Das Kätzchen und die Stricknadeln

Es war einmal eine arme Frau, die ging in den Wald, um Holz zu lesen. Als sie mit ihrer Bürde auf dem Rückwege war, sah sie ein krankes Kätzchen hinter dem Zaune liegen, das kläglich schrie. Die arme Frau nahm es mitleidig in ihre Schürze und trug es nach Hause. Auf dem Wege kamen ihre beiden Kinder ihr entgegen, und als sie sahen, dass die Mutter etwas trug, fragten sie: »Mutter, was trägst du?« und wollten gleich das Kätzchen haben. Aber die mitleidige Frau gab es ihnen nicht, aus Sorge, sie möchten es quälen, sondern sie legte das Kätzchen zu Hause auf alte, weiche Kleider und gab ihm Milch zu trinken. Als das Kätzchen sich gelabt hatte und wieder gesund war, war es mit einemmal fort und verschwunden.

Nach einiger Zeit ging die arme Frau wieder in den Wald, und als sie mit ihrer Bürde Holz wieder an die Stelle kam, wo das kranke Kätzchen gelegen hatte, da stand eine ganz vornehme Dame dort. Die winkte die arme Frau zu sich und warf ihr fünf Stricknadeln in die Schürze. Die Frau wusste nicht recht, was sie denken sollte; es dünkte diese absonderliche Gabe sie gar zu gering. Doch nahm sie die fünf Stricknadeln mit sich und legte sie des Abends auf den Tisch. Aber als die Frau am andern Morgen ihr Lager verließ, da lag ein paar neuer, fertig gestrickter Strümpfe auf dem Tische. Das wunderte die arme Frau über alle Maßen. Am nächsten Abend legte sie die Nadeln wieder auf den Tisch, und am andern Morgen darauf lagen neue Strümpfe da. Jetzt merkte sie, dass ihr die fleißigen Nadeln beschert waren, weil sie Mitleid mit dem kranken Kätzchen gehabt hatte. Sie ließ die Nadeln nun jede Nacht stricken, bis sie und die Kinder genug Strümpfe hatten. Dann verkaufte sie auch Strümpfe und hatte genug bis an ihr seliges Ende.

Das Kätzchen und die Stricknadeln

Da auf dem Zaun, da stand die Katze,
miaute kläglich in die Welt
Die Frau, die nahm sich ihrer an,
sie selber hatte wenig Geld

Doch nahm sie sie in ihre Schürze
und trug sie mitleidvoll nach Haus
Die Kinder wollten sie gleich haben
Da wurde aber nichts daraus

Sie gab ihr erst mal Milch zu trinken
Die Katze wurde schnell gesund
Sie labte sich in vollen Zügen,
verschwand dann aber ohne Grund

Die Frau ging wieder Holz zu sammeln
passierte auch die alte Stell'
Da stand nicht weit die hohe Dame
die winkte ihr, nur ihr speziell

Fünf Nadeln warf sie in die Schürze
von dieser armen, guten Frau
Die dankte für die kleine Gabe,
sie wusste nicht so ganz genau

wieso ihr solches widerfahren.
Sie legte sie nur auf den Tisch
und fand am Morgen ein paar Strümpfe,
so schön gestrickt und sauber frisch

Sie staunte über alle Maßen
und wiederholte das zur Nacht
Die Nadeln strickten fleißig weiter
und wieder ward ein Paar gemacht

Sie wusste nun, was da geschehen
und fand sich selbst so reich beschenkt
Sie hatte künftig wenig Sorgen,
denn Strümpfe gab‘s nun unbeschränkt

2017 - nach einem Märchen von L. Bechstein aus dem Sagenkreis der Frau mit der Spindel, der Frau Holle (altnordisch Frau Frigg)

PD. Une petite devinette en français:

"Devine ce que je jette par-dessus la maison
Tout en en ayant un bout dans la main.

- Une pelote de fil"

A FORCE FIELD AGAINST DESPAIR

“Poems are handbooks for human decency and understanding. Poets hold water in their cupped hands and run back from the well because someone is parched and thirsting. The poem is a force field against despair. ”

LA CADENITA DE ORO - Ada María Elflein

LA CADENITA DE ORO - Ada María Elflein

Allá por el año 1816, vivía en Mendoza, Argentina, una niñita huérfana llamada Carmen. Servía a una familia adinerada, cuyos niños la mortificaban de mil maneras, a cual más vergonzosa.

En aquellos días llegó a hablarse en la casa de un acontecimiento que interesó mucho a Carmen. Decíase que las señoras y niñas mendocinas regalaban sus alhajas al gobernador, para comprar caballos, mulas, ropas y armamentos.

Se mencionaba especialmente como iniciadora del ofrecimiento a la señora doña Remedios, esposa del señor gobernador.

Las señoras hablaban con entusiasmo de los montones de oro, plata y piedras preciosas que habían visto acumulados en la mesa del gran salón del Cabildo.

Carmen solía escuchar estas conversaciones, cruzada de brazos, mientras esperaba el mate para cebarlo; las entendía sólo a medias, como es de imaginar, porque en su cabecita de doce años no podía darse cuenta cabal de los acontecimientos de aquella época extraordinaria y heroica.

La verdad era ésta. El coronel don José de San Martín, gobernador de Cuyo, tenía en su mente el plan grandioso de formar un ejército, con el que tramontaría la gigantesca cordillera para atacar y destruir el poder de los españoles en Chile, y luego pasar al Perú, centro principal de la resistencia realista. Para llevar a cabo este proyecto inaudito, que nadie conocía aún en sus principales detalles, necesitaba recursos abundantes. Todo lo proporcionaba la provincia de Cuyo. San Martín pedía hombres, y Cuyo le daba sus hijos; pedía armas, y se fabricaban armas; exigía acémilas, y en filas interminables llegaban las recuas de mulas; necesitaba víveres, y venían los carros repletos de carne, harina, verduras, fruta, pastas, vino, aceite. Y si el gobernador pedía dinero, los cuyanos abrían sus arcas y cada cual daba lo que podía. Tan bien administrada se hallaba la provincia, que, como una mina inagotable, jamás se cegaron sus fuentes de riqueza.

Las mujeres también quisieron demostrar su espíritu de sacrificio, abnegación y patriotismo, y cuando la esposa del gobernador, doña Remedios Escalada de San Martín, lanzó la idea de que hiciesen donación de sus alhajas, respondieron con entusiasmo. No hubo una sola que dejara de acudir al Cabildo para ofrecer sus joyas a la patria naciente.

Por la noche, acurrucada en el miserable colchón que le servía de cama, Carmen seguía tejiendo el hilo de las ideas que la preocupaban. Había comprendido que eso de entregar al gobernador sus alhajas debía ser algo muy grande y generoso; una acción noble y digna de aplauso. ¡Oh, si también ella pudiera dar alguna cosa! ¡Deseaba tanto, tanto! hacer algo para que vieran que no era mala, ella a quien todos trataban de perversa, mentirosa, ladrona y otras muchas cosas indecorosas. Pero, ¿qué podría dar que fuese de valor? No tenía nada... Sí, sí, sí tenía algo. ¿Cómo había podido olvidarse de eso? Se sentó en la cama y desprendió de su cuello una delgada cadenita de oro con una medalla que representaba a la Virgen del Carmen. Su padre, antiguo arriero de la cordillera, se la había traído de Chile, y su mamita querida se la colgó al cuello diciéndole que le traería suerte. ¡Buenos tiempos habían sido aquellos en que vivieron sus padres! Nunca faltaron en su ranchito, el puchero, el pan, el mate, el arrope ni las frutas; nadie la reñía ni le pegaba y vivía feliz y contenta. Pero llegó el día en que hallaron a su padre helado en la cordillera; su madre, al saberlo, se enfermó de tal manera que no volvió a sanar, y murió al poco tiempo.

De todo esto se acordaba Carmen mientras hacía brillar la cadenita a la luz de la luna. Era de oro, el señor cura se lo había dicho, y puesto que era de oro, debía ser de gran valor. Quizá el gobernador pudiera comprar con ella un caballo o una mula o tal vez un cañón entero. ¡Qué cosa magnífica sería eso! Pero, ¿no se enojaría su madre si supiera que se desprendía de la cadenita? ¡Oh, no!, puesto que hacía una buena acción, y su madre misma le había dicho a menudo que debía ser muy buena y obediente.

Se durmió. En sueños creyó ver a la Virgen del Carmen sonriéndole; y cuando miró bien, vio que la dulce Señora tenía las facciones de su propia madre querida.

Por la mañana guardó la cadenita en el seno, y fue a su trabajo diario. No sabía bien cómo arreglárselas para que su alhaja llegara a manos del gobernador. No tenía a quién pedir consejo ni menos a quién confiar el encargo. Después de mucho pensar y revolver el asunto en su cabecita, decidió valerosamente ir ella misma.

Muy entrada la tarde pudo escabullirse sin peligro de que notaran su ausencia; y por las calles que invadían las primeras sombras de una tarde nublada de primavera, se dirigió rápidamente a casa del gobernador. La conocía, porque en la casa frontera vivía una familia amiga de sus patrones, adonde con frecuencia tenía que acompañar a las niñas cuando iban allí a jugar.

El paso ligero de Carmen se volvió un poco más lento y su corazón comenzó a latir muy fuerte.

Llegó al sitio que buscaba. En la calle hacía guardia un soldado del regimiento de granaderos, y en el marco de la puerta se apoyaba un joven oficial que vestía igual uniforme.

Carmen creía que en casa del gobernador se entraba así no más, e iba a pasar adelante sin preámbulos, cuando el oficial la sujetó del brazo.

-¡Eh, chica! ¿Adonde vas?

-Voy a ver al señor gobernador -repuso un poco asustada y al mismo tiempo con aire de importancia.

-¿Al señor gobernador, eh? ¿Y qué quieres con Su Excelencia?

-Yo..., yo venía a traerle una cadena de oro.

-¿Una cadena de oro? -repitió el joven, sorprendido-. ¿A verla?

-¡Ah, no! -dijo la chica retrocediendo con desconfianza.

-¡Pero si el señor gobernador ha mandado que todo lo que le traigan lo vea yo primero! -insistió con algo de impaciencia el oficial.

-Yo no quiero que la vea nadie más que él -replicó Carmen, apretando contra su pecho algo envuelto en un papel, mientras sus ojos negros miraban al joven con una expresión mezcla de temor y desafío.

Al oficial le hizo gracia la chiquilla, que resueltamente pedía hablar con el gobernador, y haciéndole seña de seguirle:

-Bueno, ven conmigo -le dijo-, vamos a ver si Su Excelencia está.

Llamó a una puerta y cuando respondieron “¡Adelante!”, abrió.

-¡Mi Coronel! Aquí hay una chica que está empeñada en hablar con usted.

-Veamos -contestó el coronel, dejando a un lado la pluma-. Hágala entrar.

Un segundo después, Carmen se hallaba en una pieza sencillamente amueblada.

-Qué querías, chiquilla?

Alzó ella un poco las pestañas y vio sentado, junto a una mesa llena de libros y papeles, a un oficial de rostro moreno, fino, y ojos negros, rasgados, que la miraban con bondad.

-No me tengas miedo -prosiguió don José de San Martín; pero la chica había perdido todo su aplomo. No sabía cómo empezar, y su idea de venir a ofrecer al gobernador la cadena le pareció de pronto un atrevimiento sin igual.

-Yo... yo... -comenzó, y se detuvo.

-Vamos a ver -animóla el coronel sonriente, y haciendo a su secretario seña de retirarse un poco-. ¿Me quieres dar algo? -agregó al notar un papelito en su mano.

Carmen hizo un signo afirmativo con la cabeza. San Martín atrájola a su lado, tomó el papel y lo desdobló.

-¡Qué linda cadena! ¿Y qué quieres tú que haga yo con ella?

-Yo... es para usted -contestó en voz tan baja, que el coronel tuvo que inclinarse mucho para oírla-. Yo creía que..., que usted..., que a usted le serviría para comprar cañones.

-¡Ah...! Has oído que las señoras ofrecieron al gobierno sus alhajas, y tú has querido dar algo. ¿No es así?

-Sí, señor -repuso tímidamente-. ¿Y podrá comprar cañones con ella? ¿Podrá hacerlo, señor?

-¡Cómo no! -replicó el coronel, disimulando la impresión profunda que le causaba aquel acto. Pesó gravemente en la mano la cadenita, que representaría apenas unos cuantos gramos-. Es oro verdadero -agregó-, y vale mucho. Pero, ¿tú tienes permiso para desprenderte de esta cadena?

-¡Oh, sí, señor, sí! -respondió, temerosa de que no se la aceptase-. Sí, señor; es mía.

-¿Pero puedes darla? ¿Quién te la regaló?

-Mi madre.

-¿Y tienes permiso de ella para regalarla?

-Ha muerto.

-¡ Ah, pobrecita! ¿No tienes madre? Y entonces, di: ¿cómo se te ocurrió venir aquí? ¿Quién te inspiró la idea? Vamos, cuéntame eso, no me tengas miedo.

Carmen paseó su mirada del coronel al secretario, con gravedad infantil. Luego la fijó en los ojos del coronel, y cobrando ánimo le refirió cómo había oído conversar a las señoras del ofrecimiento de sus alhajas para ayudar al gobernador; su aflicción por no poder dar algo ella también, hasta que de pronto se acordó de la cadenita; de las dudas que había tenido acerca, de si viviendo su madre le habría permitido desprenderse de ella; sus recelos y temores hasta el momento de decidir la difícil cuestión.

Una vez roto el hielo, se atrevió a desahogar su corazoncillo oprimido, confiando al coronel su triste vida desde la muerte de sus padres.

-¿Y no te cuesta desprenderte de la cadenita? -preguntó San Martín cuando terminó Carmen.

-Como todos le regalan a la patria, yo también quiero hacerlo.

Profundamente conmovido, el coronel estrechó a la chica entre sus brazos y la besó en la frente, pensando que el modesto tributo de esta niña valía más que los brillantes y perlas donados por personas que sólo daban algo de su abundancia, como en el eterno motivo de la parábola cristiana.

-Esta cadenita, Carmen -díjole-, yo te la agradezco en nombre de la patria. ¿Sabes tú lo que es la patria? No, porque todavía eres muy chica; pero cuando seas más grande lo comprenderás. Has entregado lo único que tienes, y eso da a tu regalo más valor que el de un montón de diamantes. ¿Quieres quedarte conmigo? Aquí nadie te reñirá ni pegará y aprenderás muchas cosas. ¿Quieres?

¡Que si quería Carmen! Desde que había muerto su madre nadie la había mirado ni hablado de esa manera. Se estrechó al coronel como lo habría hecho una hija, y prendida de su mano fue a presentarse a la señora doña Remedios.

Y en el mismo instante recordó que su madre le había dicho, al colgarle la cadenita, que ésta le traería suerte.

MUKASHIBANASHI 9: LORD RICESTRAW

MUKASHIBANASHI 9: LORD RICESTRAW (DAIETSU)

Or, the one where a humble young man rises to fame, fortune, and nobility by a series of good deeds, each one done in consequence of a previous good deed, in a Chain of Deals such as those in the film Pay It Forward or chain tales such as "Piggy Won't Go Over the Fence" (type 2030) or "The Death of the Little Hen/Tittymouse" (type 2021). The chain reaction in this story features human rather than animal, plant, and object actants, which makes the approach to the premise different to the one heard in Western folktales and closer to postmodern retellings such as the film.

Mukashi mukashi, once upon a time, an orphan stripling with nothing to his name but the clothes he wore --homeless, penniless, friendless, and unmarried, and as thin as a rice straw--, went to a shrine of Kannon, the Goddess of Mercy, to pray for good fortune. 
Within the shrine, on that very summer morn, he heard a friendly female voice which came from above giving him advice to:
 "Pick up the first thing you see after leaving the shrine." 
Convinced that the goddess had given him a sign, he rushed out and stumbled on the steps, fortunately landing unscathed, next to... a rice straw which was on the roadside!
Remembering Kannon's advice, our lad Daietsu picked up the rice straw as he rose up.
As he trudged along the rice pads, a dragonfly's path chanced to cross with that of our young man. It was a fine bug, the length of a pinky finger and the wingspan of two, the colour of lapis lazuli with wings like the finest lacework, and it landed right on the straw he was holding.
So on Daietsu went with some glad company perched on his lucky straw. It was a lovely bug, best to tie it up with a thread around its waist and the other end round the straw lest it fly away, and so he did. Some time later that day, he came across a mother and child, both looking rather weary. And it came to chance that all three stopped for a rest at the same wayside spot, flushed and tired as they were. Yet the little child's eyes lit up as they saw the pretty blue dragonfly; it would make a nice pet bug indeed! So the lad gave the dragonfly away, and the mother, in exchange, gave the kind-hearted young man the peony she wore in her hair.
It was a lovely peony, a true Eastern rose with ring upon ring of soft rose-red petals.
After thanking one another and taking their leave, on our lad went with the flower in his cleavage, taking it out and watering it in the rice pads every now and then to keep it fresh. It looked as if he wore his heart on the outside! After a while, Daietsu saw another young man his own age, with his head buried in his hands, resting on a stump. In his lap lay three satsumas, or Clementine oranges. Our traveller stopped to rest and kindly asked the other young man why he was brooding:
"I have no gift to give the maiden I love; you see, I am a poor orphan boy just like you... but she lives in that castle up the hill over there, she wears the finest silks, and I fear her parents will not see I'm good enough... But what a lovely flower! It's as if you were wearing your heart upon your chest! That peony is surely something worth giving her; may I give it to her?"
Daietsu kindly gave the suitor his peony, and received the three fruits in exchange. They were brightly coloured, ripe, juicy little oranges... surely something worth the pain when the day had advanced a little more and he would be flushed with thirst and the hot sun!
After thanking one another and taking their leave, on our lad went carrying the three fruits. And soon came the mid-day and the sun's rays plumbed down upon the ground. Not finding a spring around in the hilly country, Daietsu stopped in his tracks by the wayside for the third time, in the shade of a pine... and, as he put a peeled satsuma to his lips, a reeling rickshaw peddler, drenched with perspiration, collapsed right by his side!
"This poor man is exhausted and sunstruck, and far thirstier than I," the orphan boy thought, so he carried the peddler into the friendly shade and put the three satsumas, one by one, into his mouth; the weary peddler eagerly gulped down the citrus juice and, after a while resting and cooling himself, once the mid-day had turned to afternoon, he looked left and right and into the younger man's friendly eyes, realising who had brought him to the shade and quenched his thirst.
"You saved my life; that good deed shall not be in vain!" he said, returning to his rickshaw and giving his saviour the finest silk he carried within. It was a lovely roll of lilac brocade, with a wisteria pattern embroidered in silver thread.
After thanking one another and taking their leave, on our lad went with the roll of silk under his left arm. As the sun began to set, he came across a carriage in which a young lady, a maiden who looked too lovely to be mortal and human, had stopped for a rest. The next day would be her lord father's fiftieth birthday, and she wanted to surprise him with a brand new kimono... and what's more, she was very fond of the colour lilac and wisterias were her favourite flowers!
The lad was more than honoured to give his brocade away to such a friendly and kind-hearted maiden, and she had found him after her taste as well, no matter the difference in rank. So he told her the whole story from the point when the goddess had given him the advice and he had picked up the straw... and she listened with sparkles in her eyes and a smile on her face, as he felt a twinge in his chest both from her reactions and his own recollections.
Certainly, the goddess Kannon had given both the noble maiden and the orphan stripling a good fortune they could not even dream of!
That evening, Daietsu travelled by carriage towards the castle by the maiden's side; she was the only child and heiress to the whole shire, and her highborn parents were also impressed by the chain of acts of kindness, surely a sign from above, that had led to him supping and sleeping that night in the halls of privilege.
A few days later, the lad and the heiress were husband and wife, and he never had to live in want or struggle for his life anymore. He still kept, however, the nom de guerre of Lord Ricestraw, to remember the acts of kindness which had led him to a life of privilege that, luckily, never corrupted his good soul. He even founded a school for the village children, so that, regardless of gender or rank, no one should grow up unlearned.
Thus does the Goddess of Mercy thank her votaries!

Once more, and to quote the Shakespearean Cerimon, this mukashibanashi, like The Hatted Jizos before, demonstrates the worth that charity, learned or not, aye bears.
As said in the introduction to this tale, it is similar to the film Pay It Forward or chain tales such as "Piggy Won't Go Over the Fence" (type 2030) or "The Death of the Little Hen/Tittymouse" (type 2021). The chain reaction in this story features human rather than animal, plant, and object actants, which makes the approach to the premise different to the one heard in Western folktales and closer to postmodern retellings such as the film.
It's also reminiscent to Hans in Luck, collected by the Grimm brothers and Hans Christian Andersen, in which a young man trades down (instead of up like Daietsu) from a bar of gold to a whetstone and harmonica (or from a horse to a sack full of apples, in the Andersen tale). In these tales (type 1415), however, the titular character always trades an item for one of lesser value, retaining an optimistic outlook all the time; the Andersen version ends with a successful bet with two foreign businessmen ("my wife will kiss me, not kill me!") and subsequent rise to wealth.
In real life, at the turn of the millennium, a humble young man has traded himself up from one red paperclip to a suburban house and motor car. Canadian blogger Kyle MacDonald achieved this through fourteen online trades during the course of a year (2005-2006). "A lot of people have been asking how I've stirred up so much publicity around the project, and my simple answer is: 'I have no idea'", he told the BBC.
Many Japanese role-playing games, inspired by this tale, feature a sidequest/subplot that involves a chain of deals to achieve a one-of-a-kind rare item.


MUKASHIBANASHI DONE SO FAR:

Benizara and Kakezara
Kaguyahime (Princess Kaguya)
Taro Urashima
Momotaro (Peach Taro)
Grampies with Wens (Kobutori Jiisan)
Old Man Bloom (Hanasaka Jiisan)
The Hatted Jizos (Kasa Jizo)
The Tengu's Cloak
Mount Crackle (Kachikachiyama)
The Macaque Vs. the Crab (Saru Kani Gassen)
Lord Ricestraw

The Lucky Kettle (Bunbuku Chagama)
The Crane Maiden
The Axe in the Pond

MARY LAMB'S CERIMON

THE CERIMON ACCORDING TO
MARY LAMB

... as Cerimon, a worthy gentleman of Ephesus, and a most skilful physician, was standing by the sea-side, his servants brought to him a chest, which they said the sea-waves had thrown on the land. “I never saw,” said one of them, “so huge a billow as cast it on our shore.” Cerimon ordered the chest to be conveyed to his own house and when it was opened he beheld with wonder the body of a young and lovely lady; and the sweet-smelling spices and rich casket of jewels made him conclude it was some great person who was thus strangely entombed; searching farther, he discovered a paper, from which he learned that the corpse which lay as dead before him had been a queen, and much admiring at the strangeness of that accident, and more pitying the husband who had lost this sweet lady, he said, “If you are living, Pericles, you have a heart that even cracks with woe.” Then observing attentively Thaisa’s face, he saw how fresh and unlike death her looks were, and he said, “They were too hasty that threw you into the sea;” for he did not believe her to be dead. He ordered a fire to be made, and proper cordials to be brought, and soft music to be played, which might help to calm her amazed spirits if she should revive; and he said to those who crowded round her, wondering at what they saw, “I pray you, gentlemen, give her air; this queen will live; she has not been entranced above five hours; and see, she begins to blow into life again; she is alive; behold, her eyelids move; this fair creature will live to make us weep to hear her fate.” Thaisa had never died, but after the birth of her little baby had fallen into a deep swoon, which made all that saw her conclude her to be dead; and now by the care of this kind gentleman she once more revived to light and life; and opening her eyes, she said, “Where am I? Where is my lord? What world is this?” By gentle degrees Cerimon let her understand what had befallen her; and when he thought she was enough recovered to bear the sight, he showed her the paper written by her husband, and the jewels; and she looked on the paper, and said, “It is my lord’s writing...  but since my wedded lord I never shall see again, I will put on a vestal livery, and never more have joy.”—“Madam,” said Cerimon, “if you purpose as you speak, the temple of Diana is not far distant from hence; there you may abide as a vestal. Moreover, if you please, a niece of mine shall there attend you.” This proposal was accepted with thanks by Thaisa; and when she was perfectly recovered, Cerimon placed her in the temple of Diana, where she became a vestal or priestess of that goddess, and passed her days in sorrowing for her husband’s supposed loss, and in the most devout exercises of those times.

Cerimon is, so far:
a worthy gentleman
a skilful physician
a kind gentleman
gentle
considerate
full of wonder
observant

The King and Queen finally reunite:

 There was standing near the altar of the goddess, the good Cerimon (now grown very aged) who had restored Thaisa to life; and Thaisa, now a priestess, Thaisa thought she knew her husband’s features, and when he approached the altar and began to speak, she remembered his voice, and listened to his words with wonder and a joyful amazement.
—“Sir,” said Cerimon, “if you have told Diana’s altar true, this is your wife.”
Cerimon then recounted how, early one tempestuous morning, this lady was thrown upon the Ephesian shore; how, opening the coffin, he found therein rich jewels, and a paper; how, happily, he recovered her, and placed her here.

Finally, Mary analyzes the character (in a way that may also be applied to the prince and princess in the Fourth Story of The Snow Queen)

In the worthy Cerimon, who restored Thaisa to life, we are instructed how goodness directed by knowledge, in bestowing benefits upon (hu)mankind, approaches to the nature of the gods.

THE CAPTIVE PRINCESS I

I

THE FIRE EATERS
After waiting many long years, the two most intelligent people upon Earth, who had been both looking for their intellectual equal, the lock to fit his key and vice versa, found one another.

They were both old, but kings came from all sides to their wedding, and offered themselves as god-parents to the first-born of the new race that was to be. But, to the grief of his parents, the child, when he arrived, proved to be a simpleton; and no second child ever came to repair the mistake of the first.

That he was a simpleton was evident; his head was small and his limbs were large, and he could run long before he could talk or do arithmetic. In the bitterness of their hearts his father and mother named him Noodle, without the aid of any royal god-parents; and from that moment, for any care they took in his bringing-up, they washed their wise hands of him.

Noodle grew and prospered, and enjoyed [pg 5]life in his own foolish way. When his father and mother died within a short time of each other, they left him alone without any friend in the world.

For a good while Noodle lived on just what he could find in the house, in a hand-to-mouth sort of way, till at last only the furniture and the four bare walls were left to him.

One cold winter's night he sat brooding over the fire, wondering where he should get food for the morrow, when he heard feet coming up to the door, and a knock striking low down upon the panel. Outside there was a faint chirping and crackling sound, and a whispering as of fire licking against the woodwork without.

He opened the door and peered forth into the night. There, just before him, stood seven little men huddled up together; three feet high they were, with bright yellow faces all shrivelled and sharp, and eyes [pg 6]whose light leaped and sank like candle flame before a gust.

When they saw him, they shut their eyes and opened famished mouths at him, pointing inwards with flickering finger-tips, and shivering from head to foot with cold, although it seemed to the youth as if the warmth of a slow fire came from them. 'Alas!' said Noodle, in reply to these signs of hunger, 'I have not left even a crust of bread in the house to give you! But at least come in and make yourselves warm!' He touched the foremost, making signs for them all to enter. 'Ah,' he cried, 'what is this, and what are you, that the mere touch of you burns my finger?'

Without answer they huddled tremblingly across the threshold; but so soon as they saw the fire burning on the hearth, they yelped all together like a pack of hounds, and, throwing themselves face forwards into the hot embers, began ravenously [pg 7]to lap up the flames. They lapped and lapped, and the more they lapped the more the fire sank away and died. Then with their flickering finger-tips they stirred the hot logs and coals, burrowing after the thin tapes and swirls of vanishing flame, and fetching them out like small blue eels still wriggling for escape.

After each blue wisp had been gulped down, they sipped and sucked at their fingers for any least tricklet of flavour that might be left; and at the last seemed more famished than when they began.

'More, more, O wise Noodle, give us more!' they cried; and Noodle threw the last of his fuel on the embers.

They breathed round it, fanning it into a great blaze that leaped and danced up to the rafters; then they fell on, till not a fleck or a flake of it was left. Noodle, seeing them still famished, broke up a stool and threw that on the hearth. And again [pg 8]they flared it with their breath and gobbled off the flame. When the stool was finished he threw in the table, then the dresser, and after that the oak-chest and the window-seat.

Still they feasted and were not fed. Noodle fetched an axe, and broke down the door; then he wrenched up the boards from the floor, and pulled the beams and rafters out of the ceiling; yet, even so, his guests were not to be satisfied.

'I have nothing left,' he said, 'but the house itself; but since you are still hungry you shall be welcome to it!'

He scattered the fire that remained upon the hearth, and threw it out and about the room; and as he ran forth to escape, up against all the walls and right through the roof rose a great crackling sheaf of flame. In the midst of the fire, Noodle could see his seven guests lying along on their bellies, slopping their hands in the heat, [pg 9]and lapping up the flames with their tongues. 'Surely,' he thought, 'I have given them enough to eat at last!'

After a while all the fire was eaten away, and only the black and smouldering ruins were left. Day came coldly to light, and there sat Noodle, without a home in the world, watching with considerate eye his seven guests finishing their inordinate repast.

They all rose to their feet together, and came towards him bowing; as they approached he felt the heat of their bodies as it had been seven furnaces.

'Enough, O wise Noodle!' said they, 'we have had enough!' 'That,' answered Noodle, 'is the least thing left me to wonder at. Go your ways in peace; but first tell me, who are you?' They replied, 'We are the Fire-eaters: far from our own land, and strangers, you have done us this service; what, now, can we [pg 10]do to serve you?' 'Put me in the way of a living,' said Noodle, 'and you will do me the greatest service of all.'

Then the one of them who seemed to be chief took from his finger a ring having for its centre a great firestone, and threw it into the snow, saying, 'Wait for three hours till the ring shall have had time to cool, then take it, and wear it; and whatever fortune you deserve it shall bring you. For this ring is the sweetener of everything that it touches: bread it turns into rich meats, water into strong wine, grief into virtue, and labour into strength. Also, if you ever need our help, you have but to brandish the ring, and the gleam of it will reach us, and we will be with you wherever you may be.'

With that they bowed their top-knots to the ground and departed, inverting themselves swiftly till only the shining print of seven pairs of feet remained, red-hot, over the place where they had been standing.
[pg 11]

Noodle waited for three hours; then he took up the firestone ring, and putting it on his finger set out into the world.

At the first door he came to, he begged a crust of bread, and touching it with the ring found it tasted like rich meats, well cooked and delicately flavoured. Also, the water which he drew in the hollow of his hand from a brook by the roadside tasted to him like strong wine.