There was a certain fairy, that was fond of changing herself into animal forms. She did this, to learn their language and ways, and ideas.
Her name was Flax-Flower, because she liked to wear gauzy, blue garments. Having been transformed into a heifer, or young cow, she heard very wonderful accounts of a new animal, that was soon coming to live among men and the other tame creatures. Her curiosity was so great, that she could hardly wait to regain her former state, so as to tell the other fairies about the coming stranger. In fact, this fairy resolved to learn the secret spell, by which she could transform herself into the new creature’s shape, whenever he appeared.
We shall now tell you what information Flax-Flower picked up, from hearing what the animals and men and women said in their conversation. She found that the various birds and beasts of the barnyard were, by turns, jealous, or incredulous, or inquisitive, about this wonderful four-legged being, that was to join their society, in Belgium. Then, by listening to the talk of the men and women, she learned its history.
This wonderful traveler, on four legs, was to come all the way from Egypt. Its ancestors had lived for ages in the deserts of Africa; and, for thousands of years in the Nile valley, it was known as a useful friend of man.
In fact, as far as fancy pictured it, the unknown animal was so magnificent, that words quite failed to describe it properly.
In the first place, it belonged to one of the most ancient families in the whole world. As for the high society in which it moved, there was no question about it, nor was anything equal to it. Moreover, it was so gentle and surefooted, that kings and queens, and lords and ladies always selected it to ride on, especially on great occasions. When the creature was milk white, as was often the case, it was held in such honor, and it cost so much money to buy one, that its price was above rubies. In fact, it took a mighty pile of gold coins to purchase the finest of the breed.
This superb creature was so desired by those who did not own one of his tribe, that, being reckoned in value along with houses, and wives, and other valuable property, it was a sin to long too much for the possession of one. To tell the truth, it was particularly forbidden, in one of the ten commandments, which, after specifying this treasure on four legs said, “Thou shalt not covet.”
Of course, the Belgians and other European folks, of that distant period, who never saw one of these splendid milk-white specimens, might wonder at this, and even laugh at the idea, for all they had heard was that the creature had a voice and his hearing was very sharp. It was only when they saw one drawing the chariot of the viceroy, or preceding the carriage of the Khedive of Egypt, that they could properly understand the commandment, “Thou shalt not covet.” Seeing a body guard of splendid cavalry, with their flags and banners, and gay, bright uniforms and glittering drawn swords, they wondered no longer that this remarkable animal was particularly named, though the horse was not. No sooner did their eyes fall on the magnificent creature, than they wanted him, or one like him right off. Travellers in Egypt said he stood for what was Oriental splendor. Neither camels, nor elephants, nor antelopes, nor giraffes, nor zebras, nor tiger cubs led by silver chains, could compare with him.
Yet even that was not all. When the mothers and fathers of Belgic Land heard how tame, and gentle, and patient, this lovely creature was, and how he would not kick or bite, and that he would let little boys and girls ride on his back, and trot along gaily, as if he liked young folks, they were too happy for anything. They longed for the day of his arrival.
Yet even this did not end the catalogue of the historic creature’s virtues. To the farmers, he seemed either a miracle or a paragon. It cost so little to keep him! Instead of “eating his head off,” as cows and horses were said to do, or requiring fresh meat, which the dogs howled and cats meoued for, this wonderful quadruped, with such renowned ancestors, mentioned and pictured in the ancient monuments, would live at a quarter of the expense necessary for oxen. It was reported that this high bred and well behaved creature would make a dinner of straw, chaff, weeds, and other cheap stuff, and then bob its head for thanks to the giver. Nor did he ever eat much at a time.
In fact, this Oriental wonder set a very good example to greedy boys and girls, that always wanted more. Whereupon, some fathers and mothers actually proposed getting up a festival in his honor, for the proper education of their children and as a good example.
It would take too long to tell the full story of the great expectations, excited in both the fairy world and in human society. If we should even attempt to do so, we are sure the children would fall asleep, before we were more than half through.
As for the younger fairies, they declared they were just dying to welcome this four-legged racer in chariots and crazy to meet him. In fact, they talked just like young ladies, over their ice cream sodas, in a confectionery shop; or college girls, that say “lovely” every few minutes.
Finally the fairy Flax-Flower resolved to secure, from the Queen of the Fairies, sole permission to hold the spell, which should transform herself into this wonderful being from the Orient. Even to think of Egypt was to set Flax-Flower wild with delight. She conjured up visions of all grand and glorious things, such as pyramids, sphinxes, palm trees, obelisks, Moses and the bulrushes, the Nile River, Cleopatra, scarabs, camels, moonlight and every delightful thing, about which the fairies had heard.
Would the Fairy Queen allow Flax-Flower her wish—that is, to be like the wonderful creature that was to come in Belgium?
The Queen’s answer, as read in a great court of the fairies, after due counsel taken with the wisest counsellors, was this:
“That Flax-Flower be permitted to transform herself into the likeness and form of the coming Egyptian creature, but”—and here the Queen looked very stern, first at the Flax-Flower, and then at all the company of fairies, who were to bear witness to her words—“if she should not like her new nature, she should not be allowed ever to become a fairy again. She must remain, for one year, a four-footed creature. Then, if she wished to be something else”—and here she frowned terribly, as if to frighten Flax-Flower, and dissuade her, if possible, from her purpose, but certainly to show that she meant all she said—“Flax-Flower must be something that bore the name of the creature, and carried his burden, but not to have his body; and, that she should remain forever in that form which she chose.”
“I agree,” said Flax-Flower, but with a sort of gasp, as if terrified, as she thought of what might be her fate.
Months still passed away, but the Oriental Wonder had not come. At last, after the fairies had nearly fallen into nervous prostration, in waiting to see the creature from Africa, that was to astonish all, it arrived as large as life.
And behold it was a donkey!
When Flax-Flower had her first peep at the stranger, she fainted away; but a few drops of dew, thrown in her face, revived her. When shown the quadruped again, and seeing it face to face, with the long ears, shaggy hair, short mane, and bare tail, with only a tuft, like a long-handled paint brush, she drew back in terror. Then, throwing herself at the feet of the Fairy Queen, she cried out most piteously:
“Is this the creature of our dreams, about which we heard so much in description? With all its glorious record and ancestry, it is the disgrace of creation. Must I take its form? Spare me, oh queen, and I shall be your slave.”
“No,” said the Fairy Queen. “You must obey the law of fairy land, as laid down in council. I shall make of you an example, to other frivolous fairies. It is so silly of you, or them, to envy other creatures. When you weary of being such a quadruped, if it be the right moment of your release, utter the Flemish name for donkey. Then, you will become a thing of wood, but not the living creature itself; and always after that, you must be burden-bearer for men. You will live forever, on four legs, in an artist’s studio, but you can never be a fairy again.”
Although Flax-Flower wept copiously, and the tears rolled down out of her beautiful eyes, like rain drops, the spell proceeded. Like magic, her pretty, pink ears sprouted into long and hairy things, as big as powder horns. Her mouth widened to the width of a cow’s muzzle, her lovely white skin was changed into a shaggy hide; and, last of all, something like a rope, with a hairy tuft like a ball of yarn-fringe, at the end, appeared from behind. At first, she fell down on her hands and knees, with grief; but, when she got up, she was on four legs! To show how completely she had been transformed, out of her mouth sounded what the real donkey in the barnyard recognized at once, as a vocal effort. He pricked up six or eight inches of his ears with delight and immediately felt at home. But as soon as the rough farmer’s boy heard the noise, he called it braying. He declared to his father, that there was a donkey in the woods, calling, either for a thistle or a mate.
Thereupon Bavon, as the boy’s name was, grabbed a big bunch of stems of the prickly weed. He threw his armful of the green stuff in, where he had heard the new sort of a nightingale.
And what happened?
Well, the being that, but an hour before, was a lovely fairy, showed that it had an appetite and was very hungry. It now opened its mouth and chewed up the spiny stuff, as if it had been used to such breakfasts all its life. Then it put out its tongue and smacked its lips, as if it enjoyed the new diet, but now wanted some beans.
Worse than all, the next day the farmer’s boy caught the new donkey, led it by a halter, and harnessed the beast to a cart. He had now a pair of Orientals. Every day he took his team, which some fellow named “Rabbit Ears,” to the field, to plough with; or, into town, to carry his carrots or cabbages to market. Happily, he found that the donkey’s reputation for patient hard work, economical diet, and general good behavior, was all he had heard it to be. The cost of feeding both animals was surprisingly little. Some people declared that, in winter, the Rabbit-eared beast was fed chiefly on barnyard fences and the East Wind.
Now the farmer’s boy had taste and liked to draw and paint. He drew pictures with chalk on the barn door, and he cultivated his talents, especially in winter. Having no money to spare, to buy a paint brush or colors, he pulled some hairs out of poor pussy’s tail, and made one, and he squeezed colors out of the juice of berries. By and bye he attracted the attention of a famous artist in Antwerp, who offered to employ the boy in his house.
Overjoyed at the idea, the farmer’s boy asked if he could take his favorite donkey with him. Permission was given, and lo! the lad chose the one that was a transformed fairy. The boy rode to the great city on his long-eared beast, and, having arrived at the artist’s dwelling, he locked up the creature in the stable and reported to his master.
Now this happened just about the time for the spell to be broken, when Flax-Flower was to resume, not her former shape, which she could not, but something with a donkey’s name.
Now there were, already, a half dozen things called after the long-eared and useful beast, such as a pump, a drying frame, and several tools, but Flax-Flower longed to keep in good company. She therefore had made up her mind, which one she could choose. During the night, the spell was broken, and she took her final shape in wood, and in a frame with four legs, with pegs in it to hold a picture.
So when the farmer’s boy came into the stable, next morning, there was no donkey visible in the stall, but, instead, there stood a beautiful new easel. Carrying it into his master’s studio, he placed his masterpiece upon it, and the great painter was well pleased. When, in time, by hard work, the farmer’s boy had himself become great, she had held the pictures which he painted; and many rich patrons, ladies and gentlemen, came into his studio, to admire his triumphs.
So, for centuries, the artists, who painted lovely scenes and portraits, have employed, for their work, Flax-Flower, now become an easel, the name, which, in Flemish is Ezel, meaning Little Donkey; but she never spoke a word, thus excelling in silence even the original. But what had, in Æsop’s day, been reckoned, “the disgrace of creation,” became the bearer of beauty unto unnumbered generations of men.
How the cat first got into Belgium is not known, but of the puss that was first seen in Japan, the record is full and clear. There are, however, two stories, for there are two kinds, wild and tame.
Japanese house cats have no tails. These they never had, or lost them long ago; and now, most of them have hardly enough to set up a rabbit in business. Even if, in a litter of bob-tailed pussies, a long-tailed kitten is born, out comes the carving knife and off goes the caudal extension. Cats in Japan must all be in fashion, to be allowed to live in a house with human beings.
So long as the Japanese puss stays at home, licks its feet, and cleans its face with its forepaws, using these for both wash-rag and towel, the creature is considered respectable, and there is no trouble in either the cat or the human family.
There was a certain puss named Geiko (gay-ko), which is the Kyoto pronunciation of Geisha (gay-shah); because she was so accomplished and so pretty, and made so much music at night. Except those Japanese cats that, long ago, traveled to the Isle of Man, she was the first modern member of the family that wished to reside abroad. Then—according to what her mother said, who told the story of her adventures in Belgium—her troubles began.
Now this is the way it came to pass.
It happened that a grandmother puss, named Guitar, because she also was so musical, that lived in Persimmon Street, in Kyoto, was inquired of, by an inquisitive kitten, as to when, and how, and why, cats first came to Japan. Her mistress, a little girl, named Taka (tah-kah), or Falcon, who went every day to school, had come home and told her that, once upon a time, Japan, being an island and the country made up of islands, there were no tame cats, but only wild ones. Now, would Grandma Guitar tell all about her ancestors, and about her Aunt Geiko, who had gone to Europe?
So that evening, after the six kittens had had their supper, Grandma gathered them all around her, and told how pet cats were first brought from China, into Japan, and to the Emperor’s court, about a.d. 1000. They were at first very great curiosities. Yet when they multiplied, they were even then kept in the house, and tied up at night. Some people thought cats were dangerous brutes.
“Why, grandma, dear?” asked one of the kittens. “Did they eat up all the birds?”
“No, I am inclined to think,” said Grandma, “that they were kept in at nights, for fear that they might be stolen, for they were still considered very valuable animals.”
Here Grandma Guitar paused, that is, she stopped in her story, long enough to wipe her mouth and face, with what serves pussies instead of a towel, napkin or handkerchief—her two fore feet.
Then continuing, she called on Kichibei (kee-chee-bay), a Tom, that lived next door. He was the lawyer among the cats of Persimmon Street, in which they lived. She requested him to read from the Government Book on Cat Law (Neko no Soshi). He made his bow, cocked his eye properly, and read the following regulation, of the year 1602.
“First, the cords on the cats in Kyoto shall be untied, and the cats shall be let loose.
“Secondly, it is no longer allowed to buy or sell cats. Whoever transgresses this ordinance, shall be punished with a heavy fine.”
The kittens were almost sorry, that their grandma had called in this lawyer; for he instantly began a long dissertation on the cats of China, Korea and Japan, quoting from the historians and law books. He told how, gradually, the cats, when they multiplied to millions, in the islands of Japan, got a bad reputation. In fact, all sorts of evil stories were told, and proverbs coined, and uncomplimentary expressions used concerning them. To tell the full truth, however, out of so many, some cats were really bad. It had even, of late years, become common to use cat skins to make banjos and guitars. That is the reason why the singing and dancing girls, or geishas (gay-shas in Tokyo, and gei-ko in Kyoto) were usually called “cats” in fun.
Then he went on to explain why there was a cat on every Japanese boat, or ship, as one could usually see—for in port, puss poked her head out of the windows to note what was going on. Of course, the seamen preferred a cat of three colors. For, although, as we say, a cat has nine lives, the Japanese sailors think Puss has at least three. He even went on to explain why ancient poetry referred so often to the flowers of the valerian plant, but so rarely mentioned them, in modern days. It was all because there were no cats in Japan in those early times, though so numerous now.
Kichibei, the lawyer, was going to tell more, but Grandma said “ippai” (ip-pi) and “mo yoroshi” (mo yo-ro-shee)—intimating that he had said enough, and thanked him. For the long talk of Kichibei had got to be so tiresome, that several of the kittens had fallen asleep, before he was more than half through.
Finally, when he ended and went off, Grandma thought it was time to go to bed. For these kitties were too young to go outdoors at night, like grown-up cats.
“Oh, but you promised to tell us about our Aunt Geiko.”
Now the way all those kittens woke up at once, to listen, showed that they would soon make the liveliest kind of roof scramblers, night prowlers, and street warblers; or be otherwise fitted for nocturnal accomplishments, just like their ancestors; and, all this, without being taught.
The lights having been put out, and all sitting in a ring, Grandma Guitar began. At once, it seemed as if fourteen little round balls of fire were glowing in the room; for each one of the cat’s eyes had widened from a slit, or long crack, to a circular window. In fact, they could all plainly see each other, even in the dark.
“Well, my grandchildren,” began the old lady cat, “you know that my daughter, your aunt Geiko, though born in the Blossom Capital, was the pet of a Belgian lady; and that both of them lived in Kobé, when they were in our country. They sailed away, a year ago, and, after a six weeks’ voyage, arrived safely at her home at the little village of Gingelhom in Limburg.”
“But, alas,” and here Grandma Guitar pulled out a Japanese paper handkerchief, from under her collar, and wept real cat tears. On seeing this, all the kittens cried in sympathy, and some meouwed pitifully.
Grandma Guitar was so overcome by her feelings, that she could proceed no further. So, from this point on, we shall tell, in our way, the story of what happened to Miss Puss Geiko, in Belgium, from what Grandma Guitar related to the kittens the next evening.
For, in order to make Japanese kittens understand and enjoy the whole story, it was necessary to go into so much detail, that it would be tiresome, especially to us human beings, who have traveled in Belgium.
For in old Japan, men with whiskers, or women with bonnets; or leather shoes, or chairs, or cheese, were unknown. Even cow’s milk, except for calves, or very old persons, was unheard of, as an article of drink or food. Grown up human beings thought it was wicked to take milk from the cow! And no wonder! for two strong men, working for an hour, could only get a quart or so, from the miserable little cows of the sort they then had.
So here is the story, as cut short, after being translated from Japanese cat talk.
When your Aunt Geiko arrived at Gingelhom, in Limburg, it took her some time to get accustomed to the strange human folks, and their ways; and, almost as much, to the cats of the neighborhood. Everything looked, smelled, and tasted so strangely.
The language bothered her a good deal, for she could not understand Flemish, even when dear little children, in wooden shoes, put out their hands and tried with gentle voices to coax Puss Geiko to come to them. Even when they wanted to smooth her back, or rub her head, she was frightened at their talk and ran away. Yet they were only saying, “Come pussy, come here”! When they brought Geiko a saucer full of something white, she would not go near it. It was cow’s milk, but she had known only mother milk, and had never seen what cows give us every day. If the Limburgers had only known it, dried fish would have tempted Geiko any time.
One day the lady, her mistress, set a saucer of cow’s milk before Geiko, and, when her own mistress called to her, in Japanese, she ran up gladly and purred as if very happy. But she did not go near the lunch prepared for her. Then the Belgian lady dipped her finger in the milk and rubbed it on pussy’s lips, and at once out came a little red tongue to lick it off. The eyes of your Aunt Geiko sparkled. This showed that she had discovered something good and liked it. She lapped up the cow’s milk, emptied the saucer, and always, after that, was glad to get more of what the lady said was “chichi” (chee-chee), which is Japanese for what we call “milk” and the Flemish “melk.”
But the story-teller is sorry to say, that, on the subject of tails, Pussy Geiko did not show either good manners, or a sweet disposition. If cats have a commandment, “Thou shalt not covet,” Pussy Geiko was an awful sinner.
Every time a cat of the country came near, Geiko would look enviously on its lovely, long tail. Then her eyes would turn green with jealousy. She would leap forward at the Belgian cat, and bite at, claw with both paws, tread upon, or scratch at its tail.
Geiko behaved just like a covetous human being, or a person who is jealous of another’s good looks, or fine clothes, or general prosperity. So she was never popular with the cats of Limburg, and some always growled, when they saw her.
Now it was not Geiko’s fault, that nature had not provided her with a handsome, long tail. For, while a Japanese cat has all the bones in that part, which a well-born kitten ought to possess, yet, for some reason, that which we call its “caudal extension” is not developed, and does not grow out.
On the other hand, it is sad to relate, that the Belgian cats were not so polite, as they might have been. They looked with suspicion on any animal from a strange country. The worst and most ill mannered among them, every time they saw Geiko, called out “Hello, Stumpy, where did you leave your tail?” This made the Japanese Puss, already in a state of nervous prostration, so lonely, that she nearly died; for she had no society. Sometimes, at night, she would go up on the roof and look up at the moon, and think of her mother and feel too sad to live.
A short life had Geiko, in Belgic Land, and one morning she was found dead. It was rumored in Japan, that the poor creature had died of homesickness. Malignant cats, that envied Geiko her trip abroad, declared, in their gossip, that it was pride and conceit, that killed her; but, anybody who knew cats was sure that these chatterers were only jealous of Geiko. The truth was, that Geiko went into a decline, when she found how the other cats treated her. Indeed, she was so miserable, and became finally so weak and frail, that a cat doctor was heard to declare that the least excitement would kill her.
The real truth finally leaked out. Her kind mistress, the lady, hoping to cheer Geiko up, strengthen her nerves, and, possibly restore her to health, tried to tempt her appetite with the local delicacy. Sad to tell, it was all mistaken kindness, for it went first to poor Pussy’s nose, and then to her brain. The lady had served up for the cat’s lunch, some Limburger cheese!
But alas, the odor, before she tasted it, even if she could have put it in her mouth, gave the final shock. So overpowered was the poor homesick puss, that she fell over and never recovered from the paralysis of her nostrils.
So, in the corner of a Belgian garden, one sees a little mound, and a memorial stone above it, with only the words:
GEIKO
HIC JACET.…
R. I. P.