Tamamo, the Fox Maiden

A pedlar encounters a mysterious child who joins him on his journey to the Mikado’s Palace in Kioto. The girl, Tamamo, dazzles with beauty and skill, captivating the Mikado into neglect and illness. Revealed as a nine-tailed fox through divination, she flees, cursed to a stone. Centuries later, a holy priest exorcises her spirit, offering redemption through repentance and the hope of Nirvana.

Source
Japanese Fairy Tales
by Grace James
Macmillan & Co., London, 1912

► Themes of the story

Transformation: Tamamo transforms from a nine-tailed fox into a beautiful maiden, showcasing physical and possibly spiritual changes.

Trickster: As a cunning figure, Tamamo uses her wit and charm to captivate the Mikado and integrate herself into the royal court.

Divine Punishment: Tamamo’s true identity is revealed through divination, leading to her fleeing and being cursed into a stone, representing retribution from higher powers for her deception.

► From the same Region or People

East Asia
- Japanese Lore

Learn more about Japanese Mythology & Folklore

A pedlar journeyed with his pack upon the great high-road which leads to the city of Kioto. He found a child sitting all alone by the wayside.

“Well, my little girl,” he said, “and what make you all alone by the wayside?”

“What do you,” said the child, “with a staff and a pack, and sandals outworn?”

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“I am bound for Kioto, and the Mikado’s Palace, to sell my gauds to the ladies of the Court.”

“Ah,” said the child, “take me too.”

“What is your name, my little girl?”

“I have no name.”

“Whence come you?”

“I come from nowhere.”

“You seem to be about seven years old.”

“I have no age.”

“Why are you here?”

“I have been waiting for you.”

“How long have you waited?”

“For more than a hundred years.”

The Pedlar laughed.

“Take me to Kioto,” said the child.

“You may come if you will,” said the Pedlar. So they went their ways together, and in time they came to Kioto and to the Mikado’s Palace. Here the child danced in the august presence of the Son of Heaven. She was as light as the sea-bird upon a wave’s crest. When she had made an end of dancing, the Mikado called her to him.

“Little maid,” he said, “what guerdon shall I give you? Ask!”

“O Divinely Descended,” said the child, “Son of the Gods … I cannot ask…. I am afraid.”

“Ask without fear,” said the Mikado.

The child murmured, “Let me stay in the bright presence of your Augustness.”

“So be it,” said the Mikado, and he received the child into his household. And he called her Tamamo.

Very speedily she became mistress of every lovely art. She could sing, and she could play upon any instrument of music. She had more skill in painting than any painter in the land; she was a wonder with the needle and a wonder at the loom. The poetry that she made moved men to tears and to laughter. The many thousand characters were child’s play to her, and all the hard philosophies she had at her fingers’ ends. She knew Confucius well enough, the Scriptures of Buddha, and the lore of Cathay. She was called the Exquisite Perfection, the Gold Unalloyed, the Jewel without Flaw.

And the Mikado loved her.

Soon he clean forgot honour and duty and kingly state. Day and night he kept Tamamo by his side. He grew rough and fierce and passionate, so that his servants feared to approach him. He grew sick, listless, and languid, he pined, and his physicians could do nothing for him.

“Alas and alack,” they cried, “what ails the Divinely Descended? Of a surety he is bewitched. Woe! woe! for he will die upon our hands.”

“Out upon them, every one,” cried the Mikado, “for a pack of tedious fools. As for me, I will do my own will and pleasure.”

He was mad for love of Tamamo.

He took her to his Summer Palace, where he prepared a great feast in her honour. To the feast were bidden all the highest of the land, princes and lords and ladies of high estate; and, willy-nilly, to the Summer Palace they all repaired, where was the Mikado, wan and wild, and mad with love, and Tamamo by his side, attired in scarlet and cloth of gold. Radiantly fair she was, and she poured the Mikado’s saké out of a golden flagon.

He looked into her eyes.

“Other women are feeble toys beside you,” he said. “There’s not a woman here that’s fit to touch the end of your sleeve. O Tamamo, how I love you….”

He spoke loudly so that all could hear him, and laughed bitterly when he had spoken.

“My lord … my lord …” said Tamamo.

Now as the high company sat and feasted, the sky became overcast with black clouds, and the moon and the stars were hid. Suddenly a fearful wind tore through the Summer Palace and put out every torch in the great Hall of Feasting. And the rain came down in torrents. In the pitchy darkness fear and horror fell upon the assembly. The courtiers ran to and fro in a panic, the air was full of cries, the tables were overturned. The dishes and drinking-vessels crashed together, the saké spilled and soaked into the white mats. Then a radiance was made visible. It came from the place where Tamamo was, and it streamed in long flames of fire from her body.

The Mikado cried aloud in a terrible voice, “Tamamo! Tamamo! Tamamo!” three times. And when he had done this he fell in a deathly swoon upon the ground.

And for many days he was thus, and he seemed either asleep or dead, and no one could recover him from his swoon.

Then the Wise and Holy Men of the land met together, and when they had prayed to the gods, they called to them Abé Yasu, the Diviner. They said:

“O Abé Yasu, learned in dark things, find out for us the cause, and if it may be, the cure, of our Lord’s strange sickness. Perform divination for us, O Abé Yasu.”

Then Abé Yasu performed divination, and he came before the Wise Men and said:

“The wine is sweet, but the aftertaste is bitter.
Set not your teeth in the golden persimmon,
It is rotten at the core.
Fair is the scarlet flower of the Death Lily,
Pluck it not.
What is beauty?
What is wisdom?
What is love?
Be not deceived. They are threads in the fabric of illusion!”

Then the Wise Men said, “Speak out, Abé Yasu, for your saying is dark, and we cannot understand it.”

“I will do more than speak,” said Abé Yasu. And he spent three days in fasting and in prayer. Then he took the sacred Gohei from its place in the Temple, and calling the Wise Men to him he waved the sacred Gohei and with it touched each one of them. And together they went to Tamamo’s bower, and Abé Yasu took the sacred Gohei in his right hand.

Tamamo was in her bower adorning herself, and her maidens were with her.

“My lords,” she said, “you come all unbidden. What would you have with me?”

“My lady Tamamo,” said Abé Yasu the Diviner, “I have made a song after the fashion of the Chinese. You who are learned in poetry, I pray you hear and judge my song.”

“I am in no mood for songs,” she said, “with my dear lord lying sick to death.”

“Nevertheless, my lady Tamamo, this song of mine you needs must hear.”

“Why, then, if I must …” she said.

Then spoke Abé Yasu:

“The wine is sweet, the aftertaste is bitter.
Set not your teeth in the golden persimmon,
It is rotten at the core.
Fair is the scarlet flower of the Death Lily,
Pluck it not.
What is beauty?
What is wisdom?
What is love?
Be not deceived. They are threads in the fabric of illusion!”

When Abé Yasu the Diviner had spoken, he came to Tamamo and he touched her with the sacred Gohei.

She gave a loud and terrible cry, and on the instant her form was changed into that of a great fox having nine long tails and hair like golden wire. The fox fled from Tamamo’s bower, away and away, until it reached the far plain of Nasu, and it hid itself beneath a great black stone that was upon that plain.

But the Mikado was immediately recovered from his sickness.

Soon, strange and terrible things were told concerning the great stone of Nasu. A stream of poisonous water flowed from under it and withered the bright flowers of the plain. All who drank of the stream died, both man and beast. Moreover, nothing could go near the stone and live. The traveller who rested in its shadow arose no more, and the birds that perched upon it fell dead in a moment. People named it the Death Stone, and thus it was called for more than a hundred years.

Then it chanced that Genyo, the High Priest, who was a holy man indeed, took his staff and his begging bowl and went upon a pilgrimage.

When he came to Nasu, the dwellers upon the plain put rice into his bowl.

“O thou Holy Man,” they said, “beware the Death Stone of Nasu. Rest not in its shade.”

But Genyo, the High Priest, having remained a while in thought, made answer thus:

“Know, my children, what is written in the Book of the Good Law: ‘Herbs, trees and rocks shall all enter into Nirvana.’”

With that he took his way to the Death Stone. He burnt incense, he struck the stone with his staff, and he cried, “Come forth, Spirit of the Death Stone; come forth, I conjure thee.”

Then there was a great flame of fire and a rending noise, and the Stone burst and split in sunder. From the stone and from the fire there came a woman.

She stood before the Holy Man. She said:

“I am Tamamo, once called the Proud Perfection;
I am the golden-haired Fox;
I know the Sorceries of the East;
I was worshipped by the Princes of Ind;
I was great Cathay’s undoing;
I was wise and beautiful,
Evil incarnate.
The power of the Buddha has changed me;
I have dwelt in grief for a hundred years;
Tears have washed away my beauty and my sin.
Shrive me, Genyo, shrive me, Holy Man;
Let me have peace.”

“Poor Spirit,” said Genyo. “Take my staff and my priestly robe and my begging bowl and set forth upon the long journey of repentance.”

Tamamo took the priestly robe and put it upon her; in one hand she took the staff, in the other the bowl. And when she had done this, she vanished for ever from the sight of earthly men.

“O thou, Tathagatha,” said Genyo, “and thou, Kwannon, Merciful Lady, make it possible that one day even she may attain Nirvana.”

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How the Mosquitos Came to Oneata

In ancient Oneata, life was blissful—free of mosquitos and rich with the Kekeo shellfish. But this peace ended when the foolish god Wakuli-kuli traded with the cunning god Tuwara of Kambara. Wakuli-kuli, enchanted by mosquitos’ “sweet song,” traded the shellfish for them. The deceitful bargain brought endless torment to Oneata, as the mosquitos thrived, while the Kekeo was forever lost.

Source
Tales from Old Fiji
by Lorimer Fison
Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson & Co.
at the Ballantyne Press
by Alexander Moring Ltd
London, 1904

► Themes of the story

Trickster: The cunning god Tuwara deceives Wakuli-kuli into trading the valuable Kekeo shellfish for the troublesome mosquitos, showcasing the classic trickster archetype.

Conflict with Nature: The introduction of mosquitos to Oneata disrupts the natural harmony of the island, leading to ongoing struggles between the inhabitants and the new pest.

Moral Lessons: The story imparts a lesson on the consequences of foolish decisions and the importance of wisdom in leadership.

► From the same Region or People

Melanesia
- Fiji Lore

Learn more about the Fijians

by the Lord of Oneata

In the old days there were no mosquitos in Oneata. Happy times were those; for then we were not tormented by their bitings, and our women also were blest, in that they were not weary with beating out tree-bark for cloths, to make curtains withal, as in this our day. Moreover, we had then the Kekeo, that excellent shellfish, in such numbers that the beach was covered with them. Our fathers ate them every day, and were full; but now, you might search the whole island over, and not one would you find.

A foolish god was the root of this evil; even Wakuli-kuli, who was the god of Oneata in the olden time, and who dwelt here, as a chief, ruling his people.

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A great stay-at-home was he; and indeed there was no saiUng about in those days, for there were no canoes. But when the great Serpent-god brought the great flood upon the tribe of the Mataisau (or “Boat-builders”) because they killed Turu-kawa, his dove, then certain of them drifted to Kambara. Twelve of them were they who drifted thither; and they had tied themselves to a big tree, which floated with them over the waters. Ten were living, and two were dead, having been killed by the sharks as they drifted over the sea. So these ten landed at Kambara, and begged their lives of the chiefs, who spared them, making them their carpenters; and this was the beginning of our having canoes up here to Windward.

Now the men of Kambara, in those days, were eaten up by mosquitos. No rest had they, day or night, because of them; and the noise of the beating was heard continually in every house, as the women beat the bark into cloth to make mosquito-curtains, till their arms ached and were sore weary. Neither had they the Kekeo, that excellent shell-fish; though in these days it is found all along the beach, and the inland lake at Vuang-gava (near Kambara) is full of it, while never a mosquito is there to wake them out of their sleep. And that which brought about this blessed change was the wisdom of their god Tuwara, who dwelt with them in the olden time, ruling them as a chief; even as the god of our fathers ruled here at Oneata.

Happy is the country where the gods are wise: but woe to the land whose god is a fool!

A wise one and cunning was Tuwara; therefore he rejoiced greatly when the Boat-builders drifted to his land, and told him of the wonderful vessels which they could build, wherein men could sail across the seas, even in stormy weather, and live. Glad of heart was he; because he saw what good things might come out of his sailing: he saw, moreover, that his land was full of splendid timber; and he set the ten carpenters to work at once, giving them food, and houses, and wives, that they might forget their weeping for those who were lost; for their beautiful town which was swallowed up by the waves; and for the great and mighty kingdom, now gone from them for ever. So they settled down at Kambara, with their wives, and (in due time) with their little ones, working hard every day at the double canoe that they were building for the god.

Two years and more were they in building it; for in those days there were no knives, nor hatchets, nor gouges, nor saws, nor gimlets in Fiji. Weary then was the work of canoe-building; for sharp stones were our only hatchets; and we used to burn the logs with fire, on the side which we wanted to cut, chopping off the charcoal with our stone axes, and then burning again: so that many were the burnings, and many the choppings before so much as one plank was finished; while, for boring holes, we had nothing but a pointed shell and a small firebrand.

Nevertheless the canoe was finished at last, and dragged down to the sea. Great then were the rejoicings in Kambara, and rich the feast that was made for the Boat-builders: but Tuwara could not rest till he sailed away beyond the reef out into the open sea. So he hurried on the work; and, when all was ready — mast, sail, ropes, sculls, steering-oars, poles; even all the fittings — then went he on board, with the ten carpenters as his crew, and a great crowd of his people besides; and sailed away before a pleasant breeze; all the Kambarans, who were on board, singing a merry song; while their friends, who stayed behind, ran along the beach, shouting after them.

But, when the canoe began to pitch and roll among the waves outside, it was not long before the merry chant was changed into a chorus of groans; and all the singers lay sprawling along the deck; not a man of them being able so much as to lift his head; for they were all very sick.

“Here, now, is a terrible thing!” moaned Tuwara. “What is this, ye carpenters? What is this fearful sickness? Oh, my soul is gone. Villains that you are, to bring me into this evil case!”

But the Boat-builders only laughed. “Let not your soul be small, my lord,” said they. “Wait a little while and your trouble will be over. It is always thus when we first put to sea.” Wherewith Tuwara comforted himself, as best he might; and the canoe went swiftly onward before the pleasant breeze, till Oneata rose out of the waters in their course.

Then said Malani, the greybeard, eldest of the Boat-builders, “There is land, sir, ahead. Shall we steer for it; or whither do you wish to go?”

“Steer for it, by all means,” groaned Tuwara. “Let me but get to land once more!”

So they went to Oneata: and, when our fathers saw them coming, they were sore afraid, and hid themselves in the forest; for they took the canoe for some great living sea-monster coming to devour them: wherefore the town was empty when the strangers landed; and Tuwara threw himself down on the mats in the king’s house, saying, “Now I live!” But when, peeping out from their hiding places, they saw that the Kambarans were men, even as themselves, and that they went about peaceably doing no harm, their souls came back to them again; and, when they had heard the strangers’ report, they took courage, and went down to the beach to see the canoe, whereat they wondered greatly.

Many days did Tuwara stay at Oneata, living in great peace and friendship with the god of that island; for the Kambarans were loth to depart from so good a land as ours, where no mosquitos drank their blood by night, and where they ate the shellfish every day to the filling of their stomachs. And, when they went away, they took the god of Oneata with them, that he might see their land, and that they might return to him and to his men the kindness wherewith they had been treated at Oneata. So these two gods sailed and were seasick together, though the wind was light — so light that the sun was near going down into the waters when they reached Kambara. Then they landed, and went up to the great house, where a rich feast was all made ready and waiting for them, the people having seen them coming afar off.

After they had eaten their fill, and when the kava-bowl was empty, the god of Oneata began to yawn; for he was tired and sleepy.

“Come with me, friend,” said Tuwara. And he took im within the great mosquito curtain.

“What is this?” asked the Oneata god, in great surprise at the bigness thereof, and the beauty of the painting. “A wonderful piece of cloth is this! We have none such in my land. But why do you keep it thus hung up, Tuwara? What, then, is its use?”

“Its use,” answered the other — “its use, do you ask? It is a useful thing. It is useful as a — yes, as a screen to hide me, when I wish to sleep. Therefore do I keep it thus hung up in the midst of the house. And, moreover, it is very useful when the wind blows strong and cold. But let us sleep now, and in the morning I will show you the town.”

Thus spake Tuwara, because he was ashamed of the mosquitos; for he knew that there were none at Oneata; and he wanted to hide from his companion the thing which was the plague of his land. Wherefore he lied to him about the curtain.

Not long was it after darkness had closed in, before the house was full of mosquitos, and the god of Oneata heard them buzzing in thousands outside the curtain, just as he was dozing off to sleep.

“What is that?” cried he. “What sweet sound is that?”

“What can I say to him now?” thought Tuwara in great perplexity; and not being able to think of anything, he pretended to be asleep, and answered only with a snore.

“Hi! Tuwara!” shouted the Oneata god, punching him into wakefulness. “Wake up, Tuwara, and tell me what sweet sounds are these.”

“Eh? What? What’s the matter?” said Tuwara with a yawn.

“What are those pleasant sounds? Truly a sweet and soothing note is that which I now hear.”

“Pleasant sounds? Ah, yes — the buzzing. Oh, that’s only the mosquitos.”

“And what are mosquitos? “ asked his companion.

“They are little insects that fly in the air by night and buzz. I keep them to sing me to sleep,” said the artful Tuwara.

“A treasure indeed!” cried the other god. “Woe is me that there are none at Oneata. Give them to me, Tuwara.”

“Give you my mosquitos! I dare not, indeed. My people would never forgive me. They would hate me, and rebel. Wretched indeed should we be if there were no mosquitos on Kambara.”

“Well, then, give me some of them,” pleaded his companion. “Give me some, and keep some yourself, that we may both have them.”

“It is impossible,” replied the cunning one. “They are a loving tribe. If I send even a few of them away, all the rest will leave me. Truly my soul is sore in that I must refuse you, Wakuli-kuli; but refuse you I must. And now let us sleep, for my word is spoken.”

“No, no!” whined the foolish god, in a voice that was neighbour to crying: “refuse me not, I beseech you. Give me the mosquitos, that I may take them to our land; and, when we hear their song in the night, we shall think of you, and say to our children, ‘Great is the love of Tuwara.’”

“That, indeed, is a tempting thought,” said the Kambara god. “ Glad should I be for you to hold us in loving remembrance. But what am I to say to my people 1 How can I appease their anger when they rage against me, saying, ‘Our god has given away for nothing our dear mosquitos?’” And his voice fell heavy on the words “for nothing.”

“For nothing!” cried the other. “No, truly! All that I have is yours. Name anything that you saw in my land, and you shall have it; only let the insects be mine that sing this pleasant song.”

“Well then — I do not ask for myself. Gladly would I give you freely anything that is mine; but my people, friend, my people! You know these children of men, and their ways, how covetous they are. And what is there in your land that would satisfy them? Of a truth I cannot think of anything at all. Ah, yes! There is the shellfish! That will do. That is the very thing for these people. Fill but their stomachs, and you can do anything with them. Give me the shellfish, friend, and my mosquitos are yours.”

“Willingly, willingly!” cried the other in an eager voice. “It’s a bargain, Tuwara. And now let us lift up the curtain and let some of them in, that I may see them.”

“Forbear!” cried Tuwara, starting up in a great fright, lest the mosquitos should get at his companion and bite him, and he thereby repent of his bargain. “Forbear! Lift not the curtain, friend, lift it not! A modest tribe and a bashful are they; nor can they bear to be looked upon: therefore do they hide themselves by day, and it is in the darkness only that they sing their pleasant song.”

“Wou! wou!” exclaimed the silly one. “Wonderful things do I hear! The curtain shall remain unlifted.”

“And now, do let us sleep,” said Tuwara; “for it is far into the night; and we will sail together in the morning, taking with us the mosquitos.”

So they ceased talking, but neither of them slept; for he of Oneata was listening all night to the song of the biters; and Tuwara was chuckling to himself over the good bargain he had made; being, moreover, fearful that the foolish god would find him out before he could get the shellfish. “I must not let him rise too early,” thought he, “lest there should perhaps be still some of them flying about the house.”

But his companion was stirring with the first streak of dawn. “Wake, Tuwara, wake!” cried he. “Give me the mosquitos, and let us go.”

“Isa, isa!” said the other, with a great yawn. “What a restless one you are! Here you have kept me awake all night with your talking; and now you want me to rise before it is day! Lie still, Wakuli-kuli; lie still yet for a little while. This is just about the time when the mosquitos are gathering together to fly away to the cave, where they sleep till night comes again over the land: and, if we go among them now, we shall disturb them, causing them to flee hither and thither, so that we shall not be able to “catch them for you to-day.”

“That would indeed be an unlucky chance,” said he from Oneata. “Let us by all means lie still, and wait till they be fairly asleep.”

But, so great was his eagerness, that he could not rest. Sorely did he plague Tuwara; starting up every little rhWt, and crying out, “Do you think they are asleep yet, Tuwara?” or “Surely by this time they are all in the cave”: and with many suchlike foolish words did he vex the soul of the Kambara god, till he waxed very wroth, and would have smitten him with his club, but for his hope of the shellfish. Therefore he kept his temper, putting the silly one off from time to time, with soothing words, till it was broad day; and then he said, “Now will they be all asleep. Come, friend, rise, and let us sail.”

How he got the mosquitos together we do not know; but our fathers said he shut them all up in a big basket, which was lined inside, and covered with fine mats, through the plait whereof not even a little one could crawl. And, when this basket was carried on board the canoe, they hoisted the sail, and went out, through the passage, into the open sea, steering for Oneata.

Terribly seasick were they both: but neither of them cared so much for it this time; he of Oneata being cheered by the thought of his sweet singers; and Tuwara because he was now well rid of them, and moreover because of the shellfish; wherefore were they both content to suffer.

The sun was still high in the heavens when they furled their sail at Oneata; and the Oneata god leaped on shore, crying aloud, “Come hither, my people. Come hither, all of you, and see the good things I have brought. Hand down the basket, Tuwara, that the hearts of my people may be glad.”

“Not so!” answered the cunning Tuwara. “The mosquitos are a loving folk, as I told you before; and if we were to let them go while I am in sight, they will not leave the canoe; for they love me, friend, they love me. Give me therefore the shellfish, and I will depart, leaving the great basket with you. And, if you are wise, you will not open it till I am beyond the reef, lest the mosquitos should fly after me, and leave you.”

“True!” quoth the foolish god. “True are your words, Tuwara. A wise god are you; for you think of everything. Come from the beach, from the sea, from the rocks, ye shellfish! Come! for your lord is calling!”

Then from the rocks, from the sea, from the beach, came the shellfish, crawling over the sand, a great multitude. And the Boat-builders threw them into the canoe, our fathers also helping, till it was full, and heaped high above the deck, and there was not one shellfish left on the land.

“Go now, Tuwara,” cried his companion, “give me the basket and go; for the shellfish are all on board.”

So Tuwara handed down the basket, while the Boat-builders hoisted the great sail, and soon the canoe was gliding swiftly away towards the passage; while the Oneata men crowded round the basket, asking their god all manner of eager questions as to its contents.

“It must be something wonderful,” said they, “or our lord would never have parted with the shellfish.”

“Wait and see,” quoth the god, with a self-satisfied smile.

As soon as the canoe had cleared the reef, he untied the fastenings of the basket, and lifted the mat wherewith it was covered. “Here is our treasure,” cried the foolish god.

Then uprose the mosquitos in a cloud, fierce and angry; and Tuwara could hear the screams and yells of our fathers, as they smarted under the sharp bites of the savage insects.

“The god of Oneata’s sweet singers have begun their song,” said he, as soon as he could speak for laughing. “Many fools have I met with among the children of men, but never such a fool as the god of Oneata.”

Many were the schemes which the miserable god tried to rid himself of the plague he had bought so dearly; but they were all in vain, for the mosquitos increased in numbers day by day; and their night-song, that sounded so sweetly in his ears when he first heard it at Kambara, became more fearful to him than the war-cry of an enemy.

Many plots, also, did he lay to get back the shellfish; but what chance had such an one as he in plotting against Tuwara! Once, indeed, after some years, when he had a canoe of his own, he went over to Kambara in the night, making sure of getting them. And standing on the beach he cried aloud: “Come from the shore, from the sea, from the rocks, ye shellfish! Come, for your lord is calling!” but not one of them came — it was as if they heard him not.

There was one, however, who heard him — even Tuwara, who had seen him coming, and lain in wait for him. Creeping therefore softly up behind him, he smote him full on the head with his club, crying aloud, “O villainous god! Would you steal my shellfish?” and drove him howling down to his canoe.

Thus the Kekeo, that excellent shellfish, was lost to us; and thus it was that “The Mosquitos came to Oneata.”

Doctor All-Wise

A poor peasant named Crab aspired to become a doctor after selling wood to a wealthy physician. Following the doctor’s humorous advice, Crab rebranded himself as “Doctor All-Wise.” Through a mix of luck and misinterpretation, he uncovered stolen gold for a nobleman without revealing the thieves. Praised for his wisdom, he received rewards and gained fame, solidifying his new identity.

Source
Folk-lore and Legends: German
Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty, at the Edinburgh University Press
W.W. Gibbings, London, 1892

► Themes of the story

Cunning and Deception: Crab’s rise to fame is based on the clever use of his assumed identity and the misinterpretations of others, showcasing the power of wit and perception.

Trickster: Crab embodies the trickster archetype, using his newfound role to navigate situations to his advantage without malicious intent.

Transformation: The tale highlights Crab’s transformation from a poor peasant to a celebrated doctor, emphasizing personal change and social mobility.

From the German lore

Learn more about German Folklore

There was a poor peasant, named Crab, who once drove two oxen, with a load of wood, into the city, and there sold it for two dollars to a doctor. The doctor counted out the money to him as he sat at dinner, and the peasant, seeing how well he fared, yearned to live like him, and would needs be a doctor too. He asked if he could not become a doctor. “Oh yes,” said the doctor, “that may be easily managed. In the first place you must purchase an A, B, C book, only taking care that it is one that has got in the front of it a picture of a cock crowing. Then sell your cart and oxen, and buy with the money clothes, and all the other things needful. Thirdly, and lastly, have a sign painted with the words, ‘I am Doctor All-Wise,’ and have it nailed up before the door of your house.”

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The peasant did exactly as he had been told; and after he had doctored a little while, it chanced that a certain nobleman was robbed of a large sum of money. Some one told him that there lived in the village hard by a Doctor All-Wise, who was sure to be able to tell him where his money had gone. The nobleman at once ordered his carriage to be got ready and rode into the city, and having come to the doctor, asked him if he was Dr. All-Wise.

“Oh yes,” answered he, “I am Doctor All-Wise, sure enough.”

“Will you go with me, then,” said the nobleman, “and get me back my money?”

“To be sure I will,” said the doctor; “but my wife Grethel must go with me.”

The nobleman was pleased to hear this, made them both get into the carriage with him, and away they all rode together. When they arrived at the nobleman’s house dinner was already prepared, and he desired the doctor to sit down with him.

“My wife Grethel, too,” said the doctor.

As soon as the first servant brought in the first dish, which was some great delicacy, the doctor nudged his wife, and said–

“Grethel, that is the first,” meaning the first dish.

The servant overheard his remark, and thought he meant to say he was the first thief, which was actually the case, so he was sore troubled, and said to his comrades–

“The doctor knows everything. Things will certainly fall out ill, for he said I was the first thief.”

The second servant would not believe what he said, but at last he was obliged, for when he carried the second dish into the room, the doctor remarked to his wife–

“Grethel, that is the second.”

The second servant was now as much frightened as the first, and was pleased to leave the apartment. The third served no better, for the doctor said–

“Grethel, that is the third.”

Now the fourth carried in a dish which had a cover on it, and the nobleman desired the doctor to show his skill by guessing what was under the cover. Now it was a crab. The doctor looked at the dish, and then at the cover, and could not at all divine what they contained, nor how to get out of the scrape. At length he said, half to himself and half aloud–

“Alas! poor crab!”

When the nobleman heard this, he cried out–

“You have guessed it, and now I am sure you will know where my money is.”

The servant was greatly troubled at this, and he winked to the doctor to follow him out of the room, and no sooner did he do so than the whole four who had stolen the gold stood before him, and said that they would give it up instantly, and give him a good sum to boot, provided he would not betray them, for if he did their necks would pay for it. The doctor promised, and they conducted him to the place where the gold lay concealed. The doctor was well pleased to see it, and went back to the nobleman, and said–

“My lord, I will now search in my book and discover where the money is.”

Now the fifth servant had crept into an oven to hear what the doctor said. He sat for some time turning over the leaves of his A, B, C book, looking for the picture of the crowing cock, and as he did not find it readily, he exclaimed–

“I know you are in here, and you must come out.”

Then the man in the oven, thinking the doctor spoke of him, jumped out in a great fright, saying–

“The man knows everything.”

Then Doctor All-Wise showed the nobleman where the gold was hidden, but he said nothing as to who stole it. So he received a great reward from all parties, and became a very famous man.

The Jew in the Bush

A servant works unpaid for three years and finally receives three crowns, which he gives to a dwarf in exchange for three magical wishes. Gaining a bow, a fiddle, and the power to compel others, he uses these gifts to outwit a deceitful Jew and escape execution. The Jew’s greed and misdeeds lead to his downfall, while the servant triumphs.

Source
Folk-lore and Legends: German
Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty, at the Edinburgh University Press
W.W. Gibbings, London, 1892

► Themes of the story

Trickster: The servant uses cunning and magical items to outsmart others, particularly the deceitful Jew.

Supernatural Beings: The dwarf who grants the servant three magical wishes represents the involvement of supernatural entities influencing mortal affairs.

Revenge and Justice: The servant’s actions lead to the downfall of the greedy Jew, serving as a form of retribution and restoration of moral order.

From the German lore

Learn more about German Folklore

A faithful servant had worked hard for his master, a thrifty farmer, for three long years, and had been paid no wages. At last it came into the man’s head that he would not go on thus any longer, so he went to his master and said: “I have worked hard for you a long time, and without pay, too. I will trust you to give me what I ought to have for my trouble, but something I must have, and then I must take a holiday.”

The farmer was a sad miser, and knew that his man was simple-hearted, so he took out three crowns, and thus gave him a crown for each year’s service.

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The poor fellow thought it was a great deal of money to have, and said to himself–

“Why should I work hard and live here on bad fare any longer? Now that I am rich I can travel into the wide world and make myself merry.”

With that he put the money into his purse, and set out, roaming over hill and valley. As he jogged along over the fields, singing and dancing, a little dwarf met him, and asked him what made him so merry.

“Why, what should make me down-hearted?” replied he. “I am sound in health and rich in purse; what should I care for? I have saved up my three years’ earnings, and have it all safe in my pocket.”

“How much may it come to?” said the mannikin.

“Three whole crowns,” replied the countryman.

“I wish you would give them to me,” said the other. “I am very poor.”

Then the good man pitied him, and gave him all he had; and the dwarf said–

“As you have such a kind heart, I will grant you three wishes–one for each crown,–so choose whatever you like.”

The countryman rejoiced at his luck, and said–

“I like many things better than money. First, I will have a bow that will bring me down everything I shoot at; secondly, a fiddle that will set every one dancing that hears me play upon it; and, thirdly, I should like to be able to make every one grant me whatever I ask.”

The dwarf said he should have his three wishes, gave him the bow and the fiddle, and went his way.

Our honest friend journeyed on his way too, and if he was merry before, he was now ten times more so. He had not gone far before he met an old Jew. Close by them stood a tree, and on the topmost twig sat a thrush, singing away most joyfully.

“Oh what a pretty bird!” said the Jew. “I would give a great deal of my money to have such a one.”

“If that’s all,” said the countryman, “I will soon bring it down.”

He took up his bow, off went his arrow, and down fell the thrush into a bush that grew at the foot of the tree. The Jew, when he saw that he could have the bird, thought he would cheat the man, so he put his money into his pocket again, and crept into the bush to find the prize. As soon as he had got into the middle, his companion took up his fiddle and played away, and the Jew began to dance and spring about, capering higher and higher in the air. The thorns soon began to tear his clothes, till they all hung in rags about him, and he himself was all scratched and wounded, so that the blood ran down.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” cried the Jew. “Mercy, mercy, master! Pray stop the fiddle! What have I done to be treated in this way?”

“What hast thou done? Why, thou hast shaved many a poor soul close enough,” said the other. “Thou art only meeting thy reward;” and he played up another tune yet merrier than the first.

Then the Jew began to beg and pray, and at last he said he would give plenty of his money to be set free. He did not, however, come up to the musician’s price for some time, so he danced him along brisker and brisker. The higher the Jew danced, the higher he bid, till at last he offered a round hundred crowns that he had in his purse, and had just gained by cheating some poor fellow. When the countryman saw so much money, he said–

“I agree to the bargain,” and, taking the purse and putting up his fiddle, he travelled on well pleased.

Meanwhile the Jew crept out of the bush, half naked, and in a piteous plight, and began to ponder how he should take his revenge and serve his late companion some trick. At length he went to a judge, and said that a rascal had robbed him of his money, and beaten him soundly into the bargain, and that this fellow carried a bow at his back, and had a fiddle hanging round his neck. The judge sent out his bailiffs to bring up the man whenever they should find him. The countryman was soon caught, and brought up to be tried.

The Jew began his tale, and said he had been robbed of his money.

“Robbed, indeed!” said the countryman; “why, you gave it me for playing you a tune, and teaching you to dance.”

The judge said that was not likely; that the Jew, he was sure, knew better what to do with his money; and he cut the matter short by sending the countryman off to the gallows.

Away he was taken, but as he stood at the foot of the ladder, he said–

“My Lord Judge, may it please your worship to grant me but one boon?”

“Anything but thy life,” replied the other.

“No,” said he; “I do not ask my life. Only let me play upon my fiddle for the last time.”

The Jew cried out–

“Oh, no! no! no! for heaven’s sake don’t listen to him! don’t listen to him!”

But the judge said–

“It is only for this once, poor fellow! He will soon have done.”

The fact was he could not say no, because the dwarf’s third gift enabled the countryman to make every one grant whatever he asked.

Then the Jew said–

“Bind me fast, bind me fast, for pity’s sake!”

The countryman seized his fiddle and struck up a merry tune, and at the first note judge, clerks, and jailer were set agoing. All began capering, and no one could hold the Jew. At the second note the hangman let his prisoner go and danced also, and by the time the first bar of the tune was played all were dancing together–judge, court, Jew, and all the people who had followed to look on. At first the thing went merrily and joyously enough, but when it had gone on a while, and there seemed to be no end of either playing or dancing, all began to cry out and beg the countryman to leave off. He stopped, however, not a whit the more for their begging, till the judge not only gave him his life, but paid him back the hundred crowns.

Then the countryman called the Jew, and said–

“Tell us now, you rogue, where you got that gold, or I shall play on for your amusement only.”

“I stole it,” replied the Jew, before all the people. “I acknowledge that I stole it, and that you earned it fairly.”

Then the countryman stopped his fiddling, and left the Jew to take his place at the gallows.

The Arch Rogue

The Arch Rogue, a cunning trickster, excels in outwitting a jealous king through a series of bold thefts and deceptions. He steals oxen, a royal horse, and the queen’s ring, each time outsmarting guards and elaborate precautions. Impressed yet frustrated by the rogue’s unparalleled cunning, the king ultimately forgives him and offers a place at court, warning against further mischief.

Source
Folk-lore and Legends: German
Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty, at the Edinburgh University Press
W.W. Gibbings, London, 1892

► Themes of the story

Trickster: The protagonist embodies the archetype of a cunning figure using wit to outsmart others.

Conflict with Authority: The story highlights the protagonist’s challenges against the king’s authority.

Moral Lessons: The tale imparts lessons about the consequences of pride and the value of wit.

From the German lore

Learn more about German Folklore

There once lived, years ago, a man known only by the name of the Arch Rogue. By dint of skill in the black art, and all arts of imposition, he drove a more flourishing trade than all the rest of the sorcerers of the age. It was his delight to travel from one country to another merely to play upon mankind, and no living soul was secure, either in house or field, nor could properly call them his own.

Now his great reputation for these speedy methods of possessing himself of others’ property excited the envy of a certain king of a certain country, who considered them as no less than an invasion of his royal prerogative.

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He could not sleep a wink for thinking about it, and he despatched troops of soldiers, one after another, with strict orders to arrest him, but all their search was in vain. At length, after long meditation, the king said to himself–

“Only wait a little, thou villain cutpurse, and yet I will have thee.”

Forthwith he issued a manifesto, stating that the royal mercy would be extended to so light-fingered a genius, upon condition that he consented to appear at court and give specimens of his dexterity for his majesty’s amusement.

One afternoon, as the king was standing at his palace window enjoying the fine prospect of woods and dales, over which a tempest appeared to be then just gathering, some one suddenly clapped him upon the shoulder, and on looking round he discovered a very tall, stout, dark-whiskered man close behind him, who said–

“Here I am.”

“Who are you?” inquired the king.

“He whom you look for.”

The king uttered an exclamation of surprise, not unmixed with fear, at such amazing assurance. The stranger continued, “Don’t be alarmed. Only keep your word with me, and I will prove myself quite obedient to your orders.”

This being agreed on, the king acquainted his royal consort and the whole court that the great sleight-of-hand genius had discovered himself, and soon, in a full assembly, his majesty proceeded to question him, and lay on him his commands.

“Mark what I say,” he said, “nor venture to dispute my orders. To begin, do you see yon rustic, not far from the wood, busy ploughing?”

The conjurer nodded assent.

“Then go,” continued the king,–“go and rob him of his plough and oxen without his knowing anything about it.”

The king flattered himself that this was impossible, for he did not conceive how the conjurer could perform such a task in the face of open day,–and if he fail, thought he, I have him in my power, and will make him smart.

The conjurer proceeded to the spot, and as the storm appeared to increase, the rain beginning to pour down in torrents, the countryman, letting his oxen rest, ran under a tree for shelter, until the rain should have ceased. Just then he heard some one singing in the wood. Such a glorious song he had never heard before in all his life. He felt wonderfully enlivened, and, as the weather continued dull, he said to himself–

“Well, there’s no harm in taking a look. Yes; I’ll see what sport is stirring,” and away he slipped into the wood, still further and further, in search of the songster.

In the meanwhile the conjurer was not idle. He changed places with the rustic, taking care of the oxen while their master went searching through the wood. Darting out of the thicket, in a few moments he had slashed off the oxen’s horns and tails, and stuck them, half hid, in the ploughman’s last furrow. He then drove off the beasts pretty sharply towards the palace. In a short time the rustic found his way back, and looking towards the spot for his oxen could see nothing of them. Searching on all sides, he came at last to examine the furrow, and beheld, to his horror, the horns and tails of his poor beasts sticking out of the ground. Imagining that a thunderbolt must have struck the beasts, and the earth swallowed them up, he poured forth a most dismal lamentation over his lot, roaring aloud until the woods echoed to the sound. When he was tired of this, he bethought him of running home to find a pick and a spade to dig his unlucky oxen out of the earth as soon as possible.

As he went he was met by the king and the conjurer, who inquired the occasion of his piteous lamentation.

“My oxen! my poor oxen!” cried the boor, and then he related all that had happened to him, entreating them to go with him to the place. The conjurer said–

“Why don’t you see if you cannot pull the oxen out again by the horns or by the tail?”

With this the rustic, running back, seized one of the tails, and, pulling with all his might, it gave way and he fell backward.

“Thou hast pulled thy beast’s tail off,” said the conjurer. “Try if thou canst succeed better with his horns. If not, thou must even dig them out.”

Again the rustic tried with the same result, while the king laughed very heartily at the sight. As the worthy man now appeared excessively troubled at his misfortunes, the king promised him another pair of oxen, and the rustic was content.

“You have made good your boast,” said the king to the conjurer, as they returned to the palace; “but now you will have to deal with a more difficult matter, so muster your wit and courage. To-night you must steal my favourite charger out of his stable, and let nobody know who does it.”

Now, thought the king, I have trapped him at last, for he will never be able to outwit my master of the horse, and all my grooms to boot. To make the matter sure, he ordered a strong guard under one of his most careful officers to be placed round the stable court. They were armed with stout battle-axes, and were enjoined every half-hour to give the word, and pace alternately through the court. In the royal stables others had the like duty to perform, while the master of the horse himself was to ride the favourite steed the whole time, having been presented by the king with a gold snuff-box, from which he was to take ample pinches in order to keep himself awake, and give signal by a loud sneeze. He was also armed with a heavy sword, with which he was to knock the thief on the head if he approached.

The rogue first arrayed himself in the master of the bedchamber’s clothes, without his leave. About midnight he proceeded to join the guards, furnished with different kinds of wine, and told them that the king had sent him to thank them for so cheerfully complying with his orders. He also informed them that the impostor had been already caught and secured, and added that the king had given permission for the guards to have a glass or two, and requested that they would not give the word quite so loudly, as her majesty had not been able to close her eyes. He then marched into the stables, where he found the master of the horse astride the royal charger, busily taking snuff and sneezing at intervals. The master of the bedchamber poured him out a sparkling glass to drink to the health of his majesty, who had sent it, and it looked too excellent to resist. Both master and guards then began to jest over the Arch Rogue’s fate, taking, like good subjects, repeated draughts–all to his majesty’s health. At length they began to experience their effects. They gaped and stretched, sank gradually upon the ground, and fell asleep. The master, by dint of fresh pinches, was the last to yield, but he too blinked, stopped the horse, which he had kept at a walk, and said–

“I am so confoundedly sleepy I can hold it no longer. Take you care of the charger for a moment. Bind him fast to the stall–and just keep watch.”

Having uttered these words, he fell like a heavy sack upon the floor and snored aloud. The conjurer took his place upon the horse, gave it whip and spur, and galloped away through the sleeping guards, through the court gates, and whistled as he went.

Early in the morning the king, eager to learn the result, hastened to his royal mews, and was not a little surprised to find the whole of his guards fast asleep upon the ground, but he saw nothing of his charger.

“What is to do here?” he cried in a loud voice. “Get up; rouse, you idle varlets!”

At last one of them, opening his eyes, cried out–

“The king! the king!”

“Ay, true enough, I am here,” replied his majesty, “but my favourite horse is not. Speak, answer on the instant.”

While the affrighted wretches, calling one to another, rubbed their heavy eyes, the king was examining the stalls once more, and, stumbling over his master of the horse, turned and gave him some hearty cuffs about the ears. But the master only turned upon the other side, and grumbled–

“Let me alone, you rascal, my royal master’s horse is not for the like of you.”

“Rascal!” exclaimed the king, “do you know who it is?” and he was just about to call his attendants, when he heard hasty footsteps, and the conjurer stood before him.

“My liege,” he said, “I have just returned from an airing on your noble horse. He is, indeed, a fine animal, but once or so I was obliged to give him the switch.”

The king felt excessively vexed at the rogue’s success, but he was the more resolved to hit upon something that should bring his fox skin into jeopardy at last. So he thought, and the next day he addressed the conjurer thus–

“Thy third trial is now about to take place, and if you are clever enough to carry it through, you shall not only have your life and liberty, but a handsome allowance to boot. In the other case you know your fate. Now listen. This very night I command you to rob my queen consort of her bridal ring, to steal it from her finger, and let no one know the thief or the way of thieving.”

When night approached, his majesty caused all the doors in the palace to be fast closed, and a guard to be set at each. He himself, instead of retiring to rest, took his station, well armed, in an easy chair close to the queen’s couch.

It was a moonlight night, and about two in the morning the king plainly heard a ladder reared up against the window, and the soft step of a man mounting it. When the king thought the conjurer must have reached the top, he called out from the window–

“Let fall.”

The next moment the ladder was dashed away, and something fell with a terrible crash to the ground. The king uttered an exclamation of alarm, and ran down into the court, telling the queen, who was half asleep, that he was going to see if the conjurer were dead. But the rogue had borrowed a dead body from the gallows, and having dressed it in his own clothes, had placed it on the ladder. Hardly had the king left the chamber before the conjurer entered it and said to the queen in the king’s voice–

“Yes, he is stone dead, so you may now go quietly to sleep, only hand me here your ring. It is too costly and precious to trust it in bed while you sleep.”

The queen, imagining it was her royal consort, instantly gave him the ring, and in a moment the conjurer was off with it on his finger. Directly afterwards the king came back.

“At last,” he said, “I have indeed carried the joke too far. I have repaid him. He is lying there as dead as a door nail. He will plague us no more.”

“I know that already,” replied the queen. “You have told me exactly the same thing twice over.”

“How came you to know anything about it?” inquired his majesty.

“How? From yourself to be sure,” replied his consort. “You informed me that the conjurer was dead, and then you asked me for my ring.”

“I ask for the ring!” exclaimed the king. “Then I suppose you must have given it to him,” continued his majesty, in a tone of great indignation; “and is it even so at last? By all the saints, this is one of the most confounded, unmanageable knaves in existence. I never knew anything to equal it.”

Then he informed the queen of the whole affair, though before he arrived at the conclusion of his tale she was fast asleep.

Soon after it was light in the morning the wily conjurer made his appearance. He bowed to the earth three times before the queen and presented her with the treasure he had stolen. The king, though excessively chagrined, could not forbear laughing at the sight.

“Now hear,” said he, “thou king of arch rogues. Had I only caught a sight of you through my fingers as you were coming, you would never have come off so well. As it is, let what is past be forgiven and forgotten. Take up your residence at my court, and take care that you do not carry your jokes too far, for in such a case I may find myself compelled to withdraw my favour from you if nothing worse ensue.”

The Origin of Death

This folktale explains why the hare’s nose is slit. The Moon sent an insect to tell humans they would die and live again, as she does. The hare intercepted, changed the message to say humans would die permanently, and delivered it. Angry, the Moon struck the hare’s nose, leaving it permanently marked as a symbol of his deceit.

Source
South-African Folk Tales
by James A. Honey, M.D.
New York,1910

► Themes of the story

Origin of Things: This tale explains the origin of death among humans, detailing how a miscommunicated message from the Moon led to the current human condition of mortality.

Trickster: The hare serves as a trickster figure, altering the Moon’s original message to humans, which results in significant consequences for mankind.

Divine Punishment: The Moon punishes the hare for delivering the wrong message by striking its nose, leading to the hare’s distinctive split nose as a lasting mark of its deceit.

► From the same Region or People

South Africa
- Bushmen Lore
- Zulu Lore

Learn more about the Bushmen
Learn more about the Zulu people

The Moon, it is said, sent once an Insect to Men, saying, “Go thou to Men, and tell them, ‘As I die, and dying live, so ye shall also die, and dying live.'” The Insect started with the message, but whilst on his way was overtaken by the Hare, who asked: “On what errand art thou bound?” The Insect answered: “I am sent by the Moon to Men, to tell them that as she dies, and dying lives, they also shall die, and dying live.” The Hare said, “As thou art an awkward runner, let me go” (to take the message). With these words he ran off, and when he reached Men, he said, “I am sent by the Moon to tell you, ‘As I die, and dying perish, in the same manner ye shall also die and come wholly to an end.'”

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Then the Hare returned to the Moon, and told her what he had said to Men. The Moon reproached him angrily, saying, “Darest thou tell the people a thing which I have not said?” With these words she took up a piece of wood, and struck him on the nose. Since that day the Hare’s nose is slit.

A Second Version

The Moon dies, and rises to life again. The Moon said to the Hare, “Go thou to Men, and tell them, ‘Like as I die and rise to life again, so you also shall die and rise to life again.'” The Hare went to the Men, and said, “Like as I die and do not rise to life again, so you shall also die, and not rise to life again.” When he returned the Moon asked “What hast thou said?” “I have told them, ‘Like as I die and do not rise to life again, so you shall also die and not rise to life again.'” “What,” said the Moon, “hast thou said that?” And she took a stick and beat the Hare on his mouth, which was slit by the blow. The Hare fled, and is still fleeing.

A Third Version

The Moon, on one occasion, sent the Hare to the earth to inform Men that as she (the Moon) died away and rose again, so mankind should die and rise again. Instead, however, of delivering this message as given, the Hare, either out of forgetfulness or malice, told mankind that as the Moon rose and died away, so Man should die and rise no more. The Hare, having returned to the Moon, was questioned as to the message delivered, and the Moon, having heard the true state of the case, became so enraged with him that she took up a hatchet to split his head; falling short, however, of that, the hatchet fell upon the upper lip of the Hare, and cut it severely. Hence it is that we see the “Hare-lip.” The Hare, being duly incensed at having received such treatment, raised his claws, and scratched the Moon’s face; and the dark spots which we now see on the surface of the Moon are the scars which she received on that occasion.

A Fourth Version

The Moon, they say, wished to send a message to Men, and the Hare said that he would take it. “Run, then,” said the Moon, “and tell Men that as I die and am renewed, so shall they also be renewed.” But the Hare deceived Men, and said, “As I die and perish, so shall you also.”

A Zulu Version

God (Unknlunkuln) arose from beneath (the seat of the spiritual world, according to the Zulu idea), and created in the beginning men, animals, and all things. He then sent for the Chameleon, and said, “Go, Chameleon, and tell Men that they shall not die.” The Chameleon went, but it walked slowly, and loitered on the way, eating of a shrub called Bukwebezane.

When it had been away some time, God sent the Salamander after it, ordering him to make haste and tell Men that they should die. The Salamander went on his way with this message, outran the Chameleon, and, arriving first where the Men were, told them that they must die.

Lion’s Defeat

The animals once gathered at Lion’s. While Lion slept, Jackal tricked Little Fox into tying Lion’s tail to a shrub with ostrich sinews. When Lion awoke, he angrily interrogated the animals. All denied guilt except Little Fox, who confessed. Lion broke free and chased Little Fox but failed to catch him, proving Jackal’s boast of Little Fox’s speed. Lion was defeated.

Source
South-African Folk Tales
by James A. Honey, M.D.
New York,1910

► Themes of the story

Trickster: Jackal plays the role of the cunning trickster by persuading Little Fox to tie Lion’s tail, leading to Lion’s embarrassment.

Good vs. Evil: The narrative contrasts the mischievous yet harmless intentions of the animals against Lion’s potential for violence, illustrating the struggle between opposing forces.

Moral Lessons: The tale imparts lessons about the consequences of pride and the value of intelligence over physical power.

► From the same Region or People

South Africa
- Bushmen Lore

Learn more about the Bushmen

The wild animals, it is said, were once assembled at Lion’s. When Lion was asleep, Jackal persuaded Little Fox to twist a rope of ostrich sinews, in order to play Lion a trick. They took ostrich sinews, twisted them, and fastened the rope to Lion’s tail, and the other end of the rope they tied to a shrub. When Lion awoke, and saw that he was tied up, he became angry, and called the animals together. When they had assembled, Lion said (using this form of conjuration):

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“What child of his mother and father’s love,
Whose mother and father’s love has tied me?”

Then answered the animal to whom the question was first put:

“I, child of my mother and father’s love,
I, mother and father’s love, I have not done it.”

All answered the same; but when he asked Little Fox, Little Fox said:

“I, child of my mother and father’s love,
I, mother and father’s love, have tied thee!”

Then Lion tore the rope made of sinews, and ran after Little Fox. But Jackal said:

“My boy, thou son of lean Mrs. Fox, thou wilt never be caught.”

Truly Lion was thus beaten in running by Little Fox.

Lion and Baboon

Baboon cleverly avoided Lion’s attack by using deception. He placed shiny, eye-like plates on the back of his head, confusing Lion into thinking Baboon was watching him even when turned away. As Lion crept closer, Baboon feigned ignorance. When Lion finally leapt, Baboon dodged, causing Lion to fall off the precipice and perish, outwitted by Baboon’s quick thinking.

Source
South-African Folk Tales
by James A. Honey, M.D.
New York,1910

► Themes of the story

Trickster: Baboon uses cunning and deception to outsmart Lion.

Good vs. Evil: The narrative showcases the battle between opposing forces, with Baboon representing good and Lion representing evil.

Moral Lessons: The story imparts a lesson on the value of intelligence over brute strength.

► From the same Region or People

South Africa
- Bushmen Lore

Learn more about the Bushmen

Baboon, it is said, once worked bamboos, sitting on the edge of a precipice, and Lion stole upon him. Baboon, however, had fixed some round, glistening, eye-like plates on the back of his head. When, therefore, Lion crept upon him, he thought, when Baboon was looking at him, that he sat with his back towards him, and crept with all his might upon him. When, however, Baboon turned his back towards him, Lion thought that he was seen, and hid himself. Thus, when Baboon looked at him, he crept upon him. [Whilst Baboon did this, Lion came close upon him.]

► Continue reading…

When he was near him Baboon looked up, and Lion continued to creep upon him. Baboon said (aside), “Whilst I am looking at him he steals upon me, whilst my hollow eyes are on him.”

When at last Lion sprung at him, he lay (quickly) down upon his face, and Lion jumped over him, falling down the precipice, and was dashed to pieces.

Jackal, Dove, and Heron

A jackal demanded dove chicks, threatening to fly if refused. The dove, believing him, reluctantly surrendered her young. Heron advised the dove that jackals cannot fly and to resist further demands. When the jackal learned of Heron’s guidance, he deceived and attacked Heron, breaking his neck. This tale explains why herons have bent necks and highlights gullibility’s consequences.

Source
South-African Folk Tales
by James A. Honey, M.D.
New York,1910

► Themes of the story

Trickster: The jackal employs deceit, threatening to fly to coerce the dove into surrendering her chicks.

Moral Lessons: The tale imparts lessons on gullibility and the consequences of naivety.

Origin of Things: The story provides an etiological explanation for the heron’s bent neck.

► From the same Region or People

South Africa
- Bushmen Lore

Learn more about the Bushmen

Jackal, it is said, came once to Dove, who lived on the top of a rock, and said, “Give me one of your little ones.” Dove answered, “I shall not do anything of the kind.”

Jackal said, “Give me it at once! Otherwise, I shall fly up to you.” Then she threw one down to him.

He came back another day and demanded another little one, and she gave it to him. After Jackal had gone, Heron came, and asked, “Dove, why do you cry?”

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Dove answered him, “Jackal has taken away my little ones; it is for this that I cry.” He asked her, “In what manner did he take them?” She answered him, “When he asked me I refused him; but when he said, ‘I shall at once fly up, therefore give me it,’ I threw it down to him.”

Heron said, “Are you such a fool as to give your young ones to Jackal, who cannot fly?” Then, with the admonition to give no more, he went away.

Jackal came again, and said, “Dove, give me a little one.” Dove refused, and told him that Heron had told her that he could not fly up. Jackal said, “I shall catch him.”

So when Heron came to the banks of the water, Jackal asked him: “Brother Heron, when the wind comes from this side, how will you stand?” He turned his neck towards him and said, “I stand thus, bending my neck on one side.” Jackal asked him again, “When a storm comes and when it rains, how do you stand?” He said to him: “I stand thus, indeed, bending my neck down.”

Then Jackal beat him on his neck, and broke his neck in the middle.

Since that day Heron’s neck is bent.

Cloud Eating

Jackal and Hyena discovered a cloud they could eat like fat. Jackal descended safely with Hyena’s help but betrayed her when it was her turn. Pretending to be injured, he moved aside, causing Hyena to fall and injure herself. The story explains why, according to legend, Hyena’s hind legs are shorter than her front ones.

Source
South-African Folk Tales
by James A. Honey, M.D.
New York,1910

► Themes of the story

Trickster: The Jackal embodies the trickster archetype, using cunning to deceive the Hyena.

Origin of Things: The tale explains the physical characteristic of the Hyena’s shorter hind legs as a result of the Jackal’s trickery.

Moral Lessons: The story imparts a lesson on the consequences of betrayal and the importance of trust.

► From the same Region or People

South Africa
- Bushmen Lore

Learn more about the Bushmen

Jackal and Hyena were together, it is said, when a white cloud rose. Jackal descended upon it, and ate of the cloud as if it were fat. When he wanted to come down, he said to Hyena, “My sister, as I am going to divide with thee, catch me well.” So she caught him, and broke his fall. Then she also went up and ate there, high up on the top of the cloud.

When she was satisfied, she said, “My greyish brother, now catch me well.” The greyish rogue said to his friend, “My sister, I shall catch thee well. Come therefore down.”

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He held up his hands, and she came down from the cloud, and when she was near, Jackal cried out (painfully jumping to one side), “My sister, do not take it ill. Oh me! Oh me! A thorn has pricked me and sticks in me.” Thus she fell down from above, and was sadly hurt.

Since that day, it is said that Hyena’s hind feet have been shorter and smaller than the front ones.