A woman had one fair daughter, who loved play better than work,
wandering in the meadows and lanes better than the spinning-wheel and
distaff. The mother was heartily vexed at this, for in those days no
lassie had any chance of a good husband unless she was an industrious
spinster. So she coaxed, threatened, even beat her daughter, but all to
no purpose; the girl remained what her mother called her, "an idle
cuttie."
At last, one spring morning, the gudewife gave her seven heads of lint,
saying she would take no excuse; they must be returned in three days
spun into yarn. The girl saw her mother was in earnest, so she plied her
distaff as well as she could; but her hands were all untaught, and by
the evening of the second day only a very small part of her task was
done. She cried herself to sleep that night, and in the morning,
throwing aside her work in despair, she strolled out into the fields,
all sparkling with dew. At last she reached a knoll, at whose feet ran a
little burn, shaded with woodbine and wild roses; and there she sat
down, burying her face in her hands. When she looked up, she was
surprised to see by the margin of the stream an old woman, quite
unknown to her, drawing out the thread as she basked in the sun. There
was nothing very remarkable in her appearance, except the length and
thickness of her lips, only she was seated on a self-bored stone. The
girl rose, went to the good dame, and gave her a friendly greeting, but
could not help inquiring "What makes you so long lipped?"
"Spinning thread, my hinnie," said the old woman, pleased with her. "I
wet my fingers with my lips, as I draw the thread from the distaff."
"Ah!" said the girl, "I should be spinning too, but it's all to no
purpose. I shall ne'er do my task:" on which the old woman proposed to
do it for her. Overjoyed, the maiden ran to fetch her lint, and placed
it in her new friend's hand, asking where she should call for the yarn
in the evening; but she received no reply; the old woman passed away
from her among the trees and bushes. The girl, much bewildered, wandered
about a little, sat down to rest, and finally fell asleep by the little
knoll.
When she awoke she was surprised to find that it was evening. Causleen,
the evening star, was beaming with silvery light, soon to be lost in the
moon's splendour. While watching these changes, the maiden was startled
by the sound of an uncouth voice, which seemed to issue from below the
self-bored stone, close beside her. She laid her ear to the stone and
heard the words: "Hurry up, Scantlie Mab, for I've promised the yarn and
Habetrot always keeps her promise." Then looking down the hole saw her
friend, the old dame, walking backwards and forwards in a deep cavern
among a group of spinsters all seated on colludie stones, and busy with
distaff and spindle. An ugly company they were, with lips more or less
disfigured, like old Habetrot's. Another of the sisterhood, who sat in a
distant corner reeling the yarn, was marked, in addition, by grey eyes,
which seemed starting from her head, and a long hooked nose.
While the girl was still watching, she heard Habetrot address this dame
by the name of Scantlie Mab, and say, "Bundle up the yarn, it is time
the young lassie should give it to her mother." Delighted to hear this,
the girl got up and returned homewards. Habetrot soon overtook her, and
placed the yarn in her hands. "Oh, what can I do for ye in return?"
exclaimed she, in delight. "Nothing--nothing," replied the dame; "but
dinna tell your mother who spun the yarn."
Scarcely believing her eyes, the girl went home, where she found her
mother had been busy making sausters, and hanging them up in the chimney
to dry, and then, tired out, had retired to rest. Finding herself very
hungry after her long day on the knoll, the girl took down pudding after
pudding, fried and ate them, and at last went to bed too. The mother was
up first the next morning, and when she came into the kitchen and found
her sausters all gone, and the seven hanks of yarn lying beautifully
smooth and bright upon the table, she ran out of the house wildly,
crying out--
"My daughter's spun seven, seven, seven,
My daughter's eaten seven, seven, seven,
And all before daylight."
A laird who chanced to be riding by, heard the exclamation, but could
not understand it; so he rode up and asked the gudewife what was the
matter, on which she broke out again--
"My daughter's spun seven, seven, seven,
My daughter's eaten seven, seven, seven
before daylight; and if ye dinna believe me, why come in and see it."
The laird, he alighted and went into the cottage, where he saw the yarn,
and admired it so much he begged to see the spinner.
The mother dragged in her girl. He vowed he was lonely without a wife,
and had long been in search of one who was a good spinner. So their
troth was plighted, and the wedding took place soon afterwards, though
the bride was in great fear that she should not prove so clever at her
spinning-wheel as he expected. But old Dame Habetrot came to her aid.
"Bring your bonny bridegroom to my cell," said she to the young bride
soon after her marriage; "he shall see what comes o' spinning, and never
will he tie you to the spinning-wheel."
Accordingly the bride led her husband the next day to the flowery knoll,
and bade him look through the self-bored stone. Great was his surprise
to behold Habetrot dancing and jumping over her rock, singing all the
time this ditty to her sisterhood, while they kept time with their
spindles:--
"We who live in dreary den,
Are both rank and foul to see?
Hidden from the glorious sun,
That teems the fair earth's canopie:
Ever must our evenings lone
Be spent on the colludie stone.
"Cheerless is the evening grey
When Causleen hath died away,
But ever bright and ever fair
Are they who breathe this evening air,
And lean upon the self-bored stone
Unseen by all but me alone."
The song ended, Scantlie Mab asked Habetrot what she meant by the last
line, "Unseen by all but we alone."
"There is one," replied Habetrot, "whom I bid to come here at this
hour, and he has heard my song through the self-bored stone." So saying
she rose, opened another door, which was concealed by the roots of an
old tree, and invited the pair to come in and see her family.
The laird was astonished at the weird-looking company, as he well might
be, and inquired of one after another the cause of their strange lips.
In a different tone of voice, and with a different twist of the mouth,
each answered that it was occasioned by spinning. At least they tried to
say so, but one grunted out "Nakasind," and another "Owkasaänd," while a
third murmured "O-a-a-send." All, however, made the bridegroom
understand what was the cause of their ugliness; while Habetrot slily
hinted that if his wife were allowed to spin, her pretty lips would grow
out of shape too, and her pretty face get an ugsome look. So before he
left the cave he vowed that his little wife should never touch a
spinning-wheel, and he kept his word. She used to wander in the meadows
by his side, or ride behind him over the hills, but all the flax grown
on his land was sent to old Habetrot to be converted into yarn.