How the Farmer Learned to Cure His Wife--a Turkish Æsop

There once lived a farmer who understood the language of animals. He

had obtained this knowledge on condition that he would never reveal

its possession, and with the further provision that should he prove

false to his oath the penalty would be certain death.

One day he chanced to listen to a conversation his ox and his horse

were having. The ox had just come in from a weary and hard day's work

in the rain.

"Oh," sighed the ox, looking over to the horse, "how fortunate you are

to have been born a horse and not an ox. When the weather is bad you

are kept in the stable, well fed, groomed every morning, and caressed

every evening. Oh that I were a horse!"

"What you say is true," replied the horse, "but you are very stupid to

work so hard."

"You do not know what it is to be goaded with a spear and howled at,

or you would not accuse me of being stupid to work so hard," replied

the ox.

"Then why don't you feign sickness," continued the horse.

On the following day the ox determined to try this deceit, but he was

stung with remorse when he saw the horse led out to take his place at

the plough. In the evening, when the horse was brought to the stable

very tired, the ox sympathized with him, and regretted his being the

cause, but at the same time expressed astonishment at his working so

hard.

"Ah, my friend, I had to work hard; I can't bear the whip; the thought

of the hideous crack! crack! makes me shiver even now," answered the

horse.

"But leaving that aside, my poor horned friend," proceeded the horse,

"I am now most anxious for you. I heard the master say to-night that

if you were not well in the morning, the butcher was to come and

slaughter you."

"You need not worry about me, friend horse," said the ox, "as I much

prefer the yoke to chewing the cud of self-reproach."

At this point the farmer left the animals and entered his home,

smiling at his own wily craft in re-establishing, if not

contentedness, at least resignation to their fate, in the stable.

Meeting his wife, she at once inquired as to the cause of his happy

smile. He put her off, first with one excuse then with another, but to

no avail; the more he protested, the stronger her inquisitiveness

grew. Her unsatisfied curiosity at length made her ill. The endeavors

of the numerous doctors brought to her assistance were as futile as

the incantations of the sages from far and near, and as powerless to

remove the spell as were the amulets, the charms, and the abracadabras

conceived and written by holy men. The evil prompting gnawed her, and

she visibly pined away. The poor farmer was distracted. Rather than

see her die, he at last decided to tell her, and forfeit his own life

to save hers. Deeply dejected, for no man quits this planet without a

pang, he sat at the window gazing, as he thought, for the last time on

the familiar surroundings. Of a sudden he noticed his favorite

chanticleer, followed by his numerous harem, sadly strutting about,

only allowing his favorites to eat the morsels he discovered, and

ruthlessly driving the others away. To one he said: "I am not like our

poor master, to be ruled by one or a score of you. He, poor man, will

die to-day for revealing his secret knowledge to save her life."

"What is the secret knowledge?" asked one of the wives; and the

chanticleer flew at her and thrashed her mercilessly, saying at each

vigorous blow, "That is the secret, and if our master only treated the

mistress as I treat you, he would not need to give up his life

to-day."

And as if maddened at the thought, he beat them all in turn. The

master, seeing and appreciating the effect from the window, went to

his wife and treated her in precisely the same manner. And this

effected what neither doctors, sages, nor holy men could do--it cured

her.