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One day a Fakír came and begged, and as the doorkeeper had no pice, or flour, or rice to give, he gave him a handful of pearls and rubies. “Well,” said the Fakír to himself, “I am sure these are pearls and rubies.” So he tied them up in his cloth. Then he went to the Rájá to beg, and the Rájá gave him a handful of rice. “What!” said the Fakír, “the great Mahárájá only gives me a handful of rice when his doorkeeper gives me pearls and rubies!” and he turned to walk away. But the Mahárájá stopped him. “What did you say?” said he, “that my doorkeeper gave you pearls and rubies?” “Yes,” said the Fakír, “your doorkeeper gave me pearls and rubies.” So the Mahárájá went to the doorkeeper’s house, and when he saw all the pearls and rubies that were there, he thought the man had stolen them from his treasury. The Mahárájá had not as many pearls and rubies as his doorkeeper had. Then turning to the doorkeeper he asked him to tell him truly where and how he had got them. “Yes, I will,” said the doorkeeper. “Every night a beautiful bird comes and asks after you, after your children, after all your elephants, horses, and servants; and then it cries, and when it cries pearls drop from its eyes; and then it laughs, and rubies fall from its beak. If you come to-night I dare say you will see it.” “All right,” said the Pomegranate Rájá.

So that night the Mahárájá pulled his bed out under the tree on which the bird always perched. At night the bird came and called out, “Doorkeeper! doorkeeper!” and the doorkeeper answered, “Yes, lord.” And the bird said, “Is your Mahárájá well?” “Yes.” “Are the children well?” “Yes.” “And all his servants, horses, and camels and elephants–are they well?” “Yes.” “Are you well?” “Yes.” “Have you had plenty of food?” “Yes.” “What a fool your Mahárájá is!” And then she cried, and the pearls came tumbling down on the Mahárájá’s eyes, and the Mahárájá opened one eye and saw what a beautiful bird it was. And then it laughed, and rubies fell from its beak on to the Mahárájá.

Next morning the Mahárájá said he would give any one who would catch the bird as much money as he wanted. So he called a fisherman, and asked him to bring his net and catch the bird when it came that night. The fisherman said he would for one thousand rupees. That night the fisherman, the Mahárájá, and the doorkeeper, all waited under the tree. Soon the bird came, and asked after the Mahárájá, after his children, and all his servants and elephants, and camels and horses, and then after the doorkeeper, and then it called the Mahárájá a fool. Then it cried, and then it laughed, and just as it laughed the fisherman threw the net over the bird and caught it. Then they shut it up in an iron cage, and the next morning the Mahárájá took it out and stroked it, and said, “What a sweet little bird! what a lovely little bird!” And the Mahárájá felt something like a pin in its head, and he gave a pull, and out came the pin, and then his own dear wife, the Pomegranate-flower Rání, stood before him. The Rájá was exceedingly glad, and so were his two children. And there were great rejoicings, and they lived happily ever after.

Told by Dunkní at Simla, 26th July, 1876.

NOTES.

FAIRY TALE TRANSLATED BY MAIVE STOKES.

WITH NOTES BY MARY STOKES

THE POMEGRANATE KING.

1. Such is the story as told by Dunkní in 1876; at that time, when it was read over to her, she said it was correct. On my asking her in 1878, when the story was going through the press, to explain some points in it, such as why the children said they had been brought to life three times, the boy having only died twice, and the girl once, she told me the following variation: After the attempt to get rid of the boy by making him into a curry had failed, the Rání Sunkásí sent for a sepoy and bade him carry the two children to the jungle and there kill them; and as a proof of their death he was to bring her their livers. Once in the jungle with the children, the sepoy had not the heart to kill them; so he left them in it, and brought the livers of two goats to Sunkásí Rání. She buried the livers in the garden and was content; but some months later as she was walking (literally “eating the air”) in the jungle she saw her step-children playing about; she returned to the palace, sent for the sepoy, and asked him why he had not killed the children. “I did kill them,” said the sepoy, “and brought you their livers.” “Those livers were not the children’s livers,” answered the Rání; “I have just seen the children alive and playing in the jungle.” “They must have been other people’s children that you saw,” said the sepoy, “yours I killed.” “Do not tell me lies,” said the Rání. “Now you must at once go to the jungle, kill the children, and bring me their eyes.” The sepoy went to find the children, but when he found them he could not kill them, so he took them to some people who lived in a hut, and said to these people, “Take great care of the two children. Be very kind to them.” He then killed two goats and took their eyes to the Rání, who was now satisfied for some time. But one day another of the Pomegranate Rájá’s sepoys passed near the hut, and saw the children playing about. So he went to Sunkásí Rání and told her the children were alive and well. At this the Rání was very angry, and she thought, “It is of no use my sending the first sepoy again to kill them. I will send this man.” She said, therefore, to the second sepoy, “If you will kill these children for me, you shall have a great reward.” The sepoy agreed, went to the little hut, and seized the children. The poor people who took care of the children begged and prayed him to have pity on them; but the sepoy said, “No.” He had the Rání’s orders to kill them, and they must and should be killed. And so he killed them and brought their livers to the Rání as she had bidden him. Sunkásí Rání was very happy when she saw the livers, and she buried them close to a large tank that was in her garden.