When he got there, he found himself in a jungle, and nothing in the jungle but a quantity of parrots, who lived in it. The young Rájá shot at some of them, and at once they all flew away up to the sky. All, that is, but one, and this was their Rájá, who was called Híráman parrot.

When Híráman parrot found himself left alone, he called out to the other parrots, “Don’t fly away and leave me alone when the Rájá’s son shoots. If you desert me like this, I will tell the Princess Labám.”

Then the parrots all flew back to their Rájá, chattering. The prince was greatly surprised, and said, “Why, these birds can talk!” Then he said to the parrots, “Who is the Princess Labám? Where does she live?” But the parrots would not tell him where she lived. “You can never get to the Princess Labám’s country.” That is all they would say.

The prince grew very sad when they would not tell him anything more; and he threw his gun away, and went home. When he got home, he would not speak or eat, but lay on his bed for four or five days, and seemed very ill.

At last he told his father and mother that he wanted to go and see the Princess Labám. “I must go,” he said; “I must see what she is like. Tell me where her country is.” “We do not know where it is,” answered his father and mother. “Then I must go and look for it,” said the prince. “No, no,” they said, “you must not leave us. You are our only son. Stay with us. You will never find the Princess Labám.” “I must try and find her,” said the prince. “Perhaps God will show me the way. If I live and I find her, I will come back to you; but perhaps I shall die, and then I shall never see you again. Still I must go.”

So they had to let him go, though they cried very much at parting with him. His father gave him fine clothes to wear, and a fine horse. And he took his gun, and his bow and arrows, and a great many other weapons, “for,” he said, “I may want them.” His father, too, gave him plenty of rupees.

Then he himself got his horse all ready for the journey, and he said good-bye to his father and mother; and his mother took her handkerchief and wrapped some sweetmeats in it, and gave it to her son. “My child,” she said to him, “when you are hungry eat some of these sweetmeats.”

He then set out on his journey, and rode on and on till he came to a jungle in which were a tank and shady trees. He bathed himself and his horse in the tank, and then sat down under a tree. “Now,” he said to himself, “I will eat some of the sweetmeats my mother gave me, and I will drink some water, and then I will continue my journey.” He opened his handkerchief, and took out a sweetmeat. He found an ant in it. He took out another. There was an ant in that one too. So he laid the two sweetmeats on the ground, and he took out another, and another, and another, until he had taken them all out; but in each he found an ant. “Never mind,” he said, “I won’t eat the sweetmeats; the ants shall eat them.” Then the Ant-Rájá came and stood before him and said, “You have been good to us. If ever you are in trouble, think of me and we will come to you.”

The Rájá’s son thanked him, mounted his horse and continued his journey. He rode on and on till he came to another jungle, and there he saw a tiger who had a thorn in his foot, and was roaring loudly from the pain.

“Why do you roar like that?” said the young Rájá. “What is the matter with you?” “I have had a thorn in my foot for twelve years,” answered the tiger, “and it hurts me so; that is why I roar.” “Well,” said the Rájá’s son, “I will take it out for you. But, perhaps, as you are a tiger, when I have made you well, you will eat me?” “Oh, no,” said the tiger, “I won’t eat you. Do make me well.”

Then the prince took a little knife from his pocket, and cut the thorn out of the tiger’s foot; but when he cut, the tiger roared louder than ever, so loud that his wife heard him in the next jungle, and came bounding along to see what was the matter. The tiger saw her coming, and hid the prince in the jungle, so that she should not see him.

“What man hurt you that you roared so loud?” said the wife. “No one hurt me,” answered her husband; “but a Rájá’s son came and took the thorn out of my foot.” “Where is he? Show him to me,” said his wife. “If you promise not to kill him, I will call him,” said the tiger. “I won’t kill him; only let me see him,” answered his wife.

Then the tiger called the Rájá’s son, and when he came the tiger and his wife made him a great many salaams. Then they gave him a good dinner, and he stayed with them for three days. Every day he looked at the tiger’s foot, and the third day it was quite healed. Then he said good-bye to the tigers, and the tiger said to him, “If ever you are in trouble, think of me, and we will come to you.”

The Rájá’s son rode on and on till he came to a third jungle. Here he found four fakírs whose teacher and master had died, and had left four things,–a bed, which carried whoever sat on it whithersoever he wished to go; a bag, that gave its owner whatever he wanted, jewels, food, or clothes; a stone bowl that gave its owner as much water as he wanted, no matter how far he might be from a tank; and a stick and rope, to which its owner had only to say, if any one came to make war on him, “Stick, beat as many men and soldiers as are here,” and the stick would beat them and the rope would tie them up.

The four fakírs were quarrelling over these four things. One said, “I want this;” another said, “You cannot have it, for I want it;” and so on.

The Rájá’s son said to them, “Do not quarrel for these things. I will shoot four arrows in four different directions. Whichever of you gets to my first arrow, shall have the first thing–the bed. Whosoever gets to the second arrow, shall have the second thing–the bag. He who gets to the third arrow, shall have the third thing–the bowl. And he who gets to the fourth arrow, shall have the last things–the stick and rope.” To this they agreed, and the prince shot off his first arrow. Away raced the fakírs to get it. When they brought it back to him he shot off the second, and when they had found and brought it to him he shot off his third, and when they had brought him the third he shot off the fourth.

While they were away looking for the fourth arrow, the Rájá’s son let his horse loose in the jungle, and sat on the bed, taking the bowl, the stick and rope, and the bag with him. Then he said, “Bed, I wish to go to the Princess Labám’s country.” The little bed instantly rose up into the air and began to fly, and it flew and flew till it came to the Princess Labám’s country, where it settled on the ground. The Rájá’s son asked some men he saw, “Whose country is this?” “The Princess Labám’s country,” they answered. Then the prince went on till he came to a house where he saw an old woman. “Who are you?” she said. “Where do you come from?” “I come from a far country,” he said; “do let me stay with you to-night.” “No,” she answered, “I cannot let you stay with me; for our king has ordered that men from other countries may not stay in his country. You cannot stay in my house.” “You are my aunty,” said the prince; “let me remain with you for this one night. You see it is evening, and if I go into the jungle, then the wild beasts will eat me.” “Well,” said the old woman, “you may stay here to-night; but to-morrow morning you must go away, for if the king hears you have passed the night in my house, he will have me seized and put into prison.”

Then she took him into her house, and the Rájá’s son was very glad. The old woman began preparing dinner, but he stopped her. “Aunty,” he said, “I will give you food.” He put his hand into his bag, saying, “Bag, I want some dinner,” and the bag gave him instantly a delicious dinner, served upon two gold plates. The old woman and the Rájá’s son then dined together.

When they had finished eating, the old woman said, “Now I will fetch some water.” “Don’t go,” said the prince. “You shall have plenty of water directly.” So he took his bowl and said to it, “Bowl, I want some water,” and then it filled with water. When it was full, the prince cried out, “Stop, bowl,” and the bowl stopped filling. “See, aunty,” he said, “with this bowl I can always get as much water as I want.”

By this time night had come. “Aunty,” said the Rájá’s son, “why don’t you light a lamp?” “There is no need,” she said. “Our king has forbidden the people in his country to light any lamps; for, as soon as it is dark, his daughter, the Princess Labám, comes and sits on her roof, and she shines so, that she lights up all the country and our houses, and we can see to do our work as if it were day.”

When it was quite black night, the princess got up. She dressed herself in her rich clothes and jewels, and rolled up her hair, and across her head she put a band of diamonds and pearls. Then she shone like the moon, and her beauty made night day. She came out of her room, and sat on the roof of her palace. In the daytime she never came out of her house; she only came out at night. All the people in her father’s country then went about their work and finished it.

The Rájá’s son watched the princess quietly, and was very happy. He said to himself, “How lovely she is!”

At midnight, when everybody had gone to bed, the princess came down from her roof, and went to her room; and when she was in bed and asleep, the Rájá’s son got up softly, and sat on his bed. “Bed,” he said to it, “I want to go to the Princess Labám’s bed-room.” So the little bed carried him to the room where she lay fast asleep.

The young Rájá took his bag and said, “I want a great deal of betel-leaf,” and it at once gave him quantities of betel-leaf. This he laid near the princess’s bed, and then his little bed carried him back to the old woman’s house.

Next morning all the princess’s servants found the betel-leaf, and began to eat it. “Where did you get all that betel-leaf?” asked the princess. “We found it near your bed,” answered the servants. Nobody knew the prince had come in the night and put it all there.

In the morning the old woman came to the Rájá’s son. “Now it is morning,” she said, “and you must go; for if the king finds out all I have done for you, he will seize me.” “I am ill to-day, dear aunty,” said the prince; “do let me stay till to-morrow morning.” “Good,” said the old woman. So he stayed, and they took their dinner out of the bag, and the bowl gave them water.

When night came the princess got up and sat on her roof, and at twelve o’clock, when every one was in bed, she went to her bed-room, and was soon fast asleep. Then the Rájá’s son sat on his bed, and it carried him to the princess. He took his bag and said, “Bag, I want a most lovely shawl.” It gave him a splendid shawl, and he spread it over the princess as she lay asleep. Then he went back to the old woman’s house and slept till morning.

In the morning, when the princess saw the shawl, she was delighted. “See, mother,” she said; “God must have given me this shawl, it is so beautiful.” Her mother was very glad too. “Yes, my child,” she said; “God must have given you this splendid shawl.”

When it was morning the old woman said to the Rájá’s son, “Now you must really go.” “Aunty,” he answered, “I am not well enough yet. Let me stay a few days longer. I will remain hidden in your house, so that no one may see me.” So the old woman let him stay.

When it was black night, the princess put on her lovely clothes and jewels, and sat on her roof. At midnight she went to her room and went to sleep. Then the Rájá’s son sat on his bed and flew to her bed-room. There he said to his bag, “Bag, I want a very, very beautiful ring.” The bag gave him a glorious ring. Then he took the Princess Labám’s hand gently to put on the ring, and she started up very much frightened.

“Who are you?” she said to the prince. “Where do you come from? Why do you come to my room?” “Do not be afraid, princess,” he said; “I am no thief. I am a great Rájá’s son. Híráman parrot, who lives in the jungle where I went to hunt, told me your name, and then I left my father and mother, and came to see you.”

“Well,” said the princess, “as you are the son of such a great Rájá, I will not have you killed, and I will tell my father and mother that I wish to marry you.”

The prince then returned to the old woman’s house; and when morning came, the princess said to her mother, “The son of a great Rájá has come to this country, and I wish to marry him.” Her mother told this to the king. “Good,” said the king; “but if this Rájá’s son wishes to marry my daughter, he must first do whatever I bid him. If he fails I will kill him. I will give him eighty pounds weight of mustard seed, and out of this he must crush the oil in one day. If he cannot do this he shall die.”

In the morning the Rájá’s son told the old woman that he intended to marry the princess. “Oh,” said the old woman, “go away from this country, and do not think of marrying her. A great many Rájás and Rájás’ sons have come here to marry her, and her father has had them all killed. He says whoever wishes to marry his daughter must first do whatever he bids him. If he can, then he shall marry the princess; if he cannot, the king will have him killed. But no one can do the things the king tells him to do; so all the Rájás and Rájás’ sons who have tried have been put to death. You will be killed too, if you try. Do go away.” But the prince would not listen to anything she said.

The king sent for the prince to the old woman’s house, and his servants brought the Rájá’s son to the king’s court-house to the king. There the king gave him eighty pounds of mustard seed, and told him to crush all the oil out of it that day, and bring it next morning to him to the court-house. “Whoever wishes to marry my daughter,” he said to the prince, “must first do all I tell him. If he cannot, then I have him killed. So if you cannot crush all the oil out of this mustard seed, you will die.”

The prince was very sorry when he heard this. “How can I crush the oil out of all this mustard seed in one day?” he said to himself; “and if I do not, the king will kill me.” He took the mustard seed to the old woman’s house, and did not know what to do. At last he remembered the Ant-Rájá, and the moment he did so, the Ant-Rájá and his ants came to him. “Why do you look so sad?” said the Ant-Rájá. The prince showed him the mustard seed, and said to him, “How can I crush the oil out of all this mustard seed in one day? And if I do not take the oil to the king to-morrow morning, he will kill me.” “Be happy,” said the Ant-Rájá; “lie down and sleep: we will crush all the oil out for you during the day, and to-morrow morning you shall take it to the king.” The Rájá’s son lay down and slept, and the ants crushed out the oil for him. The prince was very glad when he saw the oil.

The next morning he took it to the court-house to the king. But the king said, “You cannot yet marry my daughter. If you wish to do so, you must first fight with my two demons and kill them.” The king a long time ago had caught two demons, and then, as he did not know what to do with them, he had shut them up in a cage. He was afraid to let them loose for fear they would eat up all the people in his country; and he did not know how to kill them. So all the kings and kings’ sons who wanted to marry the Princess Labám had to fight with these demons; “for,” said the king to himself, “perhaps the demons may be killed, and then I shall be rid of them.”

When he heard of the demons the Rájá’s son was very sad. “What can I do?” he said to himself. “How can I fight with these two demons?” Then he thought of his tiger: and the tiger and his wife came to him and said, “Why are you so sad?” The Rájá’s son answered, “The king has ordered me to fight with his two demons and kill them. How can I do this?” “Do not be frightened,” said the tiger. “Be happy. I and my wife will fight with them for you.”

Then the Rájá’s son took out of his bag two splendid coats. They were all gold and silver, and covered with pearls and diamonds. These he put on the tigers to make them beautiful, and he took them to the king, and said to him, “May these tigers fight your demons for me?” “Yes,” said the king, who did not care in the least who killed his demons, provided they were killed. “Then call your demons,” said the Rájá’s son, “and these tigers will fight them.” The king did so, and the tigers and the demons fought and fought until the tigers had killed the demons.

“That is good,” said the king. “But you must do something else before I give you my daughter. Up in the sky I have a kettle-drum. You must go and beat it. If you cannot do this, I will kill you.”

The Rájá’s son thought of his little bed; so he went to the old woman’s house and sat on his bed. “Little bed,” he said, “up in the sky is the king’s kettle-drum. I want to go to it.” The bed flew up with him, and the Rájá’s son beat the drum, and the king heard him. Still, when he came down, the king would not give him his daughter. “You have,” he said to the prince, “done the three things I told you to do; but you must do one thing more.” “If I can, I will,” said the Rájá’s son.

Then the king showed him the trunk of a tree that was lying near his court-house. It was a very, very thick trunk. He gave the prince a wax hatchet, and said, “To-morrow morning you must cut this trunk in two with this wax hatchet.”

The Rájá’s son went back to the old woman’s house. He was very sad, and thought that now the Rájá would certainly kill him. “I had his oil crushed out by the ants,” he said to himself. “I had his demons killed by the tigers. My bed helped me to beat his kettle-drum. But now what can I do? How can I cut that thick tree trunk in two with a wax hatchet?”

At night he went on his bed to see the princess. “To-morrow,” he said to her, “your father will kill me.” “Why?” asked the princess.

“He has told me to cut a thick tree-trunk in two with a wax hatchet. How can I ever do that?” said the Rájá’s son. “Do not be afraid,” said the princess; “do as I bid you, and you will cut it in two quite easily.”

Then she pulled out a hair from her head, and gave it to the prince. “To-morrow,” she said, “when no one is near you, you must say to the tree-trunk, ‘The Princess Labám commands you to let yourself be cut in two by this hair.’ Then stretch the hair down the edge of the wax hatchet’s blade.”

The prince next day did exactly as the princess had told him; and the minute the hair that was stretched down the edge of the hatchet-blade touched the tree-trunk, it split into two pieces.

The king said, “Now you can marry my daughter.” Then the wedding took place. All the Rájás and kings of the countries round were asked to come to it, and there were great rejoicings. After a few days the prince’s son said to his wife, “Let us go to my father’s country.” The Princess Labám’s father gave them a quantity of camels and horses and rupees and servants; and they travelled in great state to the prince’s country, where they lived happily.

The prince always kept his bag, bowl, bed, and stick; only as no one ever came to make war on him, he never needed to use the stick.

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