FABLES AND FOLK-LORE

BEFORE printing was invented, and before books

were available, certain individuals were held high in the estimation of their fellow-men. They were the Story Tellers, people who had rich ingenious minds; or such as joined an excellent memory and a fine gift of expression to the invention of others. These may be looked on as among the benefactors of mankind, for their work is alive to-day. It is still helping and cheering mankind in the great store of fable and fairy tale that belongs to every country. Their work will last as long as there are men and women to read and children to listen, because it is drawn from the very stuff of human nature itself. It has its living roots in a soil that is as fresh to-day as it was in the time of the earliest civilisations.

In one sense folk-lore is religious teaching. The word religion is one with the French word "relier," comes from the Latin root Ligare to bind, and if the word means" to unite " it is sufficiently pitiful to think how continually man has made religion to be a cause of severance. Now Folk-lore binds the greatest distances together, and unites us in showing us we are all kin. There is an Egyptian story that has the salient features of the story of Cinderella, which is of Scandinavian origin. Even such wide distances are spanned by the far reach of Folk-lore's human touch. America's "Rip-van-Winkle" is found in a

Japanese story called Urashima, and there are many more such likenesses.

Now, what did this old habit of story-telling mean? What were they about, these old people? What were they doing with their fables and their tales? The answer is, they were teaching all the time; though they only set out to solace and amuse. And they would not have been half so successful if they had wanted to teach. It is just because they told of what they saw around them, the sorrows, the joys, the love, the craft, the courage, and the devotion, in short all the desperate grip of things that makes up the shining stuff of human nature, it is because they told us simply of all this that they hold before us so vivid a page of earthly existence. Let us look at a few of the myths and fairy tales that we have all listened to as children. They hold great lessons; telling, for instance of the beauty of compassion over callousness. When we read of the fairy godmother's power overcoming the cruel stepmother, doesn't the beauty of kindness shine plainly here? And then we read of the prince who had always such difficulties to overcome, who was told he must never look back but always go straight on, and succeed by constant endeavour. We didn't know as we read that we were understanding what a good thing it is to endure. Then think of the manner in which these lovely old stories always taught that nothing good was ever wasted. Not the smallest good action but had its inevitable result. How safely the tale went on, with all the children listening, and something within them saying, "That is what does happen, only sometimes one doesn't see the end of things here." Think for a moment, too, of the princesses that were shut up in dark towers, guarded by

the most frightful dragons; but no power in the world could prevent, in the end, something quite wonderfully delightful happening to them if they were good. The steepest walls were scaled and the mountain of glass was put behind them, all to show how material things are quite malleable if we know how to deal with them, and that there is something much stronger than dragons-which symbolise evil. In short, stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage," for the power of mind may convert such things" into an hermitage."

And this wisdom is taught in all countries. It belongs to the human race, however little use it is put to.

Here is a Japanese story about a robber and a spider. An unusual juxtaposition indeed; but the moral of the story will need no explanation. It is beautifully lucid and simple, and it is ages old. It tells that in Japan long ago there was a famous robber. He was known for his wicked deeds, and evil life, and in the course of time when he was killed, he found himself far down in the infernal regions. Many years he dwelt there till the time came when the Light of the East, the Lord Buddha, was to visit those realms of uttermost darkness; for there is no region so dark but that the ray of his light, from time to time, penetrates its gloom. Turning to him the robber exclaimed, "Oh, let me raise myself from this dark abode, let me return to a lighter region !" And the Lord Buddha, he who is the Blameless One, the Awakened, said to him, " Can you remember any kind deed you did on earth that might help you now?" And the robber set about turning memories over in his miserable mind looking for some good action. "Yes," he answered; "once when I was

walking through a wood there was a spider in my path and I might have set my foot upon it, but I lifted it out of the way for it was enjoying the sunshine." And the Awakened One smiled and went on his way of mercy. Then the robber saw in the darkness a tiny silken thread. It hung down before him and he recognised it as the spider's web, with light upon it. Eagerly he stretched out his hands and clasped it, and to his wonder he found that it could bear his weight. Quickly he slung himself up, leaving his miserable condition behind him. And soon he saw the light of the sun and felt the warm air touching him. But as he was still climbing he became aware of a great murmur behind him, and looking back over his shoulder he saw all the denizens of the dark abode climbing up his spider-web after him. And the spider's web bore them all. Hundreds and hundreds of them were climbing towards the light, and the murmur of the great multitude was growing ever louder and louder. Then the robber was filled with a great fear lest the spider-web could not support them, and he thought only of his own safety. "Get back," he cried, "get back all of you! It's mine!" And just as he said the words the spider-web broke, and he fell down, down, down to the gloom from whence he had arisen. We can readily see what this story teaches; there is no need to hammer the shining metal thin.

Take this other Eastern story, just as humorous as the other is serious. It is called the story of "The Fakir and the Cooking Pot." It teaches that those who want to get the better of their fellows in any dishonest way may very neatly get hit by their own stick. There was once an old fakir, one who lived in prayer and poverty, subsisting on the food given

to him by others in recognition of his virtue. One day this old fakir appeared at the door of his neighbour's house and said: "Can you give me the loan of a cooking pot to make something savoury of that which a kind brother has given me?" The neighbour lent him a cooking pot, and he went away with it to his cave. After a few days the neighbour expected him to return it, but as he never arrived the neighbour went to the fakir to claim his own. When he got there a surprise was in store for him. "Give you back your cooking pot," the old fakir said, "I would in a moment if I could, but I can't just now, and I will tell you the reason. The truth is, a very wonderful thing has happened! Your cooking pot has had a young one! I wouldn't disturb it for the world." Well," the neighbour thought, “this is a crazy old man ; but he said: "What do you mean? How can a cooking pot have a young one?" "You just come and see," said the old fakir, and he went into his cave and pointed to a rough shelf in the rock; and there, sure enough, the neighbour saw his own cooking pot, with a little cooking pot close beside it. "Ah-ha!" he thought, "this is very good. Of course the old man is crazy, but it is all the better for me, because I shall get two cooking pots back when the time comes for returning." And aloud he said: "I see! You are perfectly right! I will come again for them in a fortnight." At the end of that time he appeared once more at the fakir's cave. "I've come for the cooking pots," he said. "Oh, I have very sad news for you," the old fakir answered. "Your cooking pot is dead. Yes, it died; in fact they both died; soon after you left. It is the regretful truth, but I mustn't hold it from you. Then the neighbour was very angry. "Dead," he ex