in a beautiful island that lies in the southern seas, where chains of gay orchids bind the trees together, and the days and nights are equally long and nearly equally hot, there once lived a family of seven sisters. their father and mother were dead, and they had no brothers, so the eldest girl ruled over the rest, and they all did as she bade them. one sister had to clean the house, a second carried water from the spring in the forest, a third cooked their food, while to the youngest fell the hardest task of all, for she had to cut and bring home the wood which was to keep the fire continually burning. this was very hot and tiring work, and when she had fed the fire and heaped up in a corner the sticks that were to supply it till the next day, she often threw herself down under a tree, and went sound asleep.

one morning, however, as she was staggering along with her bundle on her back, she thought that the river which flowed past their hut looked so cool and inviting that she determined to bathe in it, instead of taking her usual nap. hastily piling up her load by the fire, and thrusting some sticks into the flame, she ran down to the river and jumped in. how delicious it was diving and swimming and floating in the dark forest, where the trees were so thick that you could hardly see the sun! but after a while she began to look about her, and her eyes fell on a little fish that seemed made out of a rainbow, so brilliant were the colours he flashed out.

‘i should like him for a pet,’ thought the girl, and the next time the fish swam by, she put out her hand and caught him. then she ran along the grassy path till she came to a cave in front of which a stream fell over some rocks into a basin. here she put her little fish, whose name was djulung-djulung, and promising to return soon and bring him some dinner, she went away.

by the time she got home, the rice for their dinner was ready cooked, and the eldest sister gave the other six their portions in wooden bowls. but the youngest did not finish hers, and when no one was looking, stole off to the fountain in the forest where the little fish was swimming about.

‘see! i have not forgotten you,’ she cried, and one by one she let the grains of rice fall into the water, where the fish gobbled them up greedily, for he had never tasted anything so nice.

‘that is all for to-day,’ she said at last, ‘but i will come again to-morrow,’ and biding him good-bye she went down the path.

now the girl did not tell her sisters about the fish, but every day she saved half of her rice to give him, and called him softly in a little song she had made for herself. if she sometimes felt hungry, no one knew of it, and, indeed, she did not mind that much, when she saw how the fish enjoyed it. and the fish grew fat and big, but the girl grew thin and weak, and the loads of wood felt heavier every day, and at last her sisters noticed it.

then they took counsel together, and watched her to see what she did, and one of them followed her to the fountain where djulung lived, and saw her give him all the rice she had saved from her breakfast. hastening home the sister told the others what she had witnessed, and that a lovely fat fish might be had for the catching. so the eldest sister went and caught him, and he was boiled for supper, but the youngest sister was away in the woods, and did not know anything about it.

next morning she went as usual to the cave, and sang her little song, but no djulung came to answer it; twice and thrice she sang, then threw herself on her knees by the edge, and peered into the dark water, but the trees cast such a deep shadow that her eyes could not pierce it.

‘djulung cannot be dead, or his body would be floating on the surface,’ she said to herself, and rising to her feet she set out homewards, feeling all of a sudden strangely tired.

‘what is the matter with me?’ she thought, but somehow or other she managed to reach the hut, and threw herself down in a corner, where she slept so soundly that for days no one was able to wake her.

at length, one morning early, a cock began to crow so loud that she could sleep no longer and as he continued to crow she seemed to understand what he was saying, and that he was telling her that djulung was dead, killed and eaten by her sisters, and that his bones lay buried under the kitchen fire. very softly she got up, and took up the large stone under the fire, and creeping out carried the bones to the cave by the fountain, where she dug a hole and buried them anew. and as she scooped out the hole with a stick she sang a song, bidding the bones grow till they became a tree—a tree that reached up so high into the heavens that its leaves would fall across the sea into another island, whose king would pick them up.

as there was no djulung to give her rice to, the girl soon became fat again, and as she was able to do her work as of old, her sisters did not trouble about her. they never guessed that when she went into the forest to gather her sticks, she never failed to pay a visit to the tree, which grew taller and more wonderful day by day. never was such a tree seen before. its trunk was of iron, its leaves were of silk, its flowers of gold, and its fruit of diamonds, and one evening, though the girl did not know it, a soft breeze took one of the leaves, and blew it across the sea to the feet of one of the king’s attendants.

‘what a curious leaf! i have never beheld one like it before. i must show it to the king,’ he said, and when the king saw it he declared he would never rest until he had found the tree which bore it, even if he had to spend the rest of his life in visiting the islands that lay all round. happily for him, he began with the island that was nearest, and here in the forest he suddenly saw standing before him the iron tree, its boughs covered with shining leaves like the one he carried about him.

‘but what sort of a tree is it, and how did it get here?’ he asked of the attendants he had with him. no one could answer him, but as they were about to pass out of the forest a little boy went by, and the king stopped and inquired if there was anyone living in the neighbourhood whom he might question.

‘seven girls live in a hut down there,’ replied the boy, pointing with his finger to where the sun was setting.

‘then go and bring them here, and i will wait,’ said the king, and the boy ran off and told the sisters that a great chief, with strings of jewels round his neck, had sent for them.

pleased and excited the six elder sisters at once followed the boy, but the youngest, who was busy, and who did not care about strangers, stayed behind, to finish the work she was doing. the king welcomed the girls eagerly, and asked them all manner of questions about the tree, but as they had never even heard of its existence, they could tell him nothing. ‘and if we, who live close by the forest, do not know, you may be sure no one does,’ added the eldest, who was rather cross at finding this was all that the king wanted of them.

‘but the boy told me there were seven of you, and there are only six here,’ said the king.

‘oh, the youngest is at home, but she is always half asleep, and is of no use except to cut wood for the fire,’ replied they in a breath.

‘that may be, but perhaps she dreams,’ answered the king. ‘anyway, i will speak to her also.’ then he signed to one of his attendants, who followed the path that the boy had taken to the hut.

soon the man returned, with the girl walking behind him. and as soon as she reached the tree it bowed itself to the earth before her, and she stretched out her hand and picked some of its leaves and flowers and gave them to the king.

‘the maiden who can work such wonders is fitted to be the wife of the greatest chief,’ he said, and so he married her, and took her with him across the sea to his own home, where they lived happily for ever after.

from ‘folk lore,’ by a. f. mackenzie.