The Orange Fairy Book

The children who read fairy books, or have fairy books read to them, do
not read prefaces, and the parents, aunts, uncles, and cousins, who
give fairy books to their daughters, nieces, and cousines, leave
prefaces unread. For whom, then, are prefaces written? When an author
publishes a book 'out of his own head,' he writes the preface for his
own pleasure. After reading over his book in print—to make sure that
all the 'u's' are not printed as 'n's,' and all the 'n's' as 'u's' in
the proper names—then the author says, mildly, in his preface, what he
thinks about his own book, and what he means it to prove—if he means
it to prove anything—and why it is not a better book than it is. But,
perhaps, nobody reads prefaces except other authors; and critics, who
hope that they will find enough in the preface to enable them to do
without reading any of the book.

This appears to be the philosophy of prefaces in general, and perhaps
authors might be more daring and candid than they are with advantage,
and write regular criticisms of their own books in their prefaces, for
nobody can be so good a critic of himself as the author—if he has a
sense of humour. If he has not, the less he says in his preface the
better.

These Fairy Books, however, are not written by the Editor, as he has
often explained, 'out of his own head.' The stories are taken from
those told by grannies to grandchildren in many countries and in many
languages— French, Italian, Spanish, Catalan, Gaelic, Icelandic,
Cherokee, African, Indian, Australian, Slavonic, Eskimo, and what not.
The stories are not literal, or word by word translations, but have
been altered in many ways to make them suitable for children. Much has
been left out in places, and the narrative has been broken up into
conversations, the characters telling each other how matters stand, and
speaking for themselves, as children, and some older people, prefer
them to do. In many tales, fairly cruel and savage deeds are done, and
these have been softened down as much as possible; though it is
impossible, even if it were desirable, to conceal the circumstance that
popular stories were never intended to be tracts and nothing else.
Though they usually take the side of courage and kindness, and the
virtues in general, the old story-tellers admire successful cunning as
much as Homer does in the Odyssey. At least, if the cunning hero,
human or animal, is the weaker, like Odysseus, Brer Rabbit, and many
others, the story-teller sees little in intellect but superior cunning,
by which tiny Jack gets the better of the giants. In the fairy tales
of no country are 'improper' incidents common, which is to the credit
of human nature, as they were obviously composed mainly for children.
It is not difficult to get rid of this element when it does occur in
popular tales.

The old puzzle remains a puzzle—why do the stories of the remotest
people so closely resemble each other? Of course, in the immeasurable
past, they have been carried about by conquering races, and learned by
conquering races from vanquished peoples. Slaves carried far from home
brought their stories with them into captivity. Wanderers, travellers,
shipwrecked men, merchants, and wives stolen from alien tribes have
diffused the stories; gipsies and Jews have passed them about; Roman
soldiers of many different races, moved here and there about the
Empire, have trafficked in them. From the remotest days men have been
wanderers, and wherever they went their stories accompanied them. The
slave trade might take a Greek to Persia, a Persian to Greece; an
Egyptian woman to Phoenicia; a Babylonian to Egypt; a Scandinavian
child might be carried with the amber from the Baltic to the Adriatic;
or a Sidonian to Ophir, wherever Ophir may have been; while the
Portuguese may have borne their tales to South Africa, or to Asia, and
thence brought back other tales to Egypt. The stories wandered
wherever the Buddhist missionaries went, and the earliest French
voyageurs told them to the Red Indians. These facts help to account
for the sameness of the stories everywhere; and the uniformity of
human fancy in early societies must be the cause of many other
resemblances.

In this volume there are stories from the natives of Rhodesia,
collected by Mr. Fairbridge, who speaks the native language, and one is
brought by Mr. Cripps from another part of Africa, Uganda. Three tales
from the Punjaub were collected and translated by Major Campbell.
Various savage tales, which needed a good deal of editing, are derived
from the learned pages of the 'Journal of the Anthropological
Institute.' With these exceptions, and 'The Magic Book,' translated by
Mrs. Pedersen, from 'Eventyr fra Jylland,' by Mr. Ewald Tang Kristensen
(Stories from Jutland), all the tales have been done, from various
sources, by Mrs. Lang, who has modified, where it seemed desirable, all
the narratives.

From the Senna (Oral
Tradition)

Once upon a time, at the town of Senna on the banks of the Zambesi, was
born a child. He was not like other children, for he was very tall and
strong; over his shoulder he carried a big sack, and in his hand an
iron hammer. He could also speak like a grown man, but usually he was
very silent.

One day his mother said to him: 'My child, by what name shall we know
you?'

And he answered: 'Call all the head men of Senna here to the river's
bank.' And his mother called the head men of the town, and when they
had come he led them down to a deep black pool in the river where all
the fierce crocodiles lived.

'O great men!' he said, while they all listened, 'which of you will
leap into the pool and overcome the crocodiles?' But no one would come
forward. So he turned and sprang into the water and disappeared.

The people held their breath, for they thought: 'Surely the boy is
bewitched and throws away his life, for the crocodiles will eat him!'
Then suddenly the ground trembled, and the pool, heaving and swirling,
became red with blood, and presently the boy rising to the surface swam
on shore.

But he was no longer just a boy! He was stronger than any man and very
tall and handsome, so that the people shouted with gladness when they
saw him.

'Now, O my people!' he cried, waving his hand, 'you know my name—I am
Makoma, "the Greater"; for have I not slain the crocodiles into the
pool where none would venture?'

Then he said to his mother: 'Rest gently, my mother, for I go to make a
home for myself and become a hero.' Then, entering his hut he took
Nu-endo, his iron hammer, and throwing the sack over his shoulder, he
went away.

Makoma crossed the Zambesi, and for many moons he wandered towards the
north and west until he came to a very hilly country where, one day, he
met a huge giant making mountains.

'Greeting,' shouted Makoma, 'you are you?'

'I am Chi-eswa-mapiri, who makes the mountains,' answered the giant;
'and who are you?'

'I am Makoma, which signifies "greater,"' answered he.

'Greater than who?' asked the giant.

'Greater than you!' answered Makoma.

The giant gave a roar and rushed upon him. Makoma said nothing, but
swinging his great hammer, Nu-endo, he struck the giant upon the head.

He struck him so hard a blow that the giant shrank into quite a little
man, who fell upon his knees saying: 'You are indeed greater than I, O
Makoma; take me with you to be your slave!' So Makoma picked him up
and dropped him into the sack that he carried upon his back.

He was greater than ever now, for all the giant's strength had gone
into him; and he resumed his journey, carrying his burden with as
little difficulty as an eagle might carry a hare.

Before long he came to a country broken up with huge stones and immense
clods of earth. Looking over one of the heaps he saw a giant wrapped
in dust dragging out the very earth and hurling it in handfuls on
either side of him.

'Who are you,' cried Makoma, 'that pulls up the earth in this way?'

'I am Chi-dubula-taka,' said he, 'and I am making the river-beds.'

'Do you know who I am?' said Makoma. 'I am he that is called
"greater"!'

'Greater than who?' thundered the giant.

'Greater than you!' answered Makoma.

With a shout, Chi-dubula-taka seized a great clod of earth and launched
it at Makoma. But the hero had his sack held over his left arm and the
stones and earth fell harmlessly upon it, and, tightly gripping his
iron hammer, he rushed in and struck the giant to the ground.
Chi-dubula-taka grovelled before him, all the while growing smaller and
smaller; and when he had become a convenient size Makoma picked him up
and put him into the sack beside Chi- eswa-mapiri.

He went on his way even greater than before, as all the river-maker's
power had become his; and at last he came to a forest of bao- babs and
thorn trees. He was astonished at their size, for every one was full
grown and larger than any trees he had ever seen, and close by he saw
Chi-gwisa-miti, the giant who was planting the forest.

Chi-gwisa-miti was taller than either of his brothers, but Makoma was
not afraid, and called out to him: 'Who are you, O Big One?'

'I,' said the giant, 'am Chi-gwisa-miti, and I am planting these
bao-babs and thorns as food for my children the elephants.'

'Leave off!' shouted the hero, 'for I am Makoma, and would like to
exchange a blow with thee!'

The giant, plucking up a monster bao-bab by the roots, struck heavily
at Makoma; but the hero sprang aside, and as the weapon sank deep into
the soft earth, whirled Nu-endo the hammer round his head and felled
the giant with one blow.

So terrible was the stroke that Chi-gwisa- miti shrivelled up as the
other giants had done; and when he had got back his breath he begged
Makoma to take him as his servant. 'For,' said he, 'it is honourable
to serve a man so great as thou.'