Why Does the Snake Have Two Tongues?

The Child's Story

One summer night, when the sun had vanished behind the brown hills and the gentle breeze rose up to play with the stars, the snake slipped out from among the stones to take the air.

The snake spoke, raising her head and looking about her with her two wicked eyes — for in that age she could talk, just like you and me. She said, "What a beautiful evening!" And then her glance fell on the field mouse, and she said, "Good evening, Mr. Mouse. Where are you off to?"

The mouse, moving away from her, said, "I am going to listen to the singing of the warbling nightingale." Then he leaped nimbly and vanished from sight in the dark of night.

The snake shook her head, saying, "That animal would have made me a delicious supper," and she opened her jaws wide at the thought. Then she went back to communing with herself: "I suppose they have all gone to watch the nightingale. And there is an idea — for there I shall find supper enough and more. So I shall go too." And she slithered on her way to the nightingale's place.

The nightingale meanwhile was trying over some melodies, perched on the branch of a tamarind tree, and his voice was plaintive, reminding you of the murmur of sweet waters. There sat the rabbit and the hare and the mouse and the gazelle, and even the little owl who had left her nest in one of the ruins of the desert; and the he-frog was among those who had come to hear the nightingale's plaintive voice. And the nightingale sang, and he delighted and enraptured and bewitched all hearts with his captivating strains.

All of a sudden a dreadful silence fell upon the company when they heard the snake say "Good evening," having crept in among them. The company made her no answer. Not one moment passed before they turned tail; and they all vanished except the poor he-frog — for he was the slowest of them all — and the serpent devoured him for her supper.

The next day another idea occurred to the snake, and no sooner had it sprouted in her head than she resolved to carry it out. So imagine the astonishment of our lord Solomon when he beheld the snake crawling her way toward his throne. Our lord Solomon frowned and said, "What do you want?"

The snake murmured, "Your Majesty, yesterday I heard the nightingale sing, and his voice was plaintive, and all the animals of the riverbank gathered to hear him. This voice, which can bring all those little animals out of their dens to listen to it — that is the voice I wish for myself. Will Your Majesty grant my wish?"

Our lord Solomon answered, "I know of it, for the frog's wife came to me this morning. And now I know why her husband did not return home last night. In any case, let me hear you sing. Open your mouth."

And for all the snake's cunning and guile, she opened her mouth.

Our lord Solomon bent toward her, and with the speed of a flash of lightning he slit the snake's tongue with his knife. Then he said, "You wanted a plaintive voice so that you could catch the little animals and fill your belly with them. Is it not so? Then never again shall you sing. And if you do not believe me, try to sing."

And the snake did indeed try to sing, but she could utter nothing except notes resembling a hiss.