The Stonecutter

Every morning, as the mist lifted off the hills, the stonecutter climbed to the foot of the great mountain and began to work.

Tap, tap, tap went his hammer. Chink, chink went his chisel. Slowly, block by block, he cut the grey stone out of the mountainside, and the builders in the town below bought it for houses and walls and temple steps.

It was hard, dusty work, and it did not pay much. But his arms were strong, his eye was sure, and for many years he was content.

People said that a spirit lived in the mountain, one that sometimes granted wishes. The stonecutter had never paid much attention to that.

The rich man

One day he carried a load of stone to the house of a rich man.

Through the open gate he saw silk cushions, painted screens, servants carrying trays of food. The rich man lay on a soft couch, being fanned in the heat of the day.

The stonecutter looked down at his own dusty hands.

On the way home, he sighed. "If only I were a rich man," he said, "and could lie on a soft couch all day."

And a voice, deep as a rumble in the rock, answered: Your wish is granted.

When he reached home, his hut had become a fine house, with silk cushions and painted screens, and servants waiting at the door. The stonecutter was a rich man.

The prince

For a while he was very happy.

Then, one hot afternoon, he looked out of his window and saw a prince ride past. The prince sat in a golden carriage, with soldiers marching in front and servants holding a parasol over his head to keep off the sun. Everyone in the street bowed low as he went by. The rich man bowed too.

"A rich man is nothing next to a prince," he thought. "If only I were a prince."

Your wish is granted, said the voice of the mountain.

And he was a prince, with a golden carriage and soldiers to march before him and a parasol held over his head.

The sun, the cloud and the mountain

But the summer grew hotter. The sun beat down on the land. Even with a parasol, the prince felt it burning his face, and he saw the fields turn brown and the grass wither.

"The sun is stronger than any prince," he said. "If only I were the sun."

Your wish is granted.

So he became the sun, and he blazed down on the world, proud of his power. He scorched the fields and dried up the rivers, and the people below hid from him.

Then a cloud drifted across his face. And the sun's light could not get past it.

"A cloud is stronger than the sun," he said. "If only I were a cloud."

Your wish is granted.

He became a great dark cloud, and he poured down rain. The rivers rose. Villages were washed away, and fields were flooded. Trees were torn out by their roots.

But when he looked down, he saw that there was one thing the rain could not move. The great mountain stood exactly where it had always stood, grey and silent, untouched.

"The mountain is stronger than a cloud," he said. "If only I were the mountain."

Your wish is granted.

Tap, tap, tap

So he became the mountain. Now he was the strongest of all. The sun could not burn him. The rain could not wash him away. He stood high above the world, and nothing could move him.

Then, one morning, he felt something at his feet.

Tap, tap, tap. Chink, chink.

A small figure had climbed up to the foot of the mountain. It was a stonecutter, with a hammer and a chisel, and he was cutting a block of stone out of the mountain's side. Slowly, steadily, piece by piece.

The mountain could not stop him.

"What is this?" he cried. "A man with a hammer is stronger than a mountain! If only I were that man."

And the voice answered, for the last time: Your wish is granted.

Home again

He was a stonecutter again, standing at the foot of the great mountain, with the hammer in his hand and stone dust on his arms.

His hut was a hut again. His clothes were plain. The work was as hard as it had ever been, and it paid no more than before.

But he had been a rich man and a prince, the sun, a cloud and a mountain. And he had found, at the end of all of it, that the thing which could move a mountain was a man who got up each morning and did his own work well.

He lifted his hammer. Tap, tap, tap. And it is said that he never wished to be anyone else again.

About this story

This tale is said to come from Japan. It became known in Europe through the Dutch writer Multatuli, who told it in his famous novel Max Havelaar in 1860, and Andrew Lang later retold it for children in The Crimson Fairy Book. Some versions end differently, but the circle always brings the stonecutter home. This version is a shortened, simplified retelling.