Fleeson - Why the Parrot and the Minor Bird but Echo the Words of Man - Keeping the Public in Public Domain

It's Earth Month, with Earth Day on April 22 so close to Easter and Passover that it seems good to consider it now. Today's story is from Laos Folk-Lore of Farther India by Katherine Neville Fleeson. Its section "Nature's Riddles and Their Answers" opens an important issue... Invasive Species. Not every plant, insect or animal is endangered and some may be considered dangerously invasive. Wikipedia's article on the Common Myna, talks about a bird "popular as cage birds for their singing and 'speaking' abilities." Even though they might be kept as pets: 

The range of the common myna is increasing at such a rapid rate that in 2000 the IUCN Species Survival Commission declared it one of the world's most invasive species and one of only three birds listed among "100 of the World's Worst Invasive Species" that pose a threat to biodiversity, agriculture and human interests. In particular, the species poses a serious threat to the ecosystems of Australia, where it was named "The Most Important Pest/Problem" in 2008.

The Common Myna was first introduced to Australia between 1863 and 1872 to control insects in the market gardens. One of the birds it threatens is the Parrot. "One-third of all parrot species are threatened by extinction, with a higher aggregate extinction risk (IUCN Red List Index) than any other comparable bird group." The Common Myna is notorious for taking over the nests of other birds. At the same time:

Parrots, being cavity nesters, are vulnerable to the loss of nesting sites and to competition with introduced species for those sites. The loss of old trees is a particular problem in some areas, particularly in Australia, where suitable nesting trees must be centuries old.

Both birds share territory in Asia and Australia including Laos. You may notice the story calls the Common Myna a "minor bird" which seems to be the pronunciation the author heard. Because it is also called the "sao bird" I went looking and found a site calling it a "mythical bird." The São Tomé Sunbird couldn't be the bird as it's on an island country in the Gulf of Guinea, off the western equatorial coast of Central Africa.

As a result I'd tell the story as being about the Common Myna and the Parrot and include information about the problem caused by invasive species and endangered species. This story has both!

Why the Parrot and the Minor Bird but Echo the Words of Man

Long ago people caught and nourished the sao bird, because it learned the language of man more readily than either the parrot or minor bird. While they had to be taught with much care, the sao bird had but to hear a word and it could readily utter it; moreover, the sao bird could utter its own thoughts.

Upon a time a man of the north country, owning a sao bird, stole a buffalo from his neighbor and killed it. Part of the buffalo the man cooked and ate; the rest he hid either in the rice bin or over the rice house.

Seeking the buffalo, next day, the neighbor asked the man if he had seen it.

The man replied, “No.” The sao bird, however, cried out, “He killed it; part he hid in the rice bin, part over the rice house.”

The neighbor searched in both of these places and found the parts just as the sao bird had said.

“I did not steal the buffalo,” insisted the man.

But the bird ever called, “He killed it and put part into the rice bin, and part over the rice house.”

Unable to decide between the words of the man and the words of the bird, the neighbor appealed to the court. And, it happened, the night before the trial, that the man took the sao bird, placed it in a jar, covered the jar and poured water over the cloth and beat on the outside of the jar. The noise of the beating was low and rumbling. All that night was the bird kept in the jar, and not once did it see the bright moonlight, which was almost as bright as day, for it was in the midst of the dry season and full moon. When the eye of day opened, the man removed the bird from the jar and placed it in its cage, and then took it to the court as a witness.

When the bird was called, it said, as before, “He killed it; part he put in the rice bin, and part over the rice house.”

All people believed the bird.

“Ask it another question. Ask it what manner of night it was last night. Will you condemn me to death on the word of a bird?” cried the man.

The question was put to the bird, but, remembering its fear, during the night, of the rumbling noise and the sound of running water, it answered, “Last night the sky called and the rain fell.”

Then the people cried, “Of a truth, the bird cannot be believed. Because it has imperilled the life of an innocent man, from this time forth, the sao bird must not be cherished by man.”

The thief was set free because there were but the words of the bird to condemn him.

No longer is the sao bird nourished by man, but lives in the forest. Those who are full of fear, when they hear them talking in the forest, say, “it is the spirits.”

When the sao bird saw the bright plumage of the parrot, and the black and gold of the minor bird, it knew they were strangers who had come to dwell in the north, and it asked the crow and the owl what manner of birds they were.

“Beautiful in plumage, as thou canst readily see,” answered they. “Moreover, they speak the words of man.”

“Speak the words of man,” echoed the sao bird. “I’ll warn them. Come, let us greet them.” And they went forth to meet the beautiful strangers.

And upon a day, as they all came together in one place, the sao bird cried out, “We, the chief birds of the north land, come to greet you and to give you of our wisdom, as you are but strangers in our land. It is told me you speak as 44 does man; even so can I. Nourished by the hand of man many years, I did see with my eyes and hear with my ears, and my tongue uttered not only the things I beheld and heard, but things displeasing to my masters. At one time, all men spoke well of me, but afterward was I cruelly punished and driven from the homes of men. Therefore come I this day unto you to warn you that, if man learns of your speaking tongue, he will capture you and nourish you in his home. Yet, should you speak other than he teaches you, you will be punished and driven from the homes of men, for man loves only to hear his thoughts repeated and loves not even a bird that has wisdom or truth greater than his own.”

Fearful of uttering their thoughts, lest man resent it, the parrot and minor bird but echo the words of man.

 

 Quite by accident the weekend I posted this I also found a version of this story as "Why the Parrot Repeats the Words of Men" In Florence Holbrook's The Book of Nature Myths. I like the Laotian tale for the option of telling about both invasive & threatened birds.

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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."

 

Johonnot - Bruce and Bannockburn - Keeping the Public in Public Domain

April 6, is Tartan Day, an international celebration of Scottish heritage. My own clan, Clan Stirling, probably because it was a lowland clan, was relatively late in adopting a tartan, not doing so until 1847. The clan crest however is older and the minute I saw it I definitely recognized myself in it . . . "Gang Forward!" (For a bit more on Clan Stirling Wikipedia gives the barest of facts.)

Every year I love storytelling at the annual Highland Games presented by the St. Andrew's Society of Detroit. The countdown has already begun for the 176th Highland Games, a mere 3 months and 4 weeks away!

I prefer to wear the tartan known as The Pride of Scotland as it is for all Scots. (Of course I wear proudly with it that Stirling crest.)

It fits the storytelling I and my storytelling friends from the former North Oakland County Storytellers should be presenting the culture and history of Scotland in the Wee Bairns area.

Scotland is a land rich in history, with one area I'm eagerly looking forward to sharing when I find myself with an eager young group of boys.  . . . The Battle of Bannockburn! 

I went looking for Public Domain coverage of The Battle of Bannockburn and found it in Ten Great Events in History by James Johonnot. The Project Gutenberg book's automatically generated summary describes the book as:

a historical account compiled and arranged in the late 19th century. The work explores significant moments in history where individuals or groups responded to tyranny, highlighting themes of freedom and resistance throughout various epochs.

The story of Bannockburn's battle is Chapter IV.—“BRUCE AND BANNOCKBURN.” Johonnot includes Sir Walter Scott,'s poem, "The Lord of the Isles" and Robert Burn's “Scots wha' hae.” They are omitted here and the story is told in greater detail than would be appropriate for the “Wee Bairns,” but is given here complete with numbered paragraphs to show the chapter's flow.

Before the actual battle Johonnot includes a bit of background on Robert the Bruce before the battle, starting in sub-chapter 7 and 8:

After the capture and murder of William Wallace by the English on the 29th of March, 1306, Bruce was crowned king. His enemies immediately attacked and defeated him, and he was obliged to take refuge in the mountains of the Highlands. Here he was hunted like a wild animal, and was obliged to flee from one fastness to another.

Johonnet continues with this lovely legend:

After one of his defeats he was lying one night on a wretched bed in a rude hut, while debating in his own mind whether it were not best to enlist in a crusade, when his attention was directed to a spider on the rafters overhead. He saw that the little spinner was trying to swing from one rafter to another, so as to fix his thread across the space. Time and again it tried and failed. Admiring the perseverance of the creature, Bruce began to count the number of times he tried. One, two, three, four, five, six. It suddenly occurred to Bruce that this was just the number of times he had failed in his attempts against the enemy. He then made up his mind that if the spider succeeded in the next trial he would make one more endeavor to recover his kingdom, but if it failed he would start at once for Palestine. The spider sprang into the air, and this time succeeded, so the king resolved upon another trial, and never after met with a defeat. 

If the group is "twitchy" that might be as far as I get, only briefly retelling about Bannockburn. I prefer something more able to convey its importance and what a turning point it was in the long struggle for Scottish rule of Scotland. Probably I would be sure to hit at least the major facts. Put "Battle of Bannockburn" into any search engine and there are many entries. For example, Historyhit.com's "10 Facts about the Battle of Bannockburn." 

For "the rest of the story" Johonnot goes into great detail giving much to flesh out any storytelling. I will quote it here with a few interruptions. If we pick up after the story about the spider it is given here complete with numbered sub-paragraphs to show the chapter's flow.

38. These successes of Bruce inspired great confidence, and he soon found himself at the head of a formidable force. With this he marched up and down the country, and compelled the English to keep strictly within their castles and fortified places; and even several of these were captured. King Edward I, of England, heard of these successes of Bruce with astonishment and rage. Though old and sorely diseased, he raised a large army and marched for the north; but he had scarcely crossed the Scottish border when his physician informed him that he had but a few hours to live. He immediately called his son to his bed-side, and made him swear that he would push forward this expedition against the Bruce; and he died cursing the whole Scotch people. He even gave direction that his body should be boiled, and that his bones, wrapped in a bull's hide, should be carried at the head of the army as often as the Scots attempted to recover their freedom.

39. Edward II was a weak prince, neither so wise nor so brave as his father. He marched a little way on to Scotland, but, having no great liking for war, he turned and marched back into England. He disregarded his father's injunction about the disposition of his bones, but took them back to London, and deposited them in Westminster Abbey.

40. From this time the cause of Bruce was a succession of victories. During the winter and spring one English fortress after another surrendered, until there only remained the strong castle of Stirling held by the English power. This castle was besieged, and Sir Philip Mowbray, the commander, agreed to surrender it if it was not reinforced by the English before midsummer. Then came a cessation of hostilities, and a period of rest for the Scots. King Edward had made no arrangement to again interfere in Scottish affairs. But now, when Sir Philip Mowbray, the governor of Stirling, came to London to tell the king that Stirling, the last Scottish town of importance which remained in possession of the English, was to be surrendered if it were not relieved by force of arms before midsummer, then all the English nobles called out, it would be a sin and shame to permit the fair conquest which Edward I had made to be forfeited to the Scots for want of fighting. It was, therefore, resolved that the king should go himself to Scotland with as great forces as he could possibly muster.

41. King Edward II, therefore, assembled one of the greatest armies which a king of England ever commanded. There were troops brought from all his dominions. Many brave soldiers from the French provinces which the king of England enjoyed in France; many Irish, many Welsh, and all the great English nobles and barons, with their followers, were assembled in one great army. The number was not less than one hundred thousand men.

42. King Robert the Bruce summoned all his nobles and barons to join him, when he heard of the great preparation which the king of England was making. They were not so numerous as the English by many thousand men. In fact, his whole army did not very much exceed thirty thousand men, and they were much worse armed than the wealthy Englishmen; but then Robert, who was at their head, was one of the most expert generals of the time, and the officers he had under him were his brother Edward, his nephew Randolph, his faithful follower the Douglas, and other brave and experienced leaders, who commanded the same men that had been accustomed to fight and gain victories under every disadvantage of situation and numbers.

43. The king, on his part, studied how he might supply, by address and stratagem, what he wanted in numbers and strength. He knew the superiority of the English both in their heavy-armed cavalry, which were much better mounted and armed than those of the Scots, and in the archery, in which art the English were better than any people in the world. Both these advantages he resolved to provide against. With this purpose, Bruce led his army down into a plain, near Stirling, called the Park, near which, and beneath it, the English army must needs pass through a boggy country, broken with water-courses, while the Scots occupied hard, dry ground. He then caused all the hard ground upon the front of his line of battle, where cavalry were likely to act, to be dug full of holes, about as deep as a man's knee. They were filled with light brushwood, and the turf was laid on the top, so that it appeared a plain field, while in reality it was all as full of these pits as a honeycomb is of holes. He also, it is said, caused steel spikes, called calthrops, to be scattered up and down in the plain, where the English cavalry were most likely to advance, trusting to lame and destroy their horses.

44. When his army was drawn, the line stretched north and south. On the south it was terminated by the banks of the brook called Bannockburn, which are so rocky that no troops could come on them there. On the left the Scottish line extended near to the town of Stirling. Bruce reviewed his troops very carefully; all the useless servants and drivers of carts, and such like, of whom there were very many, he ordered to go behind a height called the Gillies' Hill—that is, the Servants' Hill. He then spoke to the soldiers, and expressed his determination to gain the victory or to lose his life on the field of battle. He desired that all those who did not propose to fight to the last would leave the field before the battle began, and that none would remain except those who were determined to take the issue of victory or death, as God should send it.

Lois: Here Johonnot inserted a translation of “Scots wha' hae” as Robert the Bruce's address to his men.

49. When the main body of his army was thus placed in order, the king posted Randolph, with a body of horse, near to the church of St. Mirau's, commanding him to use the utmost diligence to prevent any succorers from being thrown into Stirling Castle. He then dismissed James of Douglas and Sir Robert Keith, the marshal of the Scottish army, in order that they might survey, as nearly as they could, the English force, which was now approaching from Falkirk. They returned with information that the approach of that vast host was one of the most beautiful and terrible sights which could be seen; that the whole country seemed covered with men-at-arms on horse and foot; that the number of standard banners and pennants made so gallant a show, that the bravest and most numerous host in Christendom might be alarmed to see King Edward moving against them.

50. It was upon the 23d of June, 1314, that the King of Scotland heard the news that the English army were approaching Stirling. He drew out his army, therefore, in the order which he had before resolved upon. After a short time, Bruce, who was looking out anxiously for the enemy, saw a body of English cavalry trying to get into Stirling from the eastward. This was the Lord Clifford, who, with a chosen body of eight hundred horse, had been detached to relieve the castle.

51. "See, Randolph," said the king to his nephew, "there is a rose fallen from your chaplet." By this be meant that Randolph has lost some honor by suffering the enemy to pass where he had been commanded to follow them. Randolph made no reply, but rushed against Clifford with little more than half his number. The Scots were on foot. The English turned to charge them with their lances, and Randolph drew up his men in close order to receive them. He seemed to be in so much danger that Douglas asked leave of the king to go and assist him. The king refused permission.

52. "Let Randolph," he said, "redeem his own fault. I can not break the order of battle for his sake." Still the danger appeared greater, and the English horse seemed entirely to encompass the small handful of Scottish infantry. "To please you," said Douglas to the king, "my heart will not suffer me to stand idle and see Randolph perish. I must go to his assistance." He rode off accordingly, but long before they had reached the place of combat they saw the English horses galloping off, many with their empty saddles.

53. "Halt!" said Douglas to his men. "Randolph has gained the day. Since we were not soon enough to help him in the battle, do not let us lessen his glory by approaching the field." Now, that was nobly done, especially as Douglas and Randolph were always contending which should rise highest in the good opinion of the king and the nation.

54. The van of the English army now came in sight, and a number of their bravest knights drew near to see what the Scottish were doing. They saw King Robert dressed in his armor, and distinguished by a gold crown which he wore over his helmet. He was not mounted on his great war horse, because he did not expect to fight that evening. But he rode on a little pony up and down the ranks of his army, putting his men in order, and carried in his hand a short battle-axe made of steel. When the king saw the English horsemen draw near, he advanced a little before his own men, that he might look at them more nearly.

55. There was a knight among the English called Sir Henry de Bohun, who thought this would be a good opportunity to gain great fame to himself and put an end to the war by killing King Robert. The king being poorly mounted, and having no lance, Bohun galloped on him suddenly and furiously, thinking, with his long spear and his big strong horse, easily to bear him down to the ground. King Robert saw him and permitted him to come very near, then suddenly turned his pony a little to one side, so that Sir Henry missed him with the lance point, and was in the act of being carried past him by the career of his horse. But as he passed, King Robert rose up in his stirrups and struck Sir Henry on the head with his battle-axe so terrible a blow that it broke to pieces his iron helmet, as if it had been a nut-shell, and hurled him from his saddle. He was dead before he reached the ground. This gallant action was blamed by the Scottish leaders, who thought Bruce ought not to have exposed himself to so much danger when the safety of the whole army depended on him. The king only kept looking at his weapon, which was injured by the force of the blow, and said, "I have broken my good battle-axe."

Lois: This is yet another place quoting Scott in the "Lord of the Isles" with the following paragraph interrupting it.

62. The next morning, being the 24th of June, at break of day the battle began in terrible earnest. The English as they advanced saw the Scots getting into lines. The Abbot of Inchaffray walked through their ranks barefooted, and exhorted them to fight for their freedom. They kneeled down as he passed, and prayed to heaven for victory. King Edward, who saw this, called out: "They kneel down; they are asking forgiveness." "Yes," said a celebrated English baron, called Ingelram de Umphraville, "but they ask it from God, not from us; these men will conquer, or die upon the field." The English king ordered his men to begin the battle. The archers then bent their bows, and began to shoot so closely together that the arrows fell like flakes of snow on a Christmas-day.

. . . 

65. The fine English cavalry then advanced to support their archers, and to attack the Scottish line. But coming over the ground which was dug full of pits the horses fell into these holes, and the riders lay tumbling about, without any means of defense, and unable to rise, from the weight of their armor. The Englishmen began to fall into general disorder; and the Scottish king, bringing up more of his forces, attacked and pressed them still more closely.

66. On a sudden an event happened which decided the victory. The servants and attendants on the Scottish camp bad been sent behind the army to a place called Gillies' Hill; but now, when they saw that their masters were like to gain the day, they rushed from their place of concealment with such weapons as they could get, that they might have their share in the victory and in the spoil. The English, seeing them come suddenly over the hill, mistook the disorderly rabble for a new army coming up to sustain the Scots; and, losing all heart, began to shift every man for himself. Edward himself left the field as fast as he could ride, and was closely pursued by Douglas, with a party of horse, who followed him as far as Dunbar, where the English had still a friend in the governor, Patrick, Earl of Mans. The earl received Edward in his forlorn condition, and furnished him with a fishing skiff, or small ship, in which he escaped to England, having entirely lost his fine army, and a great number of his bravest nobles.

67. The English never before or afterward lost so dreadful a battle as that of Bannockburn, nor did the Scots ever gain one of the same importance. Many of the best and bravest of the English nobility and gentry lay dead on the field; a great many more were made prisoners, and the whole of King Edward's immense army was dispersed or destroyed.

68. Thus did Robert Bruce arise from the condition of an exile, hunted with blood-bounds like a stag or beast of prey, to the rank of an independent sovereign, universally acknowledged to be one of the wisest and bravest kings who then lived. The nation of Scotland was also raised once more from the state of a distressed and conquered province to that of a free and independent state, governed by its own laws, and subject to its own princes; and although the country was, after the Bruce's death, often subjected to great loss and distress, both by the hostility of the English and by the unhappy civil wars among the Scots themselves, yet they never afterward lost the freedom for which Wallace had laid down his life, and which King Robert had recovered no less by his wisdom than by his weapons. And therefore most just it is that, while the country of Scotland retains any recollection of its history, the memory of these brave warriors and faithful patriots ought to be remembered with honor and gratitude.

69. In 1328, fourteen years after the battle of Bannockburn, peace was concluded between England and Scotland, in which the English surrendered all pretension to the Scottish crown. King Robert was now fifty-four years old, and he prepared to enter upon a crusade in accordance with his vow, and in expiation of his offense of slaying the Red Comyn. But, being smitten with a fatal disease, he directed Lord James, of Douglas, upon his death, to take his heart and carry it to Palestine

Lois: Douglas did indeed attempt the journey with that heart, but died protecting it. The heart was placed in Melrose Abbey in Scotland.

Anyone fortunate enough to go to visit the National Trust for Scotland's Visitor Centre and Battle Experience will certainly come away appreciating what an achievement it was!

As a grateful member of Clan Stirling I can't help but snicker a bit as I remember a comment made by my Aunt Helen, who traced our American genealogy, including Adam Starling back in colonial and revolutionary times. When I insisted on as much information as she could provide about him, she said "All this to wear a kilt!" It's really a sash for women, Aunt Helen, although nowadays we might indeed wear a kilt.

Leave it to the BBC to put together the best. https://www.bbc.com/news/uk-scotland-27900285 to give you both the battle and all that led up to it & beyond in a fairly "entertaining" way.  I plan to review it before the August Highland Games and then GANG FORWARD!

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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."

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. 

***

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!

***************

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.

****************

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.)

*********

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. 

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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."