There was, once upon a time, long, long ago in Japan, a very poor man, a gardener named Chúgoro Yamakawa, who, with his wife, Ino-yo San, lived in a little cottage on a small plot of ground. All that they had to eat they raised in their garden, and their clothes were bought by the money that the old man made in selling his vegetables and fruits from door to door. Their only treasure was their cat Tamá, a large, sleek fellow, and the finest mouser in the whole neighborhood. Every day, when Chúgoro went to work in his garden, Tamá trotted after him, and rubbed up against him, as if to say, “My dear Master! How I wish that I could help you!”

Well, one day, as Chúgoro was digging around his young bamboo trees, Tamá came bounding through the grass with something in his mouth. The old man looked down, and saw that it was a pretty little field-mouse, and, as he was a very kind-hearted man, he took it away from the cat, who seemed perfectly contented, and trotted off as if his business was done.

The field-mouse was not dead, only frightened, and as soon as Chúgoro put it down on the ground again, instead of running away, it sat up on its hind legs, and said in the tiniest, clear voice: “I owe you many thanks, Chúgoro Yamakawa, for saving my life. Know, then, that I am the King of all the Field-Mice, and, if you will meet me to-night at the door of my Palace, I will bestow great riches upon you.”

The old gardener thanked the little King, and promised to meet him that evening as soon as his work was done. So, after sunset, leaving Tamá with Ino-yo San, he walked through the garden until he reached the hole where the mouse was waiting for him.

“But I cannot enter here,” said Chúgoro, looking at the little hole. “Oh, yes you can,” answered the King, “for I will touch you with my paw, and then you will grow small like me, and able to enter my dwelling.”

He stretched out his paw, and immediately the old man shrank and shrank until he was no larger than the King of the Field-Mice himself.

They walked together down a narrow passage-way which, after a little, widened into a beautiful hall, all glittering with gold and silver. In the middle was a table richly spread with “o-tsu-yu” and salad and raw fish, all in gorgeous lacquered bowls, with plenty of “saki” to wash the viands down. There Chúgoro sat and feasted with the King and the Queen and the whole Royal Court, and, as they ate, from the kitchens came the small song of the servant mice, pounding rice for the New Year. As they pounded, they sang this strange little ditty:—

After the King saw that Chúgoro could eat no more, he led him to the treasure chamber, and filled his arms with gold and silver and fine lacquer work; enough to make him a rich man for life. Then he led him through the winding passage, and bade him good-by. When the old man was out in the fields again, he found that he was the same height that he had always been, and he hurried home to share the good news with Ino-yo San and Tamá.

With his riches he built himself a fine new house, and bought jewels and silk robes for his wife, and, as for Tamá, he rested at night on a downy cushion, and lived on everything nice that a cat could wish.

Now, a rich, miserly neighbor of Chúgoro’s, Gizæmon Muratani by name, seeing the gardener so rich and prosperous where he had always been in want before, called upon him, and begged to know what had brought him such wealth.

Chúrgoro, who was very generous, and who wished all the world to be as fortunate as himself, told the whole story to Gizæmon. Immediately the miser asked that Tamá should be lent to him, that he might once more catch the King of the Field-Mice. The gardener willingly agreed, and Gizæmon took Tamá, and started across the fields, with the cat trotting at his heels. All of a sudden, Tamá darted swiftly away, and came bounding back over the grass with something in his mouth. It was the King of the Field-Mice again! Gizæmon set him free, and—for he was very ungrateful—drove Tamá harshly away. The mouse thanked the rich man as he had Chúgoro, and, in the same way, begged him to come that night to the door of his Palace. The miser’s heart swelled with pride and vanity.

“Now,” thought he, “I will be richer than my neighbor, for all that the Field-Mouse gives me, and all that I have myself, will be mine.”

He could hardly wait for the sun to set, he was so anxious to gather up his riches.

The King met him at the doorway, and touched him with his paw. Like Chúgoro, he grew smaller and smaller until he could follow the King down the little winding passage. When the banquet hall was reached, he was seated at the King’s right hand, and served with all sorts of delicious food; but the greedy man looked around instead of eating, and, as he saw how many fine things there were in the room, and, as he heard the little kitchen mice singing away, as they pounded:—

he thought, “What a fine thing it would be for me if I could make these mice believe that a Cat was here! Then they would run away, and all these riches would be mine!”

So he called out in a loud voice, “Miaou! Miaou! Miaou!” and the little, frightened mice fled away in a tremble. Gizæmon was beginning to gather up the gold and silver dishes, when, all at once, he found he was growing taller and taller and taller. He ran to the door, but he was much too large to get out. He dropped all his stolen riches, but he kept on growing bigger and bigger and bigger until he grew right up in the field like a potato, and a farmer who was digging there cracked his head with a hoe.

And so his greediness and ingratitude were rewarded, but as for Chúgoro Yamakawa and his wife Ino-yo San, they lived with Tamá, their cat, happy for ever and ever afterwards, as you say.

“But I do think,” Impty added, as he jumped down from the bed, and went to hide under the arm-chair, “I do really think that Tamá was a wonderful cat not to have eaten the field-mouse that last time. I’m afraid I should.”