The star jewels, and other wonders

Once upon a time in the far East, where people live upon rice and tea, a little old woman dwelt all alone in a tiny hut on the edge of the forest. The little old woman was very, very poor; but she was a brave soul, and so long as there was a little tea in her little teapot, a little rice in her little rice bucket, and a little water in her well she would smile a little smile and say, “Oh, I have enough, and that is all which any one needs in this world. I am doing very well indeed.”

But there came an evil time for the poor little old woman. There was a drought in the land, and all the wells ran dry. There was a famine, and no more rice nor tea were to be had for love or money. One night the little old woman went about to get her evening meal and she was very, very hungry. First she went to draw a dipper of water from the well. But when she peered down into the well she saw that it was almost dry.

“Alack!” she cried, “when I have used this last dipper of water there will be none left for to-morrow. After that I must go dry. And how long can I live so?”

Slowly and sadly she went back to the house and took her little rice bucket down from the shelf on the wall. But when she opened it she saw only a few grains of rice scantily covering the bottom of the bucket.

“Alack!” she cried, “when I have taken out the handful for my supper there will be no more left for to-morrow. After that I must go hungry. And how long can I live so?”

She shook her head mournfully and went to her little teapot, which hung before the fire. But when she took off the cover thereof she cried again, “Alack and alas! Now even my tea is gone, and whatever shall I do? There is but a drop in the pot, and when I have eaten my supper there will be none left for the morrow. After that I must go thirsty. But so I cannot live. Day after to-morrow I shall die!” And the poor little old woman shed a tear which almost fell into the teapot to salt the last drop of tea which remained there.

Now she sat down to her scanty supper and hesitated to take the first mouthful, for it would so soon be gone. She gave a sigh and a groan as she lifted the little teapot to pour out the last drop of tea, for the little old woman loved her tea best of all.

Just at that moment there came a knock on the door, a low-down knock such as a very little child might reach to give.

“Tap—tap!”

“Come in!” said the little old woman, and she set down the teapot carefully.

The latch clicked, the door opened, and in came a queer little creature the size of a child and walking upright upon two legs; but it was not a child. It was a funny little monkey, with a wee black face and a curled-up handy tail, and on its head it wore a tiny green cap.

“Ugh!” cried the little old woman, who did not like monkeys, “Ugh, go away!”

But the monkey skipped briskly across the floor to the fireplace, and stood there shivering and holding out its small hands to the blaze quite as a little child might have done. The old woman stared at it in surprise. “Bless my stars, how ugly it is!” she said. “But the poor thing seems cold. Let it stay and warm itself if it wishes.”

At these words the monkey turned about and made a low courtesy to the little old woman.

“Bless my stars!” said she again, for she had never seen so remarkable an animal, even in the land where monkeys were common.

Now the monkey had ceased to shiver, and it came skipping up to the table where the old woman sat, ready to eat her supper.

“Ugh! Go away!” cried the little old woman. “Go away, you ugly creature!”

But the monkey rested its chin upon the board and looked wistfully at the supper. “May I not share with you?” it seemed to say, though it spoke no word, and it put its little hands out towards the old woman, beggar-fashion.

“Bless my stars!” cried the old woman again, “it has the way of a child. But what an ugly child! Ugh! I cannot bear to have it near me. Yet—it is hard even for a monkey to be hungry.” She looked at her scanty dipper of water, at her little dish of rice, at her teapot with its drop of tea.

“I have but one dipper of water left, one handful of rice, one drop of tea,” she said ruefully. “When these are gone I know not whence to-morrow’s food will come; yet, little creature with the hands of a child, you shall share with me so long as I have a morsel. I cannot refuse those hands. But do not come too near, for I love not monkeys.”

Now the monkey seemed to understand every word the old woman spoke, although it could not answer in words. It bowed gratefully over its clasped hands as the old woman helped it to half the scanty meal,—half the dipper of water, half the rice, half a drop squeezed from the little teapot. The monkey ate hungrily, and when it had finished patted its little stomach and grinned happily at the old woman as if to say, “That was very good!”

“I am glad you are satisfied,” said the old woman with a sigh; “and now will you begone? There is nothing more in the house for guest or for host.”

But the monkey laid its head to one side upon its little hands and closed its eyes, showing that it was fain of sleep. Then again it held out its hands, beseeching the old woman.

“Oho!” said she, “you want to sleep here, too? Well-a-day! That ever I should have an ugly monkey napping in my hut! But I cannot turn a poor creature out into the cold night. You may stay, but keep as far from me as maybe, at the other corner of the cottage. Come, now, let us sleep and try to forget that to-morrow must be a hungry day.”

So they slept, the old woman on her hard little cot and the monkey curled up on the floor, which was no whit harder. And the old woman dreamed wonderful and beautiful dreams.

When it was light she opened her eyes, and at first she thought she must still be dreaming, for she had forgotten the happenings of the last night. There was the monkey with its little green cap on one side frisking about the cottage, sweeping the hearth, tidying the corners and setting things to rights.

“Bless my stars!” cried the little old woman. At these words the monkey turned, and with a grin beckoned towards the table, where dishes were already set out as if for a meal. Then the old woman remembered what had happened the evening before. But she remembered also the empty cupboard, and sighed wearily.

“Breakfast!” she grumbled; “it is little breakfast we shall have this day. Did we not share yestereven the last dipper of water, the last handful of rice, the last drop of tea? There will scarcely be any breakfast for me this day, and you, who are strong and frisky, had best seek one elsewhere, leaving me to die.”

But the monkey shook its head, grinning knowingly, and still beckoned to the table. It lifted the dipper and showed how it was still full of water. It lifted the cover from the rice dish, and lo! there was a mess of steaming white rice. It shook the little teapot, and a drop trickled from the spout.

“Bless my stars!” cried the little old woman, “last night my eyes must have cheated me. I certainly thought there was not another mouthful in the hut. Well, here is indeed a goodly meal,” and she sat down to the table. The monkey looked on wistfully, but did not venture near. Presently the old woman looked up.

“What!” she cried, “shall you not share, little guest, you who so cleverly prepared my breakfast? Did I not say that you should share so long as I had a morsel upon the board? Come, then, and eat.”

The monkey grinned happily and drew to the table. The scanty meal was sufficient for them both. When they had finished, the old woman nodded her head at the monkey and said,—

“Even a morsel tastes better when one shares it with company. But little I thought that a monkey would prove so pleasant a guest.”

At these words the monkey squirmed with happiness and frisked about the cottage like a mad thing. After that it went on with the household duties, quite like a handy little maid. But when it had finished these it skipped out of the door and disappeared into the forest.

“Now it is gone forever,” said the old woman with a little sigh, “and I shall be left alone to die of hunger and cold. For even my store of firewood is gone, and I have not strength to go to the forest for more.” And she sat down and cried bitterly, for the poor old woman’s courage was quite gone.

The daylight dimmed and the night came on, and the old woman sat rocking herself to and fro, trying to forget how hungry she was. But presently the door burst open and in came the monkey, staggering with arms full of fagots for the fire. It made a bright blaze on the hearth and then came timidly up to the old woman and laid a hand upon her knee. This time the old woman did not shrink or cry out, “Ugh! Go away!” for she seemed no longer to hate monkeys as once she had done. She looked up with half a smile and said:

“Ah, you have come back, little guest! I thought you had deserted me. I know you think it is supper-time; but nay, there will be no supper to-night. There is naught in the house for us to eat, or I would gladly share it with so willing a helper.”

But the monkey shook its head and drew the old woman gently by the skirts towards the door.

“There is no use in going to the well,” said the old woman; “it is quite dry.” But the monkey continued to pull her dress, and at last the old woman rose, shaking her head because she knew that the quest was useless. The two went out to the well, and the monkey let down the bucket. When it came up the old woman thrust in the dipper, and lo! she brought it out full once more with clear, cool, sparkling water.

“Bless my stars!” she cried in astonishment, “there is witchcraft here,” and she looked at the monkey suspiciously. But the little creature only grinned.

Once more it pulled at her skirts, as though it would lead her back to the house. Wondering, the old woman followed, dipper in hand. The monkey led her straight to where the rice bucket stood on the shelf. The old woman shook her head hopelessly as she took down the bucket, because she knew that it was as empty as a last year’s bird’s nest. But when she drew off the cover she nearly dropped it with surprise. There was still a handful of rice in the bottom of the bucket.

“Bless my stars!” cried the old woman, and she looked again at the monkey. But the monkey only grinned and pointed towards the teapot.

“That at least I know to be empty,” said the old woman positively, “for I squeezed out the last drop with my own hand.” But what was her amazement when she tilted the spout and out came an amber drop of comfort.

“Bless my stars!” again cried the old woman. “Here is really enough for another meal. Witchcraft or no, you have certainly brought me good luck, little guest, and though we may die of hunger to-morrow we should greatly rejoice now, for we thought to be dead, even this same day.”

So that night passed, and another and still others. Every morning, as at first, the monkey prepared breakfast for the little old woman ere she was awake. And still there remained a dipperful of water in the well, a handful of rice in the bucket, and a drop of tea in the teapot. Every night the old woman found the same for their supper.

She was growing very fond of this queer little creature who helped her so heartily, and she wondered how she could ever have disliked monkey-folk. She even forgot that she had once thought her guest ugly, for the small face seemed, indeed, to have changed and to have become more human. The old woman had made for the monkey a pretty dress of green to match the green cap which her guest ever wore upon its head. The long tail which once she had used as an extra strong hand had shrunk away and disappeared beneath the pretty dress; perhaps it was gone altogether—for the monkey was certainly changing in many ways, though the poor old woman was too weak-eyed to see how greatly this was so.

Now the weeks passed, and the months passed, and it was exactly a year and a day from the time when the monkey had first appeared. On that morning the old woman woke up and saw as usual the little green figure flitting about the cottage, making things neat and tidy, and preparing the tiny breakfast which was always the same,—scanty and simple, but sufficient for the two, with kindness and good feeling to eke it out. This morning, when the old woman was ready to get up, the busy little creature came skipping up to the cot. And as it stood looking down, smiling kindly, the old woman suddenly blinked and rubbed her eyes.

“Bless my stars!” she cried. “How big you are! How pretty you have grown! What! Who is this? You are not my little monkey, you are a lovely girl smiling at me.”

“Good morning, Mother,” said a sweet voice. “I am your little guest. I am the same poor creature whom you took in out of kindness, and whom you have allowed to dwell with you this long year, sharing your scanty store. I owe you more than words can say.”

“Words!” cried the old woman, “and how long since a monkey could use words?” She sat staring blankly.

“You see I am really the same,” said the pretty girl. “I still wear the green dress which you made for me and the green cap which I had upon my head when I came to you. In that green cap lies my secret. I am a Fairy, Mother.”

Then she told the old woman a strange story,—how because she was naughty the Fairy Queen had punished her by giving her that ugly monkey-shape, which she must wear for a year and a day. But at the end of that time she could take her own shape and go back to Fairyland. And now the time had come.

“But you have been so kind to me, dear Mother, that I may give you one wish before I go back to my beautiful home,” said the Fairy maiden.

Then the old woman burst into tears and flung her arms around the neck of her little guest. “Oh, do not leave me, kind Fairy-child!” she said. “I love you very dearly, and how shall I live without you? I loved you when I thought you were only a little monkey, but now I love you a thousand times more.”

Gently the Fairy kissed her and said, “Now hear what the gift is that I may give you. I may give you one wish of three, and you shall choose between them. You shared your simple food with a poor little animal-guest. Now for the first wish: Would you live always on princely fare? If you so choose you may have more than you need to eat. You may have meats and fruit, fine wheaten bread and choice sweets, such as are set upon palace tables. You may have everything that a dainty palate could desire, and every day a different feast of goodies. This you may choose, if you so will. Or, if you think the second choice a better one, you may become young again as I am now, for I am a picture of your lost youth which you have forgotten. You may have health and strength, and appetite to enjoy life, and the hearty meals which you will be able to earn. That is a goodly gift, is it not?”

The old woman nodded, but still her eyes were unsatisfied.

“Then there is the third choice,” said the Fairy, and her voice was very soft. “But that one it seems selfish for me to name, because it is a wish for my happiness.”

“What is the third wish?” asked the old woman eagerly.

“You may wish, if you choose—and the wish will be granted by the Fairy Queen—that all may remain as it now is; you will be what you are, a dear old woman living still in this little hut, with your little well in which there will ever be one dipperful of water, no more; with your little bucket in which there will ever be one handful of rice, no more; with your little teapot in which there will ever be one drop of tea, no more. It is scanty fare for one, Mother; yet withal, if you would have one to share it, I will do so still, as I have done so long. I will become your child—no longer a Fairy-child, but your little human girl-child, such as I seem now. I will live with you always, love you and take care of you always and share your scanty portion.”

The old woman gave a cry of joy. “But do you wish it?” she said. “Would you not rather go back to your beautiful Fairyland, where you can be happy and care-free always?”

“Nay, dear Mother,” said the Fairy; “if the choice were mine I would rather remain here with you than anywhere in the whole wide world, for I have been very happy here and I have learned many things. I do not want to go back to Fairyland to be an idle, careless, selfish Fairy. I would rather be a human child and share my mother’s joys and sorrows. Dear Mother, will you have it so?”

“Yes, I will have it so!” cried the old woman joyfully.

“Think,” said the Fairy, lifting a warning finger, “think of the fine feasts and the dainties you might have. Think of the youth and strength. Would you give up all this for only me—who must share half the refreshment from your well, your bucket, and your teapot?”

“That is enough,” said the old woman. “What do we need more? We can still offer a sup to any poor stranger who may come as you came to my door. Oh, dear child, if you will stay with me, that is all I ask!”

“Well, then, let us sit down and have breakfast,” said the dear little girl, tossing her green cap into the fire. “Now I am a Fairy no longer, but your very own little girl-child. And here is a dipper of water—the only one left in the well. Here is a dish of rice—I used the last handful from the bucket. Here is just a tiny drop of tea in the teapot. Oh, Mother, I am so glad!”

So they sat down to their frugal meal, and they laughed, and they laughed, and they laughed, they were so happy.