Monday's Illustrated Word: "The Stage was Set for Murder" by unknown writer (in English)

 art by Reed Crandall and Chuck Cuidera - Police Comics #116 - Quality, June 1952.

 

Good Reading: "The World-Soul" by Ralph Waldo Emerson (in English)

Thanks to the morning light,
⁠Thanks to the foaming sea,
To the uplands of New Hampshire,
⁠To the green-haired forest free;
Thanks to each man of courage,
⁠To the maids of holy mind,
To the boy with his games undaunted
⁠Who never looks behind.

Cities of proud hotels,
⁠Houses of rich and great,
Vice nestles in your chambers,
⁠Beneath your roofs of slate.
It cannot conquer folly,—
⁠Time-and-space-conquering steam,—
And the light-outspeeding telegraph
⁠Bears nothing on its beam.

The politics are base;
⁠The letters do not cheer;
And 't is far in the deeps of history,
⁠The voice that speaketh clear.
Trade and the streets ensnare us,
⁠Our bodies are weak and worn;
We plot and corrupt each other,
⁠And we despoil the unborn.

Yet there in the parlor sits
⁠Some figure of noble guise,—
Our angel, in a stranger's form,
⁠Or woman's pleading eyes;
Or only a flashing sunbeam
⁠In at the window-pane;
Or Music pours on mortals
⁠Its beautiful disdain.

The inevitable morning
⁠Finds them who in cellars be;
And be sure the all-loving Nature
⁠Will smile in a factory.
Yon ridge of purple landscape,
⁠Yon sky between the walls,
Hold all the hidden wonders
⁠In scanty intervals.

Alas! the Sprite that haunts us
⁠Deceives our rash desire;
It whispers of the glorious gods,
⁠And leaves us in the mire.
We cannot learn the cipher
⁠That 's writ upon our cell;
Stars help us by a mystery
⁠Which we could never spell.

If but one hero knew it,
⁠The world would blush in flame;
The sage, till he hit the secret,
⁠Would hang his head for shame.
Our brothers have not read it,
⁠Not one has found the key;
And henceforth we are comforted,—
⁠We are but such as they.

Still, still the secret presses;
⁠The nearing clouds draw down;
The crimson morning flames into
⁠The fopperies of the town.
Within, without the idle earth,
⁠Stars weave eternal rings;
The sun himself shines heartily,
⁠And shares the joy he brings.

And what if Trade sow cities
⁠Like shells along the shore,
And thatch with towns the prairie broad,
⁠With railways ironed o'er?—
They are but sailing foam-bells
⁠Along Thought's causing stream,
And take their shape and sun-color
⁠From him that sends the dream.

For Destiny never swerves
⁠To yields to men the helm;
He shoots his thought, by hidden nerves,
⁠Throughout the solid realm.
The patient Dæmon sits,
⁠With roses and a shroud;
He has his way, and deals his gifts,—
⁠But ours is not allowed.

He is no churl nor trifler,
⁠And his viceroy is none,—
Love-without-weakness,—
⁠Of Genius sire and son.
And his will is not thwarted;
⁠The seeds of land and sea
Are the atoms of his body bright,
⁠And his behest obey.

He serveth the servant,
⁠The brave he loves amain;
He kills the cripple and the sick,
⁠And straight begins again;
For gods delight in gods,
⁠And thrust the weak aside;
To him who scorns their charities
⁠Their arms fly open wide.

When the old world is sterile
⁠And the ages are effete,
He will from wrecks and sediment
⁠The fairer world complete.
He forbids to despair;
⁠His cheeks mantle with mirth;
And the unimagined good of men
⁠Is yeaning at the birth.

Spring still makes spring in the mind
⁠When sixty years are told;
Love wakes anew this throbbing heart,
⁠And we are never old;
Over the winter glaciers
⁠I see the summer glow,
And through the wild-piled snow-drift
⁠The warm rosebuds below.

Friday's Sung Word: "Que Baixo!" by Noel Rosa and Nássara (in Portuguese)

Você cozinha, racha lenha e eu não racho
Que baixo! Que baixo!
Namora pulga sem saber qual é o macho
Que baixo! Que baixo!

Você me diz que faz a gente de capacho
Mas eu não acho! Mas eu não acho!
Planta dinheiro pra nascer dinheiro em cacho
Que grande baixo! Que grande baixo!

Você me diz que toca bem o contra-baixo
Mas eu não acho! Mas eu não acho!
Você afina parte a corda e eu me agacho
Que grande baixo! Que grande baixo!

 

 

You can listen "Que Baixo!" sung by  Aracy de Almeida here.

Thursday Serial: "My Kalulu, Prince, King and Slave - a story of Central Africa" by Henry M. Stanley (in English) - IV

Chapter Four - Khamis’s Address to the Arabs—Proposals for Attack on Kwikuru—Simba splits the Gate from Top to Bottom—The Warori Chief shot—Death of Khamis bin Abdullah—Amer bin Osman pierced by an Arrow—Selim made Prisoner—Selim brutally lashed by Tifum—The three Arab boys brought before Ferodia—Selim refuses to drink or dance—Abdullah refuses to be called a Slave—Flight of Sultan bin Ali—Division of the Spoils—The Magic Drink: Mutilation of the Dead—The Chant of the Magic Doctors.

 

The young people who have been fortunate in buying this book may not have experience of the battle-field, and therefore may not know what the feelings and thoughts of those who are about to stake their lives against the lives of others for the victory in the bloody contest are. The feeling is the same in all men, whether white or black, though some natures are so constituted that they are enabled to hide feelings which some say partake largely of fear. But I deny that such indicate fear, though, left to themselves, they might create fear. In the Arab camp, as report and rumour had been busy at the camp-fires, a feeling of dread predominated in all minds, but had there been one chief of resolution, with power unlimited over all, a few words of cheer had done wonders in improving the tone of their minds.

Khamis bin Abdullah was a brave man; no man might deny that; but his bravery was undisciplined; it was uncultivated; it was the bravery of a wild but noble heart. He had not seen so many battle-fields that he could afford to smile at the declaration of Olimali; he had not the experience of war which would have satisfied him that, however large and numerous the force of Olimali was, he had resources enough in himself to defeat them all. Khamis bin Abdullah could die himself, but he could not bring others to look upon death with calmness and courage. So that, despite the high-spirited courage of his race, which he eminently possessed, the truth must be told without any disparagement to himself; a feeling of depression, some undefined dread, remained settled in his breast, though his outer aspect, his mien, or behaviour, did not betray this.

As it was with Khamis, so was it with the other chiefs. Amer bin Osman was as brave as a lion, but he could not depend upon his people as he could depend upon himself personally, and this thought created the dread, and doubt, and apprehension of something undefinable, which all the chiefs at this critical moment felt.

Sheikh Mohammed, Sultan bin Ali, and the rest were as brave as any living men. Had there been only one hundred Arabs, a doubtful issue of the war would never have been entertained; but there were only twelve Arabs and six hundred black men; and how long would the black men stand together?

At sunrise, another meeting was called, and the Arab chiefs, with their sons, hastened to the council.

Khamis, the leader, when all had been seated, said:

“My friends, the last words of Olimali, according to my kirangozi, were that the Arabs need not try to tempt him to forego his revenge, but that we must prepare for war. We can easily prepare for war, for we are always ready; but we must endeavour to sustain each other by friendly counsel and cheering words; for in a fatal issue to us of this war we know what the fate of us true believers will be. We can hold out in our camp against four times the number that Olimali may bring against us. We are weak, however, in this country, because we have no friends to supply us with food, and it is not a little that will suffice to feed six hundred souls. The men had no food yesterday, they have none to-day; they cannot hold out long in the camp against hunger. In this case what do you propose?”

Sultan bin Ali spoke and said, “Our answer has been given to us, and there is no longer any doubt of what we have to do. We must fight, but how fight is the question. Shall we await here in the camp the coming of the infidel savages, or shall we sally out of the camp and attack them in their boma (palisade)?”

Sheikh Mohammed answered, “We cannot remain in the camp to starve and eat each other; we must go out and get cattle, while a few of us stop inside here to strengthen the camp with branches. I would suggest also that a trench be dug all around the camp, and the earth thrown against the hedge as a parapet. Wallahi! I have seen such things done in Unyanyembe, and the enemy beaten.”

“Mohammed’s words are well spoken,” said Amer bin Osman. “I would advise eleven of us sally out with our men, and one Arab remain with one hundred men, who will stir themselves to strengthen the defences with our cloth bales and baggage; and if we have to fall back, we shall find a strong place ready for us. We can harry those infidels; though they may be hidden behind triple rows of palisades, some of our bullets will reach them. Thanks to Allah! we have enough ammunition with us.”

“Very good indeed,” said Sheikh Thani, a wiry, cautious old man, who had had much experience in Africa; “but supposing we are beaten in our attack upon the palisades of Kwikuru, we shall not be any better off than we were before, but worse; our men will get disheartened, and starvation will stare us in the face. I propose that five hundred men, divided into two parties, make for the gates as quickly as possible, and break open everything with all the speed we can. It is only in this way that we can succeed.”

“The oldest among ye have spoken,” said the leader Khamis, “and ye have spoken well. But I have been in Urori before, and know the customs of the Warori. If we succeed in taking this village of Kwikuru, we cannot hope to be permitted to march through this country any more; but as soon as we take it we must strike along the road to Unyanyembe. It is useless for me to tell ye that I advised ye at first not to take the Urori road. I shall not quarrel with ye about that now, but will try to do my best for our general safety. If we succeed in destroying Olimali and his people, we must begin our march north to Unyanyembe to-night, for in two days the fugitives will carry the news from one end of the country to another.”

“Excellently spoken, brave Khamis,” said Amer bin Osman. “Thou hast a wise head, and art a worthy leader. Do thou, with thy men and other chiefs, attack one gate, and I, with my men and other chiefs, will attack the other gate, and whosoever takes a gate first, let him blow on his horn once. I advise now that whatsoever we may have we shall eat, and that after we break our fast we sally out.”

“Praised be Allah for his goodness! Let us eat; then fight!” all shouted.

In half an hour breakfast had been despatched, and every chief sallied out with his men under his respective flag, except Sultan bin Ali, who was left with one hundred men to prepare the camp for defence in case of failure.

Simba and Moto had also had their little council together; and as they marched by the side of Amer bin Osman, various signs might have been seen by the observer to pass between them, accompanied by many ominous shakings of the head.

A deep silence prevailed near the village; not a soul was seen, not a dog was heard to bark; but the sun shone as usual with its summer heat, and the sky was perfectly cloudless and beautiful in its azure purity.

But little did the approaching Arabs and their followers heed the beauty of the sky, the brilliancy of the day, or the heat of the sun.

When they had advanced within 300 yards of the village, the force under Amer bin Osman separated from that of Khamis bin Abdullah, and marched at a respectful distance from the village towards the southern gate, and when he had gained his position, at a preconcerted signal both forces began their firing, advancing rapidly as they fired.

The village stirred not; not a sign of life was visible for some time, until the Arabs had approached within fifty yards; then clouds of arrows were seen to issue from the village, and furious yells were heard, which seemed to rend the sky. Numbers of the Arab followers fell pierced to the core by the arrows; but the animated shouts of their chiefs spurred them on towards the palisade.

In a few moments, after repeated discharges of musketry, the Arabs gained the outer defence of the village, and, intruding their guns between the tall posts, were soon firing right in the faces of the astonished but not dismayed people of Olimali. But at this juncture, a long blast on a deep-sounding horn was heard from the interior, simultaneously with a shorter and shriller sound which proceeded from the southern gate. The shriller horn belonged to Amer bin Osman, and was blown by Moto; but what did the bass horn from the interior of the village mean? But there was no time to lose in conjecture.

Amer bin Osman had advanced with resistless impetuosity towards the southern gate, and the gigantic Simba had, with one blow of his heavy axe, split the gate from top to bottom, and, giving it a strong push with his foot, had sent it flying open, through which, accompanied by his master Amer and Selim, who carried his rifle, he had bounded into the interior, firing his musket with the utmost rapidity.

Amer’s followers, animated by the valour of their master and the immense strength of Simba, now became as brave as lions, and vied with each other in noise and bravery. Not being able to make their way rapidly enough by the gate, which was thronged by the besiegers, they climbed over the palisades like monkeys, and little Niani’s agility might have astonished his namesake. Abdullah, Mussoud, and Isa were with their parents, Sheikhs Mohammed and Hamdan, and they crept through the gate much behind Selim and his father Amer, owing to the press of besiegers.

So quickly had Simba gained the gate and destroyed it, that all the fugitives were not able to enter the inner inclosure which surrounded the king’s quarters, and a body of them, numbering about fifty, under the leadership of the king’s eldest son, now stood with their backs to the palisades, resolutely confronting Simba and his companions, with heavy spears in their hands.

Simba, at this time before a foe on whom he could exert the full power of his arm, became transformed into the embodiment of a black Mars, the god of war. He was no longer the humble and obedient servant of Sheikh Amer and the true friend of Selim. He was more; he was their irresistible leader. In his eyes glowed the ardour of fierce battle; the terrible savage spirit of the Warundi, hitherto constrained for faithful, though menial, service, had burst its trammels, and he now stood, with uplifted musket,—confessed—the bronze Achilles of the war. His fierce eye caused the doomed fugitives to quail with cowardly dread; and when aimed at him, the heavy spears of the Warori fell harmless at his feet. Giving vent to the hitherto latent passion of the savage’s soul in a loud bellowing cry, he sprang forward, and the rapidity with which he dealt his blows with his clubbed musket awed even the warrior soul of his Arab chief. But not for long did Amer pause to regard even the prowess of Simba. Calling to his followers, he raised his long two-edged sword, and darted at the enemy, plying the weapon best known to him and his race with a power which elicited as much admiration as Simba’s strength of arm and dexterity of stroke had done.

Rendered desperate by the knowledge of their situation, the remaining Warori, headed by their chief, made a rush towards their enemies and used their heavy spears with frantic energy. In front of the Warori chief stood Selim, firing and loading his rifle with a coolness and method which would have won applause from his father’s people had the combatants not been so busily engaged. He was in the act of re-loading when the desperate rush of the Warori was made, and their chief stood with uplifted spear above him; but well was it for him that the watchful eye of Moto was on him, else had our story been ended here, ere it is hardly begun. When it seemed that Selim could not have been saved, and he stood expectant of the blow which would have ended his young life there and then, he saw the chief’s head fall back with a cruel jagged wound in the temple, through which the bullet of Moto had sped home.

The Warori no longer resisted when they saw their chief fall, and attempted to fly, but the force of Arabs was too numerous; they fell dead to a man.

Khamis bin Abdullah had also been successful. Cheered by the news which the horn of Amer conveyed, he soon effected an entrance, and, accompanied by his followers, he had entered the village, and almost similar scenes awaited him, though not so sanguinary.

When they had succeeded in forcing the outer inclosure, they had still a hard struggle before them to conquer the village; but they, no doubt, would have done so had not a new enemy come upon the field.

Unknown to the Arabs, a few miles west of the village was stationed a large body of Watuta, whose chief had been sent by Katalambula, brother of the dead Mostana, to pay his respects to his brother’s friends, and to renew “assurances of his esteem and consideration” for them, as the old letters used to say.

This body of Watuta was one thousand strong, and as soon as the Arab caravans hove in sight, Olimali had despatched messengers to Ferodia, the Watuta chief, telling him of his intentions, and bidding him hasten to the neighbourhood to watch events, and to be ready for the signal, as he intended to attack the Arab camp. But the attack of the Arabs upon his village had caused him to give the signal earlier than he had at first anticipated, and the easy entrance of the Arabs into the outer village had been partly effected through the connivance of this wily chief, though in the loss of warriors and in the death of his eldest son he had paid dearly for his treachery.

While the Arabs and their followers now devoted their attention to the attack upon the inner inclosure, which was vigorously defended, the major number of the Watuta had risen, in response to the deep-sounding war-horn of the Warori, from among the corn-fields to the west of the village and camp of the Arabs, and had hurried to the rescue.

They came upon the outer inclosure just as the Arabs commenced their attack upon the inner palisade, and the first time the Arabs knew of their presence was when they were first fired upon before and behind.

The followers of the Arabs, before so valiant, now became panic-stricken, and they simultaneously made a rush for the gates, while, the defiant yells of the savages completely drowned their cries; but the cunning Watuta had closed the gates, or had so barricaded them that egress was impossible. They now saw nothing but death staring them in the face—savages in front, savages behind; both parties defended by palisades, while they stood exposed between, to be shot to death in their tracks. It was useless for the Arab leaders to attempt to encourage them, for one after another of these brave men fell and died. Khamis bin Abdullah fell, pierced by a dozen arrows, and his son, the noble young Khamis—the proud-spirited young Arab—fell also across the body of his father at the hands of the people whom he so much despised. Mussoud, and Thani, and Amram died also bravely, and one after another of their followers fell to rise no more, until those who were left threw down their guns crying “Aman, aman!” (Mercy, mercy!) upon seeing which the Watuta and Warori desisted from further murder, to make slaves of those who cried for quarter.

The force under Amer bin Osman, Sheikh Mohammed, and Hamdan, and the other chiefs, fared as badly. They were engaged in vigorously attacking the inner defence in front of them, when they heard a loud gurgling shriek issue from Sheikh Mohammed, who had been pierced in the nape of the neck from an arrow behind, and on turning to see whence it came, they were dismayed to find an enemy of another tribe behind them. Moto, on seeing them, shouted “The Watuta! the Watuta! Olimali has betrayed us into their hands.” Bimba, hearing the words of Moto, desisted from further attack, and came to Amer bin Osman, counselling him to fly with him, and handing him a shield to cover his body, which, from the dress he wore, was a prominent mark. Moto also held a couple of shields before Selim, while Abdullah and Mussoud were ordered to do the same.

“Fly!” said the astonished Amer—“fly! Ah, Simba, my friend, had we wings, we might fly. See you not the gate is closed?”

“The gate is closed, I know, great master, but Simba’s arm is strong, and I will force it open.”

“No, Simba, I cannot fly to be butchered like a bullock outside. I shall meet my fate here. Ha! do you hear that? See! the savages are within. Khamis bin Abdullah is dead! Save my boy Selim, for his mother’s sake! Ho, my son, come to me! One embrace before we part for ever; but, my son, remember, I shall meet thee in Paradise!”

The father and son were united in a fervent embrace when Amer received an arrow in the back from within the inner inclosure, which caused him to fall, with his son in his arms, to the ground. The arrow had been driven by a strong hand, for the point projected in front and slightly wounded Selim in the chest, the blood of father and son commingling in one stream.

“Brave Simba and faithful Moto, where are ye? Save my boy!” cried Amer, looking up with glazed eyes at the two who bent over him, heart-stricken with sorrow. “Save my darling Selim! Save him for the love I bore you! Ah, Selim, my son, kiss thy mother for thy fa—Amina!—Sel—Ah!”—and the great soul of Amer hastened upward to the Judgment Seat.

Simba and Moto, when they saw their master had breathed his last, stretched his form out evenly, and, placing a cloth reverently over his face, caught hold of Selim, and pressing the heart-broken boy to the ground, close by the body of his father, said to him:

“Lie still, young master. Nay, but you must. Your father commanded us to save you, and we will; but you must do what we advise you. Think of your mother, of many happy days yet in store for you. Lie still as death, and they will take you to Katalambula’s village, and there you will meet us. Here, Abdullah! Mussoud! Isa! lie down here, alongside of Selim. What, all the chiefs dead already! Wallahi! but this is a sad day for the Arabs at Zanzibar!”

Having given these instructions to the Arab boys, which had been given in much less time than we have taken to record them, Simba and Moto also fell to the ground, but retaining their spears and shields in their hands.

By this time the Watuta were within the village, crowing triumphantly over their success; but Ferodia, the chief, after giving orders to bind the captives, hastened away with nearly all his force to attack the camp, which, under old Sultan bin Ali, held out still against the force that had been detached to attack it.

While the few remaining Watuta were binding the captives, Simba and Moto rose to their feet, and, using their spears right and left, soon cleared a passage to the gate, before the astonished savages could recover their senses.

Once outside the gate, Simba and Moto exerted their powers to the utmost, and by their extraordinary speed soon left their pursuers far behind.

Finding it useless to pursue the runaways, the Watuta began to examine the wounded, and especially the Arabs, whom they surveyed with astonishment. The group formed by Amer bin Osman, Selim his son, Abdullah, Mussoud, and Isa, attracted them most for their rich dresses. They began to strip the bodies, but their astonishment was very great when they perceived Isa sit up and fold his hands, asking for mercy.

Suspecting that others shammed death, they laid hold of Selim, and he also sat up; then Abdullah and Mussoud, and they also sat up, looking very sheepish, or like guilty people caught doing a mean action. Angry at the cheat, as they imagined, to have been practised upon them, they snatched the cloth from the face of the dead body of Amer bin Osman; but there was no mistaking him—he was dead.

Some were for slaying the boys at once; but the majority interposed, and said in an inquiring tone, “Why slay boys, when you can make slaves of them?” which shortly met general approbation.

Upon agreeing to this, they began to strip Isa, who shortly found himself as naked as when he was born; but being extremely dark of colour, there appeared nothing remarkable about him to attract any special attention, and he was taken at once to the other captives, where he wae firmly bound with strips of green bark.

They then laid violent hands on the others, on Selim, Abdullah, and Mussoud; and despite their struggles and tears, they were soon denuded of their finery and of their rich embroidered dress. When they saw the pale and clean colour of their bodies, the fierce Watuta gathered about them, and wondered what strange beings these were who were all over white, while they themselves were all black. They looked at the wound in Selim’s chest, and on pressing it saw the red blood flow, which only increased their astonishment; for how could people with white skins have red blood? But Selim’s proud heart was rebelling against the indignity of being stared at as a curious specimen of humanity, and he had endeavoured to hide his blushes with his hands; but when they pulled them down, and ordered him to show his tongue and teeth, and began to feel the muscles of his arms and legs, then he could bear no more; and flinging himself across the dead body of his father, he wept aloud, and prayed to God that he might die. Abdullah and Mussoud were as yet too terrified to do more than cry silently; and they were accordingly led away and bound without resistance. They then took hold of Selim to tie him, but he would not rise; and, angered at what they deemed his stubbornness, two warriors brought the shafts of their spears full upon his body, which had well-nigh broken the high courage of the young Arab; for so great was the pain his pride suffered, and so indescribable were his emotions, that he lay like one stunned.

While the boy lay fainting in the hot sun amid the dead and the blood, the chief of the party in charge of the prisoners, casting his eyes around, saw a whip of hippopotamus-hide in the waist-cloth of one of the dead fundis, or overseers, of the Arabs. This pliant and formidable whip the chief—a man of stern and forbidding aspect, whose name was Tifum (pronounced Tee-foom),—Tifum Byah, or the “Wicked Tifum,” and who was evidently a traveller—handled like a man who knew its uses, for he made it fly about his arm in black circles, and made it hiss its menace in the ears of the sorely-tried Selim.

“Proud Arab boy, arise! Tifum Byah speaks but once, else you will feel the pains of this whip, with which your cursed race torture the backs of your slaves. Many days lie between here and Ututa, and you will suffer more than this ere you see our plains. Arise! No? then words are light as air, and seldom go into the ears of the stubborn;” and as he spoke, he lashed the prostrate youth with all his might, while the shrieks which the pain elicited at last from him were responded to by the mocking laughter of the brutal crowd, who pointed at the marks which the whip made in high glee.

When Tifum fancied he had punished him enough, he ordered the boy to be assisted up to his feet and bound; and when this was done Tifum lowered his face to Selim’s, and said, “Mark my words, child of the pale race! You shall be Tifum’s slave, to hoe his field and bring him wood and water. You shall nurse his children, be a herdsman of his cattle, and I will break your heart, and make your ears open to his slightest breath. Do you hear me, white face?”

So strong was the nauseous and hateful repugnance he felt towards this man that Selim could not repress the expression of the loathing that filled him, and almost unconsciously he spat in his face, which was instantly retaliated by Tifum with a tremendous box on the ear, which prostrated the boy once more across the dead body of Amer, where he lay like one deprived of life, and not all the brutal lashing which the almost lifeless form received evoked one groan from him; and it was in this unconscious state that he was carried to where the other prisoners stood huddled together like frightened sheep.

Then, directing his attention to the dead bodies of the Arabs, these were ordered to be denuded of their clothing, and to be laid in a row together, Sheikhs Khamis, Amer, Abdullah, Mussoud, Thani, Hamdan, Mohammed, Amram, and young Khamis, and two others of lesser note—an honourable company truly, even in death!

There seemed to have penetrated into the brain of the unconscious Selim some idea of what was about to occur; for as soon as the dead had been gathered together, he raised his head and sat up, with his eyes fixed upon the dishonoured bodies of his father and his father’s friends, which were laid side by side. He heeded not the taunts of the Warori who had collected to menace and insult the prisoners, and feast their curiosity with a sight of the noble dead; he heeded not the groans of his boy-companions Isa, Abdullah, and Mussoud, nor the wailing of the little slave Niani, who had been born on his father’s estate, and who was now crying his eyes out for the loss of his master Amer, and for the more pitiable condition of his young master Selim; he heeded not the hot sun which was blistering his back with its fierce heat, nor the scores of flies which troubled his numerous wounds; he sat heedless of all, with his great eyes fixed sadly on the remains of his father.

But night was approaching, and Ferodia had not yet returned. Volleys of musketry were heard incessantly all the afternoon; but as the sun set the musketry ceased, and Ferodia returned with all but a few of his people, when it was reported that the camp still held out, but that in the morning all the fighting men of Olimali and Ferodia would take the camp at a rush. Until then he had left a few of his men to watch it, lest they might abscond at night and take away the most part of the great wealth which must be stored within the camp. The losses of the Watuta had been excessively heavy, as, when Ferodia darted out with his victorious men, it was expected that the camp would have surrendered at once; but it seems that Sultan bin Ali had so well fortified it that it was almost impregnable, and that the Watuta had been punished severely.

The Warori of the village of Kwikuru had prepared food in a great quantity for the warriors of Ferodia, who were too much engaged with satisfying their ravenous hunger to display much interest in prisoners whom they knew were secure; and when they had finished, they had so gorged their stomachs with food and pombe, that they were too indolent to stir. But when Tifum, who was obsequious enough to Ferodia, though cruel to his subordinates, had told the latter of the interesting character of the white slaves, as he called the three Arab boys, and how he had found them shamming death, he commanded him to bring them before him and Olimali that they might be amused.

Tifum hastened out obedient to his chief’s mandates, and, arriving before the prisoners, searched for the Arab boys, who had already forgotten their misery in a deep sleep. Finding that they were in a too uninteresting condition to amuse his master, he had several gourds full of water brought to him, which he threw over them to cause them to cast off the disposition to sleep. This being done, he led them to the presence of his chief.

Ferodia was holding forth to Olimali upon the prospects of the great riches they should share with each other on the morrow when the young prisoners were ushered before him. By the dim light which the torches gave out, they appeared much more pallid and strange in a land where white people had never been seen; indeed, one might say they were rather alarming; and it is no wonder that Ferodia started as the three were pushed towards him.

But, quickly recovering himself, as he remembered who they were, he burst out into a laugh, saying, “Ah, I remember, these are the Arab youths thou didst speak to me of, Tifum. This pombe, Olimali, is strong. I think it has made me light-headed,”—speaking these words aside to the Mrori chief.

Then attentively fixing his gaze upon the prisoners, and looking them all over, he said, half to himself, “What strange people these Arabs are—all white! Their hides are as white almost as the yolk of eggs but how came the tallest one, I wonder, to have so many wounds?”

“Tifum,” said Ferodia, aloud, “what ails this tallest lad? These wounds are not the wounds of arrows.”

Tifum, bending his back almost double, said, “My chief, this boy is as stubborn as an ass. When I remembered the cruelties the people of this boy have practised upon those of our colour, my blood boiled within me, and when I told him to arise and be bound like the other prisoners, he spat in my face, and I flogged him.”

“Pah, pah, Tifum! he but acted as the Watuta boys would have done; but lay not thine hand on him again. I take him for my slave. The boy is half dead already. Here,” said he, addressing Selim, “drink this,” handing him a good ladleful of sparkling pombe; “it will put life in thy dull veins.”

Selim shook his head and curled his lips in scorn, and looked at the half-inebriated chief with contemptuous indifference.

The chief regarded him for a moment in silence, with the cup still stretched, and then said, “Thou art right, Tifum; no Mtuta boy would have had the courage to refuse a cup of pombe from a chief, nor regard his future master with such a look. He is a fool, and stubborn as an ass, truly. But I will tame him, or I will kill him. How Kalulu, the nephew of Katalambula, will wonder at him! Why, he must be of the same age as Kalulu; but Kalulu is taller and stronger; but I doubt if he has this lad’s high courage, though he is proud as if he were already king of the Watuta. Kalulu would act differently from this youth if he were in his place; he would have taken the pombe and then killed me as soon as he had the opportunity. Ah! Kalulu is a true Mtuta. But here I am with the cup still in my hand. If this boy will not drink it, perhaps the others will. Here, you!” addressing himself to Abdullah, “drink, young one. No? And you refuse it, too? Well, you smallest one,” to Mussoud. “Not even you? Strange youths! Dost thou speak their language, Tifum?”

“A little, my chief.”

“Ask this tallest one why will he not take this cup of pombe from the hand of Ferodia, chief of the Watuta warriors.”

“Boy,” said Tifum, addressing Selim, “Ferodia, chief of the Watuta warriors, demands to know why you will not accept the drink at his hands.”

“Then tell thy master,” said Selim, without ever, turning his eyes towards the man, “that I may not accept anything in kindness from his hands, since he gives it to me while he believes me to be a slave. Tell him I am not his slave, and never shall do his bidding save under constant compulsion.”

When Tifum had communicated this to his chief, Ferodia burst into another loud laugh; then said:

“This boy is verily proud; but, Tifum, ask him to dance.”

“Dance!” said Selim, when the order was communicated to him—“Dance! when my heart is breaking, when my father lies dead and dishonoured before yonder gates! Sooner would I die than obey!”

“Then tell him to sing,” shouted Ferodia, laughing.

“Sing!” replied Selim. “How long, oh Allah! shall I suffer these tortures? Sing! As well might you ask the dead to sing!”

“What, will he do nothing, then? I will wait until the marts of thy rough hand have been cured, when I will make marks of my own on that hide of his,” said Ferodia, with a wrathful glance in his eye. “But where is that whip of thine, Tifum?”

“Here, my chief, at the door of the house,” said he, rising to fetch it.

“Give it me.” And giving Selim a severe stroke with it across his shoulders, he ordered him to stand back, and Tifum to cut the bonds of the boys Abdullah and Mussoud.

Then, commanding the youths to be brought before him, he told Tifum to tell Abdullah to dance and Mussoud to sing.

For awhile Abdullah hung down his head in confusion, not seeming to understand or to realise that he, the son of Mohammed, was actually required to dance by the slayer of his father; while Mussoud looked from Abdullah to the chief Ferodia’s face in quite a foolish way.

“Ask him, Tifum,” said Abdullah, in a trembling voice, “if Ferodia understands what he requires of me.”

“Why need I ask him? Do I not tell you that he commands you to dance, and the other slave to sing?”

“Slave!” shouted Abdullah, recovering quickly firmness of tone in his voice. “Slave! Lying dog! Do you call my brother a slave? Am I a slave?”

“What does he say?” thundered Ferodia.

“He says he is not a slave, and calls me a liar. They are all asses and sons of asses,” replied Tifum. “Verily, though they own hundreds of black slaves at Zanzibar, they don’t seem to know that the chance of war has made them slaves.”

“Tell him, Tifum, that I say he is a slave, he and his brother; that they shall be my slaves; that they shall do whatever I bid them, and if not, that I will punish them until they do. Ferodia speaks.”

“Do you hear and understand, asses and sons of asses?” asked Tifum of Abdullah and Mussoud. “Do ye hear, children of the Arabs? Ferodia the chief tells you that you shall be his slaves to do his bidding, and if you do not, he will punish you. Listen to the chief’s words, and obey him.”

“We are Arabs,” said Abdullah, proudly tossing, his head back, while his chest seemed to dilate with the great thought. “We are Arabs, and children of the Arabs of Muscat. A chief of the free Bedaween was my father Mohammed, and I am his son Abdullah. The desert wind is not freer than our never-conquered race, and every child of that race is free. We, therefore, cannot be slaves. Ferodia has lied.”

“Tell him, Tifum, that I will beat him until he is bleeding on this floor—until he confesses himself my slave.”

“Ferodia says he will beat you, Abdullah, if that be your name, until you bleed on this floor.”

“Tell him from me he may beat me until I die, but he cannot make me a slave. Has he not slain my father, and has he not dishonoured me by causing me to stand naked before him? Can he punish me more? He is a strong man—you call him a chief; he has in his hand a whip; he says he will use it. I am but a child, but he cannot make me a slave. See, I go to him nearer, and turn my back to him. I will not cry, though he tear my flesh;” and the indomitable young Arab walked up nearer to the chief, looked at him in the eye for a second, then slowly turned his bare back to him, and with bended head and folded arms waited for the blow.

Ferodia, though a chief and a Mtuta warrior, was a true savage; he had never heard of that rare quality which belongs to races civilised and semi-civilised, and is called magnanimity, or a generous forbearance to a conquered foe. He beheld the defenceless boy who was fully in his power standing within reach of the lash he held in his hand,—that delicate youth with the fair and faultless skin, on which an angry blow had never descended, which a whip had never dishonoured,—and the savage could not restrain his instincts of cruelty or the delight to torture and rend which is the instinct of wild men as well as of wild animals. So, when Tifum explained to him what Abdullah had said, and what he meant by thus turning his back to him, Ferodia, as though it were an everyday matter in which no principle was involved, lifted his whip, and as he saw the tender flesh shrink and redden, and then bleed and gape, it but kindled the desire to hurt; but a powerful antidote and corrective,—even subjugator, you may say,—was the resolute passiveness and determined silence of his victim; and without being aware himself of what lessened the power of his blows, and weakened his anger, and finally conquered the desire to torture, his arm was stayed, and still the boy stood up, now confronting him, with the same steady gaze and heroic mien, to ask the astonished savage with a curling lip:

“Well, have you made me a slave now? Am I more a slave than before?”

“Stand aside, fool, else I will do thee a greater harm; and thou, Tifum, away with them, treat them as slaves; and when we are on the road, give them loads to carry. Since they think it such a terrible thing to be naked, let their nakedness be seen of men and women, and if they suffer through it, so much the better. Slaves were made to suffer. Are my words nothing? Shall these baby-faces beard me before my own people?” So saying, Ferodia threw his whip from him, and drowned his further reflections in a mighty gourd-bowl full of strong pombe; and as he sighed his content, all traces of anger vanished; and as he observed his friend Olimali had long ago measured his length upon the clay floor of the hut, he laughed heartily; but the fumes of the pombe he had already drunk were rapidly conquering the conqueror—even Ferodia, chief of the Watuta.

The first news Ferodia and Olimali received, when they had recovered in the morning from their drunken stupor, was not calculated to content them. This was the flight of Sultan bin Ali and his men by night from the camp, with but two or three bales of cloth, so that a party flying for their lives, and so lightly laden, were not easily to be overtaken, and could not be done before they would reach a country friendly to the Arabs. Still, when the two chiefs, after venting a few angry expletives, came to reflect, to converse, and turn over coolly, calmly, and deliberately the news, it was found not to be so bad after all—rather the reverse; until, finally, it was settled that the news was the best that could be heard of what might concern them, and they felt accordingly very gratified.

Four hundred bales of cloth and beads, one hundred kegs of powder, a vast number of bullets, rugs, carpets, counterpanes, feather pillows, richly embroidered caps, knives, looking-glasses, despatch-boxes, a few guns, kettles, cups and saucers, sugar, coffee, tea, spices, curry, and numberless little things which go to make the miscellaneous sum-total of the plunder of a large and wealthy caravan—in short, the sum of fifty thousand silver dollars would not have covered the cost price of the articles found in the Arabs’ deserted camp.

In the possession of these articles, what a difference had been made within twenty-four hours in that small area contained within the compass of a square half mile, a spot in Africa that might be covered by a pin’s point on an ordinary school-map of the world! How much noise, confusion, blowing of gunpowder, did the fact of possession comprehend! How many lives had been destroyed! What noble men had died! How much misery had been created! And on such a very small spot in this world, that no one would ever have heard of it, had I not been elected the historian of the battle of Kwikuru! Yet who will dare deny my right and duty to relate truly and clearly how it all happened—what dashing bravery Simba showed; how Khamis bin Abdullah and his lion-hearted son and the noble Amer bin Osman died; how our proud, high-spirited heroes, the Arab youths, Selim, Abdullah, and Mussoud, endured their sad misfortunes—to illustrate the high and noble principles involved in all these things, and to point with bold finger the moral which adorns this chronicle? Happy are ye, my young readers, if your eyes fall upon these few pages; for ye shall be counted as those to whom a new world of human life has been revealed, where exist passions and joys so akin to our own that none may be so blind as not to perceive our relationship to them!

Putting by moralising for the present, let us glance at the incidents which transpired on the news of the desertion of the Arab camp becoming generally known.

Ferodia and Olimali became exceedingly elated when the rich store of plunder was described to them. They rubbed their hands, like two children rejoicing gleefully over a nice Christmas present; they laughed, and giggled, and said so many tender silly things to one another, that the historian of these events finds his patience too exhausted to relate them.

Trusty men were at once despatched to the camp to superintend the removal of the riches to Kwikuru, and when they were all conveyed into the inner inclosure and exhibited to the view of the chiefs, they could barely realise that they were the actual possessors of all this immense wealth until they had peered into every box, and felt over and over again the texture of the gaudy cloths before them. The palisade was lined by men, women, and children, who endeavoured to thrust their over-large heads for such intentions through the narrow spaces between the poles. Their cries of admiration were irrepressible. They hummed, and hawed, and heyed, and coughed their immeasurable satisfaction.

The division of the spoils was made with religious justice. Ferodia retained half of everything, and to Olimali, his friend and ally, was given the other half. But their respective halves were so large, that there was no room for quarrel, and the most ambitious African could never have dreamed of such abundant store as had now fallen into the hands of these fortunate chiefs. When Ferodia, assisted by ten favourite head men, had reckoned up, after much mental calculation, how much cloth he had, he could only express it by saying that there were belonging to him one hundred hundreds of dotis and sixty hundreds of dotis of cloth, including all kinds; or, as we should say, with our expressive terms, there were 16,000 doti, or 64,000 yards.

Ferodia caused his warriors to be drawn up in line. Though a few had been killed, still there were enough men in the line to warrant the statement that there were 900 men where originally there had been 1000 of them. To these warriors the head men delivered six doti each of mixed cloth, which left in Ferodia’s possession 10,600 dotis. The odd 600 were for himself and his head men and doctors of magic—himself, as may be supposed, retaining the lion’s share. The remaining 10,000 dotis, and the beads and other things, were for the king Katalambula and his prospective heir, Prince Kalulu.

The 10,000 dotis of cloth were made into 200 light portable bales containing fifty dotis each, which weighed about forty pounds. The beads were distributed for the like purpose, as well as the fifty barrels of powder, etc. etc.

The distribution having taken place, and each warrior made perfectly satisfied with his share, there remained one more duty to perform—a religious duty—which might not be neglected long, and this was the religious ceremony of making each warrior magically strong in arm and limb, by giving him to drink of the consecrated drink.

This ceremony took place the evening of the day after the battle. First, fires were lighted around a large circle outside the boma, or outer palisade of Kwikuru, with only one entrance left for the passage of the sacrificial bodies of the dead Arabs. The bodies, being all denuded of their clothing, were laid diametrically across the circle. Then earthen, tin, and copper pots full of water, with some millet-flour in each, were placed over the fire, and then small bottle gourds (with numbers of small pebbles in them), two for each magic doctor, were prepared and placed near the heads of the bodies. Everything being thus ready, the magic doctors took their sharp knives in their hands and began their work. To the sound of a low crooning song, or rather chant, the words of which could not be distinguished, the knives were set to work on the bodies of their enemies, first in cutting the tips of each nose, then the lower lip, then the flesh under the chin, then the ears and the eyebrows, which, when ended, they conveyed to the pots over the fires. Continuing their work, the nipples of the breasts were then cut, the muscles of their arms and legs, and, lastly, the whole of the flesh covering the abdomen, which they took and placed in the pots over the fire. Then the hearts were extracted, and, finally, the fat of the entrails of each body. After this mutilation and disfigurement of the dead, the head of each body was cut off and placed on the end of pointed poles, to be borne around the camp during the ceremonial song.

Within half an hour the water had boiled sufficiently, and the magic doctors, taking the wonderful gourds filled with pebbles in their hands, began to shake them to the tune of a monotonous chant, in the chorus of which the warriors, bearing the heads aloft on poles, joined, marching slowly as they sang around the circle. The words ran thus, as well as they may be translated:

 

    Oh, the horrible, fearful battle,

            Where warriors slew and were slain,

    Where dead lay unnumbered, and wounds were made,

    Till the field ran red with blood that was shed

                In the horrible, fearful battle.

        Chorus. With the blood that was shed

                In the horrible, fearful battle.

 

    Ferodia the chief, Ferodia the strong,

            The lion and leopard in war,

    Tifum Byah, Maro, and Wafanyah,

    Great chiefs of the unconquer’d Watuta,

            In the horrible, fearful battle,

        Chorus. In the horrible, fearful battle.

 

    They heard the loud note, the war-horn’s note,

            Olimali, their friend, was distress’d;

    They rose from the bush, they rose from the ground,

    They rush’d to Kwikuru, and hemm’d them round,

            For a horrible, fearful battle.

        Chorus. For a horrible, fearful battle.

 

    The Arabs and blacks who came from afar.

            Who came from near the sea,

    To give the Warori and Watuta, King Olimali and Ferodia,

            A horrible, fearful battle.

        Chorus. A horrible, fearful battle.

 

    Warori were brave, the Watuta were strong,

            ’Gainst those who came from afar.

    The Arabs lie dead by hundreds around;

    They will hear never more the war-horn’s sound,

            For a horrible, fearful battle.

        Chorus. For a horrible, fearful battle.

 

    Then, drink, warriors! drink the true magic drink!

            The strength of your enemies slain!

    Drink of the blood, of the fat, and the heart,

    Drink to commemorate before we part,

            The horrible, fearful battle.

        Chorus. Before we part

            The horrible, fearful battle.

 

    Then, drink, warriors! drink the true magic drink!

            The strength of your enemies slain!

    Be strengthened in heart, in limb, and in arm,

    Be strong, be swift, be wise, and safe from harm

            In each horrible, fearful battle.

        Chorus. And safe from harm

            In each horrible, fearful battle.

 

When this chant was over, which has been rendered into English as faithfully as possible, the poles on which the ghastly trophies had been placed were planted in the ground before each gate of the village. But the young Arabs were spared this fearful scene, as they had been sent ahead with the loads, escorted by a strong guard. Then, the ceremony over, the chief Ferodia embraced in a loving manner his friend Olimali, and departed to the sound of booming horns and drums, and a general grateful look from the young women of Kwikuru—he and his warriors.

At sunset they camped in a forest, through which the road led towards the south-west.

Good Reading: "The Dwarf's Cap" by Ludwig Bechstein (translated into English)

There was once a miller who had three sons and a daughter. He loved his daughter dearly, but could not stand his sons. He was always unhappy with them and made their lives miserable by repeating that they could never do anything right. The greatly distressed brothers wanted to get away from their father's house, but all they could do was to sit together and sigh without knowing what to do.

One day, when the three brothers were sitting together like that, one of them sighed, "Oh, if only we had a dwarf's cap each! Then we could be well off!"

"A dwarf's cap? What's that?" asked one of his brothers.

"The dwarves who live in the green mountains have little caps. People sometimes call them mist caps. Those who wear the caps, become invisible. And that is a fing thing, dear brothers, for then you can avoid people who never care for you or talk nicely to you. You can go wherever you want, take what you want, and no one sees you as long as you wear the dwarf's cap."

"But how do we get such a rare little cap?" asked the third and youngest of the brothers.

The eldest brother answered, "The dwarves are quaint little people. They like to play, and sometimes they throw their little caps into the air for fun. In a flash you can see them - and in a flash they catch their little caps and put them back on their heads and are invisible again. What you have to do is to find a dwarf and catch his cap when he throws it into the air. Then the dwarf cannot make himself invisible and you can catch him. If you do, you will be the master of the dwarves, and can keep the little cap to make yourself invisible.

"There is still more: You may ask the dwarves to pay you to get the cap back. With what you get you may live well for the rest of your life, for the dwarves find metals in the earth, make secret remedies from plants and things in nature. They are so clever than that can make a fool a wise person; a lazy student a professor; and a lawyer's clerk a minister."

"That was something!" cried one of the brothers. "Go and get a little cap for us so we can get away from here!"

"I will," said the eldest brother. Soon he was on his way to the green mountains. It was a long way off. Before evening the boy came to the dwarf mountains. There he lay down in the green grass in a place where there were swirl marks in the grass, for he thought they were traces of dwarves dancing in the moonlight. After a while he saw quite a few dwarfs coming very near him. They were tumbling over each other and throwing little cap into the air and having fun. Soon a small cap fell beside him. He grasped for it but was not quick enough. The owner of the cap was quicker and got his cap back, shouting, "A thief! A thief!"

The call made the whole flock of dwarves throw themselves over the boy. He was unable to shake them off. The dwarves captured him and took him deep down into their underground dwellings.

When the eldest brother did not come back, his two younger brothers and sister all grieved, but the old miller gnarled, "What do I care!"

As the days passed and the boy did not come back, the father was all the more grumpy and hard with the two remaining brothers. The second brother said to the youngest, "If I go the the dwarf mountains I may get a dwarf's cap. Either our brother has got one and gone away to make his fortune, forgetting about us - or he has failed. In any case I will try to get a dwarf's cap! If I succeed I will certainly be back. In case I do not succeed, this may be our last farewell."

The brothers parted, and the second brother wandered to the green mountains. Everything that had happened to his brother there, happened to him. The dwarf he tried to snatch a cap from, was quicker than him and shouted "Thief! Thief!" At once a bunch of dwarves pounced on the boy and tied him so he could not move a limb. Then they took him deep into an underground dwelling-place.

At home in the mill the youngest brother waited for his brother to come back, but in vain. By and by he grew very sad, for he knew now that his middle brother had failed. His sister grieved too, but their father said, "Those who don't like it at home can go elsewhere - the world is wide. Let him run. I am glad he is out of sight, out of mind!"

The youngest brother had endured very much gruff treatment from his father, but before his two older brothers were gone, they had at least been three to share it. He said to his sister, "Dear sister, I do not think I can stand our father's language and degrading remarks any longer, now that I am only one to bear his abuses. They are a too heavy load to bear alone. Earlier we were at least three to share it. Father does not love me, and I cannot help it. So I will go away, and only if I succeed I will be back. Goodbye and good luck!"

The sister did not want her youngest brother to leave, for she loved him best of all, but all the same he left.

As he walked, he thought carefully over how to set about getting one of the dwarfs' caps. When he came to the green mountains, he too came across the rings in the grass and thought, "These show where the dwarfs play and dance at night." He lay down at dusk and waited till the dwarfs came, played, and threw their caps into the air.

One of the dwarves came quite close to him and threw his little cap into the air, but the clever boy did not reach for it. He thought, "I have plenty of time. I must make the little man come nearer to me."

The dwarf picked up again his little cap that had fallen down very close to the boy. It did not take long before a second small cap fell next to the boy, but still he did not reach for it. Finally a third cap came falling down - it even landed on his hand. In the wink of an eye he grasped it and quickly jumped up.

"Thief!" screamed the dwarf who owned the cap. A swarm of dwarves came to get it back, but before they got to the boy he had made himself invisible, and then, since he had the little cap, he was their master, and the dwarves could neither get him or harm him. They all started to wail and whine pitifully for the cap, He could get anyting he wanted for it, they promised.

"Where are my two brothers?" asked the boy.

"They are down in the green mountain!" answered the dwarf that owned the cap he had taken.

"And what are they doing down there?"

"They serve us!"

"Is that so! They serve you, and now you serve me. Take me down to my brothers; their service is over, and yours is about to begin!"

He had a cap, and had become their master! The grieving dwarves took him to an opening into the green mountain. Down below were glorious and large open spaces, large halls and small rooms and shelves, all formed to meet the needs of the dwarf people. The boy's brothers were brought to him. They exclaimed as soon as they saw him, "Have they got you too, dear brother? So we three are together again, but to toil deep in the mountains and never see the light of day again, the green forest and the golden fields!" the two brothers sobbed.

"Oh, just wait a little, dear brothers," said the youngest, "the tides are about to turn." Then he had the dwarves bring them good clothes, good food and milk, after they had been groomed. Afterwards the dwarves had to entertain them with song and play and ballet and pantomime, and then the brothers went to sleep in soft beds. The youngest brother held the cap firmly all the time, even in sleep.

When they woke up, the underground palace was lighted by many candles. The brothers got a glass carriage drawn by four horses, and drove to see what more was to be seen in the green mountains. Soon they came to gemstone caves silver and gold decor, splendor and glory.

Then it was time to strike a bargain with the dwarves. What to ask for instead of the cap? First, delicious herbs to heal their father's mind, if possible. Second, a good dowry for their dear sister. Third, enough precious stones and art devices to lighten their lives, and then a car full of money and another, comfortable car for the brothers, along with lessons in driving them.

The dwarves turned and writhed so pitifully that it could have made a stone pity them if a stone had a human heart, but it did not help them.

"If you do not want to give us these things," said the brother with the cap, "I may stay here and take all your caps. Then we will see what will happen. I may also gather toads and put them in your beds."

"Have mercy! Not toads!" The dwarves feared toads terribly.

"Now then," said the brother with the cap, "I did not ask for all you have, only a tiny, tiny bit. I could ask for more too and keep the cap, being your master continually, for by wearing the cap I would not die, you know. So will you give me the things I ask for from your bounty?"

"Yes, yes!" sighed and groaned the dwarves and went to work to make and get everything he had asked for.

In the meantime things were going poorly in the mill of the surly old miller. After the youngest brother had left, he grumbled, "He's off too! That is what you get when you raise children! The only ones left now are you and me, dear daughter."

She began to cry.

"Crying again!" grumbled the old man. "Do you want me to believe you are crying over your brothers? I rather think it is over the poor man you love and want to marry. But he has nothing, like an empty sack. He has nothing much, you have nothing much, and I have nothing much. We all three have nothing much. For can you hear the mill wheel turning? I can not hear anything. It stands still. The mill who is still, is a bad mill. I cannot grind, you cannot marry, and you cannot have a wedding, for that would have been a beggar's wedding."

The daughter had to listen to such speeches every day, and suffered in silence until one fine morning when three carriages came up to the mill and three finely dressed fellows stepped out. The miller and his daughter came out and stared at them.

"Good morning, good morning! Here we are again!" said the three brothers. The oldest handed a big cup of precious liquid to their old father, and he drank it. Then he cried and fell - his financial worries were over!

The sad sister got a good draught too. The young man who loved her came by at the same time, and they gave him enough to get a farm and marry too.

All of a sudden the mill wheels started turning after they had stood still for weeks. Round and round they turned, round and round.