He became so wild with rage that he quite forgot the ale barrel in the cellar. He ran after the pig, slipped, and fell facedown into the cream.
When he scrambled to his feet, he caught the pig running through the door and gave it such a kick in the head that the pig dropped dead.
All at once he remembered the ale tap in his hand. But when he ran down to the cellar, every drop of ale had run out of the barrel.
There was still no butter for their dinner, so he went into the dairy to look for more cream. Luckily there was enough cream left to fill the churn once more, and he again began to churn butter.
After he had thumped the churn for a while, he remembered that their milking cow was still shut up in the barn. The poor cow had had nothing to eat or drink all morning, and the sun was now high in the sky.
He had no time to take the cow down to the pasture, for the baby was crawling about in the spilt cream, and he still had to clean up the floor and the baby. He thought it would save time if he put the cow on the top of their house to graze. The flat roof of the house was thatched with sod, and a fine crop of grass was growing there.
Since the house lay close to a steep hill at the back, he thought that if he laid two planks across the thatched roof to the hill, he could easily get the cow up there to graze.
As he started out the door he realized he should not leave the churn in the kitchen with the baby crawling about. “The child is sure to upset it!” he thought.
So he lifted the churn onto his back and went out with it.
“I had best give the cow some water before I put her on the roof to graze,” he said to himself. He took up a bucket to draw water from the well, but as he leaned over the well to fill the bucket, all the cream ran out of the churn, over his shoulders, and down into the well.
In a temper, he hurled the empty churn across the yard and went to water the cow. Then he searched for two planks to make a bridge from the hill to the roof of the house. After a great deal of trouble, he persuaded the cow to cross the planks onto the sod roof.
Now it was near dinnertime, and the baby was crying. “I have no butter,” he thought. “I’d best boil porridge.”
So he hurried back to the kitchen, filled the pot with water, and hung it over the fire. Then he realized the cow was not tied; she could easily fall off the roof and break her legs.
Back he ran to the roof with a rope. Since there was no post to tie her to, he tied one end of the rope around the cow, and the other end he slipped down the hole in the roof that served as a chimney. When he came back to the kitchen he tied the loose end around his knee.
The water was now boiling in the pot, but the oatmeal still had to be ground for the porridge. He ground away and was just throwing the oatmeal into the pot when the cow fell off the roof.
As she fell, the rope on the man’s knee jerked, and he was pulled up into the air. The pot of water was knocked over, putting the fire out, and the man dangled upside down above the hearth. Outside, the poor cow swung halfway down the house wall, unable to get up or down.
In the meantime, the wife had mowed seven lengths and seven breadths of the hayfield. She expected her husband to call her home to dinner. When he did not appear, she at last trudged off to their home.
When she got there, she saw the cow dangling in such a queer place that she ran up and cut the rope with her scythe. As soon as the rope was cut, the man fell down the hearth.
His wife rushed into the house to find her husband in the hearth, covered with ashes, the floor slippery with clots of cream and ground oatmeal, and the baby wailing.
When they had cleaned up the house, taken the cow out to pasture, and hung up the pig for butchering, they sat down to eat stale bread without butter or porridge.
The wife said to him, “Tomorrow you’ll get the right way of it.”
“Tomorrow!” he sputtered. “You’ll not be going out with the mowers tomorrow!”
“And why not? You agreed to it,” said she. “Do you think the work of the house too hard?”
This the husband would not admit. “No indeed! If you can do it, I can do it!” he growled.
“Well, then!” said his wife.
They argued the rest of the day over who should mow and who should mind the house. There seemed no way to settle it until at last the husband agreed that he would work in the fields three days a week and work in the house three days; his wife would take his place in the fields for three days and take care of the house the other days.
With this compromise they lived quite peaceably, and neither the husband nor the wife complained very much at all.
“The Husband Who Stayed at Home” has been adapted from Popular Tales from the Norse (1859) by PETER CHRISTEN ASBJØRNSEN and JØRGEN MOE, translated by G. W. DASENT. Family members trading roles, with humorous and chaotic results, is a theme often explored in folktales from around the world.
Avery long time ago, a young woman named Scheherazade lived in the lovely city of Samarkand. It was a city of fragrant gardens, elegant marble fountains, and heavily laden fruit trees. But a dark shadow of fear lay across the city, for a cruel Sultan ruled there.
Scheherazade’s father was one of the Sultan’s chief advisers. Thus the shadow of fear did not touch her directly, but it lay heavily upon every other family in the city who had a daughter, and Scheherazade shared their grief and terror.
In truth, it seemed as though the Sultan had gone mad. Suspecting that the Sultana had been unfaithful, he had had her put to death. Since then, he had demanded that young maidens of the city be brought to him, one after another, as brides. But each “bride” lasted scarcely more than a day or two before she either bored or enraged the Sultan—and she was thrown into a dark dungeon. Many of the daughters in the city had already disappeared, and those who remained lived in terror.
Scheherazade was deeply troubled and turned over in her mind what could be done to stop the Sultan’s reign of terror. She was well-educated in all areas of history and literature, for her father had provided her with the best tutors in the country. But more to the point, she was clever and courageous as well.
One day she said to her father, “I have a favor to ask of you.”
“I can refuse you nothing,” said he affectionately.
“I am determined to stop this barbarous behavior of the Sultan. As long as this terrible fate hangs over us, no woman in the city is safe.”
“That is true,” said her father heavily. “But how can you stop him? Neither the pleas of his advisers nor the heavy grief of the people have any effect.”
“Today the Sultan has demanded that a new maiden must be sent to his chambers in the palace. I want you to tell him that I am willing to go,” she answered calmly.
“Have you lost your senses?” cried her father in horror. “He is a half-mad old man!”
“Someone must free the women of the city from this evil,” she replied. “I have a plan as to how this may be done.”
He shook his head in anguish. “If you do not care about your fate, think of the grief it would cause me. You are the pride of my heart. You have had the finest masters to teach you. With all your cleverness and learning, how can you wish to sacrifice yourself?”
“The Sultan’s vicious behavior must be stopped,” she repeated. “No woman in the city, or the country, will be safe until it ends. How can I sit here with my books and do nothing?”
Her father continued to plead with her, but she would not change her mind. Sadly he went to the Sultan and said he would bring his daughter Scheherazade to him the next evening.
This news astonished the Sultan. “Is this really your wish?”
“It is not my wish, Your Highness, but my daughter’s.”
This surprised the Sultan even more.
Early on the appointed day, Scheherazade spoke to her younger sister. “I have a favor to ask of you. Will you come with me when I go to the Sultan’s palace?”
“How can you do such a thing?” her sister cried.
“The Sultan is a cruel old man. You’ll be thrown into a foul dungeon like the others!”
“Not if you will help me with my plan,” said Scheherazade. “If I succeed, I will be safe and the women of the city will be freed from the Sultan’s cruelty.”
“What do you wish me to do? How can I be of any help?”
“In the evening, when we are brought to the Sultan’s chamber, I will ask that you be allowed to attend me.” And Scheherazade told her sister what she must say.
The younger sister said, “I will do what you ask.”
That evening the sister accompanied Scheherazade to the Sultan’s chamber. As she helped her older sister remove her face veil and garments, she said, “Dear sister, I beg one last favor from you. Will you tell me one of your delightful stories before we part?”
Scheherazade turned to the Sultan. “Will Your Highness permit me to grant this favor?”
He nodded and belched, for he had, as usual, eaten too heavily. “Yes, yes. Go ahead.”
So Scheherazade began a story. She told it so skillfully that the Sultan became absorbed in the story in spite of himself. Then, as the night grew late, she broke off at the most exciting part of the tale. Yawning, she said, “I am too sleepy to remember what happens next. But I will think of it tomorrow and finish the tale tomorrow night if Your Highness wishes.”
By this time the Sultan was very eager to hear the story’s ending, so he agreed to this request.
The next evening, Scheherazade finished the tale and began another. Again she broke off before the end, pleading that she was too sleepy to remember the rest of the story.
“Very well, you may take your rest now,” said the Sultan, quite disappointed. “Tomorrow you must try to remember the rest of the story. I want to know how it ends.”
Scheherazade continued each evening in the same way. The nights of her storytelling stretched on and on and on to one thousand and one, while the townspeople rejoiced in the success of Scheherazade’s efforts to save the young women of the city.
What happened to Scheherazade after the one thousand and one tales were told?
One storyteller would have us believe that at this point Scheherazade and the wicked Sultan fell in love and lived happily ever after. Another narrator tells us that Scheherazade, having born three babies during this period, cast herself at the Sultan’s feet, begging for her life for the sake of her soon-to-be orphaned children. The Sultan, entranced by the discovery of three male heirs—which he apparently had not known about—at once became a reformed man. Repenting his earlier cruel treatment of the other maidens, he spared our heroine’s life. Needless to say, in this version they also lived happily ever after.
Those readers who can accept that the clever, courageous Scheherazade ended her days in this fashion may choose either of the above endings to the tale. But, having been moved by Scheherazade’s courage, having empathized with her revulsion and horror at the Sultan’s cruelty, and having enjoyed her clever strategy to free the women of the city and to survive herself, many readers may well be disappointed with these meek and improbable endings.
Rather than force Scheherazade to change her admirable character, I would suggest another ending. Freed at this point by the Sultan’s death (for I loyally believe Scheherazade could have produced another thousand tales if necessary), acclaimed by the grateful citizens of Samarkand, she did what any clever storyteller would do: using her earlier education provided by the best tutors, she of course wrote down for posterity a more polished version of her one thousand and one tales.
This telling of Scheherazade includes the editor’s interpretations of other possible endings of the tale. It is based in part on ANDREW LANG’s tale in The Arabian Nights Entertainments (1898). However there are a great many translations and variations of the stories, which have been represented widely in film and television as well as in literature.
SUGGESTED READING
Favilli, Elena, and Francesca Cavallo. 2016. Good Night Stories for Rebel Girls. San Francisco: Timbuktu Labs.
Gaiman, Neil. 2015. The Sleeper and the Spindle. New York: HarperCollins.
Goble, Paul. 1993. The Girl Who Loved Wild Horses. New York: Aladdin.
Hamilton, Virginia. 1995. Her Stories: African American Folktales, Fairy Tales, and True Tales. New York: Blue Sky Press.
Lansky, Bruce. 2002. The Best of Girls to the Rescue: Girls Save the Day. Minnetonka, MN: Meadowbrook Press.
Martin, Rafe, and David Shannon. 1998. The Rough-Face Girl. New York: PaperStar Books.
McGoon, Greg. 2015. The Royal Heart. Lakewood, CA: Pelekinesis Publishing Group.
Ragan, Kathleen. 2000. Fearless Girls, Wise Women, and Beloved Sisters: Heroines in Folktales from around the World. New York: W. W. Norton & Company.
Sand, George. 2014. What Flowers Say: And Other Stories. Translated by Holly Erskine Hirko. New York: The Feminist Press.
Schatz, Kate. 2016. Rad Women Worldwide. Berkeley, CA: Ten Speed Press.
Yolen, Jane. 1986. Favorite Folktales from around the World. New York: Pantheon Books.
———. 2000. Not One Damsel in Distress: World Folktales for Strong Girls. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Several thousand individual folktales were read in a search for neglected tales of resourceful and courageous heroines to retell. In addition to public libraries and university libraries, the Reference Collection of Children’s Books at the Donnell Library in New York City and the Osborne and Lillian H. Smith Collections in Toronto were very useful in researching the folktales. I take this opportunity to express my thanks to the reference librarians in both Toronto and the New York area for their generous help in locating needed volumes.
ETHEL JOHNSTON PHELPS (1914–1984) held a master’s degree in medieval literature; she was coeditor of a Ricardian journal and published articles on fifteenth-century subjects. Originally from Long Island, her activities included acting, writing, and directing in radio drama and community theater. Three of her one-act plays have been produced.
SUKI BOYNTON is the senior graphic designer at the Feminist Press. She is a graduate of Connecticut College with a BA in art history and has a degree in graphic design from the Art Institute of Charleston, South Carolina. She currently lives in Queens.
Long ago in China, a young girl lived in a small village at the foot of Horse Ear Mountain. Her name was Sea Girl and she lived with her father, a hard-working farmer.
No rain had fallen for many months; the crops hung limp and brown, dying for want of water. It seemed there could be no harvest, and food was already scarce. So each day Sea Girl went up on Horse Ear Mountain and cut bamboo to make brooms to sell.
One day when Sea Girl had climbed higher on the mountain than ever before in her search for bamboo, she saw a large blue lake gleaming in the sun. The water of the lake was clear and still. Not a single fallen leaf marred its surface, for whenever a leaf fell from the trees surrounding the lake, a large wild goose flew down and carried it away. This was the Wild Goose Lake Sea Girl had heard the elders speak of in the village tales.
Sea Girl carried her bamboo home, thinking of the clear blue water of the lake and how badly the people needed water for their crops.
The next day she took her ax to cut bamboo and again climbed high in the mountain. She hoped she could make an outlet from Wild Goose Lake. The village harvest would be saved if the lake water trickled down the mountain in a gentle stream to the farms below.
She began to walk around the lake, following the narrow, sandy shore. But the lake was surrounded by jagged rocks, high cliffs, and dense forest. There seemed to be no place to make an outlet for a stream. Later in the day, she came upon a thick stone gate. Her ax was of no help, and although she used all her strength, the gate could not be moved.
Wearily she dropped her pile of bamboo cuttings and sat down next to the gate. All was still, and the lake was a mirror reflecting the dark green pines. A wild goose swooped high in the sky, then gl
ided down to stand on the ground nearby.
“Sea Girl,” said the Wild Goose, “you will need the Golden Key to open the gate.”
Before she could ask where she could find the Golden Key, the wild goose spread her wings and soared away over the lake. Sea Girl noticed a small keyhole in the stone gate, but there was no key.
Sea Girl walked on along the shore of the lake, searching for the Golden Key. She came to a forest of cypress trees, and sitting on a cypress branch was a brilliant parrot of scarlet and green.
“Parrot,” she called, “do you know where I can find the Golden Key that will open the stone gate?”
The parrot answered, “You must first find the third daughter of the Dragon King, for the Dragon King guards the Golden Key to Wild Goose Lake.” With a quick whirring of wings the parrot flew off into the forest.
Sea Girl walked on, searching for the Dragon King’s third daughter. In a pine grove close to the lake, she saw a peacock sitting on a low branch.
“Peacock, peacock,” she called, “where can I find the Dragon King’s third daughter?”
“The Dragon King’s third daughter loves songs. If you sing the songs your village people sing, she will come forth from the lake.” The peacock dropped a feather at her feet and flew away.
Sea Girl picked up the feather and began to sing. Her voice was clear, and as fresh as a lark’s song. At first she sang about the snowflakes drifting on the mountains, but the Dragon King’s third daughter did not appear. She sang of green reeds bending in the wind. Still the third daughter did not come; the lake lay clear and still. Then Sea Girl sang of pale blossoming flowers on the hills.
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