Tag: 34. Moral Lessons

Stories that teach ethics, values, or life lessons

How the Fijian Ate the Sacred Cat

The Tongans of Haapai once revered a cat from a foreign ship, believing it to be a god. Dau-lawaki, a cunning Fijian, tricked the people by imitating the god’s voice and claiming the cat should be eaten. Though fearful, he obeyed, feigning reluctance, then confessed his deception back home, mocking the Tongans. Humiliated, they returned, while Dau-lawaki avoided Haapai forever.

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

Cunning and Deception: Dau-lawaki, the Fijian, employs trickery by imitating the god’s voice to convince the Tongans to eat the sacred cat.

Moral Lessons: The tale imparts a lesson on the consequences of blind faith and the potential for exploitation by deceitful individuals.

Cultural Heroes: Dau-lawaki’s actions, though morally ambiguous, position him as a clever figure who outsmarts the Tongans, reflecting traits often celebrated in cultural narratives.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Fijians

by the Lord of Naiau

In the old days, when we were all heathens, we, the men of Tonga, saw a large ship anchored at Haapai. Our fathers took counsel together as to how they might kill the people and take the vessel; and a plot was laid; so that we looked upon the crew of that ship as dead men, and the women laughed together, as they said, “See the slain walking about the beach. To-morrow they will be in the ovens.” But, when all was ready, the vessel sailed away in the night, and great was the anger of our people when they rose in the morning, and found that the bay was empty. Great was their rage, and loud was their angry talk, as they accused one another of warning the foreigners, so that from words they came to blows, and there was a great fight, wherein many died, and that night was a night of much weeping at Haapai.

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In the morning the high priest went into the temple to speak with the god, and to inquire why he was thus angry with his people, while the townsfolk were gathered together, sad and silent, in the public square, waiting to hear the words of Alo-alo, the god of the men of Haapai. Not long did they wait, for the priest came running out of the temple, and sat down in their midst, trembling exceedingly; and there was a great silence and fear, because all the people saw that something wonderful had happened.

“Hear my words,” said he at last in a low voice. “Hear my words, ye men of Haapai, great is the thing that has come to pass to-day; for with these eyes have I looked upon Alo-alo. See! Look! Behold he comes!” And from the doorway there stepped forth a cat, which seated itself on the top of the mound whereon the temple stood, and looked solemnly down upon the people. It had, doubtless, come ashore from the vessel; but our fathers then, for the first time, looked upon a cat, and they feared greatly, for they thought it had come down from heaven. Great were the honours which they paid it; many the feasts that were made ready for it; and a useful animal was it indeed to the priest, who, you may be sure, took his full share of the food provided for it, so that both he and the cat grew sleek and fat together.

Then it fell out that one of our canoes came back from a voyage to Fiji, bringing many of our countrymen, who had been helping the men of Lakemba in their wars; and with them came a Fijian, whose name was Dau-lawaki, the Great Rogue, a man strong of soul, fearing nothing, believing nothing, and caring for no one but himself.

And when he saw the cat his stomach craved for it; and day and night he could think of nothing else than how he could secure it for his food; but he feared to steal it because of the people, who honoured it even as a god; nor could he think of any plan for getting that which his soul desired.

At length, one night when the townsfolk were all asleep in their houses, a great shout was heard in the temple, and the people rushed together into the public square, crying out, “What is this? What does the shouting mean?”

But the priest said, “Stand still, ye men of Haapai, and listen; for it may be that the god is about to speak.”

So they stood in silence, and from the midst of the temple there sounded forth a solemn voice. Three times was the voice heard, and then all was quiet; and these were the words that were spoken: —

“Deliver the cat to the Fijian for the eating thereof.”

Then our fathers went back in great awe to their houses; but the chiefs assembled together and took counsel with the priest. So in the morning the drum was beaten, whereupon all the townsfolk came together in the public square, with the chiefs and the old men and the priest in their midst, while the cat was brought forth, bound, and laid at their feet. Then rose the high priest and called the Rogue. “Come forward,” said he; and the Great Rogue came forward and sat down in the midst of the public square, while the priest spoke on: —

“We have taken counsel together during the night as to this great thing, this wonderful thing which has happened. We cannot understand it. Alo-alo has spoken to us, his people. But why should he have spoken in a foreign tongue? We are men of Tonga, and he is a Tongan god; why then should he have spoken to us with the tongue of a Fijian? Is it perhaps that, being angry with us, his people, he is about to leave us? What have we done? wherein have we offended? My soul is small, ye people of Haapai. Our god perhaps is hungry. He is a great chief, having many followers; and the food we have given him has not been enough for him and for his household. Therefore bestir yourselves, and make ready for him a great feast, that he may have compassion upon us, and not leave us to perish; for you know that it is he who gives us the rain, and the sun, and causes the fruits of the earth to grow. Let his feasts be greater from this day henceforward: then will he stay in Haapai, and it shall be well with us. But one thing is plain to us — that we must obey his voice to-day. Rise therefore, Dau-lawaki, kill the cat of Alo-alo, and bake it in the oven, that you may eat it, according to his word, which was spoken three times to us during the night.” And the priest sat down again amongst the chiefs.

Then spake the Rogue, trembling like one in great fear: “Spare me, ye chiefs, spare me! Let me not kill the sacred cat, lest some great evil befall me.”

But the chiefs looked angrily upon him. “Who are you,” cried they, “that you should dare question the command of the god? Eat or die!”

“Life is sweet,” said the Rogue. “Give me a knife, and let some of the young men heat an oven.”

So he killed the holy cat, and cooked and ate it, leaving nothing but the skull and the bones, which the Haapai men buried with great pomp in the midst of the temple. And, after this, he begged the chiefs to send him back to his own land: “For,” said he, “I am afraid of the Tongan gods. Have I not eaten their sacred cat?”

Then the chiefs ordered a large double canoe to be made ready for him, and therein he sailed back to Lakemba, whence he came. Three nights they went sailing over the waters, and on the fourth morning the land was seen, whereat they rejoiced exceedingly, inasmuch as they sailed in great fear lest the anger of Alo-alo should follow them because of the Rogue.

A prudent man was the Rogue, and not a word did he say about the cat till he landed safe at Lakemba; and then he told all his people how he had cheated the Haapai men, hiding himself in the temple at night, and shouting forth the words which they thought the god had spoken. “And truly,” said he, “I was afraid that they would find me out; for I spoke in Fijian, not knowing their tongue; but they are without souls, those men of Haapai!” And he went on to tell them how he had feigned to be terribly frightened when they ordered him to eat the cat; and how they threatened to kill him unless he hearkened to their words; till all the people roared with laughter, and said, “True now are the words of the Rogue. Men without souls are the men of Haapai!”

Great also was the shame and vexation of the Tongans who had brought him back to Lakemba; for the children were always shouting after them, “Give the cat to the Fijian for the eating thereof!” And they sailed back to their land in a great rage. But Dau-lawaki took care never to show his face again in Haapai.

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Kaneaukai: A Legend of Waialua

Two fishermen in ancient Hawaii, praying to Kaneaukai for fish, discovered a wooden idol resembling the god, and later received guidance from a young man claiming to be Kaneaukai. Similarly, two kahunas found a stone idol believed to represent the deity. Through their devotion, they secured abundant fish. Despite efforts to suppress idolatry, beliefs surrounding Kaneaukai persisted, reinforced by local legends and mysterious misfortunes.

Source
Hawaiian Folk Tales
a collection of native legends
compiled by Thos. G. Thrum
A.C. McClurg & Co., Chicago, 1907

► Themes of the story

Sacred Objects: The fishermen discover a log resembling Kaneaukai, which becomes an object of worship and a conduit for divine interaction.

Divine Intervention: Kaneaukai directly influences the fishermen’s fortunes, providing them with guidance that leads to an abundant catch.

Moral Lessons: The narrative underscores the virtues of faith and devotion, illustrating how sincere worship and belief can lead to divine favor and prosperity.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hawaiians

by Thos. G. Thrum

Long ago, when the Hawaiians were in the darkness of superstition and kahunaism, with their gods and lords many, there lived at Mokuleia, Waialua, two old men whose business it was to pray to Kaneaukai for a plentiful supply of fish. These men were quite poor in worldly possessions, but given to the habit of drinking a potion of awa after their evening meal of poi and fish.

The fish found in the waters of Mokuleia were the aweoweo, kala, manini, and many other varieties that find their habitat inside the coral reefs. Crabs of the white variety burrowed in the sand near the seashore and were dug out by the people, young and old.

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The squid also were speared by the skilful fishermen, and were eaten stewed, or salted and sun-dried and roasted on the coals. The salt likely came from Kaena Point, from salt-water evaporation in the holes of rocks so plentiful on that stormy cape. Or it may have been made on the salt pans of Paukauwila, near the stream of that name, where a few years ago this industry existed on a small scale.

But to return to our worshippers of Kaneaukai. One morning on going out upon the seashore they found a log of wood, somewhat resembling the human form, which they took home and set in a corner of their lowly hut, and continued their habit of praying to Kaneaukai. One evening, after having prepared a scanty supper of poi and salt, with perhaps a few roasted kukui-nuts, as a relish, and a couple of cocoanut cups of awa as their usual drink, they saw a handsome young man approaching, who entered their hut and saluted them. He introduced himself by saying, “I am Kaneaukai to whom you have been praying, and that which you have set up is my image; you have done well in caring for it.”

He sat down, after the Hawaiian custom, as if to share their evening meal, which the two old men invited him to partake of with them, but regretted the scanty supply of awa. He said: “Pour the awa back into the bowl and divide into three.” This they did and at once shared their meal with their guest.

After supper Kaneaukai said to the two old men, “Go to Keawanui and you will get fish enough for the present.” He then disappeared, and the fishermen went as instructed and obtained three fishes; one they gave to an old sorceress who lived near by, and the other two they kept for themselves.

Soon after this there was a large school of fish secured by the fishermen of Mokuleia. So abundant were the fish that after salting all they could, there was enough to give away to the neighbors; and even the dogs had more than they desired.

Leaving the Mokuleia people to the enjoyment of their unusual supply of fish, we will turn to the abode of two kahunas, who were also fishermen, living on the south side of Waimea Valley, Oahu. One morning, being out of fish, they went out into the harbor to try their luck, and casting their net they caught up a calcareous stone about as large as a man’s head, and a pilot fish. They let the pilot fish go, and threw the stone back into the sea. Again they cast their net and again they caught the stone and the pilot fish; and so again at the third haul. At this they concluded that the stone was a representative of some god. The elder of the two said: “Let us take this stone ashore and set it up as an idol, but the pilot fish we will let go.” So they did, setting it up on the turn of the bluff on the south side of the harbor of Waimea. They built an inclosure about it and smoothed off the rocky bluff by putting flat stones from the immediate neighborhood about the stone idol thus strangely found.

About ten days after the finding of the stone idol the two old kahunas were sitting by their grass hut in the dusk of the evening, bewailing the scarcity of fish, when Kaneaukai himself appeared before them in the guise of a young man. He told them that they had done well in setting up his stone image, and if they would follow his directions they would have a plentiful supply of fish. Said he, “Go to Mokuleia, and you will find my wooden idol; bring it here and set it up alongside of my stone idol.” But they demurred, as it was a dark night and there were usually quicksands after a freshet in the Kamananui River. His answer was, “Send your grandsons.” And so the two young men were sent to get the wooden idol and were told where they could find it.

The young men started for Mokuleia by way of Kaika, near the place where salt was made a few years ago. Being strangers, they were in doubt about the true way, when a meteor (hoku kaolele) appeared and went before them, showing them how to escape the quicksands. After crossing the river they went on to Mokuleia as directed by Kaneaukai, and found the wooden idol in the hut of the two old men. They shouldered it, and taking as much dried fish as they could carry, returned by the same way that they had come, arriving at home about midnight.

The next day the two old kahunas set up the wooden idol in the same inclosure with the stone representative of Kaneaukai. The wooden image has long since disappeared, having been destroyed, probably, at the time Kaahumanu made a tour of Oahu after her conversion to Christianity, when she issued her edict to burn all the idols. But the stone idol was not destroyed. Even during the past sixty years offerings of roast pigs are known to have been placed before it. This was done secretly for fear of the chiefs, who had published laws against idolatry.

Accounts differ, various narrators giving the story some embellishments of their own. So good a man as a deacon of Waialua in telling the above seemed to believe that, instead of being a legend it was true; for an old man, to whom he referred as authority, said that one of the young men who went to Mokuleia and brought the wooden idol to Waimea was his own grandfather.

An aged resident of the locality gives this version: Following the placement of their strangely found stone these two men dreamed of Kaneaukai as a god in some far-distant land, to whom they petitioned that he would crown their labors with success by granting them a plentiful supply of fish. Dreaming thus, Kaneaukai revealed himself to them as being already at their shore; that the stone which they had been permitted to find and had honored by setting up at Kehauapuu, was himself, in response to their petitions; and since they had been faithful so far, upon continuance of the same, and offerings thereto, they should ever after be successful in their fishing. As if in confirmation of this covenant, this locality has ever since been noted for the periodical visits of schools of the anae-holo and kala, which are prevalent from April to July, coming, it is said, from Ohea, Honuaula, Maui, by way of Kahuku, and returning the same way.

So strong was the superstitious belief of the people in this deified stone that when, some twenty years ago, the road supervisor of the district threw it over and broke off a portion, it was prophesied that Kaneaukai would be avenged for the insult. And when shortly afterward the supervisor lost his position and removed from the district, returning not to the day of his death; and since several of his relatives have met untimely ends, not a few felt it was the recompense of his sacrilegious act.

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Legends of Rubezahl, or Number-Nip

Rubezahl, a mountain spirit, alternates between mischief and justice. He tricks a glazier by shattering his glass, but compensates him through an enchanted sale. He aids a peasant against a cruel lord by blocking his courtyard with an unbreakable oak and repays cheated workers with stolen wood. Rubezahl’s pranks also include transforming pigs into straw and tormenting a messenger, blending humor with moral retribution.

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: The narrative highlights the use of wit and deceit, as Rubezahl employs clever tricks to achieve his goals, such as transforming into a donkey to teach the miller a lesson.

Moral Lessons: Each of Rubezahl’s pranks imparts ethical teachings, emphasizing the consequences of greed, oppression, and dishonesty.

Supernatural Beings: The story revolves around Rubezahl, a supernatural entity whose interactions with humans drive the narrative and its underlying messages.

From the lore

Learn more about German Folklore

Once upon a time a glazier who was travelling across the mountains, feeling very tired from the heavy load of glass which he was carrying, began to look about to discover a place where he might rest it. Rubezahl, who had been watching for some time, no sooner saw this than he changed himself into a little mound, which the glazier not long afterwards discovered in his way, and on which, well pleased, he proposed to seat himself. But his joy was not of long continuance, for he had not sat there many minutes before the heap vanished from under him so rapidly, that the poor glazier fell to the ground with his glass, which was by the fall smashed into a thousand pieces.

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The poor fellow arose from the ground and looked around him, but the mound of earth on which he had before seated himself was no longer visible. Then he began bitterly to lament, and to sigh with heartfelt sorrow over his untoward fate. At length he started once more on his journey. Upon this Rubezahl, assuming the appearance of a traveller, accosted him, and inquired why he so lamented, and what was the great sorrow with which he was afflicted. The glazier related to him the whole affair, how that, being weary, he had seated himself upon a mound by the wayside, how this had suddenly overthrown him, and broken to pieces his whole stock of glass, which was well worth eight dollars, and how, in short, the mound itself had suddenly disappeared. He declared that he knew not in the least how to recover his loss and bring the business to a good ending. The compassionate mountain sprite comforted him, told him who he was, and that he himself had played him the trick, and at the same time bade him be of good cheer, for his losses should be made good to him.

Upon this Rubezahl transformed himself into an ass, and directed the glazier to sell him at the mill which lay at the foot of the mountain, and to be sure to make off with the purchase-money as quickly as possible. The glazier accordingly immediately bestrode the transformed mountain sprite, and rode him down the mountain to the mill, where he offered him for sale to the miller at the price of ten dollars. The miller offered nine, and the glazier, without further haggling, took the money and went his way.

When he was gone the miller sent his newly purchased beast to the stable, and the boy who had charge of him immediately filled his rack with hay. Upon this Rubezahl exclaimed–

“I don’t eat hay. I eat nothing but roasted and boiled, and that of the best.”

The boy’s hair stood on end. He flew to his master, and related to him this wondrous tale, and he no sooner heard it than he hastened to the stable and there found nothing, for his ass and his nine dollars were alike vanished.

But the miller was rightly served, for he had cheated in his time many poor people, therefore Rubezahl punished in this manner the injustice of which he had been guilty.

*       *       *       *       *

In the year 1512 a man of noble family, who was a very tyrant and oppressor, had commanded one of his vassals or peasants to carry home with his horses and cart an oak of extraordinary magnitude, and threatened to visit him with the heaviest disgrace and punishment if he neglected to fulfil his desires. The peasant saw that it was impossible for him to execute the command of his lord, and fled to the woods with great sorrow and lamentation.

There he was accosted by Rubezahl, who appeared to him like a man, and inquired of him the cause of his so great sorrow and affliction. Upon this the peasant related to him all the circumstances of the case. When Rubezahl heard it he bade him be of good cheer and care not, but go home to his house again, as he himself would soon transport the oak, as his lord required, into his courtyard.

Scarcely had the peasant got well home again before Rubezahl took the monstrous oak-tree, with its thick and sturdy boughs, and hurled it into the courtyard of the nobleman, and with its huge stem, and its many thick branches, so choked and blocked up the entrance that no one could get either in or out. And because the oak proved harder than their iron tools, and could in no manner or wise, and with no power which they could apply to it, be hewn or cut in pieces, the nobleman was compelled to break through the walls in another part of the courtyard, and have a new doorway made, which was only done with great labour and expense.

*       *       *       *       *

Once upon a time Rubezahl made, from what materials is not known, a quantity of pigs, which he drove to the neighbouring market and sold to a peasant, with a caution that the purchaser should not drive them through any water.

Now, what happened? Why these same swine having chanced to get sadly covered with mire, what must the peasant do, but drive them to the river, which they had no sooner entered than the pigs suddenly became wisps of straw, and were carried away by the stream. The purchaser was, moreover, obliged to put up with the loss, for he could neither find his pigs again, nor could he discover the person from whom he had bought them.

*       *       *       *       *

Rubezahl once betook himself to the Hirschberg, which is in the neighbourhood of his forest haunts, and there offered his services as a woodcutter to one of the townsmen, asking for his remuneration nothing more than a bundle of wood. This the man promised him, accepting his offer, and pointed out some cart-loads, intending to give him some assistance. To this offer of help in his labours Rubezahl replied–

“No. It is quite unnecessary. All that is to be done I can very well accomplish by myself.”

Upon this his new master made a few further inquiries, asking him what sort of a hatchet he had got, for he had noticed that his supposed servant was without one.

“Oh,” said Rubezahl, “I’ll soon get a hatchet.”

Accordingly he laid hands upon his left leg, and pulled that and his foot and all off at the thigh, and with it cut, as if he had been raving mad, all the wood into small pieces of proper lengths and sizes in about a quarter of an hour, thus proving that a dismembered foot is a thousand times more effectual for such purposes than the sharpest axe.

In the meanwhile the owner (who saw plainly that mischief was intended) kept calling upon the wondrous woodcutter to desist and go about his business. Rubezahl, however, kept incessantly answering–

“No, I won’t stir from this spot until I have hewn the wood as small as I agreed to, and have got my wages for so doing.”

In the midst of such quarrelling Rubezahl finished his job, and screwed his leg on again, for while at work he had been standing on one leg, after the fashion of a stork. Then he gathered together into one bundle all he had cut, placed it on his shoulder, and started off with it towards his favourite retreat, heedless of the tears and lamentations of his master.

On this occasion Rubezahl did not appear in the character of a sportive or mischievous spirit, but as an avenger of injustice, for his employer had induced a number of poor men to bring wood to his home upon the promise of paying them wages, which, however, he had never paid them. Rubezahl laid at the door of each of these poor men as much of the wood he carried away as would repay them, and so the business was brought to a proper termination.

*       *       *       *       *

It once happened that a messenger vexed or played some trick upon Rubezahl, who thereupon revenged himself in the following manner, and so wiped out the score.

The messenger, in one of his journeys over the mountains, entered an hotel to refresh himself, and placed his spear as usual behind the door. No sooner had he done so than Rubezahl carried off the spear, transformed himself into a similar one, and took its place.

When the messenger, after taking his rest, set forth again with the spear, and had got some little way on his journey, it began slipping about every now and then in such a manner that the messenger began pitching forward into the most intolerable mire, and got himself sadly bespattered. It did this so often that at last he could not tell for the soul of him what had come to the spear, or why he kept slipping forward with it instead of seizing fast hold of the ground.

He looked at it longways and sideways, from above, from underneath, but in spite of all his attempts, no change could he discover.

After this inspection he went forward a little way, when suddenly he was once more plunged into the morass, and commenced crying–

“Woe is me! woe is me!” at his spear, which led him into such scrapes, and did nothing to release him from them. At length he got himself once more to rights, and then he turned the spear the wrong way upwards. No sooner had he done so than he was driven backwards instead of forwards, and so got into a worse plight than ever.

After this he laid the spear across his shoulder like a pikeman, since it was no use to trail it upon the earth, and in this fashion he started on. But Rubezahl continued his tricks by pressing on the messenger as though he had got a yoke on his back. He changed the spear from one shoulder to the other, until at last, from very weariness, he threw away the bewitched weapon, imagining that the Evil One must possess it, and went his way without it.

He had not proceeded above a quarter of a mile, when, looking carelessly about him, he was astounded to find his spear by his side. He was sadly frightened, and little knew what to make of it. At last he boldly ventured to lay hands upon it. He did so, and lifted it up, but he could not conceive how he should carry it. He had no desire to trail it any more on the ground, and the thought of carrying it on his shoulder made him shudder. He decided, however, to give it another trial, carrying it in his hand. Fresh troubles now arose. The spear weighed so heavy that he could not stir it a foot from the spot, and though he tried first one hand and then another, all his efforts were in vain.

At last he bethought him of riding upon the spear, as a child bestrides a stick. A wonderful change now came over the weapon. It ran on as though it had been a fleet horse, and thus mounted the messenger rode on without ceasing until he descended the mountain and came into the city, where he excited the wonder, delight, and laughter of the worthy burghers.

Although he had endured some trouble in the early part of his journey, the messenger thought he had been amply compensated at the close, and he comforted himself by making up his mind that in all future journeys he was destined to perform he would bestride his nimble spear. His good intentions were, however, frustrated. Rubezahl had played his game, and had had all the amusement he desired with the poor knave. Accordingly he scampered away, leaving in his place the real spear, which never played any more tricks, but, after the old fashion of other spears, accompanied its master in a becoming and orderly style.

*       *       *       *       *

A poor woman, who got her living by gathering herbs, once went, accompanied by her two children, to the mountains, carrying with her a basket in which to gather the plants, which she was in the habit of disposing of to the apothecaries. Having chanced to discover a large tract of land covered with such plants as were most esteemed, she busied herself so in filling her basket that she lost her way, and was troubled to find out how to get back to the path from which she had wandered. On a sudden a man dressed like a peasant appeared before her, and said–

“Well, good woman, what is it you are looking for so anxiously? and where do you want to go?”

“Alas!” replied she, “I am a poor woman who has neither bit nor sup, for which reason I am obliged to wander to gather herbs, so that I may buy bread for myself and my hungry children. I have lost my way, and cannot find it. I pray you, good man, take pity on me, and lead me out of the thicket into the right path, so that I may make the best of my way home.”

“Well, my good woman,” replied Rubezahl, for it was he, “make yourself happy. I will show you the way. But what good are those roots to you? They will be of little benefit. Throw away this rubbish, and gather from this tree as many leaves as will fill your basket; you will find them answer your purpose much better.”

“Alas!” said the woman, “who would give a penny for them? They are but common leaves, and good for nothing.”

“Be advised, my good woman,” said Rubezahl; “throw away those you have got, and follow me.”

He repeated his injunction over and over again in vain, until he got tired, for the woman would not be persuaded. At last, he fairly laid hold of the basket, threw the herbs out by main force, and supplied their place with leaves from the surrounding bushes. When he had finished, he told the woman to go home, and led her into the right path.

The woman, with her children and her basket, journeyed on some distance; but they had not gone far before she saw some valuable herbs growing by the wayside. No sooner did she perceive them than she longed to gather them, for she hoped that she should obtain something for them, while the leaves with which her basket was crammed were, she thought, good for nothing. She accordingly emptied her basket, throwing away the rubbish, as she esteemed it, and having filled it once more with roots, journeyed on to her dwelling at Kirschdorf.

As soon as she arrived at her home she cleansed the roots she had gathered from the earth which clung around them, tied them neatly together, and emptied everything out of the basket. Upon doing this, something glittering caught her eye, and she commenced to make a careful examination of the basket. She was surprised to discover several ducats sticking to the wickerwork, and these were clearly such of the leaves as remained of those which she had so thoughtlessly thrown away on the mountains.

She rejoiced at having preserved what she had, but she was again sorely vexed that she had not taken care of all that the mountain spirit had gathered for her. She hastened back to the spot where she had emptied the basket, in hopes of finding some of the leaves there; but her search was in vain–they had all vanished.

Running and expanding this site requires resources: from maintaining our digital platform to sourcing and curating new content. With your help, we can grow our collection, improve accessibility, and bring these incredible narratives to an even wider audience. Your sponsorship enables us to keep the world’s stories alive and thriving. ♦ Visit our Support page

The Conclave of Corpses

A curious monk of Kreutzberg convent explores the cemetery at night, encountering a horrifying vision: undead monks and victims of their sins, suffering eternal torment. He learns their punishment stems from past atrocities, their hearts engulfed in unconsuming flames. Shaken, the monk prays, regains faith, and abandons skepticism. Transforming his life, he dedicates himself to the Church, dying in sanctity, his body preserved in the crypt.

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

Supernatural Beings: The monk encounters undead monks and tormented souls, representing interactions with spirits.

Divine Punishment: The eternal suffering of the undead monks is a consequence of their past sins, illustrating retribution from higher powers.

Moral Lessons: The tale imparts lessons on the dangers of skepticism and the importance of faith and piety.

From the lore

Learn more about German Folklore

Some three hundred years since, when the convent of Kreutzberg was in its glory, one of the monks who dwelt therein, wishing to ascertain something of the hereafter of those whose bodies lay all undecayed in the cemetery, visited it alone in the dead of night for the purpose of prosecuting his inquiries on that fearful subject. As he opened the trap-door of the vault a light burst from below; but deeming it to be only the lamp of the sacristan, the monk drew back and awaited his departure concealed behind the high altar. The sacristan emerged not, however, from the opening; and the monk, tired of waiting, approached, and finally descended the rugged steps which led into the dreary depths.

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No sooner had he set foot on the lowermost stair, than the well-known scene underwent a complete transformation in his eyes. He had long been accustomed to visit the vault, and whenever the sacristan went thither, he was almost sure to be with him. He therefore knew every part of it as well as he did the interior of his own narrow cell, and the arrangement of its contents was perfectly familiar to his eyes. What, then, was his horror to perceive that this arrangement, which even but that morning had come under his observation as usual, was altogether altered, and a new and wonderful one substituted in its stead.

A dim lurid light pervaded the desolate abode of darkness, and it just sufficed to give to his view a sight of the most singular description.

On each side of him the dead but imperishable bodies of the long-buried brothers of the convent sat erect in their lidless coffins, their cold, starry eyes glaring at him with lifeless rigidity, their withered fingers locked together on their breasts, their stiffened limbs motionless and still. It was a sight to petrify the stoutest heart; and the monk’s quailed before it, though he was a philosopher, and a sceptic to boot. At the upper end of the vault, at a rude table formed of a decayed coffin, or something which once served the same purpose, sat three monks. They were the oldest corses in the charnel-house, for the inquisitive brother knew their faces well; and the cadaverous hue of their cheeks seemed still more cadaverous in the dim light shed upon them, while their hollow eyes gave forth what looked to him like flashes of flame. A large book lay open before one of them, and the others bent over the rotten table as if in intense pain, or in deep and fixed attention. No word was said; no sound was heard; the vault was as silent as the grave, its awful tenants still as statues.

Fain would the curious monk have receded from this horrible place; fain would he have retraced his steps and sought again his cell; fain would he have shut his eyes to the fearful scene; but he could not stir from the spot, he felt rooted there; and though he once succeeded in turning his eyes to the entrance of the vault, to his infinite surprise and dismay he could not discover where it lay, nor perceive any possible means of exit. He stood thus for some time. At length the aged monk at the table beckoned him to advance. With slow tottering steps he made his way to the group, and at length stood in front of the table, while the other monks raised their heads and glanced at him with a fixed, lifeless look that froze the current of his blood. He knew not what to do; his senses were fast forsaking him; Heaven seemed to have deserted him for his incredulity. In this moment of doubt and fear he bethought him of a prayer, and as he proceeded he felt himself becoming possessed of a confidence he had before unknown. He looked on the book before him. It was a large volume, bound in black, and clasped with bands of gold, with fastenings of the same metal. It was inscribed at the top of each page

“Liber Obedientiæ.”

He could read no further. He then looked, first in the eyes of him before whom it lay open, and then in those of his fellows. He finally glanced around the vault on the corpses who filled every visible coffin in its dark and spacious womb. Speech came to him, and resolution to use it. He addressed himself to the awful beings in whose presence he stood, in the words of one having authority with them.

“Pax vobis,” ’twas thus he spake–“Peace be to ye.”

“Hic nulla pax,” replied an aged monk, in a hollow, tremulous tone, baring his breast the while–“Here is no peace.”

He pointed to his bosom as he spoke, and the monk, casting his eye upon it, beheld his heart within surrounded by living fire, which seemed to feed on it but not consume it. He turned away in affright, but ceased not to prosecute his inquiries.

“Pax vobis, in nomine Domini,” he spake again–“Peace be to ye, in the name of the Lord.”

“Hic non pax,” the hollow and heartrending tones of the ancient monk who sat at the right of the table were heard to answer.

On glancing at the bared bosom of this hapless being also the same sight was exhibited–the heart surrounded by a devouring flame, but still remaining fresh and unconsumed under its operation. Once more the monk turned away and addressed the aged man in the centre.

“Pax vobis, in nomine Domini,” he proceeded.

At these words the being to whom they were addressed raised his head, put forward his hand, and closing the book with a loud clap, said–

“Speak on. It is yours to ask, and mine to answer.”

The monk felt reassured, and his courage rose with the occasion.

“Who are ye?” he inquired; “who may ye be?”

“We know not!” was the answer, “alas! we know not!”

“We know not, we know not!” echoed in melancholy tones the denizens of the vault.

“What do ye here?” pursued the querist.

“We await the last day, the day of the last judgment! Alas for us! woe! woe!”

“Woe! woe!” resounded on all sides.

The monk was appalled, but still he proceeded.

“What did ye to deserve such doom as this? What may your crime be that deserves such dole and sorrow?”

As he asked the question the earth shook under him, and a crowd of skeletons uprose from a range of graves which yawned suddenly at his feet.

“These are our victims,” answered the old monk. “They suffered at our hands. We suffer now, while they are at peace; and we shall suffer.”

“For how long?” asked the monk.

“For ever and ever!” was the answer.

“For ever and ever, for ever and ever!” died along the vault.

“May God have mercy on us!” was all the monk could exclaim.

The skeletons vanished, the graves closing over them. The aged men disappeared from his view, the bodies fell back in their coffins, the light fled, and the den of death was once more enveloped in its usual darkness.

On the monk’s revival he found himself lying at the foot of the altar. The grey dawn of a spring morning was visible, and he was fain to retire to his cell as secretly as he could, for fear he should be discovered.

From thenceforth he eschewed vain philosophy, says the legend, and, devoting his time to the pursuit of true knowledge, and the extension of the power, greatness, and glory of the Church, died in the odour of sanctity, and was buried in that holy vault, where his body is still visible.

Requiescat in pace!

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Brother Merry

Brother Merry, a disbanded soldier, meets a saint disguised as a beggar and shares his meager provisions. The saint rewards him with magical powers, enabling him to subdue devils and revive the dead. Despite squandering his riches, Merry cunningly enters heaven by tricking the saint with his enchanted knapsack. His journey reflects themes of generosity, mischief, and resilience, ultimately securing his place in the afterlife.

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: Brother Merry uses cleverness to outwit the saint and gain entry into heaven.

Moral Lessons: The narrative imparts lessons on generosity, resourcefulness, and the consequences of one’s actions.

Quest: The story follows Brother Merry’s adventures and challenges after being discharged, leading to his ultimate goal of entering heaven.

From the lore

Learn more about German Folklore

In days of yore there was a war, and when it was at an end a great number of the soldiers that had been engaged in it were disbanded. Among the rest Brother Merry received his discharge, and nothing more for all he had done than a very little loaf of soldier’s bread, and four halfpence in money. With these possessions he went his way. Now a saint had seated himself in the road, like a poor beggar man, and when Brother Merry came along, he asked him for charity to give him something. Then the soldier said: “Dear beggar man, what shall such as I give you? I have been a soldier, and have just got my discharge, and with it only a very little loaf and four halfpence. When that is gone I shall have to beg like yourself.”

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However, he divided the loaf into four parts, and gave the saint one, with a halfpenny. The saint thanked him, and having gone a little further along the road seated himself like another beggar in the way of the soldier. When Brother Merry came up the saint again asked alms of him, and the old soldier again gave him another quarter of the loaf and another halfpenny.

The saint thanked him, and seated himself in the way a third time, like another beggar, and again addressed Brother Merry. Brother Merry gave him a third quarter of the loaf, and the third halfpenny.

The saint thanked him, and Brother Merry journeyed on with all he had left–one quarter of the loaf and a single halfpenny. When he came to a tavern, being hungry and thirsty, he went in and ate the bread, and spent the halfpenny in beer to drink with it. When he had finished, he continued his journey, and the saint, in the disguise of a disbanded soldier, met him again and saluted him.

“Good day, comrade,” said he; “can you give me a morsel of bread, and a halfpenny to get a drop of drink?”

“Where shall I get it?” answered Brother Merry. “I got my discharge, and nothing with it but a loaf and four halfpence, and three beggars met me on the road and I gave each of them a quarter of the loaf and a halfpenny. The last quarter I have just eaten at the tavern, and I have spent the last halfpenny in drink. I am quite empty now. If you have nothing, let us go begging together.”

“No, that will not be necessary just now,” said the saint. “I understand a little about doctoring, and I will in time obtain as much as I need by that.”

“Ha!” said Brother Merry, “I know nothing about that, so I must go and beg by myself.”

“Only come along,” replied the saint, “and if I can earn anything, you shall go halves.”

“That will suit me excellently,” replied Brother Merry.

So they travelled on together.

They had not gone a great distance before they came to a cottage in which they heard a great lamenting and screaming. They went in to see what was the matter, and found a man sick to the death, as if about to expire, and his wife crying and weeping loudly.

“Leave off whining and crying,” said the saint. “I will make the man well again quickly enough,” and he took a salve out of his pocket and cured the man instantly, so that he could stand up and was quite hearty. Then the man and his wife, in great joy, demanded–

“How can we repay you? What shall we give you?”

The saint would not, however, take anything, and the more the couple pressed him the more firmly he declined. Brother Merry, who had been looking on, came to his side, and, nudging him, said–

“Take something; take something. We want it badly enough.”

At length the peasant brought a lamb, which he desired the saint to accept, but he declined it still. Then Brother Merry jogged his side, and said–

“Take it, you foolish fellow; take it. We want it badly enough.”

At last the saint said–

“Well, I’ll take the lamb, but I shall not carry it. You must carry it.”

“There’s no great hardship in that,” cried Brother Merry. “I can easily do it;” and he took it on his shoulder.

After that they went on till they came to a wood, and Brother Merry, who was very hungry, and found the lamb a heavy load, called out to the saint–

“Hallo! here is a nice place for us to dress and eat the lamb.”

“With all my heart,” replied his companion; “but I don’t understand anything of cooking, so do you begin, and I will walk about until it is ready. Don’t begin to eat until I return. I will take care to be back in time.”

“Go your ways,” said Brother Merry; “I can cook it well enough. I’ll soon have it ready.”

The saint wandered away, while Brother Merry lighted the fire, killed the lamb, put the pieces into the pot, and boiled them. In a short time the lamb was thoroughly done, but the saint had not returned; so Merry took the meat up, carved it, and found the heart.

“That is the best part of it,” said he; and he kept tasting it until he had finished it.

At length the saint came back, and said–

“I only want the heart. All the rest you may have, only give me that.”

Then Brother Merry took his knife and fork, and turned the lamb about as if he would have found the heart, but of course he could not discover it. At last he said, in a careless manner–

“It is not here.”

“Not there? Where should it be, then?” said the saint.

“That I don’t know,” said Merry; “but now I think of it, what a couple of fools we are to look for the heart of a lamb. A lamb, you know, has not got a heart.”

“What?” said the saint; “that’s news, indeed. Why, every beast has a heart, and why should not the lamb have one as well as the rest of them?”

“No, certainly, comrade, a lamb has no heart. Only reflect, and it will occur to you that it really has not.”

“Well,” replied his companion, “it is quite sufficient. There is no heart there, so I need none of the lamb. You may eat it all.”

“Well, what I cannot eat I’ll put in my knapsack,” said Brother Merry.

Then he ate some, and disposed of the rest as he had said. Now, as they continued their journey, the saint contrived that a great stream should flow right across their path, so that they must be obliged to ford it. Then said he–

“Go you first.”

“No,” answered Brother Merry; “go you first,” thinking that if the water were too deep he would stay on the bank where he was. However, the saint waded through, and the water only reached to his knees; but when Brother Merry ventured, the stream seemed suddenly to increase in depth, and he was soon up to his neck in the water.

“Help me, comrade,” he cried.

“Will you confess,” said the saint, “that you ate the lamb’s heart?”

The soldier still denied it, and the water got still deeper, until it reached his mouth. Then the saint said again–

“Will you confess, then, that you ate the lamb’s heart?”

Brother Merry still denied what he had done, and as the saint did not wish to let him drown he helped him out of his danger.

They journeyed on until they came to a kingdom where they heard that the king’s daughter lay dangerously ill.

“Holloa! brother,” said the soldier, “here’s a catch for us. If we can only cure her we shall be made for ever.”

The saint, however, was not quick enough for Brother Merry.

“Come, Brother Heart,” said the soldier, “put your best foot forward, so that we may come in at the right time.”

But the saint went still slower, though his companion kept pushing and driving him, till at last they heard that the princess was dead.

“This comes of your creeping so,” said the soldier.

“Now be still,” said the saint, “for I can do more than make the sick whole; I can bring the dead to life again.”

“If that’s true,” said Brother Merry, “you must at least earn half the kingdom for us.”

At length they arrived at the king’s palace, where everybody was in great trouble, but the saint told the king he would restore his daughter to him. They conducted him to where she lay, and he commanded them to let him have a caldron of water, and when it had been brought, he ordered all the people to go away, and let nobody remain with him but Brother Merry. Then he divided the limbs of the dead princess, and throwing them into the water, lighted a fire under the caldron, and boiled them. When all the flesh had fallen from the bones, the saint took them, laid them on a table, and placed them together in their natural order. Having done this, he walked before them, and said–

“Arise, thou dead one!”

As he repeated these words the third time the princess arose, alive, well, and beautiful.

The king was greatly rejoiced, and said to the saint–

“Require for thy reward what thou wilt. Though it should be half my empire, I will give it you.”

But the saint replied–

“I desire nothing for what I have done.”

“O thou Jack Fool!” thought Brother Merry to himself. Then, nudging his comrade’s side, he said–

“Don’t be so silly. If you won’t have anything, yet I need somewhat.”

The saint, however, would take nothing, but as the king saw that his companion would gladly have a gift, he commanded the keeper of his treasures to fill his knapsack with gold, at which Brother Merry was right pleased.

Again they went upon their way till they came to a wood, when the saint said to his fellow-traveller–

“Now we will share the gold.”

“Yes,” replied the soldier, “that we can.”

Then the saint took the gold and divided it into three portions.

“Well,” thought Brother Merry, “what whim has he got in his head now, making three parcels, and only two of us?”

“Now,” said the saint, “I have divided it fairly, one for me, and one for you, and one for him who ate the heart.”

“Oh, I ate that,” said the soldier, quickly taking up the gold. “I did, I assure you.”

“How can that be true?” replied the saint. “A lamb has no heart.”

“Ay! what, brother? What are you thinking of? A lamb has no heart? Very good! When every beast has why should that one be without?”

“Now that is very good,” said the saint. “Take all the gold yourself, for I shall remain no more with you, but will go my own way alone.”

“As you please, Brother Heart,” answered the soldier. “A pleasant journey to you, my hearty.”

The saint took another road, and as he went off–

“Well,” thought the soldier, “it’s all right that he has marched off, for he is an odd fellow.”

Brother Merry had now plenty of money, but he did not know how to use it, so he spent it and gave it away, till in the course of a little time he found himself once more penniless. At last he came into a country where he heard that the king’s daughter was dead.

“Ah!” thought he, “that may turn out well. I’ll bring her to life again.”

Then he went to the king and offered his services. Now the king had heard that there was an old soldier who went about restoring the dead to life, and he thought that Brother Merry must be just the man. However, he had not much confidence in him, so he first consulted his council, and they agreed that as the princess was certainly dead, the old soldier might be allowed to see what he could do. Brother Merry commanded them to bring him a caldron of water, and when every one had left the room he separated the limbs, threw them into the caldron, and made a fire under it, exactly as he had seen the saint do. When the water boiled and the flesh fell from the bones, he took them and placed them upon the table, but as he did not know how to arrange them he piled them one upon another. Then he stood before them, and said–

“Thou dead, arise!” and he cried so three times, but all to no purpose.

“Stand up, you vixen! stand up, or it shall be the worse for you,” he cried.

Scarcely had he repeated these words ere the saint came in at the window, in the likeness of an old soldier, just as before, and said–

“You impious fellow! How can the dead stand up when you have thrown the bones thus one upon another?”

“Ah! Brother Heart,” answered Merry, “I have done it as well as I can.”

“I will help you out of your trouble this time,” said the saint; “but I tell you this, if you ever again undertake a job of this kind, you will repent it, and for this you shall neither ask for nor take the least thing from the king.”

Having placed the bones in their proper order, the saint said three times–

“Thou dead, arise!” and the princess stood up, sound and beautiful as before. Then the saint immediately disappeared again out of the window, and Brother Merry was glad that all had turned out so well. One thing, however, grieved him sorely, and that was that he might take nothing from the king.

“I should like to know,” thought he, “what Brother Heart had to grumble about. What he gives with one hand he takes with the other. There is no wit in that.”

The king asked Brother Merry what he would have, but the soldier durst not take anything. However, he managed by hints and cunning that the king should fill his knapsack with money, and with that he journeyed on. When he came out of the palace door, however, he found the saint standing there, who said–

“See what a man you are. Have I not forbidden you to take anything, and yet you have your knapsack filled with gold?”

“How can I help it,” answered the soldier, “if they would thrust it in?”

“I tell you this,” said the saint, “mind that you don’t undertake such a business a second time. If you do, it will fare badly with you.”

“Ah! brother,” answered the soldier, “never fear. Now I have money, why should I trouble myself with washing bones?”

“That will not last a long time,” said the saint; “but, in order that you may never tread in a forbidden path, I will bestow upon your knapsack this power, that whatsoever you wish in it shall be there. Farewell! you will never see me again.”

“Adieu,” said Brother Merry, and thought he, “I am glad you are gone. You are a wonderful fellow. I am willing enough not to follow you.”

He forgot all about the wonderful property bestowed upon his knapsack, and very soon he had spent and squandered his gold as before. When he had but fourpence left, he came to a public-house, and thought that the money must go. So he called for three pennyworth of wine and a pennyworth of bread. As he ate and drank, the flavour of roasting geese tickled his nose, and, peeping and prying about, he saw that the landlord had placed two geese in the oven. Then it occurred to him what his companion had told him about his knapsack, so he determined to put it to the test. Going out, he stood before the door, and said–

“I wish that the two geese which are baking in the oven were in my knapsack.”

When he had said this, he peeped in, and, sure enough, there they were.

“Ah! ah!” said he, “that is all right. I am a made man.”

He went on a little way, took out the geese, and commenced to eat them. As he was thus enjoying himself, there came by two labouring men, who looked with hungry eyes at the one goose which was yet untouched. Brother Merry noticed it, and thought that one goose would be enough for him. So he called the men, gave them the goose, and bade them drink his health. The men thanked him, and going to the public-house, called for wine and bread, took out their present, and commenced to eat. When the hostess saw what they were dining on, she said to her goodman–

“Those two men are eating a goose. You had better see if it is not one of ours out of the oven.”

The host opened the door, and lo! the oven was empty.

“O you pack of thieves!” he shouted. “This is the way you eat geese, is it? Pay for them directly, or I will wash you both with green hazel juice.”

The men said–

“We are not thieves. We met an old soldier on the road, and he made us a present of the goose.”

“You are not going to hoax me in that way,” said the host. “The soldier has been here, but went out of the door like an honest fellow. I took care of that. You are the thieves, and you shall pay for the geese.”

However, as the men had no money to pay him with, he took a stick and beat them out of doors.

Meanwhile, as Brother Merry journeyed on, he came to a place where there was a noble castle, and not far from it a little public-house. Into this he went, and asked for a night’s lodging, but the landlord said that his house was full of guests, and he could not accommodate him.

“I wonder,” said Brother Merry, “that the people should all come to you, instead of going to that castle.”

“They have good reason for what they do,” said the landlord, “for whoever has attempted to spend the night at the castle has never come back to show how he was entertained.”

“If others have attempted it, why shouldn’t I?” said Merry.

“You had better leave it alone,” said the host; “you are only thrusting your head into danger.”

“No fear of danger,” said the soldier, “only give me the key and plenty to eat and drink.”

The hostess gave him what he asked for, and he went off to the castle, relished his supper, and when he found himself sleepy, laid himself down on the floor, for there was no bed in the place. He soon went to sleep, but in the night he was awoke by a great noise, and when he aroused himself he discovered nine very ugly devils dancing in a circle which they had made around him.

“Dance as long as you like,” said Brother Merry; “but don’t come near me.”

But the devils came drawing nearer and nearer, and at last they almost trod on his face with their misshapen feet.

“Be quiet,” said he, but they behaved still worse.

At last he got angry, and crying–

“Holla! I’ll soon make you quiet,” he caught hold of the leg of a stool and struck about him.

Nine devils against one soldier were, however, too much, and while he laid about lustily on those before him, those behind pulled his hair and pinched him miserably.

“Ay, ay, you pack of devils, now you are too hard for me,” said he; “but wait a bit. I wish all the nine devils were in my knapsack,” cried he, and it was no sooner said than done.

There they were. Then Brother Merry buckled it up close, and threw it into a corner, and as all was now still he lay down and slept till morning, when the landlord of the inn and the nobleman to whom the castle belonged came to see how it had fared with him. When they saw him sound and lively, they were astonished, and said–

“Did the ghosts, then, do nothing to you?”

“Why, not exactly,” said Merry; “but I have got them all nine in my knapsack. You may dwell quietly enough in your castle now; from henceforth they won’t trouble you.”

The nobleman thanked him and gave him great rewards, begging him to remain in his service, saying that he would take care of him all the days of his life.

“No,” answered he; “I am used to wander and rove about. I will again set forth.”

He went on until he came to a smithy, into which he went, and laying his knapsack on the anvil, bade the smith and all his men hammer away upon it as hard as they could. They did as they were directed, with their largest hammers and all their might, and the poor devils set up a piteous howling. When the men opened the knapsack there were eight of them dead, but one who had been snug in a fold was still alive, and he slipped out and ran away to his home in a twinkling.

After this Brother Merry wandered about the world for a long time; but at last he grew old, and began to think about his latter end, so he went to a hermit who was held to be a very pious man and said–

“I am tired of roving, and will now endeavour to go to heaven.”

“There stand two ways,” said the hermit; “the one, broad and pleasant, leads to hell; the other is rough and narrow, and that leads to heaven.”

“I must be a fool indeed,” thought Brother Merry, “if I go the rough and narrow road;” so he went the broad and pleasant way till he came at last to a great black door, and that was the door of hell.

He knocked, and the door-keeper opened it, and when he saw that it was Merry he was sadly frightened, for who should he be but the ninth devil who had been in the knapsack, and he had thought himself lucky, for he had escaped with nothing worse than a black eye. He bolted the door again directly, and running to the chief of the devils, said–

“There is a fellow outside with a knapsack on his back, but pray don’t let him in, for he can get all hell into his knapsack by wishing it. He once got me a terribly ugly hammering in it.”

So they called out to Brother Merry, and told him that he must go away, for they should not let him in.

“Well, if they will not have me here,” thought Merry, “I’ll e’en try if I can get a lodging in heaven. Somewhere or other I must rest.”

So he turned about and went on till he came to the door of heaven, and there he knocked. Now the saint who had journeyed with Merry sat at the door, and had charge of the entrance. Brother Merry recognised him, and said–

“Are you here, old acquaintance? Then things will go better with me.”

The saint replied–

“I suppose you want to get into heaven?”

“Ay, ay, brother, let me in; I must put up somewhere.”

“No,” said the saint; “you don’t come in here.”

“Well, if you won’t let me in, take your dirty knapsack again. I’ll have nothing that can put me in mind of you,” said Merry carelessly.

“Give it me, then,” said the saint.

Brother Merry handed it through the grating into heaven, and the saint took it and hung it up behind his chair.

“Now,” said Brother Merry, “I wish I was in my own knapsack.”

Instantly he was there; and thus, being once actually in heaven, the saint was obliged to let him stay there.

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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 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.”

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The Little Shroud

A grieving mother mourned her beloved young son, who passed away suddenly. Her endless tears caused his spirit to appear, revealing that her sorrow dampened his shroud, preventing his rest. One night, the child, now dry and at peace, urged her to accept his fate. Moved, she ceased weeping, embracing patience and faith, allowing her son to finally rest peacefully in his grave.

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

Loss and Renewal: The mother’s journey through grief to acceptance signifies the universal experience of loss and the subsequent emotional renewal.

Ancestral Spirits: The appearance of the child’s spirit reflects the connection between the living and the departed, emphasizing the influence of ancestral presences.

Moral Lessons: The narrative imparts the lesson that excessive mourning can hinder the peace of departed loved ones, encouraging acceptance and emotional resilience.

From the lore

Learn more about German Folklore

There was once a woman who had a little son of about seven years old, who was so lovely and beautiful that no one could look upon him without being kind to him, and he was dearer to her than all the world beside. It happened that he suddenly fell ill and died, and his mother would not be comforted, but wept for him day and night. Shortly after he was buried he showed himself at night in the places where he had been used in his lifetime to sit and play, and if his mother wept, he wept also, and when the morning came he departed. Since his mother never ceased weeping, the child came one night in the little white shroud in which he had been laid in his coffin, and with the chaplet upon his head, and seating himself at her feet, upon the bed, he cried:

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“O mother, mother, give over crying, else I cannot stop in my coffin, for my shroud is never dry because of your tears, for they fall upon it.”

When his mother heard this she was sore afraid, and wept no more. And the babe came upon another night, holding in his hand a little taper, and he said–

“Look, mother, my shroud is now quite dry, and I can rest in my grave.”

Then she bowed to the will of Providence, and bore her sorrow with silence and patience, and the little child returned not again, but slept in his underground bed.

Running and expanding this site requires resources: from maintaining our digital platform to sourcing and curating new content. With your help, we can grow our collection, improve accessibility, and bring these incredible narratives to an even wider audience. Your sponsorship enables us to keep the world’s stories alive and thriving. ♦ Visit our Support page

The Fisherman and His Wife

A fisherman and his wife, Alice, live humbly by the sea. After the fisherman catches an enchanted talking fish and releases it, Alice pushes him to request increasing luxuries: a cottage, a castle, kingship, and eventually control of the sun and moon. The fish grants the wishes until Alice’s greed becomes insatiable. Finally, the fish revokes everything, returning them to their original ditch.

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: The fisherman’s wife manipulates her husband into repeatedly asking the enchanted fish for more, showcasing her cunning nature.

Divine Punishment: The enchanted fish, acting as a supernatural being, ultimately punishes the couple by revoking all the granted wishes due to their excessive greed.

Moral Lessons: The tale imparts a clear moral lesson about the dangers of greed and the importance of contentment.

From the lore

Learn more about German Folklore

There was once a fisherman who lived with his wife in a ditch close by the seaside. The fisherman used to go out all day long a-fishing, and one day as he sat on the shore with his rod, looking at the shining water and watching his line, all of sudden his float was dragged away deep under the sea. In drawing it up he pulled a great fish out of the water. The fish said to him: “Pray let me live. I am not a real fish. I am an enchanted prince. Put me in the water again and let me go.”

“Oh!” said the man, “you need not make so many words about the matter. I wish to have nothing to do with a fish that can talk, so swim away as soon as you please.”

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Then he put him back into the water, and the fish darted straight down to the bottom, and left a long streak of blood behind him.

When the fisherman went home to his wife in the ditch, he told her how he had caught a great fish, and how it had told him it was an enchanted prince, and that on hearing it speak he had let it go again.

“Did you not ask it for anything?” said the wife.

“No,” said the man; “what should I ask it for?”

“Ah!” said the wife, “we live very wretchedly here in this nasty miserable ditch, do go back and tell the fish we want a little cottage.”

The fisherman did not much like the business; however, he went to the sea, and when he came there the water looked all yellow and green. He sat at the water’s edge and said–

“O man of the sea,
Come listen to me,
For Alice my wife,
The plague of my life,
Hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!”

Then the fish came swimming to him and said–

“Well, what does she want?”

“Ah!” answered the fisherman, “my wife says that when I had caught you, I ought to have asked you for something before I let you go again. She does not like living any longer in the ditch, and wants a little cottage.”

“Go home, then,” said the fish; “she is in the cottage already.”

So the man went home, and saw his wife standing at the door of a cottage.

“Come in, come in,” said she. “Is not this much better than the ditch?”

There was a parlour, a bedchamber, and a kitchen; and behind the cottage there was a little garden with all sorts of flowers and fruits, and a courtyard full of ducks and chickens.

“Ah,” said the fisherman, “how happily we shall live!”

“We will try to do so, at least,” said his wife.

Everything went right for a week or two, and then Dame Alice said–

“Husband, there is not room enough in this cottage, the courtyard and garden are a great deal too small. I should like to have a large stone castle to live in, so go to the fish again and tell him to give us a castle.”

“Wife,” said the fisherman, “I don’t like to go to him again, for perhaps he will be angry. We ought to be content with the cottage.”

“Nonsense!” said the wife, “he will do it very willingly. Go along and try.”

The fisherman went, but his heart was very heavy, and when he came to the sea it looked blue and gloomy, though it was quite calm. He went close to it, and said–

“O man of the sea,
Come listen to me,
For Alice my wife,
The plague of my life,
Hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!”

“Well, what does she want now?” said the fish.

“Ah!” said the man very sorrowfully, “my wife wants to live in a stone castle.”

“Go home, then,” said the fish; “she is standing at the door of it already.”

Away went the fisherman, and found his wife standing before a great castle.

“See,” said she, “is not this grand?”

With that they went into the house together, and found a great many servants there, the rooms all richly furnished, and full of golden chairs and tables; and behind the castle was a garden, and a wood half a mile long, full of sheep, goats, hares, and deer; and in the courtyard were stables and cow-houses.

“Well,” said the man, “now will we live contented and happy for the rest of our lives.”

“Perhaps we may,” said the wife, “but let us consider and sleep upon it before we make up our minds;” so they went to bed.

The next morning when Dame Alice awoke it was broad daylight, and she jogged the fisherman with her elbow, and said–

“Get up, husband, and bestir yourself, for we must be king of all the land.”

“Wife, wife,” said the man, “why should we wish to be king? I will not be king.”

“Then I will,” said Alice.

“But, wife,” answered the fisherman, “how can you be king? The fish cannot make you king.”

“Husband,” said she, “say no more about it, but go and try. I will be king.”

So the man went away quite sorrowful, to think that his wife should want to be king. The sea looked a dark grey colour, and was covered with foam, as he called the fish to come and help him.

“Well, what would she have now?” asked the fish.

“Alas!” said the man, “my wife wants to be king.”

“Go home,” said the fish, “she is king already.”

Then the fisherman went home, and as he came close to the palace he saw a troop of soldiers, and heard the sound of drums and trumpets; and when he entered, he saw his wife sitting on a high throne of gold and diamonds, with a golden crown upon her head, and on each side of her stood six beautiful maidens.

“Well, wife,” said the fisherman, “are you king?”

“Yes,” said she, “I am king.”

When he had looked at her for a long time, he said–

“Ah! wife, what a fine thing it is to be king! now we shall never have anything more to wish for.”

“I don’t know how that may be,” said she. “Never is a long time. I am king, ’tis true; but I begin to be tired of it, and I think I should like to be emperor.”

“Alas! wife, why should you wish to be emperor?” said the fisherman.

“Husband,” said she, “go to the fish. I say I will be emperor.”

“Ah! wife,” replied the fisherman, “the fish cannot make an emperor; and I should not like to ask for such a thing.”

“I am king,” said Alice; “and you are my slave, so go directly.”

So the fisherman was obliged to go, and he muttered as he went along–

“This will come to no good. It is too much to ask. The fish will be tired at last, and then we shall repent of what we have done.”

He soon arrived at the sea, and the water was quite black and muddy, and a mighty whirlwind blew over it; but he went to the shore, and repeated the words he had used before.

“What would she have now?” inquired the fish.

“She wants to be emperor,” replied the fisherman.

“Go home,” said the fish, “she is emperor already.”

So he went home again, and as he came near, he saw his wife sitting on a very lofty throne made of solid gold, with a crown on her head, full two yards high; and on each side of her stood her guards and attendants in a row, ranged according to height, from the tallest giant to a little dwarf, no bigger than one’s finger. And before her stood princes, and dukes, and earls; and the fisherman went up to her, and said–

“Wife, are you emperor?”

“Yes,” said she, “I am emperor.”

“Ah!” said the man, as he gazed on her, “what a fine thing it is to be emperor!”

“Husband,” said she, “why should we stay at being emperor? We will be pope next.”

“O wife, wife!” said he. “How can you be pope? There is but one pope at a time in Christendom.”

“Husband,” said she, “I will be pope this very day.”

“But,” replied the husband, “the fish cannot make you pope.”

“What nonsense!” said she. “If he can make an emperor, he can make a pope; go and try him.”

So the fisherman went; but when he came to the shore the wind was raging, the sea was tossed up and down like boiling water, and the ships were in the greatest distress and danced upon the waves most fearfully. In the middle of the sky there was a little blue; but towards the south it was all red, as if a dreadful storm was rising. The fisherman repeated the words, and the fish appeared before him.

“What does she want now?” asked the fish.

“My wife wants to be pope,” said the fisherman.

“Go home,” said the fish; “she is pope already.”

Then the fisherman went home, and found his wife sitting on a throne, with three crowns on her head, while around stood all the pomp and power of the Church. On each side were two rows of burning lights of all sizes; the greatest as large as a tower, and the smallest no larger than a rushlight.

“Well, wife,” said the fisherman, as he looked at all this grandeur, “are you pope?”

“Yes,” said she; “I am pope.”

“Well,” replied he, “it is a grand thing to be pope; and now you must be content, for you can be nothing greater.”

“I will consider about that,” replied the wife.

Then they went to bed; but Dame Alice could not sleep all night for thinking what she should be next. At last morning came, and the sun rose.

“Ha!” thought she, as she looked at it through the window, “cannot I prevent the sun rising?”

At this she was very angry, and wakened her husband, and said–

“Husband, go to the fish, and tell him I want to be lord of the sun and moon.”

The fisherman was half asleep; but the thought frightened him so much that he started and fell out of bed.

“Alas! wife,” said he, “cannot you be content to be pope?”

“No,” said she, “I am very uneasy, and cannot bear to see the sun and moon rise without my leave. Go to the fish directly.”

Then the man went trembling for fear. As he was going down to the shore a dreadful storm arose, so that the trees and the rocks shook, the heavens became black, the lightning played, the thunder rolled, and the sea was covered with black waves like mountains, with a white crown of foam upon them. The fisherman came to the shore, and said–

“O man of the sea,
Come listen to me,
For Alice, my wife,
The plague of my life,
Hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!”

“What does she want now?” asked the fish.

“Ah!” said he, “she wants to be lord of the sun and moon.”

“Go home,” replied the fish, “to your ditch again.”

And there they live to this very day.

Running and expanding this site requires resources: from maintaining our digital platform to sourcing and curating new content. With your help, we can grow our collection, improve accessibility, and bring these incredible narratives to an even wider audience. Your sponsorship enables us to keep the world’s stories alive and thriving. ♦ Visit our Support page

The Cellar of the Old Knights in the Kyffhauser

A poor but cheerful father in Tilleda sends his daughter to fetch wine from a legendary knights’ cellar. She succeeds and keeps their secret, but a greedy neighbor tries to exploit the source for profit. His attempt ends in a supernatural ordeal, leaving him shaken and leading to his death. The tale warns against greed and exploiting gifts meant for goodwill.

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

Moral Lessons: The narrative imparts a lesson on the perils of greed and the importance of respecting gifts given in goodwill. The poor man’s family benefits from the wine due to their modesty and discretion, while the neighbor’s greed leads to his downfall.

Sacred Spaces: The hidden cellar within the Kyffhauser mountain serves as a sacred space, accessible only to those deemed worthy and respectful of its secrets.

Echoes of the Past: The story references historical elements, such as the old knights and their long-standing traditions, influencing the present events in the tale.

From the lore

Learn more about German Folklore

There was a poor, but worthy, and withal very merry, fellow at Tilleda, who was once put to the expense of a christening, and, as luck would have it, it was the eighth. According to the custom of the time, he was obliged to give a plain feast to the child’s sponsors. The wine of the country which he put before his guests was soon exhausted, and they began to call for more.

“Go,” said the merry father of the newly baptized child to his eldest daughter, a handsome girl of sixteen,–“go, and get us better wine than this out of the cellar.”

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“Out of what cellar?”

“Why, out of the great wine-cellar of the old Knights in the Kyffhauser, to be sure,” said her father jokingly.

The simple-minded girl did as he told her, and taking a small pitcher in her hand went to the mountain. In the middle of the mountain she found an aged housekeeper, dressed in a very old-fashioned style, with a large bundle of keys at her girdle, sitting at the ruined entrance of an immense cellar. The girl was struck dumb with amazement, but the old woman said very kindly–

“Of a surety you want to draw wine out of the Knights’ cellar?”

“Yes,” said the girl timidly, “but I have no money.”

“Never mind that,” said the old woman; “come with me, and you shall have wine for nothing, and better wine too than your father ever tasted.”

So the two went together through the half-blocked-up entrance, and as they went along the old woman made the girl tell her how affairs were going on at that time in Tilleda.

“For once,” said she, “when I was young, and good-looking as you are, the Knights stole me away in the night-time, and brought me through a hole in the ground from the very house in Tilleda which now belongs to your father. Shortly before that they had carried away by force from Kelbra, in broad daylight, the four beautiful damsels who occasionally still ride about here on horses richly caparisoned, and then disappear again. As for me, as soon as I grew old, they made me their butler, and I have been so ever since.”

They had now reached the cellar door, which the old woman opened. It was a very large roomy cellar, with barrels ranged along both sides. The old woman rapped against the barrels–some were quite full, some were only half full. She took the little pitcher, drew it full of wine, and said–

“There, take that to your father, and as often as you have a feast in your house you may come here again; but, mind, tell nobody but your father where you get the wine from. Mind, too, you must never sell any of it–it costs nothing, and for nothing you must give it away. Let any one but come here for wine to make a profit off it and his last bread is baked.”

The girl took the wine to her father, whose guests were highly delighted with it, and sadly puzzled to think where it came from, and ever afterwards, when there was a little merry-making in the house, would the girl fetch wine from the Kyffhauser in her little pitcher. But this state of things did not continue long. The neighbours wondered where so poor a man contrived to get such delicious wine that there was none like it in the whole country round. The father said not a word to any one, and neither did his daughter.

Opposite to them, however, lived the publican who sold adulterated wine. He had once tasted the Old Knights’ wine, and thought to himself that one might mix it with ten times the quantity of water and sell it for a good price after all. Accordingly, when the girl went for the fourth time with her little pitcher to the Kyffhauser, he crept after her, and concealed himself among the bushes, where he watched until he saw her come out of the entrance which led to the cellar, with her pitcher filled with wine.

On the following evening he himself went to the mountain, pushing before him in a wheelbarrow the largest empty barrel he could procure. This he thought of filling with the choicest wine in the cellar, and in the night rolling it down the mountain, and in this way he intended to come every day, as long as there was any wine left in the cellar.

When, however, he came to the place where he had the day before seen the entrance to the cellar, it grew all of a sudden totally dark. The wind began to howl fearfully, and a monster threw him, his barrow, and empty butt, from one ridge of rocks to another, and he kept falling lower and lower, until at last he fell into a cemetery.

There he saw before him a coffin covered with black, and his wife and four of her gossips, whom he knew well by their dress and figures, were following a bier. His fright was so great that he swooned away.

After some hours he came to himself again, and saw, to his horror, that he was still in the dimly lighted vaults, and heard just above his head the well-known town clock of Tilleda strike twelve, and thereby he knew that it was midnight, and that he was then under the church, in the burying-place of the town. He was more dead than alive, and scarcely dared to breathe.

Presently there came a monk, who led him up a long, long flight of steps, opened a door, placed, without speaking, a piece of gold in his hand, and deposited him at the foot of the mountain. It was a cold frosty night. By degrees the publican recovered himself, and crept, without barrel or wine, back to his own home. The clock struck one as he reached the door. He immediately took to his bed, and in three days was a dead man, and the piece of gold which the wizard monk had given him was expended on his funeral.

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Hans in Luck

Hans, after serving his master for seven years, sets off on a journey home with a large silver piece as his wage. Along the way, he makes a series of trades, each seemingly worse than the last—exchanging silver for a horse, the horse for a cow, the cow for a pig, the pig for a goose, and finally, the goose for a grindstone. Burdened by the grindstone, he accidentally loses it in a pond, feeling relieved and grateful for his “luck.” Hans happily returns home, free of all burdens.

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

Moral Lessons: The narrative imparts lessons on contentment and the subjective nature of value, as Hans remains happy despite trading valuable items for less valuable ones.

Cunning and Deception: The individuals Hans encounters may be seen as taking advantage of his naivety, leading to exchanges that favor them more than Hans.

Trials and Tribulations: Hans faces various challenges and mishaps during his journey, testing his resilience and adaptability.

From the lore

Learn more about German Folklore

Hans had served his master seven years, and at last said to him: “Master, my time is up; I should like to go home and see my mother, so give me my wages.” And the master said: “You have been a faithful and good servant, so your pay shall be handsome.”

Then he gave him a piece of silver that was as big as his head. Hans took out his pocket-handkerchief, put the piece of silver into it, threw it over his shoulder, and jogged off homewards. As he went lazily on, dragging one foot after another, a man came in sight, trotting along gaily on a capital horse.

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“Ah!” said Hans aloud, “what a fine thing it is to ride on horseback! There he sits as if he were at home in his chair. He trips against no stones, spares his shoes, and yet gets on he hardly knows how.”

The horseman heard this, and said–

“Well, Hans, why do you go on foot, then?”

“Ah!” said he, “I have this load to carry; to be sure, it is silver, but it is so heavy that I can’t hold up my head, and it hurts my shoulder sadly.”

“What do you say to changing?” said the horseman. “I will give you my horse, and you shall give me the silver.”

“With all my heart,” said Hans, “but I tell you one thing: you will have a weary task to drag it along.”

The horseman got off, took the silver, helped Hans up, gave him the bridle into his hand, and said–

“When you want to go very fast, you must smack your lips loud and cry, ‘Jip.'”

Hans was delighted as he sat on the horse, and rode merrily on. After a time he thought he should like to go a little faster, so he smacked his lips and cried “Jip.” Away went the horse full gallop, and before Hans knew what he was about, he was thrown off, and lay in a ditch by the wayside, and his horse would have run off if a shepherd, who was coming by driving a cow, had not stopped it. Hans soon came to himself, and got upon his legs again. He was sadly vexed, and said to the shepherd–

“This riding is no joke when a man gets on a beast like this, that stumbles and flings him off as if he would break his neck. However, I’m off now once for all. I like your cow a great deal better; one can walk along at one’s leisure behind her, and have milk, butter, and cheese every day into the bargain. What would I give to have such a cow!”

“Well,” said the shepherd, “if you are so fond of her I will change my cow for your horse.”

“Done!” said Hans merrily.

The shepherd jumped upon the horse and away he rode. Hans drove off his cow quietly, and thought his bargain a very lucky one.

“If I have only a piece of bread (and I certainly shall be able to get that), I can, whenever I like, eat my butter and cheese with it, and when I am thirsty I can milk my cow and drink the milk. What can I wish for more?” said he.

When he came to an inn he halted, ate up all his bread, and gave away his last penny for a glass of beer. Then he drove his cow towards his mother’s village. The heat grew greater as noon came on, till at last he found himself on a wide heath that it would take him more than an hour to cross, and he began to be so hot and parched that his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth.

“I can find a cure for this,” thought he; “now will I milk my cow and quench my thirst.” So he tied her to the stump of a tree, and held his leathern cap to milk into, but not a drop was to be had.

While he was trying his luck, and managing the matter very clumsily, the uneasy beast gave him a kick on the head that knocked him down, and there he lay a long while senseless. Luckily a butcher came by driving a pig in a wheelbarrow.

“What is the matter with you?” said the butcher, as he helped him up.

Hans told him what had happened, and the butcher gave him a flask, saying–

“There, drink and refresh yourself. Your cow will give you no milk; she is an old beast, good for nothing but the slaughter-house.”

“Alas, alas!” said Hans, “who would have thought it? If I kill her, what will she be good for? I hate cow-beef; it is not tender enough for me. If it were a pig, now, one could do something with it; it would at any rate make some sausages.”

“Well,” said the butcher, “to please you I’ll change and give you the pig for the cow.”

“Heaven reward you for your kindness!” said Hans, as he gave the butcher the cow and took the pig off the wheelbarrow and drove it off, holding it by a string tied to its leg.

So on he jogged, and all seemed now to go right with him. He had met with some misfortunes, to be sure, but he was now well repaid for all. The next person he met was a countryman carrying a fine white goose under his arm. The countryman stopped to ask what was the hour, and Hans told him all his luck, and how he had made so many good bargains. The countryman said he was going to take the goose to a christening.

“Feel,” said he, “how heavy it is, and yet it is only eight weeks old. Whoever roasts and eats it may cut plenty of fat off, it has lived so well.”

“You’re right,” said Hans, as he weighed it in his hand; “but my pig is no trifle.”

Meantime the countryman began to look grave, and shook his head.

“Hark ye,” said he, “my good friend. Your pig may get you into a scrape. In the village I have just come from the squire has had a pig stolen out of his sty. I was dreadfully afraid when I saw you that you had got the squire’s pig. It will be a bad job if they catch you, for the least they’ll do will be to throw you into the horse-pond.”

Poor Hans was sadly frightened.

“Good man,” cried he, “pray get me out of this scrape. You know this country better than I; take my pig and give me the goose.”

“I ought to have something into the bargain,” said the countryman; “however, I’ll not bear hard upon you, as you are in trouble.”

Then he took the string in his hand and drove off the pig by a side path, while Hans went on his way homeward free from care.

“After all,” thought he, “I have the best of the bargain. First there will be a capital roast, then the fat will find me in goose-grease for six months, and then there are all the beautiful white feathers. I will put them into my pillow, and then I am sure I shall sleep soundly without rocking. How happy my mother will be!”

As he came to the last village he saw a scissors-grinder, with his wheel, working away and singing–

“O’er hill and o’er dale so happy I roam, Work light and live well, all the world is my home; Who so blythe, so merry as I?”

Hans stood looking for a while, and at last said–

“You must be well off, master grinder, you seem so happy at your work.”

“Yes,” said the other, “mine is a golden trade. A good grinder never puts his hand in his pocket without finding money in it–but where did you get that beautiful goose?”

“I did not buy it, but changed a pig for it.”

“And where did you get the pig?”

“I gave a cow for it.”

“And the cow?”

“I gave a horse for it.”

“And the horse?”

“I gave a piece of silver as big as my head for that.”

“And the silver?”

“Oh! I worked hard for that seven long years.”

“You have thriven well in the world hitherto,” said the grinder, “now if you could find money in your pocket whenever you put your hand into it your fortune would be made.”

“Very true, but how is that to be managed?”

“You must turn grinder like me,” said the other. “You only want a grindstone, the rest will come of itself. Here is one that is only a little the worse for wear. I would not ask more than the value of your goose for it. Will you buy it?”

“How can you ask such a question?” said Hans. “I should be the happiest man in the world if I could have money whenever I put my hand in my pocket. What could I want more? There’s the goose.”

“Now,” said the grinder, as he gave him a common rough stone that lay by his side, “this is a most capital stone. Do but manage it cleverly and you can make an old nail cut with it.”

Hans took the stone, and went off with a light heart. His eyes sparkled with joy, and he said to himself–

“I must have been born in a lucky hour. Everything I want or wish comes to me of itself.”

Meantime he began to be tired, for he had been travelling ever since daybreak. He was hungry too, for he had given away his last penny in his joy at getting the cow. At last he could go no further, and the stone tired him terribly, so he dragged himself to the side of the pond that he might drink some water and rest a while. He laid the stone carefully by his side on the bank, but as he stooped down to drink he forgot it, pushed it a little, and down it went, plump into the pond. For a while he watched it sinking in the deep, clear water, then, sprang up for joy, and again fell upon his knees and thanked Heaven with tears in his eyes for its kindness in taking away his only plague, the ugly, heavy stone.

“How happy am I!” cried he; “no mortal was ever so lucky as I am.”

Then he got up with a light and merry heart, and walked on, free from all his troubles, till he reached his mother’s house.

Running and expanding this site requires resources: from maintaining our digital platform to sourcing and curating new content. With your help, we can grow our collection, improve accessibility, and bring these incredible narratives to an even wider audience. Your sponsorship enables us to keep the world’s stories alive and thriving. ♦ Visit our Support page