tales, p. 220). Madey is a robber who commits fearful crimes; he repents, and sticks his "murderous club" upright in the ground, swearing to kneel before it till the boy who has caused his repentance returns as a bishop. Years go by: the boy, now a bishop, passes through Madey's forest. The club has become an apple-tree full of apples and he discovers Madey through their sweet odour. At Madey's request the bishop confesses him; and as Madey confesses his crimes, the apples on the tree, one after another, become white doves and fly to heaven. They were the souls of those he had murdered.

In an unpublished story told by Dunkní, the incidents of the children being in the fruit, and the fruit not letting itself be gathered by any but the rightful owner of its contents (as is the case also with the Bél-Princess), again occur. In this story there is a prince called Aisab, who, as he wished very much to have children, married. At the same time he took an oath that if his child, when he had one, cried, he would kill it, and then if his wife cried he would kill her too. His first wife gave him a child who died; she cried and was killed by her husband. The same thing happened to the second wife. He then married a third wife, called Gulíanár. She had a little son, Dímá-ahmad, and two or three years later another son, called Karámat. The first boy died, but Gulíanár did not cry--she only grieved for him in her heart. Karámat was unhappy from seeing other children playing with their brothers and sisters, and asked his mother "why he had no brother or sister to play with?" She said, "Once you had a little brother and he died." Then Karámat began to cry, and his father killed him immediately with his sword because of his oath, though he loved Karámat dearly. The "mother was still sadder than before, but she never wept." Then God took pity on her and sent down into Prince Aisab's garden a big bél-tree, and on this bél-tree was a fruit. Every one tried to gather this fruit, even Prince Aisab tried, but each time their hands approached it the fruit rose into the air and returned again when the hands were withdrawn. Then Gulíanár stretched out her hand "and the fruit fell into it." She took it into the house and tried to break it open with a stone, and a voice called out, "Mother, mother, not so hard; you hurt us." She was very much frightened, thinking a Rakshas or a demon was in the fruit. Prince Aisab was equally alarmed, but his wazír, Mamatsa, broke the fruit open gently in obedience to the little voice that called out, "Don't knock so hard, Mamatsa; you hurt us;" and out of it stepped the two little children Dímá-ahmad and Karámat. Dímá-ahmad was very beautiful. On his head was the sun, on his face the moon, and on his hands stars, and he had long golden hair. He married a princess, Atása, who also had the sun on her head, the moon on her face, stars on her hands, and "her hair was of pure gold and reached down to the ground." The idea that none but the rightful owner can catch the child is found too in Grey's Polynesian Mythology at pp. 116, 117, in the story of Whakatau, who was fashioned in the sea from his mother Apakura's apron by the god Rongota-kawiu. This child lived at the bottom of the sea; but one day he came on shore after his kite, and all who saw him tried in vain to catch him. Then said Whakatau, "You had better go and bring Apakura here; she is the only person who can catch me and hold me fast." His mother then comes and catches him.

5. Sunkásí's bones are sent to her mother. In the Sicilianische Maerchen collected by Laura Gonzenbach, it is a common practice for husbands to punish their second wives' treachery with death, and then to send their remains to their mothers, who feast on them, thinking they are eating tunny-fish, and die of grief on learning what they have really swallowed.

6. With Gulíanár's change into a bird compare Laura Gonzenbach's 13th Sicilianische Maerchen, vol. I. p. 82, where the real bride is transformed into a dove by a black-headed pin being driven into her head, and regains her human form when the pin is pulled out. Schott has a similar incident in his Wallachische Maerchen, p. 251. So has Gubernatis (Zoological Mythology, vol. II. p. 242) in a story from near Leghorn, where the woman is changed into a swallow (in all these stories it is the husband who pulls out the pin); and he says similar stories with a transformation into a dove are told in Piedmont, in other parts of Tuscany, in Calabria, and are to be found in the Tutiname. Ralston's Princess Mariya (Russian Folk Tales, p. 183), and Thorpe's second story of "The Princess that came out of the water" (Yule Tide Stories, p. 41), may also be compared.

7. The golden bird in the Siebenburg story drops pearls from its beak whenever it sings ("Der goldne Vogel," Haltrich's Siebenbuergische Maerchen, pp. 31, 35). The princess, its mistress, wears (p. 39) a golden mantle "adorned with carbuncles and pearls from the golden bird."

 

GLOSSARY.

Bél, a fruit; Ægle marmelos.

Bulbul, a kind of nightingale.

Chaprásí, a messenger wearing a badge (chaprás).

Cooly (Tamil kúli), a labourer in the fields; also a porter.

Dál, a kind of pulse; Phaseolus aureus, according to Wilson; Paspalum frumentaceum, according to Forbes.

Dom (the d is lingual), a low-caste Hindú.

Fakír, a Muhammadan religious mendicant.

Ghee (ghí), butter boiled and then set to cool.

Kází, a Muhammadan Judge.

Kotwál, the chief police officer in a town.

Líchí, a fruit; Scytalia litchi, Roxb.

Mahárájá (properly Maháráj), literally great king.

Mahárání, literally great queen.

Mainá, a kind of starling.

Maund (man), a measure of weight, about 87 lb.

Mohur (muhar), a gold coin worth 16 rupees.

Nautch (nátya), a union of song, dance, and instrumental music.

Pálkí, a palanquin.

Pice (paisa), a small copper coin.

Pilau, a dish made of either chicken or mutton, and rice.

Rájá, a king.

Rakshas, a kind of demon that eats men and beasts.

Rání, a queen.

Rohú, a kind of big fish.

Rupee (rúpíya), a silver coin, now worth about twenty pence.

Ryot (ràíyat), a cultivator.

Sarai, a walled enclosure containing small houses for the use of travellers.

Sárí, a long piece of stuff which Hindú women wind round the body as a petticoat, passing one end over the head.

Sepoy (sipáhí), a soldier.

Wazír, prime minister.

Yogí, a Hindú religious mendicant.

[The end]
Anonymous's short story: Pomegranate King

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