The Tongue-Cut Sparrow 

A Folk Tale from Japan 

Once upon a time there lived an old man and an old woman. The old man, who had a kind
heart, kept a young sparrow, which he tenderly nurtured. But the dame was a cross-grained
old thing; and one day, when the sparrow had pecked at some paste with which she was
going to starch her linen, she flew into a great rage, and cut the sparrow's tongue and let it
loose. When the old man came home from the hills and found that the bird had flown, he
asked what had become of it; so the old woman answered that she had cut its tongue and
let it go, because it had stolen her starching paste.
Now the old man, hearing this cruel tale, was sorely grieved, and thought to himself, "Alas!
Where can my bird be gone? Poor thing! Poor little tongue-cut sparrow! Where is your
home now?" and he wandered far and wide, seeking for his pet, and crying, "Mr. Sparrow!
Mr. Sparrow! Where are you living?"

One day, at the foot of a certain mountain, the old man fell in with the lost bird; and when
they had congratulated one another on their mutual safety, the sparrow led the old man to
his home, and, having introduced him to his wife and chicks, set before him all sorts of
dainties, and entertained him hospitably.

"Please partake of our humble fare," said the sparrow."Poor as it is, you are very welcome."

"What a polite sparrow!" answered the old man, who remained for a long time as the
sparrow's guest, and was daily feasted right royally. At last the old man said that he must
take his leave and return home; and the bird, offering him him two wicker baskets, begged
him to carry them with him as a parting present. One of the baskets was heavy, and the
other was light; so the old man, saying that as he was feeble and stricken in years he would
only accept the light one, shouldered it, and trudged off home, leaving the sparrow family
disconsolate at parting from him.

When the old man got home, the dame grew very angry, and began to scold him, saying,
"Well, and pray where have you been this many a day? A pretty thing, indeed, to be gadding
about at your time of life!"

"Oh!" replied he, "I have been on a visit to the sparrows; and when I came away, they gave
me this wicker basket as a parting gift."

Then they opened the basket to see what was inside, and, lo and behold! it was full of gold
and silver and precious things. When the old woman, who was as greedy as she was cross,
saw all the riches displayed before her, she changed her scolding strain, and could not
contain herself for joy.

"I'll go and call upon the sparrows, too," said she, "and get a pretty present." So she asked
the old man the way to the sparrows' house, and set forth on her journey. Following his
directions, she at last met the tongue-cut sparrow, and exclaimed, "Well met! well met! Mr.
Sparrow. I have been looking forward to the pleasure of seeing you." So she tried to natter
and cajole the sparrow by soft speeches.

The bird could not but invite the dame to its home; but it took no pains to feast her, and
said nothing about a parting gift. She, however, was not to be put off; so she asked for
something to carry away with her in remembrance of her visit. The sparrow accordingly
produced two baskets, as before, and the greedy old woman, choosing the heavier of the
two, carried it off with her. But when she opened the basket to see what was inside, all sorts
of hobgoblins and elves sprang out of it, and began to torment her.

But the old man adopted a son, and his family grew rich and prosperous. What a happy old
man!
The Next Emperor of China: The
Story of the Empty Pot
A Folk Tale from China

Many years ago in China, the Emperor made an announcement. He was getting old and had
no son. He needed to find someone to replace him as Emperor of China. He had always
loved gardening so he decided to pass out flower seeds to boys throughout the kingdom.
Whichever boy could grow the best plant would win the privilege of becoming the next
emperor.

Boys flocked to the palace for the seeds. Among the boys was Ping, the best gardener in all
the kingdom. His bok choy, sweet peas and melons were always the sweetest and freshest
at the market. He thought surely he could win this contest. He carefully planted the seed
the Emperor had given him in a pot with rich soil. He watered and cared for the seed, but
nothing happened.

All around him, though, other boys planted seeds that quickly sprouted and grew. They
laughed and taunted the boy with the empty pot. The boy planted his seed in a different pot
with even better soil. He fertilized the soil with dried fish meal. Still, nothing grew.

Finally the day came to take the plants to the Emperor. The boy was despondent, but he
took his empty pot and walked to the palace. The Emperor examined the other boys’ strong,
green plants with a scowl on his face. He frowned even more deeply when he saw the boy’s
pot. “You brought me an empty pot,” he exclaimed. Ping hung his head. He said, “I’m sorry,
Emperor. I tried and tried to grow the seed you gave me, but nothing came up.”

The Emperor stroked his chin and smiled. Then he said to the people, “May I introduce you
to the new Emperor. You see, the seeds were cooked so they would not grow. I’m not sure
how the rest of you grew plants, but they didn’t grow from my seeds. He has been honest
and noble.”
The Next Emperor of China: The
Story of the Empty Pot
A Folk Tale from China

Once upon a time, the Emperor of China announced a contest to decide the next heir to the
throne. The Emperor was old and had no son, and because he had been a plant-lover for
years, he declared that any boy who wanted to be king should come to the palace to receive
one royal seed. Whichever boy could show the best results within six months would win the
contest and become the next to wear the crown.

You can imagine the excitement!  Every boy in China fancied himself likely to win. Parents of
boys who were talented at growing plants imagined living in splendor at the palace. On the
day the seeds were to be handed out, thick crowds of hopeful boys thronged the palace.
Each boy returned home with one precious possibility in his palm.

And so it was with the boy Jun. He was already considered the best gardener in the village.
His neighbors fought over the melons, bok choy, and snow peas that flourished from his
garden.  Anyone looking for Jun would probably find him bobbing between his rows, pulling
out new weeds, moving one sapling over to catch more morning sun, transplanting another
to the shade. Jun carefully carried the Emperor's seed home, sealing it securely in his hands
so it wouldn't fall, but not so tightly that it might crush.

At home, he spread the bottom of a flowerpot with large stones, covered the stones with
pebbles, then filled the pot with rich black moist soil. He pressed the seed about an inch
below the surface and covered it with light soil. Over the next few days Jun, along with
every boy he knew and hundreds he did not know, watered his pot every day and watched
for the telltale unfurling of the first leaf as it burst through the surface.

Cheun was the first boy in Jun's village to announce that his seed was sprouting through the
soil, and his announcement was met with whoops of excitement and congratulations. He
bragged that he would surely be the next emperor and practiced his royal skills by bossing
around the younger, adoring children. Manchu was the next boy whose tiny plant had
emerged from his pot, then it was Wong. Jun was puzzled - none of these boys could grow
plants as well as he!  But Jun's seed did not grow.

Soon sprouts emerged from pots all over the village. Boys moved their plants outside so the
baby leaves could bask in the warmth of the sun. They built stone fences around their pots
and zealously guarded them from mischievous children who might accidentally - or not so
accidentally - topple them over. Soon, dozens of sprouts in pots throughout Jun's village
were stretching out their first leaves. But Jun's seed did not grow.

He was confused with his empty pot - what was wrong? Jun carefully repotted his seed into
a new pot with the very best and richest black loam from his garden. He crumbled every ball
of soil into tiny particles. He gently pressed in the seed, and kept the top moist and watched
the pot every day. Still Jun's seed did not grow.
Strong, powerful stalks soon emerged from the pots cared for by other boys in Jun's village.
Jun was thrown into despair. The other boys laughed at him and started to mockingly say
"as empty as Jun's pot" if there were no treats in their pockets, or if they had just finished
their bowls of rice. Jun repotted his plant yet again, this time sprinkling dried fish
throughout the soil as fertilizer. Even so, his seed did not grow.

Six month's passed. The day approached when the boys were supposed to bring their plants
to the palace for judging. Cheun, Manchu, Wong and hundreds of other boys cleaned their
pots till they shone, gently wiped the great leaves till the green veins glistened, and
prepared themselves by dressing in their finest clothes. Some mothers or fathers walked
alongside their son to hold the plant upright as he carried the pot to the palace, to keep the
plant from tipping over.

"What will I do?" wailed Jun to his parents as he gazed out the window at the other boys
joyfully preparing their triumphant return to the palace. "My seed wouldn't grow!  My pot is
empty!"

"You did the best you could," said his father, shaking his head. Added his mother, "Jun, just
bring the emperor your pot," said his mother, "it was the best you could do."

Shame-faced, Jun carried his empty pot on the road to the palace, while gleeful boys
carrying pots tottering with huge plants strode to his right and left.

At the palace, all the boys lined up in rows with their blossoming plants and awaited
judgment. The Emperor, wrapped in his richly embroidered silk robe, strode down the line
of hopeful entrants, viewing each plant with a frown. When he came to Jun, he scowled
even more and said, "What is this? You brought me an empty pot?"

It was all Jun could do to keep from crying. "If you please, Your Majesty," said Jun, "I tried
my best. I planted your seed with the best soil I could find, I kept it moist and watched it
every day. When the seed didn't grow I repotted it in new soil, and I even repotted it again.
But it just didn't grow. I'm sorry." Jun hung his head.

"Hmm," said the Emperor. Turning so everyone could hear he thundered, "I don't know
where all these other boys got their seeds. There is no way anything could grow from the
seeds we passed out for the contest, because those seeds had all been cooked!"
And he smiled at Jun.
The King with Horse’s Ears
Origin: Irish

Author: Unknown
The story I’m going to tell you is not to be met every day. I heard little
Tom Kennedy, the great schoolmaster of Rossard, say that he read it in
the history of Ireland, and that it happened before the people were
Christian. It is about a king who had his hair cut only once a year. He lived
in some old city on the borders of Carlow and Kilkenny, and his name was
a queer one: Lora Lonshach it was.

So, as I said, he got his hair cut only once a year, and afterward nothing
more was ever heard of the barber who did it. This happened to about
seven unlucky fellows, and then no barber would come close the castle for
love or money. So the king proclaimed that all the barbers in the country
were to draw lots, and if the one who got the short straw would dare to
refuse, he would be put to death.

The short straw was drawn by a poor widow’s son named Thigueen.
Fearing that she would never again see her son, the mother ran to the
castle and beseeched the king to spare him the fate of the previous
barbers.

“You’ll get your boy back safe and sound,” promised the king.

The next day the frightened barber reported for duty.

“My good fellow,” said the king, “you’ll be at liberty to go wherever you
please after cutting my hair, but you must swear Dar lamh an Righ (by the
king’s hand) that you’ll never tell anything that has ears and tongue what
you see here today.”

The king sat down on his throne and took off his hood, revealing two
brown horse’s ears, quite as long as those of an ass.

“Pick up your scissors and do your job!” he ordered.

The poor lad did as best he could, taking special care not to nick the
king’s ears.

When the job was finished, the king paid him, saying, “Now, my lad, if I
ever hear word of this, I’ll make you wish that you had never been born.”

The boy returned to his mother, only to fall into bed, deathly ill. She asked
him what ailed him, but he gave no answer.

Two days later the doctor came.

When the doctor heard that the secret was not to be told to anyone with a
tongue or ears, he said, “Go into the woods, make a split in the bark of
one of the trees, tell your secret into the cut.”

The doctor was hardly out of the house when Thigueen got up and went
into the woods, not stopping until he reached the middle, a place where
two paths crossed one another. At this spot he found a healthy tree, cut a
gash in its bark, and then whispered into it, “Da Chluais Chapail ar
Labhradh Loingseach,” which means, “The two ears of a horse has Lora
Lonshach.” The poor fellow had hardly whispered these words when he
felt as if a mountain had been lifted off his back.

Before a year passed, when again it would be time for the king’s haircut, a
great harp-playing match was announced, a contest between Craftine, the
king’s harper, and anyone who dared play against him. The other four
kings of Ireland were invited, as well as all the lords and ladies who chose
to travel so far. One week before the appointed day, Craftine found a
crack in his harp, so he went into the forest to look for wood for a new
one.

Where should bad luck send him but to the very tree that Thigueen had
told his secret to! Craftine cut it down and fashioned it into the finest harp
you have ever seen, and when he tried it, he himself was enchanted with
its beautiful music.

The great day came at last, and the big hall in the palace was crammed.
The king was on his high throne, with the four other kings before him. On
either side were all the great lords and ladies, around the open place in
the center where the harpers were sitting.

Craftine began. He first played so mournfully that all who heard him were
grief-stricken. Then he played a merry jig, and because there was no room
to dance, everyone shouted out for joy. Next came a war-like march, and
everyone who had room drew his sword and waved it over his head, each
one crying out the war-cry of his own chief or king. Finally he played a
beautiful heavenly tune, and they all closed their eyes, hoping that the
beautiful music would never come to an end.

When Craftine finally ceased playing, gold and silver were thrown in
showers to him. Then the harpers of Leinster, Munster, Connaught, and
Ulster tried their hands, and, sure enough, they played very well, but not
nearly as well as Craftine.

When they were finished, the king said to Craftine, “Give us one more
tune to finish decently, and put all that we invited in good humor for their
dinner.”
“I am afraid of my harp,” answered Craftine. “It wasn’t my fingers that
struck out the music, but the music that stirred my fingers. There is magic
in that harp, and I fear it will play us some trick.”

“Trick be hanged!” said the king. “Play away!” The harper had to obey his
king, and he took up his harp, but he had hardly touched the strings,
when a loud voice came from them, shouting, “Da Chluais Chapail ar
Labhradh Loingseach!”

The startled king put his hands to his head, not knowing what he was
doing, and in his fumbling he loosened the bands of his hood, revealing
the two long hairy ears. What a roar came from the crowd! King Lora was
not able to stand it, and in a trance he fell down from his throne. In a few
minutes he had the hall to himself, except for his harper and some of his
old servants.

They say that when he came to himself, he was very sorry for all the poor
barbers that he had put out of the way, and that he pensioned their wives
and mothers. From then on Thigueen was no more concerned about
giving the king a haircut than he would have been about giving one to you
or to me.

The Next Emperor of China: The Story of the

Once upon a time, the Emperor of China announced a contest to decide the next heir to the
throne. The Emperor was old and had no son, and because he had been a plant-lover for
years, he declared that any boy who wanted to be king should come to the palace to receive
one royal seed. Whichever boy could show the best results within six months would win the
contest and become the next to wear the crown.

You can imagine the excitement!  Every boy in China fancied himself likely to win. Parents
of boys who were talented at growing plants imagined living in splendor at the palace. On the
day the seeds were to be handed out, thick crowds of hopeful boys thronged the palace. Each
boy returned home with one precious possibility in his palm.

And so it was with the boy Jun. He was already considered the best gardener in the village.
His neighbors fought over the melons, bok choy, and snow peas that flourished from his
garden.  Anyone looking for Jun would probably find him bobbing between his rows, pulling
out new weeds, moving one sapling over to catch more morning sun, transplanting another to
the shade. Jun carefully carried the Emperor's seed home, sealing it securely in his hands so it
wouldn't fall, but not so tightly that it might crush.

At home, he spread the bottom of a flowerpot with large stones, covered the stones with
pebbles, then filled the pot with rich black moist soil. He pressed the seed about an inch
below the surface and covered it with light soil. Over the next few days Jun, along with every
boy he knew and hundreds he did not know, watered his pot every day and watched for the
telltale unfurling of the first leaf as it burst through the surface.

Cheun was the first boy in Jun's village to announce that his seed was sprouting through the
soil, and his announcement was met with whoops of excitement and congratulations. He
bragged that he would surely be the next emperor and practiced his royal skills by bossing
around the younger, adoring children. Manchu was the next boy whose tiny plant had
emerged from his pot, then it was Wong. Jun was puzzled - none of these boys could grow
plants as well as he!  But Jun's seed did not grow.

Soon sprouts emerged from pots all over the village. Boys moved their plants outside so the
baby leaves could bask in the warmth of the sun. They built stone fences around their pots
and zealously guarded them from mischievous children who might accidentally - or not so
accidentally - topple them over. Soon, dozens of sprouts in pots throughout Jun's village were
stretching out their first leaves. But Jun's seed did not grow.

He was confused with his empty pot - what was wrong? Jun carefully repotted his seed into a
new pot with the very best and richest black loam from his garden. He crumbled every ball of
soil into tiny particles. He gently pressed in the seed, and kept the top moist and watched the
pot every day. Still Jun's seed did not grow.

Strong, powerful stalks soon emerged from the pots cared for by other boys in Jun's village.
Jun was thrown into despair. The other boys laughed at him and started to mockingly say "as
empty as Jun's pot" if there were no treats in their pockets, or if they had just finished their
bowls of rice. Jun repotted his plant yet again, this time sprinkling dried fish throughout the
soil as fertilizer. Even so, his seed did not grow.

Six month's passed. The day approached when the boys were supposed to bring their plants to
the palace for judging. Cheun, Manchu, Wong and hundreds of other boys cleaned their pots
till they shone, gently wiped the great leaves till the green veins glistened, and prepared
themselves by dressing in their finest clothes. Some mothers or fathers walked alongside their
son to hold the plant upright as he carried the pot to the palace, to keep the plant from tipping
over.

"What will I do?" wailed Jun to his parents as he gazed out the window at the other boys
joyfully preparing their triumphant return to the palace. "My seed wouldn't grow!  My pot is
empty!" "You did the best you could," said his father, shaking his head. Added his mother,
"Jun, just bring the emperor your pot," said his mother, "it was the best you could do."

Shame-faced, Jun carried his empty pot on the road to the palace, while gleeful boys carrying
pots tottering with huge plants strode to his right and left. At the palace, all the boys lined up
in rows with their blossoming plants and awaited judgment. The Emperor, wrapped in his
richly embroidered silk robe, strode down the line of hopeful entrants, viewing each plant
with a frown. When he came to Jun, he scowled even more and said, "What is this? You
brought me an empty pot?"

It was all Jun could do to keep from crying. "If you please, Your Majesty," said Jun, "I tried
my best. I planted your seed with the best soil I could find, I kept it moist and watched it
every day. When the seed didn't grow I repotted it in new soil, and I even repotted it again.
But it just didn't grow. I'm sorry." Jun hung his head.
The Emperor stroked his chin and smiled at Jun. Then he said to the people, “May I introduce
you to the new Emperor. You see, the seeds were cooked so they would not grow. I’m not
sure how the rest of you grew plants, but they didn’t grow from my seeds. He has been honest
and noble.”