Transcribed from the 1901 Longmans, Green & Co. edition by David Price,
email ccx074@pglaf.org





FABLES


BY
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON




I.--THE PERSONS OF THE TALE.


After the 32nd chapter of _Treasure Island_, two of the puppets strolled
out to have a pipe before business should begin again, and met in an open
place not far from the story.

"Good-morning, Cap'n," said the first, with a man-o'-war salute, and a
beaming countenance.

"Ah, Silver!" grunted the other.  "You're in a bad way, Silver."

"Now, Cap'n Smollett," remonstrated Silver, "dooty is dooty, as I knows,
and none better; but we're off dooty now; and I can't see no call to keep
up the morality business."

"You're a damned rogue, my man," said the Captain.

"Come, come, Cap'n, be just," returned the other.  "There's no call to be
angry with me in earnest.  I'm on'y a chara'ter in a sea story.  I don't
really exist."

"Well, I don't really exist either," says the Captain, "which seems to
meet that."

"I wouldn't set no limits to what a virtuous chara'ter might consider
argument," responded Silver.  "But I'm the villain of this tale, I am;
and speaking as one sea-faring man to another, what I want to know is,
what's the odds?"

"Were you never taught your catechism?" said the Captain.  "Don't you
know there's such a thing as an Author?"

"Such a thing as a Author?" returned John, derisively.  "And who better'n
me?  And the p'int is, if the Author made you, he made Long John, and he
made Hands, and Pew, and George Merry--not that George is up to much, for
he's little more'n a name; and he made Flint, what there is of him; and
he made this here mutiny, you keep such a work about; and he had Tom
Redruth shot; and--well, if that's a Author, give me Pew!"

"Don't you believe in a future state?" said Smollett.  "Do you think
there's nothing but the present story-paper?"

"I don't rightly know for that," said Silver; "and I don't see what it's
got to do with it, anyway.  What I know is this: if there is sich a thing
as a Author, I'm his favourite chara'ter.  He does me fathoms better'n he
does you--fathoms, he does.  And he likes doing me.  He keeps me on deck
mostly all the time, crutch and all; and he leaves you measling in the
hold, where nobody can't see you, nor wants to, and you may lay to that!
If there is a Author, by thunder, but he's on my side, and you may lay to
it!"

"I see he's giving you a long rope," said the Captain.  "But that can't
change a man's convictions.  I know the Author respects me; I feel it in
my bones; when you and I had that talk at the blockhouse door, who do you
think he was for, my man?"

"And don't he respect me?" cried Silver.  "Ah, you should 'a' heard me
putting down my mutiny, George Merry and Morgan and that lot, no longer
ago'n last chapter; you'd heard something then!  You'd 'a' seen what the
Author thinks o' me!  But come now, do you consider yourself a virtuous
chara'ter clean through?"

"God forbid!" said Captain Smollett, solemnly.  "I am a man that tries to
do his duty, and makes a mess of it as often as not.  I'm not a very
popular man at home, Silver, I'm afraid!" and the Captain sighed.

"Ah," says Silver.  "Then how about this sequel of yours?  Are you to be
Cap'n Smollett just the same as ever, and not very popular at home, says
you?  And if so, why, it's _Treasure Island_ over again, by thunder; and
I'll be Long John, and Pew'll be Pew, and we'll have another mutiny, as
like as not.  Or are you to be somebody else?  And if so, why, what the
better are you? and what the worse am I?"

"Why, look here, my man," returned the Captain, "I can't understand how
this story comes about at all, can I?  I can't see how you and I, who
don't exist, should get to speaking here, and smoke our pipes for all the
world like reality?  Very well, then, who am I to pipe up with my
opinions?  I know the Author's on the side of good; he tells me so, it
runs out of his pen as he writes.  Well, that's all I need to know; I'll
take my chance upon the rest."

"It's a fact he seemed to be against George Merry," Silver admitted,
musingly.  "But George is little more'n a name at the best of it," he
added, brightening.  "And to get into soundings for once.  What is this
good?  I made a mutiny, and I been a gentleman o' fortune; well, but by
all stories, you ain't no such saint.  I'm a man that keeps company very
easy; even by your own account, you ain't, and to my certain knowledge
you're a devil to haze.  Which is which?  Which is good, and which bad?
Ah, you tell me that!  Here we are in stays, and you may lay to it!"

"We're none of us perfect," replied the Captain.  "That's a fact of
religion, my man.  All I can say is, I try to do my duty; and if you try
to do yours, I can't compliment you on your success."

"And so you was the judge, was you?" said Silver, derisively.

"I would be both judge and hangman for you, my man, and never turn a
hair," returned the Captain.  "But I get beyond that: it mayn't be sound
theology, but it's common sense, that what is good is useful too--or
there and thereabout, for I don't set up to be a thinker.  Now, where
would a story go to if there were no virtuous characters?"

"If you go to that," replied Silver, "where would a story begin, if there
wasn't no villains?"

"Well, that's pretty much my thought," said Captain Smollett.  "The
Author has to get a story; that's what he wants; and to get a story, and
to have a man like the doctor (say) given a proper chance, he has to put
in men like you and Hands.  But he's on the right side; and you mind your
eye!  You're not through this story yet; there's trouble coming for you."

"What'll you bet?" asked John.

"Much I care if there ain't," returned the Captain.  "I'm glad enough to
be Alexander Smollett, bad as he is; and I thank my stars upon my knees
that I'm not Silver.  But there's the ink-bottle opening.  To quarters!"

And indeed the Author was just then beginning to write the words:

   CHAPTER XXXIII.




II.--THE SINKING SHIP.


"Sir," said the first lieutenant, bursting into the Captain's cabin, "the
ship is going down."

"Very well, Mr. Spoker," said the Captain; "but that is no reason for
going about half-shaved.  Exercise your mind a moment, Mr. Spoker, and
you will see that to the philosophic eye there is nothing new in our
position: the ship (if she is to go down at all) may be said to have been
going down since she was launched."

"She is settling fast," said the first lieutenant, as he returned from
shaving.

"Fast, Mr. Spoker?" asked the Captain.  "The expression is a strange one,
for time (if you will think of it) is only relative."

"Sir," said the lieutenant, "I think it is scarcely worth while to embark
in such a discussion when we shall all be in Davy Jones's Locker in ten
minutes."

"By parity of reasoning," returned the Captain gently, "it would never be
worth while to begin any inquiry of importance; the odds are always
overwhelming that we must die before we shall have brought it to an end.
You have not considered, Mr. Spoker, the situation of man," said the
Captain, smiling, and shaking his head.

"I am much more engaged in considering the position of the ship," said
Mr. Spoker.

"Spoken like a good officer," replied the Captain, laying his hand on the
lieutenant's shoulder.

On deck they found the men had broken into the spirit-room, and were fast
getting drunk.

"My men," said the Captain, "there is no sense in this.  The ship is
going down, you will tell me, in ten minutes: well, and what then?  To
the philosophic eye, there is nothing new in our position.  All our lives
long, we may have been about to break a blood-vessel or to be struck by
lightning, not merely in ten minutes, but in ten seconds; and that has
not prevented us from eating dinner, no, nor from putting money in the
Savings Bank.  I assure you, with my hand on my heart, I fail to
comprehend your attitude."

The men were already too far gone to pay much heed.

"This is a very painful sight, Mr. Spoker," said the Captain.

"And yet to the philosophic eye, or whatever it is," replied the first
lieutenant, "they may be said to have been getting drunk since they came
aboard."

"I do not know if you always follow my thought, Mr. Spoker," returned the
Captain gently.  "But let us proceed."

In the powder magazine they found an old salt smoking his pipe.

"Good God," cried the Captain, "what are you about?"

"Well, sir," said the old salt, apologetically, "they told me as she were
going down."

"And suppose she were?" said the Captain.  "To the philosophic eye, there
would be nothing new in our position.  Life, my old shipmate, life, at
any moment and in any view, is as dangerous as a sinking ship; and yet it
is man's handsome fashion to carry umbrellas, to wear indiarubber over-
shoes, to begin vast works, and to conduct himself in every way as if he
might hope to be eternal.  And for my own poor part I should despise the
man who, even on board a sinking ship, should omit to take a pill or to
wind up his watch.  That, my friend, would not be the human attitude."

"I beg pardon, sir," said Mr. Spoker.  "But what is precisely the
difference between shaving in a sinking ship and smoking in a powder
magazine?"

"Or doing anything at all in any conceivable circumstances?" cried the
Captain.  "Perfectly conclusive; give me a cigar!"

Two minutes afterwards the ship blew up with a glorious detonation.




III--THE TWO MATCHES.


One day there was a traveller in the woods in California, in the dry
season, when the Trades were blowing strong.  He had ridden a long way,
and he was tired and hungry, and dismounted from his horse to smoke a
pipe.  But when he felt in his pocket he found but two matches.  He
struck the first, and it would not light.

"Here is a pretty state of things!" said the traveller.  "Dying for a
smoke; only one match left; and that certain to miss fire!  Was there
ever a creature so unfortunate?  And yet," thought the traveller,
"suppose I light this match, and smoke my pipe, and shake out the dottle
here in the grass--the grass might catch on fire, for it is dry like
tinder; and while I snatch out the flames in front, they might evade and
run behind me, and seize upon yon bush of poison oak; before I could
reach it, that would have blazed up; over the bush I see a pine tree hung
with moss; that too would fly in fire upon the instant to its topmost
bough; and the flame of that long torch--how would the trade wind take
and brandish that through the inflammable forest!  I hear this dell roar
in a moment with the joint voice of wind and fire, I see myself gallop
for my soul, and the flying conflagration chase and outflank me through
the hills; I see this pleasant forest burn for days, and the cattle
roasted, and the springs dried up, and the farmer ruined, and his
children cast upon the world.  What a world hangs upon this moment!"

With that he struck the match, and it missed fire.

"Thank God!" said the traveller, and put his pipe in his pocket.




IV.--THE SICK MAN AND THE FIREMAN.


There was once a sick man in a burning house, to whom there entered a
fireman.

"Do not save me," said the sick man.  "Save those who are strong."

"Will you kindly tell me why?" inquired the fireman, for he was a civil
fellow.

"Nothing could possibly be fairer," said the sick man.  "The strong
should be preferred in all cases, because they are of more service in the
world."

The fireman pondered a while, for he was a man of some philosophy.
"Granted," said he at last, as apart of the roof fell in; "but for the
sake of conversation, what would you lay down as the proper service of
the strong?"

"Nothing can possibly be easier," returned the sick man; "the proper
service of the strong is to help the weak."

Again the fireman reflected, for there was nothing hasty about this
excellent creature.  "I could forgive you being sick," he said at last,
as a portion of the wall fell out, "but I cannot bear your being such a
fool."  And with that he heaved up his fireman's axe, for he was
eminently just, and clove the sick man to the bed.




V.--THE DEVIL AND THE INNKEEPER.


Once upon a time the devil stayed at an inn, where no one knew him, for
they were people whose education had been neglected.  He was bent on
mischief, and for a time kept everybody by the ears.  But at last the
innkeeper set a watch upon the devil and took him in the fact.

The innkeeper got a rope's end.

"Now I am going to thrash you," said the innkeeper.

"You have no right to be angry with me," said the devil.  "I am only the
devil, and it is my nature to do wrong."

"Is that so?" asked the innkeeper.

"Fact, I assure you," said the devil.

"You really cannot help doing ill?" asked the innkeeper.

"Not in the smallest," said the devil; "it would be useless cruelty to
thrash a thing like me."

"It would indeed," said the innkeeper.

And he made a noose and hanged the devil.

"There!" said the innkeeper.




VI.--THE PENITENT


A man met a lad weeping.  "What do you weep for?" he asked.

"I am weeping for my sins," said the lad.

"You must have little to do," said the man.

The next day they met again.  Once more the lad was weeping.  "Why do you
weep now?" asked the man.

"I am weeping because I have nothing to eat," said the lad.

"I thought it would come to that," said the man.




VII.--THE YELLOW PAINT.


In a certain city there lived a physician who sold yellow paint.  This
was of so singular a virtue that whoso was bedaubed with it from head to
heel was set free from the dangers of life, and the bondage of sin, and
the fear of death for ever.  So the physician said in his prospectus; and
so said all the citizens in the city; and there was nothing more urgent
in men's hearts than to be properly painted themselves, and nothing they
took more delight in than to see others painted.  There was in the same
city a young man of a very good family but of a somewhat reckless life,
who had reached the age of manhood, and would have nothing to say to the
paint: "To-morrow was soon enough," said he; and when the morrow came he
would still put it off.  She might have continued to do until his death;
only, he had a friend of about his own age and much of his own manners;
and this youth, taking a walk in the public street, with not one fleck of
paint upon his body, was suddenly run down by a water-cart and cut off in
the heyday of his nakedness.  This shook the other to the soul; so that I
never beheld a man more earnest to be painted; and on the very same
evening, in the presence of all his family, to appropriate music, and
himself weeping aloud, he received three complete coats and a touch of
varnish on the top.  The physician (who was himself affected even to
tears) protested he had never done a job so thorough.

Some two months afterwards, the young man was carried on a stretcher to
the physician's house.

"What is the meaning of this?" he cried, as soon as the door was opened.
"I was to be set free from all the dangers of life; and here have I been
run down by that self-same water-cart, and my leg is broken."

"Dear me!" said the physician.  "This is very sad.  But I perceive I must
explain to you the action of my paint.  A broken bone is a mighty small
affair at the worst of it; and it belongs to a class of accident to which
my paint is quite inapplicable.  Sin, my dear young friend, sin is the
sole calamity that a wise man should apprehend; it is against sin that I
have fitted you out; and when you come to be tempted, you will give me
news of my paint."

"Oh!" said the young man, "I did not understand that, and it seems rather
disappointing.  But I have no doubt all is for the best; and in the
meanwhile, I shall be obliged to you if you will set my leg."

"That is none of my business," said the physician; "but if your bearers
will carry you round the corner to the surgeon's, I feel sure he will
afford relief."

Some three years later, the young man came running to the physician's
house in a great perturbation.  "What is the meaning of this?" he cried.
"Here was I to be set free from the bondage of sin; and I have just
committed forgery, arson and murder."

"Dear me," said the physician.  "This is very serious.  Off with your
clothes at once."  And as soon as the young man had stripped, he examined
him from head to foot.  "No," he cried with great relief, "there is not a
flake broken.  Cheer up, my young friend, your paint is as good as new."

"Good God!" cried the young man, "and what then can be the use of it?"

"Why," said the physician, "I perceive I must explain to you the nature
of the action of my paint.  It does not exactly prevent sin; it
extenuates instead the painful consequences.  It is not so much for this
world, as for the next; it is not against life; in short, it is against
death that I have fitted you out.  And when you come to die, you will
give me news of my paint."

"Oh!" cried the young man, "I had not understood that, and it seems a
little disappointing.  But there is no doubt all is for the best: and in
the meanwhile, I shall be obliged if you will help me to undo the evil I
have brought on innocent persons."

"That is none of my business," said the physician; "but if you will go
round the corner to the police office, I feel sure it will afford you
relief to give yourself up."

Six weeks later, the physician was called to the town gaol.

"What is the meaning of this?" cried the young man.  "Here am I literally
crusted with your paint; and I have broken my leg, and committed all the
crimes in the calendar, and must be hanged to-morrow; and am in the
meanwhile in a fear so extreme that I lack words to picture it."

"Dear me," said the physician.  "This is really amazing.  Well, well;
perhaps, if you had not been painted, you would have been more frightened
still."




VIII.--THE HOUSE OF ELD.


So soon as the child began to speak, the gyve was riveted; and the boys
and girls limped about their play like convicts.  Doubtless it was more
pitiable to see and more painful to bear in youth; but even the grown
folk, besides being very unhandy on their feet, were often sick with
ulcers.

About the time when Jack was ten years old, many strangers began to
journey through that country.  These he beheld going lightly by on the
long roads, and the thing amazed him.  "I wonder how it comes," he asked,
"that all these strangers are so quick afoot, and we must drag about our
fetter?"

"My dear boy," said his uncle, the catechist, "do not complain about your
fetter, for it is the only thing that makes life worth living.  None are
happy, none are good, none are respectable, that are not gyved like us.
And I must tell you, besides, it is very dangerous talk.  If you grumble
of your iron, you will have no luck; if ever you take it off, you will be
instantly smitten by a thunderbolt."

"Are there no thunderbolts for these strangers?" asked Jack.

"Jupiter is longsuffering to the benighted," returned the catechist.

"Upon my word, I could wish I had been less fortunate," said Jack.  "For
if I had been born benighted, I might now be going free; and it cannot be
denied the iron is inconvenient, and the ulcer hurts."

"Ah!" cried his uncle, "do not envy the heathen!  Theirs is a sad lot!
Ah, poor souls, if they but knew the joys of being fettered!  Poor souls,
my heart yearns for them.  But the truth is they are vile, odious,
insolent, ill-conditioned, stinking brutes, not truly human--for what is
a man without a fetter?--and you cannot be too particular not to touch or
speak with them."

After this talk, the child would never pass one of the unfettered on the
road but what he spat at him and called him names, which was the practice
of the children in that part.

It chanced one day, when he was fifteen, he went into the woods, and the
ulcer pained him.  It was a fair day, with a blue sky; all the birds were
singing; but Jack nursed his foot.  Presently, another song began; it
sounded like the singing of a person, only far more gay; at the same time
there was a beating on the earth.  Jack put aside the leaves; and there
was a lad of his own village, leaping, and dancing and singing to himself
in a green dell; and on the grass beside him lay the dancer's iron.

"Oh!" cried Jack, "you have your fetter off!"

"For God's sake, don't tell your uncle!" cried the lad.

"If you fear my uncle," returned Jack "why do you not fear the
thunderbolt"?

"That is only an old wives' tale," said the other.  "It is only told to
children.  Scores of us come here among the woods and dance for nights
together, and are none the worse."

This put Jack in a thousand new thoughts.  He was a grave lad; he had no
mind to dance himself; he wore his fetter manfully, and tended his ulcer
without complaint.  But he loved the less to be deceived or to see others
cheated.  He began to lie in wait for heathen travellers, at covert parts
of the road, and in the dusk of the day, so that he might speak with them
unseen; and these were greatly taken with their wayside questioner, and
told him things of weight.  The wearing of gyves (they said) was no
command of Jupiter's.  It was the contrivance of a white-faced thing, a
sorcerer, that dwelt in that country in the Wood of Eld.  He was one like
Glaucus that could change his shape, yet he could be always told; for
when he was crossed, he gobbled like a turkey.  He had three lives; but
the third smiting would make an end of him indeed; and with that his
house of sorcery would vanish, the gyves fall, and the villagers take
hands and dance like children.

"And in your country?" Jack would ask.

But at this the travellers, with one accord, would put him off; until
Jack began to suppose there was no land entirely happy.  Or, if there
were, it must be one that kept its folk at home; which was natural
enough.

But the case of the gyves weighed upon him.  The sight of the children
limping stuck in his eyes; the groans of such as dressed their ulcers
haunted him.  And it came at last in his mind that he was born to free
them.

There was in that village a sword of heavenly forgery, beaten upon
Vulcan's anvil.  It was never used but in the temple, and then the flat
of it only; and it hung on a nail by the catechist's chimney.  Early one
night, Jack rose, and took the sword, and was gone out of the house and
the village in the darkness.

All night he walked at a venture; and when day came, he met strangers
going to the fields.  Then he asked after the Wood of Eld and the house
of sorcery; and one said north, and one south; until Jack saw that they
deceived him.  So then, when he asked his way of any man, he showed the
bright sword naked; and at that the gyve on the man's ankle rang, and
answered in his stead; and the word was still _Straight on_.  But the
man, when his gyve spoke, spat and struck at Jack, and threw stones at
him as he went away; so that his head was broken.

So he came to that wood, and entered in, and he was aware of a house in a
low place, where funguses grew, and the trees met, and the steaming of
the marsh arose about it like a smoke.  It was a fine house, and a very
rambling; some parts of it were ancient like the hills, and some but of
yesterday, and none finished; and all the ends of it were open, so that
you could go in from every side.  Yet it was in good repair, and all the
chimneys smoked.

Jack went in through the gable; and there was one room after another, all
bare, but all furnished in part, so that a man could dwell there; and in
each there was a fire burning, where a man could warm himself, and a
table spread where he might eat.  But Jack saw nowhere any living
creature; only the bodies of some stuffed.

"This is a hospitable house," said Jack; "but the ground must be quaggy
underneath, for at every step the building quakes."

He had gone some time in the house, when he began to be hungry.  Then he
looked at the food, and at first he was afraid; but he bared the sword,
and by the shining of the sword, it seemed the food was honest.  So he
took the courage to sit down and eat, and he was refreshed in mind and
body.

"This is strange," thought he, "that in the house of sorcery there should
be food so wholesome."

As he was yet eating, there came into that room the appearance of his
uncle, and Jack was afraid because he had taken the sword.  But his uncle
was never more kind, and sat down to meat with him, and praised him
because he had taken the sword.  Never had these two been more pleasantly
together, and Jack was full of love to the man.

"It was very well done," said his uncle, "to take the sword and come
yourself into the House of Eld; a good thought and a brave deed.  But now
you are satisfied; and we may go home to dinner arm in arm."

"Oh, dear, no!" said Jack.  "I am not satisfied yet."

"How!" cried his uncle.  "Are you not warmed by the fire?  Does not this
food sustain you?"

"I see the food to be wholesome," said Jack; "and still it is no proof
that a man should wear a gyve on his right leg."

Now at this the appearance of his uncle gobbled like a turkey.

"Jupiter!" cried Jack, "is this the sorcerer?"

His hand held back and his heart failed him for the love he bore his
uncle; but he heaved up the sword and smote the appearance on the head;
and it cried out aloud with the voice of his uncle; and fell to the
ground; and a little bloodless white thing fled from the room.

The cry rang in Jack's ears, and his knees smote together, and conscience
cried upon him; and yet he was strengthened, and there woke in his bones
the lust of that enchanter's blood.  "If the gyves are to fall," said he,
"I must go through with this, and when I get home I shall find my uncle
dancing."

So he went on after the bloodless thing.  In the way, he met the
appearance of his father; and his father was incensed, and railed upon
him, and called to him upon his duty, and bade him be home, while there
was yet time.  "For you can still," said he, "be home by sunset; and then
all will be forgiven."

"God knows," said Jack, "I fear your anger; but yet your anger does not
prove that a man should wear a gyve on his right leg."

And at that the appearance of his father gobbled like a turkey.

"Ah, heaven," cried Jack, "the sorcerer again!"

The blood ran backward in his body and his joints rebelled against him
for the love he bore his father; but he heaved up the sword, and plunged
it in the heart of the appearance; and the appearance cried out aloud
with the voice of his father; and fell to the ground; and a little
bloodless white thing fled from the room.

The cry rang in Jack's ears, and his soul was darkened; but now rage came
to him.  "I have done what I dare not think upon," said he.  "I will go
to an end with it, or perish.  And when I get home, I pray God this may
be a dream, and I may find my father dancing."

So he went on after the bloodless thing that had escaped; and in the way
he met the appearance of his mother, and she wept.  "What have you done?"
she cried.  "What is this that you have done?  Oh, come home (where you
may be by bedtime) ere you do more ill to me and mine; for it is enough
to smite my brother and your father."

"Dear mother, it is not these that I have smitten," said Jack; "it was
but the enchanter in their shape.  And even if I had, it would not prove
that a man should wear a gyve on his right leg."

And at this the appearance gobbled like a turkey.

He never knew how he did that; but he swung the sword on the one side,
and clove the appearance through the midst; and it cried out aloud with
the voice of his mother; and fell to the ground; and with the fall of it,
the house was gone from over Jack's head, and he stood alone in the
woods, and the gyve was loosened from his leg.

"Well," said he, "the enchanter is now dead, and the fetter gone."  But
the cries rang in his soul, and the day was like night to him.  "This has
been a sore business," said he.  "Let me get forth out of the wood, and
see the good that I have done to others."

He thought to leave the fetter where it lay, but when he turned to go,
his mind was otherwise.  So he stooped and put the gyve in his bosom; and
the rough iron galled him as he went, and his bosom bled.

Now when he was forth of the wood upon the highway, he met folk returning
from the field; and those he met had no fetter on the right leg, but,
behold! they had one upon the left.  Jack asked them what it signified;
and they said, "that was the new wear, for the old was found to be a
superstition".  Then he looked at them nearly; and there was a new ulcer
on the left ankle, and the old one on the right was not yet healed.

"Now, may God forgive me!" cried Jack.  "I would I were well home."

And when he was home, there lay his uncle smitten on the head, and his
father pierced through the heart, and his mother cloven through the
midst.  And he sat in the lone house and wept beside the bodies.



MORAL.


Old is the tree and the fruit good,
Very old and thick the wood.
Woodman, is your courage stout?
Beware! the root is wrapped about
Your mother's heart, your father's bones;
And like the mandrake comes with groans.




IX.--THE FOUR REFORMERS.


Four reformers met under a bramble bush.  They were all agreed the world
must be changed.  "We must abolish property," said one.

"We must abolish marriage," said the second.

"We must abolish God," said the third.

"I wish we could abolish work," said the fourth.

"Do not let us get beyond practical politics," said the first.  "The
first thing is to reduce men to a common level."

"The first thing," said the second, "is to give freedom to the sexes."

"The first thing," said the third, "is to find out how to do it."

"The first step," said the first, "is to abolish the Bible."

"The first thing," said the second, "is to abolish the laws."

"The first thing," said the third, "is to abolish mankind."




X.--THE MAN AND HIS FRIEND.


A man quarrelled with his friend.

"I have been much deceived in you," said the man.

And the friend made a face at him and went away.

A little after, they both died, and came together before the great white
Justice of the Peace.  It began to look black for the friend, but the man
for a while had a clear character and was getting in good spirits.

"I find here some record of a quarrel," said the justice, looking in his
notes.  "Which of you was in the wrong?"

"He was," said the man.  "He spoke ill of me behind my back."

"Did he so?" said the justice.  "And pray how did he speak about your
neighbours?"

"Oh, he had always a nasty tongue," said the man.

"And you chose him for your friend?" cried the justice.  "My good fellow,
we have no use here for fools."

So the man was cast in the pit, and the friend laughed out aloud in the
dark and remained to be tried on other charges.




XI.--THE READER.


"I never read such an impious book," said the reader, throwing it on the
floor.

"You need not hurt me," said the book; "you will only get less for me
second hand, and I did not write myself."

"That is true," said the reader.  "My quarrel is with your author."

"Ah, well," said the book, "you need not buy his rant."

"That is true," said the reader.  "But I thought him such a cheerful
writer."

"I find him so," said the book.

"You must be differently made from me," said the reader.

"Let me tell you a fable," said the book.  "There were two men wrecked
upon a desert island; one of them made believe he was at home, the other
admitted--"

"Oh, I know your kind of fable," said the reader.  "They both died."

"And so they did," said the book.  "No doubt of that.  And everybody
else."

"That is true," said the reader.  "Push it a little further for this
once.  And when they were all dead?"

"They were in God's hands, the same as before," said the book.

"Not much to boast of, by your account," cried the reader.

"Who is impious now?" said the book.

And the reader put him on the fire.

   The coward crouches from the rod,
   And loathes the iron face of God.




XII.--THE CITIZEN AND THE TRAVELLER.


"Look round you," said the citizen.  "This is the largest market in the
world."

"Oh, surely not," said the traveller.

"Well, perhaps not the largest," said the citizen, "but much the best."

"You are certainly wrong there," said the traveller.  "I can tell you . .
."

They buried the stranger at the dusk.




XIII.--THE DISTINGUISHED STRANGER.


Once upon a time there came to this earth a visitor from a neighbouring
planet.  And he was met at the place of his descent by a great
philosopher, who was to show him everything.

First of all they came through a wood, and the stranger looked upon the
trees.  "Whom have we here?" said he.

"These are only vegetables," said the philosopher.  "They are alive, but
not at all interesting."

"I don't know about that," said the stranger.  "They seem to have very
good manners.  Do they never speak?"

"They lack the gift," said the philosopher.

"Yet I think I hear them sing," said the other.

"That is only the wind among the leaves," said the philosopher.  "I will
explain to you the theory of winds: it is very interesting."

"Well," said the stranger, "I wish I knew what they are thinking."

"They cannot think," said the philosopher.

"I don't know about that," returned the stranger: and then, laying his
hand upon a trunk: "I like these people," said he.

"They are not people at all," said the philosopher.  "Come along."

Next they came through a meadow where there were cows.

"These are very dirty people," said the stranger.

"They are not people at all," said the philosopher; and he explained what
a cow is in scientific words which I have forgotten.

"That is all one to me," said the stranger.  "But why do they never look
up?"

"Because they are graminivorous," said the philosopher; "and to live upon
grass, which is not highly nutritious, requires so close an attention to
business that they have no time to think, or speak, or look at the
scenery, or keep themselves clean."

"Well," said the stranger, "that is one way to live, no doubt.  But I
prefer the people with the green heads."

Next they came into a city, and the streets were full of men and women.

"These are very odd people," said the stranger.

"They are the people of the greatest nation in the world," said the
philosopher.

"Are they indeed?" said the stranger.  "They scarcely look so."




XIV.--THE CART-HORSES AND THE SADDLE-HORSE.


Two cart-horses, a gelding and a mare, were brought to Samoa, and put in
the same field with a saddle-horse to run free on the island.  They were
rather afraid to go near him, for they saw he was a saddle-horse, and
supposed he would not speak to them.  Now the saddle-horse had never seen
creatures so big.  "These must be great chiefs," thought he, and he
approached them civilly.  "Lady and gentleman," said he, "I understand
you are from the colonies.  I offer you my affectionate compliments, and
make you heartily welcome to the islands."

The colonials looked at him askance, and consulted with each other.

"Who can he be?" said the gelding.

"He seems suspiciously civil," said the mare.

"I do not think he can be much account," said the gelding.

"Depend upon it he is only a Kanaka," said the mare.

Then they turned to him.

"Go to the devil!" said the gelding.

"I wonder at your impudence, speaking to persons of our quality!" cried
the mare.

The saddle-horse went away by himself.  "I was right," said he, "they are
great chiefs."




XV.--THE TADPOLE AND THE FROG.


"Be ashamed of yourself," said the frog.

"When I was a tadpole, I had no tail."

"Just what I thought!" said the tadpole.

"You never were a tadpole."




XVI.--SOMETHING IN IT.


The natives told him many tales.  In particular, they warned him of the
house of yellow reeds tied with black sinnet, how any one who touched it
became instantly the prey of Akaanga, and was handed on to him by Miru
the ruddy, and hocussed with the kava of the dead, and baked in the ovens
and eaten by the eaters of the dead.

"There is nothing in it," said the missionary.

There was a bay upon that island, a very fair bay to look upon; but, by
the native saying, it was death to bathe there.  "There is nothing in
that," said the missionary; and he came to the bay, and went swimming.
Presently an eddy took him and bore him towards the reef.  "Oho!" thought
the missionary, "it seems there is something in it after all."  And he
swam the harder, but the eddy carried him away.  "I do not care about
this eddy," said the missionary; and even as he said it, he was aware of
a house raised on piles above the sea; it was built of yellow reeds, one
reed joined with another, and the whole bound with black sinnet; a ladder
led to the door, and all about the house hung calabashes.  He had never
seen such a house, nor yet such calabashes; and the eddy set for the
ladder.  "This is singular," said the missionary, "but there can be
nothing in it."  And he laid hold of the ladder and went up.  It was a
fine house; but there was no man there; and when the missionary looked
back he saw no island, only the heaving of the sea.  "It is strange about
the island," said the missionary, "but who's afraid? my stories are the
true ones."  And he laid hold of a calabash, for he was one that loved
curiosities.  Now he had no sooner laid hand upon the calabash than that
which he handled, and that which he saw and stood on, burst like a bubble
and was gone; and night closed upon him, and the waters, and the meshes
of the net; and he wallowed there like a fish.

"A body would think there was something in this," said the missionary.
"But if these tales are true, I wonder what about my tales!"

Now the flaming of Akaanga's torch drew near in the night; and the
misshapen hands groped in the meshes of the net; and they took the
missionary between the finger and the thumb, and bore him dripping in the
night and silence to the place of the ovens of Miru.  And there was Miru,
ruddy in the glow of the ovens; and there sat her four daughters, and
made the kava of the dead; and there sat the comers out of the islands of
the living, dripping and lamenting.

This was a dread place to reach for any of the sons of men.  But of all
who ever came there, the missionary was the most concerned; and, to make
things worse, the person next him was a convert of his own.

"Aha," said the convert, "so you are here like your neighbours?  And how
about all your stories?"

"It seems," said the missionary, with bursting tears, "that there was
nothing in them."

By this the kava of the dead was ready, and the daughters of Miru began
to intone in the old manner of singing.  "Gone are the green islands and
the bright sea, the sun and the moon and the forty million stars, and
life and love and hope.  Henceforth is no more, only to sit in the night
and silence, and see your friends devoured; for life is a deceit, and the
bandage is taken from your eyes."

Now when the singing was done, one of the daughters came with the bowl.
Desire of that kava rose in the missionary's bosom; he lusted for it like
a swimmer for the land, or a bridegroom for his bride; and he reached out
his hand, and took the bowl, and would have drunk.  And then he
remembered, and put it back.

"Drink!" sang the daughter of Miru.

"There is no kava like the kava of the dead, and to drink of it once is
the reward of living."

"I thank you.  It smells excellent," said the missionary.  "But I am a
blue-ribbon man myself; and though I am aware there is a difference of
opinion even in our own confession, I have always held kava to be
excluded."

"What!" cried the convert.  "Are you going to respect a taboo at a time
like this?  And you were always so opposed to taboos when you were
alive!"

"To other people's," said the missionary.  "Never to my own."

"But yours have all proved wrong," said the convert.

"It looks like it," said the missionary, "and I can't help that.  No
reason why I should break my word."

"I never heard the like of this!" cried the daughter of Miru.  "Pray,
what do you expect to gain?"

"That is not the point," said the missionary.  "I took this pledge for
others, I am not going to break it for myself."

The daughter of Miru was puzzled; she came and told her mother, and Miru
was vexed; and they went and told Akaanga.  "I don't know what to do
about this," said Akaanga; and he came and reasoned with the missionary.

"But there _is_ such a thing as right and wrong," said the missionary;
"and your ovens cannot alter that."

"Give the kava to the rest," said Akaanga to the daughters of Miru.  "I
must get rid of this sea-lawyer instantly, or worse will come of it."

The next moment the missionary came up in the midst of the sea, and there
before him were the palm trees of the island.  He swam to the shore
gladly, and landed.  Much matter of thought was in that missionary's
mind.

"I seem to have been misinformed upon some points," said he.  "Perhaps
there is not much in it, as I supposed; but there is something in it
after all.  Let me be glad of that."

And he rang the bell for service.



MORAL.


The sticks break, the stones crumble,
The eternal altars tilt and tumble,
Sanctions and tales dislimn like mist
About the amazed evangelist.
He stands unshook from age to youth
Upon one pin-point of the truth.




XVII.--FAITH, HALF FAITH AND NO FAITH AT ALL.


In the ancient days there went three men upon pilgrimage; one was a
priest, and one was a virtuous person, and the third was an old rover
with his axe.

As they went, the priest spoke about the grounds of faith.

"We find the proofs of our religion in the works of nature," said he, and
beat his breast.

"That is true," said the virtuous person.

"The peacock has a scrannel voice," said the priest, "as has been laid
down always in our books.  How cheering!" he cried, in a voice like one
that wept.  "How comforting!"

"I require no such proofs," said the virtuous person.

"Then you have no reasonable faith," said the priest.

"Great is the right, and shall prevail!" cried the virtuous person.
"There is loyalty in my soul; be sure, there is loyalty in the mind of
Odin."

"These are but playings upon words," returned the priest.  "A sackful of
such trash is nothing to the peacock."

Just then they passed a country farm, where there was a peacock seated on
a rail; and the bird opened its mouth and sang with the voice of a
nightingale.

"Where are you now?" asked the virtuous person.  "And yet this shakes not
me!  Great is the truth, and shall prevail!"

"The devil fly away with that peacock!" said the priest; and he was
downcast for a mile or two.

But presently they came to a shrine, where a Fakeer performed miracles.

"Ah!" said the priest, "here are the true grounds of faith.  The peacock
was but an adminicle.  This is the base of our religion."

And he beat upon his breast, and groaned like one with colic.

"Now to me," said the virtuous person, "all this is as little to the
purpose as the peacock.  I believe because I see the right is great and
must prevail; and this Fakeer might carry on with his conjuring tricks
till doomsday, and it would not play bluff upon a man like me."

Now at this the Fakeer was so much incensed that his hand trembled; and,
lo! in the midst of a miracle the cards fell from up his sleeve.

"Where are you now?" asked the virtuous person.  "And yet it shakes not
me!"

"The devil fly away with the Fakeer!" cried the priest.  "I really do not
see the good of going on with this pilgrimage."

"Cheer up!" cried the virtuous person.  "Great is the right, and shall
prevail!"

"If you are quite sure it will prevail," says the priest.

"I pledge my word for that," said the virtuous person.

So the other began to go on again with a better heart.

At last one came running, and told them all was lost: that the powers of
darkness had besieged the Heavenly Mansions, that Odin was to die, and
evil triumph.

"I have been grossly deceived," cried the virtuous person.

"All is lost now," said the priest.

"I wonder if it is too late to make it up with the devil?" said the
virtuous person.

"Oh, I hope not," said the priest.  "And at any rate we can but try.  But
what are you doing with your axe?" says he to the rover.

"I am off to die with Odin," said the rover.




XVIII.--THE TOUCHSTONE.


The King was a man that stood well before the world; his smile was sweet
as clover, but his soul withinsides was as little as a pea.  He had two
sons; and the younger son was a boy after his heart, but the elder was
one whom he feared.  It befell one morning that the drum sounded in the
dun before it was yet day; and the King rode with his two sons, and a
brave array behind them.  They rode two hours, and came to the foot of a
brown mountain that was very steep.

"Where do we ride?" said the elder son.

"Across this brown mountain," said the King, and smiled to himself.

"My father knows what he is doing," said the younger son.

And they rode two hours more, and came to the sides of a black river that
was wondrous deep.

"And where do we ride?" asked the elder son.

"Over this black river," said the King, and smiled to himself.

"My father knows what he is doing," said the younger son.

And they rode all that day, and about the time of the sunsetting came to
the side of a lake, where was a great dun.

"It is here we ride," said the King; "to a King's house, and a priest's,
and a house where you will learn much."

At the gates of the dun, the King who was a priest met them; and he was a
grave man, and beside him stood his daughter, and she was as fair as the
morn, and one that smiled and looked down.

"These are my two sons," said the first King.

"And here is my daughter," said the King who was a priest.

"She is a wonderful fine maid," said the first King, "and I like her
manner of smiling,"

"They are wonderful well-grown lads," said the second, "and I like their
gravity."

And then the two Kings looked at each other, and said, "The thing may
come about".

And in the meanwhile the two lads looked upon the maid, and the one grew
pale and the other red; and the maid looked upon the ground smiling.

"Here is the maid that I shall marry," said the elder.  "For I think she
smiled upon me."

But the younger plucked his father by the sleeve.  "Father," said he, "a
word in your ear.  If I find favour in your sight, might not I wed this
maid, for I think she smiles upon me?"

"A word in yours," said the King his father.  "Waiting is good hunting,
and when the teeth are shut the tongue is at home."

Now they were come into the dun, and feasted; and this was a great house,
so that the lads were astonished; and the King that was a priest sat at
the end of the board and was silent, so that the lads were filled with
reverence; and the maid served them smiling with downcast eyes, so that
their hearts were enlarged.

Before it was day, the elder son arose, and he found the maid at her
weaving, for she was a diligent girl.  "Maid," quoth he, "I would fain
marry you."

"You must speak with my father," said she, and she looked upon the ground
smiling, and became like the rose.

"Her heart is with me," said the elder son, and he went down to the lake
and sang.

A little after came the younger son.  "Maid," quoth he, "if our fathers
were agreed, I would like well to marry you."

"You can speak to my father," said she; and looked upon the ground, and
smiled and grew like the rose.

"She is a dutiful daughter," said the younger son, "she will make an
obedient wife."  And then he thought, "What shall I do?" and he
remembered the King her father was a priest; so he went into the temple,
and sacrificed a weasel and a hare.

Presently the news got about; and the two lads and the first King were
called into the presence of the King who was a priest, where he sat upon
the high seat.

"Little I reck of gear," said the King who was a priest, "and little of
power.  For we live here among the shadow of things, and the heart is
sick of seeing them.  And we stay here in the wind like raiment drying,
and the heart is weary of the wind.  But one thing I love, and that is
truth; and for one thing will I give my daughter, and that is the trial
stone.  For in the light of that stone the seeming goes, and the being
shows, and all things besides are worthless.  Therefore, lads, if ye
would wed my daughter, out foot, and bring me the stone of touch, for
that is the price of her."

"A word in your ear," said the younger son to his father.  "I think we do
very well without this stone."

"A word in yours," said the father.  "I am of your way of thinking; but
when the teeth are shut the tongue is at home."  And he smiled to the
King that was a priest.

But the elder son got to his feet, and called the King that was a priest
by the name of father.  "For whether I marry the maid or no, I will call
you by that word for the love of your wisdom; and even now I will ride
forth and search the world for the stone of touch."  So he said farewell,
and rode into the world.

"I think I will go, too," said the younger son, "if I can have your
leave.  For my heart goes out to the maid."

"You will ride home with me," said his father.

So they rode home, and when they came to the dun, the King had his son
into his treasury.  "Here," said he, "is the touchstone which shows
truth; for there is no truth but plain truth; and if you will look in
this, you will see yourself as you are."

And the younger son looked in it, and saw his face as it were the face of
a beardless youth, and he was well enough pleased; for the thing was a
piece of a mirror.

"Here is no such great thing to make a work about," said he; "but if it
will get me the maid I shall never complain.  But what a fool is my
brother to ride into the world, and the thing all the while at home!"

So they rode back to the other dun, and showed the mirror to the King
that was a priest; and when he had looked in it, and seen himself like a
King, and his house like a King's house, and all things like themselves,
he cried out and blessed God.  "For now I know," said he, "there is no
truth but the plain truth; and I am a King indeed, although my heart
misgave me."  And he pulled down his temple, and built a new one; and
then the younger son was married to the maid.