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Title: The Scottish Fairy Book

Author: Elizabeth W. Grierson

Illustrator: Morris Meredith Williams

Release date: September 26, 2011 [eBook #37532]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by David Edwards, Jane Robins and the Online
        Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
        file was produced from images generously made available
        by The Internet Archive)


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Produced by David Edwards, Jane Robins and the Online
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THE SCOTTISH FAIRY BOOK BOOKS IN THE "FAIRY SERIES"

    _The English Fairy Book_
    _The Welsh Fairy Book_
    _The Irish Fairy Book_
    _The Scottish Fairy Book_
    _The Italian Fairy Book_
    _The Hungarian Fairy Book_
    _The Indian Fairy Book_
    _The Spanish Fairy Book_
    _The Danish Fairy Book_
    _The Norwegian Fairy Book_
    _The Jewish Fairy Book_
    _The Swedish Fairy Book_
    _The Chinese Fairy Book_

    THE SCOTTISH FAIRY
    BOOK · BY ELIZABETH W.
    GRIERSON · WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
    BY MORRIS
    MEREDITH WILLIAMS

    [Illustration]

    J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
    PHILADELPHIA         NEW YORK

    Printed in U.S.A.

    "Of _Brownys and of Bogillis Full this Buke_."

    --GAVIN DOUGLAS




PREFACE


There are, roughly speaking, two distinct types of Scottish Fairy Tales.

There are what may be called "Celtic Stories," which were handed down
for centuries by word of mouth by professional story-tellers, who went
about from clachan to clachan in the "Highlands and Islands," earning a
night's shelter by giving a night's entertainment, and which have now
been collected and classified for us by Campbell of Isla and others.

These stories, which are also common to the North of Ireland, are wild
and fantastic, and very often somewhat monotonous, and their themes are
strangely alike. They almost always tell of some hero or heroine who
sets out on some dangerous quest, and who is met by giants, generally
three in number, who appear one after the other; with whom they hold
quaint dialogues, and whom eventually they slay. Most of them are fairly
long, and although they have a peculiar fascination of their own, they
are quite distinct from the ordinary Fairy Tale.

These latter, in Scotland, have also a character of their own, for there
is no country where the existence of Spirits and Goblins has been so
implicitly believed in up to a comparatively recent date.

As a proof of this we can go to Hogg's tale of "The Wool-gatherer," and
see how the countryman, Barnaby, voices the belief of his day. "Ye had
need to tak care how ye dispute the existence of fairies, brownies, and
apparitions! Ye may as weel dispute the Gospel of Saint Matthew."

Perhaps it was the bleak and stern character of their climate, and the
austerity of their religious beliefs which made our Scottish forefathers
think of the spirits in whom they so firmly believed, as being, for the
most part, mischievous and malevolent.

Their Bogies, their Witches, their Kelpies, even their Fairy Queen
herself, were supposed to be in league with the Evil One, and to be
compelled, as Thomas of Ercildoune was near finding out to his cost, to
pay a "Tiend to Hell" every seven years; so it was not to be wondered
at, that these uncanny beings were dreaded and feared.

But along with this dark and gloomy view, we find touches of delicate
playfulness and brightness. The Fairy Queen might be in league with
Satan, but her subjects were not all bound by the same law, and many
charming tales are told of the "sith" or silent folk, who were always
spoken of with respect, in case they might be within earshot, who made
their dwellings under some rocky knowe, and who came out and danced on
the dewy sward at midnight.

Akin to them are the tales which are told about a mysterious region
under the sea, "far below the abode of fishes," where a strange race of
beings lived, who, in their own land closely resembled human beings, and
were of such surpassing beauty that they charmed the hearts of all who
looked on them. They were spoken of as Mermaids and Mermen, and as
their lungs were not adapted for breathing under water, they had the
extraordinary power of entering into the skin of some fish or sea
animal, and in this way passing from their own abode to our upper world,
where they held converse with mortal men, and, as often as not, tried to
lure them to destruction.

The popular idea always represents Mer-folk as wearing the tails of
fishes; in Scottish Folklore they are quite as often found in the form
of seals.

Then we frequently come across the Brownie, that strange, kindly,
lovable creature, with its shaggy, unkempt appearance, half man, half
beast, who was said to be the ordained helper of man in the drudgery
entailed by sin, and was therefore forbidden to receive wages; who
always worked when no one was looking, and who disappeared if any notice
were taken of him.

There are also, as in all other countries, animal tales, where the
animals are endowed with the power of speech; and weird tales of
enchantment; and last, but not least, there are the legendary stories,
many of them half real, half mythical, which are to be found in the
pages of Hogg, and Leyden, and above all, in Sir Walter Scott's "Border
Minstrelsy."

In preparing this book I have tried to make a representative collection
from these different classes of Scottish Folklore, taking, when
possible, the stories which are least well known, in the hope that some
of them, at least, may be new to the children of this generation.

It may interest some of these children to know that when James IV was a
little boy, nearly four hundred years ago, he used to sit on his tutor,
Sir David Lindsay's, knee, and listen to some of the same stories that
are written here:--to the story of Thomas the Rhymer, of the Red-Etin,
and of The Black Bull of Norroway.

Although in every case I have told the tale in my own words, I am
indebted for the originals to Campbell's "Popular Tales of the Western
Highlands," Leyden's Poems, Hogg's Poems, Scott's "Border Minstrelsy,"
Chambers' "Popular Rhymes of Scotland," "The Folklore Journal," etc.

    ELIZABETH W. GRIERSON.

    _Whitchesters, Hawick, N.B.,
    12th April, 1910._




CONTENTS


                                                               PAGE

  Thomas the Rhymer                                               1

  Gold-Tree and Silver-Tree                                      17

  Whippety-Stourie                                               33

  The Red-Etin                                                   42

  The Seal Catcher and the Merman                                58

  The Page-boy and the Silver Goblet                             67

  The Black Bull of Norroway                                     74

  The Wee Bannock                                                93

  The Elfin Knight                                              101

  What to say to the New Mune                                   114

  Habetrot the Spinstress                                       115

  Nippit Fit and Clippit Fit                                    130

  The Fairies of Merlin's Crag                                  136

  The Wedding of Robin Redbreast and Jenny Wren                 144

  The Dwarfie Stone                                             150

  Canonbie Dick and Thomas of Ercildoune                        169

  The Laird o' Co'                                              179

  Poussie Baudrons                                              186

  The Milk-white Doo                                            188

  The Draiglin' Hogney                                          196

  The Brownie o' Ferne-Den                                      204

  The Witch of Fife                                             211

  Assipattle and the Mester Stoorworm                           221

  The Fox and the Wolf                                          245

  Katherine Crackernuts                                         253

  Times to Sneeze                                               268

  The Well o' the World's End                                   272

  Farquhar MacNeill                                             277

  Peerifool                                                     284

  Birthdays                                                     298




THOMAS THE RHYMER


Of all the young gallants in Scotland in the thirteenth century, there
was none more gracious and debonair than Thomas Learmont, Laird of the
Castle of Ercildoune, in Berwickshire.

He loved books, poetry, and music, which were uncommon tastes in those
days; and, above all, he loved to study nature, and to watch the habits
of the beasts and birds that made their abode in the fields and woods
round about his home.

Now it chanced that, one sunny May morning, Thomas left his Tower of
Ercildoune, and went wandering into the woods that lay about the Huntly
Burn, a little stream that came rushing down from the slopes of the
Eildon Hills. It was a lovely morning--fresh, and bright, and warm, and
everything was so beautiful that it looked as Paradise might look.

The tender leaves were bursting out of their sheaths, and covering all
the trees with a fresh soft mantle of green; and amongst the carpet of
moss under the young man's feet, yellow primroses and starry anemones
were turning up their faces to the morning sky.

The little birds were singing like to burst their throats, and hundreds
of insects were flying backwards and forwards in the sunshine; while
down by the burnside the bright-eyed water-rats were poking their noses
out of their holes, as if they knew that summer had come, and wanted to
have a share in all that was going on.

Thomas felt so happy with the gladness of it all, that he threw himself
down at the root of a tree, to watch the living things around him.

As he was lying there, he heard the trampling of a horse's hooves, as it
forced its way through the bushes; and, looking up, he saw the most
beautiful lady that he had ever seen coming riding towards him on a grey
palfrey.

She wore a hunting dress of glistening silk, the colour of the fresh
spring grass; and from her shoulders hung a velvet mantle, which matched
the riding-skirt exactly. Her yellow hair, like rippling gold, hung
loosely round her shoulders, and on her head sparkled a diadem of
precious stones, which flashed like fire in the sunlight.

Her saddle was of pure ivory, and her saddle-cloth of blood-red satin,
while her saddle girths were of corded silk and her stirrups of cut
crystal. Her horse's reins were of beaten gold, all hung with little
silver bells, so that, as she rode along, she made a sound like fairy
music.

Apparently she was bent on the chase, for she carried a hunting-horn and
a sheaf of arrows; and she led seven greyhounds along in a leash, while
as many scenting hounds ran loose at her horse's side.

As she rode down the glen, she lilted a bit of an old Scotch song; and
she carried herself with such a queenly air, and her dress was so
magnificent, that Thomas was like to kneel by the side of the path and
worship her, for he thought that it must be the Blessed Virgin herself.

But when the rider came to where he was, and understood his thoughts,
she shook her head sadly.

"I am not that Blessed Lady, as thou thinkest," she said. "Men call me
Queen, but it is of a far other country; for I am the Queen of
Fairy-land, and not the Queen of Heaven."

And certainly it seemed as if what she said were true; for, from that
moment, it was as if a spell were cast over Thomas, making him forget
prudence, and caution, and common-sense itself.

For he knew that it was dangerous for mortals to meddle with Fairies,
yet he was so entranced with the Lady's beauty that he begged her to
give him a kiss. This was just what she wanted, for she knew that if she
once kissed him she had him in her power.

And, to the young man's horror, as soon as their lips had met, an awful
change came over her. For her beautiful mantle and riding-skirt of silk
seemed to fade away, leaving her clad in a long grey garment, which was
just the colour of ashes. Her beauty seemed to fade away also, and she
grew old and wan; and, worst of all, half of her abundant yellow hair
went grey before his very eyes. She saw the poor man's astonishment and
terror, and she burst into a mocking laugh.

"I am not so fair to look on now as I was at first," she said, "but that
matters little, for thou hast sold thyself, Thomas, to be my servant for
seven long years. For whoso kisseth the Fairy Queen must e'en go with
her to Fairy-land, and serve her there till that time is past."

When he heard these words poor Thomas fell on his knees and begged for
mercy. But mercy he could not obtain. The Elfin Queen only laughed in
his face, and brought her dapple-grey palfrey close up to where he was
standing.

"No, no," she said, in answer to his entreaties. "Thou didst ask the
kiss, and now thou must pay the price. So dally no longer, but mount
behind me, for it is full time that I was gone."

So Thomas, with many a sigh and groan of terror, mounted behind her; and
as soon as he had done so, she shook her bridle rein, and the grey steed
galloped off.

On and on they went, going swifter than the wind; till they left the
land of the living behind, and came to the edge of a great desert, which
stretched before them, dry, and bare, and desolate, to the edge of the
far horizon.

At least, so it seemed to the weary eyes of Thomas of Ercildoune, and
he wondered if he and his strange companion had to cross this desert;
and, if so, if there were any chance of reaching the other side of it
alive.

But the Fairy Queen suddenly tightened her rein, and the grey palfrey
stopped short in its wild career.

"Now must thou descend to earth, Thomas," said the Lady, glancing over
her shoulder at her unhappy captive, "and lout down, and lay thy head on
my knee, and I will show thee hidden things, which cannot be seen by
mortal eyes."

So Thomas dismounted, and louted down, and rested his head on the Fairy
Queen's knee; and lo, as he looked once more over the desert, everything
seemed changed. For he saw three roads leading across it now, which he
had not noticed before, and each of these three roads was different.

One of them was broad, and level, and even, and it ran straight on
across the sand, so that no one who was travelling by it could possibly
lose his way.

And the second road was as different from the first as it well could be.
It was narrow, and winding, and long; and there was a thorn hedge on one
side of it, and a briar hedge on the other; and those hedges grew so
high, and their branches were so wild and tangled, that those who were
travelling along that road would have some difficulty in persevering on
their journey at all.

And the third road was unlike any of the others. It was a bonnie,
bonnie road, winding up a hillside among brackens, and heather, and
golden-yellow whins, and it looked as if it would be pleasant
travelling, to pass that way.

"Now," said the Fairy Queen, "an' thou wilt, I shall tell thee where
these three roads lead to. The first road, as thou seest, is broad, and
even, and easy, and there be many that choose it to travel on. But
though it be a good road, it leadeth to a bad end, and the folk that
choose it repent their choice for ever.

"And as for the narrow road, all hampered and hindered by the thorns and
the briars, there be few that be troubled to ask where that leadeth to.
But did they ask, perchance more of them might be stirred up to set out
along it. For that is the Road of Righteousness; and, although it be
hard and irksome, yet it endeth in a glorious City, which is called the
City of the Great King.

"And the third road--the bonnie road--that runs up the brae among the
ferns, and leadeth no mortal kens whither, but I ken where it leadeth,
Thomas--for it leadeth unto fair Elf-land; and that road take we.

"And, mark 'ee, Thomas, if ever thou hopest to see thine own Tower of
Ercildoune again, take care of thy tongue when we reach our journey's
end, and speak no single word to anyone save me--for the mortal who
openeth his lips rashly in Fairy-land must bide there for ever."

Then she bade him mount her palfrey again, and they rode on. The ferny
road was not so bonnie all the way as it had been at first, however. For
they had not ridden along it very far before it led them into a narrow
ravine, which seemed to go right down under the earth, where there was
no ray of light to guide them, and where the air was dank and heavy.
There was a sound of rushing water everywhere, and at last the grey
palfrey plunged right into it; and it crept up, cold and chill, first
over Thomas's feet, and then over his knees.

His courage had been slowly ebbing ever since he had been parted from
the daylight, but now he gave himself up for lost; for it seemed to him
certain that his strange companion and he would never come safe to their
journey's end.

He fell forward in a kind of swoon; and, if it had not been that he had
tight hold of the Fairy's ash-grey gown, I warrant he had fallen from
his seat, and had been drowned.

But all things, be they good or bad, pass in time, and at last the
darkness began to lighten, and the light grew stronger, until they were
back in broad sunshine.

Then Thomas took courage, and looked up; and lo, they were riding
through a beautiful orchard, where apples and pears, dates and figs and
wine-berries grew in great abundance. And his tongue was so parched and
dry, and he felt so faint, that he longed for some of the fruit to
restore him.

He stretched out his hand to pluck some of it; but his companion turned
in her saddle and forbade him.

"There is nothing safe for thee to eat here," she said, "save an apple,
which I will give thee presently. If thou touch aught else thou art
bound to remain in Fairy-land for ever."

So poor Thomas had to restrain himself as best he could; and they rode
slowly on, until they came to a tiny tree all covered with red apples.
The Fairy Queen bent down and plucked one, and handed it to her
companion.

"This I can give thee," she said, "and I do it gladly, for these apples
are the Apples of Truth; and whoso eateth them gaineth this reward, that
his lips will never more be able to frame a lie."

Thomas took the apple, and ate it; and for evermore the Grace of Truth
rested on his lips; and that is why, in after years, men called him
"True Thomas."

They had only a little way to go after this, before they came in sight
of a magnificent Castle standing on a hillside.

"Yonder is my abode," said the Queen, pointing to it proudly. "There
dwelleth my Lord and all the Nobles of his court; and, as my Lord hath
an uncertain temper and shows no liking for any strange gallant whom he
sees in my company, I pray thee, both for thy sake and mine, to utter no
word to anyone who speaketh to thee; and, if anyone should ask me who
and what thou art, I will tell them that thou art dumb. So wilt thou
pass unnoticed in the crowd."

With these words the Lady raised her hunting-horn, and blew a loud and
piercing blast; and, as she did so, a marvellous change came over her
again; for her ugly ash-covered gown dropped off her, and the grey in
her hair vanished, and she appeared once more in her green riding-skirt
and mantle, and her face grew young and fair.

And a wonderful change passed over Thomas also; for, as he chanced to
glance downwards, he found that his rough country clothes had been
transformed into a suit of fine brown cloth, and that on his feet he
wore satin shoon.

Immediately the sound of the horn rang out, the doors of the Castle flew
open, and the King hurried out to meet the Queen, accompanied by such a
number of Knights and Ladies, Minstrels and Page-boys, that Thomas, who
had slid from his palfrey, had no difficulty in obeying her wishes and
passing into the Castle unobserved.

Everyone seemed very glad to see the Queen back again, and they crowded
into the Great Hall in her train, and she spoke to them all graciously,
and allowed them to kiss her hand. Then she passed, with her husband, to
a dais at the far end of the huge apartment, where two thrones stood, on
which the Royal pair seated themselves to watch the revels which now
began.

Poor Thomas, meanwhile, stood far away at the other end of the Hall,
feeling very lonely, yet fascinated by the extraordinary scene on which
he was gazing.

For, although all the fine Ladies, and Courtiers, and Knights were
dancing in one part of the Hall, there were huntsmen coming and going in
another part, carrying in great antlered deer, which apparently they had
killed in the chase, and throwing them down in heaps on the floor. And
there were rows of cooks standing beside the dead animals, cutting them
up into joints, and bearing away the joints to be cooked.

Altogether it was such a strange, fantastic scene that Thomas took no
heed of how the time flew, but stood and gazed, and gazed, never
speaking a word to anybody. This went on for three long days, then the
Queen rose from her throne, and, stepping from the dais, crossed the
Hall to where he was standing.

"'Tis time to mount and ride, Thomas," she said, "if thou wouldst ever
see the fair Castle of Ercildoune again."

Thomas looked at her in amazement. "Thou spokest of seven long years,
Lady," he exclaimed, "and I have been here but three days."

The Queen smiled. "Time passeth quickly in Fairy-land, my friend," she
replied. "Thou thinkest that thou hast been here but three days. 'Tis
seven years since we two met. And now it is time for thee to go. I would
fain have had thy presence with me longer, but I dare not, for thine
own sake. For every seventh year an Evil Spirit cometh from the Regions
of Darkness, and carrieth back with him one of our followers, whomsoever
he chanceth to choose. And, as thou art a goodly fellow, I fear that he
might choose thee.

"So, as I would be loth to let harm befall thee, I will take thee back
to thine own country this very night."

Once more the grey palfrey was brought, and Thomas and the Queen mounted
it; and, as they had come, so they returned to the Eildon Tree near the
Huntly Burn.

Then the Queen bade Thomas farewell; and, as a parting gift, he asked
her to give him something that would let people know that he had really
been to Fairy-land.

"I have already given thee the Gift of Truth," she replied. "I will now
give thee the Gifts of Prophecy and Poesie; so that thou wilt be able to
foretell the future, and also to write wondrous verses. And, besides
these unseen gifts, here is something that mortals can see with their
own eyes--a Harp that was fashioned in Fairy-land. Fare thee well, my
friend. Some day, perchance, I will return for thee again."

With these words the Lady vanished, and Thomas was left alone, feeling a
little sorry, if the truth must be told, at parting with such a radiant
Being and coming back to the ordinary haunts of men.

After this he lived for many a long year in his Castle of Ercildoune,
and the fame of his poetry and of his prophecies spread all over the
country, so that people named him True Thomas, and Thomas the Rhymer.

I cannot write down for you all the prophecies which Thomas uttered, and
which most surely came to pass, but I will tell you one or two.

He foretold the Battle of Bannockburn in these words:

    "The Burn of Breid
    Shall rin fou reid,"

which came to pass on that terrible day when the waters of the little
Bannockburn were reddened by the blood of the defeated English.

He also foretold the Union of the Crowns of England and Scotland, under
a Prince who was the son of a French Queen, and who yet bore the blood
of Bruce in his veins.

    "A French Quen shall bearre the Sonne;
    Shall rule all Britainne to the sea,
    As neere as is the ninth degree,"

which thing came true in 1603, when King James, son of Mary, Queen of
Scots, became Monarch of both countries.

       *       *       *       *       *

Fourteen long years went by, and people were beginning to forget that
Thomas the Rhymer had ever been in Fairy-land; but at last a day came
when Scotland was at war with England, and the Scottish army was
resting by the banks of the Tweed, not far from the Tower of
Ercildoune.

[Illustration]

And the Master of the Tower determined to make a feast, and invite all
the Nobles and Barons who were leading the army to sup with him.

That feast was long remembered.

For the Laird of Ercildoune took care that everything was as magnificent
as it could possibly be; and when the meal was ended he rose in his
place, and, taking his Elfin Harp, he sang to his assembled guests song
after song of the days of long ago.

The guests listened breathlessly, for they felt that they would never
hear such wonderful music again. And so it fell out.

For that very night, after all the Nobles had gone back to their tents,
a soldier on guard saw, in the moonlight, a snow-white Hart and Hind
moving slowly down the road that ran past the camp.

There was something so unusual about the animals that he called to his
officer to come and look at them. And the officer called to his brother
officers, and soon there was quite a crowd softly following the dumb
creatures, who paced solemnly on, as if they were keeping time to music
unheard by mortal ears.

"There is something uncanny about this," said one soldier at last. "Let
us send for Thomas of Ercildoune, perchance he may be able to tell us if
it be an omen or no."

"Ay, send for Thomas of Ercildoune," cried every one at once. So a
little page was sent in haste to the old Tower to rouse the Rhymer from
his slumbers.

When he heard the boy's message, the Seer's face grew grave and wrapt.

"'Tis a summons," he said softly, "a summons from the Queen of
Fairy-land. I have waited long for it, and it hath come at last."

And when he went out, instead of joining the little company of waiting
men, he walked straight up to the snow-white Hart and Hind. As soon as
he reached them they paused for a moment as if to greet him. Then all
three moved slowly down a steep bank that sloped to the little river
Leader, and disappeared in its foaming waters, for the stream was in
full flood.

And, although a careful search was made, no trace of Thomas of
Ercildoune was found; and to this day the country folk believe that the
Hart and the Hind were messengers from the Elfin Queen, and that he went
back to Fairy-land with them.

[Illustration]

[Illustration: And she set sail for her own Country.]




GOLD-TREE AND SILVER-TREE


In bygone days there lived a little Princess named Gold-Tree, and she
was one of the prettiest children in the whole world.

Although her mother was dead, she had a very happy life, for her father
loved her dearly, and thought that nothing was too much trouble so long
as it gave his little daughter pleasure. But by and by he married again,
and then the little Princess's sorrows began.

For his new wife, whose name, curious to say, was Silver-Tree, was very
beautiful, but she was also very jealous, and she made herself quite
miserable for fear that, some day, she should meet someone who was
better looking than she was herself.

When she found that her step-daughter was so very pretty, she took a
dislike to her at once, and was always looking at her and wondering if
people would think her prettier than she was. And because, in her heart
of hearts, she was afraid that they would do so, she was very unkind
indeed to the poor girl.

At last, one day, when Princess Gold-Tree was quite grown up, the two
ladies went for a walk to a little well which lay, all surrounded by
trees, in the middle of a deep glen.

Now the water in this well was so clear that everyone who looked into it
saw his face reflected on the surface; and the proud Queen loved to come
and peep into its depths, so that she could see her own picture mirrored
in the water.

But to-day, as she was looking in, what should she see but a little
trout, which was swimming quietly backwards and forwards not very far
from the surface.

"Troutie, troutie, answer me this one question," said the Queen. "Am not
I the most beautiful woman in the world?"

"No, indeed, you are not," replied the trout promptly, jumping out of
the water, as he spoke, in order to swallow a fly.

"Who is the most beautiful woman, then?" asked the disappointed Queen,
for she had expected a far different answer.

"Thy step-daughter, the Princess Gold-Tree, without a doubt," said the
little fish; then, frightened by the black look that came upon the
jealous Queen's face, he dived to the bottom of the well.

It was no wonder that he did so, for the Queen's expression was not
pleasant to look at, as she darted an angry glance at her fair young
step-daughter, who was busy picking flowers some little distance away.

Indeed, she was so annoyed at the thought that anyone should say that
the girl was prettier than she was, that she quite lost her
self-control; and when she reached home she went up, in a violent
passion, to her room, and threw herself on the bed, declaring that she
felt very ill indeed.

It was in vain that Princess Gold-Tree asked her what the matter was,
and if she could do anything for her. She would not let the poor girl
touch her, but pushed her away as if she had been some evil thing. So at
last the Princess had to leave her alone, and go out of the apartment,
feeling very sad indeed.

By and by the King came home from his hunting, and he at once asked for
the Queen. He was told that she had been seized with sudden illness, and
that she was lying on her bed in her own room, and that no one, not even
the Court Physician, who had been hastily summoned, could make out what
was wrong with her.

In great anxiety--for he really loved her--the King went up to her
bedside, and asked the Queen how she felt, and if there was anything
that he could do to relieve her.

"Yes, there is one thing that thou couldst do," she answered harshly,
"but I know full well that, even although it is the only thing that will
cure me, thou wilt not do it."

"Nay," said the King, "I deserve better words at thy mouth than these;
for thou knowest that I would give thee aught thou carest to ask, even
if it be the half of my Kingdom."

"Then give me thy daughter's heart to eat," cried the Queen, "for unless
I can obtain that, I will die, and that speedily."

She spoke so wildly, and looked at him in such a strange fashion, that
the poor King really thought that her brain was turned, and he was at
his wits' end what to do. He left the room, and paced up and down the
corridor in great distress, until at last he remembered that that very
morning the son of a great King had arrived from a country far over the
sea, asking for his daughter's hand in marriage.

"Here is a way out of the difficulty," he said to himself. "This
marriage pleaseth me well, and I will have it celebrated at once. Then,
when my daughter is safe out of the country, I will send a lad up the
hillside, and he shall kill a he-goat, and I will have its heart
prepared and dressed, and send it up to my wife. Perhaps the sight of it
will cure her of this madness."

So he had the strange Prince summoned before him, and told him how the
Queen had taken a sudden illness that had wrought on her brain, and had
caused her to take a dislike to the Princess, and how it seemed as if it
would be a good thing if, with the maiden's consent, the marriage could
take place at once, so that the Queen might be left alone to recover
from her strange malady.

Now the Prince was delighted to gain his bride so easily, and the
Princess was glad to escape from her step-mother's hatred, so the
marriage took place at once, and the newly wedded pair set off across
the sea for the Prince's country.

Then the King sent a lad up the hillside to kill a he-goat; and when it
was killed he gave orders that its heart should be dressed and cooked,
and sent to the Queen's apartment on a silver dish. And the wicked woman
tasted it, believing it to be the heart of her step-daughter; and when
she had done so, she rose from her bed and went about the Castle looking
as well and hearty as ever.

I am glad to be able to tell you that the marriage of Princess
Gold-Tree, which had come about in such a hurry, turned out to be a
great success; for the Prince whom she had wedded was rich, and great,
and powerful, and he loved her dearly, and she was as happy as the day
was long.

So things went peacefully on for a year. Queen Silver-Tree was satisfied
and contented, because she thought that her step-daughter was dead;
while all the time the Princess was happy and prosperous in her new
home.

But at the end of the year it chanced that the Queen went once more to
the well in the little glen, in order to see her face reflected in the
water.

And it chanced also that the same little trout was swimming backwards
and forwards, just as he had done the year before. And the foolish Queen
determined to have a better answer to her question this time than she
had last.

"Troutie, troutie," she whispered, leaning over the edge of the well,
"am not I the most beautiful woman in the world?"

"By my troth, thou art not," answered the trout, in his very
straightforward way.

"Who is the most beautiful woman, then?" asked the Queen, her face
growing pale at the thought that she had yet another rival.

"Why, your Majesty's step-daughter, the Princess Gold-Tree, to be sure,"
answered the trout.

The Queen threw back her head with a sigh of relief. "Well, at any rate,
people cannot admire her now," she said, "for it is a year since she
died. I ate her heart for my supper."

"Art thou sure of that, your Majesty?" asked the trout, with a twinkle
in his eye. "Methinks it is but a year since she married the gallant
young Prince who came from abroad to seek her hand, and returned with
him to his own country."

When the Queen heard these words she turned quite cold with rage, for
she knew that her husband had deceived her; and she rose from her knees
and went straight home to the Palace, and, hiding her anger as best she
could, she asked him if he would give orders to have the Long Ship made
ready, as she wished to go and visit her dear step-daughter, for it was
such a very long time since she had seen her.

The King was somewhat surprised at her request, but he was only too glad
to think that she had got over her hatred towards his daughter, and he
gave orders that the Long Ship should be made ready at once.

Soon it was speeding over the water, its prow turned in the direction of
the land where the Princess lived, steered by the Queen herself; for she
knew the course that the boat ought to take, and she was in such haste
to be at her journey's end that she would allow no one else to take the
helm.

Now it chanced that Princess Gold-Tree was alone that day, for her
husband had gone a-hunting. And as she looked out of one of the Castle
windows she saw a boat coming sailing over the sea towards the landing
place. She recognised it as her father's Long Ship, and she guessed only
too well whom it carried on board.

She was almost beside herself with terror at the thought, for she knew
that it was for no good purpose that Queen Silver-Tree had taken the
trouble to set out to visit her, and she felt that she would have given
almost anything she possessed if her husband had but been at home. In
her distress she hurried into the servants' hall.

"Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?" she cried, "for I see my
father's Long Ship coming over the sea, and I know that my step-mother
is on board. And if she hath a chance she will kill me, for she hateth
me more than anything else upon earth."

Now the servants worshipped the ground that their young Mistress trod
on, for she was always kind and considerate to them, and when they saw
how frightened she was, and heard her piteous words, they crowded round
her, as if to shield her from any harm that threatened her.

"Do not be afraid, your Highness," they cried; "we will defend thee with
our very lives if need be. But in case thy Lady Step-Mother should have
the power to throw any evil spell over thee, we will lock thee in the
great Mullioned Chamber, then she cannot get nigh thee at all."

Now the Mullioned Chamber was a strong-room, which was in a part of the
castle all by itself, and its door was so thick that no one could
possibly break through it; and the Princess knew that if she were once
inside the room, with its stout oaken door between her and her
step-mother, she would be perfectly safe from any mischief that that
wicked woman could devise.

So she consented to her faithful servants' suggestion, and allowed them
to lock her in the Mullioned Chamber.

So it came to pass that when Queen Silver-Tree arrived at the great door
of the Castle, and commanded the lackey who opened it to take her to his
Royal Mistress, he told her, with a low bow, that that was impossible,
because the Princess was locked in the strong-room of the Castle, and
could not get out, because no one knew where the key was.

(Which was quite true, for the old butler had tied it round the neck of
the Prince's favourite sheep-dog, and had sent him away to the hills to
seek his master.)

"Take me to the door of the apartment," commanded the Queen. "At least I
can speak to my dear daughter through it." And the lackey, who did not
see what harm could possibly come from this, did as he was bid.

"If the key is really lost, and thou canst not come out to welcome me,
dear Gold-Tree," said the deceitful Queen, "at least put thy little
finger through the keyhole that I may kiss it."

The Princess did so, never dreaming that evil could come to her through
such a simple action. But it did. For instead of kissing the tiny
finger, her step-mother stabbed it with a poisoned needle, and, so
deadly was the poison, that, before she could utter a single cry, the
poor Princess fell, as one dead, on the floor.

When she heard the fall, a smile of satisfaction crept over Queen
Silver-Tree's face. "Now I can say that I am the handsomest woman in the
world," she whispered; and she went back to the lackey who stood waiting
at the end of the passage, and told him that she had said all that she
had to say to her daughter, and that now she must return home.

So the man attended her to the boat with all due ceremony, and she set
sail for her own country; and no one in the Castle knew that any harm
had befallen their dear Mistress until the Prince came home from his
hunting with the key of the Mullioned Chamber, which he had taken from
his sheep-dog's neck, in his hand.

[Illustration]

He laughed when he heard the story of Queen Silver-Tree's visit, and
told the servants that they had done well; then he ran upstairs to open
the door and release his wife.

But what was his horror and dismay, when he did so, to find her lying
dead at his feet on the floor.

He was nearly beside himself with rage and grief; and, because he knew
that a deadly poison such as Queen Silver-Tree had used would preserve
the Princess's body so that it had no need of burial, he had it laid on
a silken couch and left in the Mullioned Chamber, so that he could go
and look at it whenever he pleased.

He was so terribly lonely, however, that in a little time he married
again, and his second wife was just as sweet and as good as the first
one had been. This new wife was very happy, there was only one little
thing that caused her any trouble at all, and she was too sensible to
let it make her miserable.

That one thing was that there was one room in the Castle--a room which
stood at the end of a passage by itself--which she could never enter, as
her husband always carried the key. And as, when she asked him the
reason of this, he always made an excuse of some kind, she made up her
mind that she would not seem as if she did not trust him, so she asked
no more questions about the matter.

But one day the Prince chanced to leave the door unlocked, and as he had
never told her not to do so, she went in, and there she saw Princess
Gold-Tree lying on the silken couch, looking as if she were asleep.

"Is she dead, or is she only sleeping?" she said to herself, and she
went up to the couch and looked closely at the Princess. And there,
sticking in her little finger, she discovered a curiously shaped needle.

"There hath been evil work here," she thought to herself. "If that
needle be not poisoned, then I know naught of medicine." And, being
skilled in leechcraft, she drew it carefully out.

In a moment Princess Gold-Tree opened her eyes and sat up, and presently
she had recovered sufficiently to tell the Other Princess the whole
story.

Now, if her step-mother had been jealous, the Other Princess was not
jealous at all; for, when she heard all that had happened, she clapped
her little hands, crying, "Oh, how glad the Prince will be; for although
he hath married again, I know that he loves thee best."

That night the Prince came home from hunting looking very tired and sad,
for what his second wife had said was quite true. Although he loved her
very much, he was always mourning in his heart for his first dear love,
Princess Gold-Tree.

"How sad thou art!" exclaimed his wife, going out to meet him. "Is there
nothing that I can do to bring a smile to thy face?"

"Nothing," answered the Prince wearily, laying down his bow, for he was
too heart-sore even to pretend to be gay.

"Except to give thee back Gold-Tree," said his wife mischievously. "And
that can I do. Thou wilt find her alive and well in the Mullioned
Chamber."

Without a word the Prince ran upstairs, and, sure enough, there was his
dear Gold-Tree, sitting on the couch ready to welcome him.

He was so overjoyed to see her that he threw his arms round her neck and
kissed her over and over again, quite forgetting his poor second wife,
who had followed him upstairs, and who now stood watching the meeting
that she had brought about.

She did not seem to be sorry for herself, however. "I always knew that
thy heart yearned after Princess Gold-Tree," she said. "And it is but
right that it should be so. For she was thy first love, and, since she
hath come to life again, I will go back to mine own people."

"No, indeed thou wilt not," answered the Prince, "for it is thou who
hast brought me this joy. Thou wilt stay with us, and we shall all three
live happily together. And Gold-Tree and thee will become great
friends."

And so it came to pass. For Princess Gold-Tree and the Other Princess
soon became like sisters, and loved each other as if they had been
brought up together all their lives.

In this manner another year passed away, and one evening, in the old
country, Queen Silver-Tree went, as she had done before, to look at her
face in the water of the little well in the glen.

And, as had happened twice before, the trout was there. "Troutie,
troutie," she whispered, "am not I the most beautiful woman in the
world?"

"By my troth, thou art not," answered the trout, as he had answered on
the two previous occasions.

"And who dost thou say is the most beautiful woman now?" asked the
Queen, her voice trembling with rage and vexation.

"I have given her name to thee these two years back," answered the
trout. "The Princess Gold-Tree, of course."

"But she is dead," laughed the Queen. "I am sure of it this time, for it
is just a year since I stabbed her little finger with a poisoned needle,
and I heard her fall down dead on the floor."

"I would not be so sure of that," answered the trout, and without saying
another word he dived straight down to the bottom of the well.

After hearing his mysterious words the Queen could not rest, and at last
she asked her husband to have the Long Ship prepared once more, so that
she could go and see her step-daughter.

The King gave the order gladly; and it all happened as it had happened
before.

She steered the Ship over the sea with her own hands, and when it was
approaching the land it was seen and recognised by Princess Gold-Tree.

The Prince was out hunting, and the Princess ran, in great terror, to
her friend, the Other Princess, who was upstairs in her chamber.

"Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?" she cried, "for I see my
father's Long Ship coming, and I know that my cruel step-mother is on
board, and she will try to kill me, as she tried to kill me before. Oh!
come, let us escape to the hills."

"Not at all," replied the Other Princess, throwing her arms round the
trembling Gold-Tree. "I am not afraid of thy Lady Step-Mother. Come with
me, and we will go down to the sea shore to greet her."

So they both went down to the edge of the water, and when Queen
Silver-Tree saw her step-daughter coming she pretended to be very glad,
and sprang out of the boat and ran to meet her, and held out a silver
goblet full of wine for her to drink.

"'Tis rare wine from the East," she said, "and therefore very precious.
I brought a flagon with me, so that we might pledge each other in a
loving cup."

Princess Gold-Tree, who was ever gentle and courteous, would have
stretched out her hand for the cup, had not the Other Princess stepped
between her and her step-mother.

"Nay, Madam," she said gravely, looking the Queen straight in the face;
"it is the custom in this land for the one who offers a loving cup to
drink from it first herself."

"I will follow the custom gladly," answered the Queen, and she raised
the goblet to her mouth. But the Other Princess, who was watching for
closely, noticed that she did not allow the wine that it contained to
touch her lips. So she stepped forward and, as if by accident, struck
the bottom of the goblet with her shoulder. Part of its contents flew
into the Queen's face, and part, before she could shut her mouth, went
down her throat.

So, because of her wickedness, she was, as the Good Book says, caught in
her own net. For she had made the wine so poisonous that, almost before
she had swallowed it, she fell dead at the two Princesses' feet.

No one was sorry for her, for she really deserved her fate; and they
buried her hastily in a lonely piece of ground, and very soon everybody
had forgotten all about her.

As for Princess Gold-Tree, she lived happily and peacefully with her
husband and her friend for the remainder of her life.

[Illustration]




WHIPPETY-STOURIE


I am going to tell you a story about a poor young widow woman, who lived
in a house called Kittlerumpit, though whereabouts in Scotland the house
of Kittlerumpit stood nobody knows.

Some folk think that it stood in the neighbourhood of the Debateable
Land, which, as all the world knows, was on the Borders, where the old
Border Reivers were constantly coming and going; the Scotch stealing
from the English, and the English from the Scotch. Be that as it may,
the widowed Mistress of Kittlerumpit was sorely to be pitied.

For she had lost her husband, and no one quite knew what had become of
him. He had gone to a fair one day, and had never come back again, and
although everybody believed that he was dead, no one knew how he died.

Some people said that he had been persuaded to enlist, and had been
killed in the wars; others, that he had been taken away to serve as a
sailor by the press-gang, and had been drowned at sea.

At any rate, his poor young wife was sorely to be pitied, for she was
left with a little baby-boy to bring up, and, as times were bad, she had
not much to live on.

But she loved her baby dearly, and worked all day amongst her cows, and
pigs, and hens, in order to earn enough money to buy food and clothes
for both herself and him.

Now, on the morning of which I am speaking, she rose very early and went
out to feed her pigs, for rent-day was coming on, and she intended to
take one of them, a great, big, fat creature, to the market that very
day, as she thought that the price that it would fetch would go a long
way towards paying her rent.

And because she thought so, her heart was light, and she hummed a little
song to herself as she crossed the yard with her bucket on one arm and
her baby-boy on the other.

But the song was quickly changed into a cry of despair when she reached
the pig-stye, for there lay her cherished pig on its back, with its legs
in the air and its eyes shut, just as if it were going to breathe its
last breath.

"What shall I do? What shall I do?" cried the poor woman, sitting down
on a big stone and clasping her boy to her breast, heedless of the fact
that she had dropped her bucket, and that the pig's-meat was running
out, and that the hens were eating it.

"First I lost my husband, and now I am going to lose my finest pig. The
pig that I hoped would fetch a deal of money."

Now I must explain to you that the house of Kittlerumpit stood on a
hillside, with a great fir wood behind it, and the ground sloping down
steeply in front.

And as the poor young thing, after having a good cry to herself, was
drying her eyes, she chanced to look down the hill, and who should she
see coming up it but an Old Woman, who looked like a lady born.

She was dressed all in green, with a white apron, and she wore a black
velvet hood on her head, and a steeple-crowned beaver hat over that,
something like those, as I have heard tell, that the women wear in
Wales. She walked very slowly, leaning on a long staff, and she gave a
bit hirple now and then, as if she were lame.

As she drew near, the young widow felt it was becoming to rise and
curtsey to the Gentlewoman, for such she saw her to be.

"Madam," she said, with a sob in her voice, "I bid you welcome to the
house of Kittlerumpit, although you find its Mistress one of the most
unfortunate women in the world."

"Hout-tout," answered the old Lady, in such a harsh voice that the young
woman started, and grasped her baby tighter in her arms. "Ye have little
need to say that. Ye have lost your husband, I grant ye, but there were
waur losses at Shirra-Muir. And now your pig is like to die--I could,
maybe, remedy that. But I must first hear how much ye wad gie me if I
cured him."

"Anything that your Ladyship's Madam likes to ask," replied the widow,
too much delighted at having the animal's life saved to think that she
was making rather a rash promise.

"Very good," said the old Dame, and without wasting any more words she
walked straight into the pig-sty.

She stood and looked at the dying creature for some minutes, rocking to
and fro and muttering to herself in words which the widow could not
understand; at least, she could only understand four of them, and they
sounded something like this:

    "Pitter-patter,
    Haly water."

Then she put her hand into her pocket and drew out a tiny bottle with a
liquid that looked like oil in it. She took the cork out, and dropped
one of her long lady-like fingers into it; then she touched the pig on
the snout and on his ears, and on the tip of his curly tail.

No sooner had she done so than up the beast jumped, and, with a grunt of
contentment, ran off to its trough to look for its breakfast.

A joyful woman was the Mistress of Kittlerumpit when she saw it do this,
for she felt that her rent was safe; and in her relief and gratitude she
would have kissed the hem of the strange Lady's green gown, if she
would have allowed it, but she would not.

"No, no," said she, and her voice sounded harsher than ever. "Let us
have no fine meanderings, but let us stick to our bargain. I have done
my part, and mended the pig; now ye must do yours, and give me what I
like to ask--your son."

Then the poor widow gave a piteous cry, for she knew now what she had
not guessed before--that the Green-clad Lady was a Fairy, and a Wicked
Fairy too, else had she not asked such a terrible thing.

It was too late now, however, to pray, and beseech, and beg for mercy;
the Fairy stood her ground, hard and cruel.

"Ye promised me what I liked to ask, and I have asked your son; and your
son I will have," she replied, "so it is useless making such a din about
it. But one thing I may tell you, for I know well that the knowledge
will not help you. By the laws of Fairy-land, I cannot take the bairn
till the third day after this, and if by that time you have found out my
name I cannot take him even then. But ye will not be able to find it
out, of that I am certain. So I will call back for the boy in three
days."

And with that she disappeared round the back of the pig-sty, and the
poor mother fell down in a dead faint beside the stone.

All that day, and all the next, she did nothing but sit in her kitchen
and cry, and hug her baby tighter in her arms; but on the day before
that on which the Fairy said that she was coming back, she felt as if
she must get a little breath of fresh air, so she went for a walk in the
fir wood behind the house.

Now in this fir wood there was an old quarry hole, in the bottom of
which was a bonnie spring well, the water of which was always sweet and
pure. The young widow was walking near this quarry hole, when, to her
astonishment, she heard the whirr of a spinning-wheel and the sound of a
voice lilting a song. At first she could not think where the sound came
from; then, remembering the quarry, she laid down her child at a tree
root, and crept noiselessly through the bushes on her hands and knees to
the edge of the hole and peeped over.

She could hardly believe her eyes! For there, far below her, at the
bottom of the quarry, beside the spring well, sat the cruel Fairy,
dressed in her green frock and tall felt hat, spinning away as fast as
she could at a tiny spinning-wheel.

And what should she be singing but--

    "Little kens our guid dame at hame,
    Whippety-Stourie is my name."

The widow woman almost cried aloud for joy, for now she had learned the
Fairy's secret, and her child was safe. But she dare not, in case the
wicked old Dame heard her and threw some other spell over her.

So she crept softly back to the place where she had left her child;
then, catching him up in her arms, she ran through the wood to her
house, laughing, and singing, and tossing him in the air in such a state
of delight that, if anyone had met her, they would have been in danger
of thinking that she was mad.

Now this young woman had been a merry-hearted maiden, and would have
been merry-hearted still, if, since her marriage, she had not had so
much trouble that it had made her grow old and sober-minded before her
time; and she began to think what fun it would be to tease the Fairy for
a few minutes before she let her know that she had found out her name.

So next day, at the appointed time, she went out with her boy in her
arms, and seated herself on the big stone where she had sat before; and
when she saw the old Dame coming up the hill, she crumpled up her nice
clean cap, and screwed up her face, and pretended to be in great
distress and to be crying bitterly.

The Fairy took no notice of this, however, but came close up to her, and
said, in her harsh, merciless voice, "Good wife of Kittlerumpit, ye ken
the reason of my coming; give me the bairn."

Then the young mother pretended to be in sorer distress than ever, and
fell on her knees before the wicked old woman and begged for mercy.

"Oh, sweet Madam Mistress," she cried, "spare me my bairn, and take, an'
thou wilt, the pig instead."

"We have no need of bacon where I come from," answered the Fairy coldly;
"so give me the laddie and let me begone--I have no time to waste in
this wise."

"Oh, dear Lady mine," pleaded the Goodwife, "if thou wilt not have the
pig, wilt thou not spare my poor bairn and take me myself?"

The Fairy stepped back a little, as if in astonishment. "Art thou mad,
woman," she cried contemptuously, "that thou proposest such a thing? Who
in all the world would care to take a plain-looking, red-eyed, dowdy
wife like thee with them?"

Now the young Mistress of Kittlerumpit knew that she was no beauty, and
the knowledge had never vexed her; but something in the Fairy's tone
made her feel so angry that she could contain herself no longer.

"In troth, fair Madam, I might have had the wit to know that the like of
me is not fit to tie the shoe-string of the High and Mighty Princess,
WHIPPETY-STOURIE!"

If there had been a charge of gunpowder buried in the ground, and if it
had suddenly exploded beneath her feet, the Wicked Fairy could not have
jumped higher into air.

And when she came down again she simply turned round and ran down the
brae, shrieking with rage and disappointment, for all the world, as an
old book says, "like an owl chased by witches."

[Illustration]




THE RED-ETIN


There were once two widows who lived in two cottages which stood not
very far from one another. And each of those widows possessed a piece of
land on which she grazed a cow and a few sheep, and in this way she made
her living.

One of these poor widows had two sons, the other had one; and as these
three boys were always together, it was natural that they should become
great friends.

At last the time arrived when the eldest son of the widow who had two
sons, must leave home and go out into the world to seek his fortune. And
the night before he went away his mother told him to take a can and go
to the well and bring back some water, and she would bake a cake for him
to carry with him.

"But remember," she added, "the size of the cake will depend on the
quantity of water that thou bringest back. If thou bringest much, then
will it be large; and, if thou bringest little, then will it be small.
But, big or little, it is all that I have to give thee."

The lad took the can and went off to the well, and filled it with
water, and came home again. But he never noticed that the can had a hole
in it, and was running out; so that, by the time that he arrived at
home, there was very little water left. So his mother could only bake
him a very little cake.

But, small as it was, she asked him, as she gave it to him, to choose
one of two things. Either to take the half of it with her blessing, or
the whole of it with her malison. "For," said she, "thou canst not have
both the whole cake and a blessing along with it."

The lad looked at the cake and hesitated. It would have been pleasant to
have left home with his mother's blessing upon him; but he had far to
go, and the cake was little; the half of it would be a mere mouthful,
and he did not know when he would get any more food. So at last he made
up his mind to take the whole of it, even if he had to bear his mother's
malison.

Then he took his younger brother aside, and gave him his hunting-knife,
saying, "Keep this by thee, and look at it every morning. For as long as
the blade remains clear and bright, thou wilt know that it is well with
me; but should it grow dim and rusty, then know thou that some evil hath
befallen me."

After this he embraced them both and set out on his travels. He
journeyed all that day, and all the next, and on the afternoon of the
third day he came to where an old shepherd was sitting beside a flock of
sheep.

"I will ask the old man whose sheep they are," he said to himself, "for
mayhap his master might engage me also as a shepherd." So he went up to
the old man, and asked him to whom the sheep belonged. And this was all
the answer he got:

    "The Red-Etin of Ireland
    Ance lived in Ballygan,
    And stole King Malcolm's daughter,
    The King of fair Scotland.
    He beats her, he binds her,
    He lays her on a band,
    And every day he dings her
    With a bright silver wand.
        Like Julian the Roman,
        He's one that fears no man.

    "It's said there's ane predestinate
    To be his mortal foe,
    But that man is yet unborn,
    And lang may it be so."

"That does not tell me much; but somehow I do not fancy this Red-Etin
for a master," thought the youth, and he went on his way.

He had not gone very far, however, when he saw another old man, with
snow-white hair, herding a flock of swine; and as he wondered to whom
the swine belonged, and if there was any chance of him getting a
situation as a swineherd, he went up to the countryman, and asked who
was the owner of the animals.

He got the same answer from the swineherd that he had got from the
shepherd:

    "The Red-Etin of Ireland
    Ance lived in Ballygan,
    And stole King Malcolm's daughter,
    The King of fair Scotland.
    He beats her, he binds her,
    He lays her on a band,
    And every day he dings her
    With a bright silver wand.
        Like Julian the Roman,
        He's one that fears no man.

    "It's said there's ane predestinate
    To be his mortal foe,
    But that man is yet unborn,
    And lang may it be so."

"Plague on this old Red-Etin; I wonder when I will get out of his
domains," he muttered to himself; and he journeyed still further.

Presently he came to a very, very old man--so old, indeed, that he was
quite bent with age--and he was herding a flock of goats.

Once more the traveller asked to whom the animals belonged, and once
more he got the same answer:

    "The Red-Etin of Ireland
    Ance lived in Ballygan,
    And stole King Malcolm's daughter,
    The King of fair Scotland.
    He beats her, he binds her,
    He lays her on a band,
    And every day he dings her
    With a bright silver wand.
        Like Julian the Roman,
        He's one that fears no man.

    "It's said there's ane predestinate
    To be his mortal foe,
    But that man is yet unborn,
    And lang may it be so."

But this ancient goatherd added a piece of advice at the end of his
rhyme. "Beware, stranger," he said, "of the next herd of beasts that ye
shall meet. Sheep, and swine, and goats will harm nobody; but the
creatures ye shall now encounter are of a sort that ye have never met
before, and _they_ are not harmless."

The young man thanked him for his counsel, and went on his way, and he
had not gone very far before he met a herd of very dreadful creatures,
unlike anything that he had ever dreamed of in all his life.

For each of them had three heads, and on each of its three heads it had
four horns; and when he saw them he was so frightened that he turned and
ran away from them as fast as he could.

Up hill and down dale he ran, until he was well-nigh exhausted; and,
just when he was beginning to feel that his legs would not carry him any
further, he saw a great Castle in front of him, the door of which was
standing wide open.

He was so tired that he went straight in, and after wandering through
some magnificent halls, which appeared to be quite deserted, he reached
the kitchen, where an old woman was sitting by the fire.

He asked her if he might have a night's lodging, as he had come a long
and weary journey, and would be glad of somewhere to rest.

"You can rest here, and welcome, for me," said the old Dame, "but for
your own sake I warn you that this is an ill house to bide in; for it is
the Castle of the Red-Etin, who is a fierce and terrible Monster with
three heads, and he spareth neither man nor woman, if he can get hold of
them."

Tired as he was, the young man would have made an effort to escape from
such a dangerous abode had he not remembered the strange and awful
beasts from which he had just been fleeing, and he was afraid that, as
it was growing dark, if he set out again he might chance to walk right
into their midst. So he begged the old woman to hide him in some dark
corner, and not to tell the Red-Etin that he was in the Castle.

"For," thought he, "if I can only get shelter until the morning, I will
then be able to avoid these terrible creatures and go on my way in
peace."

So the old Dame hid him in a press under the back stairs, and, as there
was plenty of room in it, he settled down quite comfortably for the
night.

But just as he was going off to sleep he heard an awful roaring and
trampling overhead. The Red-Etin had come home, and it was plain that he
was searching for something.

And the terrified youth soon found out what the "Something" was, for
very soon the horrible Monster came into the kitchen, crying out in a
voice like thunder:

    "Seek but, and seek ben,
    I smell the smell of an earthly man!
    Be he living, or be he dead,
    His heart this night I shall eat with my bread."

And it was not very long before he discovered the poor young man's
hiding-place and pulled him roughly out of it.

Of course, the lad begged that his life might be spared, but the Monster
only laughed at him.

"It will be spared if thou canst answer three questions," he said; "if
not, it is forfeited."

The first of these three questions was, "Whether Ireland or Scotland was
first inhabited?"

The second, "How old was the world when Adam was made?"

And the third, "Whether men or beasts were created first?"

The lad was not skilled in such matters, having had but little
book-learning, and he could not answer the questions. So the Monster
struck him on the head with a queer little hammer which he carried, and
turned him into a piece of stone.

Now every morning since he had left home his younger brother had done as
he had promised, and had carefully examined his hunting-knife.

On the first two mornings it was bright and clear, but on the third
morning he was very much distressed to find that it was dull and rusty.
He looked at it for a few moments in great dismay; then he ran straight
to his mother, and held it out to her.

"By this token I know that some mischief hath befallen my brother," he
said, "so I must set out at once to see what evil hath come upon him."

"First must thou go to the well and fetch me some water," said his
mother, "that I may bake thee a cake to carry with thee, as I baked a
cake for him who is gone. And I will say to thee what I said to him.
That the cake will be large or small according as thou bringest much or
little water back with thee."

So the lad took the can, as his brother had done, and went off to the
well, and it seemed as if some evil spirit directed him to follow his
example in all things, for he brought home little water, and he chose
the whole cake and his mother's malison, instead of the half and her
blessing, and he set out and met the shepherd, and the swineherd, and
the goatherd, and they all gave the same answers to him which they had
given to his brother. And he also encountered the same fierce beasts,
and ran from them in terror, and took shelter from them in the Castle;
and the old woman hid him, and the Red-Etin found him, and, because he
could not answer the three questions, he, too, was turned into a pillar
of stone.

And no more would ever have been heard of these two youths had not a
kind Fairy, who had seen all that had happened, appeared to the other
widow and her son, as they were sitting at supper one night in the
gloaming, and told them the whole story, and how their two poor young
neighbours had been turned into pillars of stone by a cruel enchanter
called Red-Etin.

Now the third young man was both brave and strong, and he determined to
set out to see if he could in anywise help his two friends. And, from
the very first moment that he had made up his mind to do so, things went
differently with him than they had with them. I think, perhaps, that
this was because he was much more loving and thoughtful than they were.

For, when his mother sent him to fetch water from the well so that she
might bake a cake for him, just as the other mother had done for her
sons, a raven, flying above his head, croaked out that his can was
leaking, and he, wishing to please his mother by bringing her a good
supply of water, patched up the hole with clay, and so came home with
the can quite full.

Then, when his mother had baked a big bannock for him, and giving him
his choice between the whole cake and her malison, or half of it and her
blessing, he chose the latter, "for," said he, throwing his arms round
her neck, "I may light on other cakes to eat, but I will never light on
another blessing such as thine."

And the curious thing was, that, after he had said this, the half cake
which he had chosen seemed to spread itself out, and widen, and broaden,
till it was bigger by far than it had been at first.

Then he started on his journey, and, after he had gone a good way he
began to feel hungry. So he pulled it out of his pocket and began to eat
it.

Just then he met an old woman, who seemed to be very poor, for her
clothing was thin, and worn, and old, and she stopped and spoke to him.

"Of thy charity, kind Master," she said, stretching out one of her
withered hands, "spare me a bit of the cake that thou art eating."

Now the youth was very hungry, and he could have eaten it all himself,
but his kind heart was touched by the woman's pinched face, so he broke
it in two, and gave her half of it.

Instantly she was changed into the Fairy who had appeared to his mother
and himself as they had sat at supper the night before, and she smiled
graciously at the generous lad, and held out a little wand to him.

"Though thou knowest it not, thy mother's blessing and thy kindness to
an old and poor woman hath gained thee many blessings, brave boy," he
said. "Keep that as thy reward; thou wilt need it ere thy errand be
done." Then, bidding him sit down on the grass beside her, she told him
all the dangers that he would meet on his travels, and the way in which
he could overcome them, and then, in a moment, before he could thank
her, she vanished out of his sight.

But with the little wand, and all the instructions that she had given
him, he felt that he could face fearlessly any danger that he might be
called on to meet, so he rose from the grass and went his way, full of a
cheerful courage.

After he had walked for many miles further, he came, as each of his
friends had done, to the old shepherd herding his sheep. And, like them,
he asked to whom the sheep belonged. And this time the old man answered:

    "The Red-Etin of Ireland
    Ance lived in Ballygan,
    And stole King Malcolm's daughter,
    The King of fair Scotland.
    He beats her, he binds her,
    He lays her on a band,
    And every day he dings her
    With a bright silver wand.
        Like Julian the Roman,
        He's one that fears no man.

    "But now I fear his end is near,
    And destiny at hand;
    And you're to be, I plainly see,
    The heir of all his land."

Then the young man went on, and he came to the swineherd, and to the
goatherd; and each of them in turn repeated the same words to him.

And, when he came to where the droves of monstrous beasts were, he was
not afraid of them, and when one came running up to him with its mouth
wide open to devour him, he just struck it with his wand, and it dropped
down dead at his feet.

At last he arrived at the Red-Etin's Castle, and he knocked boldly at
the door. The old woman answered his knock, and, when he had told her
his errand, warned him gravely not to enter.

"Thy two friends came here before thee," she said, "and they are now
turned into two pillars of stone; what advantage is it to thee to lose
thy life also?"

But the young man only laughed. "I have knowledge of an art of which
they knew nothing," he said. "And methinks I can fight the Red-Etin with
his own weapons."

So, much against her will, the old woman let him in, and hid him where
she had hid his friends.

It was not long before the Monster arrived, and, as on former occasions,
he came into the kitchen in a furious rage, crying:

    "Seek but, and seek ben,
    I smell the smell of an earthly man!
    Be he living, or be he dead,
    His heart this night I shall eat with my bread."

Then he peered into the young man's hiding-place, and called to him to
come out. And after he had come out, he put to him the three questions,
never dreaming that he could answer them; but the Fairy had told the
youth what to say, and he gave the answers as pat as any book.

Then the Red-Etin's heart sank within him for fear, for he knew that
someone had betrayed him, and that his power was gone.

And gone in very truth it was. For when the youth took an axe and began
to fight with him, he had no strength to resist, and, before he knew
where he was, his heads were cut off. And that was the end of the
Red-Etin.

As soon as he saw that his enemy was really dead, the young man asked
the old woman if what the shepherd, and the swineherd, and the goatherd
had told him were true, and if King Malcolm's daughter were really a
prisoner in the Castle.

The old woman nodded. "Even with the Monster lying dead at my feet, I am
almost afraid to speak of it," she said. "But come with me, my gallant
gentleman, and thou wilt see what dule and misery the Red-Etin hath
caused to many a home."

She took a huge bunch of keys, and led him up a long flight of stairs,
which ended in a passage with a great many doors on each side of it. She
unlocked these doors with her keys, and, as she opened them, she put her
head into every room and said, "Ye have naught to fear now, Madam, the
Predestinated Deliverer hath come, and the Red-Etin is dead."

[Illustration: And that was the end of the Red-Etin]

And behold, with a cry of joy, out of every room came a beautiful lady
who had been stolen from her home, and shut up there, by the Red-Etin.

Among them was one who was more beautiful and stately than the rest, and
all the others bowed down to her and treated her with such great
reverence that it was clear to see that she was the Royal Princess, King
Malcolm's daughter.

And when the youth stepped forward and did reverence to her also, she
spoke so sweetly to him, and greeted him so gladly, and called him her
Deliverer, in such a low, clear voice, that his heart was taken captive
at once.

But, for all that, he did not forget his friends. He asked the old woman
where they were, and she took him into a room at the end of the passage,
which was so dark that one could scarcely see in it, and so low that one
could scarcely stand upright.

In this dismal chamber stood two blocks of stone.

"One can unlock doors, young Master," said the old woman, shaking her
head forebodingly, "but 'tis hard work to try to turn cauld stane back
to flesh and blood."

"Nevertheless, I will do it," said the youth, and, lifting his little
wand, he touched each of the stone pillars lightly on the top.

Instantly the hard stone seemed to soften and melt away, and the two
brothers started into life and form again. Their gratitude to their
friend, who had risked so much to save them, knew no bounds, while he,
on his part, was delighted to think that his efforts had been
successful.

The next thing to do was to convey the Princess and the other ladies
(who were all noblemen's daughters) back to the King's Court, and this
they did next day.

King Malcolm was so overjoyed to see his dearly loved daughter, whom he
had given up for dead, safe and sound, and so grateful to her deliverer,
that he said that he should become his son-in-law and marry the
Princess, and come and live with them at Court. Which all came to pass
in due time; while as for the two other young men, they married
noblemen's daughters, and the two old mothers came to live near their
sons, and everyone was as happy as they could possibly be.

[Illustration]




THE SEAL CATCHER AND THE MERMAN


Once upon a time there was a man who lived not very far from John o'
Groat's house, which, as everyone knows, is in the very north of
Scotland. He lived in a little cottage by the sea-shore, and made his
living by catching seals and selling their fur, which is very valuable.

He earned a good deal of money in this way, for these creatures used to
come out of the sea in large numbers, and lie on the rocks near his
house basking in the sunshine, so that it was not difficult to creep up
behind them and kill them.

Some of those seals were larger than others, and the country people used
to call them "Roane," and whisper that they were not seals at all, but
Mermen and Merwomen, who came from a country of their own, far down
under the ocean, who assumed this strange disguise in order that they
might pass through the water, and come up to breathe the air of this
earth of ours.

But the seal catcher only laughed at them, and said that those seals
were most worth killing, for their skins were so big that he got an
extra price for them.

Now it chanced one day, when he was pursuing his calling, that he
stabbed a seal with his hunting-knife, and whether the stroke had not
been sure enough or not, I cannot say, but with a loud cry of pain the
creature slipped off the rock into the sea, and disappeared under the
water, carrying the knife along with it.

The seal catcher, much annoyed at his clumsiness, and also at the loss
of his knife, went home to dinner in a very downcast frame of mind. On
his way he met a horseman, who was so tall and so strange-looking and
who rode on such a gigantic horse, that he stopped and looked at him in
astonishment, wondering who he was, and from what country he came.

The stranger stopped also, and asked him his trade and on hearing that
he was a seal catcher, he immediately ordered a great number of seal
skins. The seal catcher was delighted, for such an order meant a large
sum of money to him. But his face fell when the horseman added that it
was absolutely necessary that the skins should be delivered that
evening.

"I cannot do it," he said in a disappointed voice, "for the seals will
not come back to the rocks again until to-morrow morning."

"I can take you to a place where there are any number of seals,"
answered the stranger, "if you will mount behind me on my horse and come
with me."

The seal catcher agreed to this, and climbed up behind the rider, who
shook his bridle rein, and off the great horse galloped at such a pace
that he had much ado to keep his seat.

On and on they went, flying like the wind, until at last they came to
the edge of a huge precipice, the face of which went sheer down to the
sea. Here the mysterious horseman pulled up his steed with a jerk.

"Get off now," he said shortly.

The seal catcher did as he was bid, and when he found himself safe on
the ground, he peeped cautiously over the edge of the cliff, to see if
there were any seals lying on the rocks below.

To his astonishment he saw no rocks, only the blue sea, which came right
up to the foot of the cliff.

"Where are the seals that you spoke of?" he asked anxiously, wishing
that he had never set out on such a rash adventure.

"You will see presently," answered the stranger, who was attending to
his horse's bridle.

The seal catcher was now thoroughly frightened, for he felt sure that
some evil was about to befall him, and in such a lonely place he knew
that it would be useless to cry out for help.

And it seemed as if his fears would prove only too true, for the next
moment the stranger's hand was laid upon his shoulder, and he felt
himself being hurled bodily over the cliff, and then he fell with a
splash into the sea.

He thought that his last hour had come, and he wondered how anyone could
work such a deed of wrong upon an innocent man.

But, to his astonishment, he found that some change must have passed
over him, for instead of being choked by the water, he could breathe
quite easily, and he and his companion, who was still close at his side,
seemed to be sinking as quickly down through the sea as they had flown
through the air.

Down and down they went, nobody knows how far, till at last they came to
a huge arched door, which appeared to be made of pink coral, studded
over with cockle-shells. It opened, of its own accord, and when they
entered they found themselves in a huge hall, the walls of which were
formed of mother-of-pearl, and the floor of which was of sea-sand,
smooth, and firm, and yellow.

The hall was crowded with occupants, but they were seals, not men, and
when the seal catcher turned to his companion to ask him what it all
meant, he was aghast to find that he, too, had assumed the form of a
seal. He was still more aghast when he caught sight of himself in a
large mirror that hung on the wall, and saw that he also no longer bore
the likeness of a man, but was transformed into a nice, hairy, brown
seal.

"Ah, woe to me," he said to himself, "for no fault of mine own this
artful stranger hath laid some baneful charm upon me, and in this awful
guise will I remain for the rest of my natural life."

At first none of the huge creatures spoke to him. For some reason or
other they seemed to be very sad, and moved gently about the hall,
talking quietly and mournfully to one another, or lay sadly upon the
sandy floor, wiping big tears from their eyes with their soft furry
fins.

But presently they began to notice him, and to whisper to one another,
and presently his guide moved away from him, and disappeared through a
door at the end of the hall. When he returned he held a huge knife in
his hand.

"Didst thou ever see this before?" he asked, holding it out to the
unfortunate seal catcher, who, to his horror, recognised his own hunting
knife with which he had struck the seal in the morning, and which had
been carried off by the wounded animal.

At the sight of it he fell upon his face and begged for mercy, for he at
once came to the conclusion that the inhabitants of the cavern, enraged
at the harm which had been wrought upon their comrade, had, in some
magic way, contrived to capture him, and to bring him down to their
subterranean abode, in order to wreak their vengeance upon him by
killing him.

But, instead of doing so, they crowded round him, rubbing their soft
noses against his fur to show their sympathy, and implored him not to
put himself about, for no harm would befall him, and they would love him
all their lives long if he would only do what they asked him.

"Tell me what it is," said the seal catcher, "and I will do it, if it
lies within my power."

"Follow me," answered his guide, and he led the way to the door through
which he had disappeared when he went to seek the knife.

The seal catcher followed him. And there, in a smaller room, he found a
great brown seal lying on a bed of pale pink sea-weed, with a gaping
wound in his side.

"That is my father," said his guide, "whom thou wounded this morning,
thinking that he was one of the common seals who live in the sea,
instead of a Merman who hath speech, and understanding, as you mortals
have. I brought thee hither to bind up his wounds, for no other hand
than thine can heal him."

"I have no skill in the art of healing," said the seal catcher,
astonished at the forbearance of these strange creatures, whom he had so
unwittingly wronged; "but I will bind up the wound to the best of my
power, and I am only sorry that it was my hands that caused it."

He went over to the bed, and, stooping over the wounded Merman, washed
and dressed the hurt as well as he could; and the touch of his hands
appeared to work like magic, for no sooner had he finished than the
wound seemed to deaden and die, leaving only the scar, and the old seal
sprang up, as well as ever.

Then there was great rejoicing throughout the whole Palace of the Seals.
They laughed, and they talked, and they embraced each other in their own
strange way, crowding round their comrade, and rubbing their noses
against his, as if to show him how delighted they were at his recovery.

But all this while the seal catcher stood alone in a corner, with his
mind filled with dark thoughts, for although he saw now that they had no
intention of killing him, he did not relish the prospect of spending the
rest of his life in the guise of a seal, fathoms deep under the ocean.

But presently, to his great joy, his guide approached him, and said,
"Now you are at liberty to return home to your wife and children. I will
take you to them, but only on one condition."

"And what is that?" asked the seal catcher eagerly, overjoyed at the
prospect of being restored safely to the upper world, and to his family.

"That you will take a solemn oath never to wound a seal again."

"That will I do right gladly," he replied, for although the promise
meant giving up his means of livelihood, he felt that if only he
regained his proper shape he could always turn his hand to something
else.

So he took the required oath with all due solemnity, holding up his fin
as he swore, and all the other seals crowded round him as witnesses. And
a sigh of relief went through the halls when the words were spoken, for
he was the most noted seal catcher in the North.

Then he bade the strange company farewell, and, accompanied by his
guide, passed once more through the outer doors of coral, and up, and
up, and up, through the shadowy green water, until it began to grow
lighter and lighter and at last they emerged into the sunshine of earth.

Then, with one spring, they reached the top of the cliff, where the
great black horse was waiting for them, quietly nibbling the green turf.

When they left the water their strange disguise dropped from them, and
they were now as they had been before, a plain seal catcher and a tall,
well-dressed gentleman in riding clothes.

"Get up behind me," said the latter, as he swung himself into his
saddle. The seal catcher did as he was bid, taking tight hold of his
companion's coat, for he remembered how nearly he had fallen off on his
previous journey.

Then it all happened as it happened before. The bridle was shaken, and
the horse galloped off, and it was not long before the seal catcher
found himself standing in safety before his own garden gate.

He held out his hand to say "good-bye," but as he did so the stranger
pulled out a huge bag of gold and placed it in it.

"Thou hast done thy part of the bargain--we must do ours," he said. "Men
shall never say that we took away an honest man's work without making
reparation for it, and here is what will keep thee in comfort to thy
life's end."

Then he vanished, and when the astonished seal catcher carried the bag
into his cottage, and turned the gold out on the table, he found that
what the stranger had said was true, and that he would be a rich man for
the remainder of his days.

[Illustration]




THE PAGE-BOY AND THE SILVER GOBLET


There was once a little page-boy, who was in service in a stately
Castle. He was a very good-natured little fellow, and did his duties so
willingly and well that everybody liked him, from the great Earl whom he
served every day on bended knee, to the fat old butler whose errands he
ran.

Now the Castle stood on the edge of a cliff overlooking the sea, and
although the walls at that side were very thick, in them there was a
little postern door, which opened on to a narrow flight of steps that
led down the face of the cliff to the sea shore, so that anyone who
liked could go down there in the pleasant summer mornings and bathe in
the shimmering sea.

On the other side of the Castle were gardens and pleasure grounds,
opening on to a long stretch of heather-covered moorland, which, at
last, met a distant range of hills.

The little page-boy was very fond of going out on this moor when his
work was done, for then he could run about as much as he liked, chasing
bumble-bees, and catching butterflies, and looking for birds' nests when
it was nesting time.

And the old butler was very pleased that he should do so, for he knew
that it was good for a healthy little lad to have plenty of fun in the
open air. But before the boy went out the old man always gave him one
warning.

"Now, mind my words, laddie, and keep far away from the Fairy Knowe, for
the Little Folk are not to trust to."

This Knowe of which he spoke was a little green hillock, which stood on
the moor not twenty yards from the garden gate, and folk said that it
was the abode of Fairies, who would punish any rash mortal who came too
near them. And because of this the country people would walk a good
half-mile out of their way, even in broad daylight, rather than run the
risk of going too near the Fairy Knowe and bringing down the Little
Folks' displeasure upon them. And at night they would hardly cross the
moor at all, for everyone knows that Fairies come abroad in the
darkness, and the door of their dwelling stands open, so that any
luckless mortal who does not take care may find himself inside.

Now, the little page-boy was an adventurous wight, and instead of being
frightened of the Fairies, he was very anxious to see them, and to visit
their abode, just to find out what it was like.

So one night, when everyone else was asleep, he crept out of the Castle
by the little postern door, and stole down the stone steps, and along
the sea shore, and up on to the moor, and went straight to the Fairy
Knowe.

To his delight he found that what everyone said was true. The top of the
Knowe was tipped up, and from the opening that was thus made, rays of
light came streaming out.

His heart was beating fast with excitement, but, gathering his courage,
he stooped down and slipped inside the Knowe.

He found himself in a large room lit by numberless tiny candles, and
there, seated round a polished table, were scores of the Tiny Folk,
Fairies, and Elves, and Gnomes, dressed in green, and yellow, and pink;
blue, and lilac, and scarlet; in all the colours, in fact, that you can
think of.

He stood in a dark corner watching the busy scene in wonder, thinking
how strange it was that there should be such a number of these tiny
beings living their own lives all unknown to men, at such a little
distance from them, when suddenly someone--he could not tell who it
was--gave an order.

"Fetch the Cup," cried the owner of the unknown voice, and instantly two
little Fairy pages, dressed all in scarlet livery, darted from the table
to a tiny cupboard in the rock, and returned staggering under the weight
of a most beautiful silver cup, richly embossed and lined inside with
gold.

He placed it in the middle of the table, and, amid clapping of hands and
shouts of joy, all the Fairies began to drink out of it in turn. And
the page could see, from where he stood, that no one poured wine into
it, and yet it was always full, and that the wine that was in it was not
always the same kind, but that each Fairy, when he grasped its stem,
wished for the wine that he loved best, and lo! in a moment the cup was
full of it.

"'Twould be a fine thing if I could take that cup home with me," thought
the page. "No one will believe that I have been here except I have
something to show for it." So he bided his time, and watched.

Presently the Fairies noticed him, and, instead of being angry at his
boldness in entering their abode, as he expected that they would be,
they seemed very pleased to see him, and invited him to a seat at the
table. But by and by they grew rude and insolent, and jeered at him for
being content to serve mere mortals, telling him that they saw
everything that went on at the Castle, and making fun of the old butler,
whom the page loved with all his heart. And they laughed at the food he
ate, saying that it was only fit for animals; and when any fresh dainty
was set on the table by the scarlet-clad pages, they would push the dish
across to him, saying: "Taste it, for you will not have the chance of
tasting such things at the Castle."

At last he could stand their teasing remarks no longer; besides, he knew
that if he wanted to secure the cup he must lose no time in doing so.

So he suddenly stood up, and grasped the stem of it tightly in his hand.
"I'll drink to you all in water," he cried, and instantly the ruby wine
was turned to clear cold water.

[Illustration]

He raised the cup to his lips, but he did not drink from it. With a
sudden jerk he threw the water over the candles, and instantly the room
was in darkness. Then, clasping the precious cup tightly in his arms, he
sprang to the opening of the Knowe, through which he could see the stars
glimmering clearly.

He was just in time, for it fell to with a crash behind him; and soon he
was speeding along the wet, dew-spangled moor, with the whole troop of
Fairies at his heels. They were wild with rage, and from the shrill
shouts of fury which they uttered, the page knew well that, if they
overtook him, he need expect no mercy at their hands.

And his heart began to sink, for, fleet of foot though he was, he was no
match for the Fairy Folk, who gained on him steadily.

All seemed lost, when a mysterious voice sounded out of the darkness:

    "If thou wouldst gain the Castle door,
    Keep to the black stones on the shore."

It was the voice of some poor mortal, who, for some reason or other, had
been taken prisoner by the Fairies--who were really very malicious
Little Folk--and who did not want a like fate to befall the adventurous
page-boy; but the little fellow did not know this.

He had once heard that if anyone walked on the wet sands, where the
waves had come over them, the Fairies could not touch him, and this
mysterious sentence brought the saying into his mind.

So he turned, and dashed panting down to the shore. His feet sank in the
dry sand, his breath came in little gasps, and he felt as if he must
give up the struggle; but he persevered, and at last, just as the
foremost Fairies were about to lay hands on him, he jumped across the
water-mark on to the firm, wet sand, from which the waves had just
receded, and then he knew that he was safe.

For the Little Folk could go no step further, but stood on the dry sand
uttering cries of rage and disappointment, while the triumphant page-boy
ran safely along the shore, his precious cup in his arms, and climbed
lightly up the steps in the rock and disappeared through the postern.
And for many years after, long after the little page-boy had grown up
and become a stately butler, who trained other little page-boys to
follow in his footsteps, the beautiful cup remained in the Castle as a
witness of his adventure.

[Illustration]




THE BLACK BULL OF NORROWAY


In bygone days, long centuries ago, there lived a widowed Queen who had
three daughters. And this widowed Queen was so poor, and had fallen upon
such evil days, that she and her daughters had often much ado to get
enough to eat.

So the eldest Princess determined that she would set out into the world
to seek her fortune. And her mother was quite willing that she should do
so. "For," said she, "'tis better to work abroad than to starve at
home."

But as there was an old hen-wife living near the Castle who was said to
be a witch, and to be able to foretell the future, the Queen sent the
Princess to her cottage, before she set out on her travels, to ask her
in which of the Four Airts she ought to go, in order to find the best
fortune.

"Thou needst gang nae farther than my back door, hinnie," answered the
old Dame, who had always felt very sorry for the Queen and her pretty
daughters, and was glad to do them a good turn.

So the Princess ran through the passage to the hen-wife's back door and
peeped out, and what should she see but a magnificent coach, drawn by
six beautiful cream-coloured horses, coming along the road.

Greatly excited at this unusual sight, she hurried back to the kitchen,
and told the hen-wife what she had seen.

"Aweel, aweel, ye've seen your fortune," said the old woman, in a tone
of satisfaction, "for that coach-and-six is coming for thee."

Sure enough, the coach-and-six stopped at the gate of the Castle, and
the second Princess came running down to the cottage to tell her sister
to make haste, because it was waiting for her. Delighted beyond measure
at the wonderful luck that had come to her, she hurried home, and,
saying farewell to her mother and sisters, took her seat within, and the
horses galloped off immediately.

And I've heard tell that they drew her to the Palace of a great and
wealthy Prince, who married her; but that is outside my story.

A few weeks afterwards, the second Princess thought that she would do as
her sister had done, and go down to the hen-wife's cottage, and tell her
that she, too, was going out into the world to seek her fortune. And, of
course, in her heart of hearts she hoped that what had happened to her
sister would happen to her also.

And, curious to say, it did. For the old hen-wife sent her to look out
at her back door, and she went, and, lo and behold! another
coach-and-six was coming along the road. And when she went and told the
old woman, she smiled upon her kindly, and told her to hurry home, for
the coach-and-six was her fortune also, and that it had come for her.

So she, too, ran home, and got into her grand carriage, and was driven
away. And, of course, after all these lucky happenings, the youngest
Princess was anxious to try what her fortune might be; so the very
night, in high good humour, she tripped away down to the old witch's
cottage.

She, too, was told to look out at the back door, and she was only too
glad to do so; for she fully expected to see a third coach-and-six
coming rolling along the high road, straight for the Castle door.

But, alas and alack! no such sight greeted her eager eyes, for the high
road was quite deserted, and in great disappointment she ran back to the
hen-wife to tell her so.

"Then it is clear that thy fortune is not coming to meet thee this day,"
said the old Dame, "so thou must e'en come back to-morrow."

So the little Princess went home again, and next day she turned up
once more at the old wife's cottage.

But once more she was disappointed, for although she looked out long and
eagerly, no glad sight of a coach-and-six, or of any other coach,
greeted her eyes. On the third day, however, what should she see but a
great Black Bull coming rushing along the road, bellowing as it came,
and tossing its head fiercely in the air.

In great alarm, the little Princess shut the door, and ran to the
hen-wife to tell her about the furious animal that was approaching.

"Hech, hinnie," cried the old woman, holding up her hands in dismay,
"and who would have thocht that the Black Bull of Norroway wad be your
fate!"

At the words, the poor little maiden grew pale. She had come out to seek
her fortune, but it had never dawned upon her that her fortune could be
anything so terrible as this.

"But the Bull cannot be my fortune," she cried in terror. "I cannot go
away with a bull."

"But ye'll need tae," replied the hen-wife calmly. "For you lookit out
of my door with the intent of meeting your fortune; and when your
fortune has come tae ye, you must just thole it."

And when the poor Princess ran weeping to her mother, to beg to be
allowed to stay at home, she found her mother of the same mind as the
Wise Woman; and so she had to allow herself to be lifted up on to the
back of the enormous Black Bull that had come up to the door of the
Castle, and was now standing there quietly enough. And when she was
settled, he set off again on his wild career, while she sobbed and
trembled with terror, and clung to his horns with all her might.

On and on they went, until at last the poor maiden was so faint with
fear and hunger that she could scarce keep her seat.

Just as she was losing her hold of the great beast's horns, however, and
feeling that she must fall to the ground, he turned his massive head
round a little, and, speaking in a wonderfully soft and gentle voice,
said: "Eat out of my right ear, and drink out of my left ear, so wilt
thou be refreshed for thy journey."

So the Princess put a trembling hand into the Bull's right ear, and drew
out some bread and meat, which, in spite of her terror, she was glad to
swallow; then she put her hand into his left ear, and found there a tiny
flagon of wine, and when she had drunk that, her strength returned to
her in a wonderful way.

Long they went, and sore they rode, till, just as it seemed to the
Princess that they must be getting near the World's End, they came in
sight of a magnificent Castle.

"That's where we maun bide this night," said the Black Bull of Norroway,
"for that is the house of one of my brothers."

The Princess was greatly surprised at these words; but by this time she
was too tired to wonder very much at anything, so she did not answer,
but sat still where she was, until the Bull ran into the courtyard of
the Castle and knocked his great head against the door.

[Illustration: They came in sight of a Magnificent Castle]

The door was opened at once by a very splendid footman, who treated the
Black Bull with great respect, and helped the Princess to alight from
his back. Then he ushered her into a magnificent hall, where the Lord of
the Castle, and his Lady, and a great and noble company were assembled;
while the Black Bull trotted off quite contentedly to the grassy park
which stretched all round the building, to spend the night there.

The Lord and his Lady were very kind to the Princess, and gave her her
supper, and led her to a richly furnished bedroom, all hung round with
golden mirrors, and left her to rest there; and in the morning, just as
the Black Bull came trotting up to the front door, they handed her a
beautiful apple, telling her not to break it, but to put it in her
pocket, and keep it till she was in the greatest strait that mortal
could be in. Then she was to break it, and it would bring her out of it.

So she put the apple in her pocket, and they lifted her once more on to
the Black Bull's back, and she and her strange companion continued on
their journey.

All that day they travelled, far further than I can tell you, and at
night they came in sight of another Castle, which was even bigger and
grander than the first.

"That's where we maun bide this night," said the Black Bull, "for that
is the home of another of my brothers."

And here the Princess rested for the night in a very fine bedroom
indeed, all hung with silken curtains; and the Lord and Lady of the
Castle did everything to please her and make her comfortable.

And in the morning, before she left, they presented her with the largest
pear that she had ever seen, and warned her that she must not break it
until she was in the direst strait that she had ever been in, and then,
if she broke it, it would bring her out of it.

The third day was the same as the other two had been. The Princess and
the Black Bull of Norroway rode many a weary mile, and at sundown they
came to another Castle, more splendid by far than the other two.

This Castle belonged to the Black Bull's youngest brother, and here the
Princess abode all night; while the Bull, as usual, lay outside in the
park. And this time, when they departed, the Princess received a most
lovely plum, with the warning not to break it till she was in the
greatest strait that mortal could be in. Then she was to break it, and
it would set her free.

On the fourth day, however, things were changed. For there was no fine
Castle waiting for them at the end of their journey; on the contrary, as
the shadows began to lengthen, they came to a dark, deep glen, which was
so gloomy and so awesome-looking that the poor Princess felt her courage
sinking as they approached it.

At the entrance the Black Bull stopped. "Light down here, Lady," he
said, "for in this glen a deadly conflict awaits me, which I must face
unaided and alone. For the dark and gloomy region that lies before us is
the abode of a great Spirit of Darkness, who worketh much ill in the
world. I would fain fight with him and overcome him; and, by my troth,
I have good hope that I shall do so. As for thee, thou must seat thyself
on this stone, and stir neither hand, nor foot, nor tongue till I
return. For, if thou but so much as move, then the Evil Spirit of the
Glen will have thee in his power."

"But how shall I know what is happening to thee?" asked the Princess
anxiously, for she was beginning to grow quite fond of the huge black
creature that had carried her so gallantly these last four days, "if I
have neither to move hand nor foot, nor yet to speak."

"Thou wilt know by the signs around thee," answered the Bull. "For if
everything about thee turn blue, then thou wilt know that I have
vanquished the Evil Spirit; but if everything about thee turn red, then
the Evil Spirit hath vanquished me."

With these words he departed, and was soon lost to sight in the dark
recesses of the glen, leaving the little Princess sitting motionless on
her stone, afraid to move so much as her little finger, in case some
unknown evil fell upon her.

At last, when she had sat there for well-nigh an hour, a curious change
began to pass over the landscape. First it turned grey, and then it
turned a deep azure blue, as if the sky had descended on the earth.

"The Bull hath conquered," thought the Princess. "Oh! what a noble
animal he is!" And in her relief and delight she moved her position and
crossed one leg over the other.

Oh, woe-a-day! In a moment a mystic spell fell upon her, which caused
her to become invisible to the eyes of the Prince of Norroway, who,
having vanquished the Evil Spirit, was loosed from the spell which had
lain over him, and had transformed him into the likeness of a great
Black Bull, and who returned in haste down the glen to present himself,
in his rightful form, to the maiden whom he loved, and whom he hoped to
win for his bride.

Long, long he sought, but he could not find her, while all the time she
was sitting patiently waiting on the stone; but the spell was on her
eyes also, and hindered her seeing him, as it hindered him seeing her.

So she sat on and on, till at last she became so wearied, and lonely,
and frightened, that she burst out crying, and cried herself to sleep;
and when she woke in the morning she felt that it was no use sitting
there any longer, so she rose and took her way, hardly knowing whither
she was going.

And she went, and she went, till at last she came to a great hill made
all of glass, which blocked her way and prevented her going any further.
She tried time after time to climb it, but it was all of no avail, for
the surface of the hill was so slippery that she only managed to climb
up a few feet, to slide down again the next moment.

So she began to walk round the bottom of the hill, in the hope of
finding some path that would lead her over it, but the hill was so big,
and she was so tired, that it seemed almost a hopeless quest, and her
spirit died completely within her. And as she went slowly along, sobbing
with despair, she felt that if help did not come soon she must lie down
and die.

About mid-day, however, she came to a little cottage, and beside the
cottage there was a smithy, where an old smith was working at his anvil.

She entered, and asked him if he could tell her of any path that would
lead her over the mountain. The old man laid down his hammer and looked
at her, slowly shaking his head as he did so.

"Na, na, lassie," he said, "there is no easy road over the Mountain of
Glass. Folk maun either walk round it, which is not an easy thing to do,
for the foot of it stretches out for hundreds of miles, and the folk who
try to do so are almost sure to lose their way; or they maun walk over
the top of it, and that can only be done by those who are shod with iron
shoon."

"And how am I to get these iron shoon?" cried the Princess eagerly.
"Couldst thou fashion me a pair, good man? I would gladly pay thee for
them." Then she stopped suddenly, for she remembered that she had no
money.

"These shoon cannot be made for siller," said the old man solemnly.
"They can only be earned by service. I alone can make them, and I make
them for those who are willing to serve me."

"And how long must I serve thee ere thou makest them for me?" asked the
Princess faintly.

"Seven years," replied the old man, "for they be magic shoon, and that
is the magic number."

So, as there seemed nothing else for it, the Princess hired herself to
the smith for seven long years: to clean his house, and cook his food,
and make and mend his clothes.

At the end of that time he fashioned her a pair of iron shoon, with
which she climbed the Mountain of Glass with as much ease as if it had
been covered with fresh green turf.

When she had reached the summit, and descended to the other side, the
first house that she came to was the house of an old washerwoman, who
lived there with her only daughter. And as the Princess was now very
tired, she went up to the door, and knocked, and asked if she might be
allowed to rest there for the night.

The washerwoman, who was old and ugly, with a sly and evil face, said
that she might--on one condition--and that was that she should try to
wash a white mantle that the Black Knight of Norroway had brought to her
to wash, as he had got it stained in a deadly fight.

"Yestreen I spent the lee-long day washing it," went on the old Dame,
"and I might as well have let it lie on the table. For at night, when I
took it out of the wash-tub, the stains were there as dark as ever.
Peradventure, maiden, if thou wouldst try thy hand upon it thou mightest
be more successful. For I am loth to disappoint the Black Knight of
Norroway, who is an exceeding great and powerful Prince."

"Is he in any way connected with the Black Bull of Norroway?" asked the
Princess; for at the name her heart had leaped for joy, for it seemed
that mayhap she was going to find once more him whom she had lost.

The old woman looked at her suspiciously. "The two are one," she
answered; "for the Black Knight chanced to have a spell thrown over him,
which turned him into a Black Bull, and which could not be lifted until
he had fought with, and overcome, a mighty Spirit of Evil that lived in
a dark glen. He fought with the Spirit, and overcame it and once more
regained his true form; but 'tis said that his mind is somewhat clouded
at times, for he speaketh ever of a maiden whom he would fain have
wedded, and whom he hath lost. Though who, or what she was, no living
person kens. But this story can have no interest to a stranger like
thee," she added slowly, as if she were sorry for having said so much.
"I have no more time to waste in talking. But if thou wilt try and wash
the mantle, thou art welcome to a night's lodging; and if not, I must
ask thee to go on thy way."

Needless to say, the Princess said that she would try to wash the
mantle; and it seemed as if her fingers had some magic power in them,
for as soon as she put it into water the stains vanished, and it became
as white and clean as when it was new.

Of course, the old woman was delighted, but she was very suspicious
also, for it appeared to her that there must be some mysterious link
between the maiden and the Knight, if his mantle became clean so easily
when she washed it, when it had remained soiled and stained in spite of
all the labour which she and her daughter had bestowed upon it.

So, as she knew that the young Gallant intended returning for it that
very night, and as she wanted her daughter to get the credit of washing
it, she advised the Princess to go to bed early, in order to get a good
night's rest after all her labours. And the Princess followed her
advice, and thus it came about that she was sound asleep, safely hidden
in the big box-bed in the corner, when the Black Knight of Norroway came
to the cottage to claim his white mantle.

Now you must know that the young man had carried about this mantle with
him for the last seven years--ever since his encounter with the Evil
Spirit of the Glen--always trying to find someone who could wash it for
him, and never succeeding.

For it had been revealed to him by a wise woman that she who could make
it white and clean was destined to be his wife--be she bonnie or ugly,
old or young. And that, moreover, she would prove a loving, a faithful,
and a true helpmeet.

So when he came to the washerwoman's cottage, and received back his
mantle white as the driven snow, and heard that it was the washerwoman's
daughter who had wrought this wondrous change, he said at once that he
would marry her, and that the very next day.

When the Princess awoke in the morning and heard all that had befallen,
and how the Black Knight had come to the cottage while she was asleep,
and had received his mantle, and had promised to marry the washerwoman's
daughter that very day, her heart was like to break. For now she felt
that she never would have the chance of speaking to him and telling him
who she really was.

And in her sore distress she suddenly remembered the beautiful fruit
which she had received on her journey seven long years before, and which
she had carried with her ever since.

"Surely I will never be in a sorer strait than I am now," she said to
herself; and she drew out the apple and broke it. And, lo and behold! it
was filled with the most beautiful precious stones that she had ever
seen; and at the sight of them a plan came suddenly into her head.

She took the precious stones out of the apple, and, putting them into a
corner of her kerchief, carried them to the washerwoman.

"See," said she, "I am richer than mayhap thou thoughtest I was. And if
thou wilt, all these riches may be thine."

"And how could that come about?" asked the old woman eagerly, for she
had never seen so many precious stones in her life before, and she had a
great desire to become the possessor of them.

"Only put off thy daughter's wedding for one day," replied the Princess.
"And let me watch beside the Black Knight as he sleeps this night, for I
have long had a great desire to see him."

To her astonishment the washerwoman agreed to this request; for the wily
old woman was very anxious to get the jewels, which would make her rich
for life, and it did not seem to her that there was any harm in the
Princess's request; for she had made up her mind that she would give the
Black Knight a sleeping-draught, which would effectually prevent him as
much as speaking to this strange maiden.

So she took the jewels and locked them up in her kist, and the wedding
was put off, and that night the little Princess slipped into the Black
Knight's apartment when he was asleep, and watched all through the long
hours by his bedside, singing this song to him in the hope that he would
awake and hear it:

    "Seven lang years I served for thee,
    The glassy hill I clamb for thee.
    The mantle white I washed for thee,
    And wilt thou no waken, and turn to me?"

But although she sang it over and over again, as if her heart would
burst, he neither listened nor stirred, for the old washerwoman's potion
had made sure of that.

Next morning, in her great trouble, the little Princess broke open the
pear, hoping that its contents would help her better than the contents
of the apple had done. But in it she found just what she had found
before--a heap of precious stones; only they were richer and more
valuable than the others had been.

So, as it seemed the only thing to do, she carried them to the old
woman, and bribed her to put the wedding off for yet another day, and
allow her to watch that night also by the Black Prince's bedside.

And the washerwoman did so; "for," said she, as she locked away the
stones, "I shall soon grow quite rich at this rate."

But, alas! it was all in vain that the Princess spent the long hours
singing with all her might:

    "Seven lang years I served for thee,
    The glassy hill I clamb for thee,
    The mantle white I washed for thee,
    And wilt thou no waken, and turn to me?"

for the young Prince whom she watched so tenderly, remained deaf and
motionless as a stone.

By the morning she had almost lost hope, for there was only the plum
remaining now, and if that failed her last chance had gone. With
trembling fingers she broke it open, and found inside another
collection of precious stones, richer and rarer than all the others.

She ran with these to the washerwoman, and, throwing them into her lap,
told her she could keep them all and welcome if she would put off the
wedding once again, and let her watch by the Prince for one more night.
And, greatly wondering, the old woman consented.

Now it chanced that the Black Knight, tired with waiting for his
wedding, went out hunting that day with all his attendants behind him.
And as the servants rode they talked together about something that had
puzzled them sorely these two nights gone by. At last an old huntsman
rode up to the Knight, with a question upon his lips.

"Master," he said, "we would fain ken who the sweet singer is who
singeth through the night in thy chamber?"

"Singer!" he repeated. "There is no singer. My chamber hath been as quiet
as the grave, and I have slept a dreamless sleep ever since I came to
live at the cottage."

The old huntsman shook his head. "Taste not the old wife's draught this
night, Master," he said earnestly; "then wilt thou hear what other ears
have heard."

At other times the Black Knight would have laughed at his words, but
to-day the man spoke with such earnestness that he could not but listen
to them. So that evening, when the washerwoman, as was her wont, brought
his sleeping-draught of spiced ale to his bedside, he told her that it
was not sweet enough for his liking. And when she turned and went to the
kitchen to fetch some honey to sweeten it, he jumped out of bed and
poured it all out of the window, and when she came back he pretended
that he had drunk it.

So it came to pass that he lay awake that night and heard the Princess
enter his room, and listened to her plaintive little song, sung in a
voice that was full of sobs:

    "Seven lang years I served for thee,
    The glassy hill I clamb for thee,
    The mantle white I washed for thee,
    And wilt thou no waken, and turn to me?"

And when he heard it, he understood it all; and he sprang up and took
her in his arms and kissed her, and asked her to tell him the whole
story.

And when he heard it, he was so angry with the old washerwoman and her
deceitful daughter that he ordered them to leave the country at once;
and he married the little Princess, and they lived happily all their
days.

[Illustration]




THE WEE BANNOCK

    "Some tell about their sweethearts,
      How they tirled them to the winnock,
    But I'll tell you a bonnie tale
      About a guid oatmeal bannock."


There was once an old man and his wife, who lived in a dear little
cottage by the side of a burn. They were a very canty and contented
couple, for they had enough to live on, and enough to do. Indeed, they
considered themselves quite rich, for, besides their cottage and their
garden, they possessed two sleek cows, five hens and a cock, an old cat,
and two kittens.

The old man spent his time looking after the cows, and the hens, and the
garden; while the old woman kept herself busy spinning.

One day, just after breakfast, the old woman thought that she would like
an oatmeal bannock for her supper that evening, so she took down her
bakeboard, and put on her girdle, and baked a couple of fine cakes, and
when they were ready she put them down before the fire to harden.

While they were toasting, her husband came in from the byre, and sat
down to take a rest in his great arm-chair. Presently his eyes fell on
the bannocks, and, as they looked very good, he broke one through the
middle and began to eat it.

When the other bannock saw this it determined that it should not have
the same fate, so it ran across the kitchen and out of the door as fast
as it could. And when the old woman saw it disappearing, she ran after
it as fast as her legs would carry her, holding her spindle in one hand
and her distaff in the other.

But she was old, and the bannock was young, and it ran faster than she
did, and escaped over the hill behind the house. It ran, and it ran, and
it ran, until it came to a large newly thatched cottage, and, as the
door was open, it took refuge inside, and ran right across the floor to
a blazing fire, which was burning in the first room that it came to.

Now, it chanced that this house belonged to a tailor, and he and his two
apprentices were sitting cross-legged on the top of a big table by the
window, sewing away with all their might, while the tailor's wife was
sitting beside the fire carding lint.

When the wee bannock came trundling across the floor, all three tailors
got such a fright that they jumped down from the table and hid behind
the Master Tailor's wife.

"Hoot," she said, "what a set of cowards ye be! 'Tis but a nice wee
bannock. Get hold of it and divide it between you, and I'll fetch you
all a drink of milk."

So she jumped up with her lint and her lint cards, and the tailor jumped
up with his great shears, and one apprentice grasped the line measure,
while another took up the saucer full of pins; and they all tried to
catch the wee bannock. But it dodged them round and round the fire, and
at last it got safely out of the door and ran down the road, with one of
the apprentices after it, who tried to snip it in two with his shears.

It ran too quickly for him, however, and at last he stopped and went
back to the house, while the wee bannock ran on until it came to a tiny
cottage by the roadside. It trundled in at the door, and there was a
weaver sitting at his loom, with his wife beside him, winding a clue of
yarn.

"What's that, Tibby?" said the weaver, with a start as the little cake
flew past him.

"Oh!" cried she in delight, jumping to her feet, "'tis a wee bannock. I
wonder where it came from?"

"Dinna bother your head about that, Tibby," said her man, "but grip it,
my woman, grip it."

But it was not so easy to get hold of the wee bannock. It was in vain
that the Goodwife threw her clue at it, and that the Goodman tried to
chase it into a corner and knock it down with his shuttle. It dodged,
and turned, and twisted, like a thing bewitched, till at last it flew
out at the door again, and vanished down the hill, "for all the world,"
as the old woman said, "like a new tarred sheep, or a daft cow."

In the next house that it came to it found the Goodwife in the kitchen,
kirning. She had just filled her kirn, and there was still some cream
standing in the bottom of her cream jar.

"Come away, little bannock," she cried when she saw it. "Thou art come
in just the nick of time, for I am beginning to feel hungry, and I'll
have cakes and cream for my dinner."

But the wee bannock hopped round to the other side of the kirn, and the
Goodwife after it. And she was in such a hurry that she nearly upset the
kirn; and by the time that she had put it right again, the wee bannock
was out at the door and half-way down the brae to the mill.

The miller was sifting meal in the trough, but he straightened himself
up when he saw the little cake.

"It's a sign of plenty when bannocks are running about with no one to
look after them," he said; "but I like bannocks and cheese, so just come
in, and I will give thee a night's lodging."

But the little bannock had no wish to be eaten up by the miller, so it
turned and ran out of the mill, and the miller was so busy that he did
not trouble himself to run after it.

After this it ran on, and on, and on, till it came to the smithy, and
it popped in there to see what it could see.

The smith was busy at the anvil making horse-shoe nails, but he looked
up as the wee bannock entered.

"If there be one thing I am fond of, it is a glass of ale and a
well-toasted cake," he cried. "So come inbye here, and welcome to ye."

But as soon as the little bannock heard of the ale, it turned and ran
out of the smithy as fast as it could, and the disappointed smith picked
up his hammer and ran after it. And when he saw that he could not catch
it, he flung his heavy hammer at it, in the hope of knocking it down,
but, luckily for the little cake, he missed his aim.

After this the bannock came to a farmhouse, with a great stack of peats
standing at the back of it. In it went, and ran to the fireside. In this
house the master had all the lint spread out on the floor, and was
cloving[1] it with an iron rod, while the mistress was heckling[2] what
he had already cloven.

"Oh, Janet," cried the Goodman in surprise, "here comes in a little
bannock. It looks rare and good to eat. I'll have one half of it."

"And I'll have the other half," cried the Goodwife. "Hit it over the
back with your cloving-stick, Sandy, and knock it down. Quick, or it
will be out at the door again."

But the bannock played "jook-about," and dodged behind a chair. "Hoot!"
cried Janet contemptuously, for she thought that her husband might
easily have hit it, and she threw her heckle at it.

But the heckle missed it, just as her husband's cloving-rod had done,
for it played "jook-about" again, and flew out of the house.

This time it ran up a burnside till it came to a little cottage standing
among the heather.

Here the Goodwife was making porridge for the supper in a pot over the
fire, and her husband was sitting in a corner plaiting ropes of straw
with which to tie up the cow.

"Oh, Jock! come here, come here," cried the Goodwife. "Thou art aye
crying for a little bannock for thy supper; come here, histie, quick,
and help me to catch it."

"Ay, ay," assented Jock, jumping to his feet and hurrying across the
little room. "But where is it? I cannot see it."

"There, man, there," cried his wife, "under that chair. Run thou to that
side; I will keep to this."

So Jock ran into the dark corner behind the chair; but, in his hurry, he
tripped and fell, and the wee bannock jumped over him and flew laughing
out at the door.

Through the whins and up the hillside it ran, and over the top of the
hill, to a shepherd's cottage on the other side.

The inmates were just sitting down to their porridge, and the Goodwife
was scraping the pan.

"Save us and help us," she exclaimed, stopping with the spoon half-way
to her mouth. "There's a wee bannock come in to warm itself at our
fireside."

"Sneck the door," cried the husband, "and we'll try to catch it. It
would come in handy after the porridge."

But the bannock did not wait until the door was sneckit. It turned and
ran as fast as it could, and the shepherd and his wife and all the
bairns ran after it, with their spoons in their hands, in hopes of
catching it.

And when the shepherd saw that it could run faster than they could, he
threw his bonnet at it, and almost struck it; but it escaped all these
dangers, and soon it came to another house, where the folk were just
going to bed.

The Goodman was half undressed, and the Goodwife was raking the cinders
carefully out of the fire.

"What's that?" said he, "for the bowl of brose that I had at supper-time
wasna' very big."

"Catch it, then," answered his wife, "and I'll have a bit, too. Quick!
quick! Throw your coat over it or it will be away."

So the Goodman threw his coat right on the top of the little bannock,
and almost managed to smother it; but it struggled bravely, and got out,
breathless and hot, from under it. Then it ran out into the grey light
again, for night was beginning to fall, and the Goodman ran out after
it, without his coat. He chased it and chased it through the stackyard
and across a field, and in amongst a fine patch of whins. Then he lost
it; and, as he was feeling cold without his coat, he went home.

As for the poor little bannock, it thought that it would creep under a
whin bush and lie there till morning, but it was so dark that it never
saw that there was a fox's hole there. So it fell down the fox's hole,
and the fox was very glad to see it, for he had had no food for two
days.

"Oh, welcome, welcome," he cried; and he snapped it through the middle
with his teeth, and that was the end of the poor wee bannock.

And if a moral be wanted for this tale, here it is: That people should
never be too uplifted or too cast down over anything, for all the good
folk in the story thought that they were going to get the bannock, and,
lo and behold! the fox got it after all.


Footnotes:

[Footnote 1: Separating the lint from the stalk.]

[Footnote 2: Combing.]




THE ELFIN KNIGHT


There is a lone moor in Scotland, which, in times past, was said to be
haunted by an Elfin Knight. This Knight was only seen at rare intervals,
once in every seven years or so, but the fear of him lay on all the
country round, for every now and then someone would set out to cross the
moor and would never be heard of again.

And although men might search every inch of the ground, no trace of him
would be found, and with a thrill of horror the searching party would go
home again, shaking their heads and whispering to one another that he
had fallen into the hands of the dreaded Knight.

So, as a rule, the moor was deserted, for nobody dare pass that way,
much less live there; and by and by it became the haunt of all sorts of
wild animals, which made their lairs there, as they found that they
never were disturbed by mortal huntsmen.

Now in that same region lived two young earls, Earl St. Clair and Earl
Gregory, who were such friends that they rode, and hunted, and fought
together, if need be.

And as they were both very fond of the chase, Earl Gregory suggested one
day that they should go a-hunting on the haunted moor, in spite of the
Elfin King.

"Certes, I hardly believe in him at all," cried the young man, with a
laugh. "Methinks 'tis but an old wife's tale to frighten the bairns
withal, lest they go straying amongst the heather and lose themselves.
And 'tis pity that such fine sport should be lost because we--two
bearded men--pay heed to such gossip."

But Earl St. Clair looked grave. "'Tis ill meddling with unchancy
things," he answered, "and 'tis no bairn's tale that travellers have set
out to cross that moor who have vanished bodily, and never mair been
heard of; but it is, as thou sayest, a pity that so much good sport be
lost, all because an Elfin Knight choosest to claim the land as his, and
make us mortals pay toll for the privilege of planting a foot upon it.

"I have heard tell, however, that one is safe from any power that the
Knight may have if one wearest the Sign of the Blessed Trinity. So let
us bind That on our arm and ride forth without fear."

Sir Gregory burst into a loud laugh at these words. "Dost thou think
that I am one of the bairns," he said, "'first to be frightened by an
idle tale, and then to think that a leaf of clover will protect me? No,
no, carry that Sign if thou wilt; I will trust to my good bow and
arrow."

But Earl St. Clair did not heed his companion's words, for he remembered
how his mother had told him, when he was a little lad at her knee that
whoso carried the Sign of the Blessed Trinity need never fear any spell
that might be thrown over him by Warlock or Witch, Elf or Demon.

So he went out to the meadow and plucked a leaf of clover, which he
bound on his arm with a silken scarf; then he mounted his horse and rode
with Earl Gregory to the desolate and lonely moorland.

For some hours all went well; and in the heat of the chase the young men
forgot their fears. Then suddenly both of them reined in their steeds
and sat gazing in front of them with affrighted faces.

For a horseman had crossed their track, and they both would fain have
known who he was and whence he came.

"By my troth, but he rideth in haste, whoever he may be," said Earl
Gregory at last, "and tho' I always thought that no steed on earth could
match mine for swiftness, I reckon that for every league that mine
goeth, his would go seven. Let us follow him, and see from what part of
the world he cometh."

"The Lord forbid that thou shouldst stir thy horse's feet to follow
him," said Earl St. Clair devoutly. "Why, man, 'tis the Elfin Knight!
Canst thou not see that he doth not ride on the solid ground, but flieth
through the air, and that, although he rideth on what seemeth a mortal
steed, he is really craried by mighty pinions, which cleave the air like
those of a bird? Follow him forsooth! It will be an evil day for thee
when thou seekest to do that."

But Earl St. Clair forgot that he carried a Talisman which his companion
lacked, that enabled him to see things as they really were, while the
other's eyes were holden, and he was startled and amazed when Earl
Gregory said sharply, "Thy mind hath gone mad over this Elfin King. I
tell thee he who passed was a goodly Knight, clad in a green vesture,
and riding on a great black jennet. And because I love a gallant
horseman, and would fain learn his name and degree, I will follow him
till I find him, even if it be at the world's end."

And without another word he put spurs to his horse and galloped off in
the direction which the mysterious stranger had taken, leaving Earl St.
Clair alone upon the moorland, his fingers touching the sacred Sign and
his trembling lips muttering prayers for protection.

For he knew that his friend had been bewitched, and he made up his mind,
brave gentleman that he was, that he would follow him to the world's
end, if need be, and try to deliver him from the spell that had been
cast over him.

Meanwhile Earl Gregory rode on and on, ever following in the wake of the
Knight in green, over moor, and burn, and moss, till he came to the
most desolate region that he had ever been in in his life; where the
wind blew cold, as if from snow-fields, and where the hoar-frost lay
thick and white on the withered grass at his feet.

And there, in front of him, was a sight from which mortal man might well
shrink back in awe and dread. For he saw an enormous Ring marked out on
the ground, inside of which the grass, instead of being withered and
frozen, was lush, and rank, and green, where hundreds of shadowy Elfin
figures were dancing, clad in loose transparent robes of dull blue,
which seemed to curl and twist round their wearers like snaky wreaths of
smoke.

These weird Goblins were shouting and singing as they danced, and waving
their arms above their heads, and throwing themselves about on the
ground, for all the world as if they had gone mad; and when they saw
Earl Gregory halt on his horse just outside the Ring they beckoned to
him with their skinny fingers.

"Come hither, come hither," they shouted; "come tread a measure with us,
and afterwards we will drink to thee out of our Monarch's loving cup."

And, strange as it may seem, the spell that had been cast over the young
Earl was so powerful that, in spite of his fear, he felt that he must
obey the eldrich summons, and he threw his bridle on his horse's neck
and prepared to join them.

But just then an old and grizzled Goblin stepped out from among his
companions and approached him.

Apparently he dare not leave the charmed Circle, for he stopped at the
edge of it; then, stooping down and pretending to pick up something, he
whispered in a hoarse whisper:

"I know not whom thou art, nor from whence thou comest, Sir Knight, but
if thou lovest thy life, see to it that thou comest not within this
Ring, nor joinest with us in our feast. Else wilt thou be for ever
undone."

But Earl Gregory only laughed. "I vowed that I would follow the Green
Knight," he replied, "and I will carry out my vow, even if the venture
leadeth me close to the nethermost world."

And with these words he stepped over the edge of the Circle, right in
amongst the ghostly dancers.

At his coming they shouted louder than ever, and danced more madly, and
sang more lustily; then, all at once, a silence fell upon them, and they
parted into two companies, leaving a way through their midst, up which
they signed to the Earl to pass.

He walked through their ranks till he came to the middle of the Circle;
and there, seated at a table of red marble, was the Knight whom he had
come so far to seek, clad in his grass-green robes. And before him, on
the table, stood a wondrous goblet, fashioned from an emerald, and set
round the rim with blood-red rubies.

And this cup was filled with heather ale, which foamed up over the brim;
and when the Knight saw Sir Gregory, he lifted it from the table, and
handed it to him with a stately bow, and Sir Gregory, being very
thirsty, drank.

And as he drank he noticed that the ale in the goblet never grew less,
but ever foamed up to the edge; and for the first time his heart misgave
him, and he wished that he had never set out on this strange adventure.

But, alas! the time for regrets had passed, for already a strange
numbness was stealing over his limbs, and a chill pallor was creeping
over his face, and before he could utter a single cry for help the
goblet dropped from his nerveless fingers, and he fell down before the
Elfin King like a dead man.

Then a great shout of triumph went up from all the company; for if there
was one thing which filled their hearts with joy, it was to entice some
unwary mortal into their Ring and throw their uncanny spell over him, so
that he must needs spend long years in their company.

But soon their shouts of triumphs began to die away, and they muttered
and whispered to each other with looks of something like fear on their
faces.

For their keen ears heard a sound which filled their hearts with dread.
It was the sound of human footsteps, which were so free and untrammelled
that they knew at once that the stranger, whoever he was, was as yet
untouched by any charm. And if this were so he might work them ill, and
rescue their captive from them.

And what they dreaded was true; for it was the brave Earl St. Clair who
approached, fearless and strong because of the Holy Sign he bore.

And as soon as he saw the charmed Ring and the eldrich dancers, he was
about to step over its magic border, when the little grizzled Goblin who
had whispered to Earl Gregory, came and whispered to him also.

"Alas! alas!" he exclaimed, with a look of sorrow on his wrinkled face,
"hast thou come, as thy companion came, to pay thy toll of years to the
Elfin King? Oh! if thou hast wife or child behind thee, I beseech thee,
by all that thou holdest sacred, to turn back ere it be too late."

"Who art thou, and from whence hast thou come?" asked the Earl, looking
kindly down at the little creature in front of him.

"I came from the country that thou hast come from," wailed the Goblin.
"For I was once a mortal man, even as thou. But I set out over the
enchanted moor, and the Elfin King appeared in the guise of a beauteous
Knight, and he looked so brave, and noble, and generous that I followed
him hither, and drank of his heather ale, and now I am doomed to bide
here till seven long years be spent.

"As for thy friend, Sir Earl, he, too, hath drunk of the accursed
draught, and he now lieth as dead at our lawful Monarch's feet. He will
wake up, 'tis true, but it will be in such a guise as I wear, and to the
bondage with which I am bound."

"Is there naught that I can do to rescue him!" cried Earl St. Clair
eagerly, "ere he taketh on him the Elfin shape? I have no fear of the
spell of his cruel captor, for I bear the Sign of One Who is stronger
than he. Speak speedily, little man, for time presseth."

"There is something that thou couldst do, Sir Earl," whispered the
Goblin, "but to essay it were a desperate attempt. For if thou failest,
then could not even the Power of the Blessed Sign save thee."

"And what is that?" asked the Earl impatiently.

"Thou must remain motionless," answered the old man, "in the cold and
frost till dawn break and the hour cometh when they sing Matins in the
Holy Church. Then must thou walk slowly nine times round the edge of the
enchanted Circle, and after that thou must walk boldly across it to the
red marble table where sits the Elfin King. On it thou wilt see an
emerald goblet studded with rubies and filled with heather ale. That
must thou secure and carry away; but whilst thou art doing so let no
word cross thy lips. For this enchanted ground whereon we dance may look
solid to mortal eyes, but in reality it is not so. 'Tis but a quaking
bog, and under it is a great lake, wherein dwelleth a fearsome Monster,
and if thou so much as utter a word while thy foot resteth upon it, thou
wilt fall through the bog and perish in the waters beneath."

[Illustration: Two coal-black Ravens Rose in the Air]

So saying the Grisly Goblin stepped back among his companions, leaving
Earl St. Clair standing alone on the outskirts of the charmed Ring.

There he waited, shivering with cold, through the long, dark hours, till
the grey dawn began to break over the hill tops, and, with its coming,
the Elfin forms before him seemed to dwindle and fade away.

And at the hour when the sound of the Matin Bell came softly pealing
from across the moor, he began his solemn walk. Round and round the Ring
he paced, keeping steadily on his way, although loud murmurs of anger,
like distant thunder, rose from the Elfin Shades, and even the very
ground seemed to heave and quiver, as if it would shake this bold
intruder from its surface.

But through the power of the Blessed Sign on his arm Earl St. Clair went
on unhurt.

When he had finished pacing round the Ring he stepped boldly on to the
enchanted ground, and walked across it; and what was his astonishment to
find that all the ghostly Elves and Goblins whom he had seen, were lying
frozen into tiny blocks of ice, so that he was sore put to it to walk
amongst them without treading upon them.

And as he approached the marble table the very hairs rose on his head at
the sight of the Elfin King sitting behind it, stiff and stark like his
followers; while in front of him lay the form of Earl Gregory, who had
shared the same fate.

Nothing stirred, save two coal-black ravens, who sat, one on each side
of the table, as if to guard the emerald goblet, flapping their wings,
and croaking hoarsely.

When Earl St. Clair lifted the precious cup, they rose in the air and
circled round his head, screaming with rage, and threatening to dash it
from his hands with their claws; while the frozen Elves, and even their
mighty King himself stirred in their sleep, and half sat up, as if to
lay hands on this presumptuous intruder. But the Power of the Holy Sign
restrained them, else had Earl St. Clair been foiled in his quest.

As he retraced his steps, awesome and terrible were the sounds that he
heard around him. The ravens shrieked, and the frozen Goblins screamed;
and up from the hidden lake below came the sound of the deep breathing
of the awful Monster who was lurking there, eager for prey.

But the brave Earl heeded none of these things, but kept steadily
onwards, trusting in the Might of the Sign he bore. And it carried him
safely through all the dangers; and just as the sound of the Matin Bell
was dying away in the morning air he stepped on to solid ground once
more, and flung the enchanted goblet from him.

And lo! every one of the frozen Elves vanished, along with their King
and his marble table, and nothing was left on the rank green grass save
Earl Gregory, who slowly woke from his enchanted slumber, and stretched
himself, and stood up, shaking in every limb. He gazed vaguely round
him, as if he scarce remembered where he was.

And when, after Earl St. Clair had run to him and had held him in his
arms till his senses returned and the warm blood coursed through his
veins, the two friends returned to the spot where Earl St. Clair had
thrown down the wondrous goblet, they found nothing but a piece of rough
grey whinstone, with a drop of dew hidden in a little crevice which was
hollowed in its side.

[Illustration]




WHAT TO SAY TO THE NEW MUNE


    New Mune, true Mune,
          Tell unto me,
        If my ane true love
          He will marry me.

    If he marry me in haste,
    Let me see his bonny face;

    If he marry me betide,
    Let me see his bonnie side;

    Gin he marry na me ava',
    Turn his back and gae awa.'




HABETROT THE SPINSTRESS


In byegone days, in an old farmhouse which stood by a river, there lived
a beautiful girl called Maisie. She was tall and straight, with auburn
hair and blue eyes, and she was the prettiest girl in all the valley.
And one would have thought that she would have been the pride of her
mother's heart.

But, instead of this, her mother used to sigh and shake her head
whenever she looked at her. And why?

Because, in those days, all men were sensible; and instead of looking
out for pretty girls to be their wives, they looked out for girls who
could cook and spin, and who gave promise of becoming notable
housewives.

Maisie's mother had been an industrious spinster; but, alas! to her sore
grief and disappointment, her daughter did not take after her.

The girl loved to be out of doors, chasing butterflies and plucking wild
flowers, far better than sitting at her spinning-wheel. So when her
mother saw one after another of Maisie's companions, who were not nearly
so pretty as she was, getting rich husbands, she sighed and said:

"Woe's me, child, for methinks no brave wooer will ever pause at our
door while they see thee so idle and thoughtless." But Maisie only
laughed.

At last her mother grew really angry, and one bright Spring morning she
laid down three heads of lint on the table, saying sharply, "I will have
no more of this dallying. People will say that it is my blame that no
wooer comes to seek thee. I cannot have thee left on my hands to be
laughed at, as the idle maid who would not marry. So now thou must work;
and if thou hast not these heads of lint spun into seven hanks of thread
in three days, I will e'en speak to the Mother at St. Mary's Convent,
and thou wilt go there and learn to be a nun."

Now, though Maisie was an idle girl, she had no wish to be shut up in a
nunnery; so she tried not to think of the sunshine outside, but sat down
soberly with her distaff.

But, alas! she was so little accustomed to work that she made but slow
progress; and although she sat at the spinning-wheel all day, and never
once went out of doors, she found at night that she had only spun half a
hank of yarn.

The next day it was even worse, for her arms ached so much she could
only work very slowly. That night she cried herself to sleep; and next
morning, seeing that it was quite hopeless to expect to get her task
finished, she threw down her distaff in despair, and ran out of doors.

Near the house was a deep dell, through which ran a tiny stream. Maisie
loved this dell, the flowers grew so abundantly there.

This morning she ran down to the edge of the stream, and seated herself
on a large stone. It was a glorious morning, the hazel trees were newly
covered with leaves, and the branches nodded over her head, and showed
like delicate tracery against the blue sky. The primroses and
sweet-scented violets peeped out from among the grass, and a little
water wagtail came and perched on a stone in the middle of the stream,
and bobbed up and down, till it seemed as if he were nodding to Maisie,
and as if he were trying to say to her, "Never mind, cheer up."

But the poor girl was in no mood that morning to enjoy the flowers and
the birds. Instead of watching them, as she generally did, she hid her
face in her hands, and wondered what would become of her. She rocked
herself to and fro, as she thought how terrible it would be if her
mother fulfilled her threat and shut her up in the Convent of St. Mary,
with the grave, solemn-faced sisters, who seemed as if they had
completely forgotten what it was like to be young, and run about in the
sunshine, and laugh, and pick the fresh Spring flowers.

"Oh, I could not do it, I could not do it," she cried at last. "It would
kill me to be a nun."

"And who wants to make a pretty wench like thee into a nun?" asked a
queer, cracked voice quite close to her.

Maisie jumped up, and stood staring in front of her as if she had been
moonstruck. For, just across the stream from where she had been sitting,
there was a curious boulder, with a round hole in the middle of it--for
all the world like a big apple with the core taken out.

[Illustration: Seated on this stone was the queerest Little old Woman.]

Maisie knew it well; she had often sat upon it, and wondered how the
funny hole came to be there.

It was no wonder that she stared, for, seated on this stone, was the
queerest little old woman that she had ever seen in her life. Indeed,
had it not been for her silver hair, and the white mutch with the big
frill that she wore on her head, Maisie would have taken her for a
little girl, she wore such a very short skirt, only reaching down to her
knees.

Her face, inside the frill of her cap, was round, and her cheeks were
rosy, and she had little black eyes, which twinkled merrily as she
looked at the startled maiden. On her shoulders was a black and white
checked shawl, and on her legs, which she dangled over the edge of the
boulder, she wore black silk stockings and the neatest little shoes,
with great silver buckles.

In fact, she would have been quite a pretty old lady had it not been for
her lips, which were very long and very thick, and made her look quite
ugly in spite of her rosy cheeks and black eyes. Maisie stood and looked
at her for such a long time in silence that she repeated her question.

"And who wants to make a pretty wench like thee into a nun? More likely
that some gallant gentleman should want to make a bride of thee."

"Oh, no," answered Maisie, "my mother says no gentleman would look at me
because I cannot spin."

"Nonsense," said the tiny woman. "Spinning is all very well for old
folks like me--my lips, as thou seest, are long and ugly because I have
spun so much, for I always wet my fingers with them, the easier to draw
the thread from the distaff. No, no, take care of thy beauty, child; do
not waste it over the spinning-wheel, nor yet in a nunnery."

"If my mother only thought as thou dost," replied the girl sadly; and,
encouraged by the old woman's kindly face, she told her the whole story.

"Well," said the old Dame, "I do not like to see pretty girls weep; what
if I were able to help thee, and spin the lint for thee?"

Maisie thought that this offer was too good to be true; but her new
friend bade her run home and fetch the lint; and I need not tell you
that she required no second bidding.

When she returned she handed the bundle to the little lady, and was
about to ask her where she should meet her in order to get the thread
from her when it was spun, when a sudden noise behind her made her look
round.

She saw nothing; but what was her horror and surprise when she turned
back again, to find that the old woman had vanished entirely, lint and
all.

She rubbed her eyes, and looked all round, but she was nowhere to be
seen. The girl was utterly bewildered. She wondered if she could have
been dreaming, but no that could not be, there were her footprints
leading up the bank and down again, where she had gone for the lint, and
brought it back, and there was the mark of her foot, wet with dew, on a
stone in the middle of the stream, where she had stood when she had
handed the lint up to the mysterious little stranger.

What was she to do now? What would her mother say when, in addition to
not having finished the task that had been given her, she had to confess
to having lost the greater part of the lint also? She ran up and down
the little dell, hunting amongst the bushes, and peeping into every nook
and cranny of the bank where the little old woman might have hidden
herself. It was all in vain; and at last, tired out with the search, she
sat down on the stone once more, and presently fell fast asleep.

When she awoke it was evening. The sun had set, and the yellow glow on
the western horizon was fast giving place to the silvery light of the
moon. She was sitting thinking of the curious events of the day, and
gazing at the great boulder opposite, when it seemed to her as if a
distant murmur of voices came from it.

With one bound she crossed the stream, and clambered on to the stone.
She was right.

Someone was talking underneath it, far down in the ground. She put her
ear close to the stone, and listened.

The voice of the queer little old woman came up through the hole. "Ho,
ho, my pretty little wench little knows that my name is Habetrot."

Full of curiosity, Maisie put her eye to the opening, and the strangest
sight that she had ever seen met her gaze. She seemed to be looking
through a telescope into a wonderful little valley. The trees there were
brighter and greener than any that she had ever seen before and there
were beautiful flowers, quite different from the flowers that grew in
her country. The little valley was carpeted with the most exquisite
moss, and up and down it walked her tiny friend, busily engaged in
spinning.

She was not alone, for round her were a circle of other little old
women, who were seated on large white stones, and they were all spinning
away as fast as they could.

Occasionally one would look up, and then Maisie saw that they all seemed
to have the same long, thick lips that her friend had. She really felt
very sorry, as they all looked exceedingly kind, and might have been
pretty had it not been for this defect.

One of the Spinstresses sat by herself, and was engaged in winding the
thread, which the others had spun, into hanks. Maisie did not think that
this little lady looked so nice as the others. She was dressed entirely
in grey, and had a big hooked nose, and great horn spectacles. She
seemed to be called Slantlie Mab, for Maisie heard Habetrot address her
by that name, telling her to make haste and tie up all the thread, for
it was getting late, and it was time that the young girl had it to
carry home to her mother.

Maisie did not quite know what to do, or how she was to get the thread,
for she did not like to shout down the hole in case the queer little old
woman should be angry at being watched.

However, Habetrot, as she had called herself, suddenly appeared on the
path beside her, with the hanks of thread in her hand.

"Oh, thank you, thank you," cried Maisie. "What can I do to show you how
thankful I am?"

"Nothing," answered the Fairy. "For I do not work for reward. Only do
not tell your mother who span the thread for thee."

It was now late, and Maisie lost no time in running home with the
precious thread upon her shoulder. When she walked into the kitchen she
found that her mother had gone to bed. She seemed to have had a busy
day, for there, hanging up in the wide chimney, in order to dry, were
seven large black puddings.

The fire was low, but bright and clear; and the sight of it and the
sight of the puddings suggested to Maisie that she was very hungry, and
that fried black puddings were very good.

Flinging the thread down on the table, she hastily pulled off her shoes,
so as not to make a noise and awake her mother; and, getting down the
frying-pan from the wall, she took one of the black puddings from the
chimney, and fried it, and ate it.

Still she felt hungry, so she took another, and then another, till they
were all gone. Then she crept upstairs to her little bed and fell fast
asleep.

Next morning her mother came downstairs before Maisie was awake. In
fact, she had not been able to sleep much for thinking of her daughter's
careless ways, and had been sorrowfully making up her mind that she must
lose no time in speaking to the Abbess of St. Mary's about this idle
girl of hers.

What was her surprise to see on the table the seven beautiful hanks of
thread, while, on going to the chimney to take down a black pudding to
fry for breakfast, she found that every one of them had been eaten. She
did not know whether to laugh for joy that her daughter had been so
industrious, or to cry for vexation because all her lovely black
puddings--which she had expected would last for a week at least--were
gone. In her bewilderment she sang out:

    "My daughter's spun se'en, se'en, se'en,
    My daughter's eaten se'en, se'en, se'en,
        And all before daylight."

Now I forgot to tell you that, about half a mile from where the old
farmhouse stood, there was a beautiful Castle, where a very rich young
nobleman lived. He was both good and brave, as well as rich; and all
the mothers who had pretty daughters used to wish that he would come
their way, some day, and fall in love with one of them. But he had never
done so, and everyone said, "He is too grand to marry any country girl.
One day he will go away to London Town and marry a Duke's daughter."

Well, this fine spring morning it chanced that this young nobleman's
favourite horse had lost a shoe, and he was so afraid that any of the
grooms might ride it along the hard road, and not on the soft grass at
the side, that he said that he would take it to the smithy himself.

So it happened that he was riding along by Maisie's garden gate as her
mother came into the garden singing these strange lines.

He stopped his horse, and said good-naturedly, "Good day, Madam; and may
I ask why you sing such a strange song?"

Maisie's mother made no answer, but turned and walked into the house;
and the young nobleman, being very anxious to know what it all meant,
hung his bridle over the garden gate, and followed her.

She pointed to the seven hanks of thread lying on the table, and said,
"This hath my daughter done before breakfast."

Then the young man asked to see the Maiden who was so industrious, and
her mother went and pulled Maisie from behind the door, where she had
hidden herself when the stranger came in; for she had come downstairs
while her mother was in the garden.

She looked so lovely in her fresh morning gown of blue gingham, with her
auburn hair curling softly round her brow, and her face all over blushes
at the sight of such a gallant young man, that he quite lost his heart,
and fell in love with her on the spot.

"Ah," said he, "my dear mother always told me to try and find a wife who
was both pretty and useful, and I have succeeded beyond my expectations.
Do not let our marriage, I pray thee, good Dame, be too long deferred."

Maisie's mother was overjoyed, as you may imagine, at this piece of
unexpected good fortune, and busied herself in getting everything ready
for the wedding; but Maisie herself was a little perplexed.

She was afraid that she would be expected to spin a great deal when she
was married and lived at the Castle, and if that were so, her husband
was sure to find out that she was not really such a good spinstress as
he thought she was.

In her trouble she went down, the night before her wedding, to the great
boulder by the stream in the glen, and, climbing up on it, she laid her
head against the stone, and called softly down the hole, "Habetrot, dear
Habetrot."

The little old woman soon appeared, and, with twinkling eyes, asked her
what was troubling her so much just when she should have been so happy.
And Maisie told her.

"Trouble not thy pretty head about that," answered the Fairy, "but come
here with thy bridegroom next week, when the moon is full, and I warrant
that he will never ask thee to sit at a spinning-wheel again."

Accordingly, after all the wedding festivities were over and the couple
had settled down at the Castle, on the appointed evening Maisie
suggested to her husband that they should take a walk together in the
moonlight.

She was very anxious to see what the little Fairy would do to help her;
for that very day he had been showing her all over her new home, and he
had pointed out to her the beautiful new spinning-wheel made of ebony,
which had belonged to his mother, saying proudly, "To-morrow, little
one, I shall bring some lint from the town, and then the maids will see
what clever little fingers my wife has."

Maisie had blushed as red as a rose as she bent over the lovely wheel,
and then felt quite sick, as she wondered whatever she would do if
Habetrot did not help her.

So on this particular evening, after they had walked in the garden, she
said that she should like to go down to the little dell and see how the
stream looked by moonlight. So to the dell they went.

As soon as they came to the boulder Maisie put her head against it and
whispered, "Habetrot, dear Habetrot"; and in an instant the little old
woman appeared.

She bowed in a stately way, as if they were both strangers to her, and
said, "Welcome, Sir and Madam, to the Spinsters' Dell." And then she
tapped on the root of a great oak tree with a tiny wand which she held
in her hand, and a green door, which Maisie never remembered having
noticed before, flew open, and they followed the Fairy through it into
the other valley which Maisie had seen through the hole in the great
stone.

All the little old women were sitting on their white chucky stones busy
at work, only they seemed far uglier than they had seemed at first; and
Maisie noticed that the reason for this was, that, instead of wearing
red skirts and white mutches as they had done before, they now wore caps
and dresses of dull grey, and instead of looking happy, they all seemed
to be trying who could look most miserable, and who could push out their
long lips furthest, as they wet their fingers to draw the thread from
their distaffs.

"Save us and help us! What a lot of hideous old witches," exclaimed her
husband. "Whatever could this funny old woman mean by bringing a pretty
child like thee to look at them? Thou wilt dream of them for a week and
a day. Just look at their lips"; and, pushing Maisie behind him, he went
up to one of them and asked her what had made her mouth grow so ugly.

She tried to tell him, but all the sound that he could hear was
something that sounded like SPIN-N-N.

He asked another one, and her answer sounded like this: SPAN-N-N. He
tried a third, and hers sounded like SPUN-N-N.

He seized Maisie by the hand and hurried her through the green door. "By
my troth," he said, "my mother's spinning-wheel may turn to gold ere I
let thee touch it, if this is what spinning leads to. Rather than that
thy pretty face should be spoilt, the linen chests at the Castle may get
empty, and remain so for ever!"

So it came to pass that Maisie could be out of doors all day wandering
about with her husband, and laughing and singing to her heart's content.
And whenever there was lint at the Castle to be spun, it was carried
down to the big boulder in the dell and left there, and Habetrot and her
companions spun it, and there was no more trouble about the matter.

[Illustration]




NIPPIT FIT AND CLIPPIT FIT


In a country, far across the sea, there once dwelt a great and mighty
Prince. He lived in a grand Castle, which was full of beautiful
furniture, and curious and rare ornaments. And among them was a lovely
little glass shoe, which would only fit the tiniest foot imaginable.

And as the Prince was looking at it one day, it struck him what a dainty
little lady she would need to be who wore such a very small shoe. And,
as he liked dainty people, he made up his mind that he would never marry
until he found a maiden who could wear the shoe, and that, when he found
her, he would ask her to be his wife.

And he called all his Lords and Courtiers to him, and told them of the
determination that he had come to, and asked them to help him in his
quest.

And after they had taken counsel together they summoned a trusty Knight,
and appointed him the Prince's Ambassador; and told him to take the
slipper, and mount a fleet-footed horse, and ride up and down the whole
of the Kingdom until he found a lady whom it would fit.

So the Ambassador put the little shoe carefully in his pocket and set
out on his errand.

He rode, and he rode, and he rode, going to every town and castle that
came in his way, and summoning all the ladies to appear before him to
try on the shoe. And, as he caused a Proclamation to be made that
whoever could wear it should be the Prince's Bride, I need not tell you
that all the ladies in the country-side flocked to wherever the
Ambassador chanced to be staying, and begged leave to try on the
slipper.

But they were all disappointed, for not one of them, try as she would,
could make her foot small enough to go into the Fairy Shoe; and there
were many bitter tears shed in secret, when they returned home, by
countless fair ladies who prided themselves on the smallness of their
feet, and who had set out full of lively expectation that they would be
the successful competitors.

At last the Ambassador arrived at a house where a well-to-do Laird had
lived. But the Laird was dead now, and there was nobody left but his
wife and two daughters, who had grown poor of late, and who had to work
hard for their living.

One of the daughters was haughty and insolent; the other was little, and
young, and modest, and sweet.

When the Ambassador rode into the courtyard of this house, and, holding
out the shoe, asked if there were any fair ladies there who would like
to try it on, the elder sister, who always thought a great deal of
herself, ran forward, and said that she would do so, while the younger
girl just shook her head and went on with her work. "For," said she to
herself, "though my feet are so little that they might go into the
slipper, what would I do as the wife of a great Prince? Folk would just
laugh at me, and say that I was not fit for the position. No, no, I am
far better to bide as I am."

So the Ambassador gave the glass shoe to the elder sister, who carried
it away to her own room; and presently, to every one's astonishment,
came back wearing it on her foot.

It is true that her face was very white, and that she walked with a
little limp; but no one noticed these things except her younger sister,
and she only shook her wise little head, and said nothing.

The Prince's Ambassador was delighted that he had at last found a wife
for his master, and he mounted his horse and rode off at full speed to
tell him the good news.

When the Prince heard of the success of his errand, he ordered all his
Courtiers to be ready to accompany him next day when he went to bring
home his Bride.

You can fancy what excitement there was at the Laird's house when the
gallant company arrived, with their Prince at their head, to greet the
lady who was to be their Princess.

The old mother and the plain-looking maid-of-all-work ran hither and
thither, fetching such meat and drink as the house could boast to set
before their high-born visitors, while the bonnie little sister went and
hid herself behind a great pot which stood in the corner of the
courtyard, and which was used for boiling hen's meat.

[Illustration]

She knew that her foot was the smallest in the house; and something told
her that if the Prince once got a glimpse of her he would not be content
till she had tried on the slipper.

Meanwhile, the selfish elder sister did not help at all, but ran up to
her chamber, and decked herself out in all the fine clothes that she
possessed before she came downstairs to meet the Prince.

And when all the Knights and Courtiers had drunk a stirrup-cup, and
wished Good Luck to their Lord and his Bride, she was lifted up behind
the Prince on his horse, and rode off so full of her own importance,
that she even forgot to say good-bye to her mother and sister.

Alas! alas! pride must have a fall. For the cavalcade had not proceeded
very far when a little bird which was perched on a branch of a bush by
the roadside sang out:

    "Nippit fit, and clippit fit, behind the King rides,
    But pretty fit, and little fit, ahint the caldron hides."

"What is this that the birdie says?" cried the Prince, who, if the truth
be told, did not feel altogether satisfied with the Bride whom fortune
had bestowed upon him. "Hast thou another sister, Madam?"

"Only a little one," murmured the lady, who liked ill the way in which
things seemed to be falling out.

"We will go back and find her," said the Prince firmly, "for when I sent
out the slipper I had no mind that its wearer should nip her foot, and
clip her foot, in order to get it on."

So the whole party turned back; and when they reached the Laird's house
the Prince ordered a search to be made in the courtyard. And the bonnie
little sister was soon discovered and brought out, all blushes and
confusion, from her hiding-place behind the caldron.

"Give her the slipper, and let her try it on," said the Prince, and the
eldest sister was forced to obey. And what was the horror of the
bystanders, as she drew it off, to see that she had cut off the tops of
her toes in order to get it on.

But it fitted her little sister's foot exactly, without either paring or
clipping; and when the Prince saw that it was so, he lifted the elder
sister down from his horse and lifted the little one up in her place,
and carried her home to his Palace, where the wedding was celebrated
with great rejoicing; and for the rest of their lives they were the
happiest couple in the whole kingdom.

[Illustration]




THE FAIRIES OF MERLIN'S CRAG


About two hundred years ago there was a poor man working as a labourer
on a farm in Lanarkshire. He was what is known as an "Orra Man"; that
is, he had no special work mapped out for him to do, but he was expected
to undertake odd jobs of any kind that happened to turn up.

One day his master sent him out to cast peats on a piece of moorland
that lay on a certain part of the farm. Now this strip of moorland ran
up at one end to a curiously shaped crag, known as Merlin's Crag,
because, so the country folk said, that famous Enchanter had once taken
up his abode there.

The man obeyed, and, being a willing fellow, when he arrived at the moor
he set to work with all his might and main. He had lifted quite a
quantity of peat from near the Crag, when he was startled by the
appearance of the very smallest woman that he had ever seen in his life.
She was only about two feet high, and she was dressed in a green gown
and red stockings, and her long yellow hair was not bound by any
ribbon, but hung loosely round her shoulders.

She was such a dainty little creature that the astonished countryman
stopped working, stuck his spade into the ground, and gazed at her in
wonder.

His wonder increased when she held up one of her tiny fingers and
addressed him in these words: "What wouldst thou think if I were to send
my husband to uncover thy house? You mortals think that you can do aught
that pleaseth you."

Then, stamping her tiny foot, she added in a voice of command, "Put back
that turf instantly, or thou shalt rue this day."

Now the poor man had often heard of the Fairy Folk and of the harm that
they could work to unthinking mortals who offended them, so in fear and
trembling he set to work to undo all his labour, and to place every
divot in the exact spot from which he had taken it.

When he was finished he looked round for his strange visitor, but she
had vanished completely; he could not tell how, nor where. Putting up
his spade, he wended his way homewards, and going straight to his
master, he told him the whole story, and suggested that in future the
peats should be taken from the other end of the moor.

[Illustration: A large band of Fairies dancing Round and Round]

But the master only laughed. He was a strong, hearty man, and had no
belief in Ghosts, or Elves, or Fairies, or any other creature that he
could not see; but although he laughed, he was vexed that his servant
should believe in such things, so to cure him, as he thought, of his
superstition, he ordered him to take a horse and cart and go back at
once, and lift all the peats and bring them to dry in the farm steading.

The poor man obeyed with much reluctance; and was greatly relieved, as
weeks went on, to find that, in spite of his having done so, no harm
befell him.

In fact, he began to think that his master was right, and that the whole
thing must have been a dream.

So matters went smoothly on. Winter passed, and spring, and summer,
until autumn came round once more, and the very day arrived on which the
peats had been lifted the year before.

That day, as the sun went down, the orra man left the farm to go home to
his cottage, and as his master was pleased with him because he had been
working very hard lately, he had given him a little can of milk as a
present to carry home to his wife.

So he was feeling very happy, and as he walked along he was humming a
tune to himself. His road took him by the foot of Merlin's Crag, and as
he approached it he was astonished to find himself growing strangely
tired. His eyelids dropped over his eyes as if he were going to sleep,
and his feet grew as heavy as lead.

"I will sit down and take a rest for a few minutes," he said to
himself; "the road home never seemed so long as it does to-day."

So he sat down on a tuft of grass right under the shadow of the Crag,
and before he knew where he was he had fallen into a deep and heavy
slumber.

When he awoke it was near midnight, and the moon had risen on the Crag.
And he rubbed his eyes, when by its soft light he became aware of a
large band of Fairies who were dancing round and round him, singing and
laughing, pointing their tiny fingers at him, and shaking their wee
fists in his face.

The bewildered man rose and tried to walk away from them, but turn in
whichever direction he would the Fairies accompanied him, encircling him
in a magic ring, out of which he could in no wise go.

At last they stopped, and, with shrieks of elfin laughter, led the
prettiest and daintiest of their companions up to him, and cried, "Tread
a measure, tread a measure, Oh, Man! Then wilt thou not be so eager to
escape from our company."

Now the poor labourer was but a clumsy dancer, and he held back with a
shamefaced air; but the Fairy who had been chosen to be his partner
reached up and seized his hands, and lo! some strange magic seemed to
enter into his veins, for in a moment he found himself waltzing and
whirling, sliding and bowing, as if he had done nothing else but dance
all his life.

And, strangest thing of all! he forgot about his home and his children;
and he felt so happy that he had no longer the slightest desire to leave
the Fairies' company.

All night long the merriment went on. The Little Folk danced and danced
as if they were mad, and the farm man danced with them, until at last a
shrill sound came over the moor. It was the cock from the farmyard
crowing its loudest to welcome the dawn.

In an instant the revelry ceased, and the Fairies, with cries of alarm,
crowded together and rushed towards the Crag, dragging the countryman
along in their midst. As they reached the rock, a mysterious door, which
he never remembered having seen before, opened in it of its own accord,
and shut again with a crash as soon as the Fairy Host had all trooped
through.

The door led into a large, dimly lighted hall full of tiny couches, and
here the Little Folk sank to rest, tired out with their exertions, while
the good man sat down on a piece of rock in the corner, wondering what
would happen next.

But there seemed to be some kind of spell thrown over his senses, for
even when the Fairies awoke and began to go about their household
occupations, and to carry out certain curious practices which he had
never seen before, and which, as you will hear, he was forbidden to
speak of afterwards, he was content to sit and watch them, without in
any way attempting to escape.

As it drew toward evening someone touched his elbow, and he turned round
with a start to see the little woman with the green dress and scarlet
stockings, who had remonstrated with him for lifting the turf the year
before, standing by his side.

"The divots which thou took'st from the roof of my house have grown once
more," she said, "and once more it is covered with grass; so thou canst
go home again, for justice is satisfied--thy punishment hath lasted long
enough. But first must thou take thy solemn oath never to tell to mortal
ears what thou hast seen whilst thou hast dwelt among us."

The countryman promised gladly, and took the oath with all due
solemnity. Then the door was opened, and he was at liberty to depart.

His can of milk was standing on the green, just where he had laid it
down when he went to sleep; and it seemed to him as if it were only
yesternight that the farmer had given it to him.

But when he reached his home he was speedily undeceived. For his wife
looked at him as if he were a ghost, and the children whom he had left
wee, toddling things were now well-grown boys and girls, who stared at
him as if he had been an utter stranger.

"Where hast thou been these long, long years?" cried his wife when she
had gathered her wits and seen that it was really he, and not a spirit.
"And how couldst thou find it in thy heart to leave the bairns and me
alone?"

And then he knew that the one day he had passed in Fairy-land had lasted
seven whole years, and he realised how heavy the punishment had been
which the Wee Folk had laid upon him.

[Illustration]




THE WEDDING OF ROBIN REDBREAST AND JENNY WREN


There was once an old grey Pussy Baudrons, and she went out for a stroll
one Christmas morning to see what she could see. And as she was walking
down the burnside she saw a little Robin Redbreast hopping up and down
on the branches of a briar bush.

"What a tasty breakfast he would make," thought she to herself. "I must
try to catch him."

So, "Good morning, Robin Redbreast," quoth she, sitting down on her tail
at the foot of the briar bush and looking up at him. "And where mayest
thou be going so early on this cold winter's day?"

"I'm on my road to the King's Palace," answered Robin cheerily, "to sing
him a song this merry Yule morning."

"That's a pious errand to be travelling on, and I wish you good
success," replied Pussy slyly; "but just hop down a minute before thou
goest, and I will show thee what a bonnie white ring I have round my
neck. 'Tis few cats that are marked like me."

Then Robin cocked his head on one side, and looked down on Pussy
Baudrons with a twinkle in his eye. "Ha, ha! grey Pussy Baudrons," he
said. "Ha, ha! for I saw thee worry the little grey mouse, and I have no
wish that thou shouldst worry me."

And with that he spread his wings and flew away. And he flew, and he
flew, till he lighted on an old sod dyke; and there he saw a greedy old
gled sitting, with all his feathers ruffled up as if he felt cold.

"Good morning, Robin Redbreast," cried the greedy old gled, who had had
no food since yesterday, and was therefore very hungry. "And where
mayest thou be going to, this cold winter's day?"

"I'm on my road to the King's Palace," answered Robin, "to sing to him a
song this merry Yule morning." And he hopped away a yard or two from the
gled, for there was a look in his eye that he did not quite like.

"Thou art a friendly little fellow," remarked the gled sweetly, "and I
wish thee good luck on thine errand; but ere thou go on, come nearer me,
I prith'ee, and I will show thee what a curious feather I have in my
wing. 'Tis said that no other gled in the country-side hath one like
it."

"Like enough," rejoined Robin, hopping still further away; "but I will
take thy word for it, without seeing it. For I saw thee pluck the
feathers from the wee lintie, and I have no wish that thou shouldst
pluck the feathers from me. So I will bid thee good day, and go on my
journey."

The next place on which he rested was a piece of rock that overhung a
dark, deep glen, and here he saw a sly old fox looking out of his hole
not two yards below him.

"Good morning, Robin Redbreast," said the sly old fox, who had tried to
steal a fat duck from a farmyard the night before, and had barely
escaped with his life. "And where mayest thou be going so early on this
cold winter's day?"

"I'm on my road to the King's Palace, to sing him a song this merry Yule
morning," answered Robin, giving the same answer that he had given to
the grey Pussy Baudrons and the greedy gled.

"Thou wilt get a right good welcome, for His Majesty is fond of music,"
said the wily fox. "But ere thou go, just come down and have a look at a
black spot which I have on the end of my tail. 'Tis said that there is
not a fox 'twixt here and the Border that hath a spot on his tail like
mine."

"Very like, very like," replied Robin; "but I chanced to see thee
worrying the wee lambie up on the braeside yonder, and I have no wish
that thou shouldst try thy teeth on me. So I will e'en go on my way to
the King's Palace, and thou canst show the spot on thy tail to the next
passer-by."

So the little Robin Redbreast flew away once more, and never rested
till he came to a bonnie valley with a little burn running through it,
and there he saw a rosy-cheeked boy sitting on a log eating a piece of
bread and butter. And he perched on a branch and watched him.

"Good morning, Robin Redbreast; and where mayest thou be going so early
on this cold winter's day?" asked the boy eagerly; for he was making a
collection of stuffed birds, and he had still to get a Robin Redbreast.

"I'm on my way to the King's Palace to sing him a song this merry Yule
morning," answered Robin, hopping down to the ground, and keeping one
eye fixed on the bread and butter.

"Come a bit nearer, Robin," said the boy, "and I will give thee some
crumbs."

"Na, na, my wee man," chirped the cautious little bird; "for I saw thee
catch the goldfinch, and I have no wish to give thee the chance to catch
me."

At last he came to the King's Palace and lighted on the window-sill, and
there he sat and sang the very sweetest song that he could sing; for he
felt so happy because it was the Blessed Yuletide, that he wanted
everyone else to be happy too. And the King and the Queen were so
delighted with his song, as he peeped in at them at their open window,
that they asked each other what they could give him as a reward for his
kind thought in coming so far to greet them.

"We can give him a wife," replied the Queen, "who will go home with him
and help him to build his nest."

"And who wilt thou give him for a bride?" asked the King. "Methinks
'twould need to be a very tiny lady to match his size."

[Illustration]

"Why, Jenny Wren, of course," answered the Queen. "She hath looked
somewhat dowie of late, this will be the very thing to brighten her
up."

Then the King clapped his hands, and praised his wife for her happy
thought, and wondered that the idea had not struck him before.

So Robin Redbreast and Jenny Wren were married, amid great rejoicings,
at the King's Palace; and the King and Queen and all the fine Nobles and
Court Ladies danced at their wedding. Then they flew away home to
Robin's own country-side, and built their nest in the roots of the briar
bush, where he had spoken to Pussie Baudrons. And you will be glad to
hear that Jenny Wren proved the best little housewife in the world.

[Illustration]




THE DWARFIE STONE


Far up in a green valley in the Island of Hoy stands an immense boulder.
It is hollow inside, and the natives of these northern islands call it
the Dwarfie Stone, because long centuries ago, so the legend has it,
Snorro the Dwarf lived there.

Nobody knew where Snorro came from, or how long he had dwelt in the dark
chamber inside the Dwarfie Stone. All that they knew about him was that
he was a little man, with a queer, twisted, deformed body and a face of
marvellous beauty, which never seemed to look any older, but was always
smiling and young.

Men said that this was because Snorro's father had been a Fairy, and not
a denizen of earth, who had bequeathed to his son the gift of perpetual
youth, but nobody knew whether this were true or not, for the Dwarf had
inhabited the Dwarfie Stone long before the oldest man or woman in Hoy
had been born.

One thing was certain, however: he had inherited from his mother, whom
all men agreed had been mortal, the dangerous qualities of vanity and
ambition. And the longer he lived the more vain and ambitious did he
become, until at last he always carried a mirror of polished steel round
his neck, into which he constantly looked in order to see the reflection
of his handsome face.

And he would not attend to the country people who came to seek his help,
unless they bowed themselves humbly before him and spoke to him as if he
were a King.

I say that the country people sought his help, for he spent his time, or
appeared to spend it, in collecting herbs and simples on the hillsides,
which he carried home with him to his dark abode, and distilled
medicines and potions from them, which he sold to his neighbours at
wondrous high prices.

He was also the possessor of a wonderful leathern-covered book, clasped
with clasps of brass, over which he would pore for hours together, and
out of which he would tell the simple Islanders their fortunes, if they
would.

For they feared the book almost as much as they feared Snorro himself,
for it was whispered that it had once belonged to Odin, and they crossed
themselves for protection as they named the mighty Enchanter.

But all the time they never guessed the real reason why Snorro chose to
live in the Dwarfie Stone.

I will tell you why he did so. Not very far from the Stone there was a
curious hill, shaped exactly like a wart. It was known as the Wart Hill
of Hoy, and men said that somewhere in the side of it was hidden a
wonderful carbuncle, which, when it was found, would bestow on its
finder marvellous magic gifts--Health, Wealth, and Happiness.
Everything, in fact, that a human being could desire.

And the curious thing about this carbuncle was, that it was said that it
could be seen at certain times, if only the people who were looking for
it were at the right spot at the right moment.

Now Snorro had made up his mind that he would find this wonderful stone,
so, while he pretended to spend all his time in reading his great book
or distilling medicines from his herbs, he was really keeping a keen
look-out during his wanderings, noting every tuft of grass or piece of
rock under which it might be hidden. And at night, when everyone else
was asleep, he would creep out, with pickaxe and spade, to turn over the
rocks or dig over the turf, in the hope of finding the long-sought-for
treasure underneath them.

He was always accompanied on these occasions by an enormous grey-headed
Raven, who lived in the cave along with him, and who was his bosom
friend and companion. The Islanders feared this bird of ill omen as
much, perhaps, as they feared its Master; for, although they went to
consult Snorro in all their difficulties and perplexities, and bought
medicines and love-potions from him, they always looked upon him with a
certain dread, feeling that there was something weird and uncanny about
him.

Now, at the time we are speaking of, Orkney was governed by two Earls,
who were half-brothers. Paul, the elder, was a tall, handsome man, with
dark hair, and eyes like sloes. All the country people loved him, for he
was so skilled in knightly exercises, and had such a sweet and loving
nature, that no one could help being fond of him. Old people's eyes
would brighten at the sight of him, and the little children would run
out to greet him as he rode by their mothers' doors.

And this was the more remarkable because, with all his winning manner,
he had such a lack of conversation that men called him Paul the Silent,
or Paul the Taciturn.

Harold, on the other hand, was as different from his brother as night is
from day. He was fair-haired and blue-eyed, and he had gained for
himself the name of Harold the Orator, because he was always free of
speech and ready with his tongue.

But for all this he was not a favourite. For he was haughty, and
jealous, and quick-tempered, and the old folks' eyes did not brighten at
the sight of him, and the babes, instead of toddling out to greet him,
hid their faces in their mothers' skirts when they saw him coming.

Harold could not help knowing that the people liked his silent brother
best, and the knowledge made him jealous of him, so a coldness sprang up
between them.

Now it chanced, one summer, that Earl Harold went on a visit to the King
of Scotland, accompanied by his mother, the Countess Helga, and her
sister, the Countess Fraukirk.

And while he was at Court he met a charming young Irish lady, the Lady
Morna, who had come from Ireland to Scotland to attend upon the Scottish
Queen. She was so sweet, and good, and gentle that Earl Harold's heart
was won, and he made up his mind that she, and only she, should be his
bride.

But although he had paid her much attention, Lady Morna had sometimes
caught glimpses of his jealous temper; she had seen an evil expression
in his eyes, and had heard him speak sharply to his servants, and she
had no wish to marry him. So, to his great amazement, she refused the
honour which he offered her, and told him that she would prefer to
remain as she was.

Earl Harold ground his teeth in silent rage, but he saw that it was no
use pressing his suit at that moment. So what he could not obtain by his
own merits he determined to obtain by guile.

Accordingly he begged his mother to persuade the Lady Morna to go back
with them on a visit, hoping that when she was alone with him in Orkney,
he would be able to overcome her prejudice against him, and induce her
to become his wife. And all the while he never remembered his brother
Paul; or, if he did, he never thought it possible that he could be his
rival.

But that was just the very thing that happened. The Lady Morna, thinking
no evil, accepted the Countess Helga's invitation, and no sooner had the
party arrived back in Orkney than Paul, charmed with the grace and
beauty of the fair Irish Maiden, fell head over ears in love with her.
And the Lady Morna, from the very first hour that she saw him, returned
his love.

Of course this state of things could not long go on hidden, and when
Harold realised what had happened his anger and jealousy knew no bounds.
Seizing a dagger, he rushed up to the turret where his brother was
sitting in his private apartments, and threatened to stab him to the
heart if he did not promise to give up all thoughts of winning the
lovely stranger.

But Paul met him with pleasant words.

"Calm thyself, Brother," he said. "It is true that I love the lady, but
that is no proof that I shall win her. Is it likely that she will choose
me, whom all men name Paul the Silent, when she hath the chance of
marrying you, whose tongue moves so swiftly that to you is given the
proud title of Harold the Orator?"

At these words Harold's vanity was flattered, and he thought that, after
all, his step-brother was right, and that he had a very small chance,
with his meagre gift of speech, of being successful in his suit. So he
threw down his dagger, and, shaking hands with him, begged him to
pardon his unkind thoughts, and went down the winding stair again in
high good-humour with himself and all the world.

By this time it was coming near to the Feast of Yule, and at that
Festival it was the custom for the Earl and his Court to leave Kirkwall
for some weeks, and go to the great Palace of Orphir, nine miles
distant. And in order to see that everything was ready, Earl Paul took
his departure some days before the others.

The evening before he left he chanced to find the Lady Morna sitting
alone in one of the deep windows of the great hall. She had been
weeping, for she was full of sadness at the thought of his departure;
and at the sight of her distress the kind-hearted young Earl could no
longer contain himself, but, folding her in his arms, he whispered to
her how much he loved her, and begged her to promise to be his wife.

She agreed willingly. Hiding her rosy face on his shoulder, she
confessed that she had loved him from the very first day that she had
seen him; and ever since that moment she had determined that, if she
could not wed him, she would wed no other man.

For a little time they sat together, rejoicing in their new-found
happiness. Then Earl Paul sprang to his feet.

"Let us go and tell the good news to my mother and my brother," he said.
"Harold may be disappointed at first, for I know, Sweetheart, he would
fain have had thee for his own. But his good heart will soon overcome
all that, and he will rejoice with us also."

But the Lady Morna shook her head. She knew, better than her lover, what
Earl Harold's feeling would be; and she would fain put off the evil
hour.

"Let us hold our peace till after Yule," she pleaded. "It will be a joy
to keep our secret to ourselves for a little space; there will be time
enough then to let all the world know."

Rather reluctantly, Earl Paul agreed; and next day he set off for the
Palace at Orphir, leaving his lady-love behind him.

Little he guessed the danger he was in! For, all unknown to him, his
step-aunt, Countess Fraukirk, had chanced to be in the hall, the evening
before, hidden behind a curtain, and she had overheard every word that
Morna and he had spoken, and her heart was filled with black rage.

For she was a hard, ambitious woman, and she had always hated the young
Earl, who was no blood-relation to her, and who stood in the way of his
brother, her own nephew; for, if Paul were only dead, Harold would be
the sole Earl of Orkney.

And now that he had stolen the heart of the Lady Morna, whom her own
nephew loved, her hate and anger knew no bounds. She had hastened off to
her sister's chamber as soon as the lovers had parted; and there the two
women had remained talking together till the chilly dawn broke in the
sky.

[Illustration: M. Meredith Williams

Countess Fraukirk ... hidden behind a curtain ... overheard every
word.]

Next day a boat went speeding over the narrow channel of water that
separates Pomona (on the mainland) from Hoy. In it sat a woman, but who
she was, or what she was like, no one could say, for she was covered
from head to foot with a black cloak, and her face was hidden behind a
thick, dark veil.

Snorro the Dwarf knew her, even before she laid aside her trappings, for
Countess Fraukirk was no stranger to him. In the course of her long life
she had often had occasion to seek his aid to help her in her evil
deeds, and she had always paid him well for his services in yellow gold.
He therefore welcomed her gladly; but when he had heard the nature of
her errand his smiling face grew grave again, and he shook his head.

"I have served thee well, Lady, in the past," he said, "but methinks
that this thing goeth beyond my courage. For to compass an Earl's death
is a weighty matter, especially when he is so well beloved as is the
Earl Paul.

"Thou knowest why I have taken up my abode in this lonely spot--how I
hope some day to light upon the magic carbuncle. Thou knowest also how
the people fear me, and hate me too, forsooth. And if the young Earl
died, and suspicion fell on me, I must needs fly the Island, for my life
would not be worth a grain of sand. Then my chance of success would be
gone. Nay! I cannot do it, Lady; I cannot do it."

[Illustration]

But the wily Countess offered him much gold, and bribed him higher and
higher, first with wealth, then with success, and lastly she promised to
obtain for him a high post at the Court of the King of Scotland; and at
that his ambition stirred within him, his determination gave way, and he
consented to do what she asked.

"I will summon my magic loom," he said, "and weave a piece of cloth of
finest texture and of marvellous beauty; and before I weave it I will so
poison the thread with a magic potion that, when it is fashioned into a
garment, whoever puts it on will die ere he hath worn it many minutes."

"Thou art a clever knave," answered the Countess, a cruel smile lighting
up her evil face, "and thou shalt be rewarded. Let me have a couple of
yards of this wonderful web, and I will make a bonnie waistcoat for my
fine young Earl and give it to him as a Yuletide gift. Then I reckon
that he will not see the year out."

"That will he not," said Dwarf Snorro, with a malicious grin; and the
two parted, after arranging that the piece of cloth should be delivered
at the Palace of Orphir on the day before Christmas Eve.

Now, when the Countess Fraukirk had been away upon her wicked errand,
strange things were happening at the Castle at Kirkwall. For Harold,
encouraged by his brother's absence, offered his heart and hand once
more to the Lady Morna. Once more she refused him, and in order to make
sure that the scene should not be repeated, she told him that she had
plighted her troth to his brother. When he heard that this was so, rage
and fury were like to devour him. Mad with anger, he rushed from her
presence, flung himself upon his horse, and rode away in the direction
of the sea shore.

While he was galloping wildly along, his eyes fell on the snow-clad
hills of Hoy rising up across the strip of sea that divided the one
island from the other. And his thoughts flew at once to Snorro the
Dwarf, who he had had occasion, as well as his step-aunt, to visit in
bygone days.

"I have it," he cried. "Stupid fool that I was not to think of it at
once. I will go to Snorro, and buy from him a love-potion, which will
make my Lady Morna hate my precious brother and turn her thoughts kindly
towards me."

So he made haste to hire a boat, and soon he was speeding over the
tossing waters on his way to the Island of Hoy. When he arrived there he
hurried up the lonely valley to where the Dwarfie Stone stood, and he
had no difficulty in finding its uncanny occupant, for Snorro was
standing at the hole that served as a door, his raven on his shoulder,
gazing placidly at the setting sun.

A curious smile crossed his face when, hearing the sound of approaching
footsteps, he turned round and his eyes fell on the young noble.

"What bringeth thee here, Sir Earl?" he asked gaily, for he scented more
gold.

"I come for a love-potion," said Harold; and without more ado he told
the whole story to the Wizard. "I will pay thee for it," he added, "if
thou wilt give it to me quickly."

Snorro looked at him from head to foot. "Blind must the maiden be, Sir
Orator," he said, "who needeth a love-potion to make her fancy so
gallant a Knight."

Earl Harold laughed angrily. "It is easier to catch a sunbeam than a
woman's roving fancy," he replied. "I have no time for jesting. For,
hearken, old man, there is a proverb that saith, 'Time and tide wait for
no man,' so I need not expect the tide to wait for me. The potion I must
have, and that instantly."

Snorro saw that he was in earnest, so without a word he entered his
dwelling, and in a few minutes returned with a small phial in his hand,
which was full of a rosy liquid.

"Pour the contents of this into the Lady Morna's wine-cup," he said,
"and I warrant thee that before four-and-twenty hours have passed she
will love thee better than thou lovest her now."

Then he waved his hand, as if to dismiss his visitor, and disappeared
into his dwelling-place.

Earl Harold made all speed back to the Castle; but it was not until one
or two days had elapsed that he found a chance to pour the love-potion
into the Lady Morna's wine-cup. But at last, one night at supper, he
found an opportunity of doing so, and, waving away the little page-boy,
he handed it to her himself.

She raised it to her lips, but she only made a pretence at drinking, for
she had seen the hated Earl fingering the cup, and she feared some deed
of treachery. When he had gone back to his seat she managed to pour the
whole of the wine on the floor, and smiled to herself at the look of
satisfaction that came over Harold's face as she put down the empty
cup.

His satisfaction increased, for from that moment she felt so afraid of
him that she treated him with great kindness, hoping that by doing so
she would keep in his good graces until the Court moved to Orphir, and
her own true love could protect her.

Harold, on his side, was delighted with her graciousness, for he felt
certain that the charm was beginning to work, and that his hopes would
soon be fulfilled.

A week later the Court removed to the Royal Palace at Orphir, where Earl
Paul had everything in readiness for the reception of his guests.

Of course he was overjoyed to meet Lady Morna again, and she was
overjoyed to meet him, for she felt that she was now safe from the
unwelcome attentions of Earl Harold.

But to Earl Harold the sight of their joy was as gall and bitterness,
and he could scarcely contain himself, although he still trusted in the
efficacy of Snorro the Dwarf's love-potion.

As for Countess Fraukirk and Countess Helga, they looked forward eagerly
to the time when the magic web would arrive, out of which they hoped to
fashion a fatal gift for Earl Paul.

At last, the day before Christmas Eve, the two wicked women were sitting
in the Countess Helga's chamber talking of the time when Earl Harold
would rule alone in Orkney, when a tap came to the window, and on
looking round they saw Dwarf Snorro's grey-headed Raven perched on the
sill, a sealed packet in its beak.

They opened the casement, and with a hoarse croak the creature let the
packet drop on to the floor; then it flapped its great wings and rose
slowly into the air again its head turned in the direction of Hoy.

With fingers that trembled with excitement they broke the seals and
undid the packet. It contained a piece of the most beautiful material
that anyone could possibly imagine, woven in all the colours of the
rainbow, and sparkling with gold and jewels.

"'Twill make a bonnie waistcoat," exclaimed Countess Fraukirk, with an
unholy laugh. "The Silent Earl will be a braw man when he gets it on."

Then, without more ado, they set to work to cut out and sew the garment.
All that night they worked, and all next day, till, late in the
afternoon, when they were putting in the last stitches, hurried
footsteps were heard ascending the winding staircase, and Earl Harold
burst open the door.

His cheeks were red with passion, and his eyes were bright, for he could
not but notice that, now that she was safe at Orphir under her true
love's protection, the Lady Morna's manner had grown cold and distant
again, and he was beginning to lose faith in Snorro's charm.

Angry and disappointed, he had sought his mother's room to pour out his
story of vexation to her.

He stopped short, however, when he saw the wonderful waistcoat lying on
the table, all gold and silver and shining colours. It was like a fairy
garment, and its beauty took his breath away.

"For whom hast thou purchased that?" he asked, hoping to hear that it
was intended for him.

"'Tis a Christmas gift for thy brother Paul," answered his mother, and
she would have gone on to tell him how deadly a thing it was, had he
given her time to speak. But her words fanned his fury into madness, for
it seemed to him that this hated brother of his was claiming everything.

"Everything is for Paul! I am sick of his very name," he cried. "By my
troth, he shall not have this!" and he snatched the vest from the table.

It was in vain that his mother and his aunt threw themselves at his
feet, begging him to lay it down, and warning him that there was not a
thread in it which was not poisoned. He paid no heed to their words, but
rushed from the room, and, drawing it on, ran downstairs with a reckless
laugh, to show the Lady Morna how fine he was.

Alas! alas! Scarce had he gained the hall than he fell to the ground in
great pain.

Everyone crowded round him, and the two Countesses, terrified now by
what they had done, tried in vain to tear the magic vest from his body.
But he felt that it was too late, the deadly poison had done its work,
and, waving them aside, he turned to his brother, who, in great
distress, had knelt down and taken him tenderly in his arms.

"I wronged thee, Paul," he gasped. "For thou hast ever been true and
kind. Forgive me in thy thoughts, and," he added, gathering up his
strength for one last effort, and pointing to the two wretched women who
had wrought all this misery, "_Beware of those two women_, for they
seek to take thy life." Then his head sank back on his brother's
shoulder, and, with one long sigh, he died.

When he learned what had happened, and understood where the waistcoat
came from, and for what purpose it had been intended, the anger of the
Silent Earl knew no bounds. He swore a great oath that he would be
avenged, not only on Snorro the Dwarf, but also on his wicked
step-mother and her cruel sister.

His vengeance was baulked, however, for in the panic and confusion that
followed Harold's death, the two Countesses slipped out of the Palace
and fled to the coast, and took boat in haste to Scotland, where they
had great possessions, and where they were much looked up to, and where
no one would believe a word against them.

But retribution fell on them in the end, as it always does fall, sooner
or later, on everyone who is wicked, or selfish, or cruel; for the
Norsemen invaded the land, and their Castle was set on fire, and they
perished miserably in the flames.

When Earl Paul found that they had escaped, he set out in hot haste for
the Island of Hoy, for he was determined that the Dwarf, at least,
should not escape. But when he came to the Dwarfie Stone he found it
silent and deserted, all trace of its uncanny occupants having
disappeared.

No one knew what had become of them; a few people were inclined to think
that the Dwarf and his Raven had accompanied the Countess Fraukirk and
the Countess Helga on their flight, but the greater part of the
Islanders held to the belief, which I think was the true one, that the
Powers of the Air spirited Snorro away, and shut him up in some unknown
place as a punishment for his wickedness, and that his Raven accompanied
him.

At any rate, he was never seen again by any living person, and wherever
he went, he lost all chance of finding the magic carbuncle.

As for the Silent Earl and his Irish Sweetheart, they were married as
soon as Earl Harold's funeral was over; and for hundreds of years
afterwards, when the inhabitants of the Orkney Isles wanted to express
great happiness, they said, "As happy as Earl Paul and the Countess
Morna."




CANONBIE DICK AND THOMAS OF ERCILDOUNE


It chanced, long years ago, that a certain horse-dealer lived in the
South of Scotland, near the Border, not very far from Longtown. He was
known as Canonbie Dick; and as he went up and down the country, he
almost always had a long string of horses behind him, which he bought at
one fair and sold at another, generally managing to turn a good big
penny by the transaction.

He was a very fearless man, not easily daunted; and the people who knew
him used to say that if Canonbie Dick dare not attempt a thing, no one
else need be asked to do it.

One evening, as he was returning from a fair at some distance from his
home with a pair of horses which he had not succeeded in selling, he was
riding over Bowden Moor, which lies to the west of the Eildon Hills.
These hills are, as all men know, the scene of some of the most famous
of Thomas the Rhymer's prophecies; and also, so men say, they are the
sleeping-place of King Arthur and his Knights, who rest under the three
high peaks, waiting for the mystic call that shall awake them.

But little recked the horse-dealer of Arthur and his Knights, nor yet of
Thomas the Rhymer. He was riding along at a snail's pace, thinking over
the bargains which he had made at the fair that day, and wondering when
he was likely to dispose of his two remaining horses.

All at once he was startled by the approach of a venerable man, with
white hair and an old-world dress, who seemed almost to start out of the
ground, so suddenly did he make his appearance.

When they met, the stranger stopped, and, to Canonbie Dick's great
amazement, asked him for how much he would be willing to part with his
horses.

The wily horse-dealer thought that he saw a chance of driving a good
bargain, for the stranger looked a man of some consequence; so he named
a good round sum.

The old man tried to bargain with him; but when he found that he had not
much chance of succeeding--for no one ever did succeed in inducing
Canonbie Dick to sell a horse for a less sum than he named for it at
first--he agreed to buy the animals, and, pulling a bag of gold from the
pocket of his queerly cut breeches, he began to count out the price.

As he did so, Canonbie Dick got another shock of surprise, for the
gold that the stranger gave him was not the gold that was in use at the
time, but was fashioned into Unicorns, and Bonnet-pieces, and other
ancient coins, which would be of no use to the horse-dealer in his
everyday transactions. But it was good, pure gold; and he took it
gladly, for he knew that he was selling his horses at about half as much
again as they were worth. "So," thought he to himself, "surely I cannot
be the loser in the long run."

Then the two parted, but not before the old man had commissioned Dick to
get him other good horses at the same price, the only stipulation he
made being that Dick should always bring them to the same spot, after
dark, and that he should always come alone.

And, as time went on, the horse-dealer found that he had indeed met a
good customer.

For, whenever he came across a suitable horse, he had only to lead it
over Bowden Moor after dark, and he was sure to meet the mysterious,
white-headed stranger, who always paid him for the animal in
old-fashioned golden pieces.

And he might have been selling horses to him yet, for aught I know, had
it not been for his one failing.

Canonbie Dick was apt to get very thirsty, and his ordinary customers,
knowing this, took care always to provide him with something to drink.
The old man never did so; he paid down his money and led away his
horses, and there was an end of the matter.

But one night, Dick, being even more thirsty than usual, and feeling
sure that his mysterious friend must live somewhere in the
neighbourhood, seeing that he was always wandering about the hillside
when everyone else was asleep, hinted that he would be very glad to go
home with him and have a little refreshment.

"He would need to be a brave man who asks to go home with me," returned
the stranger; "but, if thou wilt, thou canst follow me. Only, remember
this--if thy courage fail thee at that which thou wilt behold, thou wilt
rue it all thy life."

Canonbie Dick laughed long and loud. "My courage hath never failed me
yet," he cried. "Beshrew me if I will let it fail now. So lead on, old
man, and I will follow."

Without a word the stranger turned and began to ascend a narrow path
which led to a curious hillock, which from its shape, was called by the
country-folk the "Lucken Hare."

It was supposed to be a great haunt of Witches; and, as a rule, nobody
passed that way after dark, if they could possibly help it.

Canonbie Dick was not afraid of Witches, however, so he followed his
guide with a bold step up the hillside; but it must be confessed that he
felt a little startled when he saw him turn down what seemed to be an
entrance to a cavern, especially as he never remembered having seen any
opening in the hillside there before.

He paused for a moment, looking round him in perplexity, wondering where
he was being taken; and his conductor glanced at him scornfully.

"You can go back if you will," he said. "I warned thee thou wert going
on a journey that would try thy courage to the uttermost." There was a
jeering note in his voice that touched Dick's pride.

"Who said that I was afraid?" he retorted. "I was just taking note of
where this passage stands on the hillside, so as to know it another
time."

The stranger shrugged his shoulders. "Time enough to look for it when
thou wouldst visit it again," he said. And then he pursued his way, with
Dick following closely at his heels.

After the first yard or two they were enveloped in thick darkness, and
the horse-dealer would have been sore put to it to keep near his guide
had not the latter held out his hand for him to grasp. But after a
little space a faint glimmering of light began to appear, which grew
clearer and clearer, until at last they found themselves in an enormous
cavern lit by flaming torches, which were stuck here and there in
sconces in the rocky walls, and which, although they served to give
light enough to see by, yet threw such ghostly shadows on the floor that
they only seemed to intensify the gloom that hung over the vast
apartment.

And the curious thing about this mysterious cave was that, along one
side of it, ran a long row of horse stalls, just like what one would
find in a stable, and in each stall stood a coal-black charger, saddled
and bridled, as if ready for the fray; and on the straw, by every
horse's side, lay the gallant figure of a knight, clad from head to foot
in coal-black armour, with a drawn sword in his mailed hand.

But not a horse moved, not a chain rattled. Knights and steeds alike
were silent and motionless, looking exactly as if some strange
enchantment had been thrown over them, and they had been suddenly turned
into black marble.

There was something so awesome in the still, cold figures and in the
unearthly silence that brooded over everything that Canonbie Dick,
reckless and daring though he was, felt his courage waning and his knees
beginning to shake under him.

In spite of these feelings, however, he followed the old man up the hall
to the far end of it, where there was a table of ancient workmanship, on
which was placed a glittering sword and a curiously wrought
hunting-horn.

When they reached this table the stranger turned to him, and said, with
great dignity, "Thou hast heard, good man, of Thomas of
Ercildoune--Thomas the Rhymer, as men call him--he who went to dwell for
a time with the Queen of Fairy-land, and from her received the Gifts of
Truth and Prophecy?"

Canonbie Dick nodded; for as the wonderful Soothsayer's name fell on his
ears, his heart sank within him and his tongue seemed to cleave to the
roof of his mouth. If he had been brought there to parley with Thomas
the Rhymer, then had he laid himself open to all the eldrich Powers of
Darkness.

"I that speak to thee am he," went on the white-haired stranger. "And I
have permitted thee thus to have thy desire and follow me hither in
order that I may try of what stuff thou art made. Before thee lies a
Horn and a Sword. He that will sound the one, or draw the other, shall,
if his courage fail not, be King over the whole of Britain. I, Thomas
the Rhymer, have spoken it, and, as thou knowest, my tongue cannot lie.
But list ye, the outcome of it all depends on thy bravery; and it will
be a light task, or a heavy, according as thou layest hand on Sword or
Horn first."

Now Dick was more versed in giving blows than in making music, and his
first impulse was to seize the Sword, then, come what might, he had
something in his hand to defend himself with. But just as he was about
to lift it the thought struck him that, if the place were full of
spirits, as he felt sure that it must be, this action of him might be
taken to mean defiance, and might cause them to band themselves together
against him.

[Illustration]

So, changing his mind, he picked up the Horn with a trembling hand, and
blew a blast upon it, which, however, was so weak and feeble that it
could scarce be heard at the other end of the hall.

The result that followed was enough to appal the stoutest heart. Thunder
rolled in crashing peals through the immense hall. The charmed Knights
and their horses woke in an instant from their enchanted sleep. The
Knights sprang to their feet and seized their swords, brandishing them
round their heads, while their great black chargers stamped, and
snorted, and ground their bits, as if eager to escape from their stalls.
And where a moment before all had been stillness and silence, there was
now a scene of wild din and excitement.

Now was the time for Canonbie Dick to play the man. If he had done so
all the rest of his life might have been different.

But his courage failed him, and he lost his chance. Terrified at seeing
so many threatening faces turned towards him, he dropped the Horn and
made one weak, undecided effort to pick up the Sword.

But, ere he could do so, a mysterious voice sounded from somewhere in
the hall, and these were the words that it uttered:

    "Woe to the coward, that ever he was born,
    Who did not draw the Sword before he blew the Horn."

And, before Dick knew what he was about, a perfect whirlwind of cold,
raw air tore through the cavern, carrying the luckless horse-dealer
along with it; and, hurrying him along the narrow passage through which
he had entered, dashed him down outside on a bank of loose stones and
shale. He fell right to the bottom, and was found, with little life left
in him, next morning, by some shepherds, to whom he had just strength
enough left to whisper the story of his weird and fearful adventure.

[Illustration]




THE LAIRD O' CO'


It was a fine summer morning, and the Laird o' Co' was having a dander
on the green turf outside the Castle walls. His real name was the Laird
o' Colzean, and his descendants to-day bear the proud title of Marquises
of Ailsa, but all up and down Ayrshire nobody called him anything else
than the Laird o' Co'; because of the Co's, or caves, which were to be
found in the rock on which his Castle was built.

He was a kind man, and a courteous, always ready to be interested in the
affairs of his poorer neighbours, and willing to listen to any tale of
woe.

So when a little boy came across the green, carrying a small can in his
hand, and, pulling his forelock, asked him if he might go to the Castle
and get a little ale for his sick mother, the Laird gave his consent at
once, and, patting the little fellow on the head, told him to go to the
kitchen and ask for the butler, and tell him that he, the Laird, had
given orders that his can was to be filled with the best ale that was in
the cellar.

Away the boy went, and found the old butler, who, after listening to
his message, took him down into the cellar, and proceeded to carry out
his Master's orders.

There was one cask of particularly fine ale, which was kept entirely for
the Laird's own use, which had been opened some time before, and which
was now about half full.

"I will fill the bairn's can out o' this," thought the old man to
himself. "'Tis both nourishing and light--the very thing for sick folk."
So, taking the can from the child's hand, he proceeded to draw the ale.

But what was his astonishment to find that, although the ale flowed
freely enough from the barrel, the little can, which could not have held
more than a quarter of a gallon, remained always just half full.

The ale poured into it in a clear amber stream, until the big cask was
quite empty, and still the quantity that was in the little can did not
seem to increase.

The butler could not understand it. He looked at the cask, and then he
looked at the can; then he looked down at the floor at his feet to see
if he had not spilt any.

No, the ale had not disappeared in that way, for the cellar floor was as
white, and dry, and clean, as possible.

"Plague on the can; it must be bewitched," thought the old man, and his
short, stubby hair stood up like porcupine quills round his bald head,
for if there was anything on earth of which he had a mortal dread, it
was Warlocks, and Witches, and such like Bogles.

"I'm not going to broach another barrel," he said gruffly, handing back
the half-filled can to the little lad. "So ye may just go home with what
is there; the Laird's ale is too good to waste on a smatchet like thee."

But the boy stoutly held his ground. A promise was a promise, and the
Laird had both promised, and sent orders to the butler that the can was
to be filled, and he would not go home till it was filled.

It was in vain that the old man first argued, and then grew angry--the
boy would not stir a step.

"The Laird had said that he was to get the ale, and the ale he must
have."

At last the perturbed butler left him standing there, and hurried off to
his master to tell him he was convinced that the can was bewitched, for
it had swallowed up a whole half cask of ale, and after doing so it was
only half full; and to ask if he would come down himself, and order the
lad off the premises.

"Not I," said the genial Laird, "for the little fellow is quite right. I
promised that he should have his can full of ale to take home to his
sick mother, and he shall have it if it takes all the barrels in my
cellar to fill it. So haste thee to the house again, and open another
cask."

The butler dare not disobey; so he reluctantly retraced his steps, but,
as he went, he shook his head sadly, for it seemed to him that not only
the boy with the can, but his master also, was bewitched.

When he reached the cellar he found the bairn waiting patiently where he
had left him, and, without wasting further words, he took the can from
his hand and broached another barrel.

If he had been astonished before, he was more astonished now. Scarce had
a couple of drops fallen from the tap, than the can was full to the
brim.

"Take it, laddie, and begone, with all the speed thou canst," he said,
glad to get the can out of his fingers; and the boy did not wait for a
second bidding. Thanking the butler most earnestly for his trouble, and
paying no attention to the fact that the old man had not been so civil
to him as he might have been, he departed. Nor, though the butler took
pains to ask all round the country-side, could he ever hear of him again,
nor of anyone who knew anything about him, or anything about his sick
mother.

Years passed by, and sore trouble fell upon the House o' Co'. For the
Laird went to fight in the wars in Flanders, and, chancing to be taken
prisoner, he was shut up in prison, and condemned to death. Alone, in a
foreign country, he had no friends to speak for him, and escape seemed
hopeless.

It was the night before his execution, and he was sitting in his lonely
cell, thinking sadly of his wife and children, whom he never expected to
see again. At the thought of them the picture of his home rose clearly
in his mind--the grand old Castle standing on its rock, and the bonnie
daisy-spangled stretch of greensward which lay before its gates, where
he had been wont to take a dander in the sweet summer mornings. Then,
all unbidden, a vision of the little lad carrying the can, who had come
to beg ale for his sick mother, and whom he had long ago forgotten, rose
up before him.

[Illustration]

The vision was so clear and distinct that he felt almost as if he were
acting the scene over again, and he rubbed his eyes to get rid of it,
feeling that, if he had to die to-morrow, it was time that he turned
his thoughts to better things.

But as he did so the door of his cell flew noiselessly open, and there,
on the threshold, stood the self-same little lad, looking not a day
older, with his finger on his lip, and a mysterious smile upon his face.

    "Laird o' Co',
    Rise and go!"

he whispered, beckoning to him to follow him. Needless to say, the Laird
did so, too much amazed to think of asking questions.

Through the long passages of the prison the little lad went, the Laird
close at his heels; and whenever he came to a locked door, he had but to
touch it, and it opened before them, so that in no long time they were
safe outside the walls.

The overjoyed Laird would have overwhelmed his little deliverer with
words of thanks had not the boy held up his hand to stop him. "Get on my
back," he said shortly, "for thou are not safe till thou art out of this
country."

The Laird did as he was bid, and, marvellous as it seems, the boy was
quite able to bear his weight. As soon as he was comfortably seated the
pair set off, over sea and land, and never stopped till, in almost less
time than it takes to tell it, the boy set him down, in the early dawn,
on the daisy-spangled green in front of his Castle, just where he had
spoken first to him so many years before.

Then he turned, and laid his little hand on the Laird's big one:

    "Ae gude turn deserves anither,
    Tak' ye that for being sae kind to my auld mither,"

he said, and vanished.

And from that day to this he has never been seen again.

[Illustration]




POUSSIE BAUDRONS


    "Poussie, Poussie Baudrons,
      Where hae ye been?"
    "I've been at London,
      Seeing the Queen!"

    "Poussie, Poussie Baudrons,
      What got ye there?"
    "I got a guid fat mousikie,
      Rinning up a stair."

    "Poussie, Poussie Baudrons,
      What did ye do wi't?"
    "I put it in my meal-poke
      To eat it to my bread."

[Illustration: I got a guid fat mousikie Rinning up a stair]




THE MILK-WHITE DOO


There was once a man who got his living by working in the fields. He had
one little son, called Curly-Locks, and one little daughter, called
Golden-Tresses; but his wife was dead, and, as he had to be out all day,
these children were often left alone. So, as he was afraid that some
evil might befall them when there was no one to look after them, he, in
an ill day, married again.

I say, "in an ill day," for his second wife was a most deceitful woman,
who really hated children, although she pretended, before her marriage,
to love them. And she was so unkind to them, and made the house so
uncomfortable with her bad temper, that her poor husband often sighed to
himself, and wished that he had let well alone, and remained a widower.

But it was no use crying over spilt milk; the deed was done, and he had
just to try to make the best of it. So things went on for several years,
until the children were beginning to run about the doors and play by
themselves.

Then one day the Goodman chanced to catch a hare, and he brought it
home and gave it to his wife to cook for the dinner.

Now his wife was a very good cook, and she made the hare into a pot of
delicious soup; but she was also very greedy, and while the soup was
boiling she tasted it, and tasted it, till at last she discovered that
it was almost gone. Then she was in a fine state of mind, for she knew
that her husband would soon be coming home for his dinner, and that she
would have nothing to set before him.

So what do you think the wicked woman did? She went out to the door,
where her little step-son, Curly-Locks, was playing in the sun, and told
him to come in and get his face washed. And while she was washing his
face, she struck him on the head with a hammer and stunned him, and
popped him into the pot to make soup for his father's dinner.

By and by the Goodman came in from his work, and the soup was dished up;
and he, and his wife, and his little daughter, Golden-Tresses, sat down
to sup it.

"Where's Curly-Locks?" asked the Goodman. "It's a pity he is not here as
long as the soup is hot."

"How should I ken?" answered his wife crossly. "I have other work to do
than to run about after a mischievous laddie all the morning."

The Goodman went on supping his soup in silence for some minutes; then
he lifted up a little foot in his spoon.

"This is Curly-Locks' foot," he cried in horror. "There hath been ill
work here."

"Hoots, havers," answered his wife, laughing, pretending to be very much
amused. "What should Curly-Locks' foot be doing in the soup? 'Tis the
hare's forefoot, which is very like that of a bairn."

[Illustration]

But presently the Goodman took something else up in his spoon.

"This is Curly-Locks' hand," he said shrilly. "I ken it by the crook in
its little finger."

"The man's demented," retorted his wife, "not to ken the hind foot of a
hare when he sees it!"

So the poor father did not say any more, but went away out to his work,
sorely perplexed in his mind; while his little daughter,
Golden-Tresses, who had a shrewd suspicion of what had happened,
gathered all the bones from the empty plates, and, carrying them away in
her apron, buried them beneath a flat stone, close by a white rose tree
that grew by the cottage door.

And, lo and behold! those poor bones, which she buried with such care:

    "Grew and grew,
    To a milk-white Doo,
    That took its wings,
    And away it flew."

And at last it lighted on a tuft of grass by a burnside, where two women
were washing clothes. It sat there cooing to itself for some time; then
it sang this song softly to them:

        "Pew, pew,
        My mimmie me slew,
        My daddy me chew,
    My sister gathered my banes,
    And put them between two milk-white stanes.
        And I grew and grew
        To a milk-white Doo,
        And I took to my wings and away I flew."

The women stopped washing and looked at one another in astonishment. It
was not every day that they came across a bird that could sing a song
like that, and they felt that there was something not canny about it.

"Sing that song again, my bonnie bird," said one of them at last, "and
we'll give thee all these clothes!"

So the bird sang its song over again, and the washerwomen gave it all
the clothes, and it tucked them under its right wing, and flew on.

[Illustration]

Presently it came to a house where all the windows were open, and it
perched on one of the window-sills, and inside it saw a man counting out
a great heap of silver.

And, sitting on the window-sill, it sang its song to him:

        "Pew, pew,
        My mimmie me slew,
        My daddy me chew,
    My sister gathered my banes,
    And put them between two milk-white stanes.
        And I grew and grew
        To a milk-white Doo,
        And I took to my wings and away I flew."

The man stopped counting his silver, and listened. He felt, like the
washerwomen, that there was something not canny about this Doo. When it
had finished its song, he said:

"Sing that song again, my bonnie bird, and I'll give thee a' this siller
in a bag."

So the Doo sang its song over again, and got the bag of silver, which it
tucked under its left wing. Then it flew on.

It had not flown very far, however, before it came to a mill where two
millers were grinding corn. And it settled down on a sack of meal and
sang its song to them.

        "Pew, pew,
        My mimmie me slew,
        My daddy me chew,
    My sister gathered my banes,
    And put them between two milk-white stanes.
        And I grew and grew
        To a milk-white Doo,
        And I took to my wings and away I flew."

The millers stopped their work, and looked at one another, scratching
their heads in amazement.

"Sing that song over again, my bonnie bird!" exclaimed both of them
together when the Doo had finished, "and we will give thee this
millstone."

So the Doo repeated its song, and got the millstone, which it asked one
of the millers to lift on its back; then it flew out of the mill, and up
the valley, leaving the two men staring after it dumb with astonishment.

As you may think, the Milk-White Doo had a heavy load to carry, but it
went bravely on till it came within sight of its father's cottage, and
lighted down at last on the thatched roof.

Then it laid its burdens on the thatch, and, flying down to the
courtyard, picked up a number of little chuckie stones. With them in its
beak it flew back to the roof, and began to throw them down the chimney.

By this time it was evening, and the Goodman and his wife, and his
little daughter, Golden-Tresses, were sitting round the table eating
their supper. And you may be sure that they were all very much startled
when the stones came rattling down the chimney, bringing such a cloud of
soot with them that they were like to be smothered. They all jumped up
from their chairs, and ran outside to see what the matter was.

And Golden-Tresses, being the littlest, ran the fastest, and when she
came out at the door the Milk-White Doo flung the bundle of clothes down
at her feet.

And the father came out next, and the Milk-White Doo flung the bag of
silver down at his feet.

But the wicked step-mother, being somewhat stout came out last, and the
Milk-White Doo threw the millstone right down on her head and killed
her.

Then it spread its wings and flew away, and has never been seen again;
but it had made the Goodman and his daughter rich for life, and it had
rid them of the cruel step-mother, so that they lived in peace and
plenty for the remainder of their days.

[Illustration]




THE DRAIGLIN' HOGNEY


There was once a man who had three sons, and very little money to
provide for them. So, when the eldest had grown into a lad, and saw that
there was no means of making a livelihood at home, he went to his father
and said to him:

"Father, if thou wilt give me a horse to ride on, a hound to hunt with,
and a hawk to fly, I will go out into the wide world and seek my
fortune."

His father gave him what he asked for; and he set out on his travels. He
rode and he rode, over mountain and glen, until, just at nightfall, he
came to a thick, dark wood. He entered it, thinking that he might find a
path that would lead him through it; but no path was visible, and after
wandering up and down for some time, he was obliged to acknowledge to
himself that he was completely lost.

There seemed to be nothing for it but to tie his horse to a tree, and
make a bed of leaves for himself on the ground; but just as he was about
to do so he saw a light glimmering in the distance, and, riding on in
the direction in which it was, he soon came to a clearing in the wood,
in which stood a magnificent Castle.

The windows were all lit up, but the great door was barred; and, after
he had ridden up to it, and knocked, and received no answer, the young
man raised his hunting horn to his lips and blew a loud blast in the
hope of letting the inmates know that he was without.

Instantly the door flew open of its own accord, and the young man
entered, wondering very much what this strange thing would mean. And he
wondered still more when he passed from room to room, and found that,
although fires were burning brightly everywhere, and there was a
plentiful meal laid out on the table in the great hall, there did not
seem to be a single person in the whole of the vast building.

However, as he was cold, and tired, and wet, he put his horse in one of
the stalls of the enormous stable, and taking his hawk and hound along
with him, went into the hall and ate a hearty supper. After which he sat
down by the side of the fire, and began to dry his clothes.

By this time it had grown late, and he was just thinking of retiring to
one of the bedrooms which he had seen upstairs and going to bed, when a
clock which was hanging on the wall struck twelve.

Instantly the door of the huge apartment opened, and a most
awful-looking Draiglin' Hogney entered. His hair was matted and his
beard was long, and his eyes shone like stars of fire from under his
bushy eyebrows, and in his hands he carried a queerly shaped club.

He did not seem at all astonished to see his unbidden guest; but, coming
across the hall, he sat down upon the opposite side of the fireplace,
and, resting his chin on his hands, gazed fixedly at him.

"Doth thy horse ever kick any?" he said at last, in a harsh, rough
voice.

"Ay, doth he," replied the young man; for the only steed that his father
had been able to give him was a wild and unbroken colt.

"I have some skill in taming horses," went on the Draiglin' Hogney,
"and I will give thee something to tame thine withal. Throw this over
him"--and he pulled one of the long, coarse hairs out of his head and
gave it to the young man. And there was something so commanding in the
Hogney's voice that he did as he was bid, and went out to the stable and
threw the hair over the horse.

Then he returned to the hall, and sat down again by the fire. The moment
that he was seated the Draiglin' Hogney asked another question.

"Doth thy hound ever bite any?"

"Ay, verily," answered the youth; for his hound was so fierce-tempered
that no man, save his master, dare lay a hand on him.

"I can cure the wildest tempered dog in Christendom," replied the
Draiglin' Hogney. "Take that, and throw it over him." And he pulled
another hair out of his head and gave it to the young man, who lost no
time in flinging it over his hound.

There was still a third question to follow. "Doth ever thy hawk peck
any?"

The young man laughed. "I have ever to keep a bandage over her eyes,
save when she is ready to fly," said he; "else were nothing safe within
her reach."

"Things will be safe now," said the Hogney, grimly. "Throw that over
her." And for the third time he pulled a hair from his head and handed
it to his companion. And as the other hairs had been thrown over the
horse and the hound, so this one was thrown over the hawk.

Then, before the young man could draw breath, the fiercesome Draiglin'
Hogney had given him such a clout on the side of his head with his
queer-shaped club that he fell down in a heap on the floor.

And very soon his hawk and his hound tumbled down still and motionless
beside him; and, out in the stable, his horse became stark and stiff, as
if turned to stone. For the Draiglin's words had meant more than at
first appeared when he said that he could make all unruly animals quiet.

Some time afterwards the second of the three sons came to his father in
the old home with the same request that his brother had made. That he
should be provided with a horse, a hawk, and a hound, and be allowed to
go out to seek his fortune. And his father listened to him, and gave him
what he asked, as he had given his brother.

[Illustration: So he set out on his Quest]

And the young man set out, and in due time came to the wood, and lost
himself in it, just as his brother had done; then he saw the light, and
came to the Castle, and went in, and had supper, and dried his clothes,
just as it all had happened before.

And the Draiglin' Hogney came in, and asked him the three questions, and
he gave the same three answers, and received three hairs--one to throw
over his horse, one to throw over his hound, and one to throw over his
hawk; then the Hogney killed him, just as he had killed his brother.

Time passed, and the youngest son, finding that his two elder brothers
never returned, asked his father for a horse, a hawk, and a hound, in
order that he might go and look for them. And the poor old man, who was
feeling very desolate in his old age, gladly gave them to him.

So he set out on his quest, and at nightfall he came, as the others had
done, to the thick wood and the Castle. But, being a wise and cautious
youth, he liked not the way in which he found things. He liked not the
empty house; he liked not the spread-out feast; and, most of all, he
liked not the look of the Draiglin' Hogney when he saw him. And he
determined to be very careful what he said or did as long as he was in
his company.

So when the Draiglin' Hogney asked him if his horse kicked, he replied
that it did, in very few words; and when he got one of the Hogney's
hairs to throw over him, he went out to the stable, and pretended to do
so, but he brought it back, hidden in his hand, and, when his unchancy
companion was not looking, he threw it into the fire. It fizzled up like
a tongue of flame with a little hissing sound like that of a serpent.

"What's that fizzling?" asked the Giant suspiciously.

"'Tis but the sap of the green wood," replied the young man carelessly,
as he turned to caress his hound.

The answer satisfied the Draiglin' Hogney, and he paid no heed to the
sound which the hair that should have been thrown over the hound, or the
sound which the hair that should have been thrown over the hawk, made,
when the young man threw them into the fire; and they fizzled up in the
same way that the first had done.

Then, thinking that he had the stranger in his power, he whisked across
the hearthstone to strike him with his club, as he had struck his
brothers; but the young man was on the outlook, and when he saw him
coming he gave a shrill whistle. And his horse, which loved him dearly,
came galloping in from the stable, and his hound sprang up from the
hearthstone where he had been sleeping; and his hawk, who was sitting on
his shoulder, ruffled up her feathers and screamed harshly; and they all
fell on the Draiglin' Hogney at once, and he found out only too well how
the horse kicked, and the hound bit, and the hawk pecked; for they
kicked him, and bit him, and pecked him, till he was as dead as a door
nail.

When the young man saw that he was dead, he took his little club from
his hand, and, armed with that, he set out to explore the Castle.

As he expected, he found that there were dark and dreary dungeons under
it, and in one of them he found his two brothers, lying cold and stiff
side by side. He touched them with the club, and instantly they came to
life again, and sprang to their feet as well as ever.

Then he went into another dungeon; and there were the two horses, and
the two hawks, and the two hounds, lying as if dead, exactly as their
Masters had lain. He touched them with his magic club, and they, too,
came to life again.

Then he called to his two brothers, and the three young men searched the
other dungeons, and they found great stores of gold and silver hidden in
them, enough to make them rich for life.

So they buried the Draiglin' Hogney, and took possession of the Castle;
and two of them went home and brought their old father back with them,
and they all were as prosperous and happy as they could be; and, for
aught that I know, they are living there still.




THE BROWNIE O' FERNE-DEN


There have been many Brownies known in Scotland; and stories have been
written about the Brownie o' Bodsbeck and the Brownie o' Blednock, but
about neither of them has a prettier story been told than that which I
am going to tell you about the Brownie o' Ferne-Den.

Now, Ferne-Den was a farmhouse, which got its name from the glen, or
"den," on the edge of which it stood, and through which anyone who
wished to reach the dwelling had to pass.

And this glen was believed to be the abode of a Brownie, who never
appeared to anyone in the daytime, but who, it was said, was sometimes
seen at night, stealing about, like an ungainly shadow, from tree to
tree, trying to keep from observation, and never, by any chance, harming
anybody.

Indeed, like all Brownies that are properly treated and let alone, so
far was he from harming anybody that he was always on the look-out to do
a good turn to those who needed his assistance. The farmer often said
that he did not know what he would do without him; for if there was any
work to be finished in a hurry at the farm--corn to thrash, or winnow,
or tie up into bags, turnips to cut, clothes to wash, a kirn to be
kirned, a garden to be weeded--all that the farmer and his wife had to
do was to leave the door of the barn, or the turnip shed, or the milk
house open when they went to bed, and put down a bowl of new milk on the
doorstep for the Brownie's supper, and when they woke the next morning
the bowl would be empty, and the job finished better than if it had been
done by mortal hands.

In spite of all this, however, which might have proved to them how
gentle and kindly the Creature really was, everyone about the place was
afraid of him, and would rather go a couple of miles round about in the
dark, when they were coming home from Kirk or Market, than pass through
the glen, and run the risk of catching a glimpse of him.

I said that they were all afraid of him, but that was not true, for the
farmer's wife was so good and gentle that she was not afraid of anything
on God's earth, and when the Brownie's supper had to be left outside,
she always filled his bowl with the richest milk, and added a good
spoonful of cream to it, for, said she, "He works so hard for us, and
asks no wages, he well deserves the very best meal that we can give
him."

One night this gentle lady was taken very ill, and everyone was afraid
that she was going to die. Of course, her husband was greatly
distressed, and so were her servants, for she had been such a good
Mistress to them that they loved her as if she had been their mother.
But they were all young, and none of them knew very much about illness,
and everyone agreed that it would be better to send off for an old woman
who lived about seven miles away on the other side of the river, who was
known to be a very skilful nurse.

But who was to go? That was the question. For it was black midnight, and
the way to the old woman's house lay straight through the glen. And
whoever travelled that road ran the risk of meeting the dreaded Brownie.

The farmer would have gone only too willingly, but he dare not leave his
wife alone; and the servants stood in groups about the kitchen, each one
telling the other that he ought to go, yet no one offering to go
themselves.

Little did they think that the cause of all their terror, a queer, wee,
misshapen little man, all covered with hair, with a long beard,
red-rimmed eyes, broad, flat feet, just like the feet of a paddock, and
enormous long arms that touched the ground, even when he stood upright,
was within a yard or two of them, listening to their talk, with an
anxious face, behind the kitchen door.

For he had come up as usual, from his hiding-place in the glen, to see
if there were any work for him to do, and to look for his bowl of milk.
And he had seen, from the open door and lit-up windows, that there was
something wrong inside the farmhouse, which at that hour was wont to be
dark, and still, and silent; and he had crept into the entry to try and
find out what the matter was.

When he gathered from the servants' talk that the Mistress, whom he
loved so dearly, and who had been so kind to him, was ill, his heart
sank within him; and when he heard that the silly servants were so taken
up with their own fears that they dared not set out to fetch a nurse for
her, his contempt and anger knew no bounds.

"Fools, idiots, dolts!" he muttered to himself, stamping his queer,
misshapen feet on the floor. "They speak as if a body were ready to take
a bite off them as soon as ever he met them. If they only knew the
bother it gives me to keep out of their road they wouldna be so silly.
But, by my troth, if they go on like this, the bonnie lady will die
amongst their fingers. So it strikes me that Brownie must e'en gang
himself."

So saying, he reached up his hand, and took down a dark cloak which
belonged to the farmer, which was hanging on a peg on the wall, and,
throwing it over his head and shoulders, or as somewhat to hide his
ungainly form, he hurried away to the stable, and saddled and bridled
the fleetest-footed horse that stood there.

When the last buckle was fastened, he led it to the door and scrambled
on its back. "Now, if ever thou travelledst fleetly, travel fleetly
now," he said; and it was as if the creature understood him, for it gave
a little whinny and pricked up its ears; then it darted out into the
darkness like an arrow from the bow.

In less time than the distance had ever been ridden in before, the
Brownie drew rein at the old woman's cottage.

She was in bed, fast asleep; but he rapped sharply on the window, and
when she rose and put her old face, framed in its white mutch, close to
the pane to ask who was there, he bent forward and told her his errand.

"Thou must come with me, Goodwife, and that quickly," he commanded, in
his deep, harsh voice, "if the Lady of Ferne-Den's life is to be saved;
for there is no one to nurse her up-bye at the farm there, save a lot of
empty-headed servant wenches."

"But how am I to get there? Have they sent a cart for me?" asked the old
woman anxiously; for, as far as she could see, there was nothing at the
door save a horse and its rider.

"No, they have sent no cart," replied the Brownie, shortly. "So you must
just climb up behind me on the saddle, and hang on tight to my waist,
and I'll promise to land ye at Ferne-Den safe and sound."

His voice was so masterful that the old woman dare not refuse to do as
she was bid; besides, she had often ridden pillion-wise when she was a
lassie, so she made haste to dress herself, and when she was ready she
unlocked her door, and, mounting the louping-on stane that stood beside
it, she was soon seated behind the dark-cloaked stranger, with her arms
clasped tightly round him.

Not a word was spoken till they approached the dreaded glen, then the
old woman felt her courage giving way. "Do ye think that there will be
any chance of meeting the Brownie?" she asked timidly. "I would fain not
run the risk, for folk say that he is an unchancy creature."

[Illustration]

Her companion gave a curious laugh. "Keep up your heart, and dinna talk
havers," he said, "for I promise ye ye'll see naught uglier this night
than the man whom ye ride behind."

"Oh, then, I'm fine and safe," replied the old woman, with a sigh of
relief; "for although I havena' seen your face, I warrant that ye are a
true man, for the care you have taken of a poor old woman."

She relapsed into silence again till the glen was passed and the good
horse had turned into the farmyard. Then the horseman slid to the
ground, and, turning round, lifted her carefully down in his long,
strong arms. As he did so the cloak slipped off him, revealing his
short, broad body and his misshapen limbs.

"In a' the world, what kind o' man are ye?" she asked, peering into his
face in the grey morning light, which was just dawning. "What makes your
eyes so big? And what have ye done to your feet? They are more like
paddock's webs than aught else."

The queer little man laughed again. "I've wandered many a mile in my
time without a horse to help me, and I've heard it said that ower much
walking makes the feet unshapely," he replied. "But waste no time in
talking, good Dame. Go thy way into the house; and, hark'ee, if anyone
asks thee who brought thee hither so quickly, tell them that there was a
lack of men, so thou hadst e'en to be content to ride behind the BROWNIE
O' FERNE-DEN."




THE WITCH OF FIFE


In the Kingdom of Fife, in the days of long ago, there lived an old man
and his wife. The old man was a douce, quiet body, but the old woman was
lightsome and flighty, and some of the neighbours were wont to look at
her askance, and whisper to each other that they sorely feared that she
was a Witch.

And her husband was afraid of it, too, for she had a curious habit of
disappearing in the gloaming and staying out all night; and when she
returned in the morning she looked quite white and tired, as if she had
been travelling far, or working hard.

He used to try and watch her carefully, in order to find out where she
went, or what she did, but he never managed to do so, for she always
slipped out of the door when he was not looking, and before he could
reach it to follow her, she had vanished utterly.

At last, one day, when he could stand the uncertainty no longer, he
asked her to tell him straight out whether she were a Witch or no. And
his blood ran cold when, without the slightest hesitation, she answered
that she was; and if he would promise not to let anyone know, the next
time that she went on one of her midnight expeditions she would tell him
all about it.

The Goodman promised; for it seemed to him just as well that he should
know all about his wife's cantrips.

He had not long to wait before he heard of them. For the very next week
the moon was new, which is, as everybody knows, the time of all others
when Witches like to stir abroad; and on the first night of the new moon
his wife vanished. Nor did she return till daybreak next morning.

And when he asked her where she had been, she told him, in great glee,
how she and four like-minded companions had met at the old Kirk on the
moor and had mounted branches of the green bay tree and stalks of
hemlock, which had instantly changed into horses, and how they had
ridden, swift as the wind, over the country, hunting the foxes, and the
weasels, and the owls; and how at last they had swam the Forth and come
to the top of Bell Lomond. And how there they had dismounted from their
horses, and drunk beer that had been brewed in no earthly brewery, out
of horn cups that had been fashioned by no mortal hands.

And how, after that, a wee, wee man had jumped up from under a great
mossy stone, with a tiny set of bagpipes under his arm, and how he had
piped such wonderful music, that, at the sound of it, the very trouts
jumped out of the Loch below, and the stoats crept out of their holes,
and the corby crows and the herons came and sat on the trees in the
darkness, to listen. And how all the Witches danced until they were so
weary that, when the time came for them to mount their steeds again, if
they would be home before cock-crow, they could scarce sit on them for
fatigue.

[Illustration: Ridden and Ridden--Till they Reached the land of the
Lapps]

The Goodman listened to this long story in silence, shaking his head
meanwhile, and, when it was finished, all that he answered was: "And
what the better are ye for all your dancing? Ye'd have been a deal more
comfortable at home."

At the next new moon the old wife went off again for the night; and when
she returned in the morning she told her husband how, on this occasion,
she and her friends had taken cockle-shells for boats, and had sailed
away over the stormy sea till they reached Norway. And there they had
mounted invisible horses of wind, and had ridden and ridden, over
mountains and glens, and glaciers, till they reached the land of the
Lapps lying under its mantle of snow.

And here all the Elves, and Fairies, and Mermaids of the North were
holding festival with Warlocks, and Brownies, and Pixies, and even the
Phantom Hunters themselves, who are never looked upon by mortal eyes.
And the Witches from Fife held festival with them, and danced, and
feasted, and sang with them, and, what was of more consequence, they
learned from them certain wonderful words, which, when they uttered
them, would bear them through the air, and would undo all bolts and
bars, and so gain them admittance to any place soever where they wanted
to be. And after that they had come home again, delighted with the
knowledge which they had acquired.

"What took ye to siccan a land as that?" asked the old man, with a
contemptuous grunt. "Ye would hae been a sight warmer in your bed."

But when his wife returned from her next adventure, he showed a little
more interest in her doings.

For she told him how she and her friends had met in the cottage of one
of their number, and how, having heard that the Lord Bishop of Carlisle
had some very rare wine in his cellar, they had placed their feet on the
crook from which the pot hung, and had pronounced the magic words which
they had learned from the Elves of Lappland. And, lo and behold! they
flew up the chimney like whiffs of smoke, and sailed through the air
like little wreathes of cloud, and in less time than it takes to tell
they landed at the Bishop's Palace at Carlisle.

And the bolts and the bars flew loose before them, and they went down to
his cellar and sampled his wine, and were back in Fife, fine, sober, old
women by cock-crow.

When he heard this, the old man started from his chair in right earnest,
for he loved good wine above all things, and it was but seldom that it
came his way.

"By my troth, but thou art a wife to be proud of!" he cried. "Tell me
the words, Woman! and I will e'en go and sample his Lordship's wine for
myself."

But the Goodwife shook her head. "Na, na! I cannot do that," she said,
"for if I did, an' ye telled it over again, 'twould turn the whole world
upside down. For everybody would be leaving their own lawful work, and
flying about the world after other folk's business and other folk's
dainties. So just bide content, Goodman. Ye get on fine with the
knowledge ye already possess."

And although the old man tried to persuade her with all the soft words
he could think of, she would not tell him her secret.

But he was a sly old man, and the thought of the Bishop's wine gave him
no rest. So night after night he went and hid in the old woman's
cottage, in the hope that his wife and her friends would meet there; and
although for a long time it was all in vain, at last his trouble was
rewarded. For one evening the whole five old women assembled, and in low
tones and with chuckles of laughter they recounted all that had befallen
them in Lappland. Then, running to the fireplace, they, one after
another, climbed on a chair and put their feet on the sooty crook. Then
they repeated the magic words, and, hey, presto! they were up the lum
and away before the old man could draw his breath.

"I can do that, too," he said to himself; and he crawled out of his
hiding-place and ran to the fire. He put his foot on the crook and
repeated the words, and up the chimney he went, and flew through the air
after his wife and her companions, as if he had been a Warlock born.

And, as Witches are not in the habit of looking over their shoulders,
they never noticed that he was following them, until they reached the
Bishop's Palace and went down into his cellar, then, when they found
that he was among them, they were not too well pleased.

However, there was no help for it, and they settled down to enjoy
themselves. They tapped this cask of wine, and they tapped that,
drinking a little of each, but not too much; for they were cautious old
women, and they knew that if they wanted to get home before cock-crow it
behoved them to keep their heads clear.

But the old man was not so wise, for he sipped, and he sipped, until at
last he became quite drowsy, and lay down on the floor and fell fast
asleep.

And his wife, seeing this, thought that she would teach him a lesson not
to be so curious in the future. So, when she and her four friends
thought that it was time to be gone, she departed without waking him.

He slept peacefully for some hours, until two of the Bishop's servants,
coming down to the cellar to draw wine for their Master's table, almost
fell over him in the darkness. Greatly astonished at his presence there,
for the cellar door was fast locked, they dragged him up to the light
and shook him, and cuffed him, and asked him how he came to be there.

And the poor old man was so confused at being awakened in this rough
way, and his head seemed to whirl round so fast, that all he could
stammer out was, "that he came from Fife, and that he had travelled on
the midnight wind."

As soon as they heard that, the men servants cried out that he was a
Warlock, and they dragged him before the Bishop, and, as Bishops in
those days had a holy horror of Warlocks and Witches, he ordered him to
be burned alive.

When the sentence was pronounced, you may be very sure that the poor old
man wished with all his heart that he had stayed quietly at home in bed,
and never hankered after the Bishop's wine.

But it was too late to wish that now, for the servants dragged him out
into the courtyard, and put a chain round his waist, and fastened it to
a great iron stake, and they piled faggots of wood round his feet and
set them alight.

As the first tiny little tongue of flame crept up, the poor old man
thought that his last hour had come. But when he thought that, he forgot
completely that his wife was a Witch.

[Illustration: His chains fell off, and he mounted in the air,--up and
up--]

For, just as the little tongue of flame began to singe his
breeches, there was a swish and a flutter in the air, and a great Grey
Bird, with outstretched wings, appeared in the sky, and swooped down
suddenly, and perched for a moment on the old man's shoulder.

And in this Grey Bird's mouth was a little red pirnie, which, to
everyone's amazement, it popped on to the prisoner's head. Then it gave
one fierce croak, and flew away again, but to the old man's ears that
croak was the sweetest music that he had ever heard.

For to him it was the croak of no earthly bird, but the voice of his
wife whispering words of magic to him. And when he heard them he jumped
for joy, for he knew that they were words of deliverance, and he shouted
them aloud, and his chains fell off, and he mounted in the air--up and
up--while the onlookers watched him in awestruck silence.

He flew right away to the Kingdom of Fife, without as much as saying
good-bye to them; and when he found himself once more safely at home,
you may be very sure that he never tried to find out his wife's secrets
again, but left her alone to her own devices.




ASSIPATTLE AND THE MESTER STOORWORM


In far bygone days, in the North, there lived a well-to-do farmer, who
had seven sons and one daughter. And the youngest of these seven sons
bore a very curious name; for men called him Assipattle, which means,
"He who grovels among the ashes."

Perhaps Assipattle deserved his name, for he was rather a lazy boy, who
never did any work on the farm as his brothers did, but ran about the
doors with ragged clothes and unkempt hair, and whose mind was ever
filled with wondrous stories of Trolls and Giants, Elves and Goblins.

When the sun was hot in the long summer afternoons, when the bees droned
drowsily and even the tiny insects seemed almost asleep, the boy was
content to throw himself down on the ash-heap amongst the ashes, and lie
there, lazily letting them run through his fingers, as one might play
with sand on the sea-shore, basking in the sunshine and telling stories
to himself.

And his brothers, working hard in the fields, would point to him with
mocking fingers, and laugh, and say to each other how well the name
suited him, and of how little use he was in the world.

And when they came home from their work, they would push him about and
tease him, and even his mother would make him sweep the floor, and draw
water from the well, and fetch peats from the peat-stack, and do all the
little odd jobs that nobody else would do.

So poor Assipattle had rather a hard life of it, and he would often have
been very miserable had it not been for his sister, who loved him
dearly, and who would listen quite patiently to all the stories that he
had to tell; who never laughed at him or told him that he was telling
lies, as his brothers did.

But one day a very sad thing happened--at least, it was a sad thing for
poor Assipattle.

For it chanced that the King of these parts had one only daughter, the
Princess Gemdelovely, whom he loved dearly, and to whom he denied
nothing. And Princess Gemdelovely was in want of a waiting-maid, and as
she had seen Assipattle's sister standing by the garden gate as she was
riding by one day, and had taken a fancy to her, she asked her father if
she might ask her to come and live at the Castle and serve her.

Her father agreed at once, as he always did agree to any of her wishes;
and sent a messenger in haste to the farmer's house to ask if his
daughter would come to the Castle to be the Princess's waiting-maid.

And, of course, the farmer was very pleased at the piece of good fortune
which had befallen the girl, and so was her mother, and so were her six
brothers, all except poor Assipattle, who looked with wistful eyes after
his sister as she rode away, proud of her new clothes and of the rivlins
which her father had made her out of cowhide, which she was to wear in
the Palace when she waited on the Princess, for at home she always ran
barefoot.

Time passed, and one day a rider rode in hot haste through the country
bearing the most terrible tidings. For the evening before, some
fishermen, out in their boats, had caught sight of the Mester Stoorworm,
which, as everyone knows, was the largest, and the first, and the
greatest of all Sea-Serpents. It was that beast which, in the Good Book,
is called the Leviathan, and if it had been measured in our day, its
tail would have touched Iceland, while its snout rested on the North
Cape.

And the fishermen had noticed that this fearsome Monster had its head
turned towards the mainland, and that it opened its mouth and yawned
horribly, as if to show that it was hungry, and that, if it were not
fed, it would kill every living thing upon the land, both man and beast,
bird and creeping thing.

For 'twas well known that its breath was so poisonous that it consumed
as with a burning fire everything that it lighted on. So that, if it
pleased the awful creature to lift its head and put forth its breath,
like noxious vapour, over the country, in a few weeks the fair land
would be turned into a region of desolation.

As you may imagine, everyone was almost paralysed with terror at this
awful calamity which threatened them; and the King called a solemn
meeting of all his Counsellors, and asked them if they could devise any
way of warding off the danger.

And for three whole days they sat in Council, these grave, bearded men,
and many were the suggestions which were made, and many the words of
wisdom which were spoken; but, alas! no one was wise enough to think of
a way by which the Mester Stoorworm might be driven back.

At last, at the end of the third day, when everyone had given up hope of
finding a remedy, the door of the Council Chamber opened and the Queen
appeared.

Now the Queen was the King's second wife, and she was not a favourite in
the Kingdom, for she was a proud, insolent woman, who did not behave
kindly to her step-daughter, the Princess Gemdelovely, and who spent
much more of her time in the company of a great Sorcerer, whom everyone
feared and dreaded, than she did in that of the King, her husband.

So the sober Counsellors looked at her disapprovingly as she came boldly
into the Council Chamber and stood up beside the King's Chair of State,
and, speaking in a loud, clear voice, addressed them thus:

"Ye think that ye are brave men and strong, oh, ye Elders, and fit to be
the Protectors of the People. And so it may be, when it is mortals that
ye are called on to face. But ye be no match for the foe that now
threatens our land. Before him your weapons be but as straw. 'Tis not
through strength of arm, but through sorcery, that he will be overcome.
So listen to my words, even though they be but those of a woman, and
take counsel with the great Sorcerer, from whom nothing is hid, but who
knoweth all the mysteries of the earth, and of the air, and of the sea."

Now the King and his Counsellors liked not this advice, for they hated
the Sorcerer, who had, as they thought, too much influence with the
Queen; but they were at their wits' end, and knew not to whom to turn
for help, so they were fain to do as she said and summon the Wizard
before them.

And when he obeyed the summons and appeared in their midst, they liked
him none the better for his looks. For he was long, and thin, and
awesome, with a beard that came down to his knee, and hair that wrapped
him about like a mantle, and his face was the colour of mortar, as if he
had always lived in darkness, and had been afraid to look on the sun.

But there was no help to be found in any other man, so they laid the
case before him, and asked him what they should do. And he answered
coldly that he would think over the matter, and come again to the
Assembly the following day and give them his advice.

And his advice, when they heard it, was like to turn their hair white
with horror.

For he said that the only way to satisfy the Monster, and to make it
spare the land, was to feed it every Saturday with seven young maidens,
who must be the fairest who could be found; and if, after this remedy
had been tried once or twice, it did not succeed in mollifying the
Stoorworm and inducing him to depart, there was but one other measure
that he could suggest, but that was so horrible and dreadful that he
would not rend their hearts by mentioning it in the meantime.

And as, although they hated him, they feared him also, the Council had
e'en to abide by his words, and pronounced the awful doom.

And so it came about that, every Saturday, seven bonnie, innocent
maidens were bound hand and foot and laid on a rock which ran into the
sea, and the Monster stretched out his long, jagged tongue, and swept
them into his mouth; while all the rest of the folk looked on from the
top of a high hill--or, at least, the men looked--with cold, set faces,
while the women hid theirs in their aprons and wept aloud.

"Is there no other way," they cried, "no other way than this, to save
the land?"

But the men only groaned and shook their heads. "No other way," they
answered; "no other way."

Then suddenly a boy's indignant voice rang out among the crowd. "Is
there no grown man who would fight that Monster, and kill him, and save
the lassies alive? I would do it; I am not feared for the Mester
Stoorworm."

It was the boy Assipattle who spoke, and everyone looked at him in
amazement as he stood staring at the great Sea-Serpent, his fingers
twitching with rage, and his great blue eyes glowing with pity and
indignation.

"The poor bairn's mad; the sight hath turned his head," they whispered
one to another; and they would have crowded round him to pet and comfort
him, but his elder brother came and gave him a heavy clout on the side
of his head.

"Thou fight the Stoorworm!" he cried contemptuously. "A likely story! Go
home to thy ash-pit, and stop speaking havers;" and, taking his arm, he
drew him to the place where his other brothers were waiting, and they
all went home together.

But all the time Assipattle kept on saying that he meant to kill the
Stoorworm; and at last his brothers became so angry at what they thought
was mere bragging, that they picked up stones and pelted him so hard
with them that at last he took to his heels and ran away from them.

That evening the six brothers were threshing corn in the barn, and
Assipattle, as usual, was lying among the ashes thinking his own
thoughts, when his mother came out and bade him run and tell the others
to come in for their supper.

The boy did as he was bid, for he was a willing enough little fellow;
but when he entered the barn his brothers, in revenge for his having run
away from them in the afternoon, set on him and pulled him down, and
piled so much straw on top of him that, had his father not come from the
house to see what they were all waiting for, he would, of a surety, have
been smothered.

But when, at supper-time, his mother was quarrelling with the other lads
for what they had done, and saying to them that it was only cowards who
set on bairns littler and younger than themselves, Assipattle looked up
from the bicker of porridge which he was supping.

"Vex not thyself, Mother," he said, "for I could have fought them all if
I liked; ay, and beaten them, too."

"Why didst thou not essay it then?" cried everybody at once.

"Because I knew that I would need all my strength when I go to fight the
Giant Stoorworm," replied Assipattle gravely.

And, as you may fancy, the others laughed louder than before.

Time passed, and every Saturday seven lassies were thrown to the
Stoorworm, until at last it was felt that this state of things could not
be allowed to go on any longer; for if it did, there would soon be no
maidens at all left in the country.

So the Elders met once more, and, after long consultation, it was
agreed that the Sorcerer should be summoned, and asked what his other
remedy was. "For, by our troth," said they, "it cannot be worse than
that which we are practising now."

But, had they known it, the new remedy was even more dreadful than the
old. For the cruel Queen hated her step-daughter, Gemdelovely, and the
wicked Sorcerer knew that she did, and that she would not be sorry to
get rid of her, and, things being as they were, he thought that he saw a
way to please the Queen. So he stood up in the Council, and, pretending
to be very sorry, said that the only other thing that could be done was
to give the Princess Gemdelovely to the Stoorworm, then would it of a
surety depart.

When they heard this sentence a terrible stillness fell upon the
Council, and everyone covered his face with his hands, for no man dare
look at the King.

But although his dear daughter was as the apple of his eye, he was a
just and righteous Monarch, and he felt that it was not right that other
fathers should have been forced to part with their daughters, in order
to try and save the country, if his child was to be spared.

So, after he had had speech with the Princess, he stood up before the
Elders, and declared, with trembling voice, that both he and she were
ready to make the sacrifice.

"She is my only child," he said, "and the last of her race. Yet it
seemeth good to both of us that she should lay down her life, if by so
doing she may save the land that she loves so well."

Salt tears ran down the faces of the great bearded men as they heard
their King's words, for they all knew how dear the Princess Gemdelovely
was to him. But it was felt that what he said was wise and true, and
that the thing was just and right; for 'twere better, surely, that one
maiden should die, even although she were of Royal blood, than that
bands of other maidens should go to their death week by week, and all to
no purpose.

So, amid heavy sobs, the aged Lawman--he who was the chief man of the
Council--rose up to pronounce the Princess's doom. But, ere he did so,
the King's Kemper--or Fighting-man--stepped forward.

"Nature teaches us that it is fitting that each beast hath a tail," he
said; "and this Doom, which our Lawman is about to pronounce, is in very
sooth a venomous beast. And, if I had my way, the tail which it would
bear after it is this, that if the Mester Stoorworm doth not depart, and
that right speedily, after he have devoured the Princess, the next thing
that is offered to him be no tender young maiden, but that tough, lean
old Sorcerer."

And at his words there was such a great shout of approval that the
wicked Sorcerer seemed to shrink within himself, and his pale face grew
paler than it was before.

Now, three weeks were allowed between the time that the Doom was
pronounced upon the Princess and the time that it was carried out, so
that the King might send Ambassadors to all the neighbouring Kingdoms to
issue proclamations that, if any Champion would come forward who was
able to drive away the Stoorworm and save the Princess, he should have
her for his wife.

And with her he should have the Kingdom, as well as a very famous sword
that was now in the King's possession, but which had belonged to the
great god Odin, with which he had fought and vanquished all his foes.

The sword bore the name of Sickersnapper, and no man had any power
against it.

The news of all these things spread over the length and breadth of the
land, and everyone mourned for the fate that was like to befall the
Princess Gemdelovely. And the farmer, and his wife, and their six sons
mourned also;--all but Assipattle, who sat amongst the ashes and said
nothing.

When the King's Proclamation was made known throughout the neighbouring
Kingdoms, there was a fine stir among all the young Gallants, for it
seemed but a little thing to slay a Sea-Monster; and a beautiful wife, a
fertile Kingdom, and a trusty sword are not to be won every day.

So six-and-thirty Champions arrived at the King's Palace, each hoping to
gain the prize.

But the King sent them all out to look at the Giant Stoorworm lying in
the sea with its enormous mouth open, and when they saw it, twelve of
them were seized with sudden illness, and twelve of them were so afraid
that they took to their heels and ran, and never stopped till they
reached their own countries; and so only twelve returned to the King's
Palace, and as for them, they were so downcast at the thought of the
task that they had undertaken that they had no spirit left in them at
all.

And none of them dare try to kill the Stoorworm; so the three weeks
passed slowly by, until the night before the day on which the Princess
was to be sacrificed. On that night the King, feeling that he must do
something to entertain his guests, made a great supper for them.

But, as you may think, it was a dreary feast, for everyone was thinking
so much about the terrible thing that was to happen on the morrow, that
no one could eat or drink.

And when it was all over, and everybody had retired to rest, save the
King and his old Kemperman, the King returned to the great hall, and
went slowly up to his Chair of State, high up on the dais. It was not
like the Chairs of State that we know nowadays; it was nothing but a
massive Kist, in which he kept all the things which he treasured most.

The old Monarch undid the iron bolts with trembling fingers, and lifted
the lid, and took out the wondrous sword Sickersnapper, which had
belonged to the great god Odin.

His trusty Kemperman, who had stood by him in a hundred fights, watched
him with pitying eyes.

"Why lift ye out the sword," he said softly, "when thy fighting days are
done? Right nobly hast thou fought thy battles in the past, oh, my Lord!
when thine arm was strong and sure. But when folk's years number four
score and sixteen, as thine do, 'tis time to leave such work to other
and younger men."

The old King turned on him angrily, with something of the old fire in
his eyes. "Wheest," he cried, "else will I turn this sword on thee. Dost
thou think that I can see my only bairn devoured by a Monster, and not
lift a finger to try and save her when no other man will? I tell
thee--and I will swear it with my two thumbs crossed on
Sickersnapper--that both the sword and I will be destroyed before so
much as one of her hairs be touched. So go, an' thou love me, my old
comrade, and order my boat to be ready, with the sail set and the prow
pointed out to sea. I will go myself and fight the Stoorworm; and if I
do not return, I will lay it on thee to guard my cherished daughter.
Peradventure, my life may redeem hers."

Now that night everybody at the farm went to bed betimes, for next
morning the whole family was to set out early, to go to the top of the
hill near the sea, to see the Princess eaten by the Stoorworm. All
except Assipattle, who was to be left at home to herd the geese.

The lad was so vexed at this--for he had great schemes in his head--that
he could not sleep. And as he lay tossing and tumbling about in his
corner among the ashes, he heard his father and mother talking in the
great box-bed. And, as he listened, he found that they were having an
argument.

"'Tis such a long way to the hill overlooking the sea, I fear me I shall
never walk it," said his mother. "I think I had better bide at home."

"Nay," replied her husband, "that would be a bonny-like thing, when all
the country-side is to be there. Thou shalt ride behind me on my good
mare Go-Swift."

"I do not care to trouble thee to take me behind thee," said his wife,
"for methinks thou dost not love me as thou wert wont to do."

"The woman's havering," cried the Goodman of the house impatiently.
"What makes thee think that I have ceased to love thee?"

"Because thou wilt no longer tell me thy secrets," answered his wife.
"To go no further, think of this very horse, Go-Swift. For five long
years I have been begging thee to tell me how it is that, when thou
ridest her, she flies faster than the wind, while if any other man mount
her, she hirples along like a broken-down nag."

The Goodman laughed. "'Twas not for lack of love, Goodwife," he said,
"though it might be lack of trust. For women's tongues wag but loosely;
and I did not want other folk to ken my secret. But since my silence
hath vexed thy heart, I will e'en tell it thee.

"When I want Go-Swift to stand, I give her one clap on the left
shoulder. When I would have her go like any other horse, I give her two
claps on the right. But when I want her to fly like the wind, I whistle
through the windpipe of a goose. And, as I never ken when I want her to
gallop like that, I aye keep the bird's thrapple in the left-hand pocket
of my coat."

"So that is how thou managest the beast," said the farmer's wife, in a
satisfied tone; "and that is what becomes of all my goose thrapples. Oh!
but thou art a clever fellow, Goodman; and now that I ken the way of it
I may go to sleep."

Assipattle was not tumbling about in the ashes now; he was sitting up in
the darkness, with glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes.

His opportunity had come at last, and he knew it.

He waited patiently till their heavy breathing told him that his parents
were asleep; then he crept over to where his father's clothes were, and
took the goose's windpipe out of the pocket of his coat, and slipped
noiselessly out of the house. Once he was out of it, he ran like
lightning to the stable. He saddled and bridled Go-Swift, and threw a
halter round her neck, and led her to the stable door.

The good mare, unaccustomed to her new groom, pranced, and reared, and
plunged; but Assipattle, knowing his father's secret, clapped her once
on the left shoulder, and she stood as still as a stone. Then he mounted
her, and gave her two claps on the right shoulder, and the good horse
trotted off briskly, giving a loud neigh as she did so.

The unwonted sound, ringing out in the stillness of the night, roused
the household, and the Goodman and his six sons came tumbling down the
wooden stairs, shouting to one another in confusion that someone was
stealing Go-Swift.

The farmer was the first to reach the door; and when he saw, in the
starlight, the vanishing form of his favourite steed, he cried at the
top of his voice:

    "Stop thief, ho!
    Go-Swift, whoa!"

And when Go-Swift heard that she pulled up in a moment. All seemed lost,
for the farmer and his sons could run very fast indeed, and it seemed to
Assipattle, sitting motionless on Go-Swift's back, that they would very
soon make up on him.

But, luckily, he remembered the goose's thrapple, and he pulled it out
of his pocket and whistled through it. In an instant the good mare
bounded forward, swift as the wind, and was over the hill and out of
reach of its pursuers before they had taken ten steps more.

Day was dawning when the lad came within sight of the sea; and there, in
front of him, in the water, lay the enormous Monster whom he had come so
far to slay. Anyone would have said that he was mad even to dream of
making such an attempt, for he was but a slim, unarmed youth, and the
Mester Stoorworm was so big that men said it would reach the fourth part
round the world. And its tongue was jagged at the end like a fork, and
with this fork it could sweep whatever it chose into its mouth, and
devour it at its leisure.

For all this, Assipattle was not afraid, for he had the heart of a hero
underneath his tattered garments. "I must be cautious," he said to
himself, "and do by my wits what I cannot do by my strength."

He climbed down from his seat on Go-Swift's back, and tethered the good
steed to a tree, and walked on, looking well about him, till he came to
a little cottage on the edge of a wood.

The door was not locked, so he entered, and found its occupant, an old
woman, fast asleep in bed. He did not disturb her, but he took down an
iron pot from the shelf, and examined it closely.

"This will serve my purpose," he said; "and surely the old dame would
not grudge it if she knew 'twas to save the Princess's life."

Then he lifted a live peat from the smouldering fire, and went his way.

Down at the water's edge he found the King's boat lying, guarded by a
single boatman, with its sails set and its prow turned in the direction
of the Mester Stoorworm.

"It's a cold morning," said Assipattle. "Art thou not well-nigh frozen
sitting there? If thou wilt come on shore, and run about, and warm
thyself, I will get into the boat and guard it till thou returnest."

"A likely story," replied the man. "And what would the King say if he
were to come, as I expect every moment he will do, and find me playing
myself on the sand, and his good boat left to a smatchet like thee?
'Twould be as much as my head is worth."

"As thou wilt," answered Assipattle carelessly, beginning to search
among the rocks. "In the meantime, I must be looking for a wheen mussels
to roast for my breakfast." And after he had gathered the mussels, he
began to make a hole in the sand to put the live peat in. The boatman
watched him curiously, for he, too, was beginning to feel hungry.

Presently the lad gave a wild shriek, and jumped high in the air. "Gold,
gold!" he cried. "By the name of Thor, who would have looked to find
gold here?"

This was too much for the boatman. Forgetting all about his head and the
King, he jumped out of the boat, and, pushing Assipattle aside, began to
scrape among the sand with all his might.

[Illustration: Assipattle, sailing slowly over the sea]

While he was doing so, Assipattle seized his pot, jumped into the boat,
pushed her off, and was half a mile out to sea before the outwitted man,
who, needless to say, could find no gold, noticed what he was about.

And, of course, he was very angry, and the old King was more angry still
when he came down to the shore, attended by his Nobles and carrying the
great sword Sickersnapper, in the vain hope that he, poor feeble old man
that he was, might be able in some way to defeat the Monster and save
his daughter.

But to make such an attempt was beyond his power now that his boat was
gone. So he could only stand on the shore, along with the fast
assembling crowd of his subjects, and watch what would befall.

And this was what befell!

Assipattle, sailing slowly over the sea, and watching the Mester
Stoorworm intently, noticed that the terrible Monster yawned
occasionally, as if longing for his weekly feast. And as it yawned a
great flood of sea-water went down its throat, and came out again at its
huge gills.

So the brave lad took down his sail, and pointed the prow of his boat
straight at the Monster's mouth, and the next time it yawned he and his
boat were sucked right in, and, like Jonah, went straight down its
throat into the dark regions inside its body. On and on the boat
floated; but as it went the water grew less, pouring out of the
Stoorworm's gills, till at last it stuck, as it were, on dry land. And
Assipattle jumped out, his pot in his hand, and began to explore.

Presently he came to the huge creature's liver, and having heard that
the liver of a fish is full of oil, he made a hole in it and put in the
live peat.

Woe's me! but there was a conflagration! And Assipattle just got back to
his boat in time; for the Mester Stoorworm, in its convulsions, threw
the boat right out of its mouth again, and it was flung up, high and
dry, on the bare land.

The commotion in the sea was so terrible that the King and his
daughter--who by this time had come down to the shore dressed like a
bride, in white, ready to be thrown to the Monster--and all his
Courtiers, and all the country-folk, were fain to take refuge on the
hill top, out of harm's way, and stand and see what happened next.

And this was what happened next.

The poor, distressed creature--for it was now to be pitied, even
although it was a great, cruel, awful Mester Stoorworm--tossed itself to
and fro, twisting and writhing.

And as it tossed its awful head out of the water its tongue fell out,
and struck the earth with such force that it made a great dent in it,
into which the sea rushed. And that dent formed the crooked Straits
which now divide Denmark from Norway and Sweden.

Then some of its teeth fell out and rested in the sea, and became the
Islands that we now call the Orkney Isles; and a little afterwards some
more teeth dropped out, and they became what we now call the Shetland
Isles.

After that the creature twisted itself into a great lump and died; and
this lump became the Island of Iceland; and the fire which Assipattle
had kindled with his live peat still burns on underneath it, and that is
why there are mountains which throw out fire in that chilly land.

When at last it was plainly seen that the Mester Stoorworm was dead, the
King could scarce contain himself with joy. He put his arms round
Assipattle's neck, and kissed him, and called him his son. And he took
off his own Royal Mantle and put it on the lad, and girded his good
sword Sickersnapper round his waist. And he called his daughter, the
Princess Gemdelovely, to him, and put her hand in his, and declared that
when the right time came she should be his wife, and that he should be
ruler over all the Kingdom.

Then the whole company mounted their horses again, and Assipattle rode
on Go-Swift by the Princess's side; and so they returned, with great
joy, to the King's Palace.

But as they were nearing the gate Assipattle's sister, she who was the
Princess's maid, ran out to meet him, and signed to the Princess to lout
down, and whispered something in her ear.

The Princess's face grew dark, and she turned her horse's head and rode
back to where her father was, with his Nobles. She told him the words
that the maiden had spoken; and when he heard them his face, too, grew
as black as thunder.

For the matter was this: The cruel Queen, full of joy at the thought
that she was to be rid, once for all, of her step-daughter, had been
making love to the wicked Sorcerer all the morning in the old King's
absence.

"He shall be killed at once," cried the Monarch. "Such behaviour cannot
be overlooked."

"Thou wilt have much ado to find him, your Majesty," said the girl, "for
'tis more than an hour since he and the Queen fled together on the
fleetest horses that they could find in the stables."

"But I can find him," cried Assipattle; and he went off like the wind on
his good horse Go-Swift.

It was not long before he came within sight of the fugitives, and he
drew his sword and shouted to them to stop.

They heard the shout, and turned round, and they both laughed aloud in
derision when they saw that it was only the boy who grovelled in the
ashes who pursued them.

"The insolent brat! I will cut off his head for him! I will teach him a
lesson!" cried the Sorcerer; and he rode boldly back to meet Assipattle.
For although he was no fighter, he knew that no ordinary weapon could
harm his enchanted body; therefore he was not afraid.

But he did not count on Assipattle having the Sword of the great god
Odin, with which he had slain all his enemies; and before this magic
weapon he was powerless. And, at one thrust, the young lad ran it
through his body as easily as if he had been any ordinary man, and he
fell from his horse, dead.

Then the Courtiers of the King, who had also set off in pursuit, but
whose steeds were less fleet of foot than Go-Swift, came up, and seized
the bridle of the Queen's horse, and led it and its rider back to the
Palace.

She was brought before the Council, and judged, and condemned to be shut
up in a high tower for the remainder of her life. Which thing surely
came to pass.

As for Assipattle, when the proper time came he was married to the
Princess Gemdelovely, with great feasting and rejoicing. And when the
old King died they ruled the Kingdom for many a long year.

[Illustration]




THE FOX AND THE WOLF


There was once a Fox and a Wolf, who set up house together in a cave
near the sea-shore. Although you may not think so, they got on very well
for a time, for they went out hunting all day, and when they came back
at night they were generally too tired to do anything but to eat their
supper and go to bed.

They might have lived together always had it not been for the slyness
and greediness of the Fox, who tried to over-reach his companion, who
was not nearly so clever as he was.

And this was how it came about.

It chanced, one dark December night, that there was a dreadful storm at
sea, and in the morning the beach was all strewn with wreckage. So as
soon as it was daylight the two friends went down to the shore to see
if they could find anything to eat.

They had the good fortune to light on a great Keg of Butter, which had
been washed overboard from some ship on its way home from Ireland,
where, as all the world knows, folk are famous for their butter.

The simple Wolf danced with joy when he saw it. "Marrowbones and
trotters! but we will have a good supper this night," cried he, licking
his lips. "Let us set to work at once and roll it up to the cave."

But the wily Fox was fond of butter, and he made up his mind that he
would have it all to himself. So he put on his wisest look, and shook
his head gravely.

"Thou hast no prudence, my friend," he said reproachfully, "else wouldst
thou not talk of breaking up a Keg of Butter at this time of year, when
the stackyards are full of good grain, which can be had for the eating,
and the farmyards are stocked with nice fat ducks and poultry. No, no.
It behoveth us to have foresight, and to lay up in store for the spring,
when the grain is all threshed, and the stackyards are bare, and the
poultry have gone to market. So we will e'en bury the Keg, and dig it up
when we have need of it."

Very reluctantly, for he was thinner and hungrier than the Fox, the Wolf
agreed to this proposal. So a hole was dug, and the Keg was buried, and
the two animals went off hunting as usual.

About a week passed by: then one day the Fox came into the cave, and
flung himself down on the ground as if he were very much exhausted. But
if anyone had looked at him closely they would have seen a sly twinkle
in his eye.

"Oh, dear, oh, dear!" he sighed. "Life is a heavy burden."

"What hath befallen thee?" asked the Wolf, who was ever kind and
soft-hearted.

"Some friends of mine, who live over the hills yonder, are wanting me to
go to a christening to-night. Just think of the distance that I must
travel."

"But needst thou go?" asked the Wolf. "Canst thou not send an excuse?"

[Illustration]

"I doubt that no excuse would be accepted," answered the Fox, "for they
asked me to stand god-father. Therefore it behoveth me to do my duty,
and pay no heed to my own feelings."

So that evening the Fox was absent, and the Wolf was alone in the cave.
But it was not to a christening that the sly Fox went; it was to the Keg
of Butter that was buried in the sand. About midnight he returned,
looking fat and sleek, and well pleased with himself.

The Wolf had been dozing, but he looked up drowsily as his companion
entered. "Well, how did they name the bairn?" he asked.

"They gave it a queer name," answered the Fox. "One of the queerest
names that I ever heard."

"And what was that?" questioned the Wolf.

"Nothing less than 'Blaisean' (Let-me-taste)," replied the Fox, throwing
himself down in his corner. And if the Wolf could have seen him in the
darkness he would have noticed that he was laughing to himself.

Some days afterwards the same thing happened. The Fox was asked to
another christening; this time at a place some twenty-five miles along
the shore. And as he had grumbled before, so he grumbled again; but he
declared that it was his duty to go, and he went.

At midnight he came back, smiling to himself and with no appetite for
his supper. And when the Wolf asked him the name of the child, he
answered that it was a more extraordinary name than the other--"Be na
Inheadnon" (Be in its middle).

The very next week, much to the Wolf's wonder, the Fox was asked to yet
another christening. And this time the name of the child was "Sgriot an
Clar" (Scrape the staves). After that the invitations ceased.

Time went on, and the hungry spring came, and the Fox and the Wolf had
their larder bare, for food was scarce, and the weather was bleak and
cold.

"Let us go and dig up the Keg of Butter," said the Wolf. "Methinks that
now is the time we need it."

The Fox agreed--having made up his mind how he would act--and the two
set out to the place where the Keg had been hidden. They scraped away
the sand, and uncovered it; but, needless to say, they found it empty.

"This is thy work," said the Fox angrily, turning to the poor, innocent
Wolf. "Thou hast crept along here while I was at the christenings, and
eaten it up by stealth."

"Not I," replied the Wolf. "I have never been near the spot since the
day that we buried it together."

"But I tell thee it must have been thou," insisted the Fox, "for no
other creature knew it was there except ourselves. And, besides, I can
see by the sleekness of thy fur that thou hast fared well of late."

Which last sentence was both unjust and untrue, for the poor Wolf looked
as lean and badly nourished as he could possibly be.

So back they both went to the cave, arguing all the way. The Fox
declaring that the Wolf _must_ have been the thief, and the Wolf
protesting his innocence.

"Art thou ready to swear to it?" said the Fox at last; though why he
asked such a question, dear only knows.

"Yes, I am," replied the Wolf firmly; and, standing in the middle of
the cave, and holding one paw up solemnly he swore this awful oath:

    "If it be that I stole the butter; if it be, if it be--
    May a fateful, fell disease fall on me, fall on me."

When he was finished, he put down his paw and, turning to the Fox,
looked at him keenly; for all at once it struck him that his fur looked
sleek and fine.

"It is thy turn now," he said. "I have sworn, and thou must do so also."

The Fox's face fell at these words, for although he was both untruthful
and dishonest now, he had been well brought up in his youth, and he knew
that it was a terrible thing to perjure oneself and swear falsely.

So he made one excuse after another, but the Wolf, who was getting more
and more suspicious every moment, would not listen to him.

So, as he had not courage to tell the truth, he was forced at last to
swear an oath also, and this was what he swore:

    "If it be that I stole the butter; if it be, if it be--
    Then let some most deadly punishment fall on me, fall on me--
    Whirrum wheeckam, whirrum wheeckam,
    Whirram whee, whirram whee!"

After he had heard him swear this terrible oath, the Wolf thought that
his suspicions must be groundless, and he would have let the matter
rest; but the Fox, having an uneasy conscience, could not do so. So he
suggested that as it was clear that one of them must have eaten the Keg
of Butter, they should both stand near the fire; so that when they
became hot, the butter would ooze out of the skin of whichever of them
was guilty. And he took care that the Wolf should stand in the hottest
place.

But the fire was big and the cave was small; and while the poor lean
Wolf showed no sign of discomfort, he himself, being nice and fat and
comfortable, soon began to get unpleasantly warm.

As this did not suit him at all, he next proposed that they should go
for a walk, "for," said he, "it is now quite plain that neither of us
can have taken the butter. It must have been some stranger who hath
found out our secret."

But the Wolf had seen the Fox beginning to grow greasy, and he knew now
what had happened, and he determined to have his revenge. So he waited
until they came to a smithy which stood at the side of the road, where a
horse was waiting just outside the door to be shod.

Then, keeping at a safe distance, he said to his companion, "There is
writing on that smithy door, which I cannot read, as my eyes are
failing; do thou try to read it, for perchance it may be something
'twere good for us to know."

And the silly Fox, who was very vain, and did not like to confess that
his eyes were no better than those of his friend, went close up to the
door to try and read the writing. And he chanced to touch the horse's
fetlock, and, it being a restive beast, lifted its foot and struck out
at once, and killed the Fox as dead as a door-nail.

And so, you see, the old saying in the Good Book came true after all:
"Be sure your sin will find you out."

[Illustration]




KATHERINE CRACKERNUTS


There was once a King whose wife died, leaving him with an only
daughter, whom he dearly loved. The little Princess's name was
Velvet-Cheek, and she was so good, and bonnie, and kind-hearted that all
her father's subjects loved her. But as the King was generally engaged
in transacting the business of the State, the poor little maiden had
rather a lonely life, and often wished that she had a sister with whom
she could play, and who would be a companion to her.

The King, hearing this, made up his mind to marry a middle-aged
Countess, whom he had met at a neighbouring Court, who had one daughter,
named Katherine, who was just a little younger than the Princess
Velvet-Cheek, and who, he thought, would make a nice play-fellow for
her.

He did so, and in one way the arrangement turned out very well, for the
two girls loved one another dearly, and had everything in common, just
as if they had really been sisters.

But in another way it turned out very badly, for the new Queen was a
cruel and ambitious woman, and she wanted her own daughter to do as she
had done, and make a grand marriage, and perhaps even become a Queen.
And when she saw that Princess Velvet-Cheek was growing into a very
beautiful young woman--more beautiful by far than her own daughter--she
began to hate her, and to wish that in some way she would lose her good
looks.

"For," thought she, "what suitor will heed my daughter as long as her
step-sister is by her side?"

Now, among the servants and retainers at her husband's Castle there was
an old Hen-wife, who, men said, was in league with the Evil Spirits of
the air, and who was skilled in the knowledge of charms, and philtres,
and love potions.

"Perhaps she could help me to do what I seek to do," said the wicked
Queen; and one night, when it was growing dusk, she wrapped a cloak
round her, and set out to this old Hen-wife's cottage.

"Send the lassie to me to-morrow morning ere she hath broken her fast,"
replied the old Dame when she heard what her visitor had to say. "I will
find out a way to mar her beauty." And the wicked Queen went home
content.

Next morning she went to the Princess's room while she was dressing, and
told her to go out before breakfast and get the eggs that the Hen-wife
had gathered. "And see," added she, "that thou dost not eat anything ere
thou goest, for there is nothing that maketh the roses bloom on a young
maiden's cheeks like going out fasting in the fresh morning air."

Princess Velvet-Cheek promised to do as she was bid, and go and fetch
the eggs; but as she was not fond of going out of doors before she had
had something to eat, and as, moreover, she suspected that her
step-mother had some hidden reason for giving her such an unusual order,
and she did not trust her step-mother's hidden reasons, she slipped into
the pantry as she went downstairs and helped herself to a large slice of
cake. Then, after she had eaten it, she went straight to the Hen-wife's
cottage and asked for the eggs.

"Lift the lid of that pot there, your Highness, and you will see them,"
said the old woman, pointing to the big pot standing in the corner in
which she boiled her hens' meat.

The Princess did so, and found a heap of eggs lying inside, which she
lifted into her basket, while the old woman watched her with a curious
smile.

"Go home to your Lady Mother, Hinny," she said at last, "and tell her
from me to keep the press door better snibbit."

The Princess went home, and gave this extraordinary message to her
step-mother, wondering to herself the while what it meant.

But if she did not understand the Hen-wife's words, the Queen understood
them only too well. For from them she gathered that the Princess had in
some way prevented the old Witch's spell doing what she intended it to
do.

So next morning, when she sent her step-daughter once more on the same
errand, she accompanied her to the door of the Castle herself, so that
the poor girl had no chance of paying a visit to the pantry. But as she
went along the road that led to the cottage, she felt so hungry that,
when she passed a party of country-folk picking peas by the roadside,
she asked them to give her a handful.

They did so, and she ate the peas; and so it came about that the same
thing happened that had happened yesterday.

The Hen-wife sent her to look for the eggs; but she could work no spell
upon her, because she had broken her fast. So the old woman bade her go
home again and give the same message to the Queen.

The Queen was very angry when she heard it, for she felt that she was
being outwitted by this slip of a girl, and she determined that,
although she was not fond of getting up early, she would accompany her
next day herself, and make sure that she had nothing to eat as she went.

So next morning she walked with the Princess to the Hen-wife's cottage,
and, as had happened twice before, the old woman sent the Royal maiden
to lift the lid off the pot in the corner in order to get the eggs.

And the moment that the Princess did so off jumped her own pretty head,
and on jumped that of a sheep.

[Illustration: Off jumped her own pretty head and on jumped that of a
sheep]

Then the wicked Queen thanked the cruel old Witch for the service that
she had rendered to her, and went home quite delighted with the success
of her scheme; while the poor Princess picked up her own head and put it
into her basket along with the eggs, and went home crying, keeping
behind the hedge all the way, for she felt so ashamed of her sheep's
head that she was afraid that anyone saw her.

Now, as I told you, the Princess's step-sister Katherine loved her
dearly, and when she saw what a cruel deed had been wrought on her she
was so angry that she declared that she would not remain another hour in
the Castle. "For," said she, "if my Lady Mother can order one such deed
to be done, who can hinder her ordering another. So, methinks, 'twere
better for us both to be where she cannot reach us."

So she wrapped a fine shawl round her poor step-sister's head, so that
none could tell what it was like, and, putting the real head in the
basket, she took her by the hand, and the two set out to seek their
fortunes.

They walked and they walked, till they reached a splendid Palace, and
when they came to it Katherine made as though she would go boldly up and
knock at the door.

"I may perchance find work here," she explained, "and earn enough money
to keep us both in comfort."

But the poor Princess would fain have pulled her back. "They will have
nothing to do with thee," she whispered, "when they see that thou hast a
sister with a sheep's head."

"And who is to know that thou hast a sheep's head?" asked Katherine. "If
thou hold thy tongue, and keep the shawl well round thy face, and leave
the rest to me."

So up she went and knocked at the kitchen door, and when the housekeeper
came to answer it she asked her if there was any work that she could
give her to do. "For," said she, "I have a sick sister, who is sore
troubled with the migraine in her head, and I would fain find a quiet
lodging for her where she could rest for the night."

"Dost thou know aught of sickness?" asked the housekeeper, who was
greatly struck by Katherine's soft voice and gentle ways.

"Ay, do I," replied Katherine, "for when one's sister is troubled with
the migraine, one has to learn to go about softly and not to make a
noise."

Now it chanced that the King's eldest son, the Crown Prince, was lying
ill in the Palace of a strange disease, which seemed to have touched his
brain. For he was so restless, especially at nights, that someone had
always to be with him to watch that he did himself no harm; and this
state of things had gone on so long that everyone was quite worn out.

And the old housekeeper thought that it would be a good chance to get a
quiet night's sleep if this capable-looking stranger could be trusted to
sit up with the Prince.

So she left her at the door, and went and consulted the King; and the
King came out and spoke to Katherine and he, too, was so pleased with
her voice and her appearance that he gave orders that a room should be
set apart in the Castle for her sick sister and herself, and he promised
that, if she would sit up that night with the Prince, and see that no
harm befell him, she would have, as her reward, a bag of silver Pennies
in the morning.

Katherine agreed to the bargain readily, "for," thought she, "'twill
always be a night's lodging for the Princess; and, forbye that, a bag of
silver Pennies is not to be got every day."

So the Princess went to bed in the comfortable chamber that was set
apart for her, and Katherine went to watch by the sick Prince.

He was a handsome, comely young man, who seemed to be in some sort of
fever, for his brain was not quite clear, and he tossed and tumbled from
side to side, gazing anxiously in front of him, and stretching out his
hands as if he were in search of something.

And at twelve o'clock at night, just when Katherine thought that he was
going to fall into a refreshing sleep, what was her horror to see him
rise from his bed, dress himself hastily, open the door, and slip
downstairs, as if he were going to look for somebody.

"There be something strange in this," said the girl to herself.
"Methinks I had better follow him and see what happens."

So she stole out of the room after the Prince and followed him safely
downstairs; and what was her astonishment to find that apparently he was
going some distance, for he put on his hat and riding-coat, and,
unlocking the door crossed the courtyard to the stable, and began to
saddle his horse.

When he had done so, he led it out, and mounted, and, whistling softly
to a hound which lay asleep in a corner, he prepared to ride away.

"I must go too, and see the end of this," said Katherine bravely; "for
methinks he is bewitched. These be not the actions of a sick man."

So, just as the horse was about to start, she jumped lightly on its
back, and settled herself comfortably behind its rider, all unnoticed by
him.

Then this strange pair rode away through the woods, and, as they went,
Katherine pulled the hazel-nuts that nodded in great clusters in her
face. "For," said she to herself, "Dear only knows where next I may get
anything to eat."

On and on they rode, till they left the greenwood far behind them and
came out on an open moor. Soon they reached a hillock, and here the
Prince drew rein, and, stooping down, cried in a strange, uncanny
whisper, "Open, open, Green Hill, and let the Prince, and his horse, and
his hound enter."

"And," whispered Katherine quickly, "let his lady enter behind him."

Instantly, to her great astonishment, the top of the knowe seemed to tip
up, leaving an aperture large enough for the little company to enter;
then it closed gently behind them again.

They found themselves in a magnificent hall, brilliantly lighted by
hundreds of candles stuck in sconces round the walls. In the centre of
this apartment was a group of the most beautiful maidens that Katherine
had ever seen, all dressed in shimmering ball-gowns, with wreaths of
roses and violets in their hair. And there were sprightly gallants also,
who had been treading a measure with these beauteous damsels to the
strains of fairy music.

When the maidens saw the Prince, they ran to him, and led him away to
join their revels. And at the touch of their hands all his languor
seemed to disappear, and he became the gayest of all the throng, and
laughed, and danced, and sang as if he had never known what it was to be
ill.

As no one took any notice of Katherine, she sat down quietly on a bit of
rock to watch what would befall. And as she watched, she became aware of
a wee, wee bairnie, playing with a tiny wand, quite close to her feet.

He was a bonnie bit bairn, and she was just thinking of trying to make
friends with him when one of the beautiful maidens passed, and, looking
at the wand, said to her partner, in a meaning tone, "Three strokes of
that wand would give Katherine's sister back her pretty face."

Here was news indeed! Katherine's breath came thick and fast; and with
trembling fingers she drew some of the nuts out of her pocket, and began
rolling them carelessly towards the child. Apparently he did not get
nuts very often, for he dropped his little wand at once, and stretched
out his tiny hands to pick them up.

This was just what she wanted; and she slipped down from her seat to the
ground, and drew a little nearer to him. Then she threw one or two more
nuts in his way, and, when he was picking these up, she managed to lift
the wand unobserved, and to hide it under her apron. After this, she
crept cautiously back to her seat again; and not a moment too soon, for
just then a cock crew, and at the sound the whole of the dancers
vanished--all but the Prince, who ran to mount his horse, and was in
such a hurry to be gone that Katherine had much ado to get up behind him
before the hillock opened, and he rode swiftly into the outer world once
more.

But she managed it, and, as they rode homewards in the grey morning
light, she sat and cracked her nuts and ate them as fast as she could,
for her adventures had made her marvellously hungry.

When she and her strange patient had once more reached the Castle, she
just waited to see him go back to bed, and begin to toss and tumble as
he had done before; then she ran to her step-sister's room, and, finding
her asleep, with her poor misshapen head lying peacefully on the
pillow, she gave it three sharp little strokes with the fairy wand and,
lo and behold! the sheep's head vanished, and the Princess's own pretty
one took its place.

In the morning the King and the old housekeeper came to inquire what
kind of night the Prince had had. Katherine answered that he had had a
very good night; for she was very anxious to stay with him longer, for
now that she had found out that the Elfin Maidens who dwelt in the Green
Knowe had thrown a spell over him, she was resolved to find out also how
that spell could be loosed.

And Fortune favoured her; for the King was so pleased to think that such
a suitable nurse had been found for the Prince, and he was also so
charmed with the looks of her step-sister, who came out of her chamber
as bright and bonnie as in the old days, declaring that her migraine was
all gone, and that she was now able to do any work that the housekeeper
might find for her, that he begged Katherine to stay with his son a
little longer, adding that if she would do so, he would give her a bag
of gold Bonnet Pieces.

So Katherine agreed readily; and that night she watched by the Prince as
she had done the night before. And at twelve o'clock he rose and dressed
himself, and rode to the Fairy Knowe, just as she had expected him to
do, for she was quite certain that the poor young man was bewitched, and
not suffering from a fever, as everyone thought he was.

And you may be sure that she accompanied him, riding behind him all
unnoticed, and filling her pockets with nuts as she rode.

When they reached the Fairy Knowe, he spoke the same words that he had
spoken the night before. "Open, open, Green Hill, and let the young
Prince in with his horse and his hound." And when the Green Hill opened,
Katherine added softly, "And his lady behind him." So they all passed in
together.

Katherine seated herself on a stone, and looked around her. The same
revels were going on as yesternight, and the Prince was soon in the
thick of them, dancing and laughing madly. The girl watched him
narrowly, wondering if she would ever be able to find out what would
restore him to his right mind; and, as she was watching him, the same
little bairn who had played with the magic wand came up to her again.
Only this time he was playing with a little bird.

And as he played, one of the dancers passed by, and, turning to her
partner, said lightly, "Three bites of that birdie would lift the
Prince's sickness, and make him as well as he ever was." Then she joined
in the dance again, leaving Katherine sitting upright on her stone
quivering with excitement.

If only she could get that bird the Prince might be cured! Very
carefully she began to shake some nuts out of her pocket, and roll them
across the floor towards the child.

He picked them up eagerly, letting go the bird as he did so; and, in an
instant, Katherine caught it, and hid it under her apron.

In no long time after that the cock crew, and the Prince and she set out
on their homeward ride. But this morning, instead of cracking nuts, she
killed and plucked the bird, scattering its feathers all along the road;
and the instant she gained the Prince's room, and had seen him safely
into bed, she put it on a spit in front of the fire and began to roast
it.

And soon it began to frizzle, and get brown, and smell deliciously, and
the Prince, in his bed in the corner, opened his eyes and murmured
faintly, "How I wish I had a bite of that birdie."

When she heard the words Katherine's heart jumped for joy, and as soon
as the bird was roasted she cut a little piece from its breast and
popped it into the Prince's mouth.

When he had eaten it his strength seemed to come back somewhat, for he
rose on his elbow and looked at his nurse. "Oh! if I had but another
bite of that birdie!" he said. And his voice was certainly stronger.

So Katherine gave him another piece, and when he had eaten that he sat
right up in bed.

"Oh! if I had but a third bite o' that birdie!" he cried. And now the
colour was coming back into his face, and his eyes were shining.

This time Katherine brought him the whole of the rest of the bird; and
he ate it up greedily, picking the bones quite clean with his fingers;
and when it was finished, he sprang out of bed and dressed himself, and
sat down by the fire.

And when the King came in the morning, with his old housekeeper at his
back, to see how the Prince was, he found him sitting cracking nuts with
his nurse, for Katherine had brought home quite a lot in her apron
pocket.

The King was so delighted to find his son cured that he gave all the
credit to Katherine Crackernuts, as he called her, and he gave orders at
once that the Prince should marry her. "For," said he, "a maiden who is
such a good nurse is sure to make a good Queen."

The Prince was quite willing to do as his father bade him; and, while
they were talking together, his younger brother came in, leading
Princess Velvet-Cheek by the hand, whose acquaintance he had made but
yesterday, declaring that he had fallen in love with her, and that he
wanted to marry her immediately.

So it all fell out very well, and everybody was quite pleased; and the
two weddings took place at once, and, unless they be dead sinsyne, the
young couples are living yet.




[Illustration: Times To Sneeze]

[Illustration: Sneeze on Monanday Sneeze for a Letter]

[Illustration: Sneeze on Tuesday Something Better]

[Illustration: Sneeze on Wednesday Kiss a Stranger]

[Illustration: Sneeze on Feersday Sneeze for Danger]

[Illustration: Sneeze on Friday Sneeze for Sorrow]

[Illustration: Sneeze on Saturday see your Sweetheart Tomorrow]




THE WELL O' THE WORLD'S END


There was once an old widow woman, who lived in a little cottage with
her only daughter, who was such a bonnie lassie that everyone liked to
look at her.

One day the old woman took a notion into her head to bake a girdleful of
cakes. So she took down her bakeboard, and went to the girnel and
fetched a basinful of meal; but when she went to seek a jug of water to
mix the meal with, she found that there was none in the house.

So she called to her daughter, who was in the garden; and when the girl
came she held out the empty jug to her, saying, "Run, like a good
lassie, to the Well o' the World's End and bring me a jug of water, for
I have long found that water from the Well o' the World's End makes the
best cakes."

So the lassie took the jug and set out on her errand.

Now, as its name shows, it is a long road to that well, and many a weary
mile had the poor maid to go ere she reached it.

But she arrived there at last; and what was her disappointment to find
it dry.

She was so tired and so vexed that she sat down beside it and began to
cry; for she did not know where to get any more water, and she felt that
she could not go back to her mother with an empty jug.

While she was crying, a nice yellow Paddock, with very bright eyes, came
jump-jump-jumping over the stones of the well, and squatted down at her
feet, looking up into her face.

"And why are ye greeting, my bonnie maid?" he asked. "Is there aught
that I can do to help thee?"

"I am greeting because the well is empty," she answered, "and I cannot
get any water to carry home to my mother."

"Listen," said the Paddock softly. "I can get thee water in plenty, if
so be thou wilt promise to be my wife."

Now the lassie had but one thought in her head, and that was to get the
water for her mother's oat-cakes, and she never for a moment thought
that the Paddock was in earnest, so she promised gladly enough to be his
wife, if he would get her a jug of water.

No sooner had the words passed her lips than the beastie jumped down the
mouth of the well, and in another moment it was full to the brim with
water.

The lassie filled her jug and carried it home, without troubling any
more about the matter. But late that night, just as her mother and she
were going to bed, something came with a faint "thud, thud," against
the cottage door, and then they heard a tiny little wee voice singing:

    "Oh, open the door, my hinnie, my heart,
    Oh, open the door, my ain true love;
    Remember the promise that you and I made
    Down i' the meadow, where we two met."

"Wheesht," said the old woman, raising her head. "What noise is that at
the door?"

"Oh," said her daughter, who was feeling rather frightened, "it's only a
yellow Paddock."

"Poor bit beastie," said the kind-hearted old mother. "Open the door and
let him in. It's cold work sitting on the doorstep."

So the lassie, very unwillingly opened the door, and the Paddock came
jump-jump-jumping across the kitchen, and sat down at the fireside.

And while he sat there he began to sing this song:

    "Oh, gie me my supper, my hinnie, my heart,
    Oh, gie me my supper, my ain true love;
    Remember the promise that you and I made
    Down i' the meadow, where we two met."

"Gie the poor beast his supper," said the old woman. "He's an uncommon
Paddock that can sing like that."

"Tut," replied her daughter crossly, for she was growing more and more
frightened as she saw the creature's bright black eyes fixed on her
face. "I'm not going to be so silly as to feed a wet, sticky Paddock."

"Don't be ill-natured and cruel," said her mother. "Who knows how far
the little beastie has travelled? And I warrant that it would like a
saucerful of milk."

Now, the lassie could have told her that the Paddock had travelled from
the Well o' the World's End; but she held her tongue, and went ben to
the milk-house, and brought back a saucerful of milk, which she set down
before the strange little visitor.

    "Now chap off my head, my hinnie, my heart,
    Now chap off my head, my ain true love,
    Remember the promise that you and I made
    Down i' the meadow, where we two met."

"Hout, havers, pay no heed, the creature's daft," exclaimed the old
woman, running forward to stop her daughter, who was raising the axe to
chop off the Paddock's head. But she was too late; down came the axe,
off went the head; and lo, and behold! on the spot where the little
creature had sat, stood the handsomest young Prince that had ever been
seen.

He wore such a noble air, and was so richly dressed, that the astonished
girl and her mother would have fallen on their knees before him had he
not prevented them by a movement of his hand.

"'Tis I that should kneel to thee, Sweetheart," he said, turning to the
blushing girl, "for thou hast delivered me from a fearful spell, which
was cast over me in my infancy by a wicked Fairy, who at the same time
slew my father. For long years I have lived in that well, the Well o'
the World's End, waiting for a maiden to appear, who should take pity on
me, even in my loathsome disguise, and promise to be my wife, and who
would also have the kindness to let me into her house, and the courage,
at my bidding, to cut off my head.

"Now I can return and claim my father's Kingdom, and thou, most gracious
maiden, will go with me, and be my bride, for thou well deserv'st the
honour."

And this was how the lassie who went to fetch water from the Well o' the
World's End became a Princess.

[Illustration]




FARQUHAR MACNEILL


Once upon a time there was a young man named Farquhar MacNeill. He had
just gone to a new situation, and the very first night after he went to
it his mistress asked him if he would go over the hill to the house of a
neighbour and borrow a sieve, for her own was all in holes, and she
wanted to sift some meal.

Farquhar agreed to do so, for he was a willing lad, and he set out at
once upon his errand, after the farmer's wife had pointed out to him the
path that he was to follow, and told him that he would have no
difficulty in finding the house, even though it was strange to him, for
he would be sure to see the light in the window.

He had not gone very far, however, before he saw what he took to be the
light from a cottage window on his left hand, some distance from the
path, and, forgetting his Mistress's instructions that he was to follow
the path right over the hill, he left it, and walked towards the light.

It seemed to him that he had almost reached it when his foot tripped,
and he fell down, down, down, into a Fairy Parlour, far under the
ground.

[Illustration: They bowed gravely]

It was full of Fairies, who were engaged in different occupations.

Close by the door, or rather the hole down which he had so
unceremoniously tumbled, two little elderly women, in black aprons and
white mutches, were busily engaged in grinding corn between two flat
millstones. Other two Fairies, younger women, in blue print gowns and
white kerchiefs, were gathering up the freshly ground meal, and baking
it into bannocks, which they were toasting on a girdle over a peat fire,
which was burning slowly in a corner.

In the centre of the large apartment a great troop of Fairies, Elves,
and Sprites were dancing reels as hard as they could to the music of a
tiny set of bagpipes which were being played by a brown-faced Gnome, who
sat on a ledge of rock far above their heads.

They all stopped their various employments when Farquhar came suddenly
down in their midst, and looked at him in alarm; but when they saw that
he was not hurt, they bowed gravely and bade him be seated. Then they
went on with their work and with their play as if nothing had happened.

But Farquhar, being very fond of dancing, and being in no wise anxious
to be seated, thought that he would like to have a reel first, so he
asked the Fairies if he might join them. And they, although they looked
surprised at his request, allowed him to do so, and in a few minutes
the young man was dancing away as gaily as any of them.

And as he danced a strange change came over him. He forgot his errand,
he forgot his home, he forgot everything that had ever happened to him,
he only knew that he wanted to remain with the Fairies all the rest of
his life.

And he did remain with them--for a magic spell had been cast over him,
and he became like one of themselves, and could come and go at nights
without being seen, and could sip the dew from the grass and honey from
the flowers as daintily and noiselessly as if he had been a Fairy born.

Time passed by, and one night he and a band of merry companions set out
for a long journey through the air. They started early, for they
intended to pay a visit to the Man in the Moon and be back again before
cock-crow.

All would have gone well if Farquhar had only looked where he was going,
but he did not, being deeply engaged in making love to a young Fairy
Maiden by his side, so he never saw a cottage that was standing right in
his way, till he struck against the chimney and stuck fast in the
thatch.

His companions sped merrily on, not noticing what had befallen him, and
he was left to disentangle himself as best he could.

As he was doing so he chanced to glance down the wide chimney, and in
the cottage kitchen he saw a comely young woman dandling a rosy-cheeked
baby.

Now, when Farquhar had been in his mortal state, he had been very fond
of children, and a word of blessing rose to his lips.

"God shield thee," he said, as he looked at the mother and child, little
guessing what the result of his words would be.

For scarce had the Holy Name crossed his lips than the spell which had
held him so long was broken, and he became as he had been before.

Instantly his thoughts flew to his friends at home, and to the new
Mistress whom he had left waiting for her sieve; for he felt sure that
some weeks must have elapsed since he set out to fetch it. So he made
haste to go to the farm.

When he arrived in the neighbourhood everything seemed strange. There
were woods where no woods used to be, and walls where no walls used to
be. To his amazement, he could not find his way to the farm, and, worst
of all, in the place where he expected to find his father's house he
found nothing but a crop of rank green nettles.

In great distress he looked about for someone to tell him what it all
meant, and at last he found an old man thatching the roof of a cottage.

This old man was so thin and grey that at first Farquhar took him for a
patch of mist, but as he went nearer he saw that he was a human being,
and, going close up to the wall and shouting with all his might, for he
felt sure that such an ancient man would be deaf, he asked him if he
could tell him where his friends had gone to, and what had happened to
his father's dwelling.

The old man listened, then he shook his head. "I never heard of him," he
answered slowly; "but perhaps my father might be able to tell you."

"Your father!" said Farquhar, in great surprise. "Is it possible that
your father is alive?"

"Aye he is," answered the old man, with a little laugh. "If you go into
the house you'll find him sitting in the arm-chair by the fire."

Farquhar did as he was bid, and on entering the cottage found another
old man, who was so thin and withered and bent that he looked as if he
must at least be a hundred years old. He was feebly twisting ropes to
bind the thatch on the roof.

"Can ye tell me aught of my friends, or where my father's cottage is?"
asked Farquhar again, hardly expecting that this second old man would be
able to answer him.

"I cannot," mumbled this ancient person; "but perhaps my father can tell
you."

"Your father!" exclaimed Farquhar, more astonished than ever. "But
surely he must be dead long ago."

The old man shook his head with a weird grimace.

"Look there," he said, and pointed with a twisted finger, to a leathern
purse, or sporran, which was hanging to one of the posts of a wooden
bedstead in the corner.

Farquhar approached it, and was almost frightened out of his wits by
seeing a tiny shrivelled face crowned by a red pirnie, looking over the
edge of the sporran.

"Tak' him out; he'll no touch ye," chuckled the old man by the fire.

So Farquhar took the little creature out carefully between his finger
and thumb, and set him on the palm of his left hand. He was so
shrivelled with age that he looked just like a mummy.

"Dost know anything of my friends, or where my father's cottage is gone
to?" asked Farquhar for the third time, hardly expecting to get an
answer.

"They were all dead long before I was born," piped out the tiny figure.
"I never saw any of them, but I have heard my father speak of them."

"Then I must be older than you!" cried Farquhar, in great dismay. And he
got such a shock at the thought that his bones suddenly dissolved into
dust, and he fell, a heap of grey ashes, on the floor.




PEERIFOOL


There was once a King and a Queen in Rousay who had three daughters.
When the young Princesses were just grown up, the King died, and the
Crown passed to a distant cousin, who had always hated him, and who paid
no heed to the widowed Queen and her daughters.

So they were left very badly off, and they went to live in a tiny
cottage, and did all the housework themselves. They had a kailyard in
front of the cottage, and a little field behind it, and they had a cow
that grazed in the field, and which they fed with the cabbages that grew
in the kailyard. For everyone knows that to feed cows with cabbages
makes them give a larger quantity of milk.

But they soon discovered that some one was coming at night and stealing
the cabbages, and, of course, this annoyed them very much. For they knew
that if they had not cabbages to give to the cow, they would not have
enough milk to sell.

So the eldest Princess said she would take out a three-legged stool, and
wrap herself in a blanket, and sit in the kailyard all night to see if
she could catch the thief. And, although it was very cold and very dark,
she did so.

At first it seemed as if all her trouble would be in vain, for hour
after hour passed and nothing happened. But in the small hours of the
morning, just as the clock was striking two, she heard a stealthy
trampling in the field behind, as if some very heavy person were trying
to tread very softly, and presently a mighty Giant stepped right over
the wall into the kailyard.

He carried an enormous creel on his arm, and a large, sharp knife in his
hand; and he began to cut the cabbages, and to throw them into the creel
as fast as he could.

Now the Princess was no coward, so, although she had not expected to
face a Giant, she gathered up her courage, and cried out sharply, "Who
gave thee liberty to cut our cabbages? Leave off this minute, and go
away."

The Giant paid no heed, but went on steadily with what he was doing.

"Dost thou not hear me?" cried the girl indignantly; for she was the
Princess Royal, and had always been accustomed to be obeyed.

"If thou be not quiet I will take thee too," said the Giant grimly,
pressing the cabbages down into the creel.

"I should like to see thee try," retorted the Princess, rising from her
stool and stamping her foot; for she felt so angry that she forgot for
a moment that she was only a weak maiden and he was a great and powerful
Giant.

And, as if to show her how strong he was, he seized her by her arm and
her leg, and put her in his creel on the top of the cabbages, and
carried her away bodily.

When he reached his home, which was in a great square house on a lonely
moor, he took her out, and set her down roughly on the floor.

"Thou wilt be my servant now," he said, "and keep my house, and do my
errands for me. I have a cow, which thou must drive out every day to the
hillside; and see, here is a bag of wool, when thou hast taken out the
cow, thou must come back and settle thyself at home, as a good housewife
should, and comb, and card it, and spin it into yarn, with which to
weave a good thick cloth for my raiment. I am out most of the day, but
when I come home I shall expect to find all this done, and a great
bicker of porridge boiled besides for my supper."

The poor Princess was very dismayed when she heard these words, for she
had never been accustomed to work hard, and she had always had her
sisters to help her; but the Giant took no notice of her distress, but
went out as soon as it was daylight, leaving her alone in the house to
begin her work.

As soon as he had gone she drove the cow to the pasture, as he had told
her to do; but she had a good long walk over the moor before she reached
the hill, and by the time that she got back to the house she felt very
tired.

So she thought that she would put on the porridge pot, and make herself
some porridge before she began to card and comb the wool. She did so,
and just as she was sitting down to sup them the door opened, and a
crowd of wee, wee Peerie Folk came in.

They were the tiniest men and women that the Princess had ever seen; not
one of them would have reached half-way to her knee; and they were
dressed in dresses fashioned out of all the colours of the
rainbow--scarlet and blue, green and yellow, orange and violet; and the
funny thing was, that every one of them had a shock of straw-coloured
yellow hair.

They were all talking and laughing with one another; and they hopped up,
first on stools, then on chairs, till at last they reached the top of
the table, where they clustered round the bowl, out of which the
Princess was eating her porridge.

"We be hungry, we be hungry," they cried, in their tiny shrill voices.
"Spare a little porridge for the Peerie Folk."

But the Princess was hungry also; and, besides being hungry, she was
both tired and cross; so she shook her head and waved them impatiently
away with her spoon,

    "Little for one, and less for two,
    And never a grain have I for you."

she said sharply, and, to her great delight, for she did not feel quite
comfortable with all the Peerie Folk standing on the table looking at
her, they vanished in a moment.

After this she finished her porridge in peace; then she took the wool
out of the bag, and she set to work to comb and card it. But it seemed
as if it were bewitched; it curled and twisted and coiled itself round
her fingers so that, try as she would, she could not do anything with
it. And when the Giant came home he found her sitting in despair with it
all in confusion round her, and the porridge, which she had left for him
in the pot, burned to a cinder.

As you may imagine, he was very angry, and raged, and stamped, and used
the most dreadful words; and at last he took her by the heels, and beat
her until all her back was skinned and bleeding; then he carried her out
to the byre, and threw her up on the joists among the hens. And,
although she was not dead, she was so stunned and bruised that she could
only lie there motionless, looking down on the backs of the cows.

Time went on, and in the kailyard at home the cabbages were disappearing
as fast as ever. So the second Princess said that she would do as her
sister had done, and wrap herself in a blanket, and go and sit on a
three-legged stool all night, to see what was becoming of them.

She did so, and exactly the same fate befell her that had befallen her
elder sister. The Giant appeared with his creel, and he carried her
off, and set her to mind the cow and the house, and to make his porridge
and to spin; and the little yellow-headed Peerie Folk appeared and asked
her for some supper, and she refused to give it to them; and after that,
she could not comb or card her wool, and the Giant was angry, and he
scolded her, and beat her, and threw her up, half dead, on the joists
beside her sister and the hens.

Then the youngest Princess determined to sit out in the kailyard all
night, not so much to see what was becoming of the cabbages, as to
discover what had happened to her sisters.

And when the Giant came and carried her off, she was not at all sorry,
but very glad, for she was a brave and loving little maiden; and now she
felt that she had a chance of finding out where they were, and whether
they were dead or alive.

So she was quite cheerful and happy, for she felt certain that she was
clever enough to outwit the Giant, if only she were watchful and
patient; so she lay quite quietly in her creel above the cabbages, but
she kept her eyes very wide open to see by which road he was carrying
her off.

And when he set her down in his kitchen, and told her all that he
expected her to do, she did not look downcast like her sisters, but
nodded her head brightly, and said that she felt sure that she could do
it.

And she sang to herself as she drove the cow over the moor to pasture,
and she ran the whole way back, so that she should have a good long
afternoon to work at the wool, and, although she would not have told the
Giant this, to search the house.

Before she set to work, however, she made herself some porridge, just as
her sisters had done; and, just as she was going to sup them, all the
little yellow-haired Peerie Folk trooped in, and climbed up on the
table, and stood and stared at her.

"We be hungry, we be hungry," they cried. "Spare a little porridge for
the Peerie Folk."

"With all my heart," replied the good-natured Princess. "If you can find
dishes little enough for you to sup out of, I will fill them for you.
But, methinks, if I were to give you all porringers, you would smother
yourselves among the porridge."

At her words the Peerie Folk shouted with laughter, till their
straw-coloured hair tumbled right over their faces; then they hopped on
to the floor and ran out of the house, and presently they came trooping
back holding cups of blue-bells, and foxgloves, and saucers of primroses
and anemones in their hands; and the Princess put a tiny spoonful of
porridge into each saucer, and a tiny drop of milk into each cup, and
they ate it all up as daintily as possible with neat little grass
spoons, which they had brought with them in their pockets.

When they had finished they all cried out, "Thank you! Thank you!" and
ran out of the kitchen again, leaving the Princess alone. And, being
alone, she went all over the house to look for her sisters, but, of
course, she could not find them.

"Never mind, I will find them soon," she said to herself. "To-morrow I
will search the byre and the outhouses; in the meantime, I had better
get on with my work." So she went back to the kitchen, and took out the
bag of wool, which the Giant had told her to make into cloth.

But just as she was doing so the door opened once more, and a
Yellow-Haired Peerie Boy entered. He was exactly like the other Peerie
Folk who had eaten the Princess's porridge, only he was bigger, and he
wore a very rich dress of grass-green velvet. He walked boldly into the
middle of the kitchen and looked round him.

"Hast thou any work for me to do?" he asked. "I ken grand how to handle
wool and turn it into fine thick cloth."

"I have plenty of work for anybody who asks it," replied the Princess;
"but I have no money to pay for it, and there are but few folk in this
world who will work without wages."

"All the wages that I ask is that thou wilt take the trouble to find out
my name, for few folk ken it, and few folk care to ken. But if by any
chance thou canst not find it out, then must thou pay toll of half of
thy cloth."

The Princess thought that it would be quite an easy thing to find out
the Boy's name, so she agreed to the bargain, and, putting all the wool
back into the bag, she gave it to him, and he swung it over his shoulder
and departed.

She ran to the door to see where he went, for she had made up her mind
that she would follow him secretly to his home, and find out from the
neighbours what his name was.

But, to her great dismay, though she looked this way and that, he had
vanished completely, and she began to wonder what she should do if the
Giant came back and found that she had allowed someone, whose name she
did not even know, to carry off all the wool.

And, as the afternoon wore on, and she could think of no way of finding
out who the boy was, or where he came from, she felt that she had made a
great mistake, and she began to grow very frightened.

Just as the gloaming was beginning to fall a knock came at the door,
and, when she opened it, she found an old woman standing outside, who
begged for a night's lodging.

Now, as I have told you, the Princess was very kind-hearted, and she
would fain have granted the poor old Dame's request, but she dared not,
for she did not know what the Giant would say. So she told the old woman
that she could not take her in for the night, as she was only a servant,
and not the mistress of the house; but she made her sit down on a bench
beside the door, and brought her out some bread and milk, and gave her
some water to bathe her poor, tired feet.

She was so bonnie, and gentle, and kind, and she looked so sorry when
she told her that she would need to turn her away, that the old woman
gave her her blessing, and told her not to vex herself, as it was a
fine, dry night, and now that she had had a meal she could easily sit
down somewhere and sleep in the shelter of the outhouses.

And, when she had finished her bread and milk, she went and laid down by
the side of a green knowe, which rose out of the moor not very far from
the byre door.

And, strange to say, as she lay there she felt the earth beneath her
getting warmer and warmer, until she was so hot that she was fain to
crawl up the side of the hillock, in the hope of getting a mouthful of
fresh air.

And as she got near the top she heard a voice, which seemed to come from
somewhere beneath her, saying, "TEASE, TEASENS, TEASE; CARD, CARDENS,
CARD; SPIN, SPINNENS, SPIN; for PEERIFOOL PEERIFOOL, PEERIFOOL is what
men call me." And when she got to the very top, she found that there was
a crack in the earth, through which rays of light were coming; and when
she put her eye to the crack, what should she see down below her but a
brilliantly lighted chamber, in which all the Peerie Folk were sitting
in a circle, working away as hard as they could.

Some of them were carding wool, some of them were combing it, some of
them were spinning it, constantly wetting their fingers with their lips,
in order to twist the yarn fine as they drew it from the distaff, and
some of them were spinning the yarn into cloth.

While round and round the circle, cracking a little whip, and urging
them to work faster, was a Yellow-Haired Peerie Boy.

"This is a strange thing, and these be queer on-goings," said the old
woman to herself, creeping hastily down to the bottom of the hillock
again. "I must e'en go and tell the bonnie lassie in the house yonder.
Maybe the knowledge of what I have seen will stand her in good stead
some day. When there be Peerie Folk about, it is well to be on one's
guard."

So she went back to the house and told the Princess all that she had
seen and heard, and the Princess was so delighted with what she had told
her that she risked the Giant's wrath and allowed her to go and sleep in
the hayloft.

It was not very long after the old woman had gone to rest before the
door opened, and the Peerie Boy appeared once more with a number of webs
of cloth upon his shoulder. "Here is thy cloth," he said, with a sly
smile, "and I will put it on the shelf for thee the moment that thou
tellest me what my name is."

Then the Princess, who was a merry maiden, thought that she would tease
the little follow for a time ere she let him know that she had found out
his secret.

So she mentioned first one name and then another, always pretending to
think that she had hit upon the right one; and all the time the Peerie
Boy jumped from side to side with delight, for he thought that she would
never find out the right name, and that half of the cloth would be his.

But at last the Princess grew tired of joking, and she cried out, with a
little laugh of triumph, "Dost thou by any chance ken anyone called
PEERIFOOL, little Mannikin?"

Then he knew that in some way she had found out what men called him, and
he was so angry and disappointed that he flung the webs of cloth down in
a heap on the floor, and ran out at the door, slamming it behind him.

Meanwhile the Giant was coming down the hill in the darkening, and, to
his astonishment, he met a troop of little Peerie Folk toiling up it,
looking as if they were so tired that they could hardly get along. Their
eyes were dim and listless, their heads were hanging on their breasts,
and their lips were so long and twisted that the poor little people
looked quite hideous.

The Giant asked how this was, and they told him that they had to work so
hard all day, spinning for their Master that they were quite exhausted;
and that the reason why their lips were so distorted was that they used
them constantly to wet their fingers, so that they might pull the wool
in very fine strands from the distaff.

"I always thought a great deal of women who could spin," said the Giant,
"and I looked out for a housewife that could do so. But after this I
will be more careful, for the housewife that I have now is a bonnie
little woman, and I would be loth to have her spoil her face in that
manner."

And he hurried home in a great state of mind in case he should find that
his new servant's pretty red lips had grown long and ugly in his
absence.

Great was his relief to see her standing by the table, bonnie and
winsome as ever, with all the webs of cloth in a pile in front of her.

"By my troth, thou art an industrious maiden," he said, in high good
humour, "and, as a reward for working so diligently, I will restore thy
sisters to thee." And he went out to the byre, and lifted the two other
Princesses down from the rafters, and brought them in and laid them on
the settle.

Their little sister nearly screamed aloud when she saw how ill they
looked and how bruised their backs were, but, like a prudent maiden, she
held her tongue, and busied herself with applying a cooling ointment to
their wounds, and binding them up, and by and by her sisters revived,
and, after the Giant had gone to bed, they told her all that had
befallen them.

"I will be avenged on him for his cruelty," said the little Princess
firmly; and when she spoke like that her sisters knew that she meant
what she said.

So next morning, before the Giant was up, she fetched his creel, and put
her eldest sister into it, and covered her with all the fine silken
hangings and tapestry that she could find, and on the top of all she put
a handful of grass, and when the Giant came downstairs she asked him, in
her sweetest tone, if he would do her a favour.

And the Giant, who was very pleased with her because of the quantity of
cloth which he thought she had spun, said that he would.

"Then carry that creelful of grass home to my mother's cottage for her
cow to eat," said the Princess. "'Twill help to make up for all the
cabbages which thou hast stolen from her kailyard."

And, wonderful to relate, the Giant did as he was bid, and carried the
creel to the cottage.

Next morning she put her second sister into another creel, and covered
her with all the fine napery she could find in the house, and put an
armful of grass on the top of it, and at her bidding the Giant, who was
really getting very fond of her, carried it also home to her mother.

The next morning the little Princess told him that she thought that she
would go for a long walk after she had done her housework, and that she
might not be in when he came home at night, but that she would have
another creel of grass ready for him, if he would carry it to the
cottage as he had done on the two previous evenings. He promised to do
so; then, as usual, he went out for the day.

In the afternoon the clever little maiden went through the house,
gathering together all the lace, and silver, and jewellery that she
could find, and brought them and placed them beside the creel. Then she
went out and cut an armful of grass, and brought it in and laid it
beside them.

Then she crept into the creel herself, and pulled all the fine things in
above her, and then she covered everything up with the grass, which was
a very difficult thing to do, seeing she herself was at the bottom of
the basket. Then she lay quite still and waited.

Presently the Giant came in, and, obedient to his promise, he lifted the
creel and carried it off to the old Queen's cottage.

No one seemed to be at home, so he set it down in the entry, and turned
to go away. But the little Princess had told her sisters what to do, and
they had a great can of boiling water ready in one of the rooms
upstairs, and when they heard his steps coming round that side of the
house, they threw open the window and emptied it all over his head; and
that was the end of him.




[Illustration: Birthdays]

[Illustration: A Monanday's Child His a Bonnie Face]

[Illustration: A Tyesdays Child is Fou O' Grace]

[Illustration: A Wednesday's Child is the Child o' Woe]

[Illustration: A Feersday's Child Hiz Far To Go]

[Illustration: A Friday's Child is Lovin and Givin]

[Illustration: A Saitirday's Child Works hard for his Livin]

[Illustration: But them thats Born On Sunday Is happy, blithe, and Gay]

[Illustration]




GLOSSARY


  A body            a person

  Airt              direction

  Ahint             behind

  Bairn             child

  Baudrons          Scotch name for a cat

  Ben               in towards an inner room

  Ben               a mountain peak

  Bicker            to argue in a petty way

  Bonnet-piece      an old Scottish coin

  Byre              cowhouse

  Canty             kindly, cheerful

  Cantrip           a freak, or wilful piece of trickery

  Chuckie-stone     a small white pebble

  Clout             a blow

  Cloving           separating lint from its stalk

  Clue              a ball of worsted

  Creel             a large hand-made basket

  Cutty-pipe        a short clay pipe

  Daft              silly, weak-minded

  Dander            to walk aimlessly

  Darkening         the twilight

  Divot             a sod

  Doo               a dove

  Douce             sedate

  Dowie             dull, low-spirited

  Dyke              a wall

  Eldritch          weird

  Emprise           an enterprise

  Entry             a passage

  Fain              gladly

  Feared            afraid

  Forbye            besides

  Gang              go

  Girnel            a meal-chest

  Gled              a hawk

  Gloaming          the twilight

  Greeting          crying

  Hantle            very much, a considerable number

  Havers            nonsense

  Heckle            to comb

  Hinnie            a term of endearment

  Hirple            to limp

  Histie            "haste thee"

  Inbye             inside

  Ingle neuk        the corner by the fire

  Joists            the beams in a roof

  Kailyard          a kitchen garden

  Ken               know

  Kirn              a churn, to churn

  Kist              a chest

  Knowe             a little hillock

  Lift              the sky, the air

  Light             alight

  Lintie            a linnet

  Lout              to stoop

  Lum               chimney

  Louping-on-stane  a stone from which to mount a horse

  Malison           a curse

  Meat              food

  Migraine          a pain affecting one half of the head

  Mutch             a cap

  Onstead           farm buildings

  Paddock           a toad or frog

  Pirnie            a woollen nightcap

  Poke              a bag

  Rivlins           shoes made of cowhide

  Sen' night        a week

  Shoon             shoes

  Siccan            such

  Siller            money

  Sinsyne           since

  Smatchet          small boy

  Sneck             to latch or shut a door

  Snibbit           bolted, _snib_, a bolt

  Thrapple          throat

  Thole             to bear

  Unchancy          uncanny

  Wheen             a few

  Wheesht           be quiet!

  Wight             a person

  Winnock           a window

  Winnow            to separate the chaff from the grain by wind

  Yestreen          yesterday

  Yule              Christmas

  Unicorns          Ancient Scottish coins


       *       *       *       *       *

----------------------------------------------------------------------

  Transcriber's notes:

  Taken out hypen in 'Mer-maids' and 'Mer-men' in Preface as not in text.
  Leaving the two words 'tomorrow' and 'tomorrow' as is.
  P.76. Taken out extra 'day' from 'day day'.
  P.80. Taken out extra 'the' from 'the the'.
  P.104. 'craried' is found in another version of this book, leaving as is.
  P.124. Taken out extra 'did' from 'did did'.
  P.144. Taken out hyphen in 'burn-side'.
  P.161. Taken out hyphen in 'Yule-tide'.
  P.263. Taken out hyphen in 'mis-shapen'.

----------------------------------------------------------------------





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