Borrow - My favorite Hodja story - Keeping the Public in Public Domain

This is the book where I first discovered the Hodja

Nasreddin is a "wise fool" enjoyed throughout the Muslim world, which I've earlier noted has many names. One of my favorite stories is offered here. I confess I've told it some times even changing the Hodja (here given as the Cogia) to other preachers. I'm sure having a constantly new sermon is a problem that happens in religions everywhere. It seems an appropriate ending to this month's Ramadan.

The story goes, one of the stories of a hundred, that Cogia Nasr Eddin Efendi one day ascending into the pulpit to preach, said, ‘O believers, do ye not know what I am going to say to you?’  

The congregation answered, ‘Dear Cogia Efendi, we do not know.’  

Then said the Cogia, ‘What shall I say to you until you do know?’  

One day the Cogia ascending again into the pulpit, said, ‘O Mussulmen, do ye not know what I am going to say to you?’  

‘We do know,’ they replied.  

Then said the Cogia, ‘Some of ye do know already, what should I have to say to you?’  Then descending from the chair he went out.  

The assembly separated quite astonished, and, when they were out, continued to say, ‘Which are those of us who know?  Which are those who do not know?’  

The Cogia one day again mounting the chair in the same manner, said, ‘O brothers, when I said to ye, “Do you know what I shall say?” There were some who said, “We know,” others said, “We do not.”  It were now well that those among ye who knew what the Cogia said should teach those that did not." 

George Borrow, trans. [1884]. The Turkish Jester or, The Pleasantries of Cogia Nasr Eddin Effendi (in English) at Project Gutenberg. The summary there correctly says:

Through his comical misunderstandings and sharp observations, the Cogia addresses broader themes of wisdom, foolishness, and societal norms. The stories serve not only as entertainment but also as reflections on life, often concluding with a profound yet humorous twist that leaves readers both amused and contemplative.

Borrow's text is formatted poorly, but the brief stories are in paragraphs that often begins "One day the Cogia..." I took this story and separated the conversation between him and his congregation into individual paragraphs.

There's yet another public domain version of this story at  Allan Ramsay's Tales from Turkey as well as in many books still under copyright.

For my own part, I feel foolish, too. (Doubt I can say I'm a wise fool.) I accidentally clicked this to be published last week! Blogger only lets me Update it now. <SIGH!> I hope you catch it on March 29 when I intended to publish it. In the meantime I guess this is Blogger shouting APRIL FOOL!

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This is part of a series of postings of stories under the category, “Keeping the Public in Public Domain.” The idea behind Public Domain was to preserve our cultural heritage after the authors and their immediate heirs were compensated. I feel strongly current copyright law delays this intent on works of the 20^th century. My own library of folklore includes so many books within the Public Domain I decided to share stories from them. I hope you enjoy discovering them.

At the same time, my own involvement in storytelling regularly creates projects requiring research as part of my sharing stories with an audience.  Whenever that research needs to be shown here, the publishing of Public Domain stories will not occur that week.  This is a return to my regular posting of a research project here.  (Don't worry, this isn't dry research, my research is always geared towards future storytelling to an audience.)  Response has convinced me that "Keeping the Public in Public Domain" should continue along with my other postings as often as I can manage it.

See the sidebar for other Public Domain story resources I recommend on the page “Public Domain Story Resources."

Walker - Jack the Preacher - Keeping the Public in Public Domain

Offiffiffic'ally Spring started this past week when: The vernal equinox arrives on Thursday, marking the start of the spring season for the Northern Hemisphere and the fall in the Southern Hemisphere. On the equator, the sun will be directly overhead at noon. Equinoxes are the only time when both the north and south poles are lit by sunshine at the same time.(AP News.com ) Even earlier, "meteorological spring" began on March 1 as that AP article continues: While astronomical seasons depend on how the Earth moves around the sun, meteorological seasons are defined by the weather. They break down the year into three-month seasons based on annual temperature cycles. By that calendar, spring starts on March 1, summer on June 1, fall on Sept. 1 and winter on Dec. 1.

As a result spring seems firmly entrenched in March. Looking at the past week, southeastern Michigan hit 70s only to let the next day's vernal equinox bring flakes of snow! I know spring will come here even if the present temperatures "roller coaster." Is it any wonder fairy tales enjoy this hopeful sign of Spring? Many exist, but as I look out at the evergreens swaying in the wind, I can appreciate this story poking fun at the pride of the trees thinking they announce spring to the woodland flowers.

(I'll tell a bit more about the book where this story is found after the tale.)

JACK THE PREACHER

Jack the Preacher

One morning in very early springtime the big Evergreen Trees began to talk about the part they took in telling all the woodland flowers that it was spring.

"Why, if we were not here," said one Evergreen Tree, "who would awake these sleepy springtime flowers to their duty? I should like you to tell me!"

"You speak truly, brother," said another tree. "We are ever green and need no awakening to our duty; but for us the woods would be a sorry-looking place in the summer. Those lazy crocuses would sleep right on and on!"

"Yes, and the little violets never would dare show their timid little heads," said another Evergreen Tree, "when the soft winds begin to run through the woods. It is then we call forth to all sleeping flowers and shrubs and bushes: 'Awake! It is time to get up!'"

"And who would tell the Bee summer was on its way?" said another Tree. "He would never get his work started at all if it were not for us. How lucky the flowers and all the woodland things are that we are here to tell them when to get up!"

So the Evergreens talked and bragged about how they preached Springtime to the woodland folk, and as they talked all the spring flowers awoke and the insects began lazily to stretch their wings, but it was not because of what the big Evergreen Trees were saying; no, it was because they had heard the voice of the little woodland preacher.

And who was he, do you think? Why, no other than Jack-in-the-pulpit, who gives a talk every spring to all the woodland dwellers on just how to bloom and how to buzz and when to do it.

Every night for ever so long before it is time for the crocus or the violet or any early spring flower to bloom, when it is the magic hour the Fairies come running through the woods and touch Jack on his nodding little head under the dry leaves and up he pops and begins to preach.

So when the flowers and bees and things heard the big Evergreen Trees talking they nodded to each other and laughed. "Isn't it funny to hear them?" said a beautiful yellow crocus. "Those tall trees know nothing about the real truth of things, do they?"

"Fancy thinking they awaken us!" said another flower. "Why, they themselves are asleep. They get so used to winter they stand still all the time, but who is to tell them the truth about our Preacher Jack? The Evergreen Trees never bend or sway to one side or the other far enough to see the beauties of our woodland spring. They only know what the winds tell them."

"Let them think what they like," said a little bush of pretty blossoms. "It does not hurt Jack-in-the-pulpit if the Evergreens think they are the preachers of the woods, for all the spring and summer flowers know that Jack has always been our preacher and the Evergreens haven't any pulpit to preach from. Only they do not know it."

And so the sleepy old Evergreens thought they were the ones who awakened the flowers and preached to them about their duty, and no one ever told them about little Jack-in-the-pulpit, who always has and always will preach about the spring and summer to all the woodland dwellers. 

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That story is from Sandman's Goodnight Stories by Abbie Phillips Walker and the illustration was by Rhoda C. Chase. I find it interesting that Chase has a Wikipedia page, but the only thing I could find about Walker was essentially a list of her several "Sandman" books and at Find-A-Grave. For the first two decades of the Twentieth Century her "Sandman" books were quite popular. Currently Project Gutenberg has three of them and Archive.org has several more.

In case that illustration of a Jack in the Pulpit isn't enough, here's a photo of one sprouting up on the forest floor. May you soon find one!

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This is part of a series of postings of stories under the category, “Keeping the Public in Public Domain.” The idea behind Public Domain was to preserve our cultural heritage after the authors and their immediate heirs were compensated. I feel strongly current copyright law delays this intent on works of the 20^th century. My own library of folklore includes so many books within the Public Domain I decided to share stories from them. I hope you enjoy discovering them.

At the same time, my own involvement in storytelling regularly creates projects requiring research as part of my sharing stories with an audience.  Whenever that research needs to be shown here, the publishing of Public Domain stories will not occur that week.  This is a return to my regular posting of a research project here.  (Don't worry, this isn't dry research, my research is always geared towards future storytelling to an audience.)  Response has convinced me that "Keeping the Public in Public Domain" should continue along with my other postings as often as I can manage it.

See the sidebar for other Public Domain story resources I recommend on the page “Public Domain Story Resources."

 

Croker - Rent Day - Keeping the Public in Public Domain

Top o' the Morning to you! . . . or whenever you may read this story celebrating St. Patrick's Day.

The 1844 edition of Thomas Crofton Croker's The Fairy Legends and Traditions of the South of Ireland holds many delightful tales of the various unusual "people" found in the Emerald Isle. Many people visiting there go to  Killarney National Park near Killarney, County Kerry. Who knows? You may be visited by the spirit of O’Donoghue. Hopefully you won't be as desperate as Bill Doody when he met the  O’Donoghue.

Killarney National Park 

RENT-DAY.

“Oh ullagone, ullagone! this is a wide world, but what will we do in it, or where will we go?” muttered Bill Doody, as he sat on a rock by the Lake of Killarney. “What will we do? to-morrow’s rent-day, and Tim the Driver swears if we don’t pay up our rent, he’ll cant every ha’perth we have; and then, sure enough, there’s Judy and myself, and the poor little grawls,[33] will be turned out to starve on the high road, for the never a halfpenny of rent have I!—Oh hone, that ever I should live to see this day!”

Thus did Bill Doody bemoan his hard fate, pouring his sorrows to the reckless waves of the most beautiful of lakes, which seemed to mock his misery as they rejoiced beneath the cloudless sky of a May morning. That lake, glittering in sunshine, sprinkled with fairy isles of rock and verdure, and bounded by giant hills of ever-varying hues, might, with its magic beauty, charm all sadness but despair; for alas,

“How ill the scene that offers rest,
And heart that cannot rest, agree!”

Yet Bill Doody was not so desolate as he supposed; there was one listening to him he little thought of, and help was at hand from a quarter he could not have expected.

“What’s the matter with you, my poor man?” said a tall portly-looking gentleman, at the same time stepping out of a furze-brake. Now Bill was seated on a rock that commanded the view of a large field. Nothing in the field could be concealed from him, except this furze-brake, which grew in a hollow near the margin of the lake. He was, therefore, not a little surprised at the gentleman’s sudden appearance, and began to question whether the personage before him belonged to this world or not. He, however, soon mustered courage sufficient to tell him how his crops had failed, how some bad member had charmed away his butter, and how Tim the Driver threatened to turn him out of the farm if he didn’t pay up every penny of the rent by twelve o’clock next day.

“A sad story indeed,” said the stranger; “but surely, if you represented the case to your landlord’s agent, he won’t have the heart to turn you out.”

“Heart, your honour! where would an agent get a heart!” exclaimed Bill. “I see your honour does not know him: besides, he has an eye on the farm this long time for a fosterer of his own; so I expect no mercy at all at all, only to be turned out.”

“Take this, my poor fellow, take this,” said the stranger, pouring a purse-full of gold into Bill’s old hat, which in his grief he had flung on the ground. “Pay the fellow your rent, but I’ll take care it shall do him no good. I remember the time when things went otherwise in this country, when I would have hung up such a fellow in the twinkling of an eye!”

These words were lost upon Bill, who was insensible to every thing but the sight of the gold, and before he could unfix his gaze, and lift up his head to pour out his hundred thousand blessings, the stranger was gone. The bewildered peasant looked around in search of his benefactor, and at last he thought he saw him riding on a white horse a long way off on the lake.

“O’Donoghue, O’Donoghue!” shouted Bill; “the good, the blessed O’Donoghue!” and he ran capering like a madman to show Judy the gold, and to rejoice her heart with the prospect of wealth and happiness.

The next day Bill proceeded to the agent’s; not sneakingly, with his hat in his hand, his eyes fixed on the ground, and his knees bending under him; but bold and upright, like a man conscious of his independence.

“Why don’t you take off your hat, fellow; don’t you know you are speaking to a magistrate?” said the agent.

“I know I’m not speaking to the king, sir,” said Bill; “and I never takes off my hat but to them I can respect and love. The Eye that sees all knows I’ve no right either to respect or love an agent!”

“You scoundrel!” retorted the man in office, biting his lips with rage at such an unusual and unexpected opposition, “I’ll teach you how to be insolent again—I have the power, remember.”

“To the cost of the country, I know you have,” said Bill, who still remained with his head as firmly covered as if he was the lord Kingsale himself.

“But come,” said the magistrate; “have you got the money for me?—this is rent-day. If there’s one penny of it wanting, or the running gale that’s due, prepare to turn out before night, for you shall not remain another hour in possession.”

“There is your rent,” said Bill, with an unmoved expression of tone and countenance; “you’d better count it, and give me a receipt in full for the running gale and all.”

The agent gave a look of amazement at the gold; for it was gold—real guineas! and not bits of dirty ragged small notes, that are only fit to light one’s pipe with. However willing the agent may have been to ruin, as he thought, the unfortunate tenant, he took up the gold, and handed the receipt to Bill, who strutted off with it as proud as a cat of her whiskers.

The agent going to his desk shortly after, was confounded at beholding a heap of gingerbread cakes instead of the money he had deposited there. He raved and swore, but all to no purpose; the gold had become gingerbread cakes, just marked like the guineas, with the king’s head, and Bill had the receipt in his pocket; so he saw there was no use in saying any thing about the affair, as he would only get laughed at for his pains.

From that hour Bill Doody grew rich; all his undertakings prospered; and he often blesses the day that he met with O’Donoghue, the great prince that lives down under the lake of Killarney.

Like the butterfly, the spirit of O’Donoghue closely hovers over the perfume of the hills and flowers it loves; while, as the reflection of a star in the waters of a pure lake, to those who look not above, that glorious spirit is believed to dwell beneath.

[33] Children. 

Found this sweet photo on an email from author Victoria L.K. Williams. As a readership test, let me know if you see it.

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This is part of a series of postings of stories under the category, “Keeping the Public in Public Domain.” The idea behind Public Domain was to preserve our cultural heritage after the authors and their immediate heirs were compensated. I feel strongly current copyright law delays this intent on works of the 20^th century. My own library of folklore includes so many books within the Public Domain I decided to share stories from them. I hope you enjoy discovering them.

At the same time, my own involvement in storytelling regularly creates projects requiring research as part of my sharing stories with an audience.  Whenever that research needs to be shown here, the publishing of Public Domain stories will not occur that week.  This is a return to my regular posting of a research project here.  (Don't worry, this isn't dry research, my research is always geared towards future storytelling to an audience.)  Response has convinced me that "Keeping the Public in Public Domain" should continue along with my other postings as often as I can manage it.

See the sidebar for other Public Domain story resources I recommend on the page “Public Domain Story Resources."

 

Lindsay - Dust Under the Rug - Keeping the Public in Public Domain

I sometimes say I have more than one religion as I'm also the Chief High Prophetess of the Church of the Unholy Mess. This month is loaded with special days. This past Wednesday was Ash Wednesday, the start of the season of Lent. A cross is marked with ashes on a forehead with the words "Remember that thou art dust and unto dust thou shalt return." 

Of course I decided to hunt for an appropriate story. It's not actually religious, but certainly fits the Church of the Unholy Mess.

After the story I'll give a look at the rest of March. The story is from Mother Stories by Maud Lindsay.

<SIGH!> I'm pleased for Minnie, but as Chief High Prophetess of the Church of the Unholy Mess I know I never would have earned that gold! As for being "dust thou art and unto dust thou shalt return", I would hate to disturb my fellow dust!

 

I promised I would talk about other special days in March. I've already opened the month with talking about Women's History Month. Next week I plan to give one of the many delightful stories from Irish folklore. It will be for Saint Patrick's Day, but is always good to share. This month is also the month of Ramadan, the month of prayer, fasting, charity-giving and self-accountability for Muslims. I don't yet know what story I plan to select, but it will be from Islamic tradition or from an Islamic country. I'm not positive about the final week, but the Hindu festival of Holi celebrates colors and the triumph of good over evil, good harvest, and fertility. I will be a bit late on that as this year it falls on March 13 and 14, but next week I plan an Irish story. The ideas of Holi are still worth mentioning and this summer's Collaborative Summer Library Program theme is Color Our World, so it still seems worth mentioning as March is wrapped up.

 

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WOOPS! Almost forgot to add:

This is part of a series of postings of stories under the category, “Keeping the Public in Public Domain.” The idea behind Public Domain was to preserve our cultural heritage after the authors and their immediate heirs were compensated. I feel strongly current copyright law delays this intent on works of the 20^th century. My own library of folklore includes so many books within the Public Domain I decided to share stories from them. I hope you enjoy discovering them.

At the same time, my own involvement in storytelling regularly creates projects requiring research as part of my sharing stories with an audience.  Whenever that research needs to be shown here, the publishing of Public Domain stories will not occur that week.  This is a return to my regular posting of a research project here.  (Don't worry, this isn't dry research, my research is always geared towards future storytelling to an audience.)  Response has convinced me that "Keeping the Public in Public Domain" should continue along with my other postings as often as I can manage it.

See the sidebar for other Public Domain story resources I recommend on the page “Public Domain Story Resources."

 

Lang - The Maiden with the Wooden Helmet - Keeping the Public in Public Domain

Illustration by Urokogataya

If you're looking for an unusual, but beautiful story for Women's History Month, there's a lovely tale from Japanese folklore. As might be expected when something is translated, it's sometimes called by various names. Wikipedia gives a reasonable summary of "Hachikazuki." The story dates back in print to the 14th to 16th century and is probably even older. In approximately 1735 to 1745 it was published as a children's booklet of mainly drawings by Urokogataya. 

The story is translated as "The Black Bowl" by Grace James in her Green willow and other Japanese fairy tales

and Lafcadio Hearn used her version in his anthology, Japanese fairy tales. 

Frankly that title never would have caught my attention. It was while prowling The Violet Fairy Book this title caught my eye. The Project Gutenberg eBook for some reason omits the illustration by Henry Justice Ford! Ford's illustrations were a vital part of the Langs' Fairy Book series. Ford's illustration, of any I found for the story, fit my vision of the Maiden's Helmet where others with a Bowl did not. 

Since this is the start of Women's History Month it's worth repeating this from the Wikipedia article on "The Langs' Fairy Books:

The authorship and translation of the Coloured Fairy Books is often and incorrectly attributed to Andrew Lang alone. Nora is not named on the front cover or spines of any of the Coloured Fairy Books, which all tout Andrew as their editor. However, as Andrew acknowledges in a preface to The Lilac Fairy Book (1910), "The fairy books have been almost wholly the work of Mrs. Lang, who has translated and adapted them from the French, German, Portuguese, Italian, Spanish, Catalan, and other languages." 

Every Women's History year has a theme and this year it is “Moving Forward Together,” which celebrates "Women Educating and Inspiring Generations." For centuries this story has educated young girls to be more than mere beauty, but be strong in carrying out their resolutions.

Here's Leonora Lang's translation from the German of "The Maiden with the Wooden Helmet."

by Henry Justice Ford for The Violet Fairy Book (1906)  

In a little village in the country of Japan there lived long, long ago a man and his wife. For many years they were happy and prosperous, but bad times came, and at last nothing was left them but their daughter, who was as beautiful as the morning. The neighbours were very kind, and would have done anything they could to help their poor friends, but the old couple felt that since everything had changed they would rather go elsewhere, so one day they set off to bury themselves in the country, taking their daughter with them.

Now the mother and daughter had plenty to do in keeping the house clean and looking after the garden, but the man would sit for hours together gazing straight in front of him, and thinking of the riches that once were his. Each day he grew more and more wretched, till at length he took to his bed and never got up again.

His wife and daughter wept bitterly for his loss, and it was many months before they could take pleasure in anything. Then one morning the mother suddenly looked at the girl, and found that she had grown still more lovely than before. Once her heart would have been glad at the sight, but now that they two were alone in the world she feared some harm might come of it. So, like a good mother, she tried to teach her daughter all she knew, and to bring her up to be always busy, so that she would never have time to think about herself. And the girl was a good girl, and listened to all her mother’s lessons, and so the years passed away.

At last one wet spring the mother caught cold, and though in the beginning she did not pay much attention to it, she gradually grew more and more ill, and knew that she had not long to live. Then she called her daughter and told her that very soon she would be alone in the world; that she must take care of herself, as there would be no one to take care of her. And because it was more difficult for beautiful women to pass unheeded than for others, she bade her fetch a wooden helmet out of the next room, and put it on her head, and pull it low down over her brows, so that nearly the whole of her face should lie in its shadow. The girl did as she was bid, and her beauty was so hidden beneath the wooden cap, which covered up all her hair, that she might have gone through any crowd, and no one would have looked twice at her. And when she saw this the heart of the mother was at rest, and she lay back in her bed and died.

The girl wept for many days, but by-and-by she felt that, being alone in the world, she must go and get work, for she had only herself to depend upon. There was none to be got by staying where she was, so she made her clothes into a bundle, and walked over the hills till she reached the house of the man who owned the fields in that part of the country. And she took service with him and laboured for him early and late, and every night when she went to bed she was at peace, for she had not forgotten one thing that she had promised her mother; and, however hot the sun might be, she always kept the wooden helmet on her head, and the people gave her the nickname of Hatschihime.

In spite, however, of all her care the fame of her beauty spread abroad: many of the impudent young men that are always to be found in the world stole softly up behind her while she was at work, and tried to lift off the wooden helmet. But the girl would have nothing to say to them, and only bade them be off; then they began to talk to her, but she never answered them, and went on with what she was doing, though her wages were low and food not very plentiful. Still she could manage to live, and that was enough.

One day her master happened to pass through the field where she was working, and was struck by her industry and stopped to watch her. After a while he put one or two questions to her, and then led her into his house, and told her that henceforward her only duty should be to tend his sick wife. From this time the girl felt as if all her troubles were ended, but the worst of them was yet to come.

Not very long after Hatschihime had become maid to the sick woman, the eldest son of the house returned home from Kioto, where he had been studying all sorts of things. He was tired of the splendours of the town and its pleasures, and was glad enough to be back in the green country, among the peach-blossoms and sweet flowers. Strolling about in the early morning, he caught sight of the girl with the odd wooden helmet on her head, and immediately he went to his mother to ask who she was, and where she came from, and why she wore that strange thing over her face.

His mother answered that it was a whim, and nobody could persuade her to lay it aside; whereat the young man laughed, but kept his thoughts to himself.

One hot day, however, he happened to be going towards home when he caught sight of his mother’s waiting maid kneeling by a little stream that flowed through the garden, splashing some water over her face. The helmet was pushed on one side, and as the youth stood watching from behind a tree he had a glimpse of the girl’s great beauty; and he determined that no one else should be his wife. But when he told his family of his resolve to marry her they were very angry, and made up all sorts of wicked stories about her. However, they might have spared themselves the trouble, as he knew it was only idle talk. ‘I have merely to remain firm,’ thought he, ‘and they will have to give in.’ It was such a good match for the girl that it never occurred to anyone that she would refuse the young man, but so it was. It would not be right, she felt, to make a quarrel in the house, and though in secret she wept bitterly, for a long while, nothing would make her change her mind. At length one night her mother appeared to her in a dream, and bade her marry the young man. So the next time he asked her—as he did nearly every day—to his surprise and joy she consented. The parents then saw they had better make the best of a bad business, and set about making the grand preparations suitable to the occasion. Of course the neighbours said a great many ill-natured things about the wooden helmet, but the bridegroom was too happy to care, and only laughed at them.

When everything was ready for the feast, and the bride was dressed in the most beautiful embroidered dress to be found in Japan, the maids took hold of the helmet to lift it off her head, so that they might do her hair in the latest fashion. But the helmet would not come, and the harder they pulled, the faster it seemed to be, till the poor girl yelled with pain. Hearing her cries the bridegroom ran in and soothed her, and declared that she should be married in the helmet, as she could not be married without. Then the ceremonies began, and the bridal pair sat together, and the cup of wine was brought them, out of which they had to drink. And when they had drunk it all, and the cup was empty, a wonderful thing happened. The helmet suddenly burst with a loud noise, and fell in pieces on the ground; and as they all turned to look they found the floor covered with precious stones which had fallen out of it. But the guests were less astonished at the brilliancy of the diamonds than at the beauty of the bride, which was beyond anything they had ever seen or heard of. The night was passed in singing and dancing, and then the bride and bridegroom went to their own house, where they lived till they died, and had many children, who were famous throughout Japan for their goodness and beauty.

(Japanische Marchen.)

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This is part of a series of postings of stories under the category, “Keeping the Public in Public Domain.” The idea behind Public Domain was to preserve our cultural heritage after the authors and their immediate heirs were compensated. I feel strongly current copyright law delays this intent on works of the 20^th century. My own library of folklore includes so many books within the Public Domain I decided to share stories from them. I hope you enjoy discovering them.

At the same time, my own involvement in storytelling regularly creates projects requiring research as part of my sharing stories with an audience.  Whenever that research needs to be shown here, the publishing of Public Domain stories will not occur that week.  This is a return to my regular posting of a research project here.  (Don't worry, this isn't dry research, my research is always geared towards future storytelling to an audience.)  Response has convinced me that "Keeping the Public in Public Domain" should continue along with my other postings as often as I can manage it.

See the sidebar for other Public Domain story resources I recommend on the page “Public Domain Story Resources."

Cather - The Discontented Pig - Keeping the Public in Public Domain

Shakespeare said it best: Now is the winter of our discontent.

The weather has been awful enough I'm sure I'm not the only one feeling discontented. Even my friends and classmates from Saint Louis have been getting way more snow than usually falls there! Couldn't seem to find a story I wanted to tell. There was always something wrong with whatever I wanted to post . . . until I found the story of "The Discontented Pig."

Sometimes old collections of stories get too obvious with their purpose or too moralistic. Nothing says you have to tell the lesson from a fable or other story, just tell it and let your audience draw their own conclusions. I might be discontented with Katherine Dublap Cather's obvious title for her Educating by Story-Telling and her explanation of the story's purpose, but that doesn't stop me recognizing myself in this little story.

THE DISCONTENTED PIG (Thuringian Folk Tale—Ethics, teaching contentment) Ever so long ago, in the time when there were fairies, and men and animals talked together, there was a curly-tailed pig. He lived by himself in a house at the edge of the village, and every day he worked in his garden. Whether the sun shone or the rain fell he hoed and dug and weeded, turning the earth around his tomato vines and loosening the soil of the carrot plot, until word of his fine vegetables traveled through seven counties, and each year he won the royal prize at the fair. 

But after a time that little pig grew tired of the endless toil. 

“What matters it if I do have the finest vegetables in the kingdom,” he thought, “since I must work myself to death getting them to grow? I mean to go out and see the world and find an easier way of making a living.”

So he locked the door of his house and shut the gate of his garden and started down the road. 

A good three miles he traveled, till he came to a cottage almost hidden in a grove of trees. Lovely music sounded around him and Little Pig smiled, for he had an ear for sweet sounds. 

“I will go look for it,” he said, following in the direction from which it seemed to come. 

Now it happened that in that house dwelt Thomas, a cat, who made his living playing on the violin. Little Pig saw him standing in the door pushing the bow up and down across the strings. It put a thought into his head. Surely this must be easier and far more pleasant than digging in a garden! 

“Will you teach me to play the violin, friend cat?” he asked. 

Thomas looked up from his bow and nodded his head. “To be sure,” he answered; “just do as I am doing.” And he gave him the bow and fiddle. 

Little Pig took them and began to saw, but squeak! quang! No sweet music fell upon his ear. The sounds he heard were like the squealing of his baby brother pigs when a wolf came near them.  

“Oh!” he cried; “this isn’t music!” 

Thomas, the cat, nodded his head. “Of course not,” he said. “You haven’t tried long enough. He who would play the violin must work.”  

“Then I think I’ll look for something else,” Piggywig answered, “because this is quite as hard as weeding my garden.” And he gave back the bow and fiddle and started down the road. 

He walked on and on, until he came to a hut where lived a dog who made cheese. He was kneading and molding the curd into cakes, and Little Pig thought it looked quite easy. 

“I think I’d like to go into the cheese business myself,” he said to himself. So he asked the dog if he would teach him. This the dog was quite willing to do, and a moment later Little Pig was working beside him. Soon he grew hot and tired and stopped to rest and fan himself.  

“No, no!” exclaimed the dog, “you will spoil the cheese. There can be no rest time until the work is done.” 

Little Pig opened his eyes in amazement. “Indeed!” he replied. “Then this is just as hard as growing vegetables or learning to play a violin. I mean to look for something easier.” And he started down the road. 

On the other side of the river, in a sweet green field, a man was taking honey out of beehives. Little Pig saw him as he crossed the bridge and thought that of all the trades he had seen, this suited him best. It must be lovely there in the meadow among the flowers. Honey was not heavy to lift, and once in a while he could have a mouthful of it. He ran as fast as he could go to ask the man if he would take him into his employ.  

This plan pleased the bee man as much as it pleased the pig. “I’ve been looking for a helper for a year and a day,” he said. “Begin work at once.” He gave Little Pig a veil and a pair of gloves, telling him to fasten them on well. Then he told him to lift a honeycomb out of a hive. 

Little Pig ran to do it, twisting his curly tail in the joy of having at last found a business that suited him. But buzz, buzz! The bees crept under his veil and inside his gloves. They stung him on his fingers, his mouth, his ears, and the end of his nose, and he squealed and dropped the honey and ran. 

“Come back, come back!” the man called. 

“No, no!” Little Pig answered with a big squeal. “No, no, the bees hurt me!” 

The man nodded his head. “Of course they do,” he said. “They hurt me too! That is part of the work. You cannot be a beekeeper without getting stung.” 

Little Pig blinked his beady eyes and began to think hard. “It seems that every kind of work has something unpleasant about it. To play the violin you must practice until your arm aches. When you make cheese you dare not stop a minute until the work is done, and in taking honey from a hive the bees sting you until your head is on fire. Work in my garden is not so bad after all, and I am going back to it.” 

So he said good-by to the bee man and was soon back in his carrot patch. He hoed and raked and weeded, singing as he worked, and there was no more contented pig in all that kingdom. Every autumn he took his vegetables to the fair and brought home the royal prize, and sometimes, on holidays, the cat and the dog and the bee man came to call. 

************* 

The English philosopher and economist, John Stuart Mill probably said it best, "It is better to be a human being dissatisfied, than a pig satisfied." I still can't wait for the weather to warm up and melt the snow. In the meantime it's a great time to read and tell stories. 

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This is part of a series of postings of stories under the category, “Keeping the Public in Public Domain.” The idea behind Public Domain was to preserve our cultural heritage after the authors and their immediate heirs were compensated. I feel strongly current copyright law delays this intent on works of the 20^th century. My own library of folklore includes so many books within the Public Domain I decided to share stories from them. I hope you enjoy discovering them.

At the same time, my own involvement in storytelling regularly creates projects requiring research as part of my sharing stories with an audience.  Whenever that research needs to be shown here, the publishing of Public Domain stories will not occur that week.  This is a return to my regular posting of a research project here.  (Don't worry, this isn't dry research, my research is always geared towards future storytelling to an audience.)  Response has convinced me that "Keeping the Public in Public Domain" should continue along with my other postings as often as I can manage it.

See the sidebar for other Public Domain story resources I recommend on the page “Public Domain Story Resources."

 

Hurston - A pair of Eatonville tales - Keeping the Public in Public Domain

 

Alfreda Harris

 

 

 

My fellow storyteller, the late (I would add great!) Alfreda Harris is on the In Memoriam page of Michigan Storytelling. Black History Month was only part of her storytelling work, but I remember fondly her love of the stories of Zora Neale Hurston. It nudged me to look and see if any of Hurston's work was in Public Domain. Imagine my delight to find eight items, but for retelling The Eatonville Anthology was pure gold!

Before I give a pair of gems from it I really should tell a bit more about Eatonville. This Florida town was very much Hurston's home, weaving its way throughout her life. Nowadays the town runs an annual award-winning festival, Zora!, which is described as  “the longest running arts and humanities festival celebrating the cultural contributions people of African ancestry have made to the world.” My apologies for not discovering it at the beginning of this month when this year's festival was held. It began in 1990 and readers might want to explore it for the future.

Hurston's stories flowed throughout her life, with Eatonville being the spring for the fountain of her writing. This 1926 anthology offers a small flood of tales. Because February is also filled with the celebration of Valentine's Day, a very brief tale of "Turpentine Love" is the opening tale here, followed by another, "The Way of a Man with a Train." (I'm a train lover, even married on one, and couldn't resist!)

Turpentine Love

Jim Merchant is always in good humor—even with his wife. He says he fell in love with her at first sight. That was some years ago. She has had all her teeth pulled out, but they still get along splendidly.

He says the first time he called on her he found out that she was subject to fits. This didn’t cool his love, however. She had several in his presence.

One Sunday, while he was there, she had one, and her mother tried to give her a dose of turpentine to stop it. Accidently, she spilled it in her eye and it cured her. She never had another fit, so they got married and have kept each other in good humor ever since.

The Way of a Man with a Train

Old Man Anderson lived seven or eight miles out in the country from Eatonville. Over by Lake Apopka. He raised feed-corn and cassava and went to market with it two or three times a year. He bought all of his victuals wholesale so he wouldn’t have to come to town for several months more.

He was different from us citybred folks. He had never seen a train. Everybody laughed at him for even the smallest child in Eatonville had either been to Maitland or Orlando and watched a train go by. On Sunday afternoons all of the young people of the village would go over to Maitland, a mile away, to see Number 35 whizz southward on its way to Tampa and wave at the passengers. So we looked down on him a little. Even we children felt superior in the presence of a person so lacking in worldly knowledge.

The grown-ups kept telling him he ought to go see a train. He always said he didn’t have time to wait so long. Only two trains a day passed through Maitland. But patronage and ridicule finally had its effect and Old Man Anderson drove in one morning early. Number 78 went north to Jacksonville at 10:20. He drove his light wagon over in the woods beside the railroad below Maitland, and sat down to wait. He began to fear that his horse would get frightened and run away with the wagon. So he took him out and led him deeper into the grove and tied him securely. Then he returned to his wagon and waited some more. Then he remembered that some of the train-wise villagers had said the engine belched fire and smoke. He had better move his wagon out of danger. It might catch afire. He climbed down from the seat and placed himself between the shafts to draw it away. Just then 78 came thundering over the trestle spouting smoke, and suddenly began blowing for Maitland. Old Man Anderson became so frightened he ran away with the wagon through the woods and tore it up worse than the horse ever could have done. He doesn’t know yet what a train looks like, and says he doesn’t care.

***

I hope the good humor that fills these two brief stories encourages you to look up more of Hurston's work. I know Alfreda would have a big smile on her face if you did.

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 This is part of a series of postings of stories under the category, “Keeping the Public in Public Domain.” The idea behind Public Domain was to preserve our cultural heritage after the authors and their immediate heirs were compensated. I feel strongly current copyright law delays this intent on works of the 20th century. My own library of folklore includes so many books within the Public Domain I decided to share stories from them. I hope you enjoy discovering them. At the same time, my own involvement in storytelling regularly creates projects requiring research as part of my sharing stories with an audience. Whenever that research needs to be shown here, the publishing of Public Domain stories will not occur that week. This is a return to my regular posting of a research project here. (Don't worry, this isn't dry research, my research is always geared towards future storytelling to an audience.) Response has convinced me that "Keeping the Public in Public Domain" should continue along with my other postings as often as I can manage it. See the sidebar for other Public Domain story resources I recommend on the page “Public Domain Story Resources."