As soon as the sun appears, she ascends high in the air and
cries, “Ah, how beautiful that is! beautiful that is! beautiful,
beautiful! ah, how beautiful that is!”



172 The Sole

The fishes had for a long time been discontented because no order
prevailed in their kingdom. None of them turned aside for the others,
but all swam to the right or the left as they fancied, or darted
between those who wanted to stay together, or got into their way; and a
strong one gave a weak one a blow with its tail, which drove it away,
or else swallowed it up without more ado. “How delightful it would be,”
said they, “if we had a king who enforced law and justice among us!”
and they met together to choose for their ruler, the one who could
cleave through the water most quickly, and give help to the weak ones. They placed themselves in rank and file by the shore, and the pike gave
the signal with his tail, on which they all started. Like an arrow, the
pike darted away, and with him the herring, the gudgeon, the perch, the
carp, and all the rest of them. Even the sole swam with them, and hoped
to reach the winning-place. All at once, the cry was heard, “The
herring is first!” “Who is first?” screamed angrily the flat envious
sole, who had been left far behind, “who is first?” “The herring! The
herring,” was the answer. “The naked herring?” cried the jealous
creature, “the naked herring?” Since that time the sole’s mouth has
been at one side for a punishment. 173 The Bittern and the Hoopoe

“Where do you like best to feed your flocks?” said a man to an old
cow-herd. “Here, sir, where the grass is neither too rich nor too poor,
or else it is no use.” “Why not?” asked the man. “Do you hear that
melancholy cry from the meadow there?” answered the shepherd, “that is
the bittern; he was once a shepherd, and so was the hoopoe also,—I will
tell you the story. The bittern pastured his flocks on rich green
meadows where flowers grew in abundance, so his cows became wild and
unmanageable. The hoopoe drove his cattle on to high barren hills,
where the wind plays with the sand, and his cows became thin, and got
no strength. When it was evening, and the shepherds wanted to drive
their cows homewards, the bittern could not get his together again;
they were too high-spirited, and ran away from him. He called, “Come,
cows, come,” but it was of no use; they took no notice of his calling. The hoopoe, however, could not even get his cows up on their legs, so
faint and weak had they become. “Up, up, up,” screamed he, but it was
in vain, they remained lying on the sand. That is the way when one has
no moderation. And to this day, though they have no flocks now to
watch, the bittern cries, “Come, cows, come,” and the hoopoe, “Up, up,
up.”



174 The Owl

Two or three hundred years ago, when people were far from being so
crafty and cunning as they are now-a-day, an extraordinary event took
place in a little town. By some mischance one of the great owls, called
horned owls, had come from the neighboring woods into the barn of one
of the townsfolk in the night-time, and when day broke did not dare to
venture forth again from her retreat, for fear of the other birds,
which raised a terrible outcry whenever she appeared. In the morning
when the man-servant went into the barn to fetch some straw, he was so
mightily alarmed at the sight of the owl sitting there in a corner,
that he ran away and announced to his master that a monster, the like
of which he had never set eyes on in his life, and which could devour a
man without the slightest difficulty, was sitting in the barn, rolling
its eyes about in its head. “I know you already,” said the master, “you
have courage enough to chase a blackbird about the fields, but when you
see a dead hen lying, you have to get a stick before you go near it. I
must go and see for myself what kind of a monster it is,” added the
master, and went quite boldly into the granary and looked round him. When, however, he saw the strange grim creature with his own eyes, he
was no less terrified than the servant had been. With two bounds he
sprang out, ran to his neighbours, and begged them imploringly to lend
him assistance against an unknown and dangerous beast, or else the
whole town might be in danger if it were to break loose out of the
barn, where it was shut up. A great noise and clamour arose in all the
streets, the townsmen came armed with spears, hay-forks, scythes, and
axes, as if they were going out against an enemy; finally, the senators
appeared with the burgomaster at their head. When they had drawn up in
the market-place, they marched to the barn, and surrounded it on all
sides. Thereupon one of the most courageous of them stepped forth and
entered with his spear lowered, but came running out immediately
afterwards with a shriek and as pale as death, and could not utter a
single word. Yet two others ventured in, but they fared no better. At
last one stepped forth; a great strong man who was famous for his
warlike deeds, and said, “You will not drive away the monster by merely
looking at him; we must be in earnest here, but I see that you have all
tuned into women, and not one of you dares to encounter the animal.” He
ordered them to give him some armour, had a sword and spear brought,
and armed himself. All praised his courage, though many feared for his
life. The two barn-doors were opened, and they saw the owl, which in
the meantime had perched herself on the middle of a great cross-beam. He had a ladder brought, and when he raised it, and made ready to climb
up, they all cried out to him that he was to bear himself bravely, and
commended him to St. George, who slew the dragon. When he had just got
to the top, and the owl perceived that he had designs on her, and was
also bewildered by the crowd and the shouting, and knew not how to
escape, she rolled her eyes, ruffled her feathers, flapped her wings,
snapped her beak, and cried, “Tuwhit, tuwhoo,” in a harsh voice. “Strike home! strike home!” screamed the crowd outside to the valiant
hero. “Any one who was standing where I am standing,” answered he,
“would not cry, strike home!” He certainly did plant his foot one rung
higher on the ladder, but then he began to tremble, and half-fainting,
went back again. And now there was no one left who dared to put himself in such danger. “The monster,” said they, “has poisoned and mortally wounded the very
strongest man among us, by snapping at him and just breathing on him! Are we, too, to risk our lives?” They took counsel as to what they
ought to do to prevent the whole town being destroyed. For a long time
everything seemed to be of no use, but at length the burgomaster found
an expedient. “My opinion,” said he, “is that we ought, out of the
common purse, to pay for this barn, and whatsoever corn, straw, or hay
it contains, and thus indemnify the owner, and then burn down the whole
building, and the terrible beast with it. Thus no one will have to
endanger his life.