Rydingsvard - The Christmas Spruce Tree - Keeping the Public in Public Domain

Old reader textbooks are a view into the childhood of our grandparents and those however many "great" grandparents. Some of it is too dated to tell now, but The Wide Awake Third Reader  by Clara Murray in 1912 has a story worth remembering, "The Christmas Spruce Tree" by Anna von Rydingsvard. The "a" in Rydingsvard has an umlaut over it, but I'm not using a keyboard able to give it.

I sometimes feel sad seeing trees cut down for Christmas, but maybe I should remember this little tale. Yes, it's anthropomorphic, giving human characteristics to a tree, but science has proven even trees have feelings and thoughts of a sort, so maybe this could happen.

THE CHRISTMAS SPRUCE TREE

Among the tall trees in the forest grew a little spruce tree. It was no taller than a man, and that is very short for a tree.

The other trees near it grew so tall and had such large branches that the poor little tree could not grow at all.

She liked to listen when the other trees were talking, but it often made her sad.

“I am king of the forest,” said the oak. “Look at my huge trunk and my branches. How they reach up toward heaven! I furnish planks for men from which they build their ships. Then I defy the storm on the ocean as I did the thunder in the forest.”

“And I go with you over the foaming waves,” said the tall straight pine. “I hold up the flapping sails when the ships fly over the ocean.”

“And we warm the houses when winter comes and the cold north wind drives the snow before him,” said the birches.

“We have the same work to do,” said a tall fir tree, and she bowed gracefully, drooping her branches toward the ground.

The little spruce tree heard the other trees talking about their work in the world. This made her sad, and she thought, “What work can I do? What will become of me?”

But she could not think of any way in which she could be useful. She decided to ask the other trees in the forest.

So she asked the oak, the pine and the fir, but they were so proud and stately they did not even hear her.

Then she asked the beautiful white birch that stood near by. “You have no work to do,” said the birch, “because you can never grow large enough. Perhaps you might be a Christmas tree, but that is all.”

“What is a Christmas tree?” asked the little spruce.

“I do not know exactly,” replied the birch. “Sometimes when the days are short and cold, and the ground is covered with snow, men come out here into the forest. They look at all the little spruce trees and choose the prettiest, saying, ‘This will do for a Christmas tree.’

“Then they chop it down and carry it away. What they do with it I cannot tell.”

The little spruce asked the rabbit that hopped over the snow, the owls that slept in the pines, and the squirrels that came to find nuts and acorns.

But no one knew more than the birch tree. No one could tell what men did with the Christmas trees.

Then the little spruce tree wept because she had no work to do and could not be of any use in the world.

The tears hardened into clear, round drops, which we call gum.

At last a boy came into the forest with an axe in his hand. He looked the little tree all over. “Perhaps this will do for a Christmas tree,” he said. So he chopped it down, laid it on a sled, and dragged it home.

The next day the boy sold the tree, and it was taken into a large room and dressed up with pop corn and gilded nuts and candles. Packages of all sizes and shapes, and tiny bags filled with candy, were tied on its branches.

The tree was trembling with the excitement, but she stood as still as she could. “What if I should drop some of this fruit,” she thought.

When it began to grow dark, every one left the room and the tree was alone. It began to feel lonely and to think sad thoughts.

Soon the door opened and a lady came in. She lighted all the candles.

How light and glowing it was then!

The tree had never even dreamed of anything so beautiful!

Then the children came and danced about the tree, singing a Christmas song. The father played on his violin, and the baby sat in her mother’s arms, smiling and cooing.

“Now I know what I was made for,” thought the spruce tree; “I was intended to give joy to the little ones, because I, myself, am so small and humble.”

******

Whether you choose a live tree or an artificial one, I hope your holiday is able to give the joy this story describes and whatever you may need from it.

***

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 “PublicDomain Story Resources."

Pratt - The Dying Baldur - Keeping the Public in Public Domain

I'm posting today's story early as Saturday I will be telling stories of Holidays Around the World at Pere Marquette District Library in Clare at the time I usually publicize my blog.

There are so many holidays and stories within those holidays I must give their stories fairly briefly. One of those stories is how we came to associate mistletoe with this time of year.

Many books tell this Norse mythological tale. I've tried to find one that stays fairly concise. Mara L. Pratt came very close to that in her Legends of Norseland , which is liberally illustrated by A. Chase. Even at that I must add a brief bit at the end to tie the mistletoe legend together with an explanation about kissing under the mistletoe. 

One quick note on names in the story, most people write Loki instead of Loke. Baldur is sometimes written Balder, but that might be mistaken for a head without hair! Also female names often have an "a" on the end.

THE DYING BALDUR.

Ages upon ages had rolled away. And now the day of sorrow, which always Odin had known must come, drew near.

Already the god of song had gone with his beautiful wife Idun down into the dark valley of death; and there was a new strange rustle among the leaves of Ygdrasil, like the rustling of leaves that were dead.

Odin’s face grew sad; and, try as he would, he could not join with the happy gods about him in their joys and festal games.

“Odin,” said Frigg one day, “tell me what grieves thee; what weighs thee down and puts such sadness into thine eyes and heart.”

“Baldur himself shall tell you all,” answered Odin sadly.

Then Baldur seated himself in the midst of the gods and said: “Always, since Odin drank at the Well of Wisdom, and learned the secrets of the past and of the future, has he known that a time would come when the light must go out from Baldur’s eyes; and he, although a god, must go down into the dark valley. Now that time draws near. Already have Brage and Idun gone from us; and with them have gone song and youth. Soon will Baldur go, and with him must go the light and warmth he has always been so glad to bring to Asgard and to Midgard both.”

“O Baldur! Baldur! Baldur! My Child! my child! my child!” cried Frigg. “This cannot be! this shall not be! I will go down from Asgard. I will go up and down the earth, and every rock and tree and plant shall pledge themselves to do no harm to thee.”

“Dear mother Frigg,” sighed Baldur, “you cannot change what is foretold. From the beginning of time this was decreed, that one day the light should go out from heaven and the twilight of the gods should fall.”

There was a long silence in the hall of Asgard. No god had courage to speak. Their hearts were heavy, and they had no wish to speak.

The sun sank behind the western hills. Its rich sunset glow spread over the golden city and over the beautiful earth below. Then darkness followed slowly, slowly creeping, creeping on, up the mountain side, across the summit, until even the shining city stood dark and shadowy beneath the gathering twilight.

“Like this, some day, the twilight will fall upon our city,” said Odin; “and it will never, never rise again.”

The mother heart of Frigg would not accept even Odin’s word. And when the sun’s first rays shot up above the far-off hills, Frigg stole forth from Asgard down the rainbow bridge to Midgard.

To every lake, and river, and sea, she hurried, and said: “Promise me, O waters, that Baldur’s light shall never go out because of you.”

“We promise,” the waters answered. And Frigg hurried on to the metals. “Promise me, O metals, that Baldur’s light shall never go out because of you.” 

“We promise,” answered the metals. And Frigg hurried on to the minerals. “Promise me, O minerals,” she said, “that Baldur’s light shall never go out because of you.”

“We promise,” answered the minerals. And Frigg hurried on to the fire, the earth, the stones, the trees, the shrubs, the grasses, the birds, the beasts, the reptiles; and even to the abode of pale disease she went. Of each she asked the same earnest, anxious question; and from each she received the same kind, honest answer.

As the sun sank behind the high peaks of the Frost giants’ homes, Frigg, radiant and happy, her eyes bright and her heart alive with hope, sped up the rainbow bridge. Triumphant, she hurried into the great hall to Odin and Baldur.

“Be happy again, O Odin! Be happy again, O Baldur! There is no danger, no sorrow to come to us from anything in the earth or under the earth. For every tree has promised me; and every rock and every metal; every animal and every bird. Even the waters and the fire have promised that never harm through them shall come to Baldur.”

But, alas, for poor Frigg. One little weed, a wee little weed, hidden beneath a rock, she had overlooked. Loke, who had followed closely upon her in all her wanderings through the day, had not failed to notice this oversight of Frigg’s. His wicked face shone with glee. His eyes gleamed; and as the radiant Frigg sped up the rainbow bridge, he hurried away to his home among the Frost giants to tell them of the little weed which, by and by, should work such harm to Baldur, in shutting out his life and light from Asgard and the earth.

The ages rolled on. Every one in Asgard, save Odin, had long ago thrown off the shadow of fear. “No harm can come to Baldur,” they would say; and all save Odin believed it.

But a day came when Odin, looking down into the home of the dead, saw there the [spirits moving about, hastening hither and thither.

“Something is happening there in the pale valley,” said Odin. “They are preparing for the coming of another shade. And it must be some great one who is to come. See how great the preparation is they make.”

“We prepare for the coming of Baldur,” answered the shades as Odin came upon them, busy in their work. “We prepare a throne for Baldur. We prepare a throne for Baldur.”

“For Baldur?” asked Odin, his heart sinking. “For Baldur!” chanted the shades. “For Baldur! Baldur cometh! Baldur cometh!”

And Odin, his godlike heart faint and sick at the thought, turned away and went slowly up the rainbow bridge.

There, in the great garden of the gods, he found Thor and Baldur and their brother 

Hodor playing at tests of strength. Behind Hodor, invisible, stood Loke. In his hand he held a spear.

“Shame upon you, Hodor,” whispered Loke, “that you, the strong and mighty Hodor, cannot overcome Baldur in a test of strength. Baldur may be beautiful and sunny, and he is a great joy to the world; that we know. But what is he compared with Hodor for strength?”

“But the spears will not touch him. See how they glance away. Indeed it is true: Light cannot be pierced.” answered Hodor, good-naturedly.

“Take this spear,” said Loke, quietly. “It is less clumsy than those you throw.”

BALDUR, THE BEAUTIFUL, IS DEAD.

Hodor took it, never thinking of any harm. Alas for Baldur and Asgard and all the happy smiling Earth! It was a spear tipped with the mistletoe—the one plant that Frigg had failed to find. The one plant that had not promised to do no harm to Baldur.

Quickly the spear flew through the air. One second, and Baldur the Summer Spirit, Baldur the Light of the Earth fell—dead.

“O, Asgard! Baldur is dead!” groaned Odin. “O Asgard, Asgard! Baldur is dead!”

Hodor, Thor, the gods, one and all, stood pale and white. A terrible fear settled over their faces. They shook with terror.

And even as they stood there, speechless in their grief, a twilight dimness began to fall lightly, lightly over all. The shining pavements grew less bright; the blue of the great arch overhead deepened; and in the valleys of Midgard there were long black shadows. Baldur was dead. The light had failed. The golden age was at an end. Now, even the gods must die. 

***

The shortest explanation of mistletoe and kissing is given in this "AI Overview"

Mistletoe is featured in many mythologies and has been associated with a variety of meanings, including fertility, love, and peace: Norse mythology

• In this myth, the god Loki tricked the god Hodur into killing Baldur, the god's twin brother, with an arrow made from mistletoe. Frigga, the mother of Baldur and Hodur, wept tears that turned into mistletoe berries. Mistletoe became a symbol of love and peace in Scandinavia, and the custom of calling a truce under mistletoe may have originated from this myth. 

Remember not to eat the berries as they are poisonous! So keep them away from children -- another good reason to hang them high and out of reach. May you stay around mistletoe, kissing or not, with plenty of love and peace for the holidays.

***** 

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 “PublicDomain Story Resources."

Cowles - Why the Wind Wails - Keeping the Public in Public Domain

The only rule for weather predictions for most locations is that it will change. . . and it definitely has!

We may not have received the nation's worst, but Michigan, especially the west and north, is bad enough. Erie Pennsylvania, your residents must love winter. Since winter and cold are my least favorite time of year, anybody there who doesn't love winter has my sympathy.

We had been having above normal weather and I was foolish enough to think that was a trend!

Julia Darrow Cowles and her book Indian Nature Myths hasn't been here in years -- their posting here spans from 2013 - 2017. That first story back in 2013 was before I found ways to reproduce pages better than a simple scan of my own books. That first story was her retelling of the Schoolcraft tale, "How the Seasons Came to Be." Definitely appropriate now. I suggest going to the book listed above at Project Gutenberg as the entire book is a treat for nature lovers.

Cowles notes the nations responsible for her stories, often the Anishinaabe (listing as Ojibwa or Chippewa) but several, including today's story, are merely attributed to the Algonquian. Our area's native people are part of that larger group and stories do travel. For more about the Algonquian peoples go to that link to understand this most populous and widespread North American indigenous North American group. Cowles briefly mentioned such story traveling in her Preface.

Wind chills have made the weather transition particularly brutal, so this Algonquin story is on my mind as the wind howls or it invisibly tries to beat me.

WHY THE WIND WAILS

(Algonquin)

WHEN the pale moon looks down from the sky, and when the wind cries mournfully around the wigwam, this is the story that the old man of the tribe tells to the Indian children:

Many, many moons ago the great chief of our tribe had a very beautiful daughter.

“She shall marry a great warrior,” said the Chief, “and a mighty hunter. Then she will be well cared for, and I shall be happy.”

So the great Chief kept watch of the young men of the tribe, to see which one would prove worthy of his daughter.

One day, as the Chief sat in the door of his lodge, there came a sudden rushing sound, and a young man stood before him. It was the Wind, who had made himself visible that he might talk with the Chief.

When he had saluted, he said, “Great Chief, I love your daughter. May I carry her away to my lodge, and make her my wife?”

The Chief looked at the Wind, and he answered, “No. My daughter is not for such as you. You are no warrior. You are no hunter. You love to play pranks. You cannot marry my daughter.”

So the Wind went away sorrowing, for he loved the Indian maiden.

The next day the maiden came to her father and said, “Father, I love the Wind better than any young warrior of our tribe. May I go to his lodge, and be his wife?”

The Chief looked at his daughter and said, “No. The Wind is no mate for you. He is no warrior. He is no hunter. He loves only to play pranks. You cannot marry him.”

The maiden went away sorrowing, for she loved the Wind.

The next day when the maiden went out to gather sweet marsh grass for her basket weaving, she heard a sudden rushing sound above her head. She looked up, and as she looked the Wind swept down and carried her in his arms far away to his lodge.

There they lived happily together, for the maiden became his wife. But the great Chief was full of wrath. He hunted through all the land for the lodge of the Wind, but he could not find it for many moons. Still he would not give up the search, for his heart was hot with wrath.

One day the Wind heard a great crashing sound among the trees near his lodge, and his heart stood still.

“It is your father,” he cried, and he hid the Chief’s daughter in a thicket, while he made himself invisible, that he might stay close beside her.

The great Chief looked inside the lodge of the Wind, but he found it empty. Then he went through the brush, striking to right and left with his heavy club, and calling, “My daughter: my daughter!”

And when the Wind’s wife heard her father’s voice, she answered, “Oh, my father, strike not! We are here.”

But before her words could reach him, the Chief swung his great club once more, and it fell upon the head of the invisible Wind, who, without a sound, dropped unconscious upon the ground. And because he was invisible, neither the Chief nor his daughter knew what had happened.

Then the Chief took his daughter in his arms and hastened back to his tribe. But each day she grew more and more sorrowful, and longed for her husband, the Wind.

For many hours the Wind lay unconscious beside his lodge. When he awakened, the Chief and his daughter had gone. Sorrowfully he set out in search of his wife. He traveled to her father’s tribe, and there at last he found her. But she was in a canoe with her father, far out upon the lake.

Then the Wind cried, “Come to me, my loved one,” and his voice swept out over the water.

The Chief said, “The winds are blowing,” but his daughter knew her husband’s voice. She could not see him, for he was still invisible, but she lifted herself up in the canoe and stretched out her hands toward the shore. As she did so a breeze stirred the water, and the canoe overturned.

The Chief’s daughter threw up her arms, and the Wind tried to catch her in his embrace, but he was too late. The Great Spirit bore her far up into the sky, and there he gave her a home where she would live

“THE WIND TRIED TO CATCH HER IN HIS EMBRACE”

The great Chief was drowned in the waters of the lake.

Night after night his daughter looks down upon the earth, hoping for a sight of her lost lover. But though the Wind still roams about the earth in search of his bride, he has never, since the Chief’s blow fell upon his head, had the power to become visible to men.

And now you will understand why the voice of the Wind is so mournful as it wails about the wigwam; and why the Moon Maiden’s pale face is always turned downward toward the earth.

***

The book ends with another Algonquin wind tale, "Keepers of the Winds", but it's best saved for a warmer time. 

For my fellow storytellers I want to repeat Cowles' note that appeared right before the stories: 

Before reading or telling the Indian Nature Myths to the children, it is best to explain that just as they love to wonder and imagine about the new and strange sights and sounds of the world, so the early races of men, the children of time, loved to wonder and imagine. And so these stories of nature grew out of their imaginings; and some of the stories are so beautiful, and some of them are so odd, that men have repeated them from one generation to another, ever since,—for even when they no longer believed them to be true, they loved them.

Other anthologies title this story "Bride of the Wind." Florence Holbrook's The Book of Nature Myths and Mary F. Nixon-Roulet's Indian Folk Tales  are two Public Domain books with that title.

 ******************

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 “PublicDomain Story Resources."

Poem /prayer by MAX COOTS at this time of year

My undergraduate degree in Theatre Arts is from what is now Webster University in metro Saint Louis. So much of what I do in my storytelling came from there even though I didn't see the path I would eventually follow. Paul Steger is the Dean of the Leigh Gerdine College of Fine Arts and he sent out the following poem or prayer for this time of year. Having recently lost a longtime friend, Loretta Vitek, who was both a storyteller and librarian (and mentioned here about half a dozen times) the poem or prayer seems particularly appropriate. Loretta's family this past month joined with those of us who will miss her in a memorial feast she would have approved. 

This seems to be a most appropriate way to enjoy those around us and " those friends now gone, like gardens past that have been harvested."

Photo by Philippe Murray-Pietsch on Unsplash

 

 

Poem /prayer by MAX COOTS

 

LET US GIVE THANKS

 

Let us give thanks for a bounty of people

For children who are our second planting

and though they grow like weeds

and the wind too soon blows them away,

May they forgive us our cultivation

and remember fondly where their roots are.

 

Let us give thanks:

For generous friends, with hearts as big as hubbards

and smiles as bright as their blossoms;

For feisty friends as tart as apples;

For continuous friends, who, like scallions and cucumbers,

keep reminding us we've had them;

For crotchety friends, as sour as rhubarb

and as indestructible;

For handsome friends, who are as gorgeous as eggplants

and as elegant as a row of corn,

and the others, as plain as potatoes and so good for you;

For funny friends, who are as silly as Brussels sprouts

and as amusing as Jerusalem artichokes,

and serious friends, as complex as cauliflowers

and as intricate as onions;

For friends as unpretentious as cabbages,

as subtle as summer squash,

as persistent as parsley,

as delightful as dill,

as endless as zucchini,

and who, like parsnips,

can be counted on to see you throughout the winter;

For old friends,

nodding like sunflowers in the evening-time

and young friends coming on as fast as radishes;

For loving friends, who wind around us like tendrils

and hold us, despite our blights, wilts, and witherings;

And finally, for those friends now gone,

like gardens past that have been harvested,

but who fed us in their times

that we might have life thereafter;

For all these we give thanks.

 

-- Max Coots

I find all over the internet this poem/prayer by the late Reverend Max Coots. Reverend Coots, was both a minister of the Unitarian Universalist Church and also a passionate gardener who permitted many to share these thoughts. 

Loretta and I shared a love of dragons. A few dragon stories may be found here attached to her name, but I also will long remember her signature not only about dragons, but "There's always a story; it would be a shame not to tell it."

For friends and all who shaped our stories, let us continue to give thanks.

Bailey - Captain Christy's Thanksgiving - Keeping the Public in Public Domain

 

Just the other day I was hearing about winter visits to Michigan's Mackinac Island. Now I find the perfect story that fits there and so many other places that fit our state's motto of "If you seek a pleasant peninsula, look about you." (I'll also take this beyond Michigan, too.)

Michigan's coastline is 3,288 linear miles long, making it the longest freshwater coastline in the United States. If islands are included, the total shoreline length increases to 4,344 miles. Michigan's coastline is diverse, featuring sandy beaches, dunes, cliffs, bluffs, and wetlands. The state's coastline is also home to several national parks, including:

• Isle Royale National Park and Biosphere Reserve: An island wilderness in Lake Superior
• Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore: Located along Lake Superior
Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore: Includes two islands in Northern Lake Michigan and a large mainland shoreline

Michigan's coastline is also accessible to residents, with 1,494 public access sites, or about one site for every two miles of shoreline.

 

Those three national parks and Mackinac Island all seem so far away from the metro Detroit and Flint area, but Michigan's area known as the Thumb is not that far away and seems to fit this story, too.

Possibly you might match this tale to other resort areas with large beach areas. Clearly the story looks back to an earlier age, but still resort areas in so many places match this story that opens in summer, then brings us to a time when they may be forgotten. The story is from Carolyn Sherwin Bailey's Stories for Every Holiday from 1918.

 

 

This coming Thursday is NOT "Turkey Day", but THANKSGIVING! Whatever your reasons or location, may you find reasons to be thankful. We all have those reasons. 

https://quotesproject.com/blessed-thanksgiving-images/

***

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 “PublicDomain Story Resources."

Otto - Rainbow Legend / Summer Reading "Rainbow of Stories"

This is Native American Heritage Month, with the official day of observance as November 15th. At the same time I've been building my plans for the Collaborative Summer Library Program theme of "Color Our World."

I've prepared A Rainbow of Stories, including songs, an Anansi tale from Africa (told with an Anansi puppet), a Puerto Rican tale of Juan Bobo, the Haitian audience participation tale of Tippingee, as well as a tale the audience will create, and...

a Native American tale from Michigan's own Odawa/Ottawa (People of the the Three Fires known as the Anishinaabe) as recorded by Simon Otto. Nanaboozhoo is the legendary Anishinaabe hero and prankster with magical powers (other spellings and pronunciations exist) and Mukawgee is his dog. Together in the early days when Mother Earth was still growing, they set many things in motion that still exist today.

Simon has gone on The Long Walk, but I'm grateful for his friendship and permission to share the stories he recorded of the Anishinabek. I know his life's mission was to help us all appreciate them. As the title of the book with this story says: Walk in Peace!

I found it interesting that Native American Heritage Month celebrates this rich cultural traditions through the theme of "Rock Your Mocs." The heart of the celebration is taking place from November 10th to 16th, but I will gladly wear my moccasins not only this month, but this summer as a powerful symbol of unity and respect for the ancestors and the diverse cultures that enrich our communities.

Walk in Peace!

Skinner - The Story That Had No End - Keeping the Public in Public Domain

Today, November 9th is "Chaos Never Dies Day." While some might point to the U.S. election or how hectic this time of year is, as a storyteller I wanted something storytelling related. I instantly knew a form of the story I wanted and think it's appropriate as today I will be at the last remaining Michigan storytelling festival, the second annual Michigan Bright Water Storytelling Festival. 

If you're unable to go, know that you can attend the meeting of the Bright Water Tellers as they are a virtual storytelling guild and anyone interested in storytelling or story listening may attend the virtual meetings. They say:Meetings are the first Monday of each month via Zoom at 7:00pm Central/5:00pm Eastern/6:00pm Mountain/4:00 pm Pacific on Zoom (but that seems a bit chaotic in listing the time zones.) This is a free event open to all, but you must register with the link. Back during Covid I realized virtual telling was not why I told stories. For me only live storytelling gives me the reason why I tell stories. 

For that reason and for the "Chaos Never Dies Day" only this story fits. I've known it in various ways of telling it, but the Skinner sisters handle it so thoroughly and well in their Merry Tales. Feel free to tell it your way!

THE STORY THAT HAD NO END

Once upon a time there was a king who was so fond of hearing stories told that he would listen to them all day long. He cared for no other kind of amusement and he was always angry when the story came to an end. “Your stories are too short,” he said to the many story-tellers who tried to amuse him. Indeed no one had ever been found who was able to tell him a story that lasted long enough.

All the people of his court had tried again and again to please him. Some had told stories that lasted three months, some had told stories that lasted six months, and a few courtiers had been able to carry on their stories for one whole year. Still the king complained, for sooner or later the story was sure to come to an end.

 

At last he sent out the following proclamation to all the people of his kingdom:

PROCLAMATION

TO THE MAN WHO WILL TELL ME A STORY WHICH SHALL LAST FOREVER, I WILL GIVE THE PRINCESS, MY DAUGHTER, IN MARRIAGE; ALSO, I WILL MAKE THE SUCCESSFUL ONE MY HEIR AND HE SHALL BE KING AFTER ME. BUT MARK, LET NO MAN PRETEND THAT HE CAN DO SO, AND FAIL; FOR, IF THE STORY COMES TO AN END, THE STORY-TELLER SHALL BE THROWN INTO PRISON. THE KING.

The king’s daughter was a very beautiful princess, and there were many suitors in the kingdom who came to the court in hope of winning such a prize. But it was all of no use. Each tried as hard as he could to spin the story out, but sooner or later it came to an end and the unfortunate one met the fate the king had threatened.

This grieved the princess very much, and each time she begged the king to lighten the punishment of the poor story-teller who had risked so much for her sake.

At last one man sent word to the king that he had a story which would last forever and ever, and that he was ready to come to the court at once. On hearing this the princess sent for the man and warned him of his danger. She begged him not to be so rash as to try the king’s patience, for no one had ever pleased his majesty, and she feared he would meet the fate of all those who had tried and failed. But he said he was not afraid, and he asked to be taken at once before the king.

“So you are the man who is to tell me a story that will have no end?” said the king.

“If it please your majesty,” answered the man.

“If you can do this, you shall be king after me, and you shall marry the princess, my daughter. But if you fail, you shall be cast into prison.”

“I understand, O king. I have a story about locusts which I shall be pleased to tell you.”

“Very well. Begin the story.”

The story-teller began his tale.

“O king, there was once a ruler who was a great tyrant. He wished to be the richest in the land, so he seized all the corn and grain in his kingdom and had it stored away. Year after year he did this until all his granaries were filled full. But one year there came a swarm of locusts and they discovered where all the grain had been stored. After a long search, they found near the top of the granary a very small hole that was just large enough for one locust at a time to pass through. So one locust went in and carried off one grain of corn; then another locust went in and carried off one grain of corn; then another locust went in and carried off one grain of corn; then another locust went in and carried off one grain of corn—”

Thus the story-teller went on day after day, week after week, from morning till night. After hearing about the locusts for nearly a year the king became rather tired of them, patient though he was, and one day he interrupted the story-teller with:

“Yes, yes, we’ve had enough of those locusts. Let us take for granted that they got all the grain they wanted. Now go on with the story. What happened afterwards?”

“If it please your majesty, I cannot tell you what happened afterwards until I have told you all that took place in the beginning. I go on with the story. Then another locust went in and carried off one grain of corn; then another locust went in and carried off one grain of corn.”

Another month passed by. At the end of this time the king asked impatiently, “Come, sir, how long will it take those locusts to carry away all the corn?”

“O king, I cannot tell. They have cleared away but a small space round the inside of the hole, and there are still thousands and thousands of locusts on the outside. Have patience, O king, there are enough grains for each locust to have one, and in time they, no doubt, will all pass in and each in turn carry away one grain of corn. Permit me, O king, to go on with my story. Then another locust went in and carried off one grain of corn; then another locust went in and carried off one grain of corn—”

“Stop, stop,” called out the king at last. “I cannot stand those locusts any longer. Take my kingdom, be king after me, marry my daughter, take everything, only never let me hear about those ridiculous locusts again.”

So the story-teller married the princess and succeeded to the throne upon the death of the king.

***

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 “PublicDomain Story Resources."

Alcott - Old Major - Keeping the Public in Public Domain

Today (November 2) is both my birthday and time to get ready for next week's Children's Book Week (November 4-10). I'm surprised to find I've never posted about Children's Book Week before. Here are a few facts about its own birth.

From the Bettmann Archive

The idea that children were banned from public libraries positively is astounding! Today's author, Louisa May Alcott, was a popular author long before Children's Book Week and children finally were allowed in libraries. She was both an activist for abolition, feminism, temperance, and women's suffrage, writing for both adults and children. It's strange today to learn according to that Wikipedia article:

Alcott had little interest in writing for children, but saw it as a good financial opportunity.^[158] She felt that writing children's literature was tedious.^[220] Alcott biographer Ruth K. MacDonald suggests that Alcott's hesitance to write children's novels may have arisen from the societal perception that writing for children was a means by which poor women made money.^[220]

She's best known today for her three book series that began with Little Women, but she was very much an aunt to her niece, Lulu, producing Aunt Jo's Scrap-Bag (1872–1882). (66 short stories in six volumes)and later Lulu's Library (1886–1889). 

Today's story came from my search for stories about birthdays. This unusual birthday present is from volume 4, My Girls, in the Aunt Jo's Scrap-Bag series. While it shows yet another cause Alcott supported, humane treatment of animals, it is presented in a way children would view it.  

When storytelling a literary tale, unless it is extremely short, memorization is not recommended for most storytellers. Instead I would tell its source so that listeners may go back to it. In this story, I would write out the "eppytap" or "eppytarf", as the children in the story call it, and let the audience read it while I read it aloud. It provides an excellent end to the boy's birthday present.

OLD MAJOR.

"O, mamma, don't let them kill him! He isn't doing any harm, and he's old and weak, and hasn't any one to be good to him but Posy and me!" cried little Ned, bursting into his mother's room, red and breathless with anxiety and haste.

"Kill whom, dear? Sit down and tell me all about it."

"I can't sit down, and I must be quick, for they may do it while I'm gone. I left Posy to watch him, and she is going to scream with all her might the minute she sees them coming back!" cried Ned, hovering restlessly about the doorway, as if expecting the call that was to summon him to the rescue.

"Mercy on us! what is it, child?"

"A dear old horse, mamma, who has been hobbling round the road for a week. I've seen him driven away from all the neighbors, so Posy and I give him clover and pat him; and to-day we found him at our bars, looking over at us playing in the field. I wanted him to come in, but Mr. White came along and drove him off, and said he was to be killed because he had no master, and was a nuisance. Don't let him do it!"

"But, Neddy, I cannot take him in, as I did the lame chicken, and the cat without a tail. He is too big, and eats too much, and we have no barn. Mr. White can find his master, perhaps, or use him for light work."

Mamma got no further, for Ned said again,—

"No, he can't. He says the poor old thing is of no use but to boil up. And his master won't be found, because he has gone away, and left Major to take care of himself. Mr. White knew the man, and says he had Major more than eighteen years, and he was a good horse, and now he's left to die all alone. Wouldn't I like to pound that man?"

"It was cruel, Neddy, and we must see what we can do."

So mamma put down her work and followed her boy, who raced before her to tell Posy it would be "all right" now.

Mrs. West found her small daughter perched on a stone wall, patting the head of an old white horse, who looked more like a skeleton than a living animal. Ned gave a whoop as he came, and the poor beast hastily hobbled across the road, pressing himself into a nook full of blackberry vines and thorny barberry bushes, as if trying to get out of sight and escape tormentors.

"That's the way he does when any one comes, because the boys plague him, and people drive him about till he doesn't know what to do. Isn't it a pity to see him so, mamma?" said tender-hearted Ned, as he pulled a big handful of clover from his father's field close by.

Indeed, it was sad, for the poor thing had evidently been a fine horse once; one could see that by his intelligent eye, the way he pricked up his ears, and the sorrowful sort of dignity with which he looked about him, as if asking a little compassion in memory of his long faithfulness.

"See his poor legs all swelled up, and the bones in his back, and the burrs the bad boys put in his mane, and the dusty grass he has to eat. Look! he knows me, and isn't afraid, because I'm good to him," said Ned, patting old Major, who gratefully ate fresh clover from the friendly little hand.

"Yes, and he lets me stroke his nose, mamma. It's as soft as velvet, and his big eyes don't frighten me a bit, they are so gentle. Oh, if we could only put him in our field, and keep him till he dies, I should be so happy!" said Posy, with such a wheedlesome arm about mamma's neck, that it was very hard to deny her any thing.

"If you will let me have Major, I won't ask for any other birthday present," cried Ned, with a sudden burst of generosity, inspired, perhaps, by the confiding way in which the poor beast rubbed his gray head against the boy's shoulder.

"Why, Neddy, do you really mean that? I was going to give you something you want very much. Shall I take you at your word, and give you a worn-out old horse instead?" asked mamma, surprised, yet pleased at the offer.

Ned looked at her, then at old Major, and wavered; for he guessed that the other gift was the little wheelbarrow he had begged for so long,—the dear green one, with the delicious creak and rumble to it. He had seen it at the store, and tried it, and longed for it, and planned to trundle every thing in it, from Posy to a load of hay. Yes, it must be his, and Major must be left to his fate.

Just as he decided this, however, Posy gave a cry that told him Mr. White was coming. Major pressed further into the prickly hedge, with a patient sort of sigh, and a look that went to Ned's heart, for it seemed to say,—

"Good by, little friend. Don't give up any thing for me. I'm not worth it, for I can only love you in return."

Mr. White was very near, but Major was safe; for, with a sudden red in his freckled cheeks, Ned put his arm on the poor beast's drooping neck, and said, manfully,—

"I choose him, mamma; and now he's mine, I'd like to see anybody touch him!"

It was a pretty sight,—the generous little lad befriending the old horse, and loving him for pure pity's sake, in the sweet childish way we so soon forget.

Posy clapped her hands, mamma smiled, with a bright look at her boy, while Mr. White threw over his arm the halter, with which he was about to lead Major to his doom, and hastened to say,—

"I don't want to hurt the poor critter, ma'am, but he's no mortal use, and folks complain of his being in the way; so I thought the kindest thing was to put him out of his misery."

"Does he suffer, do you think? for if so, it would be no kindness to keep him alive," said mamma.

"Well, no, I don't suppose he suffers except for food and a little care; but if he can't have 'em, it will go hard with him," answered Mr. White, wondering if the old fellow had any work in him still.

"He never should have been left in this forlorn way. Those who had had his youth and strength should have cared for him in his age;" and Mrs. West looked indignant.

"So they should, ma'am; but Miller was a mean man, and when he moved, he just left the old horse to live or die, though he told me, himself, that Major had served him well, for nigh on to twenty years. What do you calculate to do about it, ma'am?" asked Mr. White, in a hurry to be off.

"I'll show you, sir. Ned, let down the bars, and lead old Major in. That shall be his home while he lives, for so faithful a servant has earned his rest, and he shall have it."

Something in the ring of mamma's voice and the gesture of her hand made Ned's eyes kindle, and Mr. White walk away, saying, affably,—

"All right, ma'am; I haven't a word to say against it."

But somehow Mr. White's big barn did not look as handsome to him as usual when he remembered that his neighbor, who had no barn at all, had taken in the friendless horse.

It was difficult to make Major enter the field; for he had been turned out of so many, driven away from so many lawns, and even begrudged the scanty pickings of the roadside, that he could not understand the invitation given him to enter and take possession of a great, green field, with apple trees for shade, and a brook babbling through the middle of it.

When at last he ventured over the bars, it was both sad and funny to see how hard he tried to enjoy himself and express his delight.

First, he sniffed the air, then he nibbled the sweet grass, took a long look about him, and astonished the children by lying down with a groan, and trying to roll. He could not do it, however, so lay still with his head stretched out, gently flapping his tail as if to say,—

"It's all right, my dears. I'm not very strong, and joy upsets me; but I'm quite comfortable, bless you!"

"Isn't it nice to see him, all safe and happy, mamma?" sighed Posy, folding her hands in childish satisfaction, while Ned sat down beside his horse, and began to take the burrs out of his mane.

"Very nice, only don't kill him with kindness, and be careful not to get hurt," answered mamma, as she went back to her work, feeling as if she had bought an elephant, and didn't know what to do with him.

Later in the day a sudden shower came up, and mamma looked about to be sure her little people were under cover, for they played out all day long, if possible. No chickens could the maternal hen find to gather under her wings, and so went clucking anxiously about till Sally, the cook, said, with a laugh,—

"Ned's down in the pastur', mum, holding an umberella over that old horse, and he's got a waterproof on him, too. Calvin see it, and 'most died a-laughing."

Mamma laughed too, but asked if Ned had on his rubber boots and coat.

"Yes, mum, I see him start all in his wet-weather rig, but I never mistrusted what the dear was up to till Calvin told me. Posy wanted to go, but I wouldn't let her, so she went to the upper window, where she can see the critter under his umberella."

Mamma went up to find her little girl surveying the droll prospect with solemn satisfaction; for there in the field, under the apple tree, stood Major, blanketed with the old waterproof, while his new master held an umbrella over his aged head with a patient devotion that would have endeared him to the heart of good Mr. Bergh.

Fortunately the shower was soon over, and Ned came in to dry himself, quite unconscious of any thing funny in his proceedings. Mamma kept perfectly sober while she proposed to build a rough shed for Major out of some boards on the place. Ned was full of interest at once; and with some help from Calvin, the corner under the apple tree was so sheltered that there would be no need of the umbrella hereafter.

So Major lived in clover, and was a happy horse; for Cockletop, the lame chicken, and Bobtail, the cat, welcomed him to their refuge, and soon became fast friends. Cockle chased grasshoppers or pecked about him with meditative clucks as he fed; while Bob rubbed against his legs, slept in his shed, and nibbled catnip socially as often as his constitution needed it.

But Major loved the children best, and they took good care of him, though some of their kind attentions might have proved fatal if the wise old beast had not been more prudent than they. It was pleasant to see him watch for them, with ears cocked at the first sound of the little voices, his dim eyes brightening at sight of the round faces peeping over the wall, and feeble limbs stirred into sudden activity by the beckoning of a childish hand.

The neighbors laughed at Ned, yet liked him all the better for the lesson in kindness he had taught them; and a time came when even Mr. White showed his respect for old Major.

All that summer Neddy's horse took his rest in the green meadow, but it was evident that he was failing fast, and that his "good time" came too late. Mamma prepared the children for the end as well as she could, and would have spared them the sorrow of parting by having Major killed quietly, if Ned had not begged so hard to let his horse die naturally; for age was the only disease, and Major seemed to suffer little pain, though he daily grew more weak, and lame, and blind.

One morning when the children went to carry him a soft, warm mash for breakfast, they found him dead; not in the shed, where they had left him warmly covered, but at the low place in the wall where they always got over to visit him.

There he lay, with head outstretched, as if his last desire had been to get as near them as possible, his last breath spent in thanking them. They liked to think that he crept there to say good by, and took great comfort in the memory of all they had done for him.

They cried over him tenderly, even while they agreed that it was better for him to die; and then they covered him with green boughs, after Ned had smoothed his coat for the last time, and Posy cut a lock from his mane to make mourning rings of.

Calvin said he would attend to the funeral, and went off to dig the grave in a lonely place behind the sand-bank. Ned declared that he could not have his horse dragged away and tumbled into a hole, but must see him buried in a proper manner; and mamma, with the utmost kindness, said she would provide all that was needed.

The hour was set at four in the afternoon, and the two little mourners, provided with large handkerchiefs, Ned, with a black bow on his arm, and Posy in a crape veil, went to drop a last tear over their departed friend.

At the appointed time Calvin appeared, followed by Mr. White, with a drag drawn by black Bill. This delicate attention touched Neddy; for it might have been bay Kitty, and that would have marred the solemnity of the scene.

As the funeral train passed the house on its way down the lane, mamma, with another crape veil on, came out and joined the procession, so full of sympathy that the children felt deeply grateful.

The October woods were gay with red and yellow leaves, that rustled softly as they went through the wood; and when they came to the grave, Ned thanked Calvin for choosing such a pretty place. A pine sighed overhead, late asters waved beside it, and poor Major's last bed was made soft with hemlock boughs.

When he was laid in it, mamma bade them leave the old waterproof that had served for a pall still about him, and then they showered in bright leaves till nothing was visible but a glimpse of the dear white tail.

The earth was thrown in, green sods heaped over it, and then the men departed, feeling that the mourners would like to linger a little while.

As he left, Mr. White said, with the same gravity which he had preserved all through the scene,—

"You are welcome to the use of the team and my time, ma'am. I don't wish any pay for 'em; in fact, I should feel more comfortable to do this job for old Major quite free and hearty."

Mamma thanked him, and when he was gone, Ned proposed that they should sing a hymn, and Posy added, "They always sing, 'Sister, thou art mild and lovely' at funerals, you know."

Mamma with difficulty kept sober at this idea but suggested the song about "Good old Charlie," as more appropriate. So it was sung with great feeling, and then Posy said, as she "wiped her weeping eyes,"—

"Now, Ned, show mamma our eppytap."

"She means eppytarf," explained Ned, with a superior air, as he produced a board, on which he had printed with India ink the following words,—

"Here lies dear old Major. He was a good horse when he was young. But people were not kind to him when he was old. We made him as happy as we could. He loved us, and we mourn for him. Amen."

Ned's knowledge of epitaphs was very slight, so he asked mamma if this one would do; and she answered warmly,—

"It is a very good one; for it has what many lack,—the merit of being true. Put it up, dear, and I'll make a wreath to hang on the gravestone."

Much gratified, Ned planted the board at the head of the grave, Posy gathered the brightest leaves, and mamma made a lovely garland in which to frame the "eppytap."

Then they left old Major to his rest, feeling sure that somewhere there must be a lower heaven for the souls of brave and faithful animals when their unrewarded work is done.

Many children went to see that lonely grave, but not one of them disturbed a leaf, or laughed at the little epitaph that preached them a sermon from the text,—

"Blessed are the merciful."

*****

Over the years I have adopted many animals, dogs, cats (now off limits due to allergies), goats, and chickens. I'm told C.S. Lewis said they must be waiting for us in heaven because without them heaven wouldn't be heavenly. I've not been able to find that quote and would appreciate it if anybody could help me find it. I certainly agree.

*********

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 “PublicDomain Story Resources."

Curtin - Shaking-Head - Keeping the Public in Public Domain

 "Mary Culhaine and the Dead Man" is at the top of my list of spooky tales to tell. A Public Domain version and a link to another version of it can be found by going to my earlier posts under the link of  Jeremiah Curtin . Curtin's version of "The Blood-Drawing Ghost' came from his Tales of the Fairies and Ghost World. That book is easiest found via the Internet Archive. This internet resource continues its battle to provide open access to millions of free books, movies, software, music, websites, and more in their legal fight against the publishing giants in Hachette v. Internet Archive. It and Project Gutenberg deserve our support to keep these online resources available.

Today's story is long and deserves to be better known as it comes from one of Curtin's best-loved collections, Myths and Folk Tales of Ireland. That link is to the Project Gutenberg version of the book, but if you want a printed copy, Dover Publications has long made it available. 

When I went to Project Gutenberg I found 23 books by Curtin. A dozen were his translations of Polish novels by Henryk Sienkiewicz and an additional two novels by Boleslaw Prus. This surprised me as I was only familiar with his Irish folklore. That initial link I gave to Wikipedia's article about Curtin shows Irish folklore was indeed important in his work (he visited Ireland five times on folklore collecting trips) and his background with Irish parents. What surprised me was he learned 70! languages. This began to explain his life's work including Native Americans such as his collections of tales by the Modocs and the Seneca, but also his Myths and Folk tales of the Russians, Western Slavs, and Magyrs. That and his 70 languages should be enough for several people, but "Wait there's more!" He also was  asked by his friend "President Theodore Roosevelt to serve at the peace conference in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, bringing an end to the Russo-Japanese War." 

With such a background the story of "Shaking-Head" is a traditional tale of a king's son out in the world to seek his fortune, but with a most unusual assistant, Shaking-Head. For those of us who love folklore, other familiar elements are part of that journey, adding to its pleasure

SHAKING-HEAD.

THERE was once a king of a province in Erin who had an only son. The king was very careful of this son, and sent him to school for good instruction.

The other three kings of provinces in Erin had three sons at the same school; and the three sent word by this one to his father, that if he didn't put his son to death they would put both father and son to death themselves.

When the young man came home with this word to his father and mother, they were grieved when they heard it. But the king's son said that he would go out into the world to seek his fortune, and settle the trouble in that way. So away he went, taking with him only five pounds in money for his support.

The young man travelled on till he came to a grave-yard, where he saw four men fighting over a coffin. Then he went up to the four, and saw that two of them were trying to put the coffin down into a grave, and the other two preventing them and keeping the coffin above ground. When the king's son came near the men, he asked: "Why do you fight in such a place as this, and why do you keep the coffin above ground?"

Two of the men answered, and said: "The body of our brother is in this coffin, and these two men won't let us bury it."

The other two then said: "We have a debt of five pounds on the dead man, and we won't let his body be buried till the debt is paid." The king's son said: "Do you let these men bury their brother, and I will pay what you ask."

Then the two let the brothers of the dead man bury him. The king's son paid the five pounds, and went away empty-handed, and, except the clothes on his back, he had no more than on the day he was born. After he had gone on his way awhile and the grave-yard was out of sight he turned and saw a sprightly red-haired man (fear ruadh) hurrying after him. When he came up, the stranger asked: "Don't you want a serving man?"

"I do not," answered the king's son, "I have nothing to support myself with, let alone a serving man."

"Well, never mind that," said the red-haired man; "I'll be with you wherever you go, whether you have anything or not."

"What is your name?" asked the king's son.

"Shaking-head," answered the red man.

When they had gone on a piece of the way together the king's son stopped and asked: "Where shall we be to-night?"

"We shall be in a giant's castle where there will be small welcome for us," said Shaking-head.

When evening came they found themselves in front of a castle. In they went and saw no one inside, only a tall old hag. But they were not long in the place till they heard a loud, rushing noise outside, and a blow on the castle. The giant came; and the first words he let out of his mouth were: "I'm glad to have an Erinach on my supper-table to eat to-night." Then turning to the two he said: "What brought you here this evening; what do you want in my castle?"

"All the champions and heroes of Erin are going to take your property from you and destroy yourself; we have come to warn you, and there is nobody to save you from them but us," said Shaking-head.

When the giant heard these words he changed his treatment entirely. He gave the king's son and Shaking-head a hearty welcome and a kindly greeting. When he understood the news they brought, he washed them with the tears of his eyes, dried them with kisses, and gave them a good supper and a soft bed that night.

Next morning the giant was up at an early hour, and he went to the bedside of each man and told him to rise and have breakfast. Shaking-head asked his reward of the giant for telling him of the champions of Erin and the danger he was in.

"Well," said the giant, "there's a pot of gold over there under my bed; take as much out of it as ever you wish, and welcome."

"It isn't gold I want for my service," said Shaking-head; "you have a gift which suits me better."

"What gift is that?" asked the giant.

"The light black steed in your stable."

"That's a gift I won't give you," said the giant, "for when any one comes to trouble or attack me, all I have to do is to throw my leg over that steed, and away he carries me out of sight of every enemy."

"Well," said Shaking-head, "if you don't give me that steed I'll bring all the kingdom of Erin against you, and you'll be destroyed with all you have."

The giant stopped a moment, and said: "I believe you'd do that thing, so you may take the steed." Then Shaking-head took the steed of the giant, gave him to the king's son, and away they went.

At sunset Shaking-head said: "We are near the castle of another giant, the next brother to the one who entertained us last night. He hasn't much welcome for us either; but he will treat us well when he is threatened."

The second giant was going to eat the king's son for supper, but when Shaking-head told him about the forces of Erin he changed his manner and entertained them well.

Next morning after breakfast, Shaking-head said: "You must give me a present for my services in warning you."

"There is a pot of gold under my bed," said the giant; "take all you want of it."

"I don't want your gold," said Shaking-head, "but you have a gift which suits me well."

"What is that?" asked the giant.

"The two-handed black sword that never fails a blow."

"You won't get that gift from me," said the giant; "and I can't spare it; for if a whole army were to come against me, as soon as I'd have my two hands on the hilt of that sword, I'd let no man near me without sweeping the head off him."

"Well," said Shaking-head, "I have been keeping back your enemies this long time; but I'll let them at you now, and I'll raise up more. I'll put the whole kingdom of Erin against you."

The giant stopped a moment, and said: "I believe you'd do that if it served you." So he took the sword off his belt and handed it to his guest. Shaking-head gave it to the king's son, who mounted his steed, and they both went away.

When they had gone some distance from the giant's castle Shaking-head said to the king's son, "Where shall we be to-night?—you have more knowledge than I." "Indeed then I have not," said the king's son; "I have no knowledge at all of where we are going; it is you who have the knowledge."

"Well," said Shaking-head, "we'll be at the third and youngest giant's castle to-night, and at first he'll treat us far worse and more harshly, but still we'll take this night's lodging of him, and a good gift in the morning."

Soon after sunset they came to the castle where they met the worst reception and the harshest they had found on the road. The giant was going to eat them both for supper; but when Shaking-head told him of the champions of Erin, he became as kind as his two brothers, and gave good entertainment to both.

Next morning after breakfast, Shaking-head asked for a present in return for his services.

"Do you see the pot of gold in the corner there under my bed?—take all you want and welcome," said the giant.

"It's not gold I want," said Shaking-head, "but the cloak of darkness."

"Oh," said the giant, "you'll not get that cloak of me, for I want it myself. If any man were to come against me, all I'd have to do would be to put that cloak on my shoulders, and no one in the world could see me, or know where I'd be."

"Well," said Shaking-head, "it's long enough that I am keeping your enemies away; and if you don't give me that cloak now I'll raise all the kingdom of Erin and still more forces to destroy you, and it's not long you'll last after they come."

The giant thought a moment, and then said: "I believe you'd do what you say. There's the black cloak hanging on the wall before you; take it."

Shaking-head took the cloak, and the two went away together, the king's son riding on the light black steed, and having the double-handed sword at his back. When out of sight of the giant, Shaking-head put on the cloak, and wasn't to be seen, and no other man could have been seen in his place. Then the king's son looked around, and began to call and search for his man,—he was lonely without him and grieved not to see him. Shaking-head, glad to see the affection of the king's son, took off the cloak and was at his side again.

"Where are we going now?" asked the king's son.

"We are going on a long journey to (Ri Chuil an Or) King Behind the Gold, to ask his daughter of him."

The two travelled on, till they came to the castle of King Behind the Gold. Then Shaking-head said: "Go in you, and ask his daughter of the king, and I'll stay here outside with the cloak on me." So he went in and spoke to the king, and the answer he got was this:—

"I am willing to give you my daughter, but you won't get her unless you do what she will ask of you. And I must tell you now that three hundred kings' sons, lacking one, have come to ask for my daughter, and in the garden behind my castle are three hundred iron spikes, and every spike of them but one is covered with the head of a king's son who couldn't do what my daughter wanted of him, and I'm greatly in dread that your own head will be put on the one spike that is left uncovered."

"Well," said the king's son, "I'll do my best to keep my head where it is at present."

"Stay here in my castle," said the king, "and you'll have good entertainment till we know can you do what will be asked of you." At night when the king's son was going to bed, the princess gave him a thimble, and said: "Have this for me in the morning."

He put the thimble on his finger; and she thought it could be easily taken away, if he would sleep. So she came to him in the night, with a drink, and said: "I give you this in hopes I'll gain more drink by you." He swallowed the liquor, and the princess went away with the empty cup. Then the king's son put the thimble in his mouth between his cheek and his teeth for safe keeping, and was soon asleep.

When the princess came to her own chamber, she struck her maid with a slat an draoichta (a rod of enchantment) and turned her into a rat; then she made such music of fifes and trumpets to sound throughout the castle, that every soul in it fell asleep. That minute, she sent the rat to where the king's son was sleeping, and the rat put her tail into the nostrils of the young man, tickled his nose so that he sneezed and blew the thimble out of his mouth. The rat caught it and ran away to the princess, who struck her with the rod of enchantment and turned her into a maid again.

Then the princess and the maid set out for the eastern world, taking the thimble with them. Shaking-head, who was watching with his cloak on, unseen by all, had seen everything, and now followed at their heels. In the eastern world, at the sea-side was a rock. The princess tapped it with her finger, and the rock opened; there was a great house inside, and in the house a giant. The princess greeted him and gave him the thimble, saying: "You're to keep this so no man can get it."

"Oh," said the giant, taking the thimble and throwing it aside, "you need have no fear; no man can find me in this place."

Shaking-head caught the thimble from the ground and put it in his pocket. When she had finished conversation with the giant, the princess kissed him, and hurried away. Shaking-head followed her step for step, till they came at break of day to the castle of King Behind the Gold. Shaking-head went to the king's son and asked: "Was anything given you to keep last night?"

"Yes, before I came to this chamber the princess gave me her thimble, and told me to have it for her in the morning."

"Have you it now?" asked Shaking-head.

"It is not in my mouth where I put it last night, it is not in the bed; I'm afraid my head is lost," said the king's son.

"Well, look at this," said Shaking-head, taking the thimble out of his pocket and giving it to him. "The whole kingdom is moving to-day to see your death. All the people have heard that you are here asking for the princess, and they think your head'll be put on the last spike in the garden, with the heads of the other kings' sons. Rise up now, mount your light black steed, ride to the summer-house of the princess and her father, and give her the thimble."

The king's son did as Shaking-head told him. When he gave up the thimble, the king said, "You have won one third of my daughter." But the princess was bitterly angry and vexed to the heart, that any man on earth should know that she had dealings with the giant; she cared more for that than anything else.

When the second day had passed, and the king's son was going to bed, the princess gave him a comb to keep, and said: "If you don't have this for me in the morning, your head will be put on the spike that's left in my father's garden."

The king's son took the comb with him, wrapped it in a handkerchief, and tied it to his head.

In the night the princess came with a draught which she gave him, and soon he was asleep. Going back to her own chamber, she struck the maid with her rod of enchantment, and made a great yellow cat of her. Then she caused such music of fifes and trumpets to sound throughout the castle that every soul was in a deep sleep before the music was over, and that moment she sent the cat to the chamber of the king's son. The cat worked the handkerchief off his head, took out the comb and ran with it to the princess, who turned her into a maid again.

The two set out for the eastern world straightway; but as they did, Shaking-head followed them in his cloak of darkness, till they came to the house of the giant in the great rock at the end of the road, at the sea. The princess gave the giant the comb, and said: "The thimble that I gave you to keep last night was taken from you, for the king's son in Erin brought it back to me this morning, and has done one third of the work of winning me, and I didn't expect you'd serve me in this way."

When the giant heard this, he was raging, and threw the comb into the sea behind him. Then with Druidic spells he raised thunder and lightning and wind. The sea was roaring with storm and rain; but the comb had not touched the water when Shaking-head caught it.

When her talk was over the princess gave the giant a kiss, and home she went with the maid; but Shaking-head followed them step by step.

In the morning Shaking-head went to the king's son, roused him, and asked: "What was your task last night?"

"The princess gave me a comb to have for her this morning," answered the king's son.

"Where is it now?" asked Shaking-head.

"Here on my head," said the king's son, putting up his hand to get it; but the comb was gone. "I'm done for now," said the king's son; "my head will be on the last spike to-day unless I have the comb for the princess."

"Here it is for you," said Shaking-head, taking the comb out of his pocket. "And now," said he, "the whole kingdom is coming to this castle to-day to see your head put on the last spike in the garden of King Behind the Gold, for all men think the same will happen to you that has happened to every king's son before you. Go up on your steed and ride to the summer-house where the king and his daughter are sitting, and give her the comb."

The king's son did as Shaking-head bade him. When he saw the comb the king said, "Now you have my daughter two-thirds won." But her face went from the princess entirely, she was so vexed that any man should know of her dealings with the giant.

The third night when he was going to bed the princess said to the king's son, "If you will not have at my father's castle to-morrow morning the head I will kiss to-night, you'll die to-morrow, and your own head will be put on the last spike in my father's garden." Later in the night she came to the bedside of the king's son with a draught, which he drank, and before she was back in her chamber, he slept. Then she made such music all over the castle that not a soul was awake when the music had ceased. That moment she hurried away with her maid to the eastern world; but Shaking-head followed her in his cloak of darkness. This time he carried with him the two-handed sword that never failed a blow.

When she came to the rock in the eastern world and entered the house of the giant, the princess said, "You let my two gifts go with the son of the king in Erin, and he'll have me won to-morrow if he'll have your head at my father's castle in the morning."

"Never fear," said the giant, "there is nothing in the world to take the head off me but the double-handed sword of darkness that never fails a blow, and that sword belongs to my brother in the western world."

The princess gave the giant a kiss at parting; and as she hurried away with her maid the giant turned to look at her. His head was covered with an iron cap; but as he looked he laid bare a thin strip of his neck. Shaking-head was there near him, and said in his mind: "Your brother's sword has never been so close to your neck before;" and with one blow he swept the head off him. Then began the greatest struggle that Shaking-head ever had, to keep the head from the body of the giant. The head fought to put itself on again, and never stopped till the body was dead; then it fell to the ground. Shaking-head seized, but couldn't stir the head,—couldn't move it from its place. Then he searched all around it and found a (bar an suan) pin of slumber near the ear. When he took the pin away he had no trouble in carrying the head; and he made no delay but came to the castle at daybreak, and threw the head to a herd of pigs that belonged to the king. Then he went to the king's son, and asked:

"What happened to you last night?"

"The princess came to me, and said that if I wouldn't bring to her father's castle this morning the head she was to kiss last night, my own head would be on the last spike to-day."

"Come out with me now to the pigs," said Shaking-head.

The two went out, and Shaking-head said: "Go in among the pigs, and take the head with you to the king; and a strange head it is to put before a king."

So the king's son went on his steed to the summer-house, and gave the head to the king and his daughter, and turning to the princess, said:

"This is the head you kissed last night, and it's not a nice looking head either."

"You have my daughter won now entirely," said the king, "and she is yours. And do you take that head to the great dark hole that is out there on one side of my castle grounds, and throw it down."

The king's son mounted his steed, and rode off with the head till he came to the hole going deep into the earth. When he let down the head it went to the bottom with such a roaring and such a noise that every mare and cow and every beast in the whole kingdom cast its young, such was the terror that was caused by the noise of the head in going to the bottom of the hole.

When the head was put away the king's son went back to the castle, and married the daughter of King Behind the Gold. The wedding lasted nine days and nights, and the last night was better than the first.

When the wedding was over Shaking-head went to the king, and said: "You have provided no fortune for your daughter, and it is but right that you should remember her."

"I have plenty of gold and silver to give her," said the king.

"It isn't gold and silver that your son-in-law wants, but men to stand against his enemies, when they come on him."

"I have more treasures than men," said King Behind the Gold; "but I won't see my daughter conquered for want of an army."

They were satisfied with the king's word, and next day took the road to Erin, and kept on their way till they came opposite the grave-yard. Then Shaking-head said to the king's son: "You are no good, you have never told me a story since the first day I saw you."

"I have but one story to tell you, except what happened since we met."

"Well, tell me what happened before we met."

"I was passing this place before I saw you," said the king's son, "and four men were fighting over a coffin. I spoke to them, and two of them said they were burying the body of their brother which was in the coffin, and the others said the dead man owed them five pounds, and they wouldn't let the coffin into the ground until they got the money. I paid five pounds and the body was buried."

"It was my body was in the coffin," said Shaking-head, "and I came back into this world to do you a good turn; and now I am going, and you'll never see me again unless trouble is on you."

Shaking-head disappeared, and the king's son went home. He wasn't with his father long till the other three kings' sons heard he had come back to Erin with the daughter of King Behind the Gold. They sent word, saying: "We'll take the head off you now, and put an end to your father and yourself."

The king's son went out to walk alone, and as he was lamenting the fate he had brought on his father, who should come along to meet him but Shaking-head.

"What trouble is on you now?" asked he.

"Oh, three kings' sons are coming with their fleets and armies to destroy my father and myself, and what can we do with our one fleet and one army?"

"Well," said Shaking-head, "I'll settle that for you without delay." Then he sent a message straight to King Behind the Gold, who gave a fleet and an army, and they came to Erin so quickly that they were at the castle before the forces of the three kings' sons. And when the three came the battle began on sea and land at both sides of the castle.

The three fleets of the three kings' sons were sunk, their armies destroyed, and the three heads taken off themselves. When the battle was over and the country safe the king resigned the castle and power to his son, and the son of a king in a province became king over all the land of Erin.

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Shades of the Dancing Princesses and more! While I doubt that prince would have kept his own head and succeeded on his own, this Irish version has some interesting variations on the theme, including that body in the coffin.

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Today's story has been so long and I've so often closed with a standard introduction and list of online storytelling resources, that I'll merely add that introduction and leave it to you to find the rest at my other "Keeping the Public in Public Domain" posts.

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 new stories.  

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.