The Story of the Old Man Who Made Withered Trees to Flower

Long, long ago an old man and his wife made their living from a small patch of farmland. They had been happy and peaceful all their lives except for one great sadness: they had no children. All the love of their old age went to their pet dog, Shiro, and they were so fond of him that whenever they had something good to eat, they went without so that Shiro could have it. His name means “white,” after the color of his coat. He was a true Japanese dog and looked very much like a small wolf.

The best part of the day, for the old man and his dog alike, came when the master got home from the fields. After a plain supper of rice and vegetables he would carry the scraps he had saved out to the little veranda that ran around the cottage, and there, sure enough, Shiro would be waiting for him and his evening treat. “Chin, chin!” the old man would say, and Shiro would sit up and beg for his food.

Next door lived another old couple, as wicked and cruel as these two were kind. They hated their good neighbors and hated Shiro even more. If the dog so much as peeped into their kitchen, they kicked him or threw things at him, and sometimes they hurt him badly.

One day Shiro kept barking and barking in the field behind his master’s house. The old man thought birds might be at the corn and hurried out to look. The moment Shiro saw him he bounded up, wagging his tail, caught the hem of his kimono in his teeth and tugged him over to a big yenoki tree. There he began scrabbling at the earth with his paws, yelping joyfully. The old man had no idea what all this meant and simply stood and stared, while Shiro barked and dug harder than ever.

At last it dawned on the old man that something might be buried under the tree and that the dog had smelled it. He ran home for his spade and started digging on the spot. Imagine his amazement when, after a while, he struck a pile of old and precious coins, and the deeper he went, the more gold he found! He was so busy that he never noticed his sour-faced neighbor spying on him through the bamboo hedge. Soon all the coins lay gleaming on the ground, and Shiro sat up proudly beside them, gazing lovingly at his master as if to say, “I may only be a dog, but you see I can repay a little of your kindness.”

The old man called his wife, and the two of them carried the treasure home. So in a single day the poor old man became rich. He could not be grateful enough to his faithful dog, and he loved and spoiled him even more than before, if that was possible.

The cross neighbor, drawn by Shiro’s barking, had watched the whole thing in secret and burned with envy. He made up his mind that he would find a fortune too. A few days later he came to call and asked, with great politeness, whether he might borrow Shiro for a little while.

Shiro’s master thought this very odd, for he knew perfectly well that his neighbor had no love for the dog and never missed a chance to beat and torment him. Despite that worrying history, he agreed, on condition that Shiro was well looked after.

The wicked old man went home grinning and told his wife how well his trick had worked. Then he took his spade and marched to his own field, dragging the unwilling dog along behind him. When he came to a yenoki tree, he spoke to Shiro in a threatening voice. “If there was gold under your master’s tree, there must be gold under mine. Find it for me! Where is it? Where? Where?”

He grabbed Shiro by the neck and forced his head down against the earth, and Shiro scratched and dug only to get free of the horrible old man’s grip.

The old man was delighted to see the dog digging, for he took it to mean that gold lay beneath this tree too and that Shiro had smelled it, as he had in the other field. He shoved the dog aside and dug for himself, but he found nothing at all. As he went deeper a nasty smell rose up, and at last he hit a rubbish heap.

You can picture his disgust, and how quickly it turned to rage. He had watched his neighbor’s good luck, borrowed the dog in hope of the same, and now, just when he seemed about to succeed, a whole morning’s work had won him nothing but stinking rubbish. Rather than blame his own greed, he blamed the poor dog. He struck Shiro with the spade with all his might, and the faithful dog died there in the field. The old man threw his body into the hole he had dug for treasure, covered it with earth and went home without a word to anyone, not even his wife.

Several days passed, and when Shiro did not come home, his master began to worry. Day after day he waited, but no Shiro appeared. Finally he went next door and asked for his dog back. Without a trace of shame the wicked neighbor told him he had killed Shiro for behaving badly. At this terrible news the old man wept many bitter tears, but he did not confront his neighbor. When he heard that Shiro lay buried under the yenoki tree in the field, he asked if he might have the tree to remember his poor dog by.

Even the cross old neighbor could not refuse something so simple, so he gave him the tree. Shiro’s master cut it down, carried it home and made a mortar from the trunk. His wife put rice into it, and he began to pound it, meaning to make cakes for a festival in Shiro’s memory.

Then something strange happened. As soon as he started pounding, the rice began to grow, until there was about five times as much as his wife had put in, and the cakes came tumbling out of the mortar as though invisible hands were making them.

The old couple understood that this was Shiro’s gift to them in return for their faithful love. They tasted the cakes and found them better than any food they had ever eaten. After that they never had to worry about food again, for the mortar went on giving them all the cakes they needed.

When the greedy neighbor heard of this new piece of luck, he was as jealous as ever. He called on the old man and asked to borrow the wonderful mortar for a short while, pretending that he too was sorry about Shiro and wanted to make festival cakes in the dog’s memory.

The old man had no wish at all to lend it to his cruel neighbor, but once again he agreed despite his misgivings. So the envious man carried the mortar home, and he never brought it back.

After some days of waiting, Shiro’s master went to ask, very politely, for his mortar if his neighbor had finished with it. He found him sitting beside a big fire of chopped wood, and on the ground lay what looked a great deal like the pieces of a broken mortar.

“Come for your mortar, have you?” said the wicked neighbor rudely. “I smashed it up, and now I’m burning the wood. When I tried pounding cakes in it, nothing came out but horrible smelly stuff.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” said the good old man. “What a pity you didn’t ask me for cakes, if you wanted some. I would have given you as many as you liked. Now, please let me have the ashes of the mortar. I would like to keep them in memory of my dog.”

The neighbor agreed at once, and the old man went home with a basket full of ashes.

Not long afterward he happened to scatter some of the ashes over the trees in his garden, and a marvelous thing happened. It was late autumn and every tree was bare, but the moment the ashes touched the branches, the cherry trees, the plum trees and all the other flowering shrubs burst into blossom. In an instant the old man’s garden looked like a beautiful picture of spring. He was overjoyed, and he put the rest of the ashes carefully away.

News of the old man’s garden spread far and wide, and people came from near and far to see the wonder.

Soon afterward there was a knock at the old man’s door, and when he went to the porch he was surprised to find a knight standing there. The knight explained that he served a great Daimio, or lord. One of the lord’s favorite cherry trees had withered, and although everyone in his household had tried every remedy they could think of, nothing had brought it back to life. The knight had been at his wits’ end to see how unhappy the loss of the tree made his master. Luckily, they had heard of a wonderful old man who could make withered trees bloom, and the Daimio had sent the knight to fetch him.

“And I would be very grateful,” the knight added, “if you would come at once.”

The old man was astonished, but he followed the knight respectfully to the lord’s palace.

The Daimio had been waiting impatiently, and the moment he saw the old man he asked, “Are you the old man who can make dead trees flower, even out of season?”

The old man bowed low. “I am.”

“Then you shall make the dead cherry tree in my garden bloom with your famous ashes. I will watch.”

So they all went into the garden, the Daimio, his retainers and the ladies-in-waiting who carried his sword. The old man tucked up his kimono, picked up the pot of ashes he had brought, said “Excuse me,” and began to climb the tree while everyone watched with great interest. When he reached the fork where the trunk split into two big branches, he settled himself there and scattered the ashes to left and right over every branch and twig.

The result was wonderful indeed. All at once the withered tree was covered in blossom! The Daimio was so beside himself with joy that he seemed almost wild. He jumped up, opened his fan and called the old man down from the tree. With his own hands he gave him a cup of the finest sake, and he rewarded him with heaps of silver and gold and many other treasures. He commanded that from now on the old man should be called Hana-Saka-Jijii, “the Old Man Who Makes the Trees Blossom,” and that everyone should know him by that name, and he sent him home with great honor.

As usual, the wicked neighbor heard all about the good old man’s fortune, and he could not hold back the envy and jealousy that boiled inside him. He thought of how he had failed to find gold and failed to make magic cakes. This time, he told himself, he was bound to succeed if he copied the old man, who made dead trees flower just by sprinkling ashes on them. Nothing could be easier.

So he swept up all the ashes that were left in his fireplace from burning the wonderful mortar and set off to look for some great man to hire him, shouting at the top of his voice as he went: “Here comes the marvelous man who makes withered trees bloom! Here comes the old man who makes dead trees flower!”

The Daimio heard the cry from his palace. “That must be Hana-Saka-Jijii going by,” he said. “I have nothing to do today. Let him show his skill a second time; it will amuse me to watch.”

So his retainers went out and brought the impostor before their lord, and you may imagine how pleased with himself the false old man was. But the Daimio looked at him and thought it strange that he was not at all like the old man he had seen.

“Are you the man I named Hana-Saka-Jijii?” he asked.

“Yes, my lord,” lied the envious neighbor.

“How odd,” said the Daimio. “I thought there was only one Hana-Saka-Jijii in the world. Has he taken pupils?”

“I am the real Hana-Saka-Jijii. The one who came to you was only my pupil!”

“Then you must be even cleverer than he is. Let me see what you can do.”

So the envious neighbor went into the garden with the Daimio and all his court behind him. He walked up to a dead tree, took a handful of ashes and scattered them over it. But the tree did not burst into flower; not even a single bud appeared. Thinking he had not used enough, he flung handful after handful over the branches, but it was no use. After several tries, the wind blew the ashes into the Daimio’s eyes. The lord was furious and ordered his men to seize the false Hana-Saka-Jijii and throw him into prison as a cheat. The wicked old man was never set free, and so at last he was punished for all his evil deeds.

As for the good old man, between the gold coins Shiro had found for him and all the gold and silver the Daimio had heaped upon him, he grew rich and prosperous in his old age and lived a long, happy life, loved and honored by everyone.

Where this story comes from

“The Story of the Old Man Who Made Withered Trees to Flower” is the fourteenth tale in Yei Theodora Ozaki’s Japanese Fairy Tales. Ozaki explains that the dog’s name, Shiro, means “white,” and that the Daimio gives the old man a new title, Hana-Saka-Jijii, “The Old Man who makes the Trees to Blossom.”

The greedy neighbor copies three apparent routes to wealth: the digging dog, the cake-making mortar and the flowering ashes. Like ‘The Tongue-Cut Sparrow’ in the same book, the tale contrasts affectionate care with a visitor’s desire for a reward, although the rival in that story is the man’s wife. Ozaki tells the death of Shiro plainly; this telling keeps it but leaves it brief.

Read the original: Japanese Fairy Tales (Project Gutenberg)

Reading guidance: older children with adult support. Shiro is abused and killed; his owners grieve, and the neighbor is eventually imprisoned for life.

What survives each destruction?

The dog leads to the tree, the tree becomes a mortar, and the burned mortar becomes ashes. Each time the neighbor destroys something, the old man saves a remnant as a memorial. The magic grows from that continuing relationship: food and flowers replace what the neighbor has tried to reduce to waste.

The neighbor copies the outward action while ignoring its purpose. He forces digging, demands cakes and advertises power over trees. The old man remembers and shares. Yet the tale’s repeated praise of gentleness should not make lending a pet to someone who has hurt it a model of care. Kindness can require a firm refusal.

Draw the sequence dog–tree–mortar–ashes–flowers. Under each link, write what the neighbor wants and what the owner preserves. Then write the refusal the owner could have given when first asked to lend Shiro.

Talk about it

• How did Shiro keep helping his master, even after he was gone?
• Why did the neighbor’s copying never work?
• The good old man never scolded his neighbor. What do you think of that?

Related stories

• The Tongue-Cut Sparrow — another animal companion, a grateful visit and a greed-driven demand for a gift
• How an Old Man Lost His Wen — a neighbor who copies good luck and gets the opposite
• The Farmer and the Badger — a Japanese tale about loyal friends and a cruel enemy