king questioned him, he had no means of proving his zeal.  Said the king:  “Give us thy report.”  “Bizz! bizz! bizz!” said the poor fellow.  “Speak out, and let thy talk be clear,” quoth the king.  “Bizz! bizz! bizz!” cried the other again.  “What’s the matter with the little stupid?” exclaimed the king, in a rage.  Here the Swallow intervened in a sweet and shrill tone:  “Sire, it is not his fault.  Yesterday we were flying side by side, when suddenly he became mute.  But, by good luck, down there about the sacred springs, before he met with this misfortune, he told me the result of his investigations.  May I depone in his name?” “Certainly,” replied Solomon.  “What is the best blood, according to thy companion?” “Sire, it is the blood of the Frog.”

Everybody was astonished:  the Gnat was mad with rage.  “I hold,” said Solomon, “to all that I promised.  Friend Serpent, renounce Man henceforth—­that food is bad.  The Frog is the best meat; so eat as much Frog as you please.”  So the Serpent had to submit to his deplorable lot, and I leave you to think how the bile was stirred up within the rascally reptile.  As the Swallow was passing him—­mocking and sneering—­the Serpent darted at her, but the bird swiftly passed beyond reach, and with little effort cleft the vast blue sky and ascended more than a league.  The Serpent snapped only the end of the bird’s tail, and that is how the Swallow’s tail is cloven to this day; but, so far from finding it an inconvenience, she is thereby the more lively and beautiful.  And Man, knowing what he owes to her, is full of gratitude.  She has her abode under the eaves of our houses, and good luck comes wherever she nestles.  Her gay cries, sweet and shrill, rouse the springtide.  Is she not a bird-fairy—­a good angel?  On the other hand, the crafty Serpent hardly knows how to get out of the mud, and drags himself along, climbing and climbing; while the Swallow, free and light, flies in the gold of the day.  For she is faithful Friendship—­the little sister of Love.

M. Blemont does not say in what part of France this legend is current, but it is doubtless of Asiatic extraction—­whether Jewish or Muhammedan.

THE CAPON-CARVER, p. 231.

A variant of the same incident occurs in No.  IV of M. Emile Legrand’s Receuil de Contes Populaires Grecs (Paris, 1881), where a prince sets out in quest of some maiden acquainted with “figurative language,” whom he would marry.  He comes upon an old man and his daughter, and overhears the latter address her father in metaphorical terms, which she has to explain to the old man, at which the prince is highly pleased, and following them to their hut desires and obtains shelter for the night.  “As there was not much to eat, the old man bade them kill a cock, and when it was roasted it was placed on the table.  Then the young girl got up and carved the fowl.  She gave the head to her father; the body to her mother; the wings to the prince; and the