Hana-Saka-Jiji

“For I’m needing a mortar something very special,” says he.

“Take it,” says the good old man; “I’m sure you’re welcome.”

So the bad old man took away the mortar under his arm, and when he had got it home he filled it with rice in a twinkling. And he pounded away at it for dear life’s sake.

“Do you see any gold coming?” he says to his wife, who was looking on.

“Never a bit,” she says, “but the rice looks queer.”

Queer enough it was, mildewed and rotten, no use to man or beast.

“Arah, arah!” they cried, “the mortar has deceived us.” And they didn’t let the grass grow under their feet, but lit a fire and burnt the mortar.

Now the good old couple had lost their fairy mortar. But they never said a word, the patient old folk. The good old man took some of the ashes of the mortar and went his way.

Now it was mid-winter time, and all the trees were bare. There was not a flower to be seen, nor yet a little green leaf.

What does the good old man do but climb into a cherry tree and scatter a handful of his ashes over the branches? In a moment the tree was covered with blossoms.

“It will do,” says the good old man, and down he gets from the tree and off he sets for the Prince’s palace, where he knocks at the gate as bold as brass.

“Who are you?” they ask him.

“I am Hana-saka-jiji,” says the old man, “the man who makes dead trees to blossom; my business is with the Prince.”

Mighty pleased the Prince was when he saw his cherry trees and his peach trees and his plum trees rush into blossom.

“Why,” he said, “it is mid-winter, and we have the joys of spring.” And he called forth his lady wife and her maidens and all his own retainers to see the work of Hana-saka-jiji. At last he sent the old man home with a passing rich reward.

Now what of the bad old couple? Were they content to let well alone? Oh no.

They gathered together all the ashes that were left, and when they had put them in a basket they went about the town crying:

“We are the Hana-saka-jiji. We can make dead trees blossom.