XIII.

FOLK-LORE AND FIRESIDE STORIES.

THE hibachi, or fire-brazier, is to the Japanese household what the hearth or fire-place is in an Occidental home. Around it friends meet, the family gathers, parents consult, children play, the cat purrs, and the little folks listen to the fairy legends or household lore from nurse or grandame.

I have often, in many a Japanese home, seen children thus gathered round the hibachi, absorbing through open eyes and ears and mouth the marvelous stories which disguise the mythology, philosophy, and not a little of the wisdom of the world's childhood. Even the same world, with its beard grown, finds it a delight to listen now and then to the old wives' fables, and I propose in this chapter to give a few of the many short stories with which every Japanese child is familiar, and which I have often heard myself from children, or from the lips of older persons, while sitting round the hibachi, or which I have had written for me. The artist Ōzawa, at my request, sketched such a scene as I have often looked upon. The grandmother has drawn the attention of her infantile audience to the highest tension of interest. Iron-bound top, picture-book, mask of Suzumé, jumping-jack, devil in a band-box, and all other toys are forgotten, while eyes open and mouths gape as the story proceeds. Besides the gayly colored little books, containing the most famous stories for children, there are numerous published collections of tales, some of which are centuries old. Among those current in Japan are some of Indian, Chinese, and perhaps of other origin.

The wonderful story of "Raiko and the Oni" is one of the most famous in the collection of Japanese grandmothers. Its power to open the mouths and distend the oblique eyes of the youngsters long after bed-time, is unlimited. I have before me a little stitched book of seven leaves, which I bought among a lot of two dozen or more in one of the colored print and book shops in Tokio. It is four inches long and three wide. On the gaudy cover, which is printed in seven col

ors, is a picture of Raiko, the hero, in helmet and armor, grasping in both hands the faithful sword with which he slays the ghoul whose frightful face glowers above him. The hiragana text and wood-cuts within the covers are greatly worn, showing that many thousand copies have been printed from the original and oft-retouched face of the cherry-wood blocks. The story, thus illustrated with fourteen engravings, is as follows:

Long, long ago there was a great war between the Genji and Heiké, in which many men were killed. One of the Genji warriors, named Raiko, could not find any one valiant enough to fight with him, and so he wished to find a ghoul to slay. Now, there lurked at the palace gate a fierce ghoul, which he sent his retainer, Watanabé Tsuna, to kill.

Now, Tsuna was, next to Raiko, the strongest man in the whole country, and was not afraid of the ghoul. When he went out to the gate, the oni seized him by the helmet, but Tsuna caught the ghoul's arm with the left hand, and, with his sword in his right hand, cut off the limb. The ghoul was so frightened that it ran away, leaving its hairy arm and claws. Tsuna was very proud of his victory, and kept the arm as a trophy, carefully packed in a fine box. One day an old woman came to see the hero, saying she had heard of his feat, and would like to see the wonderful limb which he, by his valor, had cut off. Now, Tsuna was always good-natured to old people and good children, being only angry with wicked robbers and demons, and so he opened the box to show the old lady his treasure. Now, this old woman was nothing more than a ghoul in disguise. No sooner had Tsuna opened his box than she snatched the limb, and flew away with it through the smoke-hole in the roof, changing, as she flew, into her true shapethat of a hideous ghoul.

At this time Raiko was sick, and a three-eyed ghoul came to torment him, knowing he was very weak; but Raiko drew his sword, which he always kept at his side, and gave the ghoul a lusty cut that sent him, all bloody and howling, away. His retainers followed the tracks of blood to a great cave, in which they found a colossal spider, which Raiko succeeded in killing.

Shu-ten dōji was another ghoul which Raiko, with his retainers, went to slay. Raiko went to his cave, and asked for a night's lodging. He found there a great red man, with long red hair, drinking strong saké out of a huge trencher which would hold several tubfuls. After a while the ghoul got drunk, and fell asleep. Raiko then drew his sword and cut off the monster's head. His retainers helped him to

carry it out, and it was paraded with great pomp where every one could see it. It was bigger than the great lion's head which used to be carried through the streets of Yedo at the great festival procession of Kanda Mio Jin (see page 188), which it required twenty men to carry. It had frightful horns and tusks, and devoured many people.

Raiko was a kugé, and one of the bravest warriors of all time. Brave men such as he long ago killed all the wicked things in Japan, so that good little children might go to sleep, and not be afraid of the ghouls coming to take them from papa, mamma, brothers, and sisters, and grandmother.

The children of a larger growth learn, as we did in a former chapter, that the word "spider" (kumo) anciently meant "robber." The red-haired, red-faced, or red-bearded foreigners in Japan, who drink brandy out of tumblers, and then in drunken fury roam in the streets of Yokohama and Nagasaki, are not unfrequently compared to the intoxicated monster beheaded by Raiko. The Japanese child who sees his parents indulge in saké from a tiny cup, and to whom black eyes and hair, and the Japanese form, face, and dress constitute the true standard, is amazed at the great size of the mugs and drinking-glasses from which the men of red beards and faces drink a liquid ten times stronger than saké. Very naturally, to the Japanese imagination and memory the drunken sailor appears a veritable shu ten dōji. Nevertheless, the Yokohama coolie does not call him by so classic a name. He frames a compound adjective from the imprecation which most frequently falls from the sailor's lips. In the "Yokohama dialect," the word for sailor is dammuraisă hitō (“d—n-your-eyes" man).

The story of "The Monkey and the Crab" has as many versions as that of "The Arkansas Traveler." It is continually re-appearing in new dress and with new variations, according to the taste and abilities of the audience. Its flavor, as told by the chaste mother instructing her daughters, or by the vulgar coolie amusing his fellow-loafers while waiting for a job, is vastly different in either case. The most ordinary form of the story is as follows:

Once upon a time there was a crab who lived in a hole on the shady side of a hill. One day he found a bit of rice-cake. A monkey who was just finishing a persimmon met the crab, and offered to exchange its seed for the rice cracknel. The simple-minded crab accepted the proposal, and the exchange was made. The monkey eat up the rice-cake, but the crab backed off home, and planted the seed in his garden.

A fine tree grew up, and the crab was delighted at the prospect of soon enjoying the luscious fruit. He built a nice new house, and used to sit on the balcony, watching the ripening persimmons. One day the monkey came along, and, being hungry, congratulated the crab on his fine tree, and begged for some of the fruit, offering to climb and gather it himself. The crab politely agreed, requesting his guest to throw down some of the fruit that he might enjoy it himself. The ungrateful rascal of a monkey clambered up, and, after filling his pockets, eat the ripest fruit as fast as he could, pelting the crab with the seeds. The crab now determined to outwit the monkey, and, pretending to enjoy the insults as good jokes, he dared the monkey to show his skill, if he could, by descending head foremost. The monkey, to show how versatile were his accomplishments, accepted the friendly challenge, and turning flank-not tail-for Japanese monkeys have no tails-he began to come down head foremost. Of course, all the persimmons rolled out of his pockets. The crab, seizing the ripe fruit, ran off to his hole. The monkey, waiting till he had crawled out, gave him a sound thrashing, and went home.

Just at that time a rice-mortar was traveling by with his several apprentices, a wasp, an egg, and a sea-weed. After hearing the crab's story, they agreed to assist him. Marching to the monkey's house, and finding him out, they arranged their plans and disposed their forces so as to vanquish their foe on his return. The egg hid in the ashes on the hearth, the wasp in the closet, the sea-weed near the door, and the mortar over the lintel. When the monkey came home he lighted a fire to steep his tea, when the egg burst, and so bespattered his face, that he ran howling away to the well for water to cool the pain. Then the wasp flew out and stung him. In trying to drive off this fresh enemy, he slipped on the sea-weed, and the rice-mortar, falling on him, crushed him to death. Wasn't that splendid? The wasp and the mortar and sea-weed lived happily together ever afterward.

The moral against greedy and ungrateful people needs no pointing. In one of the recently published elementary works on natural philosophy, written in the vernacular of Tōkiō, I have seen the incident of the bursting egg utilized to illustrate the dynamic power of heat at the expense of the monkey. Another story, used to feather the shaft aimed at greedy folks, is that of the elves and the envious neighbor. The story is long, but, condensed, is as follows:

A wood-cutter, overtaken by a storm and darkness among the