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.)

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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."

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. 

************* 

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."

 

Hurston - A pair of Eatonville tales - Keeping the Public in Public Domain

 

Alfreda Harris

 

 

 

My fellow storyteller, the late (I would add great!) Alfreda Harris is on the In Memoriam page of Michigan Storytelling. Black History Month was only part of her storytelling work, but I remember fondly her love of the stories of Zora Neale Hurston. It nudged me to look and see if any of Hurston's work was in Public Domain. Imagine my delight to find eight items, but for retelling The Eatonville Anthology was pure gold!

Before I give a pair of gems from it I really should tell a bit more about Eatonville. This Florida town was very much Hurston's home, weaving its way throughout her life. Nowadays the town runs an annual award-winning festival, Zora!, which is described as  “the longest running arts and humanities festival celebrating the cultural contributions people of African ancestry have made to the world.” My apologies for not discovering it at the beginning of this month when this year's festival was held. It began in 1990 and readers might want to explore it for the future.

Hurston's stories flowed throughout her life, with Eatonville being the spring for the fountain of her writing. This 1926 anthology offers a small flood of tales. Because February is also filled with the celebration of Valentine's Day, a very brief tale of "Turpentine Love" is the opening tale here, followed by another, "The Way of a Man with a Train." (I'm a train lover, even married on one, and couldn't resist!)

Turpentine Love

Jim Merchant is always in good humor—even with his wife. He says he fell in love with her at first sight. That was some years ago. She has had all her teeth pulled out, but they still get along splendidly.

He says the first time he called on her he found out that she was subject to fits. This didn’t cool his love, however. She had several in his presence.

One Sunday, while he was there, she had one, and her mother tried to give her a dose of turpentine to stop it. Accidently, she spilled it in her eye and it cured her. She never had another fit, so they got married and have kept each other in good humor ever since.

The Way of a Man with a Train

Old Man Anderson lived seven or eight miles out in the country from Eatonville. Over by Lake Apopka. He raised feed-corn and cassava and went to market with it two or three times a year. He bought all of his victuals wholesale so he wouldn’t have to come to town for several months more.

He was different from us citybred folks. He had never seen a train. Everybody laughed at him for even the smallest child in Eatonville had either been to Maitland or Orlando and watched a train go by. On Sunday afternoons all of the young people of the village would go over to Maitland, a mile away, to see Number 35 whizz southward on its way to Tampa and wave at the passengers. So we looked down on him a little. Even we children felt superior in the presence of a person so lacking in worldly knowledge.

The grown-ups kept telling him he ought to go see a train. He always said he didn’t have time to wait so long. Only two trains a day passed through Maitland. But patronage and ridicule finally had its effect and Old Man Anderson drove in one morning early. Number 78 went north to Jacksonville at 10:20. He drove his light wagon over in the woods beside the railroad below Maitland, and sat down to wait. He began to fear that his horse would get frightened and run away with the wagon. So he took him out and led him deeper into the grove and tied him securely. Then he returned to his wagon and waited some more. Then he remembered that some of the train-wise villagers had said the engine belched fire and smoke. He had better move his wagon out of danger. It might catch afire. He climbed down from the seat and placed himself between the shafts to draw it away. Just then 78 came thundering over the trestle spouting smoke, and suddenly began blowing for Maitland. Old Man Anderson became so frightened he ran away with the wagon through the woods and tore it up worse than the horse ever could have done. He doesn’t know yet what a train looks like, and says he doesn’t care.

***

I hope the good humor that fills these two brief stories encourages you to look up more of Hurston's work. I know Alfreda would have a big smile on her face if you did.

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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 20th 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."

Bailey - Four-Legged Saint Valentine - Keeping the Public in Public Domain

 

It's coming . . . Valentine's Day! As always, you can start finding more than you probably want to know at Wikipedia.  In addition to all the legends and folk traditions I found the section on "Modern Times", which starts at 1797 of interest. It also goes on to talk of specific worldwide celebration, saying "On the United States mainland, about 190 million Valentine's Day cards are sent each year, not including the hundreds of millions of cards school children exchange." Aside from all the types of candy and e-cards, it's good to know it is still an activity in the schools. 

When I went looking for a story, I knew Caroline Sherwin Bailey could be counted on to have at least one. It was interesting to find a story that might take children back to their great grandparents' childhood during World War II. My copy of Merry Tales for Children is the 1943 edition with the earlier 1921 version included. While Bailey gives an editorial note of stories by other authors, this seems to be pure Bailey storytelling. Fortunately Platt & Munk didn't renew the copyright, so both versions are now Public Domain. I love turning to the back jacket flap of my hard cover book where "all the boys and girls of America" are urged to "buy U.S. War Bonds or Stamps. Start now to save for the future and you will be helping your country to win the war." That's definitely worth a bit of discussion along with such things as fountain pens and typewriters in a day when even cursive writing is becoming a relic of the past. Whenever I do my One-Room Schoolteacher program I always have grandparents in the audience talk about having to teach their grandchildren cursive or, at least, how to write a signature. I see it's a skill in demand for genealogy. I also note the way the United States Postal Service has changed. Back then it was twice a day. Today it's still necessary to point out why it should even continue to be week days. 

Save for the end talking about the  "Four-legged Saint Valentine" trained to deliver letters in red envelopes. What an idea! Service dogs continue to exist, but doubt we have the pleasure of having teeth marks on our mail. Hmmm! Wonder if robot dogs of the future will be in schools and libraries to encourage children to practice their reading. Personally I prefer the reactions of an actual dog.

Also after the story I give some dog-related crafts as well as a way to celebrate with your own dog if you are so blessed as to have these Four-Legged Valentines.

***

BestFriends.org has 9 ways to celebrate Valentine's Day with your pets -- they also have information about how they are "on the ground helping Los Angeles pets" after the L.A. wildfires.

Easy puppy paper bag Valentine card holder

or use a Dog Valentine box with printable template 

and a puppy as a Valentine craft 

Whether a dog, cat, or other pet, they are family and deserve our love.

Grimm - Doctor Knowall - Keeping the Public in Public Domain

Saturday, February 1, 2025 has been designated Take Your Child to the Library Day. It started in 2011 and I fully expect your local library will have events showing its intended "fun way to bring community awareness to the library and all the resources and events that are held there throughout the year." To my mind there's nothing better than to hear stories otherwise living in the folktale section of the 398 Dewey number. There are so many collections of folklore from around the world! Looking for a story having fun with the idea of reading took me to a too little known story, "Doctor Knowall."

There are many translations and editions of the various stories collected by the Brothers Grimm. I'm not going to say any one is superior. I chose Grimm's Fairy Tales edited by Frances Jenkins Olcott as it was the only book having today's too little known story with illustrations saved online at Project Gutenberg. Olcott's work has been offered here frequently and this book is true to the story. (I notice she changed the German money to dollars for the sake of U.S. readers.) It's the illustrations that made the selection easy. They are by Marie "Rie" Cramer, a Dutch writer and illustrator, or as Wikipedia calls her "a Dutch writer and prolific illustrator of children's literature whose style is considered iconic for the interwar period." 

That's enough background, on to the story!

DOCTOR KNOWALL

There was once on a time, a poor peasant called Crab, who drove two oxen with a load of wood to town, and sold it to a doctor for two dollars.

When the money was being counted out to him, it so happened that the doctor was sitting at table, and when the peasant saw how daintily he ate and drank, his heart desired what he saw, and he would willingly have been a doctor. So he remained standing a while, and at length inquired if he, too, could not be a doctor.

“Oh, yes,” said the doctor, “that is soon managed.”

“What must I do?” asked the peasant.

“In the first place, buy yourself an A B C book of the kind which has a cock on the frontispiece. In the second, turn your cart and your two oxen into money, and get yourself some clothes, and whatsoever else pertains to medicine. Thirdly, have a sign painted with the words, ‘I am Doctor Knowall,’ and have that nailed up above your house-door.”

The peasant did everything that he had been told to do. When he had doctored people a while, but not long, a rich and great lord had some money stolen. Then he was told about Doctor Knowall who lived in such and such a village, and must know what had become of the money. So the lord had the horses put in his carriage, drove out to the village, and asked Crab if he were Doctor Knowall?

Yes, he was, he said.

Then he was to go with him and bring back the stolen money.

“Oh, yes, but Grethe, my wife, must go too.”

The lord was willing, and let both of them have a seat in the carriage. They all drove away together. When they came to the nobleman’s castle, the table was spread, and Crab was told to sit down and eat.

“Yes, but my wife, Grethe, too,” said he, and he seated himself with her at the table.

And when the first servant came with a dish of delicate fare, the peasant nudged his wife, and said, “Grethe, that was the first,” meaning that was the servant who brought the first dish.

The servant, however, thought he intended by that to say, “That is the first thief,” and as he actually was so, he was terrified, and said to his comrade outside, “The doctor knows all! we shall fare badly; he said I was the first.”

The second did not want to go in at all, but was obliged to. So when he went in, the peasant nudged his wife, and said, “Grethe, that is the second.” This servant was so frightened, that he got out.

With the third, it did not fare any better, for the peasant said again, “Grethe, that is the third.”

The fourth had to carry in a covered dish. In it were crabs.

THE FIRST SERVANT CAME WITH A DISH OF DELICATE FARE

The lord told the doctor that he must show his skill by guessing what was under the cover. The doctor looked at the dish, had no idea what was in it, and cried out, “Alas! poor Crab!”

When the lord heard that, he cried, “There! he knows who has the money!”

At this, the servants were terribly anxious. They winked at the doctor to come out to them. When he went out, they all four confessed that they had stolen the money, and that they were willing to restore it. They led him to the spot where it was hidden.

Thus the lord got back his wealth, and Doctor Knowall received a large reward and became a famous man.

* * * 

I'm certainly not saying people should set up shop as a doctor, but just remember your fortune begins with "an A B C book" and there is truly so much value to be found at "the library and all the resources and events that are held there throughout the year."

A Different Mustard Seed Parable

Last week I expressed frustration with finding a story in the wake of the devastating fires in Southern California. I prowled and prowled and finally found internet references to "an old Chinese tale." Went through the old (2016) Story-Lovers.com still housed on The Wayback Machine -- a wonderful resource set up by the late Jackie Baldwin incorporating suggestions of fellow members of the email list, Storytell .  The list continues, maintained as a resource by the National Storytelling Network, but there's still gold to be found at the old Story-Lovers site. (I've had people mention difficulty using it and will gladly help anyone wanting to try it.) Found the story's name is "The Mustard Seed" and was listed as Chinese, so I checked all Chinese books in my large folktale collection, then on to Project Gutenberg, and also the books at the Internet Archive without luck. This time I went back to those internet searches with a bit more information as I learned it was a Buddhist parable. The only problem was the text tended to be antiquated and included parts unrelated to the core of the Mustard Seed story as well as primarily focused on death. Yes, death is a part of the news from the fires which have once again moved into new areas, but it's also the death of so much more ... the other parts of life before the fire that the survivors are experiencing.

Most of us know a different parable about a Mustard Seed as told by Jesus. It's important. It's not my intent to say anything against it, but the people were remembering "an old Chinese tale" about a Mustard Seed telling a different story. They gave summaries, but I wanted more! Then I found a blog article, "A Different Mustard Seed Parable"on http://lazywmarie.com/. She gives the perfect summary, quoting the brief version given by the Dalai Lama in his The Book of Joy.  Like Marie, I like the way it "is a new way to think of grief and how it connects us to each other." We both agree it is about much more than death, even though it certainly is important.

The more I looked at the Lazy Marie blog, the more I felt at home with her and her animals and Oklahoma "hobby farm." To reach her for permission, I discovered her Facebook page and feel so at home that I'm now a follower of her "The (Not Always) Lazy W Blog." 

It's not the frequent "Keeping the Public in Public Domain" type of story usually given here. Instead it takes us to something that should be considered part of the world's wisdom found in religious literature. Here is Marie's article in its entirety.

a different mustard seed parable

September 9, 2018

Friends, here is a Mustard Seed parable for you to soak in. But probably not the one you already know. One of the hundreds of delicious little treasures I want to share with you from The Book of Joy is a new way to think of grief and how it connects us to each other.

This story is a Buddhist fable shared by the Dalai Lama. I’m just going to quote the short paragraph directly from the book:

“A woman lost her child and was inconsolable in her grief, carrying her dead child throughout the land, begging for someone to help heal her child. When she came to the Buddha, she begged him to help her. He told him he could help her if she would collect mustard seeds for the medicine. She eagerly agreed, but then the Buddha explained that the mustard seeds needed to come from a home that had not been touched by death. When the woman visited each house in search of the mustard seeds that might heal her son, she discovered there was no house that had not suffered the loss of a parent, or a spouse, or a child. Seeing that her suffering was not unique, she was able to bury her child in the forest and release her grief.”

It doesn’t have to be death, though that is a loss that will eventually unite all of us and possibly the one we all fear the most. I can easily think of several bright, terrifying moments of grief in my own life that have actually softened the more I looked around and saw that other people had lived through the same, or worse. Usually much worse. I bet you would agree.

Seeing that her suffering was not unique, she was able to release her grief.

There’s a lot of comfort available in a loving community. And if we can open up enough, there’s a lot of healing and learning that can happen too. How do people survive trauma? How do they make sense of tragedy? How do they cope, and how do they thrive despite their circumstances and mistakes?

In friendships where I feel comfortable sharing the darkest chapters of our family’s story, and when I can be steady-nerved enough to listen to other people’s darkest chapters, God always shows up. He always showers this peaceful, soothing veil over all the chaos and fear. He answers by reminding me that we are not alone. We are neither the first nor the last to be terrified, and His Love accomplishes actual miracles. 

Things are hardly ever as bad as they feel when we think we are alone. When we think our suffering is unique.

Relax a little, into some trusted community. Dare to open up to other people’s suffering, if only to realize how not unique your own suffering is. Then let all of that emotion turn into compassion. And let that compassion turn to hope.

Check in again soon for more about community (Ubuntu, in the African tradition) and a couple of delicious mustard seed recipes. I wanted to include all of this together, but it’s just so much.

Happy Sunday friends. Thank you for checking in.

“A person is a person through other persons.”
~Archbishop Desmond Tutu
XOXOXO

 

Jacobs - Hereafterthis - Keeping the Public in Public Domain

The fires of Los Angeles rightfully have been THE news item in a week still loaded with major events. Locally Mitch Albom, who supports a Haitian orphanage, has compared this to what happened after the earthquake in Haiti. I certainly hope L.A. doesn't evolve into the lawlessness and further destruction of Haiti, but agree the problems will outlast the attention currently trying to help after this disaster. For my own part I want to give to organizations who won't give now and then move on. To look at a recent U.S. event, this can be seen in the battle for support after the devastation from Hurricane Helene with its own "1,000 Year Flood."

I searched in Public Domain stories trying to find an appropriate story. Other than the unhelpful tale of Pandora opening the box bringing misery, I was dissatisfied with what I found. I did find the Joseph Jacobs tale of "Hereafterthis" in More English Fairy Tales. Yes, it's a "fairy tale" with all the implied simplification. The people affected by the fires have far more serious problems, but it does show how things can progress until disaster can wipe out everything. (I heard one woman "fortunate" to find a rental property say its monthly rent equals the amount she still must pay on her ruined home's mortgage.) So, yes, this story has a "fairy tale ending", but comes with the hope better days still come to all devastated by a 21st Century disaster comparable to the devastation of the 1906 San Francisco Earthquake.

Hereafterthis

Once upon a time there was a farmer called Jan, and he lived all alone by himself in a little farmhouse.

By-and-by he thought that he would like to have a wife to keep it all vitty for him.

So he went a-courting a fine maid, and he said to her: "Will you marry me?"

"That I will, to be sure," said she.

So they went to church, and were wed. After the wedding was over, she got up on his horse behind him, and he brought her home. And they lived as happy as the day was long.

One day, Jan said to his wife, "Wife can you milk-y?"

"Oh, yes, Jan, I can milk-y. Mother used to milk-y, when I lived home."

So he went to market and bought her ten red cows. All went well till one day when she had driven them to the pond to drink, she thought they did not drink fast enough. So she drove them right into the pond to make them drink faster, and they were all drowned.

When Jan came home, she up and told him what she had done, and he said, "Oh, well, there, never mind, my dear, better luck next time."

So they went on for a bit, and then, one day, Jan said to his wife, "Wife can you serve pigs?"

"Oh, yes, Jan, I can serve pigs. Mother used to serve pigs when I lived home."

So Jan went to market and bought her some pigs. All went well till one day, when she had put their food into the trough she thought they did not eat fast enough, and she pushed their heads into the trough to make them eat faster, and they were all choked.

When Jan came home, she up and told him what she had done, and he said, "Oh, well, there, never mind, my dear, better luck next time."

So they went on for a bit, and then, one day, Jan said to his wife, "Wife can you bake-y?"

"Oh, yes, Jan, I can bake-y. Mother used to bake-y when I lived home."

So he bought everything for his wife so that she could bake bread. All went well for a bit, till one day, she thought she would bake white bread for a treat for Jan. So she carried her meal to the top of a high hill, and let the wind blow on it, for she thought to herself that the wind would blow out all the bran. But the wind blew away meal and bran and all—so there was an end of it.

When Jan came home, she up and told him what she had done, and he said, "Oh, well, there, never mind, my dear, better luck next time."

So they went on for a bit, and then, one day, Jan said to his wife, "Wife can you brew-y?"

"Oh, yes, Jan, I can brew-y. Mother used to brew-y when I lived home."

So he bought everything proper for his wife to brew ale with. All went well for a bit, till one day when she had brewed her ale and put it in the barrel, a big black dog came in and looked up in her face. She drove him out of the house, but he stayed outside the door and still looked up in her face. And she got so angry that she pulled out the plug of the barrel, threw it at the dog, and said, "What dost look at me for? I be Jan's wife." Then the dog ran down the road, and she ran after him to chase him right away. When she came back again, she found that the ale had all run out of the barrel, and so there was an end of it.

When Jan came home, she up and told him what she had done, and he said, "Oh well, there, never mind, my dear, better luck next time."

So they went on for a bit, and then, one day, she thought to herself, "'T is time to clean up my house." When she was taking down her big bed she found a bag of groats on the tester. So when Jan came home, she up and said to him, "Jan, what is that bag of groats on the tester for?"

"That is for Hereafterthis, my dear."

Now, there was a robber outside the window, and he heard what Jan said. Next day, he waited till Jan had gone to market, and then he came and knocked at the door. "What do you please to want?" said Mally.

"I am Hereafterthis," said the robber, "I have come for the bag of groats."

Now the robber was dressed like a fine gentleman, so she thought to herself it was very kind of so fine a man to come for the bag of groats, so she ran upstairs and fetched the bag of groats, and gave it to the robber and he went away with it.

When Jan came home, she said to him, "Jan, Hereafterthis has been for the bag of groats."

"What do you mean, wife?" said Jan.

So she up and told him, and he said, "Then I'm a ruined man, for that money was to pay our rent with. The only thing we can do is to roam the world over till we find the bag of groats." Then Jan took the house-door off its hinges, "That's all we shall have to lie on," he said. So Jan put the door on his back, and they both set out to look for Hereafterthis. Many a long day they went, and in the night Jan used to put the door on the branches of a tree, and they would sleep on it. One night they came to a big hill, and there was a high tree at the foot. So Jan put the door up in it, and they got up in the tree and went to sleep. By-and-by Jan's wife heard a noise, and she looked to see what it was. It was an opening of a door in the side of the hill. Out came two gentlemen with a long table, and behind them fine ladies and gentlemen, each carrying a bag, and one of them was Hereafterthis with the bag of groats. They sat round the table, and began to drink and talk and count up all the money in the bags. So then Jan's wife woke him up, and asked what they should do.

"Now's our time," said Jan, and he pushed the door off the branches, and it fell right in the very middle of the table, and frightened the robbers so that they all ran away. Then Jan and his wife got down from the tree, took as many money-bags as they could carry on the door, and went straight home. And Jan bought his wife more cows, and more pigs, and they lived happy ever after.

***

May the people having to start over find a way, once again, to find reasons to continue and even to find happiness.  

For the rest of us, let us not forget the need to continue helping. 

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

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 “PublicDomain Story Resources."