One day a big black ant went to carry a meal of rice to his uncle. A frog sat down in the road and blocked it. The ant said, “Please make way for me, frog; I want to carry this rice to my uncle.” The frog answered, “You can get by if you creep under me. Every one has to pass under me who goes this way.” The ant said, “My uncle’s rice is tied up in a bundle of leaves; how can I possibly creep under you?” But the frog would not give way, so the ant would not go. In this manner things went on till noon. Then the ant said, “Oh, my uncle will be hungry for his rice and angry with me because he does not get it!” And he crept under the frog. Then the frog sat down flat on the top of the ant. Thereupon the ant gave the frog a sharp bite in the loins. Then the frog, becoming angry, jumped on the ladder of a big old squirrel, and broke it. The old squirrel, becoming angry, cut in two the stem of a gourd.1 The gourd, becoming angry, fell plump on the back of a wild boar. The wild boar, becoming angry, rooted up a plantain-tree. The plantain-tree, becoming angry, fell upon a sparrow’s2 nest and broke it. The sparrow, becoming angry, flew into the ear of a deaf elephant. The deaf elephant, becoming angry, rooted up a rock. The rock, becoming angry, rolled down and killed the Raja’s son.

Then the Raja held a court to try the case. “Who is it that killed my son?” “Oh, the rock rolled down and killed him,” they said. So they summoned the rock. “O rock, rock! why did you roll down and slay my son?” The rock answered, “Oh, Lord God King! how was I to help rolling down and killing him? The deaf elephant uprooted me on a sudden from my place, and then gave me a push. As for me, I have no hands or legs; how then could I withstand him? Your son being in the way where I was rolling down, I rolled upon him and killed him.”

Then the Raja said, “Oh, then that deaf elephant was the cause of all this trouble,” and summoned the elephant. “O elephant, elephant! what did you root up the rock for?” The elephant answered, “Oh! how could I help uprooting it, Lord God? The sparrow flew into my ear, and I lost all control of myself, and so I tore up the rock.”

Then the Raja said, “Oh, then that sparrow was the cause of it all,” and summoned the sparrow. “O sparrow, sparrow! why did you fly into the elephant’s ear?” The sparrow answered, “Oh, Lord, how could I help it? The plantain-stalk fell upon my nest and smashed it, and being very disturbed in mind, I flew into the elephant’s ear.”

Then the Raja said, “Oh! then that plantain-tree was the cause of the trouble,” and called the plantain. “O plantain, plantain! what did you tumble on the sparrow’s nest and smash it for?” The plantain answered, “Oh, how could I help it, Lord God? The wild boar tore me up out of the ground, and I had no root left at all. How was I to go on standing in my place? I have neither hands nor feet.”

“Oh! then that pig was the cause of it all,” the Raja said, and summoned the pig. “O pig, pig! what did you tear up the plantain for?” The pig answered, “How could I help it? As I was feeding quietly by myself, the gourd fell plump on my back. I was in great pain, and therefore tore up the plantain tree.”

Then the king said, “Oh, the gourd caused all this trouble,” and summoned the gourd. “O gourd, gourd! what did you tumble on the wild boar’s back for?” “How was I to help it, Lord God? The squirrel cut through my stem. I have neither hands nor feet, nothing but a stalk; if that is cut through, I cannot but fall. So I was obliged to tumble on the wild boar’s back.”

Then the Raja said, “Oh, that squirrel caused all the mischief,” and summoned the squirrel. “O squirrel, squirrel! what did you cut through the stem of the gourd for?” The squirrel answered, “Oh, how could I help it, Lord God? The frog jumped on my ladder and broke it. Then I had no road to get out, and I had to cut the stalk of the gourd.”

The Raja said, “Oh, then that frog caused the mischief,” and summoned the frog. “O frog, frog! what did you jump on the squirrel’s ladder and break it for?” The frog answered, “How was I to help it? A big black ant bit me sharply in the loins, and with the pain of the bite, not knowing what I was doing, I jumped on the squirrel’s ladder and broke it.”

Again the Raja said, “Oh, it was the ant that caused all the trouble,” and summoned the ant. “O ant, ant! what did you bite the frog in the loins for?” The ant said, “How could I help biting him? In the morning I was carrying my uncle’s rice along the road. The frog sat down and blocked the way. I said, ‘Please make room for me to pass.’ ‘Creep under me,’ said he. I crept under him, and he sat down tight on the top of me. That was why I bit his loins.”

Then said the king, “You are both of you guilty.” They tied the ant fast with a hair from a man’s head; so now his waist is very small. The frog they beat severely with a stinging-nettle,3 so now he is spotty all over.

Once upon a time a widow woman had an only son. His mother had six brothers. One day at evening his uncles said to the orphan, “Nephew, let us go and set up a fish-trap.”4 So the orphan went with them. Then the six brothers, his uncles, having built a good weir up-stream, set the trap. The orphan, having put together a few stones down-stream, below his uncle’s trap-weir, set his own trap carelessly in the middle of them, and returned home. The next morning they all came to look at their traps. The uncles’ trap, though very well put together, had not caught so much as a cray-fish; as for the orphan’s trap, it was quite full of fish. Then the uncles said, “Nephew, we will set up our trap here; do you go down-stream and set up your trap again.” Then, after the uncles had set up their trap in the orphan’s trap-weir, the orphan again set up his trap downstream. But again the fish entered it just in the same way; while not one fish had got into the uncles’ trap, the orphan’s trap was quite full of fish. Every morning the uncles continued to take for themselves the place where the orphan’s trap had been. At last the orphan, becoming very tired of continually setting up his trap in a different place, one morning, instead of fixing the trap in the stream, placed it on a clump of grass and left it there. Next morning his uncles came and called to the orphan: “Nephew, let us go and look at the traps.” The orphan answered, “For my part, I have not set up my trap at all; nevertheless I will go with you as your companion.” So saying, he went with them. Then he went to look at his trap, and found that a wood-pigeon had got inside it. He tied this wood-pigeon with a noose and brought it home.

That orphan had one calf; you could not imagine how fat and sleek it was. His uncles, being unable through envy to look at that calf, killed it. Then the orphan, having taken off the calf’s skin, took one leg and secretly hid it in the house of a rich brahman who lived at a distance. Then the orphan said, “Oh! how strongly the house smells of cow’s flesh!” The brahman, becoming angry, said, “May a tiger eat you, you wicked boy!5 How should there be any cow’s flesh here? I am a brahman—produce it, if you can: if you cannot, I will take your life.” The orphan said, “Very well, I will make a search.” He began to search in a careless, lounging way; but coming to the place where he had hidden the calf’s leg, he suddenly pulled it out. “See, this is cow’s flesh,” said he; “I told you so.” Then the brahman, fearing lest, if other people came in and saw this, his caste would be destroyed, said to the orphan, “Orphan, my good sir! don’t tell any one. I will give you a cloth-full of money.”6 So saying, he gave him a cloth-full of silver, which the orphan took with him to his home. When he arrived there, he said to his mother: “Go and ask my uncles for their basket.” His mother went and called out: “Brothers! your nephew says he wants a basket.” Then the widow’s brothers, having given her a basket, said among themselves, “What does he want to do with the basket? Go and watch.” So they sent the youngest of them, and he went and watched, and saw the orphan measuring the money with the basket. Then the one who had watched returned home and told his brothers: “Where did that nephew of ours get all this money? He is actually measuring the rupees with a basket!” After they had finished measuring the money, the orphan’s mother went and returned the basket. Her brothers said to her, “Send our nephew here.” When the widow reached her house she said to her son, “Your uncles bid me ask you to go and see them; they want to speak to you.” So the orphan went, and his uncles asked him, “Where did you get all that money?” He answered, “It is the price of cow’s flesh; I went a-selling the flesh of my cow which you killed. The people said, ‘There is not enough of it for us,’ and they all bade me to bring more.” His uncles asked him again, “Then if we go selling cow’s flesh, they will take more of it?” The orphan replied, “Certainly they will take more; you have many cows, and if you kill them all and go and sell their flesh, how much money will you bring back!” Then each one of his six uncles killed a cow, and having made the flesh into loads went to sell it. The orphan explained to them, “When you arrive at the village of that rich brahman, offer your meat for sale. Call out in the village as soon as you reach it, ‘Who will take more cow’s flesh?’” So these six brothers, taking up their beef, went on their way, and, arriving at the brahman’s village, they cried, “Who will take more cow’s flesh?” The people answered, “We will take more; bring it here,” and called them in. So when they arrived at the brahman’s house, all the inhabitants of the village, having gathered together, seized those six brothers who had come to sell cow’s flesh, and having tied their hands, beat them soundly, and said, “We are brahmans; do you dare to come here and traffic, offering cow’s flesh for sale?” So saying, they let them go. Then those men who had brought the beef returned homewards, and on the way took counsel together: “Oh, how that orphan has cheated us! Not only has he caused us to kill our cattle; over and above that, he has got us skins that smart all over. As soon as we get home, let us set fire to his house!” So when they reached home, they set fire to the orphan’s house. Then the orphan, having woven two baskets, collected the ashes of his burnt house, and made them into a load, and went to a distant village where the people suffered from sore eyes. In that village there was not a man who had not a pain in his eyes. When they saw the orphan coming with his load of ashes, they asked him “Why have you come hither?” The orphan answered, “Oh! when I heard that your whole village was suffering severely from sore eyes, I came to sell medicine to cure the complaint.” “Oh, that is very good indeed, dear sir,” said they, and all the people of the village collected a load of money, and gave it to the orphan. Then the orphan said, “Do not apply this medicine to your eyes just yet; after I have gone a bit of the way I will call out to you, ‘Apply it’; then rub it in.” So the orphan, having got a load of money in exchange for his ashes, started for home; and when he had got a little bit of the way, the people with sore eyes called out to him, “Shall we not apply the medicine yet?” He answered “Wait a bit!”; and he continued telling them to wait so long as he was near the village. But when he arrived at a distance where he thought they could not catch him, he called out, “Now apply the medicine!” Then the sore-eyed people applied to their eyes the ashes they had bought from the orphan. As soon as the medicine touched them, their eyes began to smart as you cannot imagine! The pain in their eyes became much worse than ever before. They said among themselves, “Oh! how that fellow has cheated us, and gone away! if he comes again, let us bind his hands fast and beat him!”

When the orphan reached home, he sent his mother again to fetch his uncles’ basket. The widow went to her brothers’ house, and, having lent her the basket, those six brothers said among themselves, “Go, young one, watch again; what is he going to do with the basket?” So the youngest went again secretly to watch. Again he saw the orphan measuring money; and again he went back and carried the news to his brothers: “Our nephew has returned, bringing with him much more money than the last time.” Then the six brothers went to the orphan, and asked him, “Where did you get so much more money?” The orphan answered, “It is the price of the ashes of my house that you set fire to. The people in the place where I sold the ashes were crying, ‘It is not enough, bring us as much more again!’ Now, my house was but a little one, and so the ashes were not much. But your houses are big, and if you set fire to them and sell the ashes, how much money will you get for them! It will be more than you can possibly carry.” Then the six brothers, his uncles, said one to another, “Let us too set fire to our houses.” So, having burned down their houses, they gathered together the ashes, and each brother took as heavy a load as he could carry. Then the orphan explained to them: “Take the loads to the village of sore-eyed people, and, when you arrive near it, say, ‘Will any one take ashes?’” So these six brothers went their way, and, when they came near the village of sore eyes, they called out, “Will anyone take ashes?” Then the sore-eyed folk called out, “Bring them here.” So they went into the village. As soon as they got inside, all the people bound them fast with ropes, and rubbed into their eyes the ashes which they themselves had brought, and thrashed them soundly. When the thrashing was over, the six brothers started to return home. On the way they took counsel again together: “Oh, how that villain has deceived us! Not only has he got us smarting skins; he has, over and above that, caused us to burn down our houses and our harvests. Now, immediately we get home, let us make him fast in an iron cage,7 and throw him into the river.”

So when they got home they seized the orphan, and having shut him up in an iron cage they took him to the bank of a great pool in a river in the jungle. Then they said, “In a little while we will drown him; now there is no chance for him to escape us, so let us go and eat our rice.” So saying, they went to eat their food. When they had gone away, a certain king’s son, who was hunting deer, came by. When he arrived where the orphan was, he asked him, “What is the reason why you are tied up in that iron cage?” The orphan answered, “My uncles have a daughter, so lovely! You cannot imagine how fair she is. They tell me to marry her, but I always answer that I will not. So my uncles, becoming angry, have shut me up in this cage.” Then the king’s son said, “Oh! then can I get her to wife?” “If you get into this cage and stay there, you will be able to get her,” the orphan answered; “after a while my uncles will come, and will say, ‘Have you nothing more to say?’ If they ask you this, then answer them, ‘All I have to say is that I will take her, uncles.’” “Very good then,” said the prince. Then the orphan said to the king’s son, “If you go into the cage wearing your own fine clothes, they will recognize you at once. So let me out. I will give you my clothes, and then you can enter the cage.” So the king’s son opened the cage and let out the orphan, and the orphan gave his clothes to the prince, while the prince gave his coat, dhoti, necklace, and bracelets in exchange to the orphan, and entered into the cage. Then the orphan made fast the door of the cage, and having dressed himself in the prince’s clothes, necklace, and bracelets, went away to his home. Then the orphan’s uncles returned from eating their rice, and coming up to the cage asked, “Have you anything more to say, nephew?” “All right, uncles, I agree to take her,” answered the king’s son, as the orphan had told him to say. Then they threw him in the iron cage into the deep pool. Thereupon the six brothers, the orphan’s uncles, said one to another, “How much trouble that fellow caused us all! Now, however, he is dead and done with!” Then they returned home.

When they got there, lo! they saw the orphan again, not dead at all, wearing the king’s son’s clothes, necklace, and bracelets, splendidly adorned and decked out as you could not imagine! They said one to another, “The orphan is not dead after all! There he is, decked out and strutting in his finery!” They went up to him and asked, “Nephew, how is it that you arrived here so soon?” The orphan answered, “Oh, uncles, my grandmothers and grandfathers sent me back here in a palki very quickly. Immediately I arrived there, my grandparents gave me these fine clothes, this necklace, and these bracelets. Only look at them! They sent word, too, that they wanted you also to be told to come to them; as a token, they sent this gold knife—see!” So saying, he showed it to them. Then his uncles said, “How shall we manage to get there?” “Let each one of you take an iron cage with him to the river bank, and get into it there,” answered the orphan. So each man took a cage to the river bank and got inside. Then the orphan tied each tightly up in his iron cage, and threw the eldest brother in his cage into the deep pool. As he fell, quantities of bubbles came up on the surface of the water. The orphan cried, “Look, uncles! My eldest uncle has drunk so much of the rice-beer which my grandparents have given him, that he is vomiting.” Then he brought the next brother and threw him into the water; and so having cast all his six uncles, one after another, into the stream, the orphan returned to his home. Then his aunts, his uncles’ wives, asked him, “When will your uncles come back again?” “They will not come very soon; have they not just met their parents, after being separated from them for so long a time?” replied the orphan. So after waiting three or four nights his aunts asked the orphan again, “Why have your uncles not come back by this time?” He answered, “They will come very soon.” Then after waiting two or three nights more they asked again, “Why have not your uncles come yet?” Then the orphan spoke clearly, “Put each man’s share of rice in the nÒksÈk.”8 So his aunts cried, “Ah! they are dead and gone!” And understanding this at last, they wept and made lamentation.

So the orphan became rich, and there was no one left to envy him. And having become a great king, he lived a happy life.

Harata Kunwar was one of six brothers, the youngest of them. From his very birth he spent his time in shooting deer and wild pig, and never laboured in the fields. His elder brothers, the five, did the field work. Then they, the five brothers, took counsel together with their father, saying, “This Harata Kunwar does no field work, but spends his time in hunting. Let us talk the matter over at night.” So that night they talked it over. The father said to his eldest son, “How will you supply me with rice?” He answered, “As for me, I will become a head man of a village, and sit in assembly night and day; from the rice-beer which people will bring me as the head man’s perquisites, I will supply you with good white rice and beer.” “And you, the second son, how will you supply me with rice?” “As for me, I will become a blacksmith; night and day will I spend in forging knives and daos; with the money produced by these I will furnish you with beer, betel, pan, good white rice, and all kinds of spirit.” “And you, the third son, how will you supply me with rice?” “As for me, I will labour in the fields, and having filled granaries and barns with produce I will give you good beer and good white rice.” “And you, the fourth, how will you provide for me?” “As for me, I will go as a companion to some one, and what that person gives me of rice and beer I will give you.” “And you, the fifth, how will you provide for me?” “As for me, I will become some one’s slave, and will support you with the rice and beer he gives me.” “And you, Harata Kunwar, in what way will you furnish me with rice?” “As for me, I will marry a daughter of the Sun-god, and having become a great king, I will seat you on a throne, on a fine couch, I will cause slaves, male and female, to bathe your arms and legs, and I will give you beer, rice, and spirits.” So they finished their talk. Next day, in the place where they worked at their field, Harata Kunwar not being with them, those five brothers consulted again together with their father. “This Harata Kunwar says he will take to wife the daughter of the Sun-god and become a king, forsooth! Where will he get his kingship? Let us kill him, and let us talk about it again to-night.” That night, after they had eaten and drunk, they consulted together about the way in which the killing was to be done. “Let us build a field-watcher’s hut9 for Harata Kunwar, on the border of the jungle let us build it, and make him watch there; then at night let us go and thrust him through with a spear.” Harata Kunwar’s sister-in-law overheard them as they were conspiring together. Next morning, after they had eaten and drunk and gone away to their work in the fields, Harata Kunwar came home from his hunting. His sister-in-law gave him his rice, and after he had eaten and drunk she said, “Let me kill that insect on you, Harata Kunwar.” Then she killed a louse, and as she killed it a tear fell upon Harata Kunwar’s leg. He asked her, “Sister-in-law, are you crying?” And his sister-in-law said, “I am not crying, a raindrop fell upon you.” Again, as she killed a louse, a tear fell the second time. Harata Kunwar asked her again, “You really are crying, sister-in-law; tell me why you are weeping.” So she told him: “My father-in-law and your elder brothers have plotted together to make you watch by night in a jungle hut, and then they will thrust you through there with a spear, they say; that is why I am weeping.” Harata Kunwar said, “You need not be afraid; you have told me: it is well. To-morrow morning you will see what happens. If I am not dead, I will come home to you after they have gone, and I will throw six clods, taken from the worm-castings, on the roof of this house. If you don’t hear the noise of them on the roof, you will know that I am dead.” So in the evening his brothers came home from the field, and his father said, “This night Harata Kunwar must go and watch for us in the jungle hut. Wild pigs are eating up our paddy. There, by the side of the jungle-clearing, we have built for you a watcher’s hut.” So, having eaten and drunk, Harata Kunwar took with him his bow and went. Then having gathered the fruit of the puroi-sak,10 he put the juice of it into the sheath of a plantain-stalk, and having made it like the form of a sleeping man he put some clothes on it and laid it as though sleeping in the hut. He himself hid quietly under the shelter of the rice plants. Then, after their first sleep, his father and brothers awoke one another: “Come! let us go and kill Harata Kunwar.” Then, each one taking with him a spear, they went to Harata Kunwar’s jungle hut. Then the father said, “Go thou, eldest, climb up and thrust him through.” The eldest said, “How should I dare to put my spear through him? he is our brother, our youngest brother, we have one mother and father, and besides, we have sucked both of us at the same breast, the same nipple. Since we are brothers, how should I dare to kill him? I dare not.” “Go, then, you, the second.” The second answered, “Oh! he is not the son of a second wife, own brother he is, our younger brother; how then should I dare to kill him? I dare not.” “Go, then, you, the third.” He answered, “Our thigh is one, our foot is one, our arm is one, our hand is one; we have grown up together, he is our brother. How could I possibly kill him? I cannot.” “Go, then, thou, the fourth.” He said, “We sucked together at one nipple, own brothers are we, no sister has he, how could I venture to kill him? I dare not.” “Go, then, you, the youngest.” “Oh! why do you send me on such an errand? I am the next to him. From childhood it was I who grew up with him together. We ate our rice together from one platter; we drank our beer from the same mug. How should I dare to kill such a one? I dare not!” Then their father became angry. “Then why did you dare to say, ‘We must kill Harata Kunwar’? If you cannot bring yourselves to do it, you will never become men.” So saying, he climbed up the posts of the hut, and thrust his spear through that plantain-sheath, and the juice of the puroi sak came dropping out from it. Then he called out, “Harata Kunwar, strong though he be, has got his deserts now at last! Let him marry the Sun-god’s daughter and make himself a king now!” Harata Kunwar overheard all this. “What, what are you saying, my brothers?” he called out. Then, saying “Harata Kunwar has his bow with him!” they ran away in fear, stumbling and falling as they ran. When they got to their own jungle hut, they vomited, and on the night clearing away, with great difficulty in the morning they reached home. Then Harata Kunwar, after they had come, himself came up, and took six clods from the worm-casts and threw them on the roof. So after they had eaten and drunk, his brothers went away to their field. Then Harata Kunwar came in, and his sister-in-law gave him his rice. After eating and drinking, he said, “Sister! I cannot remain here with you; my own brothers, nay, even my own father, aim at my life, and are plotting to kill me. I must therefore go a-wandering. Get ready and give me a store of rice to take with me, bread, and parched grain.” So his sister-in-law prepared food for him, bread and parched rice. And he said to her when he parted: “If I do not come by my death, then when I come here again I will throw six clods from the worm-castings on the roof; then, when you hear them, wash and make ready the stools and benches!” So they wept together, and parted. Then Harata Kunwar, taking his bow with him, went on his way. At last he arrived at his grandmother’s house. “Oh, granny! are you there?” The old woman answered, “Who is there? as for this place, I have neither kin nor helper. Who is come?” Harata Kunwar answered, “It is I, granny.” Then the old woman said, “Why are you come, my dear? I am a poor widow. I have neither house nor field. I live only by begging my food. Why have you come?” Harata Kunwar answered, “I will stay here with you and be your companion.” The old woman said, “You, who are fit to be a king; a great man, how will you be able to live with me here?” Harata Kunwar answered, “Very good, granny; here I will stay.” So he became her companion there. Then his granny the widow said, “Harata Kunwar, spread the paddy out in the sun to dry. I will go and beg paddy in the king’s village. After you have spread out the paddy, if you want to bathe in the river, don’t go up-stream; bathe on the shore close by this house of ours.” So having spread out the paddy, his granny the widow went to the king’s village. Harata Kunwar took charge of the paddy; frequently turning it over, in a very short time he dried it. Then he collected the paddy together and went to bathe in the river. He thought in his own mind, “for what reason did my granny, when she went away, tell me not to go up-stream to bathe? I will go up-stream and see for myself.” So saying, he went up-stream. There he saw shards of broken water-vessels of gold and silver lying. “Oh! that is why granny told me when she went away not to go up-stream. At night I will ask her whose ghat (watering-place) this is.” So he returned home. Then his granny the widow in the evening also came home again from the king’s village. So at night, after they had eaten and drunk, Harata Kunwar asked her, “Whose ghat is that up-stream? There are broken pieces of gold and silver water-vessels strewn all about it.” Then the widow said, “I told you when I went away not to go up-stream. You have been disobeying me and have gone up there, I know?” Harata Kunwar answered, “Yes, I did go, granny; now tell me whose ghat it is.” So his granny the widow told him: “It is the ghat of the King of the Great Palace. His daughters, six sisters, come to that place to bathe; don’t go there any more.” Then Harata Kunwar considered again by himself: “My granny tells me not to go again, but go I will and see for myself.” So up-stream he went again, and hid himself quietly under the river bank. At midday the six daughters of the King of the Great Palace came to bathe there in the river. Descending beautifully, each one laid aside her clothes and jumped into the water. This did one after the other, and fair it was to see—like the brightness of the moon and sun; there they bathed and frolicked in the water. Then when the day became cool, the eldest sister admonished the rest:11 “O my dears, it is cooking time! time to serve up the food: time to house for the night our fowls and our pigs. Our mother will scold us, our father will scold us, if we stay any longer. Let us go.” So they ended their bathing and playing in the water. One after another they shook out their clothes in the breeze and put them on, and beautifully flew away; but the youngest of them flew away last of all, lovely like the brightness of the moon or the sun. Until they were lost to sight in the heaven Harata Kunwar continued gazing after them till his neck got a crook in it. So they entered heaven, and he saw them no more. And he returned to his house, thinking to himself, “How fair, how lovely! (I will not rest) until I get one of them to be my wife! To-night I will ask granny about it.” So home he came, and after supper Harata Kunwar asked his granny: “Oh, granny! such beautiful, such lovely ones I never saw; how shall I get one to wife? Tell me a plan.” His granny said, “Oh, Harata Kunwar, these are children of the Sun-god, children of a great king; how should you, who are a man’s son, succeed in getting one to wife?” Harata Kunwar said, “Not so, granny: get one to wife I must and will. Show me a plan!” Since he continued to press her with questions, at last she said to him, “If you must and will get one for your wife, then clear a field on the river bank.” “Very good, granny,” said Harata Kunwar, “to-morrow, this very next day, I will go and clear it.” So he remained watching for the dawn to break, until the sun fully rose. Then, taking with him a dao, he went. From the moment he reached the place he rested not, but cut and hacked down the jungle there, till in a single day he had finished the clearing. Then, having heaped the fallen trees together, he set fire to them, and the fire devoured them there, till there was not a single piece or stock left that was not burnt. Then he dibbled in maize, small millet, sugar cane, plantains; besides these he planted flowers—marvel of Peru, white lilies, marigolds,12 many kinds of flowers. Then the daughters of the King of the Great Palace came down to bathe in the river; beautifully they descended, fair as never was seen; like the moon, like the sun in splendour, they came right down there. So, having finished bathing and splashing about in the water, they spied Harata Kunwar’s garden plot. They said, “Oh, whose field is this? It is very pretty indeed!” The eldest answered, “It must be our brother-in-law Harata Kunwar’s field.” So they flew away beautifully again to heaven together. Harata Kunwar there pondered in his mind: “Shall I ever succeed in getting her to wife?” And again he asked his grandmother, “Granny, when shall I succeed in getting one to wife?” His granny answered, “Not in that way, grandson. Build for yourself a jungle hut.” So next morning a jungle hut he went to build. In a single day he finished building one, great and big, and came home again. “The jungle-hut is finished, granny,” he said. “Then cut for yourself a flute,” advised his granny. So he cut several flutes for himself, and bored holes in them. Then the time for maize and millet to ripen came. And his granny advised him: “Go and watch in your jungle hut, and play the flute.” As for his field, in a very short time flowers blossomed there as you never saw! Then the daughters of the King of the Great Palace arrived to bathe in the river; flying down beautifully one after another they laid aside their clothes and jumped into the water, and bathed and frolicked. Then the eldest admonished them: “Come, my dears, let us go.” Thereupon Harata Kunwar began to play on his flute so beautifully that you never heard the like. “Oh! this flute-playing is very pretty to hear! Surely it is the man (called) Harata Kunwar. Come, dears, let us go and ask for a few flowers.” So they went. “Harata Kunwar, we would like to pluck for ourselves a few flowers. May we pluck and take some, sir?” “Yes,” said Harata Kunwar, “you can pluck as many as you like.” Then each one plucked some flowers and went away. Gracefully they flew away with the flowers. Until they disappeared in the sky, Harata Kunwar gazed after them, until his eyes became quite sore with gazing. So they returned into heaven. When he could see them no more, Harata Kunwar also returned home. And his granny the widow asked him, “Did you have any talk to-day with the daughters of the King of the Great Palace?” “Yes, we had some talk; they even asked to be allowed to gather some of my flowers.” Then his granny explained a plan: “To-morrow is a lucky day. Go, you, before the Great King’s daughters come down to bathe, and hide yourself as I tell you, and watch by the river. The elder sisters, all five, have got husbands already. As for the youngest, the King of the Winds is asking for her to marry her to his son; already the gourds and chungas of beer (for the wedding-feast) have arrived. Nevertheless, having singled out her petticoat from among the others, while they are all bathing, bring it here to me. I will weave a petticoat just like it in exchange for it; take that one back there and put it down again in the same place where her real petticoat was; her own petticoat let us hide away. Then she will not be able to fly away. If she asks for her petticoat back again, say ‘One or other of you must marry me.’” “Yes, very good indeed, granny,” said Harata Kunwar. From the time that his granny imparted to him that plan, Harata Kunwar’s mind was so cheerful as you could not imagine. All night long he could not close his eyes, but went on thinking continually. So morning dawned. Then, having breakfasted, he went to his field. “Oh, when will it be midday?” he said, as he went on waiting. Then he hid himself quietly under the sand. Then at midday the daughters of the King of the Great Palace came. Gracefully they flew down there, and one after another removed her garments and plunged into the stream. So when they were all in the water, Harata Kunwar rose stealthily and seized the petticoat and striped cloth of that youngest one, and carried them off straightway to his granny the widow. And his granny wove in place of them another petticoat and striped cloth just like them. In a very short time she had done them, and Harata Kunwar ran back again there, and having put the new petticoat and striped cloth in the same place, himself went into his jungle hut and played the flute. Wonderfully he played it there; never was heard such playing.

So when they had had enough of bathing and sporting in the water, the eldest admonished her sisters:13 “O my sisters, let us go! it is time to pound the rice, time to clean it after pounding: time to cook, time to serve up: time to heat the beer, time to squeeze it from the rice-grains.” So having put on her clothes she said again, “Come, let us go and ask for a few flowers.” Then, having plucked some flowers, first the eldest flew up, then the younger sisters also flew up to her gracefully, and last of all the youngest also tried to fly, but found she could not. If she flew she fell back again there; if she got up and tried to fly again, she fell back a second time. Then the eldest said, “Oh! what in the world is the matter?” So the elder sisters also came down again there, and went and said to Harata Kunwar, “O Harata Kunwar, without doubt it is you who have changed our youngest sister’s petticoat; therefore, bring it back!” So they called out, and Harata Kunwar answered, “One or other of you must be my wife.” The daughters of the King of the Great Palace said, “How is it possible that any of us should stay here and be your wife? We have each of us got husbands already.” Harata Kunwar said, “Then I cannot give you the petticoat; one of you must positively marry me.” Then the daughters of the King of the Great Palace said to one another, “Sister! do you marry him.” The eldest answered, “How should I marry him? I have a number of children already.” “Then you, the next, you marry him.” “How can I marry him? I also have four children already.” “You, the third, you marry him, then.” “How can I, when I also have three children already?” “Then you, the fourth, you marry him.” “I also have two children already; how should I marry him?” “You, the fifth, you marry him.” “I cannot marry him; don’t you know that I also have one child already?” “Then you, the youngest, you marry him.” The youngest answered, “As for me, the King of the Winds is asking for me to marry me to his son, the gourds and chungas of beer (for the wedding feast) have arrived already. How can I possibly marry him?” Her eldest sisters said, “Well, but you are not married yet. You must marry him, dear. It is getting dark; we must go. There at home our fowls and our pigs will be calling out for us; besides, our mother and father will be looking out for us. And We will come and visit you from time to time.” Then the youngest one said, “What is to be done, sisters? Well, I will marry him; you go. Our mother and father will be angry.” Then the eldest one said: “Harata Kunwar, you would not listen to our instructions, therefore we are leaving our youngest sister here with you; but be careful not to grieve or trouble her. Do not make her cook or serve up; moreover, touch not her hand or her foot.” So, after giving parting instructions to their youngest sister, they flew away gracefully to heaven again together. The pair who were left behind continued gazing after them till they were lost in the heaven and they could see them no more. Then Harata Kunwar said: “It is getting dark, let us two also go home.” So Harata Kunwar was happy and joyful. Night and day he shot deer and wild pig, and his platform and drying stand14 (for drying flesh on) were never dry (i.e. without flesh exposed on them to dry).

So one year came to an end. “O Granny, I say to myself, ‘I will go home’; what am I to do?” said Harata Kunwar. “Sure, you have your own house, you have your own field; you can go if you like; nevertheless your wife is not yet entirely at one with you here.” “Nay, but,” said Harata Kunwar, “is it not a whole year (since we were married), granny?” “Nevertheless, you have not come to perfect agreement yet.” “Oh, then,” said Harata Kunwar, “I cannot go yet.” So Harata Kunwar stayed there, working in the field and labouring, and getting barns and granaries stored with the produce to such an extent that the widow’s house was filled up with baskets and barrels full of grain. And God gave Harata Kunwar a child, one son only. Then he asked his grandmother again: “Granny! I keep saying to myself, ‘we will go home to my mother and father.’” The widow answered, “Your wife has not yet thoroughly accommodated herself to you, grandson.” “Not so, granny; she has indeed. Has she not already borne me a son?” “Go, then. You would not listen to the warnings I gave you from time to time. Go together. But your wife has not yet made up her mind to stay with you, I assure you.” So Harata Kunwar said to his wife, “My dear! let us two go together to our home.” His wife answered, “Go. Wherever you take me (I will go too).” Then the morning dawned, and they took their breakfast and started. They went a bit of the way. Now, his child and his wife Harata Kunwar bound firmly to his waist with his turban, and so carried them. And so as they went on they saw a jungle-cock15 scratching the ground in a wonderful way on the mountain side. Harata Kunwar said, “Oh, jungle-cock, what are you doing there? I am in a hurry to get home; leave the road open to me.” The jungle-cock answered, “I will not leave the road open to you. I say to myself, ‘Harata Kunwar to-day will bring along his wife and child,’ and I am watching the way he is coming.” Harata Kunwar rejoined, “What jest is this? Be careful, lest in a little you have to say, ‘when Harata Kunwar brought his wife and child to his home and field, my life was lost.’” The jungle-cock said, “I don’t say so; to-day (we will see whether) you or I will prevail.” Harata Kunwar said, “Is that true?” “True.” “Do you swear it?” “I swear it.” Then Harata Kunwar, setting an arrow to his bow, shot him.

Then as he went on a little further (he came upon) a cock-pheasant16 blocking the road, and scratching in a wonderful way on the mountain side. And Harata Kunwar said again, “Oh, cock-pheasant, what are you doing there? I am in a hurry to get home; leave the road free to me.” The cock-pheasant answered, “I won’t leave the road free to you. I say to myself, ‘To-day Harata Kunwar will bring along his wife and child,’ and I am watching here the way he is coming.” Harata Kunwar said, “Oh, don’t be silly, lest you have to say in a little while, ‘when Harata Kunwar brought along his wife and child, I lost my life.’” The cock-pheasant said, “I don’t say so.” Harata Kunwar said again, “Are you in earnest?” “In earnest.” “Do you swear it?” “I swear it.” Then Harata Kunwar set his bow and shot him.

Then, as they went on still further, a wild boar, so big as you never saw or imagined, with his tusks overlapping his mouth, was straddling across the road, and rooting up the earth there on the mountain side in an extraordinary way. And Harata Kunwar said, “Oh, wild boar, what are you doing there? leave me the road open, I want to get home quickly.” The wild boar answered, “I will by no means leave you the road; saying to myself, ‘To-day Harata Kunwar will bring along his wife and child,’ I am watching the road he is coming.” Harata Kunwar said, “Oh, don’t joke! is it true or not?” The wild boar answered, “It is true.” Harata Kunwar said, “Be careful, lest in a little while you have to say, ‘when Harata Kunwar brought along his wife and child, my life was lost.’” The wild boar said, “I don’t say so.” “Are you in earnest?” “Yes.” “Do you swear it?” “I swear it.” “Oh, then——” So saying, Harata Kunwar set his bow and shot him.

Then, when he had nearly arrived at his house, he collected six clods from the worm-casts, and threw them on the roof. Then his sister-in-law said, “Harata Kunwar has come home! Wash the stools and the benches!” Then they washed all the stools and seats and planks and benches. And Harata Kunwar, bringing along with him that wild boar, put it down beside the hedge, and entered the house. And as soon as he arrived, his sister-in-law gave him there beer, bread, and parched rice. His wife was so very beautiful that no one could look her in the face, as one cannot look straight at the brightness of the sun. Then his brothers were perplexed, saying, “What in the world has happened to us this night?” And Harata Kunwar said, “A short time ago I shot a little pig on the road. I just put it down there beside the hedge. Go and get it and scorch it (for cooking).” So his five brothers went, but the boar was so very big that they could not even move it; they could do nothing with it at all. So Harata Kunwar went with them. With one hand he easily lifted it and brought it away; and they scorched it and cut it up. So home they brought it and cooked it and served it up, and joyful, noisy, laughing and jesting, they ate and drank.

Then next morning dawned. Hearing that Harata Kunwar had brought his wife home, all the people of the whole country-side kept coming and going to gaze upon her, in such crowds as you never saw. And Harata Kunwar put away carefully in a bamboo chunga his wife’s own petticoat and striped cloth, with her gold ornaments, her necklace, and her gold drum (Ass. madoli) worn on the breast, and tied them up in the pitch of the roof. So Harata Kunwar went to pay visits to the people of the village, and the ryots of the country-side came to visit him; and then they went on to gaze upon his wife. And all the women—aunts on mother’s and father’s side, sisters-in-law, elder brothers’ wives—each one said, “Oh! is she not lovely, sister!” Thus they wondered at her. Then Harata Kunwar’s wife answered, “Not so lovely yet as I might be. If I were to put on again my own petticoat, my striped cloth, my necklace and my bracelets, then, indeed, there would be something to see!” Then some old woman said, “Oh, then, give them to her.” And Harata Kunwar’s old father said, “Where in the world did that idiot of a boy put them away? Why did he not give her her own petticoat and striped cloth?” Then Harata Kunwar’s wife explained: “They are there in the roof-pitch where he has tied them up.” So his father untied the bundle and gave it to her. Then she put the things on and arrayed herself. Thereupon she became inconceivably beautiful. “Oh!” they cried, “lovely! beautiful indeed! It is not for nothing that she is called child of the Sun-god!” Thereupon Harata Kunwar’s wife rose up to her full height, and flapped her clothes, and gracefully flew away back to her own place. Then Harata Kunwar, happening to see her from where he was on a distant road, kept continually bending his bow. And his wife said, as she left him: “Wait, wait! hereafter we shall meet again.” So Harata Kunwar, weeping bitterly, sick and sorry at heart, came to his house. Immediately he got there, without eating or drinking, he took his child on his back, and straightway set out for the house of his grandmother the widow woman. Thus he went on till he arrived, and at once on arrival began to weep and wail as you could not imagine. Then his grandmother said: “I told you from the first that your wife was not yet reconciled to her lot with you. How will you get to see her now? How will you be able to reach her in heaven?” This only aggravated his weeping; refusing meat and drink, he followed his grandmother wherever she went, continually dogging her steps, and was like to die of grief. At last his grandmother said, “Harata Kunwar, take a little food, and then I will tell you of a plan.” So he took something to eat, bread and parched rice, and then his grandmother told him her scheme. “To-morrow,” she said, “the son of the King of the Winds will come there to marry your wife. Before that, your father-in-law’s elephant will come here to bathe. Do you go and hide yourself there under the sand. When the elephant (after its bath) is just about to go, hold on tight to its tail, and bind your child firmly to your waist with your turban. If the elephant asks you anything, say that you also are going to the place where your wife is. Then to-morrow, in the evening, you will arrive there. Remain concealed on the river bank. Then male and female slaves will come to draw water there in order to bathe your wife. Call out to them, ‘Give me one draught of water for the child.’ Then, if they give you the water, drop into the water-pot a gold ring. Then she (i.e. your wife) will call for you. Go to her, and when you arrive, put down your child on the ground; then the child will go of itself towards its mother.”

The morning dawned, and Harata Kunwar, after eating and drinking, went to the river bank and hid himself quietly under the sand. Then the elephant came down to bathe in the river, and having bathed, was just about to go away, when Harata Kunwar grasped firmly hold of its tail, and with his turban tied his child securely to his waist. Then the elephant flew up with him to heaven, and put him down on the river bank there. And all the people of the King of the Winds had come to the house of the King of the Great Palace in order to celebrate the marriage of the son of the King of the Winds with Harata Kunwar’s wife. And the King’s slaves, male and female, came to draw water in order to bathe Harata Kunwar’s wife. And Harata Kunwar called out to them for water for his child: “Give me just one draught of water for my son, good mothers!” One after another paid no attention to his request, till at last an old woman came up. So Harata Kunwar called out again: “Give me water, one draught only, good madam, for my child.” So the old woman gave him some water. Making as though he would take hold of the water-jar, Harata Kunwar dropped into it a gold ring. Then they brought the water for Harata Kunwar’s wife’s bath. After washing delicately her arms and her legs, they poured the old woman’s water-jar over her head, and the gold ring fell out. Then Harata Kunwar’s wife asked, “Oh! who is the person whose water-jar has just reached me?” Then one after another they said, “It’s not my water-jar.” Then all called out together, “It is the old woman’s jar.” Then she said to the old woman: “Where did you get hold of this ring? Seize that man and bring him here at once. If you cannot bring him, it will be a matter of your life.” So the old woman, weeping and lamenting, came to Harata Kunwar and called out to him, “Be pleased to come with me! What was the reason why your Honour, under pretence of asking me to give you water, had it in your mind to make me lose my life?” So Harata Kunwar, taking the child on his back, went with her. Immediately on arriving he put the boy down on the ground, and the child ran straight into its mother’s lap and began to suck her breast. Then the King of the Great Palace said: “Why! such a thing as this was never seen! They have got a child big between them already!” So the King of the Winds’ folk were ashamed and disgusted, and returned home sad and sorry. So they celebrated the wedding of Harata Kunwar and the daughter of the King of the Great Palace.

So Harata Kunwar remained there one year, two years, and laboured at tilling the fields, so that he got twelve barns, twelve granaries full of grain. Then said Harata Kunwar to his wife: “My dear! we two, like the sparrow or the dove, should have a nest at least, a roosting-place of our own. Therefore let us go away together. Do you ask father-in-law and mother-in-law.” So at night Harata Kunwar’s wife asked her parents: “O father and mother, your son-in-law says, ‘we two, like a sparrow or a dove, should at least have a nest, a roosting-place of our own. Let us go away together,’ and he bade me ask you about it. What are your commands in the matter?” So the King of the Great Palace said: “My daughter! I have once for all given you away to this man like a bundle of greens, and have nothing more to do with you. Go away together, to-morrow if you like, or to-day if you prefer it.” Then he went on to say, “What do you two desire of me? slaves, male or female? ryots, husbandmen? gold? silver?” So she went and told Harata Kunwar: “My dear! my mother and father say, ‘You may go away together to-day or to-morrow as you please: moreover, slaves, male and female, ryots, husbandmen, gold, silver,—mention whatever you desire’—so they say.” And Harata Kunwar said, “I want nothing at all.” And morning dawned. Then Harata Kunwar went and did obeisance to his father and mother-in-law. And his father-in-law said to him, “What do you desire? slaves—handmaids—ryots—husbandmen—gold—silver?” Harata Kunwar said, “I need nothing.” Then Harata Kunwar and his wife, the wedded pair, and their son started for home, and in due course arrived there. A king he became, a great man, and night and day he lived in happiness and greatness, and his kingdom was great and stable.

Long ago the gods HÈmphu and MukrÀng took counsel together for the creation of the world. They marked the limits of their work, setting up four great posts to fix the boundaries of things, and fastened them immovably with six of their mother’s hairs. Then they looked for seed to produce the earth, but found none. Then they consulted a hundred other gods, with their wives, making, with themselves and their wives, two hundred and four in all. It was decided to send one of the wives to beg for some earth from the god HajÒng, and Bamon’s wife was sent on this errand. But HajÒng refused to give any earth from his world from which a rival world might be fashioned, and sent the goddess Bamonpi away empty-handed. But as she returned she noticed the worm-casts on the road, and carried off one and hid it in her bosom. But even with this piece of warm earth nothing could be done, until the gods sent for HelÒng Recho, the king of the earth-worms, who came and worked up the piece of earth, till in one day it became a heap many feet in diameter; so he continued, till eventually it became this earth of ours. But it was still soft moist earth, on which no one could travel. So they called KaprÀng the blacksmith, who with his bellows produced a wind which dried the mud to solid earth. Then the gods said, “We must cause plants to grow on it.” They searched everywhere for seed, and at last sent to RÈkbepi in the west, by the great post that marked the place of the setting sun, to ask her for seed. RÈkbepi came, and herself brought seed and sowed it. (Another version states that RÈkbepi and RÈk-kropi, wives of two gods, went to Kana, beyond the boundaries of this world, and obtained from him the various seeds of trees and plants. As they were returning, the sinÀm, or head-strap, which held the baskets on their heads broke, and the winds scattered the seeds on the surface of the earth. This occurred on the bank of the river Kallang, in the south-eastern part of Nowgong. But all the bamboos that grew from these seeds were jointless, and therefore weak: strong winds would break down the entire crop in a single storm. So the goddesses who brought the seed tied round the stems pieces of thread to strengthen them; the threads made scars, until at last all the bamboos we have now are marked with scars at the joints.)

Next came the creation of animals. HÈmphu and MukrÀng were the leaders, but they were helped by Pithe and Pothe (“great mother” and “great father”). The elephant was first created to be a servant to man. Then the tiger was made, and bidden to eat the wicked; any one killed by a tiger is still thought to have committed some great crime.

Then a great council was held, and it was decided to create a being called arlÈng (man). The first man’s name was Bamon-po, and he had created for him two wives, one a Mikir and the other an Assamese. But no offspring was born to the man for a long time. At last the Assamese wife sent her husband to her elder brother, who understood the secrets of nature. He sent Bamonpo into his garden, and bade him pick an orange for each of his wives, and give it to her to eat, when all would be well. Bamonpo did so, and went homewards with his two oranges. On the way, becoming hot, he stopped at a river to bathe. While he was in the water, a crow came and carried away one of the oranges. Bamonpo sadly returned to his home, and gave the one orange left to his Assamese wife, who ate it. But the Mikir wife picked up a piece of the peel and ate it, and in process of time she had a son, whom she named Ram. The Assamese wife also had a son, whom she called Chaputi. He, however, was weak and puny, while Ram was strong and valiant. Ram could pull up trees by the roots, and break them down as he pleased. He could fight and conquer any demon who attacked him, and any man whom he met. But he had no wife. One day while out hunting he became thirsty, and climbed a tree to look for water. He saw a pool, at which he quenched his thirst. As he did so, he noticed in the grass a white thing, which he put in his basket and carried home. It was a large egg. For some days he forgot to look at it, and later on, when he went to see it, he found that the egg was broken, and a beautiful woman had come forth from it. The demons tried to seize her and carry her off, but Ram vanquished them all, and made her his wife. She was very fruitful, and her children multiplied until they were numbered by thousands. Ram’s fame spread throughout the world, till at last he disappeared, and was deified by a race of his descendants, called Hindus. They were a mighty race of men, and in the course of time, becoming dissatisfied with the mastery of the earth, they determined to conquer heaven, and began to build a tower to reach up to the skies. Higher and higher rose the building, till at last the gods and demons feared lest these giants should become the masters of heaven, as they already were of earth. So they confounded their speech, and scattered them to the four corners of the earth. Hence arose all the various tongues of men.

Additional note to p. 45.—A very exact parallel to the story of Harata Kunwar will be found in Mr. S. J. Hickson’s book entitled A Naturalist in North Celebes (London, 1889), pp. 264–6. It is a story current among the Minahassa people of that region, of heavenly nymphs in whose clothes resided their power to fly, and one of whom was captured by a man who made her his wife; other details agree closely with those of the Mikir story.