# Folk-Lore/Volume 31/Re Some Experiments on the Reproduction of Folk-Stories

Some Experiments on the Reproduction of Folk-Stories.
(Folk-lore, vol. xxxi. p. 30.)
Apropos of Mr. F. C. Bartlett’s “Experiments on the Reproduction of Folk-stories,” may I tell, in an abbreviated form, a story also told to me by my friend Samson. I will presently explain its relevancy to Mr. Bartlett’s experiments. (The story as I now tell it has acquired a quasi-moral shape, and I head it with the moral title “Waste not, want not.”)
Once upon a time, a blind man and a hunchback were great friends, and used to to out begging together. When they had exhausted the charity of their native village, they set out together into a far country. As they were plodding along, the blind man, setting foot on something that felt like a snake, cried alound in fright. But the hunchback said, “That is only a frayed old elephant-tether. Come along, you fool!” The blind man, however, said “Waste not, want not. Put the rope in my wallet.” So said, so done.
Presently, when the friends were fording a river, the blind man trod on something hard and round in the water, and begged the hunchback to pick it up. The hunchback dived into the current and produced a small tortoise, which he was for throwing away. “Not so,” said the blind man; “waste not, want not. Put that too in my wallet.” So said, so done.
A little further on, the travellers came to where some cowherd lads were amusing themselves in the shade of a peepul tree by dancing to the sound of a drum. “Ah,” said the hunchback, “If only we had a drum wherewith to amuse ourselves ​with by the fire in the evening!” “Nothing easier,” replied the blind man. “Crawl on all fours through the jungle, and when you are near the boys, roar like a tiger. They will be frightened and run away, leaving the drum behind.” So said, so done.
But now night began to fall, and it became necessary to seek a lodging. “Is there no village in sight?” asked the blind man. “There is,” said the other. “But I don’t like its looks. It seems to me an abode of robbers or creatures still more ominous.” “What matter?” reply the stout-hearted blind man. “We will enter one of the granaries on the outskirts of the village, bar the doors, and sleep quietly.” So said, so done.
But, in truth, the village was the home of a gang of robbers, and the granary was where they kept their ill-gotten gain, under the charge of a terrible man-eating demon. This creature presently came prowling round the hut, and smelling the travellers, chanted through its nose the local equivalent of “Fee faw fum.” “Come out,” it cried, “and be eaten!” But the intrepid blind man, not in the least disturbed, said, “Much too cold, my friend, at this time of night! But we can have a trial of strength in another way. Judging by your voice, you must be a great hairy sort of beast. Pluck some of the fluff off your chest and put it through the chink in the door.” The demon growled but obeyed. “Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the blind man. “Call that hair! Look at mine!” So saying he thrust out the frayed elephant-rope.
“Now,” said the blind man, “let us try another test. Hairy you are and verminous too, I guess. Let us see what sort of fleas you carry about you. Shove one through the chink.” The demon muttered and cursed, but obeyed. “Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the blind man. “Call that a flea! Look at mine!” And, not without squeezing, he pushed his tortoise out through the chink.
“Well,” said the blind man, “I don’t mind putting you to one more trial. A big fellow like you has no doubt a big resonant chest on him. Beat your chest and let us see how much noise you can make.” The poor demon, now thoroughly ​frightened, belaboured his chest with might and main. “Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the blind man. “Can you make no more noise than that! Listen to me!” Whereupon he banged his drum, rub-a-dub-dub, rub-a-dub-dub. And the demon with a yell of dismay disappeared into the night.
The two friends slept the sleep of innocence, and when they woke in the morning, found themselves surrounded by jewels, of gold and silver, wherewith they loaded themselves, and went their way. Presently they sat down under a tree to divide their spoil. The hunchback made the partition, and naturally gave himself the largest share. But the blind man, feeling the two heaps, recognised that he had been cheated. So he mixed the two heaps together and bade the hunchback make a fresh division. But the hunchback lost his temper and, crying, “I don’t believe you are really blind,” rubbed a handful of sand into his friend’s eyes. Whereupon the blind man immediately recovered his sight. “What an ugly creature you are!” he said, “with that disgusting hump on your back!” So saying, he fell on his friend, and furiously hammered his. hump, so that he became quite straight and tall.
Whereupon the two friends returned home, and lived happily ever afterwards.
I find that in telling this tale to young people I not only, as above, interpolate the moral “waste not, want not,” which is not in the original Kachārī, but I am tempted to leave out the dividing of the spoil and the miraculous healing of the two friends. That depends, however, on the spirit in which the earlier part of the yarn is taken by my audience. Some children like the full tale, some dislike the ending.
I may mention that many years ago a Hindu friend assured me that some of the Kachārī tales I handed on to him are attributed to the famous Rāja Birbal, of humorous renown.
J. D. Anderson.
Cambridge.